For Apollo, Who Shone Brighter Than the Sun

I have a body wash in my bathroom that isn't made anymore. Imperial Leather Foamburst with sea kelp and birch bark. I came SO close to throwing it out today when I cleaned the bathroom shelf, because it's really not usable anymore - it's totally lost its pressure, and I can barely eke out the tiniest bit. Certainly I can't get enough to wash with it anymore. I couldn't throw it, though, because every now and then I squirt a teensy bit onto my finger, and inhale, and you're there with me. That's one of the things that I remember the best about you. The way you always smelled like the ocean.

I have a redcurrant lipsalve, that I bought back in 2001, and I can't throw that away either. I certainly wouldn't use it - can you imagine the bacteria it must have picked up after fourteen years? - but sometimes I open it and smell it and immediately think, "Ah, Jay." If you were watching, you would be able to see the tension melt out of my body with the first inhalation. You didn't wear redcurrant lipsalve - that I'm aware of, anyway *laughs* - but I wore it, back in the days of Batchwood and birthday parties and the bluest eyes in the world staring at me from across a darkened room.

God, I miss you.

I sometimes called you The SBD. People wondered what that stood for; assumed it was something dirty. I let them, because it was easier than explaining how a therapist of mine had once tried to teach me to meditate on the image of a blue diamond, spinning in my mind, any time I felt out of control - and how the diamond image had always failed, because every time I tried to think of a blue diamond I could only think of your gaze.

The technique worked, even if I could never get the right image. YOU were my spinning blue diamond. You kept me calm. You kept me sane. You kept me alive, during the worst times. You saved my life more times than I can count, and I would have given up everything I had if I could have done the same for you.

I talk to the dead. Sometimes the dead talk back. That's one of my bigger secrets, one that I don't hide, exactly, but I don't discuss openly with many people either. And I find it both comforting and heartbreaking that you have never once been here to talk to. I'm so glad that you moved on quickly - so many don't, you know - and I have faith that wherever you are is exactly where you need to be, doing exactly what you need to do. Yet...I miss you. That's all. I wish you were here.

Though maybe not tonight. I probably wouldn't want to face your reaction to the box of mozzarella sticks, half-bag of curly fries, or four shots of Aftershock over ice that I had for dinner. That kind of shit is best kept to myself, not shared with beautiful boys who I want to have good opinions of me. :)

Hey, I never claimed that lack of vanity was one of my virtues.

In another two months, it'll have been a year, and some days I still can't wrap my head around it. My emotions are complex and often irrational. I don't understand how someone like me, who's been dying for half my life, who's been caught and thrown back by Death SEVEN TIMES so far, is still occupying territory on this side of the veil, and someone like you, who I never even knew to have a cold, could just up and die like that. Six weeks. I checked my Facebook messages for the one I sent you the day after I started dreaming and worrying about you, and it was six weeks - almost to the day - between me knowing something was wrong, and you dying. How can a healthy, active person, a person who's dedicated his entire existence to nourishing physical and mental health in himself and others, a person who's barely been sick a day in his life, go from healthy to dead in six weeks? It doesn't make sense to me. It's not logical. I should be old enough and experienced enough to know by now that the universe doesn't always run on logic - and most of the time, I do. But all my practicality goes out the window where you're concerned.

The alcohol is wearing off - about bloody time, it's nearly 6am - and I can't remember if there was a point to this letter. Maybe it was just to tell you I love you. Always have, always will. I've loved you every day of my life since I was twelve years old, and I'll love you every day of the rest of it. 

A Month of Blogs - Drugs

Drugs

Suggested by Jonny F.


As a writer who seems to have hit a low point in creativity and / or just getting off my ass and writing, I signed myself up to write 31 blog posts during October - one a day - on any subjects that are suggested to me. The only rules for suggestions are that they can't be anything that involve me having to take on a particular viewpoint (so no "Why I Hate Twilight" or "Why Rock Music is the Best Music") - this isn't debating class, and right now I'm not interested in trying to argue something that I may or may not agree with. Anything else goes - it can be a specific subject or a broad one, one that I've written about in the past or something new that will need research. If you're interested in playing along, you can leave a comment here, or email me at thenordicalien@gmail.com. (I'll try and remember to check there, honest!)


Drugs are bad, mmmkay?

- Mr Mackey


I have a friend who's an addict.

Truthfully, I have several friends who are probably (drug) addicts, many more if you add in things like cigarettes and junk food. But right now I'm thinking about one friend in particular. My friend got into drugs lightly as a teen, with pot, and then more heavily as a 20-something. I won't specify what kind of drugs, since that could be seen as identifying evidence, which for obvious reasons would be a bad thing for the purposes of this post. All I'll say is that my friend's choice of drugs doesn't involve needles, and that they started out with a legal - i.e. prescription - drug habit, and slid down that slippery slope into semi-legal and then illegal drugs.

We talk on a fairly regular basis about my friend's habit, as they consider me to be someone they can talk to who won't judge them. (I find this amusing, since I'm one of the most judgemental people I know. I can only assume what they mean is that when I judge them, for the most part I'll keep my opinions to myself unless asked for them, and I'll continue to love them anyway even when I think they've royally fucked up.) One of the things that we've discussed at some length is why my friend's an addict.

On their less honest days, my friend gives me the spiel about needing drugs. They're prescribed by a doctor, they have a medical condition that requires them, etc. I inevitably call bullshit on this, as a) not all the drugs are prescribed by a doctor, at least not for my friend by THEIR doctor; b) my friend buys and sells a whole lot more on the side; c) my friend doesn't use the prescribed drugs in the way that they're meant to be used (think twice as many, and up the nose instead of in the mouth); and d) my friend hasn't had any extensive testing for their medical condition in the years since they were injured and has no real idea whether they still suffer from it. (I could also object due to my feeling that there are other ways to handle an injury than with hard drugs - graduated exercise, CBT, pain management courses - and if you're not willing to explore those ways you shouldn't be prescribed unlimited medication, but that's a personal opinion rather than a fact so I tend to leave that out of my arguments.)

On their more honest days, my friend will talk to me about how good it feels to be buzzed, which really gets down to the bones of it. Highs feel nice. They feel nice enough that people chase them, through all manner of ways. I'm no exception here - I spend much of my free time in search of that elusive bliss, although I tend to chase my highs with exercise, books, nature, hobbies and occasionally food. Everyone does, in one way or another. It seems to be human nature to seek out pleasure and to escape from boredom or pain.

My friend has been through more pain than a lot of people, although more cushiness as well. That dichotomy has set them up for what is perhaps a more persistent need to chase extremes of pleasure than you'll find in many people. A childhood raised by a permissive single parent - and I would like to add the caveat here that none of these things will ensure addiction in the future; simply that the convergence of factors in my friend's case has set them up with the tendency to think that a rollercoaster of extreme highs and lows is normal and necessary - who coddled them and protected them and always allowed them to have their own way, followed by teenage years in which they were blessed with an excess of charm, above average looks, brains and natural athletic ability, followed by the death of several loved ones and a sense of having lost their place in the world, have caused my friend to think of their life as split into two parts: the early part (good) and the later part (bad). Childhood and teenagehood were good and fun and exciting. Adulthood is bad and boring and painful. Drugs are the crutch which both livens up their adult years and dulls a lot of the pain.

