Coming Down With The Affluenza.

I'm done with being dirty.

I want to be clean now. I've just started a new job, am in the process of moving out, am trying to sort out my money situation (the situation being that I have less than none), and my head just can't cope with it all in it's dirty state. I partied my arse off last week, and drank a lot, and drugged a lot, and didn't give a toss, and it was good. And now I'm done.

At least for now.

All I want to do currently is sit in bed eating and watch tv, with my cat curled up on my lap, and have some time to unclench for a bit. But, annoyingly, these next few weeks are undoubtedly going to be hassle and a half. I downloaded the 2nd series of Gilmore Girls the other day, and earlier I tried to think of a night this week where I can stay in bed and watch it, but I couldn't even find a bracket of an hour to watch one episode. Because every hour I have is filled with something infinitely more important like packing/moving, or working, or doctors appointments, or working. And I am hating it.

It's always like this when you try and change your life though. The initial period is always the worst. I can't wait until everything settles down, then maybe I won't have this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach all the time.

Ugh, I can actually hear myself, and I realise that self-deprecation when it borders on self-pity is a most unappealing quality, and I hate it in myself, but I can't help it. I feel crappy and stressed, and yet again I feel like it's only ever going to be me, alone, fighting to be better. With only my own stupid thoughts to keep me company at night, and on the bus, and at dinnertimes, and at all the times I wish I had someone to ease the burden.

Does everyone feel like this? Sometimes I think everyone feels like this. In the most selfish, wanting-to-be-part-of-something way, I hope everyone does feel like this. Because then this constant fear/feeling of isolation is actually part of the human condition, not just part of my poorly conditioned brain.

Maybe I'm just coming down with the Affluenza.

(Maybe I'm just coming down)

Martha Knows.

Tonight I had my the day alone with time to myself in my flat, for the first time in ages. I was enjoying just hanging out in my room listening to music and generally lounging around, and got to offhandedly thinking about every man ever to pass through my life, and this Martha Wainwright song I'd forgotten I had came on, as if sent from the musical heavens. So I sang along with Martha, feeling carefree and a bit righteous, if it's at all possible to feel those two things simultaneously, and I couldn't help but smile. Martha knew.

Damn This Wild Young Heart

It's 3am and after having had just over half an hour of sleep, my stupid brain decided to wake me up and spin me around some more. So now I'm drawing up a draft tech spec to send bands when I book them - a document that does need to be done, but with no particular urgency, and definitely not at 3am on a Tuesday morning. Yet, here I am.

This is all because I'm so restless at the moment. Literally, as well as figuratively. I can't get to sleep for ages, then when I do I wake up a half hour later and immediately am flooded with racing flashes of things I have to do, things I should be doing, things I forgot to do, people I forgot to call, stuff that happened last night, stuff that happened last week, stupid things I've said this month, stupid things I've done this month, everyone in my life, Darcy, Rocket Boy, The Cats, Pickled Lily, my boss, the postman, eeeeeeeverything that my brain could possibly think of throughout the day just spills out into one giant overpowering thought which smacks me in the face out of nowhere, and I can't get back to sleep. Which is funny because the combination of these thoughts makes me want to put a pillow over my head and crawl under the covers and suck my thumb until everything goes away.

Besides that, everything is pretty okay. I'm still craving the dirty side of life at the moment, and have gotten satisfactorily grubby out on the town with the girls recently. Have also encountered a few appropriately inappropriate boys along the way, which has been fun (for the most part). But I'm still feeling restless. I'm itching for something, for I dunno, hedonism. And letting go, and being reckless and shameless and not giving a damn. I'm craving the life equivalent of a line of tequila slammers. Or maybe I'm just craving the slammers. Either way, I need to let loose.

I am also, and I know how ridiculous this sounds (as i do with most things I say. I may be ridiculous and mildly melodramatic, but I'm perfectly self-aware!) - but I'm freaking the fuck out about turning 23.

