Tag Archives: fucking

Trawling Tinder

8 Aug


I’ve never had a good experience on Tinder. And yet, like a woman trapped in a co-dependant union, I keep going back.

Because Tinder is fucking hilarious.

Pockets of humanity lurk on there and trawling Tinder freaks has become a perfectly acceptable way to spend my weekend.

He Gives Good Head

Take this guy:

img_0352

Check out what he’s holding. Doesn’t the image of a man with a decapitated goats head scream, “IT PUTS THE FUCKING LOTION IN THE BASKET!”?

Who’d make that their Tinder profile pic anyway? I mean, doesn’t that just get your goat?

I’m ‘kid’ding.

Can you see where this is ‘head’ing?

Ooh- maybe he’s trying to allude to giving good head?

This joke is old now. It’s time to put it out to pasture.

Pre-Battle Banter

Some men on Tinder are only after one thing.

TinderMan1: “So are we going to meet? What’s your address?”

CC: “We can meet, but I’m not giving you my address. How about a coffee?”

TinderMan1: “We know where coffee is going to end up, so just give me your address.”

This vexed me: Where, exactly, did this audacious prick believe that coffee was going to end up? Does coffee herald coitus? Not necessarily. Coffee can wind up in lots of places: a manic discussion on Jack Kerouac. A hilarious foam-on-the-upper-lip moment. Hell, I could be a stage five clinger that thinks espressos will mean babycinos.

CC: “You see, coffee is my he’s-not-an-axe-murderer-and-I-can-invite-him-into-my-house insurance policy :)”

TinderMan1: “Yeah. See, I work in the music industry and I can’t afford to buy every girl coffee.”

As this message was read, a thwack echoed across the city as the drawbridge to my lady-parts slammed shut.

CC: “What a shame: I’m a gold-digger and I’m not interested in poor men. Better luck next time.”

Luckily, the men on Tinder are a production line and Tinderman1 segued seamlessly into Tinderman2.

TinderMan2: “Where do I work? I work in banking and investments. So how about a vino sometime?”

When I didn’t expeditiously respond, he messaged again.

Tinderman2: “What, is working in finance a deal breaker? :P”

CC: “No. It’s not a deal breaker at all. In fact, it might even be fun to have a drink with someone devoid of a soul :D”

He blocked me after that. He wasn’t devoid of a soul, but apparently devoid of a sense of humor. My sardonic wit often combusts in the tinderbox. I was blocked by another fellow after I playfully said, “Don’t get too excited to meet me- I might yet be a convincing pre-op transsexual ;)”

Testing my Patients

I recently matched with a bearded bloke from Enmore whose profile spoke of ‘sustainability’, ‘craft beer’ and ‘meat trays’.

My, how I do love a hipster.

On our first interaction, The Beard gave me his Instagram handle and invited me to stalk him. I did. There was- amid jumpy iPhone footage of a plethora of live bands- a surprising number of posts dedicated to Shiner Bock beer. These were photographed in glistening, moist, pornographic glory. I counted eleven pictures of beer, but hardly any of him. There was more beer than beard on there.

I pulled out my phone and typed, “Saw your Instagram. Nice. I think my first question is: are you still sponsored by Shiner Bock?”

It was a whimsical bon mot that deserved, at the very least, an emoticon smiley. Instead I got a long, not really coherent explanation that was so convoluted, I wondered why he didn’t just type the word ‘no’ and save us both a lot of time.

We decided to meet for a drink at Newtown. I caught public transport in. Trains weren’t running due to trackwork, so I arrived ten minutes late, breathless and nervous. I scanned the crowd, my gaze finally settling on what I can only describe as a ‘demented lumberjack’. And he wasn’t okay.

Neither was I, actually.

Because who this bloke was in the Tinderverse and who he was in reality was somewhat incongruent.

The man from Tinder was bearded, smiling, slender. He wore Wayfarer sunglasses in one shot, clutched a bass guitar in another. He drank from a stein. He posed with a mischievous pug.

And the man trudging towards me? Well, he was the kind of overweight that usually has the adverb ‘morbidly’ attached to it. His soft, round midsection poked through a threadbare, black sloppy joe that was long ago washed to grey. It was, at least, clean. There were no obvious cum-stains or spag-bol remnants on it. His beanie, on the other hand, was coated in a powdery white substance that was, at best, cocaine and, at worst, dandruff. His face and eyes were completely flat- nary a flicker of emotion was spared for the jittery brunette before him.

And really, an expression would have been nice.

Because I’d only made a tiny bit of fucking effort in getting there.

I’d only spent an hour or so trying on outfits in my bedroom in a Tassie-Devil whirlwind of cotton. I’d only spent ninety fucking minutes battling rail buses, half of which was time spent in close proximity to a man with a facial tattoo who overused the word ‘cunt’. And then, when I changed buses at Strathfield station, there was only that tiny, little argument that I got into with the douche-bag in the hatchback; the guy who, after clocking my vintage army jacket and Doc Marten boots, decided that I was a Neo-Nazi. The dude that then began to trawl me in his car, chanting things like: “Where’s your Swastika, love? Adolf, hey? Seig Heils! Yeah! Nice boots Adolf!” through the open passenger window as I willfully ignored him for as long as I could.

‘As long as I could’ turned out to be ‘half a block’. I snapped after that and shouted- yes, shouted– “Go fuck yourself, you Peugeot-driving wanker!”

Not my finest moment. If I didn’t look like a scary skinhead before I started shouting at passing motorists with wild-eyed zeal, I certainly did after. Something clever and punchy like: “How dare you call me Adolf! Call me Eva. Or Miss Braun, you socialist swine,” would have been better.

Fucking l’esprit d’escalier.

Anyway, this bummed me out, because I thought that my carefully-chosen outfit said, ‘I’m stylish without trying too hard and my Heathers t-shirt says that I understand and embrace cult pop-culture references.’

But it didn’t. Apparently it just said two words: Master Race.

But, back to The Beard: when he greeted me, it was in a monotone, and he slurred his words.

Oh fuck, I thought. Is he drunk?

He leaned in for a kiss. I offered a cheek. He rested a paw uncomfortably close to another cheek. I pulled away. His hand lingered on my jeans like Velcro. He told me about his Sunday: a long walk with a friend that was hard because he got “munted” Saturday night, but a walk that he persevered with nonetheless because he’s “a fat bastard now”.

Then he asked where I wanted to go. We could go anywhere except The Townie. He’d been kicked out of The Townie last month- a feat that I, nor anyone who has ever set foot in The Townie, would think possible. But it was. The Beard’s version of events was: ‘I slur even when I’m not drunk.’ The bouncers was: ‘Even so, ten beers and a broken chair is inappropriate, and you have to leave.’

He asked if I’d eaten, the memory of his fat arse breaking a chair seemingly jogging him back to food. “Let’s go to Mary’s. You ever been there?”

I hadn’t.

He wiped his mouth. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to Mary’s,” he exclaimed in a flat voice.

We began walking up King street, taking a left turn down an alleyway. He led me through the darkness, deep into sex-crime central, before stopping at a place that had no signage, just a bare red bulb glowing above the door.

Oh Christ, I thought. He’s taking me to a brothel. Or a rape dungeon.

It wasn’t. In fact, Mary’s may be the only good thing to come out of that night. Mary’s is a dingy, heavy metal pub that serves fried chicken so consumable, I’m fairly certain it was a Breaking Bad, crystal-meth laced, Los Pollos Hermanos bird. They also serve a fried chicken dish named ‘Larry Bird’, which tickled me. Immensely.

He sat opposite me, studying me with open curiosity. “So how’m ah’doin?”

I put down my piece of chicken. “What?”

He wiped his mouth. “How am I doin’ on the date?”

I was taken aback and laughed. Loudly. “HAHAHAHAHA! That’s a…question. Isn’t it? Look at you asking…questions.”

“Is there like, any chance of,” he paused. “You know…”

Oh please God, don’t say it.

“Because I don’t go for casual stuff,” he continued. “Mostly. Like, I had a friend with benefits once, but that ended. It’s not me. There was one Tinder girl who took me home. That was weird because, like, she was tall and our feet touched during it. She left straight after it.”

I’d like to pause the story and assure you that I am absolutely not making this up. He absolutely said this to me, and as he spoke, I was absolutely conducting a mini-mental examination on the poor bastard: What the fuck is he talking about? That didn’t make sense. That was thought disordered as fuck. And I think he’s derailing. Is he derailing? No, he’s totally derailing. Is he a patient somewhere? I bet he’s a schizophrenic.

He wiped his mouth again. “You’re, like, big- for a chick, I mean- aren’t ya? You’ve gotta be five eight or…?”

Maybe I should ask if he takes Clozapine. The belly. The drool. Fuck! Okay, this is weird. I think I’m accidentally on a date with a fucking-

He considered me. “How do you usually go on Tinder dates? Like how do you do this?”

What the shit…? Oh no, he’s staring at you! Quick, say something now! Change the subject! Talk about  the chicken! Larry Bird! LARRY BIRD!

He left to use the bathroom. I took the opportunity to broadcast my woe on Facebook. When he returned, I casually brought up the uni assignment due that evening. I’d already done it- it was submitted earlier that afternoon, in between leg-day at the gym and my ‘yuck, I now smell like a diseased yak’ pre-date shower. I didn’t know that The Beard was going to be a living nightmare and I wanted to be free from responsibility if he wasn’t.

“So I have to leave. Right now.” Which is a shame, I tried to say with my eyes. But, you know, responsibility. Stuff.

“Have another beer.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that! To Hornsby!”

“It’s an easy drive.”

“No, it’s fine. Besides, you’ve been drinking.”

“Only four pints.”

In two hours. And I don’t want to die in a fiery car wreck. At least not before I erase my Google Chrome history. “Really, I’ll get the train.”

He walked me to the station, I glanced at the board and saw that a train- although not my train- was leaving in two minutes. “Two minutes! Nick of time. I’ve really got to run.”

He responded by grabbing me around the waist and grinding his crotch into my hip like a horny Doberman. He went in for the kiss and, again, I offered a cheek. He smelt like chicken. Craft beer. Plague. Peristalsis. Hormones. And desperation.

I boarded my train feeling fed-up. You can’t go on a bad date without it draining you of something. Even if you enter the evening with no expectations, you leave robbed of a little effervescence. I can usually see the funny side, and writing about it fortifies me, but there are times when I can’t help but wish I could go back to that heady period in my early-twenties when the world didn’t seem to be full of weirdos.

Wanting a little pick me up, I opened Tinder.

And found this guy.
img_0023His profile states- with a two-finger salute to the rules of grammar- that he is “the badboy you’re mothers warned you about”, he’s “the real 50 shades baby.”

He’s also a poet, because he goes on to claim that he’s “hung like an ox”,

“enjoys nibbling at your…”

“and making you scream with his…”

But only blows his load into socks.

Okay, so I made that last one up.

Tinder, hey?

Shit.

A Post About a Threesome…

13 Jul

Ha! I’ve busted you, you perverted little sausage. This isn’t a story about a threesome at all. I’ve told a lie in a blatant ploy for attention that stops just shy of ‘tawdry’ by my omission of the word “lesbian”. My salacious title is just pandering to the voyeur in all of us. It’s my ‘now that I have your attention’ moment. There is no fornicating to speak of in this post. Just pornographic self-publication.

I am endeavoring, like The Little CC That Could, to get my book published via Kindle Scout. It’s called Funereal. It’s a black comedy. About a fucked up family squabbling over a will. There’s a twist at the end. And the heroine gets committed to a loony bin. That’s not the twist, though. That’s like, a plot point right near the beginning. It’s dark in places. I tried to write a sex scene. And failed. A monkey smokes a Parliament. And the word “fuck” appears 221 times, making the book 0.39% ‘fuck’.

The tagline is: And you thought your family was bad.

And it’s good. I promise you. Don’t believe me? Here are some recent reviews that I’ve gotten:

“I’m so proud of you honey. No, I didn’t read it, but you wrote a novel! Look at you! You came out of my vagina and thirty years later you wrote a whole book! Kiss, kiss. Dinner is at 6pm Tuesday.”

-Mum

“It’s not bad. That doesn’t mean that it’s good but…well…it’s done now. That’s something, right?”

-Uncle Theodore

“CC, I paid you to edit my sociology essay, and you send me this? Where is my essay? If you don’t replace this nonsense with ‘Merits and Demerits of Media for a Society’, I’m taking it further. You can’t hold my essay ransom until I write your book a good review. It’s unethical. And answer your goddamn phone. Return my damn calls. Goodbye.”

-Girl I met in the Manning Bar at Sydney Uni

“One of the greatest, most provocative and enlightening books of our generation. ‘Fight Club’ is an absolute must read.”

–A positive review for a totally different book.

“It’s hilarious. Well written. Compelling. Full of well drawn characters that seem to jump off the page. The next time you hear the name ‘Casey Millikin’, it will be alongside names like Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare.”