This isn't an unusual story. Using drugs as a killer of emotional pain and a thing that makes your life brighter and shinier are two very common things. My friend's case is complicated by the fact that the losses they suffered came right at the beginning of their twenties, as their brain was coming down off the natural high that the teenage years bring. Recent progress in neuroscience has found that teenagers don't think and feel the same way that adult humans do. Impulse control and the ability to plan ahead and stick to that plan are some of the last parts of the brain that develop fully. Perhaps more importantly, the parts of the brain that deal with memory and emotional responses are overloaded by adult standards - although many of my teenagers argue that the teenage brain is the one we're supposed to have, and adults' brains are merely atrophied - causing everything to feel more wonderful, more exciting, more awful. Just more. Nothing is ever quite as emotionally powerful as it is when you're in your teens. No music sticks with you as strongly as the music that you loved when you were young; no memories of wild nights hit you with quite the same degree of nostalgia; few romances are as hard to forget as the ones you had when your volume of gray matter was at its highest and your body was flooded with hormones. Those memories, and the feelings that go with them, are indelibly imprinted on the brain, and even those of us whose teen years were often unbearable tend to look back at the good parts through rose-coloured lenses.

In my friend's case, the combination of the natural highs of the teen years and the fact that the brutal losses they suffered came right at the end of that period have resulted in an uncontrolled yearning for the past, for security, for excitement. The drugs don't bring back the dead, or send my friend back into the past, but they provide an echo of the feelings that are so sorely missed. They will, of course, never provide more than an echo.

I think this is the real reason why I agree with Mr Mackey. Drugs are bad. Not because they wreck your body (plenty of things do), not even because they're dangerous and possibly deadly - although both those things alone are reasons for me personally to stay away. Drugs are bad because they catfish you with pretty promises of feeling good, promises which they can never deliver after the first few times, unless you take more and more of them.

Of course, I lost a brother to a drug overdose when I was a kid. I'm biased.

Probably not everyone who becomes addicted to drugs is trying to revive their teenage years, although I'd hazard a guess that a large portion of them are. But I feel reasonably safe in saying that everyone who becomes addicted, and stays addicted, is either escaping from pain, escaping from boredom through the chasing of larger and larger highs, or some combination of the two.

Is chasing a high necessarily a bad thing? Can you be a social drug user without turning into an addict? Those are two questions I've been asking myself while writing this post (and, indeed, for many years before now) and I've never come up with a completely satisfying answer. I do think that some people, if they have a great deal of self-control, can be recreational drug users. (I also think that a heck of a lot of people who describe themselves as recreational drug users, aren't.) Marijuana is one of the drugs that's most talked-about at the moment, what with all the legal revisions going on in the US. When people ask me - which they often do - what my position on the legalisation of pot is, I admit that I'm not really sure. I suppose I support legalisation sort of by default, since I don't believe that it should be illegal when tobacco and alcohol are legally available just about everywhere, and I know full well that banning those things would be both impossible and unnecessary. The problem I have with legalisation is that I worry that it won't be done in the right way. If a formerly illegal substance is to become legal, I feel that it needs to be regulated, taxed (I know this will be an unpopular opinion; since how many of us actually want to pay taxes?) and studied extensively. So far, this hasn't happened with marijuana, or at least what regulation and studying has been done hasn't been widely publicised. The fact that a thing is legal does not necessarily mean it's safe. It doesn't mean it doesn't have ill-effects, both short and long-term. It doesn't mean we should automatically stick it in our mouths. When it comes to weed, most people fall into one of two camps: the "Weed is dangerous / a gateway drug / supports drug barons / etc" camp, or the "It's natural and good and as harmless as sparkly unicorns" camp. As far as the harmful side-effects go, I'm witholding judgement until more research is done, but assuming that there can't possibly be any seems dangerously naive to me. In addition to my practical concerns, there is my personal, irrational bug-a-boo: why can't life be enough? Why can't the planet, with all its wonders, be enough for people without the need for mind-altering substances?

I don't generally bring up that last point with people unless they ask me directly, since most folks would tell me to mind my own business, and they'd be right. The fact that I find it sad that people feel dissatisfaction with what, to me, seems like an extraordinary world full of wonder, is my own problem, not anyone else's. And you'd also be right if you said I was a bit of a hypocrite to feel that way, as I mentioned earlier that I find myself chasing my own highs quite often. When I push myself in the swimming pool or on the ice rink, when I take a walk on an autumn day, when I immerse myself in the crowd at a hockey game or an MMA match, I'm chasing those peaks of emotion. And when I reread a book that I've loved, when I eat a favourite food, when I listen to a song that fills me with joy or rerun a memory in my mind that makes my heart pound, I'm using repetition to try to recreate the feelings I had last time those things made me happy. Human nature - the need to seek out pleasure - meets human habit - the tendency to repeat behaviours in the hopes that they have the same positive result. Physical pleasure - pleasure in exercise, in food, in sex - and emotion come together in this wonderful synergy. And with the best of these things, the things that you love above all others, whether we're talking about songs or books or foods or lovers or anything else - they're always good. Perhaps a fraction less good than the first time, or perhaps not, but always good. And the periods inbetween, while not giving a person the wash of bliss that they get from the peaks, don't throw you into those deep depressing troughs either.

That's why I think you can consider me only a bit of a hypocrite. Because, personal likes and dislikes aside (or as far aside as they can ever truly be), I do honestly feel that there's a difference between chasing a high through drugs, and chasing it in the ways I've mentioned just above. The drug high can be hell for your body, while the things above (junk food and MMA excluded) are generally safe, and it's expensive - but more importantly, the drug high never fully satisfies after the first time, and people end up spending their whole lives chasing something that is physically impossible to attain.

And what kind of a life is that?


I haven't cited any sources for this blog post, as I wrote it off the top of my head, based on what I've learned over the years. However, if you want to learn more about the science behind teenage brains, you can try the following pages:

National Institute of Mental Health - http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/the-teen-brain-still-under-construction/index.shtml

A PBS programme - http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/teenbrain/

See anything you liked? Share it! Just link back to this page.

Strange Continent, Immune To All Reason

I hate you.
I love you.
Leave...don't go away.
I can't decide if I like your face
Or if I wish it would stray.
You're a child, but you're malicious,
You're sweet, but don't remember my name,
Heads I win,
Tails I'm lost,
Love equals pain.

~ Jewel, Gray Matter

He was one of those kids who would either grow up and change the world, or live his entire life as a petty thug. Some people are just made that way. There's no middle ground for them.

I alternately adored and loathed him, from the day I met him up until this moment.

