Diary Entry #24: Coffee

I feel like a fumbled my way through my twenties, in a constant scramble to find my phone and my way.

I’m thirty-one and a bit now, and I think I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a wife and Mum, a novelist, a poet, a small business owner and an insatiable student of the world.

Right now I am on my way to have coffee with my biggest literary idol – Brisbane author Nick Earls.

My favorite book ever – Kindling Does for Firewood by Melbourne novelist Richard King, makes me want to write raw. My occasional writer friend Simon, along with the incredible works of F. Scott Fitzgerald, especially A Diamond as Big as The Ritz, make me want to give up altogether because I will never pen prose like those boys. Nick Earls makes me want to write like myself, and even more astoundingly, he makes me feel like I’m good at it.

So, after wanting to be a writer on and off since I was about six, after three years of studying journalism at uni and two fiction writing courses since, what do I want to ask my literary hero about the craft I have loved and wrestled with for over two decades?

I have absolutely no idea.

Advertisements

Diary Entry #23: Twinsets

My life has gone from crazy single girl adventures to crazy relationship girl over-analyzing. I’m trying to keep it in check but shit, it’s not easy.

I have never ever been with someone like this before. He is…I can’t even choose one way to finish that sentence so I will write a few.

He is a much purer person than me. The closest he has come to cheating on a girlfriend was the time he kissed someone in a dream and was wracked with guilt for days. From a dream kiss. Not even a dream shag.

He has only slept with people he is in love with. I, on the other hand, have only slept with people whose first names I know…well except that DJ but I found out his first name later so it still counts. I now live in constant fear that my past sluttery will scare him away. My paranoia manifests in an enchanting little habit I’ve picked up where I tell him lots of dirty, sexually bizarre stories from my life in an effort to scare him off. I think the twisted logic goes like this – if he’s going to get scared off by my past I’d rather it happen sooner than later as I’m about as in love with him as I could recover from.

He is so fucking hot I can’t believe he let’s me have sex with him. Seriously. Every time it takes me a little bit by surprise. The chemistry is off the charts and kissing him is…something entirely new. It transports me.

There’s this stupid line in this stupid piece of writing called Desiderata that is plastered on the back of every hippie’s stupid toilet door and one of the lines of advice in this insipid rant is “avoid loud and obnoxious persons, they are vexatious to the spirit”. Screw you hippies. Imma sick Cartman onto your arses. Maybe some people like having their spirits vexed? Did you ever think of that in your freakin drum circle?

He is so far from loud and obnoxious. And I am so fucking loud and so fucking obnoxious. Ugh. The more I think about it, the more uneasy I feel. I like my weirdness. I like my loudness, my brass and brazen ways…most of the time. Not always, of course not. I wish I could enjoy silence and pull off mystery and shut the fuck up once in a while, but overall I embrace my Punky Brewsteresque ways.

There’s something about seeing a woman in a twinset that really sets me off. It’s so…Upper East Side and TOGETHER. For those of you who are unaware as to what a twinset is, it’s a cardigan with a singlet underneath that matches. Bonus points if it’s cashmere or worn with a single strand of pearls.

I can totally picture That Boy with a cashmere twinset girl. A shiny bob, one of those tall, willowy figures where she still looks like a beanpole in flats, and you could cut your steak with her collar or hip bones. She’d wear mauve cashmere twinsets and get them dry-cleaned. Is it weird that I’m already telling myself at least her arse won’t be as good as mine? Yes. That’s definitely weird. It’s also true though. For two reasons. Firstly, those skinny girls have arses like pre-pubescent boys (which is fine if that’s your thing) and secondly my arse is particularly good.

I’ve gone from thinking the right guy for me doesn’t exist, to thinking that I’ve probably found him and will almost certainly fuck it up. I wonder if they make leopard print twinsets?

Diary Entry #22: Chicken Boy

So. I’ve been meaning to write about Chicken Boy ever since I started this blog. And it feels like 7am on a Saturday morning while sober with a sleeping man next to me is the perfect time.

