I saw this on the sidebar of WordPress. Usually it’s like those “quote a day” bullshit desk calendars with idiotic one liners by “anonymous” such as “he who listens to idiots does not know the value of a penny well spent” etc but tonight I rather liked it.
“I am a drinker with writing problems”
-Brendan Behan
*This is not real polygamy. This is television
“I’d love to be in a polygamous relationship. Sister Wives are so much more useful than husbands. I would be awesome.”
Well, it’s been one of those days when a stranger (who wishes to remain anonymous) posts you a photocopied page from a book by David Icke, for reasons unknown.
It was a page from Icke’s seminal text The Robot’s Rebellion, which is, in fact, as mental as it sounds. If you’ve never come across David Icke, the former footballer, sports presenter and man who came to believe he was “son of the Godhead” or something after a psychic told him he was a healer who had been placed on Earth for a purpose, and that the spirit world was going to pass messages to him so he could educate others, then please do take a shortcut and read the Wikipedia entry on him here.
I wouldn’t normally usher people in Wikipedia’s general direction for verification of facts but can’t be a lot far off the case in this instance. It’s slightly frustrating when mad people post you stuff that makes no sense, with no note, no clue to why they have, but that’s life. For the record it was something very Scientologist-esque about doctors and anti-depressives and robots and stuff.
Yesterday a good journo mate recieved no less than six emails and photos from a woman claiming to have seen a UFO which clearly is a streetlamp, but at least she let him know what she was on about.
However, on a serious note, at least neither of us have recently received a hand-drawn portrait of ourselves from a violent prisoner or a “thank you” card from a dangerous sex offender or someone threatening suicide. Which happened.
I can only imagine (and prefer not to) how that particular brand of fucked thing to happen to you feels. My crazies so far in the last eight years have been anonymous, placatable, hang-upable, glad someone listened to them for a bit and never (to my knowledge) tried to find out where I live.
There by the grace of god go I. And thank god we have a security system that fools most of us and traps us in its jaws on a regular basis. The crazies have No Chance.
“I’d hate being allegic to nuts. Can you imagine dying knowing you will never, ever taste a baklava?”
(There are no pics. This is a boring rant. Just letting you know so you can skip its arse cos I’m nice like that)
I am turning 34 in a little over a month: FACT. I’m dealing with it, so should you. Sometimes (but not usually) I feel like I am a walking cliche that just stepped out of Mia F***man’s weekly dose of fuckball nonsense column.
Sometimes I think about uni days or stuff what I did in my early 20s and they don’t seem that long ago. Sure, I’m (probably) a much better, well-rounded (yet skinnier) and richer (definitely) version of myself but I don’t feel that divorced from being single, living alone, going out and getting drunk as maybe other people my age (probably because I still do all of the above but can afford better booze and a taxi home).
Maybe it’s because I’ve never really grown up – if growing up means getting buying a house togerther and having joint bank accounts and getting married and having kids – all of which fill me with terror. Although sometimes those things seem quite nice and interesting and logical and ALL I EVER WANTED when I’m alone with a bottle of Merlot, bawling at the unfairness of it all (which is rare).
Who can say?
I’m not unhappy by any means. I’m just confused between what I am doing, what I want, what I should want and what I will regret when I am old and infertile and lonely and single and lying on the couch drinking a bottle of port on Xmas day on my own wondering where it all went wrong. Perhaps I’m not trying hard enough to get All The Things I’m supposed to do and want. Maybe I don’t want them enough. Maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I’m supposed to die alone surrounded by cats who will eat my rotting corpse.
Once again. Who can say?