It's funny: even with the memory damage that I've suffered, there are certain people who always stand out in my mind; certain people where I remember just about every conversation or meeting that we've ever had. I remember the day I met him. Not everything about the day, but certain things. It was a Monday. School was holding an assembly, not in the hall where we usually had them, but in the gym. We had to take our shoes off, and I remember freaking out because I'd forgotten to remove the pink polish from my toenails, and I was convinced that a teacher was going to yell at me. We had a sometimes-strict rule about nail polish and makeup at that school - I say sometimes-strict, because you could always tell which girls would get away with breaking it. I wasn't one of them. 

Anyway, I remember the morning clearly. Pink toenail polish, bare feet, and me freaking out. I didn't sit with the girls and boys I usually sat with, because that year my "friends" were the ones who the teachers watched, hawk-eyed. I sat with a different couple of girls and boys from my class, and a couple who weren't - I never had a set crowd in high school, I just kind of floated from group to group, always welcomed but never committed - and found myself sitting in front of The New Boy. One of the kids in our group asked me if I'd met him yet. I hadn't, and I knew how hard it could be to be the new kid, especially in a school as cliquey as ours, so I turned around and smiled. And my head nearly imploded. I was heavily into astronomy at that point, and I clearly remember thinking that looking at him felt like how I imagined it would feel to stare into a black hole. I'd never met a teenager so forceful and magnetic. Looking at him was like looking into endless darkness, yet with a feeling that there was so much that was hidden.

I need a name for him here. I can't continue to call him New Boy, so we'll continue with the astronomical theme and call him Pluto. It fits. Pluto was the Roman equivalent of Hades - "the unseen". I often felt like he was unseen by most of the teachers and students. I wonder if he felt that way too.

Me? Oh, I saw. I saw someone extraordinary. I wanted to know everything about him, to be his friend and walk and talk with him.

Except, for some reason, he seemed to take a dislike to me.

To this day, I don't know why. With other people he was friendly enough. Sometimes quiet, sometimes sullen, in the way that every teen on the planet can be, but reasonably friendly. He made friends with a group of boys, including my friend's boyfriend and the guy I sat next to in math, boys who I wasn't close to but none of whom seemed to hate me the way he did. Well, dislike. Hate is probably too strong a word.

I didn't confront him to ask him why he didn't like me. Nowadays, I might have done so. Back then, I wasn't as plain-spoken as I am now. Also, I was a coward. I didn't want to hear that I'd done something to offend him, or that he found my personality repellent, or that my face and body made him want to throw up. I wanted him to like me, as I - sometimes - liked him.

Again, like is the wrong word. I adored him, was drawn to him, but often didn't like him. Particularly on the day he slammed my hand in the math classroom door. Or the day he shoved past me going down the stairs and knocked me down half a flight. Or the day we were put in the same trampolining group, and he crawled under my trampoline when I was getting ready to execute a difficult flip that I'd never tried before, causing me to jar my back and putting me off the sport right up to this day.

Yeah, I hated him at times. None of that hate made me any less intrigued.

I missed a lot of school through illness - maybe half of my classes. In bad months, maybe two thirds. But when I was there, I watched him. I watched him when he laughed with friends, and when he sat alone, caught in depression. I smiled when he seemed happy, and my heart broke for him when he was sad. I burned with righteous anger when he was accused of damaging a teacher's car, something that I don't think was ever proven whether he did or not - although of course that never stopped the rumours spreading.

I took art in Year 10 and 11, and my fingers itched to draw him. The boy defined chiaroscuro. Dark brown hair, darkened to black by the use of hair gel. Moonshine skin, eyes like obsidian chips. He bore more than a passing resemblance to a young David Boreanaz, which may have been part of the attraction for me, but there was a wintriness to him that even the vampire Angel didn't possess. Sometimes I attempted to draw him, but the pictures never came out right. I always felt like my pictures were of a glossy illusion, a reflection in those obsidian chips, rather than the real boy. Yet I'm not sure that, had I got to know him better, my drawings would have been any more successful. I feel like the real him was too big to be confined on paper.

We talked occasionally. Sometimes, on seemingly random occasions, he'd walk up to me and insult me. On rarer occasions, he'd start an actual conversation, talk for a few minutes, and then insult me. Usually it was mild insults, like telling me I had a stupid name. For most of my school days, I went by Sandy, so he took to calling me Pebbles. Nowadays, of course, I'd laugh at that and take it as a compliment that a guy wanted to give me a nickname. Back then, all I could think of was that he thought I had a stupid name. :)

Some of the insults were a little harsher. Once, I was sitting after trampolining with a friendly acquaintance - not quite a friend - who had seen the gems that I carried in my purse and bag and pockets. I was into crystal healing a lot that year, and carried a heap of carnelians (for blood purification and energy) and lapis lazuli (to stimulate creativity), as well as a few others - jade for mental clarity, citrine for physical energy. I swear, my handbag and pockets looked like I'd walked out of ancient Egypt. *grins* She and I were looking at the gems, and I was telling her what they were supposed to do. And Pluto walked over - we were waiting for the minibus to take us back to school, and there weren't many people around - and asked to see the stones. He ran his fingers through the pile of crystals on my hand, and asked for an explanation.

And then told me I should be in a mental asylum.

I can laugh about it now, but I wouldn't talk to him for about a month after that. Particularly when the rumour started flowing that I HAD been in a psych hospital. I have no real reason to think he started the rumour, but at the time I assumed it was him. Perhaps unfairly.

Looking back, I wonder if he really hated me as much as it appeared. In some ways, I'd had a sheltered life as a kid. People had generally liked me. A few had been outright cruel, but they had always been very vocal about why they didn't like me. I'd never come across the phenomenon of boys being mean to girls they like - or, indeed, the other way round - and it never occurred to me that he might feel anything but this unexplained apparent abhorrence for me.

Three things over the years have given me pause to think that perhaps his feelings for me were as complicated as mine for him. Firstly, the guy I sat next to in math told me, on the very last day of school, that Pluto didn't hate me. At least I think he did. I casually brought it up - they were good friends, and it was easy to steer the subject in that direction - and when I laughed and said that Pluto had always seemed to dislike me, math guy stared and me for what seemed like half an hour, shook his head, and said, "Jesus, you're smart, but when you get things wrong you really get them wrong." I never asked for clarification, and math guy died a few years later, so I'll never get it.

Secondly, one time when I was walking to my Dad's house with a couple other friendly acquaintances - again, not close friends - a boy appeared out of nowhere and started walking with me. He was sweet and charming and cute, and he talked to me for a good twenty minutes, and offered to carry my bag. I didn't recognise him, and assumed he was from the year above - it was a big school (by English standards), with perhaps 500-600 kids spread over seven classes, and while I knew all the kids in my class I didn't know all that many from the other classes. Much later, one of the girls I'd been walking with that day mentioned how Pluto had carried my bag for me and talked to me. I was shocked to find that the charming boy of that day, who I'd been vainly searching for in school, was actually my tormentor.

