I Wish My Life Were A Frank Downey Story

I think I lost a friend tonight.

Not lost as in dead, thank God. But quite possibly he's now out of my life. And even more possibly, it'll be better that way, although it sure as hell doesn't feel better now.

Oli's been my closest friend for a year. Doesn't sound like a very long time, does it? And yet I feel like I've known him forever, even though I've only known him maybe 16 months, and have only been talking frequently since the end of last June. If I think about it, our relationship was probably doomed from the start. We became close when he was the one to support me after a shock I had last June, when I finally split up with my previous best friend - a guy I'd known and loved for nearly seven years - after our relationship had been dying a long and painful death for a year or more (for reasons that I'm not going into right now), but never quite took its last breaths. Anyway, that relationship ended, finally, and Oli was there to pick up the pieces. I figured he was safe, since he had a girlfriend, and he never seemed to do in-person relationships anyway - most of his girlfriends had been online ones, and he seemed happy enough that way.

So we became close. And flirted. And when he split up with his girlfriend, it seemed inevitable that something would start between us. I held back, because of the girlfriend at first, and then because I didn't want to fall in love, especially with someone who had another year of uni to go, and for the next year would be a 3-hour, £60 (at best - and that's about $120, btw) train ride away from me. But even though he's an Aquarian, like me, and kind of aloof (also like me), he's never been as cautious as I am. He doesn't overanalyze things the way I do. He certainly doesn't hold back because of premonitions that things might go wrong, the way I do frequently. So he pushed me - first to flirt with him, then to have phone sex with him most nights, then eventually to go and visit him - and I liked the pushing, never found it obnoxious the way I would with most guys, and I convinced myself it was healthy to take the leap out of my comfort zone. So I flirted, and I stayed on the phone with him until 6am three or four nights a week, turning him on and getting turned on too. (Which, btw, is something I've never done before, or since. I'm not exactly a prude, just...cautious is really the only word.) And in October of last year, after three months of flirting, I went to visit him up north, and that's when things all fell apart.

I don't know exactly HOW it happened. Part of me, the cynical mean part, thinks that he wasn't attracted to me and he didn't want to say so and hurt my feelings, so he found some other way to fuck things up. All I know is that for four days, things were blissful. We woke up late, ate breakfast together, in the afternoon he'd go to work and I'd either go with him and do Christmas shopping while he worked, or I'd stay home and do reading for college. In the evenings we'd either cook, or get Chinese takeaway, and watch a movie all curled up on his bed. And morning, noon and night, we had a lot of sex. Wonderful, amazing sex. And then, on the day I was supposed to leave, he turned to me and said, "What happens if you get pregnant?"

For a while, I didn't know what he was asking, or why. We had this conversation before I even decided to come up to visit. Neither of us likes condoms much, so we didn't want to use them - but neither of us is a risk-taker either. So our solution was pretty simple: I have a Mirena contraceptive implant, so I didn't have to worry about pregnancy, and we both got tested at the GU clinic before my visit. Neither of us had been with anyone in six months, so we were past the window period for HIV testing, and all other tests only take a couple of weeks to get results. Both of us checked out clean, and Mirena is one of the most effective contraceptives available, so we figured we were safe. And we'd talked about this in depth before we even met, so I didn't get why he was bringing it up NOW.

At first, I was just sort of curious, so I stayed calm. Oli, you remember I have the implant, right? Sure, he said, but he'd feel better if we'd used condoms too. And then I got just a little bit annoyed. Firstly, I said, it's a bit late to be saying this NOW. We discussed this before, so why didn't you say something then, before we met? Or at any time since I've been here? And secondly, condoms wouldn't make things much better. My implant has a failure rate of 0.02% - that's fifteen times as effective as condoms at their best. And failure rates are based on the average woman, over a year. A failure rate of 0.02% means that if 1000 women have sex three times a week for a year, two of them will get pregnant during that year. Considering that we've done it maybe eight or nine times, I don't think we have much to worry about.

But he wouldn't let it go. He just had to know what would happen in the worst case scenario, wouldn't let me get away with "we'll cross that bridge when and if we come to it". And my visit ended up with us having a screaming fight, him insisting that neither of us could deal with a baby right now, me crying because I'd had a miscarriage two years previously that he'd forgotten about, and I couldn't go through that again, both of us with raised voices and even more raised emotions, and eventually both of us cuddled up together, crying.

Honestly, it was the kind of scene you'd expect if I'd just found out I actually was pregnant.

What made it so scary was that neither of us is an emotional person. I know I've mentioned this about me before, but it's true of him, too. Yeah, he's more emotional than I am, but not by much. And yet both of us totally lost it during this fight.

Eventually I lied to him. I told him that if it did happen, I'd get an abortion. I think it's the only lie I've ever told him, at least the only non-vague one (saying I'm fine when I'm not doesn't count as a real lie, IMO ). Truth is, if I'd found I was pregnant after all that, I probably would have cut all ties with him and kept the baby, and prayed that he never found out. In hindsight, it might have been easier on both of us if that's what had happened. But it didn't. My implant worked, the pregnancy tests that I took religiously every week stayed negative, and the crisis was averted. Except to our relationship, which never really recovered.

For awhile I thought it might. But then I got word that he was trying to work things out with his ex (not the one he was with when I met him...a different one), who'd moved back to Canada. Sometimes I wonder if part of the reason he chose to get back with her was BECAUSE of the distance involved, because with her, he couldn't possibly have a scare like the one he'd just had with me.

Well, it's easier to think that than to admit that she's just prettier and smarter than I am.

So he got back with his ex, and I got a lot of shit from her for a couple of weeks. Notes on facebook, comments on journal entries (god knows how she FOUND the damn thing), other stuff like that. All of it pretty venomous: lots of screaming at me about how deluded I was, and how he'd never loved me, and how I'd made everything up in my head to split them apart, and how he was only with me because I was easy, how he might sleep with someone like me but he'd marry someone like her...just bile, all of it, but still enough to make me want out of the whole situation. So I told him that we should probably stay away from each other for awhile, and he didn't like it, but eventually he agreed.

I tried. God knows I tried. But it didn't work. I guess we just loved each other too much. Not in a relationship-type way, that was probably the problem in the beginning. But it was love, that kind of friendship-love that can last a lifetime if circumstances don't interfere. He was miserable without me around. I know, because he'd call me a handful of times a week, sometimes crying, sometimes just sounding depressed, but always telling me how much he missed me. I didn't have the time or energy to miss him too much: that was the week my mother had a hip replacement, and I stayed and worked in her hospital room most days from mid-morning until visiting hours finished at ten pm, and my brother gave me a lift home so I didn't have to take the bus both ways. I'd get home at 10.30 or 11, feed the dog, do a load of Mom's laundry that I brought home with me, clean up after the lodgers, and collapse into bed, only to do it again the next day. Mom came home after a week in the hospital and I had to wait on her constantly, as well as dress and bathe her, change her dressings and put her through her physio. For maybe a month, I didn't have the energy to miss Oli much, beyond that vague ache that never quite went away.