-Homeless man at Central Station who is, on a completely unrelated note, now $50 richer.

“You surprised me, its actually not that bad. The bisexual musician character, that’s based on me, isn’t it? Your saying you want to get back together, aren’t you? …No? Oh. …Well, your writings shit. Prick tease.”

–A grammatically inept email from an ex-boyfriend.

“Okay, just so we’re clear- if I write a good review for your book, you blow me. Right?”

-Something that never actually happened.

“CC, I’m going to say this one more time: Stop contacting me, stop stalking my Facebook page, and leave my secretary alone. The poor woman is two steps from a nervous breakdown. Threatening her cat was completely inappropriate of you. Yes, I gave you an ‘F’ but it was ten years ago and I stand by it: your poem was dreadful. You need to move on with your life. And stop sending my mother your smutty novel. I have no idea how you got her address but she’s had a stroke. She needs rest. The nursing staff have your picture and have been instructed to refuse you entry.”

-As Associate Professor Barnes can now attest: you never give CC an ‘F’.

“Alright, alright. It’s good, okay? There. Please stop crying. You’re so ugly when you cry.”

-Beneficial friend #23

I should probably tell you how Kindle Scout works. It’s basically crowd funding. I put my book up, you read the beginning of it, you peruse some Q & A I’ve done, you read a short- and not entirely truthful- bio of me, and then you log in with your Amazon account and nominate me in your top 3. If I’m popular enough to get selected for an eBook deal, you get a copy of it for free. Either way, you get a personalised thank-you note from me just by voting. It’s Sally Field’s acceptance speech from the 1984 Academy Awards- you know the one. She says, “You like me. You really like me.” in it.

And, just to add a sweet little kicker, if you vote for me, I’ll totally get Megan Fox to date you. Don’t believe me? I met her earlier in the year. She was an inpatient at a ward I used to work in. Lovely girl- a little volatile when she’s coming down from crack- but nice nonetheless. She has what’s known as a ‘grandiose delusion’. Sure, she’s let herself go a little bit since Transformers, but if she’s still heavily into the gear I can probably call in a favour from her. Guys, you’ll love her. Heroin has taken almost all of her teeth. They call her ‘Gummy Joe’ now. And she might even be a bit manic- and we all know what that means.

I’m kidding.

But in all seriousness- the book is good. Everyone who I’ve shown it to has read it in one or two sittings. They’ve laughed out loud. They’ve disliked the anti-heroine but found themselves rooting for her anyway. When I got it professionally edited, the feedback I received was, “It’s great! I stayed intrigued and interested to see what was going to happen next all the way through…The chapter titles work well; I loved the humour, enjoyed the profanity and the gutsy-but-fucked-up heroine.”

So, there.

And you know what? Fuck it, I believe in it. think it’s good and sometimes that’s all you need- delusions of adequacy.

Here’s the link. Vote. Not just for me, but for your country. Vote to stop the tyranny of ISIS in it’s tracks. Vote for the second helping that Jenny Craig won’t let you eat. Vote for the cake you dug out of the bin and ate with your hands after the last attempt at fitting into your skinny jeans failed. Vote for your dog. For the one-legged pigeon that confronts you on the way to work each morning. Vote for the red wine that you drink out of a chipped coffee cup when you can’t be bothered to do the washing up. Vote for Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. Vote for the hug you get from your best friend when the man/woman/dishcloth breaks your heart. Again. Do it for God, because s/he would totally read Funereal. If you believe in that sort of thing, look at it this way: God put this in my brain for you to read, so you have to vote or God will get cranky. And we don’t want an angry God- Nepal can’t handle another earthquake. You don’t want that in your conscience, do you? Hmm? Well, vote. Now.

https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/42SZ05LUODJV

FUNEREAL – ON KINDLE SCOUT

The Hymen Soliloquies

24 Jun

Four months ago I decided to become celibate. And it’s going well. Okay, so ‘well’ isn’t an adjective I’d use to describe my life at the moment, but it’s been…interesting. Enlightening. My hymen is about to grow back, I haven’t rubbed up against the dread-locked guy on the 438 bus yet, and the sex dreams involving Magneto, Adalita and Annie the CPR dummy are fun to interpret. Sure, there’s the nasty case of RSI in my left middle finger, and a brand new obsession with knitting squares of wool, sending them overseas, and hoping that they will be sewn together to make a blanket for some poor, malnourished child in Zambia; but aside from that, not having sex is really not that bad. My life now isn’t that different to when I was married. I just have pink hair and live in a different suburb. Minus a dog. And a mortgage. I’ve hymenated myself and come full circle.

Besides, I have way more spare time to go to the gym, which has enabled me to shave two whole minutes off my three kilometre run time. So I can now sprint away from penis at a velocity that I may not have managed if I was spending my spare time on my back. There are benefits to gaining physical fitness, of course. My physique is honed. Just in time for nobody to see me naked. Oh the irony. I’ve started showering with the window open in the hopes that my 50-something neighbour will have a gander because someone has to benefit from the hours I’m spending on the treadmill, and if I can’t give a bearded hipster an eyeful of my pale arse I can at least give an old Italian man a heart attack.

I could write that my lack of lovin’ is benevolently contributing to the dividend payments of Duracell battery shareholders, and that my decidedly solitary lifestyle is allowing them to buy a second chicken dinner at the pub on Thursdays. For their girlfriend. Who will then have sex with them. Because nothing excites women like a schnitty. Or a man with shares in a battery company. Breaded chicken breast and a diverse stock portfolio is more intoxicating than a man-bun, you know. My Duracell bunny has allowed me to become the Mother Theresa of copulation.

Okay, that part isn’t even true.

I use Eveready.

You might not even like those jokes.

And I really don’t give a schnit.

Okay, I’ll stop now.

But seriously, my brand new lifestyle is courtesy of a Chilean who I went on a few bad dates with when I first got back to Australia. Let’s call him Fern, because that’s alarmingly similar to his real name. And I’m going to be mean to Fern. Sorry, but it’s what I do.

Fern and I were work colleagues back when my job involved stuffing burgers into paper bags with my left hand while I wiped teenage grease from my T-zone with my right. We lost contact, in the way that you do when you meet someone at the age of fifteen, only to meet up again when I started dating my ex-husband. Fern was friends with my ex, and would smoke pot and play basketball with him back when we were stuffing Whoppers into paper bags. We saw each other again at a party, exclaimed how odd life was, and periodically engaged in inebriated exchanges at social gatherings thereafter. I pondered the fatalistic aspects of becoming engaged to a man who had always existed on the fringes of my social circle. Fern apparently stared at my backside when I would inevitably stretch out and fall asleep on a flat surface after too many wines. I got married. Fern stayed single. I briefly wondered if he was gay, lost myself in married life, ultimately got divorced, and lost contact with him.

Then he read my blog.

He found my difficulties of getting a grasp on espanol slightly hilarious, emailed me, and offered to teach me. I gratefully accepted his offer, we started chatting, and things eventually escalated to the point where we sent long and quirky emails to each other while I was traveling. He asked me out, without expressly asking me out: Hola Guapita. Si no estas aburrida de todo lo ‘latino’ me gustaria llevar la a conocer mis amigos espanoles y tambien mis restaurantes sud americano favorito. Which roughly translates to, “Hello Pretty Girl, if you aren’t bored of all that is Latino, I’d like to take you out to my favourite South American restaurants with my friends when you get back.”

Fast forward three months and I am walking through Newtown with him, slightly disconcerted at the way I can look straight over the top of his head without raising my chin. I don’t remember him being so damn short, I thought. He’s like a Latino hobbit. What the fuck am I doing being led down King Street by Diego Baggins? Despite this, the date was perfectly adequate. We chatted. We laughed. He didn’t eat. I did. He kept getting up to use the bathroom. I crossed and recrossed my legs. He covered his mouth when he talked. I wondered if my paella had left a chunky bit of blackened herb in my teeth. I threw bad Spanish at the waitress. She looked to him for a translation. I excused myself to check my teeth in the bathroom and he surreptitiously paid the bill while I was gone. Upon exiting the restaurant, he grabbed my hand, let it go, wiped his palm on his T-shirt, re-grabbed said hand, then confidently wove me through the traffic of King street all the way to the Bank Hotel. We drank beer. He chain smoked, knocked a flying cockroach out of the air in a way that was slightly ninja, inched his chair closer to mine, asked how many tattoos I had, then told me about his internet dating mishaps in a way that was slightly tragic.

Just after midnight he drove me back to my parents house, put the car in park, leaned over, opened his mouth wide, and latched onto my face like an eager catfish. The thirty seconds that followed was, for me, not unlike being licked into submission by an obsessive compulsive bulldog. I pulled away, he made a bad joke, patted my head affectionately, and delicately suggested that I get out of his car. Now.

Then he texted to ask me out for a second date. And, despite the fact that I wasn’t particularly enthused, I agreed.

Why?

Because he was nice. Really nice. Plus he was a musician, but we’re ignoring that part. He was just…a nice guy. Who was into me. And indulging the emotionally stable men that show interest in you when you are disconcertingly close to middle age is the mature thing to do, right? Sure, the three things I usually find essential in the opposite sex are a height difference in his favour, a kiss that makes my toes curl, and chemistry that makes my brain fuzz; but focusing on that at the expense of someone who was a musician nice seemed shallow. Sure, he resembled a sweaty, salivating Tolkein character, but he seemed normal. And he wasn’t Gary Glitter. Or Macauley Culkin. So why not give him a second date?

Looking back, the warning signs of douchebaggery were always there. “Sorry to kick you out of my car the other night,” he began via text message, “but you looked so good that if we had of kept kissing I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”

Which is, well, a little….oh, I don’t know. Rapey?

Hey baby, you looked so hot in that grey All About Eve dress that I could have committed a sex crime on you. You looked very rapeable last night. Rapealicious. Positively rapetastic. I could have forced myself on you like Oscar Pistorious through a bathroom door.

Date number two was closer to home. Literally. I was crashing on the couch that my parents had generously donated to their thirty-something wash-out of a spawn; and he was living with his parents as well.

“Why does he live with his parents?” my best friend asked me.

“Because he doesn’t have a job.”

Pause. “And why doesn’t he have a job?”

“Because he left the corporate world to focus on his music.”

“Right.” He took a sip of coffee. “And how’s that going for him?”

Well enough to be able to move back in with mum and dad.

We went to the drive-ins at Blacktown. I’m not proud of it, I was geographically challenged. We had a few too many beers at a nearby pub, forgot about the drive-ins, and wound up making out in his car.

Here, things got weird. He asked if I wanted to take our passionate tryst “into the back seat” and I declined because- call me prudish- I didn’t want to fuck my nice guy in the back of a Nissan Skyline by the side of the road in Western Sydney’s ‘Southern Cross’ heartland, two metres away from what may or may not have been the decomposing carcass of a stray cat. I’m picky like that. And I stand by my decision- the first time you have sex with someone you want to remember it fondly because the memories are often all you have when it ends. I’m not saying that you need candles and Marvin Gaye, but a bed or flat surface of some description is always a bonus. As is an area of more than two metres square. And a gear stick, unless its being used as a sex toy, is often just problematic. It’s an unneeded accoutrement. Don’t get me wrong, car sex can be fun, but for the first time I usually want to get my in-and-outs inside of a man-made structure that preferably contains a stained futon, rather than a backseat littered with McDonald’s wrappers and empty packets of JPs Blue. Understandably, he may not have wanted his mother to find a girl who is very white with hair that was very blue urinating in her bathroom the following morning (“My mother doesn’t like Australian women. Unless they speak Spanish. So she might like you.”) but I didn’t want to seal the deal with my nice, I’m-not-really-sure-if-I-like-him guy in a skanky, I’m-not-really-sure-if-I’m-comfortable-with-this way.

He dropped me home, slightly disconcerted, and I messaged him a few days later, suggesting that we get a hotel room in the city for our next date; which is saying, without really saying, “I’ll fuck you.”

And I got silence in return.

Silence is cruel. And cowardly. You’re left wondering, Did they receive it? Should I send it again? No, that looks needy. Stop checking your phone. Go for a walk. Drink a bottle of wine. Hug a stuffed animal.  Alphabetise your CDs. Just do anything that will get you away from the reality that you are being rejected, without really being rejected.

Although, it has to be said that a phone silence isn’t as bad as a Facebook silence. At least with a text message you can delude yourself that in some freak telecommunications accident, the text was never received. Facebook messages have a timestamp: Seen at 8.10a.m. Ignored at 8.11 a.m.
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To be honest, the whole scenario confused me. Since when does not acting like a tramp scare a dude away? I pondered it for a long time- at least ten minutes. It even made me pause Better Call Saul and stare pensively at a white wall for a few moments. Then, I took my rejection and turned it into arrogance, ranting at my best friend about ‘strong females scaring men away’ and how ‘things with a dick suck. Except you. And Wil Anderson.’ After this I calmed down, removed my cranium from my rectal cavity, and worked on feeling bad about myself.

