Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?

Not twelve hours after I had handed over the ukulele to The Johnny, The Crackwhore [reoccurring role, apparently] contacted me to, one, establish that she is in fact once again his girlfriend and, two, thank me for the present.

I love it when I can bring people together by bestowing miniature musical instruments upon them.

I’m kind of like cupid. If cupid smoked, drank, infrequently bleached his hair and gave former lovers a ukulele.

 

The Crackwhore then Continued to send me messages, telling me to, “Stay away from [her boyfriend],” and, “Keep my hands off [her boyfriend].” It took every ounce of my strength to refrain from responding, “Sweetheart: If I wanted your boyfriend, I would be a lot more direct than giving him a fucking ukulele.”

 

So, suffice to say, The Crackwhore and I will never be friends. In a way, it is a shame. We would have had a lot to talk about. Like soluble Class A drugs, for example. Or preejaculation. 

 

Another ex-boyfriend who lives within walking distance to my house (I’m haunted) is Tex. Unlike The Johnny, I have always liked Tex and been utterly thankful that he put up with dating me while I was in love with someone else.

I can’t imagine that it is much fun sleeping next to a girl who is sobbing over the loss of The Original Californian Surfer.

And, amazingly, up until recently, we were great friends.

See, we had a fun routine of sleeping together back when the mood felt right (Aside: Something about Sunday nights always gets to me) and I had no formal knowledge of his New Girlfriends existence. Sex was the only part of our relationship that had actually worked, so we often decided to revisit it. One night, after four hours of intense revisiting, he turned to me, naked, and said, “So. My girlfriend arrives from Texas in four days.”

“My, my,” I gasped. “This is information I would have enjoyed to hear a few hours ago.”

 

So, suffice to say, Tex and I will never be friends again. Or have sex again (But, I’m optimistic).

 

He [quite obviously and rightfully] has no desire to see me, because, what (!) if I were to tell his girlfriend that he has cheated and lied?

I don’t even have the opportunity to explain to him that I already destroyed his life once by dating him, I have absolutely no desire to do it again. My mouth will stay just as closed as my legs.

 

But I completely understand why he does not want me in his life. I embody the memory that he made a mistake. Acted immorally. Made a boo-boo. Being That mistake doesn’t bother me, but being punished for it does.

 

I don’t think it is necessary to be friends with an ex’s Current Girlfriend (and I know that at least Jennifer Aniston would agree with me), however I think it is sad when you can’t be friends with Him. OK, so you didn’t work out as a ‘couple’, but does that mean that the care, respect and enjoyment you had for each other has to just evaporate? I think it is nothing but sheer laziness if it does.

Maybe in reality, it will take more than a ukulele or an absent New Girlfriend for a friendship to ever be possible.

 

But, I’m optimistic.

 

This weekend I have been [instructed] to attend Tex’s birthday party under the premise that, if I don’t go, I will have effectively closed the door on our friendship.

So I will be spending my Friday night with Him, his girlfriend and a bottle of scotch the size of my leg.

I love it when birthdays can bring people closer together.

 

Post By Salium

Like, Turtley, Dude

My first ever crush was for Michaelangelo Ninja Turltle. An animated, radioactive animal who lives in a sewer.

Yes, the damage was already done when I was an eight year old.

 

I didn’t have a thing for Leonardo, Raphael or Donatello. They really did nothing for me. But Michaelangelo? Well, he made my pre-adolescent self Feel something that was then unknown to me. When he was on screen, I was nervous. When people would talk about him (you know, in the playground), I would blush. When we would play Ninja Turtles, I would Do Michaelango for totally Freudian reasons.

I reveal this, beyond embarrassing and more bizarre, fact because I have come to reason with myself that my horrible taste in the opposite gender is biological.

Meaning, if I was able to naturally fall for a turtle, then I have just as much control over falling time and time again for Surfers With An Accent.

 

Evolution of maturity has absolutely nothing to do with this, because, well, there has been too little.

 

If I accept that a turtle was my first ever crush (and I have), then, in a way, I think I have only moved up in the dating world. As if I can entertain the notion that there was any other direction to go. A Byron Bay Surfer is certainly better than something that lives with a shell on its back and eats pizza (arguably, at most). A Californian Surfer is better. So is another. And another. And another. And, Hell, really, the more the merrier.

So, basically, I have found a way to make myself happy and justify that, with age, my taste is improving. The fact that to get Here I had to compare all of the above people to Michaelangelo the Ninja Turtle is, however, disconcerting.