This may sound odd to you, but I suffer from a condition called prosopagnosia - face blindness. People with this condition (although it comes in varying levels of seriousness - mine is moderate) find it difficult to recognise faces as a whole, without thinking about it. I recognise my mother, and one or two people that I've known for many years, but most people - even close friends - require some thinking about. I can put features together to make a composite, but it takes me a little while. My brain can see a friend and say, "High cheekbones, broad face, pointed chin, green eyes, freckles, blonde hair - it must be Sasha." But I have to do it consciously, whereas most people recognise familiar faces unconsciously. Also, context matters a great deal. If I see Sasha in a place that I was meant to meet her, I'll recognise her with few problems. If I accidentally run into her in our town, it'll take me a few moments to kick my brain into gear. If I run into her in an unexpected place, say in Manchester or abroad, my brain will struggle to recognise her at all. And if she dyes her hair black or wears heavy makeup or a push-up bra? Forget it. And that's Sasha, who I've known for twelve years.

I'd known Pluto for a year or two at that point. I'd never seen him with anything other than his regular hairstyle - his hair spiked with gel that made it look black. But on this afternoon it was brown and soft and shiny and flopped in his eyes - I guess he'd had a shower after gym and forgotten to style it. We were all wearing uniform. I'd never known him to walk home that way before. I had no chance of recognising him.

I wish I had. I wish that I'd known that the sweet boy I was talking to was him, because maybe that could have opened a door to friendship.

Thirdly, a month or two after the crystal incident, I got a present in the mail. It was an utterly beautiful pair of silver earrings, with a piece of lapis in the centre. They came in a white box, and written on the box was a note, signed with his first name. It is a common name - I know at least four other boys who have it, boys that are closer to me than he was, and I have no real reason to think the earrings were from him, particularly since he would have had to get my address from someone at school. But it did always make me wonder.

[Edit: I searched for, and finally found, the earrings, although not the box.]

One of the last days I saw him at school, we were sitting in reception at lunchtime, waiting on teachers. He looked sad and tired, and I wanted to lean over to him, and tell him how extraordinary he was.

Why didn't I do that?

I'm not writing this well. I want to tell you all the wonderful things about him, all the reasons why he shone, but I don't know how to express those things. So many of them were intangible. He was a wonderful artist, and had a keen intellect - on the few times he spoke up in class. But so much of his beauty was hidden. You're probably reading this note and wondering why I loved him. I can't tell you why. All I can tell you is that there was so much beauty under the surface.

We left school. I saw him once at a nightclub, and once at a party, and once across a platform at a crowded station. Even there, my eyes were drawn to him. Then I never saw him again.

I occasionally searched, as I did for many of the people I went to school with. I did Google searches in the year or two after school finished, with the vague idea in the back of my mind that I could say hi and maybe bury whatever invisible hatchet there was. I never found him. The few friends I kept in touch with shook their heads and said they didn't know. Usually they followed this with, "Why would you want to get in touch with him? You hated each other in school!"

That was why, although I could never verbalise my feelings to my friends. I still can't put them out here, quite. I never had a satisfactory resolution to the question of why he disliked me. I don't like unfinished business.

So I looked for him. I never found him. I wondered if he had died, and I mourned. By the time Facebook rolled around, it didn't occur to me to search. Until recently.

Recently, I found out that he didn't die. The reason I never found him is that he got famous and changed his name.

You'd think that my feelings upon hearing this would be envy, or wistfulness, and there's a dollop of those in there. But the overwhelming emotions, the things that fill my heart and make it want to shatter, are pride and joy. I'm so proud of him. It's not my place to be, but I am anyway. And the joy I feel is tremendous. The thought that a boy who seemed so unhappy most of the time, who spent so much time in the shadows, unseen, is now established in a career that he loves where he's respected by thousands - that lifts my soul more than I can say.

Music is his speciality, which surprised me, because I had never known him to be a musician. He was an excellent artist, and had a wellspring of creativity, but I'd never known his musical side.

I YouTubed him, and listened, with tears streaming down my face. His music is piercingly beautiful.

There's a place in Menorca, called the Cova d'en Xoroi, that's entirely made of a network of caves in the side of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Many years ago it was made into a nightclub, but it remains mostly natural - the only things that have been added are necessities like bars and toilets, and a couple of outdoor terraces with chairs and loungers. When the moon is in the right phase, it rises over the ocean. You can sit in a chair on the terrace, with the ocean breeze blowing, ambient trance music - the favourite of most of the club's DJs - playing at just the right volume inside, and the moon in front of you, making a silver path on the waves that looks for all the world like you can walk on it.

That's how Pluto's music feels to me. It feels like the moon and the ocean and the cool breeze in my hair. It breaks my heart and lifts it up simultaneously. Much as he did, all those years ago.

Chances are I will never write to him. If I do, I'll just be another douchebag from school who wants something now that he's famous. I won't do that. My years of wanting something from him are over.

But I'll keep him on my iPod. I'll listen. I'll probably cry from time to time, with sadness for a boy who carried the weight of the world on him, and happiness and pride for a man who has become more brilliant than even I could ever have imagined.

A Country Ramble

Saturday afternoon, our Japanese class met up for lunch. Somehow I didn't manage to get any photos during lunch; I think I was too flustered by being late. However, Takana-san took one of the group. Since you are polite people, I'm sure you will ignore my maniacal grin. I have not yet mastered the art of smiling in photos unless I take them.

After lunch, we started our walk. At the pub. Personally, I think all walks should start at the pub.

We entered the park through a rather ominous-looking pass. It looked more like the entrance to some strange wilderness.

Yes, we were definitely in the Wild Wastes. Of course, I'm spoiled - when I hear "park" I think Kensington. Possibly I should not have worn a thin dress and sandals. It is beautiful here though, in a wild way.

Out of nowhere, a golf course appeared. My feet were thankful. Strolling on springy grass barefoot is one of my great pleasures. Suddenly it's less Wastes, more Gardens.

Without any warning, we're out of the estate gardens again and into the Wild Woods of the West.

Just over the bend there was a HUGE hill that we had to make our way down via a staircase made of tree roots. I wish I'd got a photo of the staircase, but I was too busy trying to get down without my glasses on. Josephine very kindly held my hand to help me balance. :)

After much trekking, we found ourselves at another pub. Well, isn't that convenient? *grins*

After much merriment, we were back in the park. Here we have Brocket Hall, home of the infamous Baron Brocket and his delightful son.

As usual, most of the crowd were well in front of me again. They all have long legs, and I'm built like a chimpanzee.

It is, of course, slightly possible that they're also in front of me because I stopped every ten paces to take photos.

Here we have a somewhat better picture of the Hall. It's quite a fabulous building!

I truly had to restrain myself from cartwheeling across the lawn here, it's so green and soft. My stomach was thankful for my restraint; I don't think the hamburger and chips I ate for lunch would have seemed like such a good idea if I had.

If you're wondering what the pale patch is, it's one of those sand traps for golf. I'm told they're called bunkers. We can now all laugh at what I don't know about golf.

England can actually be quite beautiful on the few occasions that the weather behaves!

I found a perfect bonsai, aside from the fact that it was forty feet tall.

Everyone stopped on the bridge to watch the ducks. Except for me, who had no glasses and couldn't see any ducks.