Perhaps I like my life to be simple. Here’s the things that were good/bad about today:
Good: I started significant work on two long feature pieces for work which make me happy
Bad: There is a ladder in my new tights
Good: I snagged a pic/interview that seemed elusive
Bad: I have no reverse cycle air-con in my new flat and I’m a bit cold
Good: I had drinks with Kato
Bad: Instead of going to Pilates
Of course there are much worse days that involve people dying, personal crises, the cat getting sick, me freaking out over meds, stuff, things, whatevs. But as much as I would like to imagine myself married, in a nice house, with a husband and some sort of child I made, I really kind of can’t. This comes back to the whole “is this what I want or is this what LIFE and PEOPLE are telling me I should want” kinda thing.
My mother, god bless, her finally, finally (and I can’t believe it took this long) pulled out the “you’re getting on in years and if you want a husband/child/all that stuff you’d better stop fucking around” thing on me the other night on the phone. If I wasn’t half a bottle into a nice Sauv Blanc I would probably have had a reasonable conversation with her about it. Or hung up. Or something. AS it was, I reckon I whined a lot and made little sense and pointed out my sister (32) was in no danger of achieving the above things soon either which I think made her even madder at me. I can’t remember. I’m just relieved that unlike some of my friends’ experiences with their mothers, it’s taken her until I’m knocking on the door of 34 to actually pull me up on it.
But the “stop doing what you are doing and do something different” advice isn’t really sticking so much. Sorry Mum.
So I’m the cliched 30-something woman who has a cat, has a good job, has her own car and property (actually x2 but I’m fucking poor as thanks to this) not bad looking, drinks on her own (excpet wait, I’ve not been doing that much recently, you know, yoga and soup and shit, which is much more boring but better for you) etc etc.
But I don’t want to be a cliche. I don’t want to worry that people feel sorry for me and that I’ll never meet The One and have babies and be a “productive” member of society. Most of the time I Simply Do Not Give A Shit. The things that have been promised to me by magazines, TV shows, other people; I accept they have not worked out for me as yet, or may not ever (I lied, I’m just not sure and sometimes wonder what is fucking Wrong With Me that I don’t have the things we are all supposed to want). I just fucking HATE this Sword of Damocles that is wielded over my head telling me if I don’t couple up and get up the duff soon then I’m no use to anyone.
All I want, really, is someone to cuddle with on the couch, someone to have sex with, someone to be nice to me and tell me I look pretty (but only when I have tried, otherwise that’s a bit creepy) occasionally someone to make dinner for me when I’m a bit stressed and tired, someone to share bills with and buy cool things for the house and go on cool holidays with and who gets on with my parents and friends. I do not even wish them to be there all the time. In fact if they were not, that might be a bit Awesome. Unless I had a screaming child on breast in which case Where The Fuck Do You Think You Are Going?
In conclusion, this is merely a rant, another shout into the darkness with little hope of a response. With more questions than answers. God I hate reading these things on other people’s blogs. You need a medal if you’ve gotten this far. One I shall make with brightly coloured paper and glue and sticky back plastic and a safety pin. Honest, I will. Just let me know. I’ve got time, clearly, without house/husband/baby etc.
Although to be fair to me (and others) I’m not that increasingly irritating person who posts their child’s every bowl movement on Facebook as if anyone else gave a shit. If I ever do have children I’m not scared of the “baby brain” forgetting stuff and losing stuff and generally being a bit weird – that is to be expected. I’m scared of turning into a crazy person who sees the world through the prism of their darling, dribbling child and makes everyone else see it too. Because that is fucked.
PS: Nic and Naz; this is Not You. You are my parental role models and the only reason I’d still consider having kids if my ovaries don’t wither and die first, which, let’s face it, is likely.
Here are some things that occurred to me during Yoga tonight:
1. At least I’m not the worst at this…oh shit, I think I’m going to fall over.
2. When does the teacher pushing his groin into your back to improve your stance during The Warrior stop being instructional and start being touching up?
3. A Headstand? Really?
4. If I manage a headstand next week I shall buy myself a big reward
5. I will try not to go to work tomorrow and casually drop in the fact I went to Yoga, tidied the flat, made soup and drank herbal tea tonight. Sometimes I don’t even know myself.
