The morning after the night before

Now i try not to have regrets but admittedly, when you adore alcohol as much as i do, you are bound to hav a few. Just a few.

Nevertheless i can usually see a mortifying incident in an entertaining light as often the most embarrassing stories turn out to be the best. And im a sucka for a good story even at the cost of my self respect. Sadly James hadnt even supplied me with that. I didnt even have a good story to justify having to endure James' love-sick, post-coital antics. I was understandably put out and to make matters worse, Dutchy was walking around giving himself literal and figurative pats on the back believing his master-mind, match-making skills had been the reason the depraved act had occured. I really wanted to wipe the smug look of his face and tell him that getting me into bed these days was not exactly a task of monumental proportions.

James' shortness immediatly became a MASSIVE issue and i went to great lengths to ensure we were never standing next to each other in order to possibly delude myself about his unfortunate vital satistics. I was not about to do a Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise. That really is not my style.

Even worse was how comfortable he suddenly became in front of me. I think he thought we had bonded or something. Lord knows what gave him that impression. He now felt it necessary to inform me everytime he decided to go for a wank, which i normally dont mind from my guy friends or even 'lovers', but James even reminding me he had a penis had me wanting to sew up my vagina and move to a convent. I was really mad at my little badger and she was equally mad at me.

Worse still was his suden desire to talk about his 'number twos' not directly to, but around me which is just as bad. Now i knoew blokes discuss this type of thing and my guy friends back home make no effort to hide this topic from my delicate ears but me and James (as far as he was aware) were still in the early stages of courtship. WHAT WAS THIS GUY ON?

DO the Scotts not understand that the morning after the night before is a hugely delicate situation and under no circumstances must 'wanking' or 'number twos' be mentioned. I mean it, even if you are about to come in your pants/shit yourself you do not mention either of these two topics. They are strictly taboo. WHat would you do if the girl you had just bumpd uglies with came downstairs and stated 'shit i've run out of tampons and im literally GUSHING right now.' Exactly. You see my point. I didnt think this would need explaining but i suspect James (having confessed he had been at a strict all boys boarding school all his life) had not socially evolved and i certianly did not have time to help him grow up.

Sadly things were going to get worse before they got better.

FREEDOM TO SCOTLAND

It soon became clear from my first day at the hostel in St Kilda, Melbourne that potentials were running low. It appeared that 'Scottish James',a fairly well built, if a little stocky, rugby player was my best bet. Being short had always been a deal breaker for me, but i wasnt planning on sleeping with him. I merely wanted to indulge in a little innocent flirtation.

He wasnt exactly charming but he was sweet enough and the accent obviously helped his cause immeasurably (this wouldnt be the last time i let an accent blind me from the blatently obvious physical and social flaws of a man). Sadly our blossoming romance was hindered significantly by the interferance of 'dutchy' whose accent almost became as annoying as his personality itself. With Dutchys help i was suddenly transported back to prep school where flirting and the act of seduction in general was carried out through a series of Chinese whispers across the playground. 'James really likes you' he would constantly tell me. I resisted the urge to bitch-slap him in his greasy face before explaining 'Dutchy, i would have to be either blind or socially retarded not to know James likes me due to the fact he gets a massive errection everytime he talks to me'. This was no joke. And a massive turn off. After a while i became concerned for James' health. i didnt know if one could suffer from dick strain, but if you could, James was definatly going to. I also deeply judged myself when, on the odd occasion he didnt go stiff on sight, i got offended. Seriously, how insecure can i get???

Furthermore James' flirting skills were not exactly up to par. He acted sober how i would act after a bottle of vodka. Inappropriate touching of the knee, whispering cring-a-licious sweet nothings in my ear and just general invasion of personal space. I've always mantained i would hate the drunk me. And this just goes to show.

What caused me to get with him then remains a mystery of Poirot proportions. I suspect the unjustified amount of alcohol i consumed that evening had something to do with it but then, one can always play the alcohol card. Its too easy and totally unfair. After all you werent complaining when those two glasses of red got you to second base on your HOT date last week. And you werent full of hate when you found that bottle of gin in the cupboard after whats his name broke up with you, were you? Nah didnt think so.