Oh, here's one.

Say chizu sandoichi!

Finally, we made our way back to the starting pub. Sadly, we were all too tired to stay for another drink!

We had a lovely time, and it was a glorious day for it - not too hot, not too cold. I'm so glad as many people made it as did, although I think everyone missed those of you who couldn't make it. With any luck we can meet up again sometime!

Oh, What A Sticky Web We Weave

WARNING: This post contains semi-clothed pictures and references to sexual acts.

No life-changing news or pseudoprofundities for you at the moment, but I don't feel right abandoning the blog entirely, so I shall tell you a story.

So when I bought my iPhone, I lent my old phone to a friend - who shall remain nameless, so as not to incriminate her or land me in shit - because hers was on the blink and she had a couple months left till she was due an upgrade. It didn't occur to me to delete the data on it because - well - privacy is something I'm still learning.

So she's chatting with one of her guy friends (this is a girl who has several dozen male friends who are mostly platonic but not averse to flirting or sending naughty pics sometimes) and the boy asks her for a sexy picture. So she looks through the phone, and accidentally or otherwise sends him this picture of me:

(I should mention for anyone who doesn't know, I was raised in the Mediterranean and spent half my waking hours on topless and nude beaches, and worked as a life model and occasional underwear model in college. Nudity is not taboo in my immediate family. The chemise covers more of me than my bathing suit; the pose itself is a little risqué, but was actually just me experimenting to see if bending over could give me a waist. No biggie.)

Now, this could have been an honest mistake, since we're of a similar body type. I'm an inch or two taller, she's a bit bigger in the bust, a bit smaller in the waist and hip. (She also has a tattoo on her breast, but that could just be hiding, right?) Either way, honest mistake or not, she's expecting nothing more than some appreciative words.

But no. Instead, her guy friend says, "That's not you! I've seen that picture around on the Internet, on Facebook. I've cracked one off to that picture a few times. Why are you sending me photos of some random girl?"

So my friend goes on the offensive, as she often does: "ExCUSE me? That's my friend you're talking about. I'm borrowing her phone and got the photos mixed up. Are you telling me you've been masturbating to pictures of peeps on my friends list? What the hell is up with that?"

He gets embarrassed. Doesn't know what to say, bless him. She comes and shares the story with me a bit later, and although I should probably be annoyed, I find the whole thing totally, brilliantly hilarious. She did something silly, he did something pervy, and it backfired oh-so-sweetly leaving gloriously amusing carnage.

Do I care that some guy I've never met or talked to was wanking over a picture of me in a chemise? Not really. As long as people don't actually approach me - because I DO value my personal space - privacy of photos / blogs / thoughts (basically anything other than contact details) is not a big concern for me. Once photos are put on Facebook or dating sites, I consider them fair game. At least for, uh, personal use.

So that's the story behind the first (mildly) saucy photo I ever blogged or Facebooked. I can't guarantee that it's 100% true, but I've given it to you just as I heard it, and any embellishments were not made by me.

Shopping At Westfield

The day before yesterday was good. Zia's a lot better than she was last time I saw her. Part of that's to do with the fact that the weather's warm, as she always feels a lot better when the cold isn't there to leach into her bones - much like Mom and me, actually - but she seems generally more stable emotionally. Which is good, although I'm not making any assumptions - after all, she was fairly well the whole time she was away at uni, and I thought that she'd got over the suicidal phase from her teen years, and then this winter just gone the whole thing started up again, which freaked the hell out of me. It's not easy to see your life get stuck on replay. And I worry.

But yeah, she seems a lot better. We talked - a lot - about her depression, and Curt - who dated her when we were in college, although she didn't go to the same college as us - and my health and basically everything. It's good that she can be open and candid about things, because she couldn't when she was a teenager - everything was either secret or overt and dramatic. Mind you, I suppose that's something that most teenagers could say about themselves, me included. So many of my friends are surprising me with their new maturity lately. Cam was right, my friends HAVE grown up. I don't know why this is such a surprise to me - perhaps because I haven't. When you stop growing and maturing, you forget that everyone else keeps doing it.

I showed great restraint and did not buy the £160 cream silk jacket from Reiss or the £19 single Shiseido eyeshadows or the beautiful white lace bra from Rigby & Peller with the green and lilac flowers on that cost £90. I didn't even LOOK in Gucci or Prada, although I was very tempted by the Gucci handbags - Zia has one that she had with her yesterday, and I practically had multiple orgasms just from touching the buttery suede interior. Of course, I am a youth worker, and an average Gucci handbag costs about four months' income for me - and THAT'S including the carer's allowance I get for looking after Mom. Shit, I hate being poor. I especially hate being poor with expensive tastes. It's so funny, I laughed so loud for so many years at girls who spend hundreds if not thousands of pounds on one item of clothing, openly mocking the idea that being expensive makes something better - and now I'm one of them. Or I am in my head, anyway. I'm far too practical to ACTUALLY spend money on a thing just because I want it, when I know that having it means that I won't be able to meet my responsibilities...but I do covet. Not everything, and never *just* because something costs a lot of money - but some things, things that are beautifully designed and put together, and made from fabrics that are a delight to the senses...yeah, I do want those things. I love beauty, whether it's flowers or the sky or crystal prisms that make rainbows or a designer bag or a pair of Manolos. And if I can find genuine goods on sale, in TK Maxx or in a seconds sale because they're slightly damaged! Oh hellz yeah. If they're damaged, I can fix 'em. I have a red silk dress from Hobbs that I got for £40 last winter because it was missing two buttons and had a couple of threads that had pulled loose. I have - or had - lilac and silver Louboutin pumps that were 90% off in TK Maxx, that I've had to pass on to Selena because they're too high for me. Somewhere, I don't know where, I have a flowered pink silk Dolce & Gabbana dress - also from TK Maxx - that I got down from £899 to £80. I'll never get my boobs into it now, of course. I wish I'd bought the white strapless CK sundress I found a couple weeks ago; I didn't want to spend the money at the time, but I should have.

What can I say, I like a bargain.

Of course, you'd never see me drooling over something I didn't actually LIKE, just because it was expensive. And there are a whole heck of a lot of expensive things that I don't like at all.

We had a mild scare when Zia left the aforementioned handbag in a shop, and when she realised it wasn't on her shoulder she went back to the corner where she was trying shirts on, and found it wasn't there. Luckily the security guard had turned it in - I was NOT looking forward to consoling her over that one. Silly girl doesn't even have it insured. *sigh* Then she went to thank the security guard - who didn't speak much English - and he thought that she was telling him off for moving it, which made us giggle a bit.