 

But I think this is what we, as people, have to do in order to find any form of confidence with the choices we make. We have to rid ourselves of guilt, find random patterns and come to terms with the fact that we may be sadomasochists. Then – Hurrah! – anything from eating the fifteenth cookie or dating the thirtieth surfer is justifiable and not wrong. It is just something we do. Yay for us.

 

Lately, I have been making a conscientious effort to rid all of my baggage from ex-boyfriends (and Michaelangelo). I have always promised myself to never take baggage from one relationship to the next because I should never blame the New Guy for the Old Guy’s (infinite) problems. Until recently (like, say, eight hours ago), I have had enough baggage to travel to Europe and no guy. Which makes for an even more depressing reality. Because, here I am, all alone, and I am reeling over things that I had no control over. All I can control is my reaction.

 

I needed to find a way to understand where my relationship issues started (again, Michaelangelo) and go from there. Once I realized my involvement, my choices, in all of the dramas, any animosity towards the human or the turtle just slipped away. I took full responsibility for the insane-turtle-loving-bitch that I am.

 

And then I had a drink. Because, you know, it is just something I do.

 

Now that I have intensely done it, there will be no more need for comparing of guys to The Johnny or to anyone else from Southern California. Because there is no point. Everyone is going to lie or cheat – I just have to acknowledge how much of that I find to be acceptable. If I refuse to let go of things, the outcomes will always be my fault. Not theirs.

I am just going to forgive them all and push their significance to a back corner of my brain, far enough away so that I don’t forget and make the same mistakes again.

 

And when the next guy asks, “Have you ever been in love?” I will be honest and say, “Here is a funny story…”

 

 

Post By Salium

 

   

The Blind Leading The Blind

On three separate occasions in the past ten days, three of my female friends have accredited advice I gave them for saving their relationships with their boyfriends. My advice. Advice I gave. Me.

 

The girl whose relationship history consists of the Three Blind Mice and one teenager.

 

For the past twelve hours I have been (in addition to watching YouTube uploads of Smurf cartoons) trying to comprehend what I must have said (in my, lets be honest, inebriated state). However, I have just realized that I am perplexed about the wrong thing. And trying to work out What my words of wisdom were will only lead to me go cross-eyed, or even worse, into a functioning and mature relationship of my own.

 

Instead, I have realized that I embody the adage of Those Who Cannot Teach Do And Those Who Cannot Do Teach.

 

I can immediately list four, but definitely more, names off the top of my head who would support my argument that I have absolutely no idea how to conduct a romantic relationship with the opposite sex (But there is no need to be gender specific here. I suck in general). To these people, I say, “You are wrong.” (And they have heard me say that many, many times).

 

Because it is my own relationships that I cannot work. Other peoples? Pfft. I am like Ghandi.

 

This week signifies the time when The Teenager I dated becomes The Twenty Year Old I Dated When He Was Still In His Teens. Yes, it is The Johnny’s birthday. I felt the need to celebrate for two reasons:

 

1. My freedom; and
2. I love a birthday. Anyone’s birthday.

 

I couldn’t just let the day pass by me without some form of witticism at his expense.

For the entire time we were dating, I was under the impression that The Johnny was twenty. Because he told me that he was. But, no no, he was nineteen. He lied. (Aside: My first piece of advice to girlfriends is to question everything. My second is, usually, first impressions count. If wrong, consult advice part one.)

It was a futile effort on his part, because he was (is) pretty enough that I would not have cared if he had admitted that he was nineteen and (hypothetically) enjoyed tormenting small animals for fun. So are the types of functioning relationships I enjoy (Aside: Advice part three – even question you source of advice. IE, me). On top of everything, I am incredibly superficial.

During our courtship (what other people would regard as a three month drinking binge), he frequently discussed and invited me to his upcoming twenty-first birthday party. He lied.

So I fêted his coming-of-age the only way I know how. By giving him a ukulele.

 

I wasn’t going to personally deliver his present. Because the reaction in my own mind was so much better than anything could ever be in reality (Aside: My fantasy also involved people bowing down before me. But that is neither here nor there). However, I was caught out and he was home. So, suddenly, I was the girl standing in his kitchen holding a ukulele and a twenty-first birthday card with the one scratched out and replaced with a zero.

 

And I call him the crazy one.