I never thought I had a 'scary age', and if I did I assumed it was something normal like 30, or 40. But for whatever reason, 23 I find fucking terrifying, and I had no idea until now. I've been talking with Pickled Lily about this, and have established that it's because 23 is officially the end of being a big kid/student/girl/layabout. I don't know why, because technically the whole teenager transition between youth and young manhood is at 21, but it's not. 22 is even still in that bracket. But when you hit 23, you're no longer in the bracket with the 18 yr olds and the youngsters, you're officially a 20-something. You are a young adult. And you can't get away with being as fucking ridiculous as you can be up til 22. And I'm suddenly terrified of wasting time. Of losing out on the opportunity to be ridiculous, and young and stupid and naive, because having spent my life being smart and mature and knowing better, and being (and feeling) older than my years, I think maybe I've missed out on naivety these last few years. I've spent my life being grown up, and now it's here I don't want to be a grownup! I've been one for so long now, and as ever I only ever notice what I've got when it's slipping away! See because when you're ridiculous when you're 19, it's endearing, you're young and foolish. But when you're ridiculous past 23, you're just a fool.

I want to do all the things I'll be too old to do when I'm hitting 30. Literally, everything. I can't randomly move in and out of my flat, or get silly about boys, or decide to drop my career and degree to piss around for a year, or dance in grotty clubs and not give a damn, and stay out drinking and drugging for days on end when I'm hitting 30.Well, I could, but it would be tragic. Because these sort of things would be perfectly acceptable at say 22, but not at 29.

I know, it's stupid, and I never really have given a damn about society's expectations, never have even considered them to be honest, and I don't actually apply these insane standards to anyone but myself - but I do hold them for myself. And the only person whose standards I'm terrified of not meeting are my own.

So as such, I'm terrified of 23. Because it's the end of an era, and I'm terrified of looking back on it and knowing I didn't be everything I should have been, everything I could have been.

But even this is fucking pointless, because I'm not 29, I'm 22. I am still young enough to be whoever I want to be, yet I'm not actually doing anything about it, I'm wasting being 22. By worrying about being 29 and looking back and regretting wasting being 22.

Anyway, these are all stupid 3am thoughts that will evaporate in the morning with the first sip of coffee and drag of a cigarette.

..and will resurface come midnight tomorrow night, but I shall continue to push them all away until the next morning coffee and a cigarette and so forth until one day, I push them so far back in my head that I get a brain tumour.

I really want to go out right now. I could do with a line of shots and a thumping bassline.

Three Olives, Shake It Up - I Like It Dirty.

So I went out with the girls last night, and hadn't quite shaken the feeling I had during the date with Clark Gable - I was on a mission to get down and dirty. So we did. Lots of black eyeliner, rounds of shots, live music, sweaty bars and sweaty guys later, mission accomplished. I woke up this morning with my head in the toilet, a sticker saying 'Shimmy' on it and a flattened white lily on my chest, and a smile on my face. This is where I belong. I know my place.

And as such, I've decided dirty is the answer. Dirty boys, dirty bars, dirty music, dirty talk, dirty shots, dirty minds.. diiiiirrrty.

I will be acting upon this thought/epiphany by fully submitting myself to the dirty side.

So let's get dirty.

At least until I can be bothered to clean up.

No Butterflies For Clark Gable.

So I had a hot date tonight, with a hot lifeguard. Yet I find myself approaching midnight in my bed, eating pistachios and chain smoking, feeling equally weary and restless as ever.

It was nice. We went to a little Moroccan restaurant that I'd suggested when he called me a few days ago. I met him at the gym last week, when I went for a swim. He showed me to the yoga class room, and we had a lovely chat and a bit of a flirt, and swapped numbers. He's really really cute - blonde, blue eyes, slender but toned, clean-cut. Not my type, but in terms of hot male of the species, he's ticking all the boxes so far.. When I first saw him it was like watching an American teen movie and seeing 'the cute guy' come on screen, you know, where you just know you're supposed to find him cute. Especially in his little red shorts and lifeguard whistle! But when he had his normal clothes on (Ramones t-shirt, old school Levi's, a funky little brown hat - ticking more boxes) he seemed much more my type. I then discovered he's a singer, and a songwriter, and he smokes (tick, tick, tick..) so was more than happy to arrange a date - which was surprisingly easy. I'd actually been out with the girls in Camden the night before, and had been discussing how nobody asks people out on dates any more, so I was pleasantly surprised at how easily and comfortably we arranged to meet up.