Westfield is pretty big, and I was tired by the time we got there - I always forget how London takes it out of me. Plus, it was one of those really disgusting humid days, and although I was pretty and fresh-looking when I left the house in my white cotton sundress and mint-green cardigan, by the time I even met up with Zia at Oxford Circus I was crazy sweaty. What I should have done is bought a cheap sundress on Oxford Street, backtracked to St Pancras and used the showers there, and changed into fresh clothes. But I didn't want to waste time, so the shopping was a little uncomfortable for me, feeling grimy as I did. (Naturally, TODAY was a gorgeous day with virtually no humidity - go figure.) So the grime and the exhaustion meant that I didn't shop nearly as much as I wanted to, and I need to go back soon, and look in Zara, and some more of the lingerie shops, and a whole bunch of other places. It's a really nice mall, though, and I would like to spend time there on a regular basis, exploring all the different outdoor restaurants, if it weren't so darn expensive to get to London.

We had dinner in Nandos, and Zia ate a chicken wing platter that was meant for 2-3 people.

=))

It shocked me a bit, but I was also thoroughly impressed. She blushed a lot, and said that one of the new meds she's been taking makes her hungry all the time, and that she's put on a lot of weight. It's true, she has, but she looks fabulous now - she was painfully thin as a teenager. And although with anyone else, I'd have teased them mercilessly about eating nine chicken wings and a bowl of mashed potato, I couldn't tease her because it was just so good to see her eating. The kid I knew absolutely loathed food, and had such body issues that she thought she was obese even when she wore a size 6 (US 2), and even getting her to eat enough to prevent her from ending up in hospital from diabetic complications was like pulling teeth, and usually involved a mixture of bribery, threats and soothing words. I like this way a whole lot better.

We had cocktails in a terrace bar - Mango Bellini and Mojito for her, Strawberry Daiquiri and something called an African Dream for me. The African Dream was nice, kind of like a Screaming Orgasm, but with Grand Marnier instead of amaretto. And the daiquiri was wonderful. It's funny that I've never drank or made a daiquiri, since I spent several years as a barmaid, but it's just not a thing that ever really caught on in England. I always imagined them being like a milkshake, but Babs told me that they were more like smoothies, and she was right. I'm never particularly daring when it comes to alcohol (okay, okay, or anything else), although I did drink a lot of cocktails at Hot Coles happy hour on Thursdays when I was in college. But it's like with restaurant food - I don't eat out all that often, so when I do I stick with things that I know and like. If I've mixed it, chances are I've drank it, so I picked a few basic things out of my repertoire and stuck with them. I loved Cosmopolitans a couple years before the rest of the country caught on, and anything with Midori or Blue Curacao has my vote. But the rest...meh. I'm not much for exploring. When I lost my memory, every day was an influx of new things, but the terror of not knowing who you are made that less of an adventure and more of a series of tests that I had no way of studying for and no hope of passing. I started keeping extensive lists about myself, stupid little pieces of information that a person with a healthy brain never bothers to think about, everything from the books I read that first year to the fact that I liked cheese and anything orange-flavored and didn't like brown bread or anything too sweet. I never quite broke myself of the listing habit, although these days at least I throw them away when I'm finished with them.

Getting home was a nightmare. I was stupid enough to ride with Zia to Mile End, thinking that I could take the District to Blackfriars and pick up the overground there - totally forgetting that Blackfriars is closed till the end of this year. I used to always go that way to work, but since it closed ages back, I've been changing to the Hammersmith & City at Farringdon, and then transferring to the District at any station along the way. Somehow the fatigue and the alcohol made me forget that, until I was already on the District Line. So I had to get off at Mansion House, and wait for a Circle train, and take that to Farringdon. But THEN, Farringdon overground lines were closed so they could repaint the lines, so I had to get on another Circle train to King's Cross St. Pancras - which is where I'd have been an hour and a half before if I'd been smart, and got off the Central Line at Oxford Circus and let Zia carry on to Mile End alone.

I feel like I zigzagged across half of London. St Albans to St Pancras, walk through to King's Cross, King's Cross to Oxford Circus, where I met Zia. Oxford Circus to Shepherd's Bush. Then on the way home, Shepherd's Bush to Mile End, to Mansion House, to Farringdon, to King's Cross, walk to St Pancras, and home to St Albans. I've done more than that, back in the days when Sanjeeta and I didn't have anywhere to go and it was raining outside so we bought a cheap travelcard and station-hopped, just exploring the Underground. (Sanjeeta loved the artwork at Tottenham Court Road; I loved the extra-wide marble platforms at Angel; we both loved Stratford's weird architecture and the whole of the DLR. We were such geeks.) But I've never done it at 1am, after a long day.

I ran into an uber-hot guy at St Pancras, who I used to go to school with - he was just getting off the train that I had to get on to get home. And he seemed like he wanted to chat, but I was so exhausted, and if I'd missed that train, after all that trouble, I'd have had to beg him for a place to stay, or find a cheap hotel room. Actually, if I had to have a night crashed out in London, that night wouldn't have been too bad, because I had my medication in my handbag, and purely by chance I'd bought some Ruby & Millie makeup (on 70% off sale, yay) and two pairs of panties, a cheap shortie T-shirt, and a basic cotton sundress. If someone had been able to supply me with a bed, a shower, a towel and some toothpaste and deodorant and shampoo, I'd have had clothes to sleep in and a change for the morning, and been perfectly fine, and that's not something that I can always say when I'm in London. I try to travel light these days - the days of carrying spare shoes and a jacket and an umbrella and all the other things that Mom tried to force onto me are over, thankfully - but the downside of that means that if I am caught out and have to stay somewhere for the night, I don't have a change of clothes. And I absolutely loathe putting dirty, sweaty clothes back on when I'm clean - although not as much as I hate staying in them. I do not have a high tolerance for dirt.

I really miss having PaPa and Stepmama's London house as a base. And Curt, who is one of the few people I know who I'd feel comfortable phoning at 1am and begging a bed from, is still spending his weekdays in Norwich and has a wife occupying his London flat. If I run into old friends, I can usually ask them for a place to stay and they'll give it to me, because people tend to be nice to me, probably because I never ask them for much. But I don't really feel comfortable doing it. Not only the asking, but the sleeping next to someone. I don't sleep well when I share a bed with anyone other than Curt - and not even with him, all the time.

Although I think I'd sleep well next to Kurisu-san. I don't know why, I just have a feeling.

So I had a nice time. I'm still exhausted, and my bank account is glaring at me sullenly. But I did have a lovely day, and now that Zia's seen me once, it'll be easier for her to keep in touch on a more regular basis.

Depression, Abuse, And All Those Miserable Things - And Shopping, Which Is Not

[This post contained personal information about a friend of mine. I need to speak to her before I put it up, and she may say no.]

The Date That Didn't Happen

I promised to tell you what happened, yes?

Well, the short answer is, nothing. We'd arranged for him to come and visit sometime in the late morning, after a music rehearsal and before he had to go to work at 4. He texted me at about 2, saying that his rehearsal ran over and he wouldn't be able to make it, as it took about an hour to get here on the bus (buses in this town are ridiculous; even though he lives at the uni in the next town over, less than 10 miles away, when we were doing the Japanese it took me an hour and a half each way) and as soon as he got here he'd have to turn around and go home.

Fair enough, I said. You're busy, you're working two jobs and going to school full time. I figured he'd text me later, since a couple hours before he'd been saying I should message him anytime and he'd always reply.

