But this year I really mean it. And I believe I mean it too. This year, things will change. It’s time for me to change I think. Not to dwell or linger on anything for too long but I’ve gone on a little bit too melancholy for a little too long now, got into some bad habits. It’s time to re-address some issues, take stock and move forwards. Onwards and upwards, leaving behind some baggage that was weighing me down. I think the problem is half the time that you carry a heavy bag for long enough and then you don’t quite now how to walk alone without it.
Maybe I’ll dye my hair. Yeah.
A change, my dear. And it seems not a moment too soon.
Right. That last post got me thinking, and now I’m on a self-pitying warpath so bear with me.
University is cruel. It is. Best three years of your life, oh yes. But after? After is horrid. After is the most awful emotional process I’ve ever had to go through. I know I’m not alone, at least two people I’ve actually opened up to about this have said the same. I mean you go from being a more of less socially introverted wallflower to having these brilliant friends that become a very real family. You live with them, eat with them, cry, laugh, urinate (when drunk) together – you feel like you know yourself, like you are the person you’re meant to be.
Then it ends and everyone’s scattered. Worse, people change. People don’t seem as fussed as you are, they seem to be getting on fine whilst you have to hide the photos of all of you as it makes you feel sick to look at them.
Then you become hardened by it I think. You become cynical, a bit darker than you were. The Freudian id comes out to play. The frustration of life not being as good makes you angry, you get that fire in your belly and you become a bitch. I am SO cynical now. All that soppy cancer/war hero/animal rescue shit on Facebook makes me feel ill quite frankly. I know that’s different to how I was before, I have changed, I know I have.
Three things hold me together:
1) Andrew. He stops me from being too crazy, makes me laugh even when I’m trying to be miserable.
2) My writing. The one place I’m never cynical. My books are set at a university, I think I escape through them to that time again.
3) Steph. Because she’s the best, because she gets me and I get her.
People live too far away.
It seems to me (you lived your life, like a candle….no, sorry – won’t go there,) that I haven’t blogged in a while, so I thought I would. What’s going on in my life?
Procrastination. Frustration. Christmas excitement. That about sums it up.
Steph came to see me for our fake Christmas which was lovely, we get each other exactly so it’s always so amazing to be together. Now she’s gone again so I have that slight empty sick feeling in my brain – university turned me into a gregarious creature, it does cruel things like that. Loneliness doesn’t work very well with me. I end up washing down the countertops three times a day, obsessively arranging the soap in the bathroom and talking to a pretend friend on the sofa.
I escape into my writing when I’m not exhausted from a hard day of being unfulfilled at work, and my darling Andrew is of course a constant comfort and source of enormous happiness. But partners aren’t everything are they? You need people. Chums. Pals. Mates.
Hmmm, lost the thread here. Going to start another post.
Had a lovely chat with my bestie Steph last night. It reminded me of just how lucky I am to have her and his fantastic it is that I have someone who I can say is 100% on my same wavelength about pretty much anything and everything. To have someone who is just as unhinged as me, just as mad, bitter, crazy and sometimes psychotic. I spend a lot of time feeling lonely, but I guess when you’re that mentally close to someone it really doesn’t matter how physically close you are.
I know she doesn’t care for self indulgent blogging, but I hope with this blog post she’ll make an exception. Long may you be my characterisation and continuity consultant/advisor in a smock/ heavy/right hand man. Long may we moan, laugh and be bitter together. Long may two psychopaths live in this TARDIS.
Well I must say I was surprised to tune in to channel 4 last week and see a younger, fresher faced, slightly more well spoken, slightly more effortlessly stylish version of myself doing a documentary about not being able to forget!
I jest of course, but the subject matter of the programme did ring several bells with me. Andrew recommended it for viewing as he said it reminded him of me and when my friend Kirsty came to visit she said that when she watched it she had thought the same thing. Of course, the people in the show could “not forget” a lot more than me – and it was slightly creepy to watch Orellian (?) and that American woman recall days from years and years ago with deadly accuracy.
I do think there’s something in it. The narrator of the show seemed quite suspicious of it all, but then I suppose that was his job. I was fascinated to hear the brain doctor guy talk about how they don’t really know how or why we forget. Obviously there are things like Dementia and genertal old age/break down of cells – but what makes us just forget things. Who do we forget what happened on June 16th three years ago? Why don’t we remember that? Do we just not have enough gigabytes in our brains? Are most people the 16 gig iphones and these special people the 32 gig iphones? I’m probably somewhere in between, 24 I bet.
Let me test myself then. June 16th I said – three years ago. I promise to you I just picked that date at random. So that’s June 16th 2009 – right around the time I left uni. The question is when exactly did I leave? Oooh, oooh wait – my Topman interview was in June, and I’d swear it was something like June 10th. I was still in Canterbury for a while after that because I specifically remember telling everyone in the kitchen there that I’d got the job – I said I had a big announcement and Jason asked if I was getting married, then everyone laughed because I’d been engaged for 6 months at that point. Hmmm but June 16th. Let me just check what day it was – cheating a bit I know but evidently I’m not as good as Orellian. Okay, just checked and it was a Tuesday. No that doesn’t help.