And then after a while, we started talking again. Sort of behind his girlfriend's back, although I didn't realise that at the time. When he said that we probably shouldn't add each other to our facebook friends lists, because it might stir up trouble, I agreed, against my better judgement. I guess I just shoved it to one side, and just had the vague idea that eventually things would get better.

But here we are, a couple of days away from July, and things aren't better. And I don't feel okay with it anymore. More and more I feel like his dirty little secret. And I don't like that feeling. So I told him this the other day, and he didn't seem to have a clue what I was talking about, and I couldn't go into it and explain it without getting emotional. So I just asked him to let me be for awhile.

Then this evening, he apologized to me. He said he realized today that he'd been letting his relationship with his girlfriend get in the way of his friendship with me. And part of me really wanted to smile, and say forget it, and just let things go back to how they've been for the last eight months. But another part of me says no, it's too little, too late. And that part won't let things go back.

The thing is, it's not totally his fault. I'm responsible for my own behaviour, and I let things continue the way they were. I could have spoken up earlier, and I didn't. I could have stood up to his girlfriend, called her out on all the bad stuff she said, and I didn't. I could have listened to my concerns and refused to meet up with him in the first place, and I didn't. If there's any blame to be shared out, I get as much of it as he does, even if he's the one who's been thoughtless and unintentionally cruel. (And it IS unintentional - despite everything that's gone on with us, he's one of the sweetest, nicest people I know.)

But honestly, I don't think it matters who's to blame, or even if there's any blame to be given at all. What matters is that I don't feel right around him anymore. I feel dirty, and kind of cheap. For months he's been treating me like something that needs to be hidden away, and consequently that's how I now feel. And because of that, I don't think we can be friends anymore.

I didn't tell him any of this. Some things are just best left unsaid, especially when saying them wouldn't alter the outcome, and would just make him feel bad. All I told him is that I wouldn't be around for awhile, and that I hoped things worked out for him, and that he didn't end up sacrificing more than he could afford for this girl.

I know this is probably for the best, however much it hurts now. But I'm going to miss him. He's the only person in over a year who bothers to ask me how my day went.

Gifts

I got a card today that made me cry.

For the record, I never cry. Or hardly ever. It's not a question of being tough, I'm just not a very emotional person, unless I'm severely pushed. The only things I can think of that do it are Dean Koontz books, some Adam Barsby paintings, the Intermezzo from Pietro Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana", and the ending of Terminator 2. And very occasionally if I get furiously angry about something. If I cry and I'm not either reading or concentrating on some form of art, it's probably best to duck and cover before I start throwing things. Although most of my projectiles will be verbal ones.

Today, though...well, maybe I can just blame it on PMS, or maybe I should just say that I am unashamedly emotional today. And kind of touched, actually. (Not "touched in the head", thank you.) The card arrived sometime this morning, not in the mail, so I can safely assume it's someone in this country who sent it to me. No name. No address. No signature of any sort. Just a flower on the front, and this message inside.

"She's everyone's knight. Not the proverbial knight in shining armour - her armour is tarnished, her sword bloody. But it doesn't matter, because She shines enough for everyone."

That's it. No explanation whatsoever. But that alone was enough to make me - well, not bawl like a baby. But sniffle a bit.

I mean, sure, I have this stupid catcher-in-the-rye complex. But it didn't occur to me that people actually notice.

I'm not entirely sure who the sender is, but I could guess. I've had this secret admirer for a couple of years now. Actually, more than a couple - four or five, I'd guess. He sends me things through the mail - cards, presents, occasional flowers. When he first started sending me stuff it came fairly regularly, and in the last couple of years it's tapered off. But he never forgets my birthday, and a couple of times in the year I'll get a card or a little gift - or sometimes a not-so-little gift - in the mail. Usually with a covering note, but no name on any of them. The things he's sent me have ranged from teeny things, like a quarter to wish on, or a heart paperweight that you can get in any Hallmark shop, to an 1890s Italian silver filigree necklace. And several things inbetween: satin pajamas for my birthday a couple years ago, CDs that he said made him think of me, about a dozen silver charms for my charm bracelet.

A couple of times he's even done technically unromantic but extremely caring things, like leaving me money for my medical bills.

And yet he never shows himself. Never sends me a note saying, you know, I think we should really meet up in person sometime. He just seems to be content to watch over me from the shadows. It's weird, and it would be spooky if I got any sense of possessiveness or obsession from him.

At least I'm assuming it's a him.

What I don't get is that this guy seems to know me inside out. He knows my birthday. He knows that I celebrate 4th of July and Thanksgiving. He knows my taste in nightwear, and the size that I wear, and the styles that suit me. He knows that charms on a charm bracelet are supposed to reflect passions or parts of the wearer's life, rather than just being random, and some of the charms he's sent reflect parts of me that not all that many people know about: boxing gloves since boxing is a passion of mine, a headband feather for my Native American heritage, ballet shoes because I used to be a dancer. Hardly anyone knows that I used to dance.

If it weren't for the fact that I would notice the money disappearing from my bank, and I don't have this kind of money to spend in the first place, I'd think that I was going nuts and sending myself gifts while sleepwalking or something.

But I don't get why a guy who knows me this well would hide, unless he's married, or disfigured, or more likely is someone I know in real life, but doesn't want me to know who he is.

For a while I harboured hopes that he'd come forward, but I don't even think about it much anymore. Most of the time I'm just grateful that there's someone out there who cares this much about me. Even if he can't come forward.

So thank you, whoever you are, and I sincerely hope that whatever demons are forcing you to stay hidden don't haunt you too much. *blows you a kiss*

Good Girl Gone - Well, Stupid

Normally I'm a very level-headed person. Cool, calm, irritatingly logical. But there are some people who just push my buttons, either in a good or bad way. I ran into one of these people today.

This guy - we'll call him A., just for the sake of conversation - is someone I knew when I was in high school. But even though he lives in my neighborhood (or at least his parents do, I have no idea if he still does), I only see him round occasionally, and haven't really talked to him for several months, maybe a year. We were...not friends exactly. Not close ones, anyway. Certainly not enemies, but more like casual acquaintances. He asked me out a few times in Years 7 and 8, I declined because I didn't feel old enough to date, he thought it was personal, and didn't ask me out anymore after that, even though I probably would have gone by that time. We hung out at parties, occasionally spent time at the park, spent one Easter vacation trying to teach me how to breakdance, with disastrous results. I think he liked and respected me, although I'm not entirely sure. He never really talked much. I certainly liked and respected him, but with both of us having that distant, aloof manner, we never got close.

