A tiny little self indulgent post

For the longest time, I felt lost. I had forgotten who I was, neglected to do the things that made me feel alive. I’d given so much of myself to those that demanded it that I was just a shadow of who I used to be. Even after I had let go of most of what weighed me down, I still didn’t know how to get back to being me. I couldn’t remember what it felt like and I had no idea where to look. Then one night, in a rare moment of freedome I drifted into a semi crowded room with a friend and there, while waiting for the band to set up, we heard the starting strains of a familiar Puddle of Mudd song. Sitting there on what was probably a packing case of some sort, we belted it out and as we got to the first chorus of she fucking hates me; I remembered what it felt like to be me. That was the small turning point i had needed. To feel alive again, to feel like yes, i can have theses small moments all to myself separate from the responsibility and mundanity i was drowning in. And now, hell, I’m just grateful to be back.

A guys’ girl

Another resurrected blog post. Why? Because I've lost my muse and (momentarily) the will to write, dammit.

Back when I was sixteen I was crazy in love with a guy in my computer class. He was kinda cute, intelligent and had the bestest smile in the world. We spent a lot of time together, hanging out. So much so that everyone else thought there was something there. I was starting to hope too, but that all came to a crashing halt the day he thumped me on the back and said, “you’re just one of the guys aren’t you?”

I’ve never been a girly girl. When I was small I had my mum cut my hair real short and pretended to be a boy. My father in his infinite wisdom never had our ears pierced so that really helped. Needless to say that at the age of six, George from the Famous Five was my hero. My best friend was my same-age-cousin Chamara and we spent every school holiday either playing Journey to the Centre of the Earth or Star Trek (his slightly overweight elder sister unknowingly filled in as the random alien of the day).

One school holiday I begged my father to make me a sword and a cricket bat; which he did, carved with his own hands out of random pieces of wood. He made me a set of bow and arrows and taught me to play darts and box (the latter consisted mostly of punching walls for the lack of anything else to punch).

I don’t think I ever entirely outgrew my boy gene. And I’m glad. It’s nice to be on the inside.

Flutter Flutter, Blink

Flirting. I have never been and ever will be any good at it. It’s supposed to come naturally to every female but me? I wouldn’t even know where to start.

My earliest attempt as I recall would have been when I was around 4 years old. I was in nursery, and I really wanted to make friends with the boy sitting next to me. So to get his attention I stuck a pencil in his ear. He didn’t appreciate the gesture and complained to the teacher. Then again, nursery wasn’t the best time of my life. One time, I decapitated a doll and there was such a fuss made by all the twittering girls in the playhouse that I went home feeling like a murderer. For days I was shunned by everyone. No, nursery wasn’t a good time.

Anyway, where was I? oh yes, the flirting. So, yeah, how exactly is one supposed to go at it? From what I’ve seen girls do, there are varied approaches to the art of flirting.

1. The dumb blonde routine – act like you can’t tie your shoelaces or do simple math and the boys come a-flocking. It’s like they have an idiot radar.
2. The damsel in distress routine – pretend you need help with everything. Give out the “help help I’m too dainty and fragile” signal and there they’ll be pouring your drink and opening doors and driving you around while you go shopping for shoes.

Okay so I can only think of only two, but still, those two kind of cover the bases of all things that attract the guys. They like being needed. They love to complain about being needed yet they thrive on it. Take the neediness away and they will go in search of an even more helpless girl.

Well, I just can’t do it. I mean, yes, having a knight in shining denim* around would be nice. But I’ll be damned if I’m going flutter my ill-proportioned eyelashes and ask for help. Ask me to go talk to a boy and I’ll probably start making self deprecating jokes, discuss what movies we’ve each seen, join him in admiring Anne Hathaways boobs and end up being his best friend. And one day he will come running up to me and say “I met this awesome chick today.” And wham! I’m officially one of the guys.

So there we are. Right about now, the pencil stabbing thing is beginning to sound like a good idea…

(* can't take credit for "the knight in shining denim". stole it from a book.)

Conversations with myself - part 1

“What’s wrong”, I ask myself.

“I’m not quite sure” I answer. “There’s this pent up raw mass of emotional impedimenta just waiting to get out”.

“Oh, is that it?” I say, “why didn’t you say so? And why couldn’t you use simpler words? Seriously, raw mass of emotional impedimenta? Why couldn’t you just say I feel kinda fucked up? That explains the situation just as well”.

“Well,” I reply, having thought about it for while, “it just sounds more potent, put like that y’know? It makes me sound deep”.

“Makes you sound like a proper twat it does” I say, sneeringly.

“Fine fine, I admit it. I do tent to overuse the language a bit. But sometimes when what I need to say has to be veiled so that the people they’re intended for don’t get it, it has to be done”.

“Hmmm. I get what you mean. But when you talk to me, I would appreciate you ditching the flowery language – just say it like it is, no need to gift wrap it”.

I smile.

I Return the smile.

“Anyway, so that’s how it is. Do you think it’ll get better anytime soon?”

“I dunno”, I reply. “But here’s the thing, as long as you continue to be this self absorbed you wont be doing anyone any good”.

“I know. And I’m going to drag myself out of this. Soon. I have to.”

“You will.” I say, understanding full well what I’m talking about. “Sometimes you need to be a little self indulgent and wallow. It’s all part of the process.”

“It just sucks, y’know.”

“I know.”

I sit back, feeling slightly better for the conversation, the company and the realization that no matter what, I can always count on myself to dig me out of whatever hole I’m in.