Monthly Archives: October 2008
The Non-Relationship between me and MW#1 has experienced what I consider to be a few interesting developments of late; for the last day or so I have been pondering what if anything to write about with regards to what has been going on over the last couple of weeks. Ponder ponder.
I’d like to recount conversations we’ve had because I think they are interesting and important and provide a little insight into the slow motion car crash that is our refriendtionship; however, there is the issue of privacy to think about and I have to wonder what would posting them up do- Change anything? Nuh-uh. I’ve taken a very long time writing out a post that recaps everything in blow-by-blow detail but I think it might be more prudent that I leave it to sit unpublished whilst the Dubai Bombshell plays itself out.
Two years ago I experienced a particular health and welfare issue over the course of a couple of months that was indirectly linked to MW#1. At the time I was pretty stressed out about it and for a variety of reasons I decided the best course of action was not to involve him until I knew for sure the prognosis (so to speak) either way. I wrote a post collecting my feelings together and I published it only to take it down a couple of hours later when I had a change of heart, again due to issues of privacy.
I never filled in MW#1 on what was going on and when things resolved in a positive way I decided there was no reason to let him know. Looking back I think that the decision not to share was the best one. My friends played their role in supporting me, which to be honest is the best thing going, but I feel like I would have appreciated a little understanding from him, but Hell, if I didn’t tell him what could I expect? Humans ain’t mind-readers, as far as science can tell us.
The events of the last couple of weeks have resulted in the cultivation of very warm and fuzzy feelings towards the person who might be leaving both myself and the country in a month or so. Stress from uncertainty scratches at the corners of my mind like the toast crumbs in my bed, but there’s nothing to be done except waiting and seeing.
In some ways I am quite pleased about how I have dealt with difficult conversations that have been cropping up recently; I have found that I am more able than I thought I would be to talk and to stick up for myself and what I want- I am able to explain and ask questions through the tears. Go me. My opinions carry absolutely zero power in altering the course of things but at least I am putting them out there.
And still I feel an inexplicable tenderness towards the man who I let hurt me, who has never spent more than twenty-four hours in my company yet whose well being I worry over; when I awake next to him and curl up in his warm embrace I feel deeply content, even if he is regaling me with the ins-and-outs of Warhammer 40K.
My test results came back really quickly in comparison to the last set so it was with a little trepidation that I picked up the brown envelope stamped CONFIDENTIAL off the doormat.
My previous results took six weeks to come through so I was expecting another positive for changes letter as they had arrived so promptly (just over a week); I knew if this did turn out to be the case it wasn’t a disaster or anything but I was a bit nervous despite the facts. The results were negative. Hooray.
LightArt Kijkduin 2007 by Haags Uitburo
Dutch rock awesomeness…. (includes yodelling)
Hocus Pocus – 1971
Sylvia – 1972
Behold: The Finest Shoulders In The Universe…
(in my opinion)
I’ve had a thing for the shoulders-chest-waist combo of Hugh Jackman ever since I saw him being all uber-masculine in X-Men; he is just so broad and is guaranteed to get me all giggly if I catch sight of him minus a shirt. I’m not much of a fan of the well-defined abs I must say but manfur… Heh.
Eric Bana and The Rock have excellent Monky-carrying platforms too but Jackman’s fur triggers off primal excitable feelings that the other two don’t. I mean, I’ll still go squee when the Rock smiles and laugh with nervous excitement when Bana gets topless as Hector in the god-awful Troy but thanks to Wolverine Jackman beats the rest.
Oh- Statham… How could I forget you… but you’re still not Hugh- You’re too short.
Frozen Raspberry by Floccinaucinihilipilification… and here’s what Floccinaucinihilipilification means
Here’s something you might like to try if you are seriously short of amusement on a dark Sunday evening. I discovered this by accident and I can only theorise that the effect occurs due to water vapour. I am not responsible if things go POP.
Turn power on HIGH and watch.
The raspberry will proceed to smoke.
Panic, turn microwave OFF.
Eat warm squishy raspberry.
DEATH OF A SEASON by snowriderguy
I had a much better day today after yesterdays doom and gloom and eye leakage.