And then in the afternoon he either blocked me from his faceplace profile, or he deleted it. Because I can't find it, and he's disappeared from my friends list. And when I texted him asking if he was OK, and mentioning that his profile had disappeared, he didn't reply.

*sigh* People are strange.

My best guess is that he's feeling embarrassed with me, even though he told me emphatically - both the night before last, and several times before - that he doesn't ever get embarrassed about speaking his mind, and that once he comes to trust a person he always says what he feels. I believe him, too - I haven't met many people in my life who can say that they never lie about their thoughts and emotions, but he's one of them. Although he was reserved when I first met him, and had walls that I wondered if I would ever be able to scale, since we became good friends he's never hidden any of his feelings from me that I can tell, even the darkest and most painful ones. And I've never once known him to tell a lie, either. If he doesn't want to talk about something he says he doesn't want to talk about it - he did that a few times, back when I was first getting to know him - but he doesn't lie.

I've kind of taken a vow to treat him the same way, and never lie to him. This won't be easy for me, since I have a habit of - well, not lying exactly, but evading, and occasionally misleading, and not disclosing the whole truth, in order to try and spare a loved one's feelings. But my instincts tell me strongly that he is a rare person, one of the few left with a totally open heart - an innocent, if you like - and that total honesty is the only possible way to make this thing work. Whatever this thing is. I don't yet know what it is - first and foremost he's my dear friend, and I want him to always be my dear friend. Would there ever be anything more? Only time will tell.

And no, I don't feel that he's being dishonest with me by avoiding me, or by telling me he never gets embarrassed. There's a first time for everything, after all.

Chances are we'll talk again soon. I hope. Whatever happens, we'll work it out.

I do miss him, though. Already.

Birthdays, Bitchiness And BBQs (Allowing For Weather)

[Looking at this a year on makes me cry. Gah.]

My other damn blog still hasn't set itself up, and I keep being lured back here.

The Man Who Is Not My Boyfriend (Cameron) and I had a fight the other night, or as much of a fight as we ever have. Our arguments always follow the same pattern: he (the calm, collected, logical, occasionally autocratic party) makes a statement that I (the emotional, instinctive, occasionally-prone-to-overreaction party) take offense to. We talk it out, him in a peaceful way, me with flying hand gestures and just a hint of a Spanish accent, and in the end he willingly apologizes for making a blanket statement and I grudgingly admit that there's more than a grain of truth in it.

So the other night he said to me, You treat your friends like children. And I put my hands on my hips and glared at him and said, I bloody well do not.

Yeah, he continued, you do. And they might have needed it ten years ago, but they don't need it now.

You- you- you CAD! I spluttered. (Note: he gets really annoyed at me when I use this term, because his initials are C.A.D. and he's hated them ever since he was a kid, but sometimes when I get riled up I forget that I'm not supposed to hit below the belt, and use it to try and force him to react with something other than amused detachment. I know I shouldn't, and yet I occasionally do.) That's a horrible thing to say!

Babe, I'm not trying to be horrible, he said. But you need to stop. You spend so much time looking after people who don't need to be looked after, you forget to take care of yourself. You're in your mid-twenties, and you're already going gray because you take everyone's stresses onto you.

(At this point I slapped his hand away from me. He knows how to hit below the belt, too. Mentioning my gray hair...dammit, that's just low.)

I don't have any control over what I feel, I reminded him. You knew that when you met me.

True enough, he told me, but you can control what you do. I'm not telling you that you need to stop giving people your time, but you do need to stop babying them. What were you saying a few months ago, when you were bitching about your family coddling you? Something about wondering why people think that occasional humiliations and hurt feelings are fatal?

(The nerve of him, using my own words against me. Asshole.)

To which I responded peevishly, Why the hell are you bringing this up NOW?

Because you're doing it again, dummy, he said. You're panicking over this whole birthday thing, and have been since you decided to have people over. You think that your groups of friends aren't going to mix well, and people are going to have arguments, and offend each other.

But- but- they WILL! I cried, getting quite emotional at this point. I know my friends! They're nice people, but they don't all know that about each other. They don't know that Christie is passionate and loyal, but has very strong convictions about everything, and will stick to them even when she's wrong. They don't know that B has such an open heart that she trusts too many people, and then when they let her down she sometimes holds it against people who remind her of them. They don't know that Sash has spent the majority of her life having to prove to men that she's just as good as they are, and sometimes assumes that she still has to to every man she meets. They don't know that Ricky says things that he doesn't really mean to get a laugh, because he still feels like the kid who thought his only good quality was the ability to amuse people with mocking. They don't know that Curt is so protective of me that he gets overzealous about defending me from perceived threats, and may go into attack mode when someone teases me.

So, logical as The Man is, he asked me, Well, what's the worst that can happen?

They can offend each other, I said, sticking out my bottom lip in a pout. They can hurt each others feelings. Someone will inadvertently say something racist or homophobic or misandric or otherwise stupid, and someone will be hurt and angry.

And? They're adults, they can handle it. If they hate each other, they don't ever have to see each other again, they're from all different parts of the country. If they offend each other, you just don't invite them all to the same party again. At this point, he sat down on the bed and stroked my hair. What are you really worried about, babe? he asked me.

I don't know...that they'll hold it against me, for putting them in a situation like that, and then they won't like me anymore.

The Man gave me a hug, and laughed a bit, so I socked him in the arm. Not hard though, since I wasn't really mad anymore. This is what I'm talking about, silly, he said. You treat them like they're still angst-ridden teenagers who are going to react like children. You got so excited when you joined that site of yours, and met Bubbles and the Kid, and AirForce, and diablophallus, and all the other people you haven't met in person yet, because they were these incredible people who behaved like mature adults. But you've been so caught up with that, and you've stayed away from friends for so long, only seeing them for an hour here and there, that you haven't realised that your outside friends are now grown-ups too. Remember what you were saying about Becki last time you went skating, how pleased you were at how confident she is now, both professionally and as a person? Remember how surprised you were when you and me and Dom went to that club in Mayfair, and he was talking about taking his counselling diploma, and you said you thought he wanted to be a professional footballer, and he laughed?

I nodded.

So what are you so worried about? You think your friends are going to hold it against you if something happens that they don't like? You need to give them more credit. They're your friends, after all. I doubt that you'd surround yourself with people who are vindictive and hold grudges.

So, well, that was that.

So here I am, throwing all - or most - of the panic aside, and saying, fuck it. I am having a birthday party this year - the first time I've looked forward to a birthday, and the first party of any sort that I've thrown in about eight years - and it's going to be fabulous. This year I'm only expecting eight or ten people; next year I shall open it up to my favorite British bloggers (and non-Brits who can get here). Assuming it goes well and I don't die of embarrassment. Ack.