To be honest, we were skinny dipping prior to the incident so i suppose in my ever efficient head i thought the hardest part was already done. Plus i was fooking freezing and what better way to warm up? Besides, i wouldnt be able to tell how short James was when on my back. We could do this,i decided, but standing up was out of the question.

So we clothed up for the sake of a few straglers on the beach and legged it down to the end of the pier. I was immediatly impressed. It was cold. Freezing in fact but Scotish James was packing. His muscular body certianly did the trick and he continued to dock his boat in my harbour for over an hour. FREEDOM TO SCOTTLAND.

Afterwards we went to bed where i got involved in some Lady of the Night action by sneaking off as soon as he fell asleep/passed out. I was dying to pass out myself and forget the whole affair, which was quickly becoming something i knew i should regret. Even in my drunken state i was aware of the effect waking up naked next to James would have on me. I needed at least two cigs before hearing that accent.

Funny how quickly a shag can change ones opinion on a whole nation.

AUS HERE WE COME (by 'we' i do of course mean myself and my badger but by 'come' i do not mean orgasm)

Having sufficiently disgraced myself in New Zealand it was time to move on. I was thoroughly dissaponted in the native talent and seeing as i had failed to bag myself a mouri/all black i was more than ready to try my luck 'down under' to improve my luck 'down under'. I hadnt come all the way across the world to simply frolick with yet more English boys. I could barely look myself in the eye such was the extent of my resentment. I promised my little badger as we boarded the plane that we would no longer waste our time with any Tom, Dick or Harry. Juan, Pablo and Francois HERE WE COME.

FAMOUS. LAST. FUCKING. WORDS

Welcome to 'Who's the Daddy' with your host Angelina Jolie

Loose is up the duff. Shes got a bun in the oven. Shes fucking PREG.

This is concerning.

I have never known anyone in our situation (by that i mean under 25) to get pregnant. I dont even need to ask if she's going to keep it. Loose is so completly inept that at 20 years old her father still locks her in her room until she tidies it. I would usually find this TOTALLY uncalled for except things in L's room tend to get so bad living organisms begin to sprout. Objects seem to gain lives of their own, so is the depths of her opposion towards hygeine.

This method of control often backfires on her father who once went as far as to offer up the ultimatum 'tidy your room or you're out'. Much to the amusement of me and Ez she went upstairs, packed a bag (being careful not to actually tidy) and left the house. Our amusement was short lived as she moved in with us and objects in our room (by that i mean Ez' room where i usually reside) started sprouting legs too.

Anyway, It transpires that the father could be one of three contenders.

There's Tommy: the dashing rugby player who i believe missed out a few stages of evolution in the brain organ department. I truly believe that if he went for an MRI scan doctors would pronounce him brain dead. He is essentially a walking corpse.

Andy: The objects of L's desires for near on a year. Although she assures me they were once an 'official item' i am sure he never saw it as anything more than a casual shag. Possibly because all they ever did was get drunk and...shag.

Or finally, and this one really takes the cake: Jack her personality-less husk of an ex boyfriend who finally stopped ignoring her calls and literally running away whenever he saw her to grant her one night of 'pleasure'. That worked out well for her didnt it.

Its like some warped 'blind date' instead the winner not only gets a date but an illegitamate child and the presneter would definatly have to be someone like Monica Lewinsky or, depending on the budget, Angelina Jolie. Now there is a gameshow i'd like to watch.

The funny thing is that when i rang L to ask her how she was and who was looking after her she reeled off a list of her uni friends who had all been through the same thing before. This blew my mind. L didnt have one girlfriend at uni who wasnt just out of private school and wasnt a complete sissy. A lot of them didnt even use the work 'cunt'. Pussys. I wonder what 'Daddy' would say if he knew. I then scolded myself for being so grossly sterotypical. It doesnt take a certain type of person to make a mistake like getting pregnant. I'm just lucky it hasnt happened to me. It so easily could have and me and the ex had a couple of scares.

However, if you look to the media i think this is the sterotype they project. Underage Mums must be 'jobless','chavs' basically no hopers. I love 'underage and pregnant' a documenary on BBC3 which does exactly what it says on the tin. But Not once have i seen an episode where the underage mum-to-be is a middle class, daddys little princess who was simply unlucky. Its easy to forget how easy these mistakes are to make sometimes...it doesnt just have to be an irresponsible drunken fling, it could be the breaking of a condom or the failing of a pill. It could happen to any of us and i bet it has happened in your friend group more than you could ever have imagined.

