You Fill it, You Kill it

I’m jumping on the bandwagon of year end reflection.

2007 was my first full year of single life as an older woman. Very different than the single years of my early twenties. I am wiser and more cynical than I used to be, but I am still vulnerable to poor decision making skills.

I awoke on the first day of 2007 in the bed of a man with whom I had accidentally fallen in love. I was wearing a red floor length gown, and he was in army fatigues and heavy boots. We probably looked awesome.

We shared his bed two more times, always sexless, before I inadvertently killed our sick friendship.

Yes. Inadvertent, and very painful, but ultimately in my best interest. I don’t need to be a middling notch on his bedpost.

I slept with a small number of men this past year, and messed around with a few more.

I found that for the most part, single men in their thirties are charmless oafs, so by June, I stopped dating.

I got laid one time after that. He was a nice guy, I don’t regret it.

By September, I pretty much stopped socializing outside of my small group of quality friends. I have met a small number of awesome people with whom I keep in irregular contact, but real friendship takes time, so I can only count them as fond acquaintances thus far. But I hope that we can become real friends in 2008.

I changed jobs in the summer, and have never looked back. I fucking love this new place.

I had a rollercoaster ride of emotions dealing with fashion design, and have not yet reached any sort of permanent perspective. Love, hate, indifference, it’s all there.

I watched a lot of movies that I really liked. Most notably, Pan’s Labyrinth, Deathproof and No Country For Old Men. Superbad was fun, too.

I discovered that I really like Klaus Nomi, sort of like Gogol Bordello, and continue to love Kevin Blechdom.

I read some wicked books that have stuck in my mind long after finishing them, and am hoping for more of the same next year.

I have gained back several pounds that I had lost in 2006 due to the end of my longterm relationship. I started actually eating solid, non alcoholic food for dinner, which had something to do with the weight fluctuation. I still look hot, but I have these love handles that are threatening to overpower my ever dwindling ass, so I might have to take some sort of preventative action after all.

I have seen one friend get pregnant, one friend get engaged, one friend get divorced and one roommate go loopy from a breakup and them fix himself up fantastically. Well done, Roomie, I’m super proud of you.

As for expectations in 2008, I don’t really have many. I expect to continue to not get laid as frequently as I’d like, to have men turn me down on regular basis, and to continue to refine my masturbatory skills.

What I hope, is to learn more, love more, and grow in a better direction.

Maybe eat some more pizza and chocolate covered raisins.

A Breath Mint Will Cure All

I feel like barf.

Yep. Barf.

An attempted consumption, followed by the body’s rejection.

So I lay on the ground in a pile, stinky and pinkish, useless, and waiting to be washed away with the upcoming rain and old snow.

Maybe a pigeon will eat my solid bits and gain some sort of nutritional value from me, I hear they like that kind of stuff. The partially digested meal that is of no value to anyone else.

Maybe I tasted good going down, but I just don’t react well to my environment. Maybe your stomach is too sensitive, you faceless consumer.

Or maybe I am just rotten.

In a Nutshell, Currently

My face is a mess of burning, crow’s feet and zits.

My skin is not my favourite organ.

Neither are my kidneys.

Or my lungs.

My body started its slow deterioration at the age of twenty one, when I grew a bunion. Diagnosed with asthma at twenty two, not induced by smoking, but exacerbated by it at any rate. My back went out at twenty four. I started going grey at twenty five. Chin hair at twenty seven. At twenty eight, my shoulder muscle knotted and spread up my neck and down my back and has yet to untangle itself. At thirty, my right ear plugged up and stayed that way all spring, summer and fall.

I’ve been small, medium, large and back to small again. And currently, medium.

I have cut my hair, grown out the bangs, grown out the rest of it, cut some new bangs, and settled upon my favourite Joey Ramone/Veronica Lodge style. I have been a natural brunette, an unnatural blond, unnatural redhead, unnatural raven, and unnatural brunette.

I have been likened to Jean Seberg, Audrey Hepburn, Cleopatra, Janeane Garofalo, and countless others.

I have been wooed by mafioso and musicians alike. Young men, old men, married men, seemingly gay men, macho men, emo men, scary men, lunatics, artists, situationalists, romantics, poets, accountants, sailors, bikers, Christians, Jews, Satanists, Wiccan priests, Brits, Americans, Serbians, Moroccans, Hungarians, Scots, Indians, Aboriginals, Chinese, Zimbabweans, Greeks, Portuguese, to name a few.

I have been in love twice, maybe thrice.

I have been in lust many more times than that.

I have fucked twenty two men and messed around with less than ten women.

I have participated in threesomes. One foursome, too. I might have been inadvertently drugged for that one.

I have had no sex in my bed in the past year and a half, but I have had sex in the beds of three others during that time. Two were one night stands. One was just a friend who I liked to fuck.