I went into town to buy a birthday card for my brother and the walk along by the canal was like a mental shaking out- The gloom lifted, the worries settled and I felt very happy as I wandered slowly along in the unseasonably warm sun.
It was beautiful. Sunlight on the Autumnal trees, fallen leaves floating gently along in the current making lines as the followed the flow. Warmth on my skin, my newly dyed hair blazing red in the reflections from office windows; I put my big sunglasses on and felt seriously serene.
Naturally, it was the sort of experience that I wanted to share, and I really wish I had brought my camera but whatever, I felt good.
I hung my washing out on the line to the strains of Southside Johnny’s Tom Waits covers album Grapefruit Moon; I cooked myself lunch/dinner and twirled around in the kitchen by myself as I waited for my onion, garlic and courgette to fry.
I tried on some of my pretty dresses to see if they still fit me and posed in my wedges whilst imagining an appreciative hand around my waist. I found a small lump of dark chocolate in an evening bag and ate it one cube at a time. A better day.
As Tom Waits says in Walk Away:
“No more rain, no more roses.”This is an all-kinds-of-awesome description of Tom Waits’ wife by the man himself. Imagine being described so- It’s got depth and craziness and is veritably fabulous.
“a remarkable collaborator, and she’s a shiksa goddess and a trapeze artist, all of that. She can fix the truck. Expert on the African violet and all that. She’s outta this world. I don’t know what to say. I’m a lucky man. She has a remarkable imagination. And that’s the nation where I live. She’s bold, inventive and fearless. That’s who you wanna go in the woods with, right? Somebody who finishes your sentences for you.”
Original from Sex & The City Trailer by DCMatt
Stupidly I took it upon myself to watch Sex and The City: The Movie this evening; aside from my annoyance at waaay too much squealing going on for comfort, what I was left with was a feeling of deep aching unhappiness.
I cried at several points during the film; by the end of it I did not feel uplifted by the happy ending, but felt terribly sad and alone. I feel the need to sob for a while, but all that I seem to be able to do is sit staring at my laptop screen as my eyes swim. My chest hurts and I know that no amount of hugging Patrick will help me feel better.
I wish I could call up MW#1 and say “Hello, I could really appreciate a hug from you right now… Please could I come round?” but we never talk on the phone and I rarely ask for anything because that would be “needy” so instead I have to sit here alone and marinate my eyeballs in tears that don’t seem to be able to fall and an ache that can’t be taken away.
Wine won’t take the pain away, neither will hugging a soft toy… I want the Dubai Bombshell to extract itself from where it festers in my mind so that I would not have to think about it every day, not think a happy thought and have it interrupted by “MW#1 might be gone… will be gone.” I think about my birthday and become sad because he might not be around to give me a kiss on the end of my nose; I think about Christmas, New Years, 2009 and beyond and the loneliness.
Why does the threatened loss of someone who is barely in my life cause me such upset? I mean it’s not like he’s ever given me a birthday kiss nor a present that marked the date. He’s never chosen to be with me for New Years, never spent more than twenty-four hours in my company. So what am I so upset about losing?
I think it’s the way he makes me feel.
Hopefully the ache will fade a little this evening as i’ve managed to write myself into properly crying. Hooray.
Nikon FE2 by d!zzy
Next week I am returning to the darkroom for the first time since my Foundation year; I am really looking forward to it as I have very fond memories of my time spent playing around under the red light.
I got out my old 35mm SLR and my design classic was an absolute joy to use; sturdy and comforting in its heaviness and awesome in its simplicity- manual control over everything. Hooray! I had to re-remember how the aperture affected the speed and vice-versa and remember how the f-stops altered the depth-of-field.
I like how it feels against my face and in my hands- Not small and rounded like a dSLR so that your hands get in the way of the viewfinder and your face seems to get in the way. Ugh. I remember the years I took it round places and the time I shot a whole roll of film but had not wound it on properly. I think this then teenager cried… I’m going to develop and print the film next week (fingers crossed); I will stick up the first fruits of my labour when i’ve got them done. Comedy may ensue.