 

While there were no worshipers surrounding me, the reality did actually exceed my expectations. The Johnny got The Joke and accepted my peace offering (read: the ukulele) and offered me a beer in return. At eleven AM. Oh to be twenty again.

 

We sat and chatted, part reminiscing and part laughing at the misfortune of dating each other.
Finally, he said, “I always like spending time with you. You make me laugh.”

 

And that is the best advice I could give to any girlfriend.

 

Post By Salium 

Why I Hate Albert Hammond Jr.

I hate Albert Hammond Jr. Don’t mistake that.

The following is merely an explanation, a justification - if you will -, of that very true statement.

In fact, Albert Hammond Jr is the latest addition on my To Kill List. A list which includes Lindsay Lohan, Eva Longoria and the person who thought that the onion was a good thing to put into food.

 

See, Albert Hammond Jr totally screwed up my plans. Not set-in-stone plans, otherwise known as Life Plans, just my Sunday plans. Yes, I know, right, six one half a dozen or the other?

 

So, for disorganizing my Sunday, Albert Hammond Jr can go to Hell. Or, at the very least, if it is more convenient, he can accept the fact that I will never buy his album or go out of my way to see him in concert. In fact, if he was dying of dehydration on the street, I would only give him a sip to keep him going if I happened to be carrying a drink I dislike. Like cyanide.

 

How did the guitarist of The Strokes manage to get on my bad side? And anger me so much that I would (possibly) put him above Eva Longoria on my To Kill List?

 

He did not go to Splendor In The Grass.

 

A small problem, in the scheme of things, you say? And yes, I could agree. However, I don’t.

Because I believe in honoring a commitment. And so I find that there is no excuse for not turning up to Splendor (or work, as it were) when you have said that you will. I mean, I managed. And I lost a pinky toenail (I know, gross.)

 

I wasn’t going to splendor to see Albert Hammond Jr. In fact, I would not have watched him if he had managed to drag his skinny jeans to the event [there was a tap dancing rap competition at the same time as his set. If you don't know that that is my talent then you don't know me]. BUT. His absence fucked up my entire day.

 

Now, I could blame the Splendor (splendid?) Organizers for deciding, on the day, to push back every single performance on one stage to accommodate the fact that Albert Hammond Jr couldn’t be assed to show up. But why blame the minions?

 

But poor Albert Hammond Jr. He is going to have to deal with the fact that he will miss out on my CD sale or (classic) tap dance moves during a future set because his tardiness forced Vampire Weekend and Laura Marling to perform at the same time. The two bands I did pay two hundred dollars to see. And who, before Albert Hammond Jr decided to play God, I was able to see.

 

Who are they, you ask?

 

Well….they are the bands that could be bothered to turn up to work. Enough said.

 

Now, I would not be so bitter, if say, Albert Hammond Jr was dying of natural causes (other than my voodoo doll). I can deal if a musician is sick. I to have had a cold and stayed in bed watching “My So Called Life” reruns. So I can accept.

 

But because I know (via various sources - one being a friend of a friend of a friend who happens to know Albert Hammond Jr) that he was not sick, I can’t buy his “sore throat” excuse. He was partying in New York with his girlfriend.

 

Awww, you say.

 

No. No No No No.

 

This ‘decision’ (Aside: if I was to take a contrary position, I would argue that I wouldn’t get out of bed with a supermodel for ten thousands dollars a day either) made me (and many others) have to miss bands we wanted to see, gave me two hours free time to do what I like and forced me to occupy myself by doing shots at the bar and then not actually remembering much else of the night. But I do have visions of dancing around a tent with people wearing flannelette shirts.

 

This is Albert Hammond Jr’s fault.

 

All I ask is that my musicians show up, play their set, don’t screw up the playing schedule and stop me from drinking my body weight in tequila.

 

And maybe do a cover of “Mustang Sally” every time they perform.  

 

Post By Salium. 

Isn’t This Fun?

On Saturday, I was sitting in the middle back seat of a car (otherwise known as the Uncomfortable One), surrounded by four boys. “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” was blaring out of the speakers and I was bopping around like a ping-ping ball.

The most hilarious part is that it was not my choice of music (and Mr Music Man is perhaps the most heterosexual man I know).

 

The relaxing (read: drinking) weekend confirmed the obvious, that it is not just girls who want to have fun: Boys also like to drink copious amounts of scotch and then dance on tables. Either that is a sweeping generalization, true or I spend my time with alcoholics. All of the above? 