Im glad Loose has friends around her who know the drill.

It really is a shitty sitch.

Loose morals

I recieved an email today from my friend Lucy aka Luce aka 'Loose'. It read;

'I have just woken up to find 2 used condoms on the floor and noone to claim them. FML'

This kind of gem is commonplace with Loose so please dont be concerned that i was neither shocked nor appalled and simply replied;

'This confirms what i have long suspected of you. That your birth was merely the result of an inbred sympathy fuck. You are retarded.........and slutty.
Have a good day x'

I have no doubt in my mind that Loose knows who the condoms belong to and that she is either claiming she doesnt for A. entertainment value or B. because she is ashamed. This is the kind of warped logic i have to work round with Loose on a daily basis where she believes that fucking someone and not knowing who the next day is better than fucking someone ugly. I couldnt be bothered to yet again explain that while the latter is still highly unfortunate and not acceptable of a facebook status update, it is nevertheless the lesser of two evils and that everyone experiences the effects of beer goggles at some point.

I know we all struggle at times to put names to faces but i still stand by the opinion that we should all be able to put names (or faces) to condoms. Especially when they are used and lying on our bedroom floor.

Auckland attraction

I arrived back in Auckland at around 4pm, significantly rested and somewhat aroused at the prospect of a night out. It had only been 3 days since my last drinking extraveganza but i wasn't going to slack off. Not since i was having such a good run.

I was meeting an old school friend who i hadn't seen since we finished school over 8months ago. Meeting Laura was the equivalent of eating the last slice of cheesecake when you're already full. You are completly satisifed without it, but you eat it because it's there. I hadnt missed Laura, or actually given her a second thought since our last interaction but now i knew she was in the same city as me, the otherside of the world, i was filled with genuine excitement. I was also hugely eager to see if her 6months in Aus had relaxed her anally retentive self.

At prep school me and Laura had been inseperable. Then, as so often happens when relinqished from its repressive grip, we drifted apart. Our intrests drastically changed and while Laura became obsessive about hockey,i was more concened about concealing the affair i had started with a 6th former from his girlfriend and her blood thirsty friends. When said 6th former finally ended his relationship and ours could be made public the expression donned by Laura whenever we engaged in conversation was one which could only have been brought on by anal penetration. Perhaps she accidentally sat on her hockey stick, giving a new meaning to 'stick up ones ass'.

I believe the reasons for her sudden resentment towards me were two fold; firstly there was my sudden physical flourish into woman hood and while my height had denied me any chance of romance or even a dance at the prep school discos, it had secured me under-age entry to clubs in my first years of the senior school ( i was just 14 when i danced on my first bar top). Furthermore, to add insult to injury, not only did my once lanky deformaty gain me noteriety as 'legs' in the senior school but i also caught up with, perhaps overtaking Laura in the tit department. Only a year before Laura had been the Pamerla Anderson of the school, flaunting her 34 B's with increased fervor at every opportunity. Disco's, cinema trips...even all-girl sleepovers. They were the holy grail of popularity, gaining her the respect of every 12 year old boy, and most of the girls in our year. However, in the senior school breasts were a dime-a-dozen and certainly didn't count for much if you failed to be able to shift the baby fat that plagued her until she was 16. This was never something that i had to worry about and as my parents often reminded me, there was more meat on a half eaten chicken wing than on just one of my arms. I started saving for butt-implants the day i turned 12. Then i turned 14 and spent my savings on a bottle of vodka and my first malboro lights.

Anyway the first night with Laura came and went without any considerable grievences. Besides i had noone to bitch and moan to about the few almost unforgivable comments made, such as, after not being able to squeeze into my body-con mini skirt i was informed 'guys say they prefer a curvier figure anyway'. My slight annoyance towards this little gem of intelligence was significantly diminished when she failed to get into her own body-con mini skirt. I kept quiet through her huffs and puffs of frustration until she picked up my vintage off the shoulder LBD and sneered 'i would try this on but your style has always been a bit...'alternative' for me'. Oh well excuse me miss Jack wills-abercrombie and fitch BITCH, do you wanna take those lemon yellow crocs off and say that to my face??? Resisting the urge to do a round-house kick to her face i simply finished my lipstick and said kindly 'you'll find something. Most people put on weight when they go travelling anyway'.