Casual friends. Buddies. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Anyway, as I said, we sort of lost track after school. Now and then we'd run into each other at a nightclub, or a party, or the local shops. But I've noticed over the years that any time I run into him, I seem to forget that I'm a sensible, mature person, and do things that are...well, kind of dumb. Not dumb like dangerous, just situations where I say or do something, and when we say goodbye I spend the next hour thinking, WTF just happened?

So I went to the Co-Op today. I needed the exercise, and I also needed some potatoes, which they didn't have yesterday. (Today: no potatoes. No parsnips. No broccoli. No sweet potatoes. No eggs. Roast dinner, it seems, is going to consist of chicken and carrots.) And when I was walking home, I heard a voice behind me that I vaguely recognized: "Feeling patriotic?"

What had happened without me even realizing was that the wind had blown my dress up at the back. We've been having this crazy weather recently, most of the time we just get light breezes, but now and then we get these massive gusts of wind that come out of nowhere. And apparently one of them grabbed at my dress while I was walking down the hill, and somehow I didn't notice. And under the dress I was wearing blue bikini bottoms with white stars on them - much like the American flag - which was what prompted the patriotic comment. (I was "The American Kid" in high school; my mother is from Minnesota and passed her accent on to me, even though I was born in England and raised in Spain and have never actually been to the States.)

So I put my bags down and chatted with A. for a moment or two, and the gist of the conversation was that no, I wasn't feeling particularly patriotic, at least not while Bush was still in power. After elections, I'd think about it. And from that simple statement, somehow - and DO NOT ask me how, because I don't know - I ended up agreeing that for the week before the election, I'd go to Batchwood Hall nightclub with him and his buddies, on the Thursday and Friday and Saturday, wearing nothing but the matching stars bikini top and my red-and-white striped miniskirt, with "Vote Obama" painted on my boobies.

How did I end up agreeing to this? I don't know. I don't even remember how the conversation went, really. It's just the effect that this particular guy has, and has always had, on me.

So bring your cameras, guys and girls.

And Now I'm Asleep - Just About

I had a rare day off today. And by day off, I mean nothing. No work. No business meetings. No people I had to visit for whatever reason. No chores to be done in town. No things that just had to be done immediately for my mother. Nobody having a crisis that needed taking care of. My best high school friend was supposed to be driving down from Bristol tonight to stay over, but her car needs fixing and she won't be able to get here until tomorrow or the next day, so I didn't even have that on my list.

My reaction? I slept. A lot. I think I went to bed last night at 2ish, worn out from the afternoon with J., and slept until 3 this afternoon. I sleep that much maybe once a month - the rest of the time I'm lucky if I get 7 hours.

(Unfortunately, I'm the kind of person who needs 10, which is probably one reason I've been so cranky recently.)

I ate a chocolate Feast. (For non-UK readers, that's chocolate ice cream, over a hard chocolate center, with chocolate coating and biscuity bits, all on a stick.) I watched a lot of ice skating (YouTube is a gift) - first Marina Anissina and Gwendal Peizerat performing to the "Man in the Iron Mask" music at 1999 Worlds (I remember watching the thing live, and absolutely screeching in horror when Krylova-Ovsiannikov narrowly won with that African-drum routine that may have been technically perfect but had no soul whatsoever, IMO ) then about ten videos of Alexei Yagudin from various years. (Am I the only one who thinks Yagudin lost a bit of his spark towards the end? In SLC 2002, he landed every jump but none of it was spectacular, and he didn't seem to enjoy it the way he used to. Mind you, he was probably in quite a lot of pain at that point, since he needed a hip operation not long after that, I think.) I read a lot. I ate some potato salad and a Mars bar. I watched Criminal Minds, then 8 Out Of 10 Cats, then Alex's interview with Davina and the arrival of the new BB housemate.

Now it's late, and I'm heading to bed. Well, actually I'm lying on my bed, since I hardly ever use my computer anywhere else. But since I'm falling asleep, I'm gonna forget about posting anything of value, and turn the computer off and play Urbz. Even though I had a ridiculously lazy day, I'm shattered, probably still from yesterday.

London: Culture, History and Trains That Never Come

I went to see my Dad today. Obviously you can see from that sentence that my parents don't live together - in fact, they never have aside from a couple months when I was a kid, and that was more convenience than anything. They're not divorced, they just never married. Truth is, they were never even together as a couple, not properly - they were close friends, similar to how I am with a couple of my male friends, and I came along as an accident when my mother was three days shy of her 40th birthday. Big surprise, since she had her other two children when she was 21 and 22, and my Dad had figured that he wouldn't have kids at all. (He later had two more daughters, but not with my mother, and anyway that's another story.)

After they had me, I'm pretty sure they were never together again, at least not "together" in the biblical sense. He asked her to marry him, she said no - a fact that I used to curse when I was a kid, but now I believe was the best decision she ever made; a lot of the time I look at the differences between my Mom and my Dad and wonder, what the heck were they THINKING??? - and a couple of years later he married someone else. They had two daughters, the first when I was 7, the second when I was 10, and when I was about 15 they divorced and he moved in with his current (and I imagine last - they seem to be soulmates) partner. Who happened to be my sisters' nanny*, but that's not relevant.

Actually, none of this stuff is relevant. It's just background.

So from his marriage I got two younger half-sisters, and from his current partner I got two older stepsisters, and the eldest now has her own child, so I have a nephew. Or step-nephew. And it was my Dad, my stepmother and my nephew who I went to see today.

My nephew is three and a half, and in my unbiased (hah) opinion is the cutest, smartest, funniest, best looking child in the whole world. I'm aware that all mothers / grandmothers / aunties probably think this about their kids, but J. really is an astonishing child. At three, he can identify every colour in a pack of 16 crayons, including the difference between pink and red, or blue and turquoise, while most three-year-olds would be doing well to name and identify six or seven colours. He knows his alphabet and his numbers up to 20, he can write his name, and his colouring skills are more like a seven-year-old's. My stepmother - his grandmother - is even teaching him some basic Spanish phrases, since they spend most summers out there.

And the amazing thing is that I get no sense that they're over-stretching him. He just loves learning. My stepmother is actually trained as a nanny (as mentioned), a kindergarten teacher and a child therapist, so she has a great deal of patience when it comes to kids, and she knows not to push them too hard when it comes to learning. But J. seems to thrive on learning new things. He bubbles over with joy when he learns a new Spanish phrase or how to write a new word. It's incredible to watch.

While he was eating dinner this evening, he was doing the bubbly friendly thing, and making everyone laugh, so I told him he was a real little comedian. And he said he wasn't, and I said sure he was, so he crossed his arms and stuck out his lip and pouted at me and said, "I am NOT a comedian, I don't go around changing colour."