 

But nothing sobers me up more than a drunken declaration (so is the lifestyle I have chosen).

“We need to talk on Sunday,” One of my male weekenders said to me.

“OK,” I said. OK. Slurred.

“You know I am in love with you?”

 

Ninety dollars (a lax estimate) down the drain, as I was sobered up instantly. That is until I bolted straight to the bar and then nailed myself to the dance floor.

 

Why would someone be in love with me? Have they met me? I don’t do that crazy little thing called love.

 

When I returned back to the GC, I had to focus my thoughts on fixing the situation.

“How do you tell someone that you are not in love with them and never will be?” I asked.

“Tell them to fuck off,” My father responded.

As I am a bitch with a social conscience, I stayed focused.

“How do you explain to someone that they really need to get over something?”

“Tell them to go fuck themselves,” My brother offered.

As I don’t encourage asexuality, I continued thinking.

“How do you show someone that you are not interested in them?”

“Go an fuck somebody else,” Mr Music Man advised.

As I apparently surround myself with crude and rude men, I decided to take the most female approach I could muster and kindly explain the situation.

 

See, the cliché is applicable: It’s not you, it’s me.

A cyborg of Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Johnny Depp could offer himself to me right now and I still would say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” I just don’t want to be in a relationship with anyone. I thoroughly enjoy my own company, I would find solitary confinement enjoyable and I love having an entire bed to myself. And I am reading a really good book.

 

Unfortunately, my explanation (and rejection) did not go as smoothly as I planned. As ignorant as I am, I imagined that He would be all, “Oh, sweet, no problem, what was I thinking anyway? You’re not loveable!” But he did not.

No, instead I dedicated eight hours to explaining Why It Wont Happen. By six PM I wanted to follow all of the advice given to me, but I just couldn’t. I’d fucked myself.

 

When I think back to all of the relationships I have had (all…four of them), my mind quickly wanders to the claustrophobic moments and suffocation I eventually felt, and the rebellion I employed to combat it.

“You never let me hug you anymore,” one said.

“Are you a robot?” another asked.

“Where did you come from?” the nice one observed.

“Will you scratch my back?”

Suffice to say, I am a horrible girlfriend. But I am a great friend.

 

I don’t want to inflict my horrible girlfriend skills upon a friend who I actually respect. I don’t want to be restricted to one person. I don’t want to have to answer to anybody. Because, sometimes, girls just want to have fun.

 

I told Him this. And he fucked off.

Post By Salium

Let’s Keep It Simple.

Boys are kind of weird.

 

I have long since accepted that they don’t call when they say they are going to, don’t bathe when they say they are going to and don’t even come when they say they are going to. In fact, some of these are the things that keep It all interesting. It is all of the other Stuff that simply…baffles me.

 

Say, for example, when you are walking down the street with your ex-boyfriend (weird, for some, in itself) and you comment on a dress. As one who is interested in aesthetics (that’s me!) is prone to do.

“I really like that dress.”

“Huff. Puff. Huff. Hhmph. Huff. Puff. Argh. Hhmph. Huff.”

“What?”

“I wish a girl would get dressed up for me.”

What do you say to that? What can you say to that?

“I think I have gas.”

 

I’m ignoring the fact that I believed all boys wanted girls out of their clothes. My mother taught me wrong. Anyho…

 

Or, maybe, you are sitting in a kitchen, surrounded by a group of drunk boys. And you hear the sound of a lighter close to your ear (smokers can hear lighters. It is kind of like how Priests can hear God. But maybe more succinct.)

“Excuse me. What are you doing?” Imagine turning around to find a boy trying to light your hair on fire. “Do you mind not?”

“Who invited her?” Apparently, I spoiled all the fun.

He did it again. I quickly became angry. Not because I am (emotionally) attached to my hair. But simply because, I think, finding one of these People would be even more difficult if I were to be, say, bald.

 

And then, try to do what I am doing and understand why a boy would just completely ignore your feelings.

“I am feeling rather anxious today,” I said. “I feel bla.” (Aside: I take full responsibility for my vagueness. But I am a girl. What I lack in weirdness, I make up for in craziness.)

“I’m trying to arrange my clothes…”

Moments later, because, as prefaced, you are crazy, you try again. 

“Maybe I just feel overwhelmed? I have no idea. Meh.”