I have hit on two men in the past six months. The first one was nice, the second even nicer. I might try again on the second one.

I think that’s enough for now.

Or My Weekly Bukkake Meetings, For That Matter

Once upon a time, I had three different blogs.

A public one that I knew would be read by friends, acquaintances and strangers.

This one, which was read by a few random people, some known, some not.

And a private one which was only accessible to me through one of my unused email addresses.

I prefer writing on a computer to a notebook. No scribbles, much neater.

Anyway, I stopped writing in the private one when my social life became less melodramatic, thus less emotional. And I transferred my public blog from Myspace to Facebook when I realized that none of my Myspace subscribers were going to transfer here like I’d advised.

Jerks.

So I never worked hard at this blog. It’s half assed. Which is fine because barely anyone reads it, and nobody reads it regularly, so I could write whatever the hell I felt like communicating.

But I won’t. It’s still public. My grandmother doesn’t need to know about my penchant for blue vibrators and Irish Whiskey.

Jesus, I hope my grandmother doesn’t read this stuff.

Because the Buck Stopped Last Night

This week sucked so much.

I did everything wrong.

A lot of zigging that should have been zagging, I switched up wild for mild, and nights were wrecked as a result.

So I am feeling low down and ruined. The ebbs and flows are no longer; the ocean has been drained, and I’m left standing in a soggy mess of dead fish and skeletal ships of the past.

The next logical step would be to assess my situation, and figure out whether I’m heading down further, or starting back up.

I suppose it could get worse, I could lose the creature comforts, the loved ones, the fragile chainsmoker’s health, my pretty long hair.

Well, I guess that would make my week less hideous in comparison.

Let’s hope that the tumble stops here.

Karma?

Karma is a dirty word.

It is overly used and its meaning is overly abused.

It is a word that people will drudge up whenever they feel that vengeance is deserved in theory but not in actual practice. And I think that far too many people place faith in the justice of the universe/cosmos/deity of choice.

Someone cut in front of you in line at the grocery store? Don’t speak up, let Karma take care of it. Maybe the line cutter bought some Our Compliments E. Coli burgers.

You’re a server and you got a shitty tip? Karma will put a parking ticket on the cheapskate’s windshield.

Boyfriend left you for something younger and foxier? Let Karma give her a syphilitic gift to share with all her lovers.

Karma is fine and dandy when you are experiencing one of life’s minor obstacles, but what do you say when you hear about something bigger?

Rwanda had it coming?

The Children of Beslan were a bunch of filthy heathens? And the survivors, who will be fucked up for the rest of their measly lives, are only getting their just desserts?

That kid who got raped and murdered next door to me did something – ANYTHING – in this life to deserve that? In any life?

So once you get past the line cutters and other superficial acts of discourtesy, you have to start believing in reincarnation, in order to support Karma.

No. I don’t think I can feel good knowing that Paris Hilton sleeps on a bed of money because she may have worked in a forced labour camp in her previous life.

Or that there’s a good reason why Metallica wins money in music sharing lawsuits while single mothers have to shell out $200 000 dollars to make up for the twenty albums they downloaded illegally from these multi millionaire musicians. Or maybe Karma is simply making her pay for her bad taste in music.

Fuck that.

Hitler’s not going to die twelve million painful deaths, nor is Stalin going to kick it a hundred million times.

Africa does not starve for a transgression, and you were not born in Canada because you deserved a life of relative luxury.

Life is fairly short, but rarely fair.

Vitamin Attenborough

Can a hive turn into a zit?

Because that’s what seems to be happening on my face.

I also have zits turning into zits, cats turning into pushy lovers, hair turning grey, extremities turning cold, shameover turning into regular hangover, and David Attenborough turning into my hero.

David Attenborough. That soothing and educational voice is like a giant mommy lap. Loving me, nurturing, kissing my booboos better.

More.

Yeah, You Totally Needed to Know That Last Part

Ah yes, the Shameover.

The What Did I Do Last Night?

The hoping that it wasn’t as bad as it feels today.

The vaguest memories. Wondering if I paid my bill at the bar, or if I just walked out after asking the bartender if I owed anything.

Walking out with the other bartender. Hitting on him after shouting about how young he was.

Not getting a kiss like I’d wanted.

Hoping that I wasn’t nearly as charmless as I probably was.

Wondering how I spent all that money when I was being well taken care of all night.

Wishing that I hadn’t needed those two large liquid courage martinis before venturing out. Or at least wishing that I had eaten something in the evening.

Hoping that my behaviour didn’t scare off that cute thing from visiting me at my place of employment.

Wondering why the taxi driver had a beer store barf bag.

Pleased that I managed to make it home before actually barfing.

Feeling like a sissy for barfing.

Barfing up chocolate covered raisins, no longer covered in chocolate.