I was also slightly miffed when Laura instigated the '5 foot rule', similar to that used in the prep school to prevent under-age sexual liasons but this time it was designed to ensure not one single, teeny weeny puff of my cigarette found its way into her squeeky clean lungs. So there i stayed 5 feet away at all times. Whether i was smoking or not. After all, that way i could ensure i was not associated with her when she insisted, over and over again that she would drink 'apple sourz' during a round of sambucca shots. That is really not something i can condone, but did nevertheless take advantage of the spare sambucca each time. Obviously.

I was informed the following morning that i had been found begging a kebab man to let me off 5 dollars for a donner meat. Seeing as the actual price was 5.49, i was essentially asking for free food, which apparently makes me a 'tramp'. I dont know what these people base their opinions on but in my eyes that makes me ecconomical. Apparently i had thought banging my shoe on the counter would make my argument more effective which apparently makes me a 'twat'. In my eyes that makes me assertive.

I had just finished tying the noose from which i desired to hang myself as LAura reminded me yet again how 'un-cooth' my behaviour had been the previous night and that even a kebab man deserved respect. This outraged me no end and i quickly assured her that in my opinion the career of a kebab man is sacred like buddahs very fat rolls and that my determination to get my donner meat had only been indicative of my deep respect for the work they do.

However, our dispute was brought to an abrupt end when Tim, my current scouser crush burst into the room and upon seeing Laura, burst into hearty laughter. Keen to know what the laughter was about i said 'oi Tim, what the fuck are you laughing about' and his reply gives me a smug tingling in my loins to this very day. Pointing at Laura he gasped 'when she got in last night she burst into tears and said 'oh my god i just let some guy go down on me and i dont even know his name'. I could have laughed, i could have scorned but I believe i took the high road after this and didnt even smile.

Instead i simply initiated a cheerful rendition of 'and i dont even know his last naaaaaaaaame' by carrie underwood, obviosuly adjusting the lyrics to 'and i dont even know his first name', everytime she walked in and out of the room. Cooth shmooth.

Travellers guide to smoking, shagging and sniffing; Part 3

ALWAYS leave room in your back-pack to accomodate for shopping. No matter how much you tell yourself that you already have everything you need and that you will not unnecessarily spend money on things you dont require...you will.

Self deception is a common crime and one that i committ all too regularly. From not shaving your minge before a first date to stop you sleeping with him straight away, to not taking your credit card with you on nights out to prevent you spending your entire wage...more often than not you will sleep with him anyway (and have to run to the bathroom and dry shave before doing so, probably cutting your vag in the process) and borrowing money off your mates to pay for more drinks. We should just save ourselves the bloody trouble.

Ok, so i may not have needed the vintage, leopard print maxi dress i picked up in Whiaheke the other day. But its never about need is it? You didnt need that second piece of cheesecake. You didnt need to shag your best-friends boyfriend. Of course our wants are often the things that get us into the most trouble, but theres nothing wrong with leaving a little extra space in one back-pack.

I am not faced with the heart rendering task of leaving somethings behind. I'm going to have to be cut-throat.

I think my PJ's will be the first to go.
Im planning on sleeping naked A LOT when i get to Aus anyway.

Romance at 12,000 feet

I never thought i would do it. It was a battle that had been raging for months between my heart and my head and for once it was always my head that would emerge victorious (if only it had chosen to be so forceful with my Ex).

But my guy friends from home, who met me in Queenstown were persistent and not usually one to follow the flock, yet also not wanting to be a great bit pussy...i eventually agreed. I handed over my card with trepidation, my eyes closed eyes and hands shaking, as if i was being asked to reach out and touch fire. Once i had punched in my pin i knew there was no refunds and no going back. I felt like i had just signed my own death certificate.

That night while the boys buzzed with excitement i took myself off to bed. A four day bender was the perfect excuse but really i was just too fucking nervous to hear them discuss it any longer. I didnt get any sleep.