Right, I admit defeat. I can’t remember like that. But I can remember stuff that happened around that time. Give me a month and a year (within the last five years for accuracy) and I can probably tell you something that happened, probably several things. I do believe I have some mild strain of this not being able to forget “disease” if that’s what it is. It’s more than just a good memory, I’ve always said that. A good memory would mean you’d remember important stuff. I’m always forgetting important stuff like how to do my job and when certain birthdays are. It’s not forgetting, that’s definately what it is. I don’t need or necessarily want to remember a lot of the things I do. There’s one day in particular I would quite happily wipe from my brain if it was possible but it’s sealed on there in vivid detail, every second of it.
I suppose I quite like it in a way, it makes me interesting. Makes people interested in me. Without it I wouldn’t be writing this blog, that’s for sure. So, a 24 gigabyte memory then, to go with my 24 years of age. Not a 32 gig like Orellian, but I don’t think I’d want it. I’d only fill it up with useless clutter and believe me when I say, there’s more than enough useless and even harmful clutter in my brain as it is.
It never really lived up to it’s name – at least it didn’t for me. I mean I can honestly say I never felt like I was being educated throughout my many years of PE and its nasty twin – “outdoor games.” That’s another lie right there. Outdoor Games? We weren’t playing monopoly on the grass! Outdoor torture would have been a better description.
Since leaving school, I’ve only looked back on those subjects with pure hatred and glee that it’s all over. But now, whilst I still hate the memory of it, I do have a certain remorse about it. Not that I think I could have done better, but that I think the subject could have been done better for me. Now, at 23 years of age, I am the most unfit, weedy person you are likely to meet. Guns? I’ve barely got water pistols. And my belly doesn’t resemble a 6 pack so much as a Capri-sun. I can’t help but feel that if PE had been just a little better organised that maybe some of this could have been avoided. It was generally one rule for all – everyone did the same thing (except for the odd occasion when we had the “B” team in football – i.e. the rubbish team – and then we just got left to our own devices.) But if maybe right at the beginning our levels could have been assessed then maybe each class could have different levels of activity sessions – so your PE teacher (Mr Parks *wolf whistles*) was more of a fitness instructor you’d pay to hire at a gym than a Nazi stormtrooper. I mean looking back on it he wasn’t awful really, he was probably only the age I am now I expect – and it did seem a lot of the time that he had the compassion to help us weaklings but was bound by the enforced curriculum.
I don’t know, I guess I just feel that PE could have been a good opportunity to achieve something and get healthy, rather than just an enforced hour of activity that I didn’t really enjoy and didn’t really understand. I mean hear I am what, 8 years later? Running five minutes into work absolutely kills me, and after just 15 minutes of Natalie Cassidy’s workout dvd I’m sweating and groaning like a stuck pig. It’s not good really. I feel like I definitely need to improve, and I want to improve now so that I glide into old age with a nice figure. Also, my twenties is probably the hottest I’m going to ever look – I want to make the most of that and not end up with a bulging pot belly and slowly sagging boobs by the time I’m 29.
So, since state education failed me, I shall have to turn my hand to it myself. Will I succeed? Will my interest last more than a week? Will I ever survive one of Natalie’s squat thrusts? Only time will tell!
Been getting quite excited today about mine and Andrews June holiday to Barcelona. Not one of my “places I have to visit before I die,” places, but after seeing pictures of the Sagrada Familia (type it into google image search!) I was sold. It looks fascinating, full of the interesting little historical and religious tidbits I love I’m sure. Also Barcelona has the honour of being oddly linked to Doctor Who, with the tenth Doctors opening lines actually being “Hello, I…..ooh, new teeth, that’s weird…..so where was I? Oh that’s right! Barcelona!”
Anyway, that in turn got me thinking about holidays in general. I love ’em. Holidays for me were never excuses to lay out in the sun with your earphones in 24/7 – they were little adventures. Whenever I went anywhere with my parents we were off looking for places of interest – trying to see as much as we could in the time we had. And in an odd way that was relaxing, and I still find doing that relaxing. We had a few huge holidays – new zealand, canada – but mostly we went to France or Austria, or round England. There was always that holiday feeling, the morning that you set off. Did anyone else have that? Mum would always have a big plastic box of holiday bits and bobs sitting at the bottom of the stairs, things like coffee and kitchen towels and a cheese grater for some odd reason. And there would be the holiday thermos, and the holiday travel mugs – retro plastic things in mustard yellow and terracotta orange. You could tell it was a holiday when they were out. And we would always set off ridiculously early, the boot piled high with cool boxes and coats and suitcases, me and my sister in the back seat. The back was always so organised when we set off. I remember she’d have all her little bits organised her side, and I’d have my teddy by my side and my bag of magazines and doodling books by my feet, my walkman tucked in the pocket on the back of the seat in front and my little pillow with the dinosaur pattern on it to rest my head on. And a sports bottle full of squash! Always that. Yet I always remember despite all of that organisation in the back seat, by the time we reached our destination 8 hours later, there were sweet wrappers all over the shop, empty bottles, the bags had been emptied everywhere – it was a mess! And the smell. Eugh. That car smell, after being in it 8 hours it was enough to make you vomit. It didn’t even smell of anything bad, just car smell. But it got into your lungs througout the day and was unbearable by the end.
Yet I still have very find memoies of it all. Yeah I love holidays. I suppose I love them because they give me an excuse to do what I love all the time. Just going about visiting places of interest and learning new things and experiencing new things. That’s what I’d love to do for a job I suppose, but alas I don’t think such a job exists. Travel writing I suppose. Maybe I should do what Jack Black did in Gullivers Travels (for pitys sake don’t go and see that film!) and just lie my way into a travel writing job – yeah that could work!
Or maybe not.