Anyway, on to the actual date. I'd been massively nonplussed about the whole thing these last few days, which worried me to be honest. I've always been really easily flustered and excited and girly and giggly about boy-related situations, big or small, and always found it quite fun getting all a-flutter about boys (I blame the adolescent influence of Charolastra No.1 for that one) but this was the first time since I could remember where a boy situation had cropped up and I hadn't been remotely reactive. Even getting ready for the date, no butterflies, no self-doubt, no fussing over hair/outfit, no excited texts to the girls - nothing. Walking to the restaurant with a sexy strut, listening to 'Sexy Boy' by Air to try and pump myself up - nothin'. Sitting at the table, waiting for him to arrive - nada. Usually I'm putting on lip gloss obsessively, nervously checking my phone, holding down the butterflies, smiling to myself, or the waiter, or anyone in sight - but tonight.. nothin.

Anyway so he arrives, cute as I remember, in dark jeans and classic black shirt rolled up at the sleeves (my favourite sartorial combination on a man) and is even more attractive up close, under candlelight and romantic faux-Moroccan backdrop. It's all really comfortable immediately. We order a bottle of wine and some things I don't understand from the menu, and we get to chatting about Ancient Greece, and the demise of chivalry, and Die Hard, and the first records we ever bought - the conversation is sparkling, and flowing, and not at all forced, and we could not be more interesting, or interested.

The night continues like this, and at one point I realise he's leaning back watching me talk and looking at me sexily, and I'm smiling at him knowingly, toying with my wine glass while his foot touches mine under the table. It's all very sexy, and there's a definite spark in the air.. But still no butterflies.

We then talk about music, which never ceases to excite and arouse me (which is why I had decided to stop talking about music with cute boys, it gets me into trouble and makes me a little overexcited) - and he has great music taste, and really interesting opinions on why certain music works with a political agenda, and we discuss political relevance in music throughout the ages. He's smart, and opinionated, and open-minded, and loves music as much as I do, and is getting more attractive by the minute. Still no butterflies.

We get through the first bottle of wine, and the second course, and he asks about my life. I tell him about work, and my friends, and funny anecdotes about my childhood. He tells me about his family, and his work outside the gym, and the dog he had growing up. It's the perfect first date so far, and I can't help but notice how swimmingly it's all going, with a surprising disappointed feeling in my stomach (in lieu of the still notably absent butterflies). I quash a thought that creeps up on me while he's talking - Am I only attracted to guys that make me nervous? Do I secretly thrive on conflict?

The restaurant is beautiful, white painted brick walls with deep red and yellow handmade tapestries draped on the walls, low-lit lamps hung from low ceilings, and I feel like I'm in an exotic distant land with Lawrence of Arabia.

I get up to go to the ladies', and I catch a glimpse of us in a mirror. We make a beautiful, sophisticated pair, him in his black shirt and Clark Gable hair, me in a classic brown silk dress and immaculate Sofia Loren makeup, at our quiet intimate table complete with exotic setting. As I walk to the toilet, I pass the open front door. A cold sharp breeze wafts over me and I get a sudden urge to run out. I quell the urge, and as I walk back to the table I feel stifled and a little claustrophobic.

Now, I cannot stress this enough - this boy is perfect. Gorgeous, interesting, smart, funny, quietly confident but not remotely arrogant, easy to chat to, interested in me.. but as we continue to sit at the table, sipping our wine having fascinating, culturally stimulating conversation, I find myself suppressing an urge to just tear my dress off, pull on some ripped black jeans and eyeliner and run to the nearest dirty rock bar, grab the nearest dirty rock boy, snog his face off, then do a line of tequila slammers and dance the night away to some dirty hardcore basslines.

We finish the meal and, like the perfect gentleman, he offers to pay. But he accepts me wanting to split the bill and makes a brilliantly tongue-in-cheek joke about 'chivalry being killed off by women', and he offers to walk me home, like the perfect gentleman. So we walk back to mine, arm in arm (both of our free hands holding a cigarette) and we chat and smoke in the warm evening air. He walks me to my door, and deals with me not leaning in for the kiss so smoothly - he kisses me on the cheek, like the perfect gentleman, and as he walks away, our hands brush against each other and he strokes my hand ever so softly. It's very sexy, and our eyes linger on each other as he walks away.

As I walk through my front door I can't help but notice..
Still no butterflies.

Everything That Matters Is Just About To Happen.

A Drink In The Vale Shames Me A Little.

Met Mystery today for a drink in the Vale, which was surprisingly nice.