I have a BBQ planned. Just a small one, here at my house. Hopefully my brother will actually call me back tonight (I left a message a few days ago) to tell me if he and his wife can make it, and whether I can borrow their big BBQ or whether I need to go buy a couple of small ones from Robert Dyas. I shall "volunteer" some nice man, probably my brother or Curt, to cook the meats, and busy myself making tuna pasta salad and potato salad and green salad and a ratatouille pancake bake, and trying my best to make a pavlova and a summer pudding before throwing my hands up in defeat and going to buy a Delia Smith one from Marks & Spencers. And I need to work out some music. Dammit, I don't have a stereo, I always use my iPhone. And I need chairs. And drinks. And...

What the hell have I got myself into? I know NOTHING about entertaining, I'm the kind of person who chucks a bunch of people in a room and tells them to have fun. That, or I can cater a sit-down dinner party, or at least I used to be able to when I was 15. I do NOT know how to have a casual party.

Breathe. It'll be fabulous. This is your first birthday, remember?

Gah.

Breathe.

I'm breathing.

Friends: think you might come next year?

Dessert Or Disaster

- OPEN SCENE -

It is Sati's birthday - which, btw, falls on the 3rd of MAY - and she is celebrating in style. For once in her life she's dressed up, in an ivory-colored version of the red dress that she showed you back in February, with matching heels that make her legs look slender and long, and her makeup is flawless.

She, along with several friends - including but not limited to Ellie, Curt, Christie, Olivia, Kid, Babs, Kel, Bubbles (who came back for the party), LuLu and Mr M, MGC, Annie, Wordy, Templar, InnerPeace, Thom, Arty, Mollipop, Sasha and several more - are gathered at some nightclub somewhere in London that magically pleases everyone, including Sati and Kid, whose tastes for nightlife are at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Sati is dancing, and miraculously staying cool and comfortable while she does so, probably due to the Caribbean breeze that blows through from the open terrace over the ocean - you know, that wonderful Caribbean ocean that London sits on. Curt is plying her with virgin strawberry daiquiris, a drink that Sati has never had (or made, or seen) before but she imagines to be something like a freshly-made strawberry milkshake with real berry pieces in. Everyone is sitting in the VIP section, taking up the majority of the seats in the area, and having a wonderful time talking and laughing and dancing and eating.

Curt taps Sati on the shoulder, and gestures behind her. Sati turns around, and there to serenade her for her birthday are the boys of JLS.

JB gives her a big hug. Marvin kisses her hand. Oritse gives her a naughty wink, and Aston hands her a beautiful red rose. And then they start to sing.

JLS: # You only get one shot, so make it count, you might never get this moment again...#

Sati (interrupting): I'm sorry, I really have to protest. You appear to be basing this statement on the idea that time is entirely linear, which to my mind is at least semi-fallacious.

The room disappears. Sati wakes up.

- CLOSE SCENE -

Damn, I can't even get good romance in my dreams at the moment.

A Torrential Downpour

Oh...hell.

I saw Chrissie today. We'd made vague plans to meet up this morning, then I didn't get to sleep until after nine (am) and decided to make it 2 or 3 this afternoon instead.

Of course, neither of our buses made it on time, and we didn't get into town until fourish. Couple that with Chrissie needing to open a bank account (she had to get an appointment for tomorrow) and apply for a bus pass (they gave her a form and sent her away) and spending way too long looking at things in New Look that she had no intention of buying, I didn't get to either of the places that I needed to go (Accessorize to look for a handbag for my mom's birthday, and Jane Norman to look for handbags and a dress to wear out with Curt when he takes me to dinner this weekend). I am somewhat irritated that after paying off my overdraft after Christmas, and being extremely proud of myself for doing so, I'm already back in the red again. Damn bills / shopping trips / dinners out. I have GOT to learn to budget better. Maybe take a class on economics in the spring.

Anyway, that wasn't the cause for the oh hell. That was due to Christie deciding to matchmake. Last week she texted me (in the middle of the night, natch) to say she'd thought of the perfect guy for me. Today she talked to the guy online, and gave him my FB details, and asked him what he thought of me.

Turns out, he thought I was pretty OK.

Now, I'm not bothered that she'd give out my FB details. I keep the whole profile public, and anyone from this site who I communicate with or who reads my blog is welcome to add me on there. The same goes for people who know my friends. We may get on, we may not, but even if we don't it doesn't bother me if you check me out - I live a public life and I'm happy that way. To me, being on FB is much like walking down the street in a low-cut dress - I know people are going to look, and whether those people are ones that I'm interested in or not, they're perfectly welcome to look to their hearts content, as long as they respect my personal space. I would never feel offended or put-upon by someone gazing at my breasts, and the same goes for anything I choose to put up on my profile.

I am slightly bothered by the fact that she told him I thought he was hot, when I hadn't even checked him out yet, but as lies go it's not a whopper. If I'd checked him out, I probably would have thought that. I did look at him this evening, and he's pretty good-looking. I'm told he's a nice guy, and that he's really great in bed, and has a high sex drive. He's not intellectual, but I know better than to expect that from one of Christie's guy friends.

I don't have any right to be bothered by the matchmaking, either, since a couple weeks ago I asked her if she knew anyone who might be right for me. I was half joking, and didn't think she'd know anyone - while we're both versatile enough that I enjoy the odd evening with her friends, and she with mine, our tastes in people are vastly different - but I'm the one who brought it up.

So why do I feel so...blah?

A couple weeks ago I would have been happy to find a guy who was safe, handsome and good in bed. This week I have zero interest. And it's not personal, either. I'm not uninterested in him - by which I mean, my lack of interest isn't anything to do with his looks or his personality, or really with him at all. It's just...well, it's that old cliche, I guess. It's not him, it's me.
Lulu sometimes writes about how sex seems to come in droughts and torrents for her; she'll have a dry spell where she's either not interested or dates get cancelled for a number of reasons, and then she has spells where it seems like every man she knows wants to hook up. I am much the same, except that unlike my dear friend, I am not built to cope with the torrents of potentials, at least not in the form that they come in. I become preoccupied with one - one person, one situation, one crisis, one anything that acts as an emotional trigger - and I lose interest in the others that come after it. And they always come, because that's the way my life seems to work. Periods where I'm footloose and fancy free, and can't get a date to save my life, and then periods where I have floods of people wanting equal time and attention, and I'm incapable of giving it to them - or at least of WANTING to give it to them, although sometimes I can drag myself away from my preoccupation long enough to give them what they deserve - because all my interest is used up on that one thing, or occasionally two or three things.

To put it bluntly, there is a very small handful of people I would welcome in my bed right now, and a stranger - even a hot, talented stranger - is not one of them.

Damn timing.

Part of me wants to force it, because I hate letting a chance go by. I know in a couple of weeks I'll be back to normal, and will wonder why I ignored such a tempting proposition. Yet I don't think it's fair to either of us to attempt to make a connection when my mind and spirit are quite simply not available.

Do you think if I wrote him a short note saying that I think he's interesting, and that I'm going through some personal things right now but would like to get in touch with him in a month or two, that that would be rude? Would you be insulted by that? Or would you think it was practical?

*sigh*

Poor timing is my worst enemy so often. Timing makes the difference between catching the wave and getting sucked under.