My friends sensed my bruised ego and tried to make it sound less tragic: “Maybe he just really wanted to shag you and thought that it would be easier than it was. I mean, you did say that he read your blog, right? Maybe he thought that fucking you was going to be easy.”

It was about this time that I wondered if life would be easier if I went whole lesbian.

Being rejected by someone that you weren’t even that into isn’t fun. And I’m not sure what I was thinking in the first place for this whole mess to happen. Had I followed my intuitive, ovarian twinges after our first date, I never would have agreed to the second. I wouldn’t have come dangerously close to being finger-fucked near the drive-ins at Blacktown, and never would have felt crappy about myself. Had I followed my gut, rather than intellectualising- again- none of this would have happened.

So I decided to try celibacy. Why?

Well, once upon a six-months-ago, I was sitting on a beach in Puerto Escondido. Beside me was a deliciously English man that I was falling heavily into like with. Our time together was short, ultimately tumultuous, but indescribably lovely. And it reminded me what it feels like to shag someone that you really like. To lie beside someone, your soft bellies touching, hands curled under the pillow, lips in a cats cream smile, wanting to stretch time into eternity. To stay awake talking all-fucking-night because, as Dr. Seuss said, you don’t want to go to sleep because reality is finally better than your dreams. I sat beside this man on the beach, watching the sun slowly drop into the ocean before us, and I was happier than I can describe without verging into Hallmark territory. And it’s made everything thereafter feel cheap. Fake. A copy of a poorly photocopied reprint. It raised the bar and lowered my threshold for bullshit. I don’t want lukewarm, yeah-he’s-okay-I-guess nonsense anymore. I’ll wait for something better. I might wait a while, but that’s okay. I just bought shares in Duracell.

Punching in a Dream

21 Dec

Manchester popped my lap dance cherry in a Mexican cantina last week.

Then the fucker broke my heart.

That’s probably an exaggeration, he never really had it to break. Let’s just say that he turned from cool to cunty in just seven standard drinks and left me feeling bruised.

Manchester could be a bad drunk, which is something I’ve noticed with a lot of Bipolar people. Drinking with him was a game of glass bottle Russian Roulette- was he going to be excessively happy and talkative, or was he going to be an argumentative prick? He had never been mean until this particular evening which started, funnily enough, with him calling me his girlfriend for the first time. Somehow that turned into a lecture on my marriage.

Uh-huh.

For reasons that will forever remain a mystery to any rational human being, he chose that evening to give me his ill-informed and slightly arrogant opinion about my fucking marriage. The fact that I’m divorced- as is he, mind you- is such of a non issue with me now that I was consistently surprised when he’d bring it up. The evening started with the sentence, “I think that you are a gigantic pussy for taking a cheater back and marrying him,” and quickly degenerated to “It’s kind of all your fault.” I was more than slightly affronted. Number one- my marriage and the choices I made leading up to it are none of his fucking business, and number two- who the fuck is he to judge me for my past? He didn’t know me then and, realistically, he only has my side of the story, which isn’t enough to base an opinion on. It annoyed me, but rather than discharging a barbed comment of my own regarding the questionable romantic choices he’s made in his past, I put my big girl underpants on instead. “You can judge away, but my decisions- right or wrong- are my own. It was the only thing that I could have done in that situation and it was a choice that put me in a place where I’m now happy. I’ve harnessed something post divorce that keeps me content, and without it I wouldn’t have gotten here, so I won’t be made to feel bad about it.”

I know- right on, CC. I’m usually not too proud of the stuff that flies out of my mouth, but I was sort of proud of that. Apparently it was the correct thing to say because he dropped it. We went out to a club with a group of people from the hostel and here he went from mildly prickish to festeringly cunty. Not wanting to put up with his shit, I left for the dance floor with a group of girls I’d met.

I later discovered that this was the wrong decision. I wasn’t meant to man up, I was meant to submissively latch onto him and put up with his crap. When I found him later in the evening he was chatting to an ex-girlfriend, a girl who greeted me in that unashamedly hostile way that women who believe they are in competition with each other do. I found it funny. I mean, she was four foot tall so not only could I have raised a leg and crushed her under my Doc Martens, but the poor girl also bore an uncanny resemblance to a bridge troll. A pug nose being turned up in the air is hard to take seriously. I made a flippant comment about her hostility to Manchester who took it the wrong way. After assuring him that I didn’t give two tenths of a fuck about what his fucking Mexican ex thought of me, we engaged in a fight. Here, he kicked off. He chastised me for disappearing to the dance floor. I laughed.

“What, you’re mad because I went dancing?”

He became nastier until I eventually I did what I always do when backed into a corner- I went for the jugular.

In a way, he only has himself to blame for this next part. I’d warned him that I had an innate ability to figure out what will cut a person to the core and when I get mad enough I can be horrible. I think that years of honing my observational powers as a psych nurse has refined the skill of figuring out someone’s emotional Achilles tendon. Friends, exes and, regrettably, family members have all copped the sharp end of my tongue at some point. It’s not an aspect of my personality that I particularly like, but it’s there and at least my temper hides at the end of a very long fuse. What Manchester had done throughout the night was poke a bear with a broom handle. When a single paw swipe removed half of his face, he was stupid enough to act bewildered. I knew Manchester well enough to say this, “Okay, well I guess you’ll have to find someone else to pay for everything, then.”

It might not seem like much, but Manchester was between schemes and suitably broke. The fact that his life was an indelicate mess was a sore point for him. It didn’t bother me, I had judged him on his behaviour rather than his bank balance. He had grand plans for an Eco Resort that he was sourcing crowd funding for, but this was slow moving and he was stagnating when I met him. Sleep on the beach because you have no cash kind of stagnating. He’d gone from being a successful lawyer who travelled Europe through a network of five star hotels to a poverty stricken, Puerto Escondidan bum and like all good capitalists, he found this absolutely tragic. When his meager cash ran low, I began to pay. There was nothing expensive mind you, and I kept within my budget for the trip, but I’d rather spring 30 pesos for a bottle of cheap rum that we would drink on the beach than sit around doing nothing. Money means shit to me. Want proof? I quit a well paying, cushy job to travel and I gave back $45,000 that was wrongfully put in my bank account once. I’d rather have an experience than a dollar. And I didn’t feel irritated about paying or I wouldn’t have done it. I’m not a fucking idiot. This is something he misunderstood when he later accused me of “internalising everything”. He tried to paint me as a doormat who’d finally snapped. Not true. I’m a bitch who wanted to hurt his feelings after he’d been on my case for an evening.

Anyway, after my paying comment, he threw a tantie and walked away. I became remorseful, drunkenly emotional and, before I knew it, salt water began to leak. A few hours later he saw me again, picked another fight, and when I told him that I was upset he called me pathetic.

Oh, he laughed, too. I believe the phrase was, “Ha ha ha, you actually cried? You’re pathetic.”

Now, was it a slightly low blow on my part to call attention to the fact that he’d made me cry? Was it mild emotional manipulation, perhaps? Sure. But, come on. His subsequent comment was cunty on farenhietian levels. It was cuntier than lesbian porn. Cuntier than Hugh Hefner’s Grotto. And I’d argue that it was his behaviour that was pathetic, actually. I made one little comment about him being a kept man and he lost his shit. That’s the ironic thing about arrogant people, they are often hiding something as fragile as a newborns skull under the ego. He used to chip me about my self deprecating nature, but I’d argue that it takes a lot of confidence to poke fun at yourself. Just like it takes a robust level of self esteem to publish a blog post about being spectacularly dumped while on holidays. Say what you will about me, but at least I’m not so fucked up that a single sentence can floor me. Manchester acted like I’d turned into Linda “Your dead mother sucks dick in hell” Blair. I didn’t even have to swear to piss him off so thoroughly. I’m hurting more than I care to admit now, but a small part of me is smirking that I have the ability to break a bastard with a single sentence.

I tried talking to him the following morning. I didn’t want to leave us as curdled milk. To be honest I wanted- stupidly- to sort it out. I was putting his cunty behaviour down to the bipolar and the booze. Plus, I did like him. Despite all of his complications, I foolishly thought he was a good person.

“You can go and fuck yourself,” was his opening line and it seemed to quickly decay from there. I won’t go verbatim, because it was pitiful: “I’m hungover and I’m getting the flu and I just don’t want to deal with you at the moment,” excessively cruel: “I’m done with you,” and slightly unimaginative: “You’re just a bad person”.

“I’m not a bad person,” I replied, slightly stung.

And fuck him, because I’m not. I don’t play ridiculous emotional mind games. I don’t say “I’m done with you” to people that care about me, and I don’t insult someone who hurts my ego. I insult someone who treats me like shit for longer than three hours, and I do it well. I’m totally a better person.

I left the hostel feeling like cracked pottery. I missed my friends. I wanted the kind words of a loved one back home, but it was 4am in Sydney. And I was alone in Puerto. Acquaintances at the hostel wouldn’t have helped, especially since many of them had witnessed the teary drama the previous evening. Figuring that falling apart was acceptable, I went into town and got blisteringly drunk. Here, after four beers on an empty stomach, I came up with this, ‘I know, I’ll get the fucker deported.’

I really wish that part wasn’t true. I’ve learned something about myself in this that I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with. If you scorn me I won’t just tip your clothes onto the front lawn; I’ll take a deep breath, level my gaze, and ruin you. It would have destroyed him, too. He’s overstayed his visa by months, he hasn’t got money for the fine, he’s working illegally, and it would have completely obliterated his MexEco project. If I wanted to, I could send a well-timed email and sabotage everything he was working towards.

But I’m not going to. Sometimes knowing that you can do something horrible but choosing to be a bigger person is enough. Plus, Manchester isn’t completely irredeemable. He looked after me when I was sick, and we spent a few awesome weeks together where he was perfectly chivalrous, attentive and affectionate. For a while, being with him was amazing. Really amazing. That’s probably saved him.

I ran into one of Manchester’s friends that day, the fellow whom we had been out with on the lap dance evening. He approached me and asked me where Manchester was. I told him I didn’t want to talk about it, then added that I was leaving Puerto that evening.

“You’re coming back, though?”

I shook my head. He deduced what had happened and said something lovely to me. Nothing much, just a few words about type of person that he thought I was, and it made me feel exponentially better, then worse as more drunken salt water threatened to leak from behind my sunglasses. He hugged me, we became Facebook friends, and I promised to drop a little plug for his tourism website: www.guiapuertoescondido.com. And I will. Well, I just did. Visit the site for all things Puerto Escondidian- from accommodation to restaurants to real estate. Not only is he highly professional and knowledgeable, but he discharged three small sentences that made a bruised girl smile. He’s awesome.

So that’s my Mexican Manchester Memoir. Looking back to when we started to spend more time together- when we really began to click- I was in two minds about whether to stay and pursue something with him, or whether to be the independent girl who continues on with her own plans with blinkered aplomb. I chose to stay because I didn’t want to leave with the ‘I wonder’s’. At least I’m not. I’m leaving with the ‘I know’s’.

Because I now know that he’s a cunt. Which is okay. At least he’s not a cunt that I have to deal with any more. He’s just a blip and a blog post.

Terror at 10,000 feet

12 Dec

I dropped my iPhone in the toilet.

Yep, John West decided to go fishing for some brown trout.

Seeing my brand new phone at the bottom of the loo didn’t bother me for two reasons- the first being that I’d dropped it on the way down, so it was only marinading in filthy Mexican toilet water instead of filthy Mexican toilet water mixed with beer-laced urine; and also I had spent the morning drinking with Manchester- an English expat I met in Puerto Escondido a few days earlier. I handled the drowning of John West with the misguided optimism that can only be brought on with high levels of alcohol coupled with an excessively handsome drinking companion- it was blithely downgraded from catastrophic to ‘Oh, toilet water can’t be that harmful for something as technologically advanced as the iPhone 5c, right?’

But John West died that day. His funeral was a simple affair: three shots of Mezcal poured into the cistern, a few heartfelt words, a mariachi band playing something upbeat yet melancholic, and a simple burial in the back pocket of my backpack. I, and my underpants, will certainly miss our old friend.

I’d met Manchester a week earlier through a mutual friend. It was a sunny and hedonistic Thursday in Mexico, and we’d spent the day drinking beers in front of a local supermarket. We were animatedly chatting away, the beer flowing as quickly as the funny stories, when he uttered two particularly intriguing phrases. The first: his ex-wife was once a lesbian who he had managed to lure back onto solids by oral fixation. The second: he had the uncanny ability to make any woman expel fluid from a particular part of the female anatomy. It was my belief that not all women were capable of such watery bedroom antics and I told him so, but Manchester assured me that we all are. It was his guarantee, uttered not in the pressured speech of a poser, but in the quietly confident voice of a man who knows he’s got the skills to back up his mouth. Or the mouth to back up his claims. Or the dexterity to-

I’ll stop there.