It was just priceless. I laughed so hard I had tears coming out of my eyes. Although at the same time I was thoroughly impressed that a three-year-old knew and remembered what a chameleon is, even though he got the word wrong (probably due to my accent being different to my family's). I surely didn't know that kind of thing at three, and I was ridiculously smart as a kid. (Didn't transfer all that well to adulthood, hehe.)

In some ways he's so grown-up it's a bit spooky. When you do something that annoys him, instead of yelling or getting grouchy like most toddlers do, he'll calmly say, "Please don't do that, I don't like it". I know several adults who don't act that maturely.

...

29th Jan 2010 - Holy shit, AFF somehow deleted the rest of this post without me realising. I wonder how long it's been gone for?

The Myth Of Psychoanalysis

So three days ago I was walking to the shop and talking to my mother about the whole Chris thing, and we were trying to figure out if there are any Chrises in my life. We didn't come up with a huge list; while it's not a particularly rare name, it isn't one that really came out during my generation. There was Chris the middle Freud kid - the Freuds were friends of my mother's. (Yes, before you ask, their mother was an ancestor of old Sigmund.) Chris A (I can't remember his last name...just that it began with A...) from my primary school, who I probably haven't seen in eight years, and didn't notice all that much in the seven years before that. Chris Hodge, the guy who introduced me to Wicca when I was about 14. (I'm not a Wiccan, but I like learning about different religions.) Chris the guy from the Co-Op who I had a crush on until I found out he was like 6 years younger than me. (At my age, 6 years is a big deal, at least when it's younger.)

Chris from Everybody Hates Chris. Chris Evert, who my grandmother really liked. Chris de Burgh.

And it wasn't until I was in the bath this afternoon - I do my best thinking in the bath - until my brain went, hang on, you forgot someone. The really obvious, important someone.

Dr. Chris Kennedy is my shrink.

I use the term "shrink" because I'm a bit flippant about it. Even though practically everyone I know has seen or will see a therapist at some point in their lives, I still expect people to point and stare and laugh the way they did when I was in kindergarten and started seeing ghosts everywhere, or the way they did when I was in high school and got ill and everyone accused me of faking it. Both those periods caused my mother to find someone for me to "talk to". (I should mention that my mother is in fact a psychologist, and until a couple of years ago would use counselling and psychoanalysis the way most parents use band-aids and Savlon cream.)

The first therapist was fine, and pronounced me remarkably well-adjusted. The second one was not far short of abuse. Once a week I would miss Tuesday morning classes (which was embarrassing enough on its own) and sit in an office with a woman who clearly disliked me - or perhaps children in general - and listen as she gave speeches about how selfish I was, how babyish, how ungrateful, how cruel to my mother and unkind to her new boyfriend, how I took and took from everyone and never gave anything back, how I obviously wasn't ill at all and just wanted attention, since I wasn't getting 100% of my mother's time anymore and couldn't handle it.

This was when I was 12-13, and it wasn't until I was 15 that I was eventually diagnosed with a severe form of what they're now calling fibromyalgia.

Little wonder I didn't like therapists much after that.

Then in 2005, I had a really rough year. Various things happened between July and December, which I'm not going to go into here, but suffice it to say that I could easily have had my own American soap opera. The stuff that happened to me alone in those six months would have satisfied the entire cast of Sunset Beach or Days of Our Lives for several weeks at least. So, to please my worried friends and family, I tried counselling again.

For one session.

Kim wasn't abusive. I didn't dislike her as a person. But she didn't really know how to handle me. I didn't fit the books she'd read, or the training she'd had. I don't think she was really used to having happy people come to see her, for one thing. And she didn't know how to take the fact that I was taking things just fine. Yes, I knew why I was there. Yes, bad things happened, but I was OK. No, I didn't feel degraded or disgusted. No, I didn't blame myself, even though I was the victim. Yes, I understood that most people do, but I didn't.

And so we went on like that for a couple of hours, and eventually we decided to leave things be. She went off to her notes with the decision that I wasn't ready to face my inner demons, and I went off home having made the choice that you shouldn't poke and meddle with something that isn't broken. And that was just fine.

Then I met Doc - Chris Kennedy - and somehow I instinctively trusted him. I'm only wondering now, now that my oh-so-stupid brain has put Chris Kennedy and Chris from my dream together and said, oh look, they have the same name! that I wonder if his name wasn't part of the reason I trusted him in the first place. I'm not saying that Chris Kennedy is *my* Chris or anything. I know he's not - for one thing, they look totally different. Chris Kennedy is a black guy in his thirties with an Afro (a small one, but still there) and a penchant for Hawaiian shirts. My Chris is a white guy (although I think maybe he's half Korean or Thai or something) in his twenties with short brown hair. But the name...it could easily be half the reason that I liked Doc, almost in spite of his profession.

Technically I wasn't ever Chris' patient, even though I call him Doc. I met him through one of the youth centers I work at, back when I was only doing volunteer days a handful of times a year, and we became more-or-less friends, although he acts in a sort of therapist capacity, and we had a couple of unofficial consultations, and I always go to him when I have a problem that I can't solve for myself, or I need to talk something out.

One of the huge pluses about talking to him is that he understands fibromyalgia - his sister suffers from it nearly as badly as I do - which is nothing short of miraculous, IMO. (The fact that he understands about it - not the fact that his sister is a sufferer.) For more than half my life I've had to deal with people who write me off as being lazy and attention-seeking, sometimes without even meeting me. The reaction you get to the condition is sometimes worse than the condition itself. Some people believe you, and are sympathetic, but a lot aren't, and even the ones who DO believe you're suffering get impatient and start to wonder if things can really be as bad as you make out. The fact that no two sufferers have exactly the same symptoms, and that a person can be wheelchair-bound for a couple of months, and then suddenly be able to walk and swim and even work, isn't helpful. Even on a day-to-day basis, symptoms change. I have days when I'm almost well, when I can cook and clean and take walks and saw wood and garden, and then days when even taking a shower or making breakfast exhausts me both mentally and physically, and I basically have to stay in bed. And sometimes those days come one right after another.