I spent an hour this morning cocooned in my duvet going through variations on the “Oh, I got the job, I’ve decided to leave” conversation that (pessimistically) I believe is coming.
Tears gunged up my eyes and left wet pools around my ears as they soaked into my pillow. Unpleasant. I watched some pornography to try and change my mood but all I could find was lots of unfulfilling rutting; I felt very sad as I compared the frantic images on my screen with my memories of intimacy.
Watching the couples and thinking, “Oh, I wouldn’t like that, I like it when [x] is done to me, but not that” or watching the reactions of the women and thinking how terribly unstimulated they appear to be. How they don’t seem to be truly enjoying themselves but I know that I want for nothing when I am intimate with MW#1. My thoughts moved back to his leaving and my never curling up with him again and more tears were shed. Sigh.
As much as I love the potential for relaxation that the weekend offers I know that almost every weekend I will find myself feeling lonely for company that I am unable to have. All I can do is hole up under my blanket and trawl through Surf The Channel or Sidereel and hug Patrick tightly, and pass the rest of the time by doing washing or dying my hair. Fun. I might repaint my toenails.
I am browsing holidays. That I would have to save for around five to ten years to go on. That are in beautiful, interesting places. And are romantic. And I have no-one to go and be romantic, beautiful and interesting with.
Then I browse underwear. That I usually can’t afford. That I might shell out for. Of which I have no-one to properly appreciate me in.
Then it’s on to shoes. Or dresses. That I do not go out enough to justify buying. That no-one will tell me I look pretty in, even when I go to lots of trouble. That might make someone tell me I look pretty but only days after I wear them.
How I wish I had a life where I was enough. Where I was not made to feel like i’m not quite. Too un-busty. Hair too short. Brain too full. Mouth too big. Stomach too soft. Lacking femininity. Where someone would want to spend time with me. To ease the loneliness.
The view by limbic
My smear went as well as can be expected- just six weeks to wait to see if I need further treatment. It’s still all good if this turns out to be the case; I will just need to have a little further examination done and possibly some super minor butchery. Just got to keep an eye on things, nip things in the bud before they change into anything potentially serious.
I have been looping this track for the better part of a half hour- Played *very* loud through my headphones it’s lapdance delicious and is quite appropriate for the times…
For The Love Of Money
I now have an urge to wear the yellow wedges to school. And a sweater dress. To the place that does not contain a single male that is at all attractive. Heh.
Smear number two later on today- My results from my first trip to the land of the paper-covered bench were not problem-free, so I need to go for a follow up and see if things have sorted themselves out or if treatment is needed. Fingers crossed all goes well and fingers crossed the results come back manageable.
Yeah. I know. But slicing the image up so the text could flow was just too much effort.
So my weekend- I spent a helluva lot of money and had a really lovely time. I got to eat great food, drink good wine, see chunky goalkeepers and try on body con dresses. I also cried on a couple of occasions. Good times.
I’ve been feeling the need for a good dose of hugging so I cracked and invited MW#1 out to spend some time running his fingers through my hair. We met, hugged intensely and then had a delicious meal, that ever-so-stupidly I agreed to go halves on. DUH. As my friends have said, I have had to go through enough over the last couple of years, the least I could expect is dinner to be paid for. But i’m too nice and all that. I will endeavour to pay a well-timed visit to the bathroom to “powder my nose” next time.
Anyway, I had venison with haggis mash, fine green beans and fig sauce- It was super delicious, and although I usually dislike the beans they were extremely tasty and an excellent accompaniment. The venison was pink and tender and gorgeously flavoured. I washed it down with an excellent bottle of red and passed two hours in the company of MW#1 very comfortably indeed. There was much mocking on my behalf, lots of banter, and I was reminded how good a time I can have around him. He appreciated the hair.
Post-dinner we shivered our way over to the local Young Professional den of cocktail iniquity; I had my first Manhattan in an appropriate “girly” glass and my usual caipirinha… The evening wore on, my inebriation slowly increased; I was very warm and fuzzy and tactile and enjoying myself faaar too much.