I could argue that shagging him was a science experiment. I was simply being a wild-eyed sexual explorer, drunkenly venturing my little canoe out into the crystalline waters of female bodily fluids with nothing but a misbuttoned yellow rain slicker and a brave smile for protection. I wasn’t doing it for me, but for every other vagina on Planet Earth. Plus, I was benevolently giving him a slightly larger population sample to base his claims on. That’s all it was. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s an intelligent, funny, interesting, and charming guy. No. I’m just a vapid whore.

Five nights later, after a sixteen hour binge involving over-the-counter Lignocaine, horse tranquilisers, double choc Magnums and three Czech prostitutes; we had ditched the juggling roadside clown and were sitting, bleary eyed, on the back of a bus heading towards San José del Pacífico- a tiny mountain town of about 800 people that sits five hours north of Puerto. There’s not much there beyond natural beauty- no banks, no WiFi etc- and it’s 10,000 feet above sea level.

Just keep that in mind.

Manchester and I spent the journey there draped over each other like discarded marionettes. The road was too winding and bumpy for me to welcome anything that resembled sleep, so I stared vacantly out the window as the bus wound us up the mountain towards the sky. We reached San José, blearily found a hotel, checked in, and promptly collapsed onto the bed. Later that evening there was a textbook romance moment: watching a beautiful sun set over a breathtaking mountain range as an affectionate stray dog slobbers on your shoulder and paws at your lap. It was lovely.

The following day shit got messy.

Now, before I go on I want you to stop and put yourself in Manchester’s shoes. You’ve met a quirky, blue haired, Australian traveller. You’ve only known her a week but you have fun together and you like her. You invite her up to the mountains. You figure that your days will be spent drinking hot chocolate in front of an open fire and strolling the main street holding hands while goofily gazing at each other through dilated pupils. It’ll be like a Nescafe commercial.

Now, if after the first night, that quirky, perky blue-haired lass morphs into Crampy: the sweaty, violently ill, dank, aquamarine yak; what would you do? You can answer honestly, there’s nobody in your head but you and the tracking chip that the Government implants in us all at birth. Would you bail? Or would you look after her?

Because he looked after me.

For three days, I lay in the foetal position with knifing stomach cramps, fevers, sweats, chills, and shortness of breath in the high altitude. I was so weak that I couldn’t leave the bed. Which meant that anything above a bathroom break was a frivolity that simply had to be avoided. I didn’t shower. I couldn’t shower. I wanted to, but I was fairly certain that trying to do so would see me faint and slam into the porcelain tiles where I would lie twitching like a dying Marlin. You really should pity Manchester. Then canonise him. Knight him- he is English after all. I mean, he’s known me for one week. And believe me, I ain’t that flipping special, but that man valiantly took care of me as I groaned the Star Spangled Banner on sweat-stained sheets. After Day One of no showering, Crampy the Yak turned into Crampy the Yeti. I can’t even begin to describe the nightmare that was my body on Day Two. I haven’t been that sick in a long time and if I was in Sydney I probably would have taken myself to the hospital, but I was in a teeny, widdle Mexican town. With no doctors. The pharmacist had selfishly died a few months earlier. And there was no way I could have managed a winding five hour bus ride back to Puerto, so Manchester and I were locked in a chain of events that went from romantic to horrific at warp speed.

On day three, in desperation, he visited his friend, the village Shaman. He returned with a herbal tea, a remedy encased in a recycled red-and-white yoghurt container. I was to ingest a litre, wait until bedtime, brew another litre, ingest that, then join the Shaman for a Temazcal in the morning.

I was mildly skeptical, but highly desperate. I would have happily masticated distilled donkey snot on Ritz crackers at that point.

I managed to keep the first dose of tea down. I waited a few hours, drank the second dose, and passed out.

The next morning I felt marginally better. The stabbing pain was gone, and I could get out of bed without the room turning into a bad acid trip. We went for the Temazcal.

Which was a half hour walk from town.

In the freezing cold.

At a Sherpa’s altitude.

I mutely followed Manchester like an extra from The Walking Dead, silently accepting his encouragement and affectionate taps on the backside, glazed eyes determinedly fixed on the road ahead.

A Temazcal is an earthenware Mexican sauna. It’s outdoors, sort of like a mud hut. You strip down to your delicates, they seal you into complete blackness, and you get to make forced conversation with a bunch of strangers as herbal tea is poured over hot stones and the temperature climbs towards the Dante-esque. Then you crawl out, have an icy shower of fresh mountain water, and pour four cups of hot tea over yourself.

Now, I suspect that I may have some people with nursing training who read my blog, and I suspect that they are now calling me all manner of fucking idiot for doing this with a roasting fever that should have taken me towards copious amounts of IV antibiotics and little else.

But it worked. It wasn‘t fun. My god, it was fucking horrific, but damn if it didn’t get me onto a bus to Puerto the next morning. At sea level, everything looked better. I could breathe. I visited a Mexican doctor, described my symptoms in Spanglish, then got a lovely bag of drugs for my efforts. I do like drugs.

So that’s San José. Señor Navarro who runs the Four Elements Temazcal is a hero. Manchester almost deserves to be named on the blog for the accolades and years of free vagina he will no doubt receive. I think I’ll just put up posters around Puerto Escondido with his face and “Ladies, when I leave, please shag him often and well.” Actually, they both have Crowd Funding Pages for some eco-projects that they are separately engaging in, and when I get the link I’ll donate a kidney or two then put it up on the blog for any benevolent soul to do the same. You may or may not be the type to nurse a near stranger for three days, but surely you have a couple of bucks to spare for some good-hearted people.

And I am back in Puerto. Much healthier. More fragrant. And surely I’ll be perky again soon.

Kind-of, Almost Two Years Ago Today

11 Nov

Every year, on the anniversary of my divorce, I light scented candles, listen to Morrissey, cry, and play with myself.

That’s not true, silly. I just wanted a snappy opener. As boring as it is, I don’t indulge in any bizarre, ritualistic behaviour on D-Day; but ironically, for the last two years, I have found myself on the other side of the world, ensconced in a romantic entanglement of sorts.

It’s Groundhogian. Last year I was making a u-turn across Europe to meet a Kiwi in Amsterdam, this year I found myself with an overly affectionate Italian. Let’s call him Titto- as was his request if I ever spoke about him on the blog. And, fuck-me-gently-with-a-tent-pole, I really hope he doesn’t read this.

Because this is the story of how I fled Titto.

Fled sounds melodramatic. But ‘made a impulsive decision to leave one morning after things began to get particularly intense’ was too verbose.

When Titto and I first met, I was, embarassingly, wearing nothing but a Bonds wifebeater singlet and a pair of bright red, Wonder Woman underpants. Before he knew my name, he had seen more of me than most first dates do. Amazingly, despite being confronted with the sight of my big, white ass, he began to chat to me and, amazing-er-ly, we clicked.

Our travels plans differed- I was heading to Cuba and he was starting work in a hostel in Acapulco. We swapped Facebook contact details and kept in touch. A pocket of time appeared in the week after Day of the Dead. We could meet up again. He started to organise the details, seemingly spending hours on Google. Links were sent via email, clicking them furnished my screen with magnificent-looking beaches. ‘What do you think?’ he’d ask with an emoticon wink. Apparently, the only thing I had to do for our spare week together was show up and be adorable.

Plans changed when he had a fight with his boss and had to leave Acapulco immediately. He asked if I wanted to leave Day of the Dead before the main celebrations and travel to Guatemala with him. I did not. I was disappointed but I didn’t want to chase a dick down a rabbit hole, so I did what any normal girl would: I dealt with it. I booked a hostel at a nudist beach and figured that if we were meant to meet up again we would.

As fate would have it, we met again. Titto was unlike any man I had ever met. Aside from the affectionate, macho, chivalrous Italian blood that pumped through his veins, he was completely open with his feelings. It was a novelty. Australian men aren’t like that- being courted by an Aussie is a subliminal game of chess. You don’t listen to what they say, you watch what they do, you think three moves ahead, and you endeavour to entrap them in a checkmate.

Mwahaha.

The whole situation was fantastical. Surreal. Laying tangled in a hammock watching the sun set, eating fresh guavas for breakfast, long slow make-out sessions on the sand followed by hair-pulling nights beneath the mosquito netting as the waves crashed outside our cabin window. We hitchhiked. We held hands and strolled along the coastline. It was like a tampon commercial. It certainly wasn’t reality- no reality that I know, anyway. That’s the problem with holiday romances. They exist in a dream state, a realm where you are unfettered by the mundanities of life. As a result, they will never, ever last beyond the trip- believe me, I have tried. The only way it can work is if you choose to stay at the party forever- if you kiss the nuances of reality goodbye and live in the Wonderland of travel. Titto asked me to do this on our first night.

“Would you ever leave Sydney and stay in Mexico?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

I struggled to explain the relationship that I have with my loved ones without resorting to saccharine statements like ‘they are my heart’. I explained the deep bond we share, fortified by time, laughter and pain. “I can’t leave them,” I said finally. “I’d miss them.”

He didn’t agree and argued the point. “But friendships don’t last forever.”

“Neither do most relationships,” I fired back. “But my friends and family have been more of a constant presence in my life than any man has. They are always there for me and vice versa. I don’t want to leave them.”

“That’s sentimental.”

“Loyal.”

Besides, am I alone in thinking that this is a particularly intense question to throw at someone after twenty four hours together? Isn’t this the Holiday Romance equivalent of “How do you feel about getting married in Fiji” on a first date? Perhaps he was just harmlessly discussing the future and I am simply cementing myself as an emotionally retarded Fem-bot, but when said hypothetical future means that one of you has to give up everything well…no. Sorry, but that’s too Romeo and Juliet for me. Plus, I have shared more major life events with my Sydney comrades than I will with any man who comes into my life. Don’t make me choose between you and them. Just don’t. You won’t like the decision that I make.

And what happened to enjoying the moment in the moment without worrying where it’s heading? Why force it? If something is meant to happen, just let it happen. Yes, that statement crosses into the sticky realm of Fate and Destiny, but it’s my limited experience that no matter how much you want something, trying to mold life into your plans never works. One of the hardest things that any of us will have to do is let go of something we really want and trust that, in one way or another, it- or something better- will come to us. I don’t believe in pushing an agenda; partially because I am painfully aware of the type of female that does, and partially because I try to enjoy the show without peeking behind the curtain. If life has a plan different to the one that you have in your head it’s frustrating as hell, and there will be many nights that you pout into your pillow at the injustice of it all, but at least you won’t frighten said reality away. If you relinquish control, things you want may never come to you, but at least you know that you didn’t fuck them up- they were just never yours in the first place.

Says the emotionally retarded Fem-bot.

Actually, that whole fucking paragraph sounded like a tampon commercial.

Ergh.

Anyway, it was enough to vanquish my fragile emotions. With that conversation, hairline fissures began to appear in my rose-coloured lust goggles. ‘Affectionate’ became ‘Stifling’. ‘Macho’ became ‘Domineering’. And ‘Wow, he’s so open with his feelings’ became ‘Do we have to fucking talk about this again for the love of chocolate just shut up and stop acting like a god-damn woman’. My skin began to crawl. I became infected with Seeing The Future as well, and I didn’t like what I saw. It was suffocating. I was in a locked cage that he perpetually carried, periodically sticking his fingers through the bars for affection-attention?- the last lights of my freedom fading away as he carted me across Central America like a prized parrot.

I know. Poor, poor CC. She finds herself a devastatingly attractive man who appears to be crazy about her and she isn’t happy because it’s just too much. I should dry my tears on sex stained sheets in my fucking beach-side bungalow.

Relationships are delicate in the beginning.  You need rose-coloured glasses when you look at your beloved because you are often discovering all of their idiosyncrasies. The fluffy bubble of infatuation acts as a talisman of sorts. When you are in lust, the fact that they are chintsy, over-protective, or a nocturnal lip-smacker, doesn’t bother you; and you need that to progress beyond the first stage. You need absence, too. To miss them, to think about them. They have to exist in your dura mater as a fond memory for affection to grow. And this wasn’t happening. Titto was poisoning me with his presence. The ‘Leave Sydney’ conversation gave me an urge for space. When he didn’t give it to me, the urge became a compulsion to mentally point out every tiny shortcoming he had.

The decision to leave was a lightning bolt. My poker face is not my strong suit, and he knew that something was up. I politely asked him to leave me alone, which he did- albeit furtively glancing at me from the top of his laptop all morning. When even a silent gaze felt suffocating, I figured that getting breakfast in town by myself was a good idea. I knew that I had to snap myself out of my foul mood, so as I moodily stomped to the main street, I indulged in the sort of practical, reasonable self-talk that every chick does to stop herself emotionally overreacting to something.

And it didn’t work.

The more I thought about the situation, the worse it felt. Finally my brain snapped in a characteristic moment of CC impulsiveness: ‘Fuck this, I’m leaving. Today.