“The lime green polo shirt with the pink belt is winning the race…”

And then you get short, the aforementioned anxiety thickens and you walk away. And, apparently, maybe, you are the bad guy. Sorry, girl.

 

After I spent the better part of a day thinking about boys, I told one of my female friends that I think that they are weird.

“Well, you see, they’re not actually weird, they’re simple,” she replied.

You know, I hadn’t even thought of that. I had been too busy trying to think of a justifiable reason as to why someone would follow up a fashion comment with a declaration of their horniness.

In fact, I had trying to bring Logic into the battle of the sexes. Call me crazy.

 

I reiterated my new found wisdom to my Alpha Weird, RG.

“Yes,” he nodded, assembling the evidence. “But you haven’t actually solved anything.”

“How is that?” I asked, smug.

“Because, whether they are weird or not, you still don’t have a boyfriend.”

My mother is actually encouraging me to find one of these People. Maybe that is what is weird?

 

 Post By Salium. 

Miss Ogyny

 

A guy recently said of me, “I would never date you. You are far too independent. Opinionated. And sophisticated.”

I sat staring at him, watchful of my own response as heaven forbid we add (the reality of) argumentative into that equation.

“These are the good things about me,” I declared. “Just wait until you see the flaws!”

 

I am often mistaken for a feminist. I have an affinity with fine footwear so it can’t possibly be my wardrobe, despite the fact that I am quite the androgynous dresser. Yet, I will never be burning bras or embracing double-thread stockings. Because, even beyond the superficial, I am not a feminist. Yet I have a deep respect for the effort employed by my female ancestors. They did the hard work and I have absolutely no problem being waited on. Especially if my hard work is going to pay the bill.

 

I am not even an equalist. I am a realist.

 

However, what has shocked me is that in this day and age, there are actually men out there who believe that it is a negative thing for a woman to be independent.

The notion that maybe all women “shouldn’t” have left the kitchen was reiterated to me at work.

“My oven broke down last night,” Orlando said to me over lunch while he ate McDonalds. I didn’t respond. “My oven broke down last night,” he repeated.

“Oh, I heard you. I just really couldn’t care less.”

He actually laughs at my undomesticated-ness. And has done since I laughed so hard that a little pee came out when he revealed that he was ecstatic for receiving a vacuum cleaner for his birthday.

“This is an emergency,” he said in between fries.

“No, I would call it a relief.”

“What is my girlfriend going to cook tonight?”

“Isn’t that what a microwave is for? Or maybe a restaurant?” I ignored his feminine innuendo, justifying that as his girlfriend is a professional chef, she probably does make the best Two Minute Noodles in the household.

“When was the last time you used an oven?” He questioned.

I tried to remember. “I think we had one in London.”

 

I can’t cook. I can’t (won’t) clean. I buy new clothes instead of doing laundry every week. And I once sprayed my dog with Estee Lauder’s Beyond Paradise instead of giving him a bath.

One Hollywood actress recently said, in an interview, “Women are either good in the kitchen or good in bed.”

I can’t stress enough how capable I am of burning soup. But, then again, some like it Hot.

 

But is this how it is? Have I been completely oblivious to the fact that You can’t be Whoever you want? Rather you are segregated within the gender to which you were born?

I can’t imagine that a (valuable) employer would dismiss me because I am strong (or a woman), so why would a man?

Oh. That’s right. No law suit involved in romantic rejection.

I took the question to my source of all Fucked Up Man Problems, Dani.

“Isn’t the best way to a man’s heart through his stomach?” She said.

I wondered. I am single. And I have given a boyfriend food poisoning from cooking him macaroni and cheese.

“But what about all of that bullshit about men only being able to think about sex? Surely that has to count for something? Do we literally have no power?”

“You would think,” she scoffed. “But I’ve literally tried that route. And no, we don’t.”

 

Damn, I thought. I’m really going to have to think of a new trick.

 

AM is my guiding light of how to make a relationship work while being opinionated and useless with a wok. It somewhat pains me think that my mother is a horrible cook. However, my parents have been married for twenty-eight years. Shudder.

“There are a lot of very weak guys out there,” she told me over a glass of wine and Chinese take-away.

“Well, I refuse to change.” I reheated my rice in the microwave.

Add ‘stubborn’ to my personal ad.

 

 

 

Miss Ogyny

A guy recently said of me, “I would never date you. You are far too independent. Opinionated. And sophisticated.”