But Chris gets it. He understands about not only the pain and the fatigue and the mental fog, but also the emotional effects: the frustration and the irritation and the crushing burden of guilt that I carry around. I hate being a burden to my mother, and to society in general. I grew up in a neighbourhood where most of the women got pregnant while still in school, never got to university, and work sporadically while collecting welfare checks and child support, and most of the men have kids by several different women, and don't have regular jobs, and maybe half of them have been in prison at some point. It's gotten somewhat better since I was a kid, but not a huge amount. And since I was old enough to think for myself - which was about the age of four - I always swore that I wouldn't be one of those people. And now I, the child prodigy, the pride of Lyndale Girls' School, the one who had medical school written on her future goals list from the age of six, am a sponge. A drain to society, and my poor mother. I don't get welfare - I got ill too early in life to be eligible for Incapacity Benefit: you have to have held at least one job where you paid NI contributions before getting ill if you want that. But finding a job is equally impossible, since even with the antidiscrimination laws prospective employers find ways not to employ people with my type of disability. So for the last several years I've been working various jobs, waitressing and bartending when I'm healthy enough, modelling on the side for extra money, editing and proofreading erotica from home when I'm not well enough to go out to work, and putting every penny I earn into a savings account that then pays me out a regular allowance, so that when I'm too sick to work, I can still just about pay my bills.

For years I've had enough to live on - just barely. I pay a pittance to my mother for rent and utilities. She more or less feeds me, since she knows that if it's up to me I'd live on soup and sandwiches, and probably not too many of those - food is something that I'm too tired to care about most of the time. I had to take out a bank loan four years ago to buy a car, and now the loan sucks up nearly half of my monthly allowance (although in a year and two months it'll be paid off, thank God), and the medications I have to take cost a fortune. The rest goes on school, transport, food, books - my one big indulgence - and the occasional date or item of clothing. Luckily I hate talking on the phone, and my cell phone bills come to about £10 every 2-3 months. There's very little I can do to pay my mother back, although I've basically given her the car, at least while hers is broken, and I do what I can to keep the house clean and the bills down and the two of us fed.

And Chris got that. He really did. He understood how poor I was, how tired I was of feeling worthless, how guilty I felt for being a drain, how I always felt like I needed to save the world and how much I hated a life - or rather an existence - where I wasn't helping anyone. So he gave me the push to work more regularly at the centers, as a paid member of staff rather than a volunteer, and he also got me into a community outreach program where we visit members of the community who need help for whatever reason. There are hundreds of these programs around the country - and indeed around the world - but one of the special things about the one I'm in is that they try really hard to give you jobs that match up with your skills, interests or other areas of expertise. My area, both of interest and knowledge, is medicine, so the people I visit and work with are usually people with various medical conditions who either have trouble leaving the house or are in need of friendship and / or companionship. I have maybe a dozen people I visit at least once every couple of months, and a couple who I see more regularly. And eight of those people are able to leave the house, and have started to visit the community centers and even help with the commnunity outreach projects themselves.

Finally, I actually believe I'm doing something that makes a difference. Not to the whole world, but to a small part of it, and for that I will be forever grateful to Doc. Sometimes you just need someone to give you a gentle kick up the backside.

Plus, I now have enough money to survive, which is a big benefit. I'm not rich or anything, but I can afford to eat properly, and even buy nice clothes now and then.

The point of this long post? I'm not sure it really had one. The title was taken (and reworded) from Paul Simon's song "The Myth of Fingerprints" and in a way I think it fits. One of the verses went like this:

Over the mountains, down in the valley
Lives a former talk show host
Everybody knows his name.
He says, "There's no doubt about it,
It was the myth of fingerprints,
I've seen them all, and man, they're all the same."

The myth of fingerprints is allegedly that people are different. The talk show host, in his cynicism, believes that people aren't unique. Yet I believe they are. I believe that you need to treat individual people, rather than viewing them as textbook cases. A psychologist - any doctor, but especially a doctor of the mind - needs to view the person and then build a diagnosis around them and their symptoms, rather than trying to make the person fit in with their book knowledge.

The myth of psychoanalysis is that it's always effective. New studies are saying that in around 40% of cases, grief therapy not only doesn't work but actually exacerbates the problem. 40% is huge - if you had a medication with failure (let alone danger) rates of 40%, it would never be let onto the market. Then again, I'm not saying that it's always a bad thing, either - I know several people who've benefited a whole lot from therapy. Really, I'm sort of ambiguous about the whole issue. But what I DO know is that if everyone had a therapist like Chris Kennedy, who was willing to put aside his preconceptions and really look hard to find out what you really need to make your life better, we'd be much happier, healthier people.

Computers Hate Me

Seriously, what the heck is up with my wireless connection tonight? 36.0 Mbps? Bah. I usually run on 54.0 at absolute minimum - not superfast, but good enough for me - but tonight it's playing me up, and it's taking forever to load webpages. Although I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, at least it's been working for the last couple of days. Every so often my internet stops working, full stop, and I can never figure out what's wrong with it. The wireless says it's fine. The troubleshooting usually tells me that:

a) my DNS isn't working (what the heck is DNS anyway?), or
b) my gateway is offline, or
c) my computer doesn't have a valid IP address, or
d) my key ports are not right and my firewall and proxy settings aren't allowing for net access, or
e) all of the above.

If this happened when I'd just changed something, I could understand. But it'll work one moment and then not work the next, and I'll fight with it for an hour or a day or a couple of days, checking firewall and proxy settings, checking everything else I can imagine, and it won't work. And then all of a sudden it'll start working again.

I should probably call the techie people, but I feel kind of stupid around them. Technically I'm entitled to yearly healthchecks, but I know if I call up they'll badger me to buy a new computer (how is it that my car is 18 years old and works just fine, and people consider it a classic, but I'm expected to buy a new computer every 2 years? Who the heck has the money to spend £899 on a laptop every 2 years? OK, so I got it in the sales, but still...) and I don't have the money. Plus, I like this one, even though it gets overheated easily these days.

It is highly annoying, though, that I've been paying £10 a month in insurance for the last 2 years to be told "press f11". Of course, if I cancelled the insurance, you can be sure that I'd need it pretty quickly, because that's just the way my life works.

The wireless is now up to 48.0 Mbps, so I'll go and see if the other site is working now. Ciao for now, and sorry I don't have much to say today besides bitching.

Although I did clean my room earlier, so I'm happy about that (albeit pretty sore from bending). Aside from that it's been a fairly annoying day - Hotel Babylon doesn't seem to be on anymore even though I'm sure I saw an ad for it on TV, I had a run-in with Ali the perv, and no news on the legal thing.

So I shall check out the site that needs checking out, then go to bed and play The Urbz.

Chris

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.


I dreamed about Chris last night.

I've been dreaming about him since I was about 12 or 13. Not often, maybe once or twice a year. But every now and then he comes along in my dreams, and turns my world upside down. I don't know if he's a real person or just a figment of my (overactive) imagination. He looks like a real person. Ages like a real person. Changes his fashion sense and hairstyle like a real person. And most of the dreams that I have with him in are fairly mundane. Oh, some are about saving the world, or surviving the end of it, as most of my dreams these days are. But a lot of the time we're just doing random, silly things - making breakfast, doing grocery shopping, sitting on swings in the park. Laughing. Holding hands. Talking.

