We met in borough. She wore cyan. I wore crimson. We spoke of the past. Of what could have been.
We ate at a French restuarant. The waitress looked in awe. Young lovers. We drank Pinot Grigio. Tasteless plonk.
We will run away, to Vienna. We will make love and ask Frued what he thinks. We will have two children. Perl and Ruby; after the sirens of London. We will be content.
I am a writer who has forgetten how to write.
So I got to Thailand yesterday. I’m with my rents so the holiday should have been pretty subdued. Should. We get to a place called Pataya and meet one of my mums friends[sic] friend. Turns out she’s a retired madame. We meet and obviously my mother doesn’t know this. Instantly she says she’ll find me a sexy lady and points to the prossies dressed in next to nothing across the street from my bar. Just a little embaressing. We then head off to walking street and enter a go go bar.
I’m sitting in a fucking strip club with my mum and dad. while a dancer is gyrating next to me.
It’s fine though. You can tell she sees this is a little unnerving for my mother and so we head off. Well that was what I initially thought, she actually thought the girls were a lil below average so we went to a better one. I’m drowning the silence with beers and it turns out to be quite a cool night.
I think she was hunting for women to occupy the small rooms above the bar which seem to be ever so busy. She owns it with a guy known as “bob”. He’s cool.
Tonight i’m meeting my mums[sic] friends[sic] sister. She owns 3 shops down walking street. A massage place mother and I perused earlier, and two jewellry shops. Updates soon enough.
Life has never been so depressing.
“Self Confessed Introvert”. I’m not sure why I chose those that title for the last 3 years of my life. Arrogance most probably.
I’ve worked 24 days straight. I wake up at 3:30am and join the drunkards on the way to work. I get in at 5:06 am and my shift starts. I stand in a corner of Heathrow, Terminal 1. For the next 8 hours i’ll whitter on; liquids, creams, deodorants. To the women i’ll ask ; mascara, lip-gloss, foundation, hand cream, face cream. To the men; deodorants, toothpaste, aftershave. It’s not hard work and at £10 per hour I have nothing to complain about. It’s just the most depressing period of my life so far.
I get home at 2:00pm. If i’m lucky i’ll sleep and then catch a movie. If not i’ll sit in a daze waiting for the next shift. That’s my life.
We’re in the car:
ren: My fiance thinks she might have breast cancer…
me: shit.
a rather long awkward silence ensues.
me: It isn’t a death sentence nowadays, don’t worry i’m sure she’s fine. Is she waiting for the results?
ren: yeah, they come out in about a week.
me: Well there’s always the obvious benefit.
ren: what?
me: you know…
ren: there’s nothing fucking beneficial about breast cancer.
me: come on, don’t tell me you havn’t thought about it. Just a C cup?
ren: I never thought about that you sick fuck.
We start singing Sir Mix-A-Lot with the clever substitution of “tits” instead of “butts”. Good times.
On Sunday I got off my tits. That sentence precedes most of my posts. Anyway, I didn’t plan it; a dozen people who did’t know each other all to well, managed to congregate simultaneosly in a pub started with the drinking.
I spotted a pretty girl called Olivia and started talking nonsense. She said something casually about how prostitution be legal legal. Huge argument ensues. Doesn’t really matter, I get her number and call her a couple of days later.
I use an unusually bad premise to meet her at a pub. She’s a little harder to talk to than I remembered (Assumption of dimness) and I relegate myself to the bench for a couple of pints. One of her friends looks a little bored and I accost her. We do the obligatory niceties and a lovley hour in she starts talking about Dungeons and Dragons.
I’ve heard of this game. It’s legendary. 80′s mullets and long hair, pimply men who should have lost their spots a while ago. Locked in a cellar, three lizards encroach. Do you want to attack? How an earth can quite an attractive 18 year old girl be so enthused. I actually bought the spiel and want to learn how to play. Maybe she’ll teach me.
My phone ran out of batteries, but I thought I’d ask her for her number anyway. She blithely says no straight up. Ouch. It didn’t even occur to me that she wouldn’t give me her number. It’s not that i’m arrogant or anything, which I usually am, it’s just that in this day of super multi connectivity I havn’t met anyone who was bothered enough not to give me their number. I’m officially a lech.
New age breakdown of super multi connective dating:
Ask for her Myspace
her msn address
her email
her mobile
her home number.
Her refusing to give me her number has left me thinking about her to the wee hours. She hinted that she’d be at Oceania tomorrow. I’m on a hunt.
p.s – I went tense tastic.
I want to cry at the loss of my wonderful blog. Couldn’t keep up with the payments. I suck at poetry but thought i’d write this after she forced me. She said if I wrote it she’d give me a link to her blog. I begged and begged. She didn’t give it to me, not that I cared. I already had it.
Dear Masha,
why must you insist
on the proclamation
of my loveHave you not heard
the crows cry
at their masters neglectnor the magpie
happy with neither,
oh petulant childWhen will you learn
a love a day
will take the heart away.love,
Steven
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