I sat staring at him, watchful of my own response as heaven forbid we add (the reality of) argumentative into that equation.

“These are the good things about me,” I declared. “Just wait until you see the flaws!”

 

I am often mistaken for a feminist. I have an affinity with fine footwear so it can’t possibly be my wardrobe, despite the fact that I am quite the androgynous dresser. Yet, I will never be burning bras or embracing double-thread stockings. Because, even beyond the superficial, I am not a feminist. Yet I have a deep respect for the effort employed by my female ancestors. They did the hard work and I have absolutely no problem being waited on. Especially if my hard work is going to pay the bill.

 

I am not even an equalist. I am a realist.

 

However, what has shocked me is that in this day and age, there are actually men out there who believe that it is a negative thing for a woman to be independent.

The notion that maybe all women “shouldn’t” have left the kitchen was reiterated to me at work.

“My oven broke down last night,” Orlando said to me over lunch while he ate McDonalds. I didn’t respond. “My oven broke down last night,” he repeated.

“Oh, I heard you. I just really couldn’t care less.”

He actually laughs at my undomesticated-ness. And has done since I laughed so hard that a little pee came out when he revealed that he was ecstatic for receiving a vacuum cleaner for his birthday.

“This is an emergency,” he said in between fries.

“No, I would call it a relief.”

“What is my girlfriend going to cook tonight?”

“Isn’t that what a microwave is for? Or maybe a restaurant?” I ignored his feminine innuendo, justifying that as his girlfriend is a professional chef, she probably does make the best Two Minute Noodles in the household.

“When was the last time you used an oven?” He questioned.

I tried to remember. “I think we had one in London.”

 

I can’t cook. I can’t (won’t) clean. I buy new clothes instead of doing laundry every week. And I once sprayed my dog with Estee Lauder’s Beyond Paradise instead of giving him a bath.

One Hollywood actress recently said, in an interview, “Women are either good in the kitchen or good in bed.”

I can’t stress enough how capable I am of burning soup. But, then again, some like it Hot.

 

But is this how it is? Have I been completely oblivious to the fact that You can’t be Whoever you want? Rather you are segregated within the gender to which you were born?

I can’t imagine that a (valuable) employer would dismiss me because I am strong (or a woman), so why would a man?

Oh. That’s right. No law suit involved in romantic rejection.

I took the question to my source of all Fucked Up Man Problems, Dani.

“Isn’t the best way to a man’s heart through his stomach?” She said.

I wondered. I am single. And I have given a boyfriend food poisoning from cooking him macaroni and cheese.

“But what about all of that bullshit about men only being able to think about sex? Surely that has to count for something? Do we literally have no power?”

“You would think,” she scoffed. “But I’ve literally tried that route. And no, we don’t.”

 

Damn, I thought. I’m really going to have to think of a new trick.

 

AM is my guiding light of how to make a relationship work while being opinionated and useless with a wok. It somewhat pains me think that my mother is a horrible cook. However, my parents have been married for twenty-eight years. Shudder.

“There are a lot of very weak guys out there,” she told me over a glass of wine and Chinese take-away.

“Well, I refuse to change.” I reheated my rice in the microwave.

Add ‘stubborn’ to my personal ad.

 

My Nose Is Running

I have a general contempt for doctors. Whether they are looking in my ear, up my skirt or listening to me breath through a Marlboro Light, I am just not a fan.

I just don’t think they do anything for me.

 

Every day of my life, I am trying to think of a plausible excuse to get out of what I have to do so that I can do what I want to do. The only time AIDS, syphilis or an infected ingrown toenail sounds even remotely enjoyable is when my alarm goes off at seven AM and I want to remain wrapped like a burrito for at least fourteen more hours.

But I never use an excuse. Or think of one, actually. Instead, I do what I have to do and do it without a smile on my face. There is no point pretending that I am happy about this, I reason.

 

As I am currently working in a job I deplore, with no creative talent necessary, I have channelled my artistic mind into devising entertaining ways to be told to leave.

“Just start going into work naked,” one of my male friends suggested. It was a good idea – the act would either get me fired or a raise. Either being a pleasant result.

 

However, I am currently genuinely sick. Having never given myself a proper chance to recover from the Mono scare (“What? You aren’t supposed to run ten kilometres a day with a low immune system? Weak.”), I have fallen back into the depths of viral darkness.

Yesterday, I walked into work and was met with disgusted looks.