I found Chicken Boy on tinder. I wasn’t floored by his photos, but they didn’t make me want to scratch my eyes out and take a vow of celibacy either so after the requisite amount of banter (whatever that is) I agreed to meet him.

We would go for a bike ride along the river, and get coffee at my favourite cafe afters. This is pretty much the cutest first date plan ever by the way, what could possibly go wrong?

Well firstly, because she is a total dingus, Hebony lost the key to her bike lock. After hastily rummaging through all her handbags and jeans pockets I pronounced it lost forever and tentatively suggested to Chicken Boy that we postpone until I crack the shits good and proper and call a locksmith or my ex to free my bike.

I needn’t have fretted. Chicken Boy is a sparky by trade and offered to pop on over and cut my bike lock, which sounds like a euphemism but isn’t.

Because I want to bring feminism to a grinding halt singlehandedly I found this prospect quite hot. So. He came over, cut my lock, and we rode off into the…midday sun together.

The riding bit was nice. Along the river with all that nature jazz, and people walking their cute puppies. We stopped for a break and he led the conversation to deeper waters. Why was I on tinder? What was I looking for? How long was my longest relationship and why did it end? You know, the usual first-date-bike-ride-interrogation routine.

I told him I was considering having children on my own. A look of deeply condescending sympathy masked his face and he said something along the lines of “oh you’re a good looking girl, don’t worry, some man will want you”.

PHEW!

I followed that up with “well I might just have kids first and work out the whole relationship thing after” to which he replied with some line that implied that if I already had kids no man would want me because I’d be…you know. I think ‘ruined’ is the word his puny little brain was panting for.

We went to my favourite cafe where Chicken Boy asked me my star sign and proceeded to read me my horoscope from not one but three different apps on his phone, including present and future predictions. It was only fair that we then hear his present and future predictions from the same three apps. Funny, not one of them predicted what would happen on our second date…

Yes. That’s right kids, she went out with him again. To his house, no less. Why? You might understandably ask? Because dating is a fucking minefield, and if you’re scared off too easily you’ll stand still forever so you tread gingerly through this war zone and hope you don’t step on too many assholes.

The following weekend Chicken Boy offered to cook me dinner at his place. Yep – you guessed it – chicken. What a nice offer. I’ll schlep my arse all the way out to sticksville on a public transport mission that takes long enough for my smooth leg hair to spike for a guy who uses frozen vegies on a first date.

Meanwhile, I’m going to deviate briefly from my narrative to tell you about The Dan Murphy’s Guy from earlier that day. As I was going on such a promising courting adventure I thought a quick trip to the bottle shop was in order.

As I was loading my six pack of Asahi onto my push bike a guy came up to me and said “a cute girl on a push bike who buys my favourite beer? You’re not single are you?”

To which I said “yep, are you?”
“No, actually.” He replied.
“Well why did you ask me then?”
“I didn’t think.”
I laughed. “Bye cute Dan Murphy’s Guy.”
“Bye.”

At Melbourne Central Station a couple of hours later he got on my train. Yep, that’s right. This actually happened.

“Um, it seems the universe wants us to meet again.” He says.
“So it does.”
“Can I have your number if I promise to only use it if I come home to find my girlfriend in bed with my best friend?”
I laughed and gave him my phone number minus the last digit. Said if he wanted to call me he’d have to mean it.

So. Back to Chicken Boy. I arrived at his boring house and within the first hour he not only bench pressed to demonstrate his epic toughness, but also made me do it to show the juxtaposition of my weakness.

To his credit he had asked what kind of music I liked (my response had been very long and apparently overwhelming) so he’d downloaded a trip hop album, which was actually pretty good.

The conversation was boring, the chicken was ok, the rice was weirdly amazing – I have no idea what he put in it that made it so good – and at one point he said this…

“So I’ve shown your photos to some friends of mine, both male and female, and while I think you’re gorgeous they all said they didn’t think you were very attractive and couldn’t see what the fuss was about.”

To which I replied “why the fuck would you tell me that?”

“Don’t be offended, I don’t agree with them, it just goes to show everyone had different tastes that’s all.”