Last night was a strange dream, and would have been strange even if it had featured some guy other than Chris. In the dream it was snowing, and we were staying in a hotel in an old-fashioned town that I didn't know. My Mom and Dad (who have never been together, aside from briefly before and up to the time I was conceived) wanted to stay in the hotel and not venture out into the snow, so Chris and I went to check out some of the local shops. We looked at antiques and old-fashioned clothes and second-hand books, and somehow while we were in the bookstore, someone accused Chris of stealing. And I knew he hadn't, knew he wouldn't do anything that stupid or frankly wrong, but for some reason we got scared and ran. And when we took a rest, we found ourselves in a sort of spinney area, a patch of grass surrounded with tall trees so it's mostly dark and covered in there, just like what we call "The Alley" down the road from my house.

I could feel him shaking, could see the whiteness of his face, and I asked him why he was so scared. And I don't know exactly what he told me, because what I got from him were mostly impressions and pictures rather than a verbal reply. Something to do with a stupid thing that he'd done when he was a kid, and even though he hadn't been punished for it back then, he knew that if the cops were called they wouldn't believe him NOW because of it.

So I felt him shaking, and didn't know what to do to help, so I kissed him.

I'd never kissed him before.

The next thing I knew he was kissing me back, warm and soft on my mouth and neck and behind my ears, running his hands through my hair and biting on my earlobes and kissing me like it had been years since he'd had a girl in his arms, or perhaps like he thought he'd get taken away and it would be years to come before it happened again. And suddenly I was sitting there on the ground, facing him, fumbling at his zipper, frantically trying to undo his pants so I could touch him. I felt him, hot and hard in my hand, and then he was pushing me down on the ground and pulling my coat apart and my sweater up so he could suck and bite on my nipples through my bra, and I was pulling my jeans down and pulling him inside me, completely unaware of the snow on the ground or the fact that it was daylight (albeit more like twilight, at that time of year) and there were people shouting and hunting us down just a couple of blocks away.

I've never felt that urgency in my real life, never lost my senses over a guy. Even when there's been passion, it's always felt somewhat simulated to me. Not faked, exactly...more like I talk myself into it. And although Jamie and I did it in the middle of Parliament Hill Fields once, it was a fairly private place (for a public area, anyway), in the dead hours of the night, and there certainly wasn't any snow on the ground or people chasing after us.

The logical answer would be that my subconscious is yelling at me because I'm not getting any right now (heh) so it's bringing up a guy who I've previously enjoyed a more-or-less platonic - not to mention imagined - relationship with, and turning him into a possible partner. All I can say in my defence is that Chris feels real to me, and that I just haven't met him yet. I've been dreaming about the guy for ten years, for pete's sake. Surely if he were just a figment of my imagination, my dreams about him would come in greater frequency and eventually taper out.

Certainly I'm somewhat psychic. (Or somewhat psycho - you choose whichever sounds right to you.) I have plenty of truedreams. I just make the choice to ignore them most of the time. But this is one I don't feel like ignoring, since I sure would like to meet Chris one day. Any guy who can have me hot and wet in two seconds flat, even when it's cold outside and I'm wearing a ski jacket and thermal underwear, is one I want to meet in person.

So if your name is - or you know someone whose name is - Chris, and you're between the ages of 22 and about 27, with brown hair and warm, soft, sad eyes, possible oriental-caucasian heritage, excellent jaw and cheekbones and a touch of the psychic in you, and have been dreaming for ten years about a chubby blonde girl with big blue eyes who's on a mission to save the world, then give me a ring sometime.

Or just send a message through the ether. Your call.

BB9, And All The Drama That Comes With It

So another summer rolls around, and with it, another series of Big Brother. I'm a moderate BB fan; I didn't really start watching regularly until last summer, and even then I only caught it a couple of times a week - I'm not someone who can watch TV every night for three months. But I found the melodrama and bitchiness quite addictive, although there were a couple of characters - Chanelle leading the pack - who I couldn't stand.

Then I caught the 3-week, E4-only, seriously underrated Big Brother: Celebrity Hijack in January of this year, and I loved it. Words cannot express how much I fell in love with Big Brother. Partially this was due to the short period (while I can't tolerate TV every night for 3 months, I can manage an hour a night for 3 weeks quite happily), to a large extent it was due to the people in there all being roughly my age as well as intelligent and talented, and probably the biggest draw-in for me was that they were - barring Jade and to a smaller extent, Emilia - all interesting, generally nice people.

Plus I've had a huge crush on Nathan for years.

But anyway, I loved BBCH so much that I was ravidly looking forward to BB9. But so far, I'm not warming up to it much at all. Very few of the members in the house have actually invoked any sort of empathy in me: most of the housemates are split into two groups in my mind, the appalling and the non-existent, with just a couple of exceptions.

So here are my impressions of this year's housemates (in alphabetical order):

Alex: I simply do not have the words for how much I dislike this woman. I could probably find them and then rant about it for a long time, but that might make me lose my lunch. In some ways she's very similar to Charley from BB8, but where I found Charley tolerable (in comparison to Chanelle, at least), Alex is much less so. She seems to value money and things (as well as so-called "respect"; I say so-called because it's fear rather than true respect that she invokes in people) far far above human beings. Has a great deal of prejudice in her - even before her rage at Mikey, it was easy to tell that she looked down on his because of his blindness. Also has a great deal of paranoia, and views every disagreement as a personal attack on her, which she then returns tenfold. Arrogant to the point of severe self-delusion. No capability for introspection whatsoever. No loyalties to anyone other than herself; she'd probably stab her own child in the back if she thought that they were "disrespecting" her. Has a compulsive need to be in control of everyone and everything, and if she's not she'll throw a tantrum. Extreme capability for violence. If I were to diagnose her psychologically, I'd call her a sociopath with classic narcissistic tendencies. My money says she'll be out within a few days, unless BB keeps her in for the sake of drama. But frankly, if they do try to keep her in, I wouldn't be surprised if half the house threatens to walk out. I know I would.

Dale: Very little to say about him. Probably has gotten by on his looks for so long, he hasn't bothered to build a personality. Time will tell if there's more to him.

Darnell: Started out as one of my favourites, but I haven't formed a set opinion yet. I think he's basically a nice guy who's had a hard time in life, but his albinism has affected him in that he sometimes tries too hard to please people in order to have "friends", and will on occasion say and do things that he doesn't agree with in order to feel like one of the group - which leaves him open to sharks like Alex. I generally like him though, and his insecurities are quite touching and make him much more human than your average BB contestant. The American accent is totally sexy, too. He doesn't like to think of himself as disabled in any way, but I think he doesn't have a very high opinion of himself and certainly I don't think he realises quite how lovely he is - I know several girls who'd go for him in a second. (Possibly including me.)

