I sit outside a little cafe in glebe, smoking, drinking my soy cappuccino, listening to the sex pistols, and writing. Ugh, how utterly pretentious I sound. Throw in a little musing about the current state of the Labour Party fiscal policy and exchange some witty and ironic banter with the cute barista and I’m a total inner city wanker.
So far my manic goal of starting a blog is coming up gang busters. I awoke like a small child on Christmas Day, excited at the prospect of sunshine on my day off and the writing that I would do. After the obligatory time spent lounging in bed and dicking around on Facebook, I finally drag my carcass up, stroll down to a cafe, and sit, albatross like, and begin.
I need to find a tattoo removal place. The weirdest thing happened last weekend. I awoke with a sore bum in a strange bed. Upon inspection I discover that I have the name “Ricky” tattooed on my derrière. I hope that it was Ricky’s bed I awoke in.
Actually, that’s not true.
It is “Duane” that marks my pale backside.
Not true again.
I actually want to get a tattoo that I got on my honeymoon removed. My ex husband has the same one on his arm. I know, matching tattoos. How classy in a trailer park, Pam and Tommy sort of way.
It’s a small yin and yang symbol on the back of my neck. I initially wasn’t going to get it removed. I told myself that ‘its a part of who I am’, ‘just because the marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean a simple little tattoo has to go’, and ‘erasing a tattoo will not change the past’. However, the recent
dickheadedness troublesome behaviour of my ex husband has spurred me into a new place, where I just want to fucking move past all of his immature shit and get on with my fucking life already. I know that removing a tattoo will not make life any easier, much that I know I can only ignore the incessant text messages from him for so long, but there is something cathartic about moving forward. It’s like the new landscape after a burning brushfire has swept through. It s all green and there are some lovely analogies about new growth that I probably should make but can’t really bring myself to.
A few days ago I threw out my wedding dress. After we got married it was put in a box and forgotten about- perhaps a fitting metaphor. I then threw out all of the little momentos that you keep to remind yourself of the silly and fun times of your relationship. Well, you do if you’re me. Anyway, all of this is now sitting in the bottom of a bin in Glebe. All of the coupley photos and the wedding photos are now taken down from my Facebook page. I have ignored two pleading text messages from him so far this morning, choosing to sit, inner-city-wanker like, at my iPad and muse about the nature of love on a badly written blog. Back in Marayong, my ex husband bitches about me, blames me for the marriage breakdown, stubbornly refuses to get help for his problems, and generally drives the people in his life nuts by talking about me. Apparently I’m not that interesting. I think, in comparison, wanting a tattoo removed is not so bad after all. I just need to decide on the cheesy post divorce tattoo. I’m thinking a cherry blossom, something that symbolises the transitional nature of life. Retch. Wanker.