An interesting moment occurred when I shared the fear I have that MW#1 will become injured through his throwballing or in some sort of alcohol + rage-based incident and that I would be the last to know or that I would never find out. A very astute indicator of my importance to him was his reply “Oh, [my housemate] is under strict instructions if that ever happens to go through my entire phonebook and let everyone on there know.” I was like, uh, that really does not assuage my fears in any way and really shows how much I mean to you. Well done.
Aside from that, I had an awesome evening – even if it did involve being teased with two whole episodes of Prison Break – but when we finally got to the bedroom I ended up crying…
“Are you okay?”
“No. Not really. My eyes are leaking.”
As I wrote in a prior entry, when I was in bed it suddenly hit me that I might not have this any more, whatever “this” actually is. MW#1 was gracious about my impromptu dissolving and held me whilst I mopped my tears and fell asleep. I had previously warned him that when I saw him I might be a little out of sorts due to the Dubai Bombshell (it’s official NATO reporting name) so I hope he understood why I was upset or at least is understanding.
The morning after I nested in MW#1’s big bed whilst he geeked out Games Workshop-ing downstairs; wonder of wonders I actually managed to sleep through him looking in on me- Apparently I looked very peaceful. I usually take a long time to get off to sleep and am easily woken by any sort of noise, so I was quite surprised to hear this from him. I must have been tired…
I had not had a night out with MW#1 like that in a long time and although I found parts of it rather difficult, it was lovely to have such a fun time out. Eating, drinking, extended face eating sessions- The good life indeed. Well, I need to be kissed more, and get taken out more, and not be hurt as much. Sigh.
Later that day I met up with Bobby Convey and we took in some Hahnemann action at Reading vs. Burnley- He was looking a little more chunky than the last time I saw him, but for me that just meant it was all the more to love. Heh. I seem to have a preference for chunky, broad men, slim student-y types do absolutely nowt for me. I need someone to be able to carry me away from danger at high speed you see, and Marcus and MW#1 are well able to do that. And other things. Ahem.
Post-match we headed into town for tea and coffee and food and wine with Caversham Princess; my friends assailed me for paying for my dinner- I have learnt my lesson. Bobby’s Dad is getting on very well at the moment – he is recovering from a bone marrow transplant – and it was heartening to hear that things seem so positive at the moment. Hurrah.
Despite the Godawful weather on Sunday I took myself into town and trawled the shops with Leia Ewok Village. It was super fun to spend a few hours having a girly peruse of the shops and together we managed to rack up quite a sum. A lot of my trying on was based around the fantasy life where I eat out frequently so I get to show off lots of pretty dresses and get taxis everywhere so I can wear giant shoes. Not *quite* reality.
When we’d had enough of dresses and shoes (I bought the awesome red and black number illustrated and a fabulously tight body con number) we had coffee and I cried again when Leia was trying to be positive about the future and the future post-MW#1 if the Dubai Bombshell comes to fruition.
It was not that she was being overly mean to me, but just thinking about the loneliness to come (and it’s bad already) was really tough. I know myself all too well and I know I am not the sort to go picking people up at bars nor do internet dating. I just don’t have it in me. So I know that although MW#1 is barely in my life, I face absolutely nothing if he departs. So I cried, again.
This is all kinds of awesome:
We Don’t Need This (Fascist Groove Thang)
In the space of five seconds
I was struck by a sudden realisation that I might not get to feel MW#1’s skin next to mine any more, that I might lose the chance to be held by him, feel the soft fuzz of his manfur nuzzling against my spine as I drift off to sleep.
I thought that he might not be there to run his fingers through my hair, rub the hollow at the base of my neck, gently manhandle me about so he can hug me more easily. I might not be able to stroke his hair as he sleeps contentedly against me.
That I will miss the smell of his warm skin and how the scent lingers in my clothes and on my own skin and the feelings of acceptance and comfort I feel when i’m around him; that I will miss how much he makes me laugh and the things I can mock him over; that I will miss how I feel when he kisses me on the tip of my nose.
I fear the loneliness I already feel becoming biting and the years ahead to be spent alone.
So I cried.
I HAVE TEH AWESOME HAIR
I AM HAPPY