“You look like shit,” the only hot employee told me. Can I not impress anyone? Really?

 

By lunchtime, I was laying on the foetal position of the lunch-room floor. Not even for effect. It was the only way I could stop myself from falling over.

“Maybe you should go home?” one person, hopefully someone superior, suggested. I crawled to my car and went to the gym for a run.

 

Today, I was forced to go to the doctor.

Dr Powers looked like a member of Nsync. Wearing my (new) tartan flats, I towered over him. He clicked his fingers regularly, as one would during a verse and simultaneously with four other midgets. And he had a beard that had been shaved with careful consideration to merely frame his jaw line and lips.

“What would you call your hair colour?” was the first question Craig David asked.

“Grey,” I coughed as I laid down on the little bed. Again, to stop myself from falling down.

“Do you having any plans this weekend?”

“Trying not to die.”

“No partying?”

“Only if I die.” I rolled over and looked at him, as my crouched position with back turned was obviously not clearly indicating to him that I, am in fact, sick. “Can you give me something? Or test something? Please?”

 

Craig David looked into my ears and declared that I don’t have tonsillitis. He checked my breathing and declared that I don’t have lung cancer. He massaged my neck and…it was nice.

“I am going to prematurely diagnose you with mono,” he basically sung. “But you need to go here, here and here for blood tests. And I will call you if there are any abnormalities.”

Hopefully AIDS deserves more than a phone call.

 

I called AM to tell her that I am sick and read her my last rights.

“I went to the doctor,” I sulked into my phone. “He thinks I have just hours to live.”

“I am watching Dr Phil at work. Come and keep me company.”

Luckily, I didn’t have to think of an excuse.

I’ve already planned to go for a run.   

These Boots Were Made For Walking

There is a pair of purple gumboots sitting in the window of a store across from where I work and I want to own them.

In fact, I think they would genuinely make my life better if I owned them – which is a ridiculous, yet frequent, pressure I put on inanimate objects. My wardrobe is cluttered with items I purchased while feeling under the weather. Hence why I think it is important to buy the gumboots.

 

But I can’t bring myself to walk into the store. It is one of those businesses that have ads on television featuring a voice screaming at you, quickly, to rush in and buy as many packets of nine socks for sixty cents as you physically can. Their marketing plan has had the reverse effect on me. But that is common. I frequently run the other way when people yell.

 

I don’t watch television anymore, so the last time I was actually yelled at to buy things was back when Ken and I would laugh at it in Byron Bay. Today, at lunch, I actually promised myself that I would run in, grab the purple boots (quickly), hopefully in an applicable size, throw money at someone and bolt.

But I didn’t. Instead I tried to write my own celebrity crossword.

 

Could I be too pretentious to walk into a store that sells pants out of a bin? Lets not go down that path…

 

I just can’t figure out why I won’t go there.

 

I rarely avoid things in my life. In my relationships, I say what I mean and mean what I say. Or I just shut the fuck up and find new friends. I am always honest, maybe selective, but never dishonest. People will always know how I feel about them. And if they don’t, on the odd chance that I have actually shut the fuck up, all they have to do is ask.

 

Sometimes, this approach to people has put me in trouble. I have lost friends over it. (Aside: Never ask me if those pants make you look fat.)

When I was sixteen, my BFF from birth asked me what I thought of her dating RG’s personal assistant, twenty-six.

“I think it is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard of,” I responded.

They were married last year and I wasn’t invited.

 

You would really think I would have learned my lesson.

 

But I refuse to believe that honesty is not the best policy.

Tact is an entirely different issue (but still don’t ask me if the pants make you look fat). If you have something nice to say to someone, or about someone, I think it should be said. So frequently I think people are too stupid, too ignorant, too incompetent, too complacent, too boring or too ugly, so when I finally meet someone I think the exact opposite of, I feel the need to tell them. Frequently. They may find it excessive, but then, they may not understand what it is like to constantly meet people with the IQ of a nugget.

 

I fear that my latest bout of sincerity has lost me another significant relationship in my life. Who knows if this one will involve a wedding that I won’t be invited to. But even if it just results in sadness, of me feeling remorseful , the virtue of honesty will have wronged me again.

 

Honesty cannot be avoided. Even if what you need to say walks the fine line of destroying or making a relationship, some things need to be said. That is why you buy boots made for walking.

 

You just need to be brave enough to walk into the store.

 

 

 

 

Post by Salium.