Dennis: Classic Queen Bee-yatch - camp behaviour and outrageous bitchiness about just about everyone (except Alex and Sylvia, who he seems to have taken to) are possibly covering up low self-esteem. That or he actually does think he's the bees knees. Don't like him very much, which I find odd since I almost always take to gay men, especially the camp ones. (Think Jay from BBCH - I really liked him. Yet I don't like Dennis at all.)

Jennifer: Very pretty, hasn't shown much of a personality yet. Although she seems nicer than some.

Kathreya: One of the few exceptions to my general sense of dislike for this year's offerings. Totally hyper, totally nuts, but sweet enough that she doesn't drive you crazy. She's a breath of fresh air, and probably the person who'll keep the house from exploding this year. A peacemaker, but not in a martyr-like way at all. I adore her. If things keep going the way they are, she'll probably win. I'm voting for her.

Lisa: Let herself down with the disgusting food thing (basically spitting mouthfuls of food everywhere while pretending to be drunk) but generally not too bad. Seems pretty down-to-earth, especially considering that she makes a career out of appearing on reality TV shows. Handled the Mario-Steph scenario with a lot of grace - many many women would have thrown tantrums. Up for eviction this week, but I don't think she deserves to go yet. I'd like to see a bit more of her.

Luke: Haven't made up my mind yet. Everyone says he's really sweet but seems a bit holier-than-thou to me. So far I find him kind of boring, but he might improve.

Mario: Not bad. Seems quite mature, and not just because he's the oldest on here. Knows how the game is played and is willing to play it. Happy to try and make the best out of a bad situation. Seems pretty good-natured and caring, especially towards Lisa (his real-life partner) and Mikey (who he seems to have adopted as a younger brother). Not my favourite but not at all bad either.

Michael: Hard to say. I give him props for coming on BB - these things are hard for everyone, so it can't be at all easy for a blind guy. Seems kind of hyperactive, has a strange sense of humour, and tries too hard to please others, so easily led. (No pun intended.) But also seems to be generally good-natured and kind, completely without malice. I can't tell if he's mentally slow or just innocent.

Mohamed: Haven't seen much of him, but what I do see I like. Seems like a really kind, genuine guy. Has a quiet competence about him (possibly due to his background; as far as I know he was raised in Somalia) that reminds me a little of Michael from Prison Break. Speaks when he has something to say, not just to hear his own voice, and doesn't need to create a fuss to make a point. Doesn't take himself too seriously. Hard to tell much about him so far, since he's been very cool and hasn't said a great deal, but I imagine that he's actually very warm and caring. Seems smart without being arrogant.

Rachel: Not sure yet. Seems pretty bubbly and happy, but could be a front. Don't really have an opinion on her.

Rebecca: Again, not much of an opinion, although I get the impression that she wants attention.

Rex: Very hard to form an opinion of. Seems to be a genuine lone wolf, sort of moody and distant, but this could change when and if he gets to know people and warms up to them. Puts a high value on things, most likely as a result of growing up in an upper middle-class family. Get the impression that he's always striving to be the best, but doesn't want to show it. Puts a distance between himself and other people, either as a defence mechanism due to emotions that he can't cope with, or genuine disdain for others. Hard to say which. Hopefully he'll open up a bit more in the future.

Stephanie: Pretty, and pretty annoying. Whines a lot (although not as much as some in the past) and seems to want to be taken care of while at the same time getting annoyed with people who try to tell her what to do. Not the most sporting of characters, and basically unwilling to go along with the fake engagement with Mario - she didn't seem to care that not putting the effort in meant that 4 people were up for eviction, including herself. Probably doesn't like putting effort into things and expects to breeze along in life, with everything she needs magically provided for her. Very much a child wanting to play grown-up. Sort of the female counterpart to Ziggy from BB8. But not all bad - she seems to have loyalty to people she considers friends, and stuck up for a couple of the other girls when they found themselves on the recieving end of Alex's vitriol. Possibly just needs to be given some responsibility, and she'll grow up.

Sylvia: Alex's cronie, and almost as bad. Not quite as venomous as Alex, but very much of a princess mentality, and thinks she can behave as badly as she wants by justifying it as ghetto-princess behaviour. Uses her looks as tender to get whatever she wants and wrap people around her little finger. Interestingly she seems to have taken on the Chanelle role as counterpoint to Alex's Charley - I say interesting because in BB8, Charley and Chanelle were arch-nemeses. Has apparently suffered dreadful traumas in Sierra Leone (her original country) but despite surviving life-changing disaster, she still throws a hissy fit over the smallest of wrongdoings. Very much of a bunny boiler; exactly the type of woman who'd cut up a guy's Italian suits and set fire to his car (although possibly not go as far as killing his pet) for breaking up with her. Never in the wrong, and has probably never made a sincere apology in her life. Might get better once Alex is out of the picture, but I'm not holding my breath.


So there you have it: the original 16 and my impressions. I'll try and keep you posted on any new members who come in, and update you as my impressions of current housemates change. I'm perfectly happy to change an opinion when new evidence comes to light, but for now, I'm waiting impatiently for the series to get better.

Yet Another Sunrise...

So I'm lying here on my bed, it's 5.52 am and as usual, I haven't slept yet. These sleepless nights are driving me crazy, because it means I then sleep the day away. And what's REALLY bad, is that I like it that way. I like working and reading all night and sleeping all day, only getting up to lie in the sun for a while. I like being awake when nobody else is, so nobody can make immediate demands on me unless they wake me up or send me an email. I like being a bit of a recluse whenever I can afford to take time out from life.

Of course, I can't always afford to do it. Even though most of my work is from home and can be done at any time of day, my other job (i.e. the one that doesn't pay all that well, but gives me emotional satisfaction most of the time) requires that I leave the house and travel to London when I'm needed, which could be a couple times a month or a couple times a week, depending on what's going on.

This week it was a couple times a week, because there was a bit of a crisis the other day, which has contributed to my week from hell - and consequently the need to sequester myself with a good book (or six) and a large amount of junk food and headache tablets.

I work with teenagers in a youth center in London. It's a pretty varied job - I'm big sister, general counsellor, sometimes cook, sometimes laundry maid, sometimes drugs counsellor, sometimes sex ed teacher. The main part is the big sister role: I talk with and listen to teens, sometimes about problems they're having, sometimes about things that they want an opinion on, sometimes just as a friend to hang out with. But I do plenty of other things too. I help keep the place clean. I give talks on contraception and staying safe from STDs. I help find accomodation for kids who need to move out of their parents' home for whatever reason. I bake a lot of cakes and cookies, since most of them don't get home-baked stuff at home - sounds silly, but it's amazing how much a plate of cookies can spread cheer and goodwill when you don't get stuff like that often. *laughs* I also act as a medical advisor about drugs, eating disorders, things like that. I'm neither a doctor nor a trained therapist, but I'm there to give out frank, unbiased information about what will happen to their bodies if they do X or Y. Sometimes teenagers take things like that better from someone who's nearer their age.