And I did. The hotel in Puerto Escondido was booked as the banana/chocolate crepes were shoved into my gob.

Sounds selfish? It felt awesome.

Freedom is a drug, man.

As is chocolate.

I dreaded telling him. With good cause. He reacted as every man does when their ego is bruised- he became a petulant child: “I knew it, I knew something was wrong. Why do you want to go? Why are you leaving me?” he whined.

What I hoped was gentle came out clichéd: “This isn’t you, dude. It’s me. You have to understand, I have been single for two years. I like my freedom, and to spend a consistent 48 hours with someone is too much. I want space.”

We argued. Why didn’t I go tonight? We could have dinner. Why did I have to leave him right now? Why?

I felt helpless. Cunty. To try and make an awkward situation less painful, I tried throwing money at it. That usually helps, right? “I’ll give you the money for the accommodation.”

He didn’t appreciate being turned into my low-budget rent-boy. “I don’t want the fucking accommodation.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I have no reason to stay here without you,” he said sulkily. “The only reason I came here was for you, and now you are leaving me.”

It was a cheap shot that didn’t register. I wanted to say ‘I’m a psych nurse, buddy, and I’ve been through a divorce, if you want to hurt my feelings, you have to try harder than that.

But I didn’t. I acted like an adult. “Well, you can have the money, anyway.” I rose to pack.

He followed. “When did you decide this? Why can’t you leave tomorrow?”

The more he talked, the more my resolve strengthened. I bid him farewell and waited for a taxi to the bus station.

“You really should take a collectivo, instead. It’s more economical.”

I glared at him.

He sighed. “Do what you want.”

In defiance, I paid for a private taxi to drive the hour to Puerto Escondido. From the backseat, with the wind of the highway relentlessly massaging my face, I worked on feeling horribly guilty about what I’d just done.

So, what’s the point of it all?  I’m sure there’s a lesson hiding in this, but what? That I’m emotionally unavailable? I have ridiculously high standards? That I’m just holding out for a six foot fireman who can bench press a fridge? Preferably one who volunteers at an abandoned kitten’s shelter in his spare time. Maybe I should just give up and buy some scented candles.

How about this for a lesson- no matter how many times you make my toes curl, if I begin to feel even the slightest bit trapped, I’ll run like a flock of seagulls?

Get it? “I raaaaannnn, I ran so far awaaaaaayyyy”?

No?

Come on!

Anyway, if nothing else, this experience has strengthened what matters, which means I’m probably Fem-bot Version 2.0. And while I can’t wrap it all up in a neat bow, I can give you a moral- You never chase a Y-chromosome down a rabbit hole.

You only ever chase a white rabbit with a pocket watch because he has the magic mushrooms.

The Adventures of CC and John West

9 Nov

Day of the Dead

Sunday night, I found myself in the middle of a Day of the Dead parade, hurriedly looking over my left shoulder, with a pink iPhone shoved in my underpants.

Yes. In my undies. Down the front.

It’s a sentence that will stop anybody from borrowing my phone ever again. Unfortunately for me and my poor iPhone- which is now affectionately nicknamed John West- I had no other option. How did I wind up in the middle of a street parade with a mobile phone awkwardly prodding at my genitals? Let me explain.

It’s my last night in Oaxaca and I am almost dias de los meurtos‘d out. I’ve hung out in cemeteries with Kentuckians, photographed parades with impossibly chic French women, and tonight I just want to grab some dinner and enjoy the fact that I have my dorm to myself. I’m sitting in Zocalo, smoking and reading a book on my iPhone, when a guy sits uncomfortably close to me, furtively eyeing me as I put my phone back in my pocket. He starts to talk. His name is Gustavo. And, hey, even though we just met, why don’t I add him on Facebook? His eyes drift to my pocket. Right now.

Something about Gustavo gives me the willies. I can’t put my finger on it. It could be that he sat very close to me, it could be that he appears twitchy and nervous, it could be the fact that he was wearing headphones without listening to music (I mean, come on, that’s weird, right?) or it could be the fact that he fingered my ring when he shook my hand.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

I mean, he shook my hand and ran his finger along the Claddagh ring that I wear on my ‘fuck you’ finger, tugging it ever so slightly. In any event, after five minutes I want to leave my creepy companion and retire to my hostel. At 9pm. Like a thirty-something geriatric. I rise.

So does Gustavo.

I pause.

“Go,” he gives a strained smile.

I wait, frowning. “You first.”

He motions with his hand. “No, you.”

It’s an excessively polite Monty Python skit. I start walking. He trails me. I abruptly zig-zag across Zocalo. He zig-zags, too. I reach the edge and stop, turning around. He stops too, pretending to be fascinated by a jewellery stall.

If Gustavo is a crook, he’s a clumsy one. Nonetheless, the walk to my hostel is down a quiet street and I really don’t want to punch a Oaxacian- with or without nefarious motives- so I take the long way through the crowded parades, figuring that I can lose him.

When out at night, I no longer take a bag with me, choosing instead to wander the streets with my possessions in my pockets, like some heavily pear shaped bag-lady. The problem is, Gustavo knows where my iPhone is. I’m not sure if it’s paranoia or common sense that drives this, but I decide to move my stuff from my jeans pockets, just in case. My coin purse fits in my shirt pocket. As I do up the button, I ponder where to put my phone. My shoe? My bra? Oh, wait- I know!

And down the pants it goes. It’s ingenious, really. Look, if the evening were to escalate to a strange hand being in my knickers sans consent, a missing phone will be the least of my worries. And while it’s not comfortable, it is set to vibrate so if someone calls me, well, things will improve considerably.

Hierve el Agua

Twenty hours, a bus, a collectivo taxi and four chain smoking French men later, I am two hours from Oaxaca, at the ethereally beautiful Hierve el Agua.

It’s 5pm, and if I want to make my bus to Pochutla, which leaves Oaxaca at 9.30pm, I should probably leave. It’s still light and I make the 1km walk back up the hill, pausing to admire donkeys, cacti, and men herding goats. Near the top, I see a couple get into a collectivo taxi. Perfect timing. I’ll climb in and be back at the bus station in 45 minutes.

But I wouldn’t be writing this post if the collectivo waited. It didn’t. It skidded away as I was nearing the top.

Hmph.

No problem, though. Another will arrive. I perch on a rock to watch the sun set over the mountains, painting the sky with a kaleidoscope of pink and orange. I take several thousand photos of it.

sunset4sunset3

sunset5

snuset2Beautiful, isn’t it? However, as 5pm slides into 6pm, I begin to wonder where the hell the next collectivo is.

Six melts seamlessly into 6.15. I’m tapping my foot. Hierve has closed. Tour buses are trundling past. Nobody else is making their way up the hill, and the French dudes from before are absent. I begin to wonder: Do collectivos come this late? Am I supposed to wait here? There is nobody to ask. I decide to walk to the guard booth that we passed on the way in. Maybe people are still there. Maybe they can call a collectivo for me. There is one road leading to the booth, so I will pass anything coming this way, anyway.

So I begin to walk.

Alone.

In the middle of nowhere.

At night.

It’s getting cold, so I put my cardigan on, crossing my arms protectively over my chest. It occurs to me that I now look like a horror movie victim. Not the slutty one that dies first, maybe the bookworm who bites it spectacularly in the third act. I’m utterly isolated out here. Even my Mexican SIM card service has abandoned me. My only companion is Mother Nature, and the donkeys that randomly hee-haw my predicament. It felt like Wolf Creek 3. Or Mexican Creek, perhaps: ‘In Hierve el Agua, nobody can hear you scream…

It’s completely dark, did I mention that? Like, totally dark. I can’t see my booted feet on the road. If I don’t get devoured by a carnivorous goat, there is the distinct possibility that I will trip in a pothole and fracture my left ass bone, or step in a bear trap and have to gnaw a limb off like a rabid monkey. Therefore, to keep myself from spinning out, I begin to sing ‘Dry the Rain’ by The Beta Band.

This is the definition of my life, lying in bed in the sunlight…

So, at this point I have officially lost my mind.

A set of headlights approaches. Feeling more and more like Laurie ‘Boo’ Myers, I flag it down. It swerves past me, slams on the brakes, fishtails, and halts. It sits, idling maliciously. With a small amount of trepidation, I approach.

The Golf Cart

Hola,” I begin uncertainly. “Ah…” I pause to gather the correct words, then begin in a slow, overly-enuncative voice. “Neccissito una collectivo taxi para la Mitla autobus stacion?

His reply? Spanish. Of course.

I try again. “Autobus? Para Oaxaca?

Spanish.

Nothing is ever easy. In frustration, I throw random words at him: “Autobus. Mitla. Oaxaca. Saucepan. Toilet seat. Turtle procreation proclamation. Anything?”

This continues for an uncomfortably long period of time until I begin to understand a single word he is saying: “Voy.” i.e.- ‘Go.’ He gestures to the cart and I come to the hopeful conclusion that he’s saying, ‘Jump in, love. My chariot will rescue you on this cold evening.’

Five minutes later I am sitting in a golf cart as we drive back to the place where people wait for collectivos. We pass it.

Nothing is ever easy. Where the fuck is he taking me?

A group of people stand on the road, holding hands like some Hillbilly Mexican Manson family. The cart skids to a halt. The Manson’s approach. Two men, two women, two children. They begin to pile in. I skid over. The women are particularly portly and won’t fit. I skid over more. I now have one ass cheek perched precariously on the seat. They fit. Unfortunately, I don’t. A man sits beside the driver. There is still a man and two children to fit into an already full golf cart. In the spirit of charity, I move my bag from my lap. A moment later I have a small child randomly perched on it. Her sister stands beside her, staring at me in that openly curious way that kids do. A lady gets out, a man gets in, the lady sits on his lap.

We now have 8 people stuffed into a vehicle no bigger than a 1976 Mini Cooper.

Pause and picture that.

I am shoved up against the side of the cart, angled diagonally, holding onto the seats. I look like a proud father with his arms around the family at Christmas dinner, but there is terror in my eyes, so I probably look like Tony Soprano during the final season of The Sopranos. With, you know, hair and stuff. Wait, he’s dead now, isn’t he? Okay, so I look like a live, female, average weight version of-

You know what? Never mind.

Anyway, the side of the cart is made of flimsy, waterproof fabric. There’s no guarantee it will support my weight. The whole thing smells like an impending brain injury. The golf cart’s engine is spluttering and, in a mark of automotive protest, it won’t travel beyond the speed that the average egg-and-spoon race is run at. This gives me plenty of time to think about how much easier my life would be if I stuck to organised tours like a proper tourist, instead of stubbornly opting to do it all myself. I could be in an airconditioned tour bus right now, happily trancing out to the new Opeth record on my iPod. Instead, I am squished like a Skittle between a fat woman, a sheet of oil cloth, and a potential future in a motorised wheelchair.

Life on the Highway

After fifteen days, the family exit the cart. My ass can spread out again. There is relief for five minutes. Then, relief turns to horror as I am deposited on the freeway like a sex crime victim.
It’s every little girl’s dream to one day be left standing on a highway, at night, in the freezing cold, with a now almost desperate urge to urinate, isn’t it? The driver thought so. He pointed at the small group of people waiting, called out, “Collectivos!” and gaily puttered up the hill.

Apparently, this is where the collectivo’s pick you up to take you back into town. I wait awkwardly beside my car-less comrades. It’s just after 7pm. We are in the middle of what could arguably be the desert. Despite wearing jeans and a cardigan, my teeth are chattering.

Ha- I am now officially The Chattering Cat.

*Boom tish* Thanks folks. Hey, try the brisket- it’s fantastic.

For every set of approaching headlights, the four of us desperately throw our hands out. Cars speed past. Hitchhiking seems like an option. Or suicide. Or, frankly, squatting to pee in front of strangers.

I’m not sure how I get myself into these predicaments. Really. I don’t welcome chaos. I don’t ask for trouble. But when I travel, my sense of wonder often runs neck-and-neck with anxiety and dread. Let’s not forget that I have no fucking idea where I am. Well, I can pinpoint “Mexico” and in a pinch narrow it down to “two hours from Oaxaca”, but aside from that I’m screwed. I could be on Pluto. It’s certainly cold enough. I smoke cigarette after cigarette, trying to stave off cold, hunger and possible stress incontinence.

Life would be so much easier if I knew more Spanish. I could ask these people beside me, ‘What the fuck is going on (!?!) Is it normal to wait a fucking decade for a fucking collectivo on the fucking highway at mothershagging nighttime?! How do you people do this? Why do you do this? Yes, the night sky is radiantly pregnant with twinkling stars, but there is a little place called civilisation, and in it they have transportation options. Let’s talk about that over a Corona sometime.’ We would bond. They’d hug me, adopt me as a foul-mouthed surrogate child, and I’d feel infinitely better about the whole ‘I’m kind of almost lost’ mess.

The Dudes

A bus approaches. Without thinking, I stick my arm out. It slows. I get on with one other fellow. The doors creak shut behind us.