Asshole. So obviously I drank lots of beer and made out with him to stop him from talking. Or because a girl has no idea what’s going on until she’s kissed a boy or…actually I honestly have no idea why I kissed him, which is weird for me.

So we were making out on the couch and he was being a bit handsy. I told him, in no uncertain terms “hey, dress stays on”.

“What? Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Are you ashamed of your body?”

“WHAT?”

“If you weren’t ashamed of it you wouldn’t mind me seeing it.”

Solid logic, if you’re a date rapist.

Like any self respecting girl worth her salt is chewed him out.

“Actually I’m not ashamed of my body. If I were I might seek validation from creeps like you.”

“I’m annoying you. I can tell.”

“How fucking perceptive of you.”

“I’ll get dessert.”

“Good idea.”

He then told me about all the women after him on tinder and how disgusting it was that a middle aged single mum thought she had a shot with him.

Asshole.

We ate this fucking delicious hot
lemon tart thing with ice cream and he showed my the world’s ugliest pair of emo platformed shoes and told me he paid over $500 for them. Are there any women this shit works on?

He finally drove me to the train station. Note, he did not even park his car, just pulled up at the station and let me out. In a dodgy-arse neighborhood at about midnight on a Friday night.

Asshole.

No Chicken Boy, I most certainly did not want to go out with you again. FFS.

Diary Entry #21 – In-vom-nia

It’s 6am on a Saturday morning and I have no idea why I’m awake. There’s a beautiful, sleeping, snoring man next to me and it’s cold.

He woke up about an hour ago, and when he realised I was awake too he said he’d stay up and talk to me until I was sleepy again.

Yesterday was awesome. I woke up at some dark and scary hour when he kissed me goodbye and went to work then went promptly back to sleep. I had a freaky Hunger Gamesesque nightmare which I woke up from at 10.38am when my dear-God-get-out-of-bed-if-you-haven’t-already alarm went off. I promptly went back to sleep and awoke at the civilized hour of 1pm.

I got up, had an excellent breakfast, watched trashy tv, googled songs to striptease to, had a long and probably too hot shower, did a skerrick of work, watched an episode of Catfish (so addictive) then the flatmate, let’s call him Stan, came home. I regaled him with tales of the awesomeness of Catfish, then asked him to keep the hallway door open if he was going to play guitar so I could listen.

At 3.30 my sexy man came home, who I wasn’t expecting for an hour, so that was an excellent surprise. As I had done fuck all work for the day he decided to work out while I sent some more emails. He then proceeded to do a bunch of push ups and weights and stuff in the next room while listening to Macklemore among other rad tunes, while I tried not to be a totally pervey creep and failed miserably.

We then made out on the couch like teenagers, as you do, and decided a shag was in order. As Stan was playing guitar in one of the bedrooms next to ours we racked our distracted little brains for an alternative location and decided on the band room, even though it would be freezing.

We scampered out, taking a box of tissues with us cause I’m a smart cookie, but That Boy wasn’t feeling it. Something was telling him not to strip off and get into it. A sexth sense, if you will.

It was around this moment that Stan decided to follow us out for a chat about the interior decorating potential of the band room, so thank fuck we weren’t in the middle of each other.

I made my favourite sweet and sour chicken for dinner, gave my boy a massage, shagged him, he gave me a massage then shagged me again, we fell asleep and yep, that pretty much brings us to now.

It’s twenty past six now, and sleep still evades me so I think I’ll get up, make a cuppa and watch some shit telly until my lovely boyf wakes up again.

I have tried here to make being happy in a relationship marginally interesting reading. I am not sure if I’ve succeeded and I would like to take this opportunity to apologise if this has just been boasty, vomit-inducing rot.

Diary Entry #20: To love or to be loved…

I can’t decide which is better, to love or to be loved. Fuck. They’re both so excellent.

I saw That Boy play at The Espy today. He amazed me. I hate the word passion, I think it’s a bit vom, but that’s what amazed me the most. Not how beautiful he was, even though he was, not how polished they sounded, even though they did, but the (excuse me while I google ‘passion synonyms’) ardor, fervor, intensity and zeal of his drumming. Damn.