Occasionally, like this week, I get harder jobs. This week one of my kids (not literally my kids, but that's what I think of them as) got into a fight, hit the other guy wrong, and knocked him right into a coma. So much of my week was spent with visits to the jail and eventually raising bail money to get him out.

I don't know what to feel about the whole situation, really. I'm horrified, but at the same time my loyalty is to my kids, the ones I work with and see often. In my head I understand that teens fight, teenage boys fight often, and for teenage boys who are raised in an urban environment, usually in poverty, fighting someone who does something to piss you off is a way of life. I understand that intellectually, but it still upsets me. But this is my job, so I just have to suck it up and do what needs to be done.

My kid is 17, and the other guy is 21, plus he has a prior record while my kid is clean, so it's unlikely that he'll do hard time. Most likely he'll get parole, community service, maybe anger-management classes. I guess that's a plus, since in my gut I feel that he didn't mean to seriously hurt the other guy. He seemed pretty scared when I saw him. It's a very weird feeling, though, to know that a person you know (and quite like) put someone in intensive care, and despite that you're hoping that he'll get off lightly. Previously, I couldn't have stuck by him, job or not. I've never had much loyalty to anything other than my own morals, but through this job I'm learning loyalty to people, even when they do things that you don't agree with.

In addition to this, turning my already hard week into a hellish one, my mother - who I love to pieces, but has an unfortunate habit of doing things without paying attention sometimes - made a cake and managed to put 4 tablespoons (instead of 4 teaspoons) of baking powder into it. And didn't tell me until I'd eaten a quarter of the cake. So both she and I ended up with sodium poisoning, and although we didn't have to go to hospital, my kidneys have been killing me for the last few days, and I'm drinking so much water to flush my system, I feel like I'm going to burst. And now, to top it all off, I have PMS.

So staying in the house and reading and eating sandwiches for the next few days sounds pretty damn good. And that is the plan for today. I'm going to make a sandwich now, wash my feet (they get really cold for some reason) and then nap for a couple of hours, then read and eat another sandwich, lie in the sun for a while, pick up some groceries (just basic stuff) at Budgens, maybe buy a burger from KFC, and take another nap late this afternoon. This sounds like a perfect day to me.

Hope that you can excuse the long, rambling post - it IS now 6.25 am, after all - and that you have as good a day as I plan to.

A Post Without A Title

So here's the thing: I really, really suck at returning emails. You may have noticed this by now. It's not just you, believe me - it happens all the time in my regular life too. I check my mail frequently, and read everything that people send to me. But I file it aside for later, when I can take the time to formulate a response, and then later never comes for one reason or another, usually trouble with work or I'm needed for something that just has to be done at home. And a couple days later, I've THOUGHT so much about returning a message, I forget that I didn't actually write and send the reply. The only people who are immune are the people I talk to every day, who don't need properly written responses - "Ta love, call you later x" will do.

I'm not quite sure why I'm so bad with replies to emails and phone messages, since I usually remember birthdays and stuff, and I'm always available if someone I care about is having a crisis.

But anyway, rest assured that I HAVE read your message / seen your flirts and kisses and will respond...well, soon I hope. Assuming I can get up the nerve. I'm a person who likes to watch, and I'm perfectly happy lurking around, reading profiles and blogs and occasionally commenting, but replying to personal emails is a more active role, and that's taking a bit of getting used to for me.

So if you're looking for someone who's overt and confident and will immediately respond with "hey babe, wanna meet up tonight?" then you're probably in the wrong place. I like to be friends with the people I sleep with, so I'm here to chat for a while first, and then we'll see.

And on the subject of pictures, which several of you have brought up - I'm trying. I don't photograph well at the best of times, and at the moment I don't photograph AT ALL, because my camera is broken, and all my money is being siphoned towards my brother's wedding, and I don't have the money to fix it or buy a new one - at least not a decent one. So if anyone wants to buy me a nice Canon or Nikon, then I'll put some pics up of myself. Otherwise you'll have to wait until I get a better job, or until Currys has a sale on.

Chances are I'm going to use this blog just for general news about my life, so I'll keep you posted.

First Post, and Not A Whole Lot To Say

Over the years, I've gotten pretty into keeping a journal. I've had a private, paper one since 1996. I kept one on Bolt for five or six years before it shut down, one on my college website for a little over a year, and I often post notes on facebook or entries on my msn space. (No, I'm not giving out the address - I'm here for anonymity.)

But I have to say, an adult sex site is probably the weirdest place I've ever decided to keep a blog.

Most of my journals and blogs have contained a mixture of things: general thoughts, questionnaires, rants on things that annoy me, reviews for books and movies and music, responses to things I read in the news, recipes that I recommend to people (particularly around Christmas) and so on and so forth. But I'm not really sure what to write here; none of those things seem terribly appropriate given where we are. I started this blog with the intention of using it to give general responses to people who've messaged me when I'm too busy - or otherwise unable - to reply personally. But that was before I realised that blog entries don't just show up on your profile, they're also featured on a separate blog page. And I don't think the world - or even the part of the world that's on this site - is interested in reading my apologies.

So I'm not entirely sure what to post. Questionnaires are always a good start, since you get to impart a whole lot of information, so if anyone has some interesting ones I'd be grateful if you'd mail them to me, and I'll put a couple up here as a starting point. Otherwise, I'll just write whatever takes my fancy, whether or not it's sexual in nature, and worry about the appropriateness later.

Rage, Which Isn't Pure At All

I don't often get angry. But when I do, I scare people.

I'm angry now. Out of my mind with fury. And even though I don't really have the right to be angry, even though it's none of my business, even though we agreed - at my instigation, even - that there was no future, that we didn't owe each other anything...it doesn't make me any less mad.

How could any person be so fucking stupid? I wouldn't expect this kind of stupidity from anyone, let alone someone as level-headed as Him. Does he not KNOW? Does he think it will be fun, like a game? That he can run along with his little boy-toys and then when he gets bored he can call a time-out?

And now, if this goes the way he wants it to, I can't see him anymore. Because every time I see him, I'll see all the people he carries with him, all the ones he's hurt to date, and all the ones to come. And I'm not willing to put myself through that. Selfish? Sure. Have to be.

You hear talk about how rage is pure and clear, but it's not. It's murky and dark and poisonous and horrible, and it makes me feel nauseous and giddy, like some toxin has taken hold of me.

Stupid, fucking men. Or man, singular. Why the hell couldn't he have just left things the way they were?