The bus contains men. All men. Workers, by the look of them. There is one seat available. I take it. I have no idea where the bus is going but it’s warm, there is Mambo music playing, and it smells like the Miami Heat locker room after a Celtics game: sweat, dejection, blood, and cum.

The bus stops. Half of the people get off. The driver turns and addresses me in Spanish.

I suppose that I have to get off the bus now.

Wait- I have to get off the bus?!

…No!

It’s warm and safe and although your taste in music sucks, I’m not standing on the fucking cold freeway again.

I can’t guarantee that I didn’t say that out loud. Really, I don’t remember. I think I disassociated.

He says “taxi”, points, then physically shooed me. Off the bus. Now. Come on you silly tourist. I don’t have all night.

I exit the bus. He doesn’t charge me. Small win.

AND I discover that he has dropped me outside the bus station that I initially caught a collectivo to Hierve from.

Awesome.

But it’s now shut.

Hmph.

Three guys from the bus approach me. They ask where I am going. Tired, desperate and thoroughly fed up, I pout, “Oaxaca. Taxi,” and cross my arms like a two-year old. They reply in Spanish. I don’t understand them. They motion up the road. “Taxi. Oaxaca. Aqui.”

I walk. They turn around every now and then, addressing me in Spanish. I repeat the one phrase that, ironically, I can now say flawlessly, “I’m sorry, but I only speak a little Spanish.” They laugh but continue to speak Spanish. Since I have no idea what they are saying, I begin to answer thusly, “Yes…no…bottom left…fourty seven…last Tuesday…”

One says, “Speak English.”

Yes. Not ‘hablas inglés‘ but ‘speak English’.

I stop, now more than a little indignant. “Can you guys speak fucking English?”

They laugh. “A little.”

Cunty. Very cunty.

They ask if I want to go and smoke some weed with them. Oh, sure, I think. I’d love to abandon my inhibitions with a group of strangers who have spent the last ten minutes poking fun at me. Sounds awesome. Let me get my coat. “No, thanks,” I begin with a smug grin, “I don’t smoke weed anymore. You see, I smoked a lifetime’s allowance between the ages of twenty and twenty two and I have to wait for the multiverse to catch up with me.” Sure they can’t understand me, but being clever in stressful situations makes me feel slightly better.

As we walk, my paranoia rises (see why I don’t smoke weed?!) I have no idea where I am going, I just know that three guys have indicated that if I follow them down a dark street, I can get a taxi. The walk begins to feel like a trail of lollies leading to the witches house in the forest. Following total strangers into darkness seems about as clever as amputating fingers with toenail clippers. So I try to find a taxi as I walk. But whenever I stop to flag an approaching set of headlights, the guys stop, too. They tell me that I have to keep going. I have to follow them because taxis don’t stop on the street.

Seriously- what the fuck kind of bullshit is that? ‘Taxis won’t stop on the street’? I just hailed a motherfucking bus from the highway. And it’s been my experience that you can’t walk down the road anywhere in Mexico without a taxi hopefully beeping it’s horn at you. Either you can hail them from the street, or I perpetually have a stream of toilet paper trailing from my pants and they are trying to tell me.

Now I’m convinced- following these boys any further will be about as safe as a marriage to Ike Turner. I stop in front of a store that appears to be open. The store owners are standing at the door. Good. Witnesses. I open my mouth to say, ‘My name is Casey Millikin and in the event of my disappearance please call the Australian Embassy on-‘ when one of the guys walks back to me, stopping just inside my personal space. “You have to follow us to get a taxi.”

“That’s okay,” I say, looking at approaching headlights. “I’ll hail one here.”

“Are you scared,” he asks suddenly.

This catches me off guard, which apparently makes me forget how to speak. “…Hu?”

He grins malevolently. “Are you scared?”

“No, I’m not scared,” I say, sounding fucking terrified. Of course I was scared. You’d be, too. Only a high level sociopath would feel no fear in that situation.

He lunges at me. “BOO!”

I still had to wee, you know. It’s a miracle that I didn’t widdle like a firehose in fright. In fact, if I had spent my life procreating like a normal person rather than existing in a state of arrested development, it’s entirely possible that a weakened pelvic floor would have made me wet my pants right there. He walks away laughing and I bravely mumble that he should really find an opportune time to fuck his mother.

The dudes leave. I remain stubbornly in front of the store. Another golf cart approaches. I flag it down.

Necessito taxi para Oaxaca?”

He drives me 200m up the road and charges me ten pesos. No- It’s not a rip-off. It’s the best ten pesos that I have ever spent. It’s a dollar that assuages my fear. It’s a coin that ensures I won’t make a YouTube cameo as a headless corpse in a snuff video.

Anyway, to wrap it all up, I get a cab to Oaxaca, pick up my luggage from the hostel, have the best wee ever, and make it to the bus station with three minutes to spare.

I said before that I don’t know how I get myself into these predicaments. I have an idea, it’s probably my robust taste for adventure- the same thing that will arguably be my downfall; but I’d be lying if I said that a small part of me didn’t enjoy these moments. Not at the time- at the time I’m a puddle of anxiety and fear- but in retrospect when I am safe, weeing, and warm, I giggle like a maniac. Perched on the hostel loo, enjoying a good-ol’ micturition, I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter. The thing about periodically finding yourself in situations where you don’t know if you are going to make it out without the loss of your dignity is that you really appreciate the little lights beyond the tunnel: flushing toilets, safety, the first drag of a Marlboro Light washed down with a mouthful of lemonade while waiting for your bus to Pochutla to arrive. My god. They’re like sunshine in summer.

The point of this post was actually to point out that my, um, Cuban experience has infected me with moderate levels of paranoia. I’m not sure I like it. It’s making me paranoid, actually. I’m paranoid about becoming paranoid. I usually don’t look at the world through a filter of mistrust. I usually don’t keep a mobile phone in my underpants. Here, I have had two evenings in a row where my survival instincts have come online. While it’s nice to know that I have enough common sense and intuition to allow me to escape unharmed; it’s also a big crash to earth to discover that you can’t automatically trust people. Maybe I’m not paranoid, maybe I just have a sense of safety awakening in me, something animalistic that has stirred and raised it’s furry head from slumber. Maybe there’s a fine line between security conscious and paranoid; and I am, for the first time, learning to skirt it.

Whatever it is, please call me on +52 5551 366 354. Anytime. I may need help, or I may just have a mobile phone in an opportunistic location. Either way, you will quickly become my favourite person.

The Definition of Insanity…

4 Jun

…is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.

An incident recently happened, an incident that culminated in an email that is too hilarious not to post and poke fun of. This is what happens when you sexually reject an egomaniacal, arrogant, narcissistic, delusional depressive with a penchant for the theatrical. I received this from an ex-boyfriend that has been repeatedly pestering me for sex. I told him no on five separate occasions, got the shits, and finally emailed him and told him to leave me the fuck alone. He went crying to a mutual friend, received no sympathy, told said friend to “fuck off”, and then sent me this. I’ve added my own comments in bold.

No. That’s unfair. To say all that & expect me not to contact you again. [Translation: you touched a nerve with your last email] Please read this whole thing at least.

Then you’ll never hear from me again.

Yes, I am capable of realising when I act like a cunt, & I do have insight. In fact, I’m going to be more honest than I’ve ever been, & I might be a bit of a cunt now, because that last email you sent me was pretty cunty really. I hope I can chalk it up to you quitting smoking or something. [Oh, for goodness’ sake- and he says that he has ‘insight’? Why not just ask if I’m on the rag and throw a block of chocolate at me?] Besides what have I got to loose [pointing out grammatical errors would probably be petty] that I haven’t lost already?

Yes I wanted to fuck you, actually I wanted to go down on you for a good while. [his ‘good while’ equates to two minutes of real time] Make little explosions in your brain. [I think it’s about time that someone explained the female orgasm to this boy] I inadvertently attempted to manipulate you. I thought you might still have a spark for me somewhere [despite constantly hearing otherwise] I thought you might want to just throw caution to the wind, play with a little fire, get drunk and fuck & not worry about all the relationship shit. [Translation: ‘No’ doesn’t actually mean ‘no’. ‘No’ means ‘Get her drunk and try’] I guess I thought if I could get you into bed you might feel something for me again. That’s all. Your right. [grammar! …sorry] I don’t see you so much as a “friend”, as I do an “ex-girlfriend”. I’m not sure at which point the “ex-girl” part was cut out of the equation. I think that’s pretty crucial. The reality is we have a history, as much as you seem to want to forget all about it all. [Golly, I wonder why?]

It’s not like I planned it out, to wait ‘till you were “drunk & trapped”, hell, I felt drunk and trapped because I’m a man and I have instincts and desires [Translation: having a dick is a curse] and a passion for you that goes beyond the superficial, despite what you like to believe about me. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Love + Testicles = Sexual Desire. [Translation: Having a dick is a curse. A curse, I tell you!] Men and women are built differently. Deal with it. Actually, Testicles = Sexual Desire, [Translation: So there! It’s not my fault. It’s my dick’s fault] but Love helps when it comes to monogamy.

I didn’t accuse you of leading me on purposefully. I noticed elements of body language [Translation: I clutched at straws] from you that I took as purely bio-chemical reactions to someone who used to have sex with you on a regular basis, me, remember? I guess you wish you never did. That sucks. I think I was a bit average in bed back in those days, a little mechanical maybe. I guess my ego does want to conquer that particular mountain again. My dick’s bigger than back then you know? [How To Get Women 101: Tell them, in a none-too-subtle way, that your penis has magically grown] Ah, *chuckle*. What a charmer I am. Just like you. My grandmother says you’re not very ladylike you know. Firing those curse words at me. [But writing a lady an email with seven ‘cunts’ in it is perfectly acceptable] Sorry, but I have no one else to talk to now since Glen [a mutual friend] has sided with you, which is to be expected, I’m pretty sure he’s into you as much as I am. I just push through the facade. No wonder I’m so unpopular with the both of you. [Yes, your whimsical honesty is the only reason you are unpopular.]

I don’t believe you ever said “I don’t want to fuck you”, [then you, my friend, weren’t paying attention] at least not in those words [see previous point]. So your use of quotations there is spurious. [something tells me that he is proud of this use of ‘spurious’] You said you didn’t want to “use me”. You said you didn’t want to “hurt me”. You said you don’t want “a relationship”. But you never said you didn’t want to fuck me. That’s exactly what I was clarifying that night. & as soon as I did, gave it my best shot. I went back to watching the movie right? Didn’t press that issue at all [except for the four previous times the issue was pressed until it bled] once I understood where the boundaries were. Yeah, that’s actually what really happened [No. It wasn’t.]. Then you spent the night stewing, I spent my night bawling into my pillow so you wouldn’t hear me. Sure, that’s a fella with only one thing on his mind. You wouldn’t believe the amount of hours my sorry ass has spent crying over you in my life. [Translation: you need to feel really bad about the fact that you refuse to fuck me. Bitch. Prick tease. Lesbian!]

As far as “wasting an hour of your life guilting you”, that’s just arrogant. At first you thought I was calling you a slut, so I don’t know if that’s your conscience talking, [Translation: I wont call you a slut, but I will insinuate it because you are a bit of a slut] when I was actually saying the contrary. & I don’t know how sleeping with an ex-boyfriend would make you slut by anyone’s standards. It was only a waste of an hour for you, because only I got something out of it. That’s not very friendly of you. [Translation: Because it’s ALL. ABOUT. ME. How dare you take the focus off my needs and wants for a second?] A waste is when nobody gets nothing. [Says the boy who went to bed with a wet pillow and a dry willy] It would’ve been charitable of you to have that talk, [Charitable? Charitable. Am I The Patron Saint of Pity Sex?] if you didn’t carry on about it as if I pulled my cock out and stuck it in your face. That would equate to a lack of respect. [‘You never waved your cock in my face?’ Wow. What a prince. It’s good to see boundaries somewhere.]

I really don’t see how my wanting to be intimate with you, proves that I don’t enjoy your company. That is a fundamental flaw in your argument, you seem to think men don’t have emotions or something. Well this man does ok? A copious fucking amount actually. If you can’t tell that I’m a sensitive guy, maybe it’s because you’re insensitive to me. That sounds about right. [Translation: I just gave myself a Joygasm with how clever that sounded] Like I said, caring and sex aren’t mutually exclusive. It’s just a difficult thing for a man to compartmentalise, I think it’s definitely related to having fucked you in the past. At least I never fucked you over, (‘cept over the kitchen bench that time, that was awesome…) […then why do I have absolutely no recollection of it happening?] Am I being too facetious? I think it’s because I’ve upped my meds. Maybe you should try it? [Translation: any woman who doesn’t want to fuck me is crazy and therefore in need of medicating] It’s a chemical thing, the lust I mean. Tricky to get around with anything but sheer willpower [No. It’s not. You just put your grown up pants on and DEAL WITH IT as an ADULT] and a clear understanding of the lines you have set. Which involves talking about it, not having to pretend like I’m a eunuch. [I think that your inability to procreate would indeed be a blessing for the human race.]