It’s late and I should sleep. He’s not here so I’m putting off going to bed. Which is stupid really, I should sleep extra when I’m not with him so not sleepy when I am.

His parents were at the gig today, it was very cute. Both wearing earplugs and his mum dancing.

I understand why so much creative genius comes from heartbreak and fuck all comes from people who are in happy relationships. It’s partly because heartbreak fuels a tidal wave of emotion that needs to get out somehow, but it’s also because talking about how happy you are in a relationship makes you feel like a gushing, sappy, irritating twatsicle. Want to hear about the guy who fell asleep on out first date? Of course you do! Want to hear about how sweet and funny and hot my new boyfriend is? How I want to find a new way to love him every time I see him? Not as much. Unless you’re my mum, who is sick of hearing about shit dates and loves hearing me happy.

Ok ok. It’s late. Bedtime…

Night night! Don’t let the bedbugs bite! If they do, get a shoe, and beat them til they’re black and blue!

Diary Entry #19: Serenity Now!

This might be the first time I have been completely calm in a relationship. It just feels right. Him. We. Us. All of it.

This man. This beautiful fkn man. Who gives and gives and gives and gives and never even questions that. Who actually wants kids – what a novel concept for me to even consider! The idea of breeding with someone I haven’t had to drag, kicking and pouting and bargaining into fatherhood.

I can imagine his face. The look of awe and shock and real real proper joy when I told him, over dinner, that I was pregnant with his child. Fuck. Obviously not now….but maybe one day.

I’m not freaking out about anything, which is also new. I just assume, possibly for the first time in my life, that I am with someone I absolutely should be with. Who is as good for me as I am for him, and that we will work out any kinks that pop up, together.

He has already hugged me through a pretty epic shitstorm life has thrown at me, and I would drop everything to be there for him if he needed me.

Every now and then negative thoughts creep into my inner monologue, like he’s too fkn hot for me, and he’s so fkn NICE and I’m such a bitch, but then, I just think well he thinks I’m beautiful, and while I can be a bitch sometimes I have a seemingly endless capacity for love.

I want so many things with him. I want him to come home to me every day. I want to climb on his back when I’m drunk and have him piggyback me home. I want to watch his band play and think ‘that is my man – fuck’. I want him to listen to my ideas and stories and freak outs and endless questions about him. I want to make him yummy food and take him to all my favourite places – Cookie, and that French place just off Chapel Street, and the Convent in Abbottsford and Massimos in Noosa and my parent’s verandah, overlooking the lake. I want to dance with him again. I want him to drum absentmindedly on all available surfaces. I want that tiny, perfect slice of time, every night, when you’re in bed, right before you shag or sleep, when you just fall into each other. And light touches and kisses and skin and warmth and nothing you should be doing instead.

My days now are just spakfilla for the time I don’t get to be with him. Work has become just that – work. And any night I don’t get to see him is just something to endure. Fuck. I am grossing myself out here.

I remember this one day right after Cleatus and I broke up, like only a few days after. We were walking through a park, it was a glorious, sunny afternoon in January. We stumbled across a couple basking in the sun and love. Sprawled on a blanket drinking wine out of endearing plastic wine glasses and cutting fancy cheese with a cutely inept plastic knife. As he leant over to kiss his lady love Cleatus leant down to me and whispered in my ear – “I hope one of them gives the other one AIDS”. I remember laughing at the time, and loving him in a fuckedly painful way and thinking no one will ever get me the way this broken boy does.

And now I would happily partake in a repugnant display of PDA in a park with quaintly inadequate cutlery with That Boy (though he wouldn’t). In my defense I would think it perfectly reasonable for recently singled passersby to wish chronic illness upon my junk.

I feel guilty for being happy sometimes. Because of Alex. Who I loved like I love myself. But it’s like saying you can’t love cake because you love your mother. They just aren’t the same thing at all.

I feel even worse than usual right now – listening to Ryan Adams on a train on my way to see my new boy. It’s so Alex and I’m such an asshole. Cleatus made me love this album and Alex made me think of him whenever I hear it and if that’s not fucked enough I’m crying on a train to Glen Waverley now. Oh well, such is love, such is life. That Boy will make me forget everything else, like he always seems to.