I forget that when he's not being overly analytical and needy, he's a pretty sound guy. Plus, he's going to prove very useful in terms of male perspective for the Guide that me and Charolastra No.1 are writing (The Guide To The Misguided: Misinterpreted, Misguided, Or Just Plain Useless..? - a social document about men and women interacting, and all the confusion therein) as, if there's any weird sexual/social situation out there, you can bet your bottom dollar Mystery has been in it. And has analysed it from every possible angle. Twice. And then again for good measure.

Anyway, was sitting at the table, chain smoking and easing into a conversation about the possible existence of the elusive 'Middle Man' (somewhere in between a fuck buddy and a boyfriend - someone you're attracted to and get along with, have good chat/banter with, and who you shag, with no strings, but with whom it's not entirely meaningless. Anyone who successfully fits this bill, please apply here..) when I realise that Mystery is the only man I'm still in contact with who has seen me naked. And it freaks me the fuck out! It's entirely irrelevant, and I'm not even fussed about it - my past with Mystery feels like some school play I was in years ago, so any residual memories are vaguely blurry with nostalgia and nausea. But for a split second, I wondered what it would be like if all the men I'd ever slept with were in one room, looking at me. Then I thought, I would basically be naked. I may as well stand there, naked.

Then I laughed, which was a bit weird as Mystery was mid-sentence talking about some girl or something. And when I laughed, I spat a mouthful of wine onto the table then fell off my chair. Seriously. Mate, I think I'm actually getting more ridiculous by the day. In fact I'm getting so ridiculous, I just called my secret online blog 'mate'.

Anyway, after having spat wine all over myself and fallen off my chair, we chatted about old times and relationship issues and Neil Gaiman (Mystery's managed to blag us both extras parts in a short film Neil Gaiman is filming next week - us both being the most massive nerdlingers when it comes to comic books/graphic novels, and much of our relationship being based on geeking out about The Sandman) - and I'm offhandedly talking about the difference between being attracted to somebody immediately and finding somebody interesting, thus becoming attracted to them. And Mystery throws this one on the table..

"You know, I don't remember if I was attracted to you immediately. I mean, you're gorgeous.. but you got more beautiful to me the more I got to know you."

Blew me away, that one did. Maybe it's because nobody ever calls me beautiful, particularly in such a casual matter-of-fact sort of way (ie. not calling me beautiful to get my pants off), but even so. That may be the nicest thing anyone's said to me this year.

Anyway, it made me feel a bit stupid about having so many guys in my head, as the only one who isn't in my head at all, is in my life, as a real person who just told me he finds me beautiful, because he knows me. So I decided to stop sitting there only half-listening to Mystery, while answering calls from Darcy, thinking about Rocket Boy, and trying not to think about Ash, and instead give Mystery my full attention. So I did, and we chatted about sci-fi and comic books, and love and sex, and music. It's been a while since I've given Mystery my full attention, and it was nice. I'm not sure why I'm so stingy with my time and energy with him, yet hand out all my attention and time to boys who never bother to get to know me, thus never manage to find me beautiful.

Okay, so maybe the offhand comment has gone to my head a little! But I honestly did feel a bit ashamed, and a bit mean for always being so hard on Mystery. So 1st Note-To-Self of September : whatever little time/energy/self you have to give, make sure you're putting it in the right places, to the right people.

Now, so this doesn't get too self-help Bridget Jonesy, here's a picture of a frog wearing a snail as a hat..

The Dawning Of A New Era. Or Something.

So it is officially September.

More importantly, it is no longer August.

August is bollocks. As I've established, it's a weird transitional month where you realise the days of Summer Holiday are over, as despite the residual school's-out-for-Summer feeling, in fact everything is the same. And being a grownup means not being able to take a break from your life every Summer.

Also, nobody really knows what August is there for. Half the population goes on holiday or to festivals, and the other half stay behind doing their normal life, wondering where everyone is, and why they're not having all this fun everybody else seems to be having. It's not a proper self-respecting month, August.

Anyway, the point is - this past month has been shite for me. Just absolutely sheeeiiiite. And I could not be more happy to welcome September in with open arms, and stick two fingers up to August as I watch it pass by. Fuck you, August!!

So it is quarter past midnight, and I am having a celebratory drink and a cigarette, because I made it through August. It was shite, and I made it through. Pickled Lily and I have decided that we are going to celebrate the passing of August every year, as August is limbo. And whether September is heaven or hell, at least we'll know where we stand!

So cheers. Here's to September, and the dawning of a new era. Or something a little less epic, but just as meaningful.

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I've never said the word 'August' so much before.