“No interest in being your friend and no regard for you as a person.” Well that’s just false. I held you in high regard until you ripped me a new one. [Translation: Bad CC! That’s a very bad CC! You don’t bruise fragile egos!] I’ve spent the last 6 months telling you how much I care for you, respect your intelligence, your cultural learning, independence, attitude etc. [Translation: See? You’re more than just a walking, talking vagina] and how much I want to be there for you. Talk about a waste of time, [Translation: I’ve spent hours trying to prise your knees apart and I get nothing. Nothing. Not even a whiff. Lesbian.] but it’s alright when you’re getting your ego stroked right? Never mind I’ve been wearing my heart on my sleeve. I have an interest in being around you, but really it’s that added dilemma of making what my balls want strictly out of bounds. Castration anxiety. [‘Castration anxiety’? …shouldn’t it be ‘The Blue-Balled Blues’?] It’s an internal conflict. Have I made you laugh yet or are you still frowning at the screen? Whatever.

Alison? [His ex-girlfriend who he is casually fucking] You really don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not as black and white as you want to make it. Her & I have an understanding, & I’ve spent plenty of time making sure she is alright. [I am assuming that this takes place in the three minutes that peel by before she is unceremoniously ejected from his bed: ‘Are you okay? Yes? Good. …Then why are you still here?’] I’ve had a lot of CALM conversations with her about it, which is a courtesy you no longer extend. [Gee, I wonder why?] I never led her on, I’ve been honest with her from the start that it was purely casual sex. I’ve never said anything nasty about her. Anything I’ve said to you, I’ve said to her face. [So you have said something nasty…] But you probably think that makes me a cunt. [Yep.] I think it makes me honest. Semantics really. I’ve basically done to her what you did to me back in the day, [Translation: you have the right to treat someone like shit if your heart was broken nine years ago] so it’s kind of funny that you’re getting angry at me about it and defending her, when you don’t know her from a bar of soap. [True. But you did say that she told you that she was in love with you and having casual sex with you was painful for her…] She’s made her feelings “abundantly clear”? Actually she has said she doesn’t know what she wants. [Translation: Therefore, I am free to exploit her] So I don’t know where you’re getting these facts from, except from your own aggravated overly-feminist delusions about what a lecherous villain of a man you think I am.

Is it because I licked your asshole that time? I thought that was a true show of commitment… (I’m just joking okay.) [A paragraph that was nearly edited for the sheer fact that reading it actually makes me vomit in my mouth a little bit.]

So, as you’ve told me twice [five times, actually], I won’t contact you again. After this. Third [Sixth] times a charm. If I pissed you off the other night, this email might well make you homicidal. [Translation: Have I pushed enough buttons for a response yet? Please? Anything- call me a cunt again, I don’t care…just…pay…attention to me!] Sorry. You really need to try & relax & calm down more, for the sake of your nursing at least, if you don’t want to become that cold-hearted, detached and angry [(Lesbian)] woman.

My idea is that true friends can be honest with each other. [Translation: Except when the honesty involves something I don’t particularly want to hear] In order for ex-partners to be friends there needs to be a level of emotional maturity which you’re not really giving me. I guess you could say the same about me. I’ve been working on it. But it requires a bit of give and take from both sides. [Translation: You give me eons of time to talk about my feelings like a hormonal teenage girl and I…take that time.]

You (& Glen) act like you being my friend is some kind of noble gesture on your part, but being around you for me, is like being run through an emotional meat-grinder. You left me. [(Bitch. Lesbian!)] So Ultimately, maybe I pushed things too far on purpose. I can’t cope with you keeping me at arms length constantly. [Translation: Let me fuck you. Please?] If you can’t understand or sympathise with that, then you’re not truly my friend. You’re the same victim-playing neurotic that you were back in the day. [How To Get Women 102: if you can’t harass her into bed you can always try to insult her, maybe it will break her confidence down low enough to fuck you] So I guess some things don’t change. I’m still the “self-centred narcissist” (I’m not sure how that syncs up with my anxiety disorder, maybe it’s a defence against the massive shame and self-doubt I’ve had in the intervening years since you dumped me? Not to mention the molestation & abandonment issues, there I go being the victim), and you’re still the feminist that is convinced I’m a bastard because I like sex, and have minimal notions of romance. I guess that makes me callous to a degree, (scars will do that). [AND I’M PLAYING THE VICTIM?!] I like sci-fi, not chick flicks y’know? [When all else fails, go with a stereotype.] I’ve tried, with the cooking you dinner and such. I’ve never figured out what you wanted in that regard. You never told me. You’ve always expected me to be a mindreader. [With some of the barbed comments that have flown through my head whilst in your company, I’m quietly thankful that you aren’t a mind reader.] Hell, I thought you hated the conventional notion of marriage as much as I did back then. Then look what happened. [Yeah, I got divorced. That’ll teach me.]

Actually, it’s not entirely me. You have a double-standard. You can’t carry on blogging about booty calls, writing about dripping vagina’s [Dripping vaginas?! When have I written about dripping vaginas?! Is my slutty, smutty alter ego updating my blog while I sleep?] & fat naked crazy women, getting into all kinds of extreme media, then turn around and expect a man to treat you as a sensitive romantic. [can somebody give this boy a dictionary with the words ‘persona’, ‘facade’ and ‘self defence mechanism’ highlighted, please?] You send the message that you’re just like one of the fellas, rough and tumble, up for it, bit of a tomboy, then when you get treated like that, [Ha! He admitted it!] you cry foul and pull out the feminist handbook. [Damn, I left my well-thumbed copy of Feminism for Dummies at his house…what on earth am I going to use to cock-block men with now?] You can’t have your cake and eat it too in that respect. If you have the right to be completely crude, then so do I, and any other man you’re with. If you want to be treated like a lady, than you have to act like one. Then I would do my best to be a gentleman and an old-fashioned romantic. That’s where the mixed messages come in for me. [Ah, I see. So you badgering me for a root like a piece of meat is all my fault. Okay, cool. Now I know. I will do my best to act like a demure Betty Draper in the future to stop anything like this happening again.] Maybe I was just raised differently. I always tried to do the right thing by you. Closed relationship? Open relationship? Casual Sex? Rough Sex?! (That never happened, not sure if you’re into that shit either, I’m not really). None of the above? Ok well shit. My bad. Maybe you should have never gotten with me in the first place. Because you’ve done a bang-up job of messing with my head ever since. [(you hideous, horrible, hard to bed lesbian wench)] I never needed any help with that.

It would be good if we could make something work, but, such is life. Maybe do some soul-searching yourself? I’ve admitted I’m fallible. [Have you? Where? All I read was justifications] Realise, that you have again spitefully attacked, & run away from, a guy who would actually do anything to make you happy. Including letting you go. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. That’s real love. [is that what love is? Harassing someone, guilting them, manipulating them and, when all else fails, writing them an offensive and insulting email. Shit. I’ve been doing the whole “love” thing wrong, then.] I want you to be happy even if that means I’m out of the picture. Have a nice life CC. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure you out, & I’ll never forget you. [(Lesbian.)]

-Anthony

[Final Translation: You asked me to leave you alone but your words stuck in my head like little, emotion-filled bullets of unfairness; so I had to stew for twenty four hours, binge-read your blog, cry, jerk off, eat a pizza, self medicate with several hundred beers, then fire this email at you. I will leave you alone. However, I will also periodically stalk Chattering Cat and feel indignant if you ever dare to ride a pole that isn’t attached to me.]

I’m in two minds about this- the person who wrote this wants a reaction from me, so posting this could be playing right into his hands. The adult thing would be to smile, delete and block him from all forms of communication. But, that’s boring. And, he is so ridiculous in this email- puffed up with his own sense of grandiosity like some ridiculous, oversexed flamingo- that I have to shred him.

A bit of back story is required to put this in context. Anthony and I were together when I was 21. I left him. In a bad, immature, slightly bitchy way. I married someone else. It didn’t work out. Anthony contacted me again when I was first divorced, wanting to be friends. I agreed. He wanted to catch up with me, to talk about what transpired between us years ago, to clear the air. I agreed. He put the hard word on me to take him back. I told him that I was just out of a marriage and he had a girlfriend. He said that he would leave his girlfriend, Alison, for me. I politely said no. A few weeks later we caught up again. He put the hard word on me again. I said no, politely but firmly. A few weeks later he messaged me. He and Alison had just broken up, did I want to hang out with him? Sure, he was keeping a casual sex relationship up with her, but that didn’t matter…did I want to fuck him now? After this, there were two more times where he either rang or bailed me up and badgered me into giving him another shot. My patience wore thin. I wound up saying “I want to be friends but do not want to fuck you and that isn’t going to change”. His reply was a wounded, “…that’s harsh.” I went on to say that I was a patient woman, but constantly bringing this up was wearing my patience thin and if he wanted to be my friend he should accept my offer of friendship and nothing else. He agreed.

I did want to be his friend because I enjoyed his company and I was incredibly sympathetic to how he felt. I know the feeling- liking someone that you know you can’t have. Anybody who is friends with the opposite sex knows how that feels. It’s hard, it’s painful and it sucks but it can be done. You can acknowledge your feelings without acting on them. I have done it myself. Recently, in fact. So when he repeatedly brought up the possibility of us tumbling into bed together, I told myself to be patient, that it’s not easy to have feelings for a friend.

Friday night, I went over to his house. We had a few drinks and watched a movie. At 1am, when I was too drunk to drive myself home, he put the hard word on me again. Badly. Relentlessly. He told me that I was leading him on by hanging out with him. He insinuated that I was easy: he didn’t understand how I’d fuck all these other men but not him (what other men? I’d like to meet these imaginary fellas. I do hope that they are nice guys, I’d like to think my promiscuous alter-ego is with someone who treats her well). It got so bad that I remember thinking ‘I’m drunk, not drunk enough to kill someone if I got into my car and drove home…but I would certainly lose my licence if I got pulled over…Do I really need a licence?’ I told him no- again– went to bed and left early the next morning without saying goodbye. He sent me an angry text message. I ignored it. He rang me several times. I ignored him. He emailed me. I told him to stop contacting me. He put it back on me: ‘You are the one who rudely left without saying goodbye and haven’t bothered responding to me. I’m trying to see how I’m the bad guy?’ Suitably agitated, I let him have it. I told him that his behaviour was reprehensible, I called him a self-centred narcissist and asked him to stop contacting me because I now had zero interest in being his friend. He stewed, boiled over, and emailed.

And, after telling me that he would leave me alone, he contacted me on Twitter.

He’s cute like a frog.

4 Mar

I do a lot of stupid shit when I’m drunk.

A few months ago I placed a restriction on myself: it’s fine to get mildly tiddled with friends and make devastatingly clever and funny insights about human nature at achingly hip bars that none of us have any business being in, but it’s not okay to be alone and drunk, in ones tiny-inner-city-flat. I have learnt that the latter ultimately leads to me tearfully caterwauling from one ridiculous concern to the next with maudlin 80’s pop music playing in the background.

Yesterday though, I had a “fuck this, I’m sad and I’m going to get drunk” moment. It felt good to relinquish my vice like control freak grip for an evening. Getting drunk alone seems to hedge the sticky line between “social 30-something” and “burgeoning alcoholic” in my mind. Drinking alone makes me feel shameful, as if I am spending hours furiously masturbating to internet pornography: it’s certainly a way to pass the time but in the end you just wind up naked from the waist down with the distinct impression that you are wasting your life.

Marieke Hardy has pointed out, “Drinking alone can be infinitely preferable to drinking with other people. For one thing, you don’t have to tolerate the company of other drunks.” So with that endorsement I took a deep breath and prepared to be naughty for a night.

Two bottles of average red wine later, I had a headache, a tiny-inner-city-flat in various degrees of chaos, a troubling mobile phone call history, a pink bra hanging precariously from the television, several blank spots in my memory, a small jar of glucosamine powder for animals, and a large chunk of material for a self deprecating blog post.

And, I would like to apologise to Charlie, David, Leeroy, Duane, Ben, Andy, and the person whose name I cannot remember who is simply saved in my phone as “Mr Awesome.”

Drunk Dialling

Between the hours of one and two on a rainy Tuesday morning, I thought that prank calling people would be “hilarious” rather than “fucking irritating”. I’d been trawling through my phone when I discovered that I still had the telephone numbers of men collected during my time on an internet dating site. Most of these blokes I had never met, I usually offered my mobile phone number in an offhand manner when they were sufficiently intriguing in email form and I couldn’t be bothered continuously logging in to respond. These fellows were saved as some variation of “Ben – POF”, and with their dating profile picture added so I could keep tenuous track of them. I had not conversed with any of these lads in months, to be honest I have no idea why their numbers were still in my phone.