I’m not even going to read this over for spelling and grammar and melodrama errors, I’m just going to Keroac it, stream of consciousness style, and let it fly.

Ciao Bellas!

Blood Splatter

I took his little heart, cupped it in my hands and wrapped it in kisses then threw it against a wall to see how pretty the blood splatter would be. At least that is how it feels.

He wasn’t going to leave. I knew it the way ants know it’s going to rain, the way your mum knows when you’ve spoiled your dinner, the way your coach knows you haven’t been practicing. The way your best friend knows when you’ve gotten laid, the way your sibling knows when you’re lying. I just fucking knew. And it broke me. So I broke him. So he didn’t break me again. And again. And again. Alex. I’m so sorry. And at the same time I’m not at all sorry.

We were a beautiful flower that had to fucking die and that’s a shitty metaphor but I don’t care. Flowers bud and bust open and die everyday and only some end up in wedding bouquets or pressed between the pages of books.

I am loved. And I think maybe, just maybe, if a faerie bats her wings on the other side of the world and creates a tsunami in japan just at the right millisecond Alex might always love me. Fuck. That would be….

I met the Bubble Boy when I was twelve. Yes this is a tangent, but I’ll will bring it back around later so just go with me for now. I loved him, the Bubble Boy, from the first lusty-smitten second I laid my eyes on his lazy walking shape. And he was infatuated, for a few years, then irritated, then amused and now? Mostly baffled I think. But he was there for me when I was a teenager.

When my sister killed herself and I was thirteen. When I cheated on my handsy boyfriend at fourteen and my best friend, Ugly, dobbed on me and the handsy boyfriend found out and dumped me and his friend slapped me across the face and Ugly stopped talking to me and I wanted to crawl into a claustrophobic hole and mummify myself. He was there. On the end of the phone. In a bubble. Oblivious. Void of judgement and full to bursting with the sweetness of a crushing teenage boy. He understood me in that way only teenagers can understand each other.

It was bliss. It was our bubble. The non-reality we existed in together, for years. And it’s still the same when I see him now. At least it is for me. I think it is for him too, just not to the same extent. He will always perch on the highest pedestal my imagination can muster. Every flaw a delightful quirk, and he only gets more handsome and charming.

He asked me to leave my boyfriend and move cities to be with him when I desperately needed someone to ask me to leave my boyfriend and move cities for them. I didn’t. Thank fuck. But it was so nice to be asked…

So. Alex. This is what I want. (I told you I was going somewhere with this story). I want you to be my person, as you put it. I think the closest we can get to unconditional love in this life (if you take parent-child love out of the equation) is for someone you adore and don’t have. Someone who exists in your world only to represent bliss. Devoid of logic, responsibily, reality even, like a waking fairytale dream.

I want to be to you what I always wished I was to the the Bubble Boy. I’ll give it, but only if you’ll give it back.

I’ll be the girl who just wants you to be you in the best possible way. Call me when you need your life to not be your life for just a few minutes. When you wish there was magic in the world. When you wished you could talk to someone who loves you, almost unconditionally, and has no fucking idea what is going on in your days.

I will always see you as beautiful, hear your voice as music, and keep the idea of you wrapped in silk.

I’ll be the girl you call at four in the morning on the day of your wedding. You won’t ask me to come to you. You won’t ask if you can come to me. But you’ll call, and ask how I’ve been, and smile as I tell you some stupid thing I’ve done.

So Alex. I would ask you to stop reading my posts, because they are going to be about That Boy a lot and I don’t want to break your gorgeous heart over and over, but you’re the same as me. So I know there is no point in my asking.

Diary Entry #18: Prebounding

Imagine someone gives you a gift for one day.

That gift is the ability to see a colour your eyes have never been able to see before and that colour is easily the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. There are no words to capture it and you spend the whole day just staring.

Absorbing. Memorizing. Captivated.

You know you will forever love any painting that reminds you of it, any sunset you think would have it on the fringes, if only you could see it.