Unless it was to provide 67 minutes worth of entertainment to a lonely, intoxicated, thirty-something who exists in a worrying state of arrested development.

I have a Prank Call app on my phone, a relic from my relationship with my ex which would see us waste oceans of time harassing our friends and falling into fits of thigh-slapping glee when they eventually spewed strings of profane words uttered in the rabidly pressured speech of the truly pissed off.  We discovered that, much like the SpeakEasy Text-to-Speech! app, Pranksterz! provided 87 minutes worth of entertainment to two bored, intoxicated twenty-something’s who existed in a worrying state of arrested development.

My first victim was Andy, then Ben, Charlie, and I’m sure you can gather the rest. Some answered their phone, some of them will undoubtedly discover baffling voicemails where a robotic-sounding Chinaman informed them that their food was ready at 1am and would they please get out of bed and come to the store and pick it up?

When I got to David, all hell broke loose.

David was the only one on the list whom I had actually met. He was a fellow that I shagged from Plenty of Fish who became progressively nastier when I suggested that I didn’t want to take our union further, ultimately leading to a three day long text war of Dynasty proportions at which point I shrilly threatened to “ruin him”.

David was called at 1:13am, 1:21am, 1:22am, 1:22am, and at 1:23am. At 1:37am, when an intoxicated thirty-something in a worrying state of arrested development got bored of using her iPhone app, David had a three minute conversation with a human being. Named Mindy. Who explained in badly accented California-girl English that the middle of the night was her chosen time to ring past sexual partners and inform them that she had Chlamydia. And, ergo, there was a small chance that they had Chlamydia, too.

At 1:41am David was reminded that hanging up on Mindy wasn’t nice. Mindy was merely showing neighbourly concern about the sexual health of David and his future partners. Unfortunately, David did not show an appropriate level of appreciation.

At 1:50am, Mindy was briefly crushed when David called her a “crazy cunt” (which sounds like a chain of discount stores hawked in late night infomercials by a red-eyed John Singleton). David insisted that he had no idea who Mindy was and that he had “a very clean cock”. Recovering quickly, Mindy referenced the overweight Staffordshire terrier that David frequently locked in the laundry when entertaining his lady friends, proving that they had indeed shared a tawdry evening together.

Upon hearing this, David fell silent and uttered an audible gulp. His thoughts seemed to ring loudly through the crackling air: How did she know about my dog? Maybe I have fucked this bird. Oh god. Maybe I have Chlamydia. Shit. Shit. SHIT!

Unfortunately, this beautiful prank was ruined when Mindy gave a loud burp, collapsed into giggles and disappeared in a telephonic beep, never to be heard from again.

Denes Glucosamine

The white jar sat innocently on the couch. I had no idea where it came from. Upon inspection, I discovered that it was Denes Powder, a “green lipped mussel and glucosamine formula for cats and dogs”. Having no pets, I was mildly confused. There were two selfies in my phone- one of me holding a parcel, one of me holding the powder. Further investigation unearthed parcel wrapping in the bin, which suggested that at some point during the night I had decided to sneak down to the mailbox and steal my neighbours mail, ostensibly hoping that the small jar-like shape in the package was some exotic brand of cosmetic. I can only imagine that I had an inebriated internal conversation, where I managed to convince myself that if the package hadn’t been collected by 11.30pm, she obviously didn’t want it and by stealing it I was actually doing all of the other residents of the complex a service by ensuring that small packages were not left on top of the communal mailbox.

I left my keys hanging in the front door, too. A karmic invitation for burglars to let themselves into my house while I snored like a drooling pirate fuckwit with my inexpensive bounty scattered at my feet.

There is red lipstick…on everything

I woke up on the couch with red lipstick smeared on my arm, my face and my cushions, an empty wine glass sitting upturned at my feet, the crumbs of the midnight ham and cheese toastie spread over both my bosom and the kitchen floor. A small square of gluten-free bread sat forlornly on the bench, half-moon bite mark taken out of it, a determined trail of ants marching to and fro from a small crack above my kitchen cupboard. At some point in the evening, I had also made myself an espresso and managed to paint the kitchen cupboards with abstract art using only the finest organic Columbian coffee grounds.

I have no idea how or why there is now a harlot coloured lipstick print on the E key of my laptop. Perhaps I fell in love with an E, or an Edward, or Bob Ellis. The likely explanation is that I have ceased typing, mid sentence, after spontaneously collapsing, gracelessly faceplanting my laptop in the process.

To be honest I’m not even sure why I donned red lipstick to throw myself around my apartment, alone, on a Monday night.

The ever present iPhone

My Google history usually provides an interesting insight into the evening: “hybristophilia”, “Placebo Loud Like Love video clip”, “is Scarlett Johansson a whore”, “Denes glucosamine human consumption”, “is Denes only for animal consumption”, “can I give Denes to a human”, “will I die if I eat Denes powder”, and “how do you spell schaudenfreude”.

Earlier in the evening I had received a text from a fellow writer that I have been on a few dates with. I recall receiving the message at about 8.30pm but, with a flow of words pouring out of me like vomit and a bottle of red wine under my belt already, I had decided against replying, choosing instead to bash away at my laptop like a frustrated Mozart. However, at some point during the night I had picked up my phone and composed a verbose and mistyped SMS- involving entirely too many emoticons for anybody over the age of seventeen to use- which endeavoured to inform him that I found his thick framed hipster glasses “ironically dreamy” and that, despite the fact he is only my height and I would really prefer it if he could find a way to stretch his physique “only about half a foot or so, I’m not picky”, I would really enjoy another date with him if he would be “amenable to the idea” because he is “cute like a frog”.

Fuck. A. Duck.

Thankfully, I never sent it. And, thankfully, he doesn’t read my TMI blog, because I seriously doubt that I would receive much more than the awkward suggestion of alcoholics anonymous if I had not blacked out before hitting send.

IMG_0929

 

Dear Yoko…

25 Jan

KITCHEN PIECE

Hang a canvas on a wall.
Throw all the leftovers you have
in the kitchen that day on the
canvas.
You may prepare special food for the piece.

1960. Winter.

I never really had an opinion about Yoko Ono.

Until I saw her exhibition.

Now I hate her.

I despise her for the same reason I do Lady Gaga: weird for the sake of weird is not “art”. A dress made out of meat is not a statement on animal rights, in much the same way that this:
IMG_0839
is not “a challenge to accept the simplicity of the situation.”

It’s an apple. On a perspex platform.

That’s it.
ono-box-piece
I started the exhibition with Object in Three Parts (a diaphragm, a birth control pill and a condom), watched thirty seconds of Bottom (an 80 minute video consisting solely of hairy asses walking away from the camera) and felt some rubber boobs: Touch Me III.

I left the Museum of Contemporary Art silently congratulating myself on finding a way to waste both twenty dollars and forty minutes in such a spectacular fashion. Perhaps I can shoot heroin into the gap between my toes on my next day off.
yoko_ono_beat_piece
I understand the argument that “art” is “art” if the “artist” intends it to be “art”.

However

This is a moot point that could be debated in circles for centuries. It’s the modern-art version of ‘if a tree falls in the woods…’

Look, I could take a shit in a cake pan, bake it at 180 degrees, then cut a slice and serve it with cream. Doesn’t make it a cake.

Or art, for that matter.

I could convince you to eat a small mouthful. It would be “food” in the loosest definition of the term, but it would not make me a chef.

Or an artist.

“Shit in a Pan” is a performance piece that makes a brash statement about our ever expanding waistlines. It’s a commentary on processed, “fast food”. It’s a communiqué on reality television shows like Masterchef.

Or, it could just be a turd in a pan.

OnoFlyPiece270

I could walk up to the object of my affection, pick my nose, and wipe the contents of my finger diagonally across his forehead.

That could totally be “art”. I would call “The Boogey-man”:

a bold statement on the perception of women in the dating game and how gender roles are continuing to evolve in society.

But it wouldn’t make me an artist.

Arguably it would just make me an asshole.

Who would have problems getting laid.

And who should never reproduce.

syllable

Let me put it like this: when a three year old shows you a squiggle on a piece of paper, you might ask them what it is.

“It’s a sailboat!” they’d reply with a toothy grin.

And, if you’re honest with yourself, you would think: No it’s not. It’s a bunch of coloured squiggles. It’s nothing. Frankly it’s a load of garbage because you are really shitty at drawing due to your complete lack of motor skills.

You wouldn’t say that, though. You’d ruffle their hair, tell them it’s wonderful, and stick it on the fridge never to be thought of again.

That, to me, sums up Yoko Ono’s art. It’s a bunch of crap from someone with arguably low levels of technical talent. She gets gallery space because we, as a society, continue to indulge her.

Why?

Because of Mark Lindsay Chapman.

I know, I know. I’m heading into controversially dark territory here. Just humor me for a moment.

I could point out that pumping some lead into Yoko instead of John would have been more beneficial for society as a whole: it would have made millions of Beatles purists- and Ringo- happy. But I won’t. It’s mean and nasty. Plus, it’s too easy; it’s the writing equivalent of punching a blind kid and stealing his ice cream.

I am, however, going to say that if Chapman had never shot Lennon, Yoko Ono would have disappeared into obscurity, probably some time in 1992. John and Yoko would have divorced. It would have been splashed all over the media. She would have received a few million dollars, he’d have made a bad Christmas album to fund the lawyers, and that would have been that. Much like Heather Mills, she would be wealthy enough to disappear into obscurity with a large pile of blow and a few hundred pairs of shoes.

Maybe not pairs of shoes in Heather Mills’ case.

Unfortunately, when John Lennon died we became stuck with Yoko, in much the same way that Kurt Cobain’s shotgun lobotomy forever plagued the world with Courtney Love. If his trigger finger never itched, she would have O.D’d on heroin long before she could have released the tripe that is Celebrity Skin.

It’s true, both murder and suicide are selfish acts. So, unfortunately for us, these women and their atrocious art now plague society like a bad case of herpes.

182207_689856959860_89904323_40644942_663757_n
Back at the Museum of Contemporary Art, I overheard a staff member saying that she spoke to Yoko. Each day, Yoko calls the gallery and, if you are lucky enough to be beside the phone when it rings, you get to lose two minutes of your life listening to the sanctimonious ramblings of a cultivated eccentric.

“Was she nice?” the fellow beside me asked with a vaginal squeal of barely disguised enthusiasm.

What a stupid question, I thought. Of course she was nice- you are allowing her to make an obscene amount of money from a modicum of talent. Stalin would have been nice.

But, if I were Yoko, I wouldn’t ring and pleasantly chat to people.

I’d ring and confuse them:

“Gurnlikeafishbam. GURNLIKEAFISHBAM! Do you understand me? Gurn. Like. A. Fish. Bam. BAM. BAM! Gurn like a fish bam. Now. Gurn. Like a fish. BAM……..You aren’t Gurning…….you still aren’t Gurning…..You displease me. Human.”

I’d ring to scare them:

“Do you see the small red dot trained directly above your left ventricle? Well, Felix- my sniper- has been instructed to shoot if you can’t guess the number between one and five I’m currently thinking of. This means that you have a 20% chance of survival, and I have a 97% chance of making the front page of the papers tomorrow.”

Or, if bored. I would simply insult them:

“I bet your vagina looks like an over-the-hill bulldog that has just eaten a glazed doughnut.”

Nobody could say anything, because my phone call would be

a performance piece making a statement about the adoration of celebrity in our culture.

tumblr_mh5h44s4361qe31lco5_r1_1280

I finished the exhibition by watching Cut Piece “one of Yoko Ono’s most significant artworks today.” Basically, Yoko sits in a chair and has her clothes randomly cut from her body. It was “financially depleting…but the emotional toll was the most challenging aspect of Cut Piece

She first performed it in 1964, and repeated it again in 2003. It was that good. Apparently. Yoko Ono has said of the piece, “People went on cutting the parts they do not like of me finally there was only the stone remained of me that was in me but they were still not satisfied and wanted to know what it’s like in the stone.”

I think that if you smoke copious amounts of weed that statement begins to make sense.

Anyway, I watched Cut Piece and couldn’t help but think: My God, the old girl is still quite tight for 70…how does she manage that? Veganism? Pilates?

p01bkg5v

You could say that I’m being a vapid bimbo- or a perverted freak- for noticing the flatness of a pensioner’s stomach. Or, perhaps I’m making

a statement about how ageing women are perceived in society in regards to the “Male Gaze” of cinema.

Maybe my problem is that I just don’t “get it”. I reread the exhibition program before I wrote this post. Cut Piece is “an exploration on the relationship between older and younger women as well as a question of dignity, vulnerability and audience participation”. Bottom is “a detachment of the human body and a meditative comparison of abstract, curved shapes” and Touch Me III “addresses the quiet undercurrent of violence done to women in society. The depressions and gouges left on the silicone is a stirring reminder of the violent treatment that so many women endure in their daily lives.”

Anyone got any heroin?

Closet