The gift giver then tells you that they might be back, and if they come back they will give you the gift again. Maybe for another single day, maybe forever. They’re not sure. They’ll have to think about it.

The day after your gift wears off you wake up to a mixed bag of emotions. You are so grateful you got to see it, but it hurts you to think about it too much. So, what do you do? Do you sit at home and wish and hope for the gift giver to show up again? Or do you go out looking for a painting that reminds you of that colour?

I have a feeling that my gift giver isn’t going to come back. And if he does, he won’t stay forever. I still hope he will, because trying not to hope is fucked and sad.

I invented a word today – prebounding. It’s a fairly self explanatory word I guess. I am preemptively rebounding (prebounding) with That Boy…for the third night in a row. It feels epically unfair on him, and Alex and me, but I want this distraction more than I want to be fair I guess.

I want a balm for the pain of waiting and wanting and my little heart breaking over and over and over and over. So, I have told both of them, and Alex is jealous and trying not to be, and That Boy thinks the term ’emotionally unavailable’ is excellent. He likes me. It makes me a tiny bit scared for his heart, but I’m too selfish to worry about that right now.

So I’m on a train, on my way to That Boy’s house so he can teach me to play Seven Nation Army on the drums.

Oh my – I just saw a proper punk with the biggest mohawk I have ever seen in real life. Was briefly tempted to jump off the train and chase him down and tell him how completely rad he looked. Wow. Respect.

And so begins my Friday night.

Ciao bellas, I hope you have an exchanting evening.

Diary Entry #17: A Beautiful Distraction

I had plans tonight that fell through so I decided to revert to my standing Wednesday night caper, which is a comedy night run by Frankie’s man.

I only talked to Alex once today. This morning, he called me on his drive to work. Then we chatted a bit on facey later and he told me he was expecting an intense night at home and that I shouldn’t contact him. Yuck. I hate being a secret. It’s odd, twenty year old Hebony would have found a thrill in that, but thirty-one year old Hebony wants….well….she wants all the world to be her oyster pearls.

So, looking down the barrel of an Alexless night I texted That Boy and asked if he wanted to come to comedy with me. He shuffled his life and wardrobe around and made it happen.

We had a drink and I told him I’m emotionally unavailable right now and asked if he’d like me to leave him be until I work my shit out or…. He chose or. Didn’t look fazed at all, just smiled and said the term emotionally unavailable was excellent and that he was liking getting to know me. Then I told him to kiss me and he did because I am bossy and he is lovely.

We had Thai and watched some lols (and one bomb) then he drove me home and we made out on my bed like teenagers. What a beautiful distraction.

Pity it didn’t work.

Diary Entry #16: Reality Bites

Ok ok ok ok ok ok

I need some semblance of control back in my life.

Alex has gone back to work and I miss talking to him so much it’s fked up.

I said yes to a date with That Boy for Thursday night. We’re going to a beginners salsa dancing class then we’re going to play scattegories at the pub. Which is a pretty weird plan so it appeals to me. I’m trying to work out when I tell him I’m emotionally unavailable right now, and he’s welcome to ask me to leave him alone until I work out what’s going on with Alex. Bah.

Alex told his girlfriend (has anyone else noticed I can’t bring myself to give her a name?) that he’s unhappy in their relationship last night. That he thinks they have never worked out their trust issues or much else. I guess either way this goes they should learn to communicate more healthily.

It scares me the way they are with each other. There’s no way I could be happy in a relationship like theirs is at the moment. I honestly don’t think we would end up the same way in ten years, I have seen people learn from their past relationship mistakes (myself included) and if there is one thing I’m good at it’s addressing problems. I’ll have the hard conversations, even when the other person would rather I didn’t because I can’t handle not having them.

He would need to learn to be vulnerable and wrong sometimes though, and I imagine that would be tricky.

Meanwhile, I’m going to the Saints and Sinners ball not this Friday but the next, which right now is providing a welcome distraction from reality in the form of costume selection. The theme this time is Punk Rock Erotica. I’m going with one of the girls who works for me, and maybe another friend.

So, back to work now I guess. Haha. Oh d-d-d-dear.