The next morning i met the boys, puffy eyed and trembling. They too were considerably quiter, and i knew exactly why. We got to the Skydive site and i watched as the boys were paired with their tandem masters. All of them bar one (who was still a strapping 6foot girl) were strong, strapping 6foot tall men and i felt myself instantly ease. Not only did i feel that i would be infinatley safer strapped to one them, i also relished the opportunity to be strapped tightly to a tall, muscular man...even if it was 12,000 feet in the air and hurtling towards my death.
After a while i heard a voice behind me which sounded like a cross between a cartoon mouse and a child who had just inhaled helium. I turned around, not initially noticing who had spoken to me until i looked down. You must be fucking joking. My Tandem master, Steve, was my size width wize but at most 5 foot 2. I tried my hardest to fiegn a smile but i fear it was in vein and my unease immediatly shone through.

My face was contorted into a dramatic cringe as Steve stood behind me, strapping me up. I swear he even had to tip-toe to fasten my shoulder straps. I could see the boys sniggering and i gave them the finger. Oh they'd be laughing alright when i slammed into the ground at 100mph and they had to identify my mangled corpse. Oh then they'd be laughing the other side of their face. Fucking idiots. By this time i was visibally agitated. I wasn't the worst though. For all their confidence and excitement the previous night, one of the boys was nearly in tears. I looked from his tandem master to mine thinking 'what the fuck have you got to cry about asshole. At least you wont have Danny De'vito strapped to your back'.

We got onto the plane. I was with three of the other boys. They all quickly shot-gunned their order out of the plane and before i knew it...i was going last. Oh this wasn't bravery on their part as i quickly discovered. 'God i would hate to be last' they kept repeating. 'I just want to get it over with'. How chivalrous. Not.

So we reached 12,000 feet and i turned my head as one, then two, then tree fell out of the plane and into the lustrous, translucent sky. The wind was now swirling into the open plane like a boystrous little brother, teasing me, daring me to jump. I scooted apprehensivley to the edge of the plane where Steve told me to hang my legs under-neath its body. At this point i had relinquished all power into Steve's minature hands and i felt his body shift into its position behind me. I must say, i have had a number of men behind me in my time and considering his size, i find it ironic how Steve made me feel the most uneasy.
The wind was so loud now i could barely think, its volume broken only by the loud pulsating of my heart which seemed to be beating loudly in my ears. I think it helped that we didnt have a countdown and that i didnt know when it was coming. (seriously,whoever invented the countdown is a real mc asshole as it really does unnecessarily build tension-i think Richard Whiteley and Carol Vordeman are somewhat to blame for its popularity, not to mention the Swedish band 'Europe' who made a number one hit out of the concept itself. I remember havng my jabs done before i came out and everytime the Nurse was about to say '3' i pulled away. In the end she just stabbed me on '1'. Bitch).

So anyway, there we were, free-falling towards planet earth. Just me and 'mi midget'. I think 'free-floating' would be a more appropriate term for this mode of travel for it really did feel like we were being blown upwards by a huge fan, rather than falling at all. It was mind blowing and all my fears and worries were quite literally blown away. Steve grabbed my hands which had been firmly fastened to my body and extended them outwards. The scene was highly reminiscient of the one in 'Titanic' where Jack and Rose stand at the helm of the ship with their arms out-stretched. I considered saying 'i'm flying Steve' but decided that i had enough to deal with without cringing myself and my tandem master out. Besides if he was to suffer a violent, physical cringe it might jeopardise our safety (see, always thinking pracitcally i am).

Anyway, it was all very romantic and i wondered how possible it was for someone to hook up with their tandem-master mid fall. After all, they were already in prime doggy-style position. As we all know, fear is known to be one of the greatest natural aphrodisiacs so as we began to approach the ground, Steve's mouse-like little voice began to sound ever more seductive.

This ended with a rather uncomfortable landing where i remembered all too late what Steve had told me about lifting my legs to land and i slammed into the hard ground. Not hurt though...too high on adrenaline, i unattached myself from my master. Steve went to give me a high-five but i practically scooped him up and hugged him tighly instead. 'Look matey, you just saved my life, i think that deserves a little more than a high-five dont you?' I thought. He looked a little taken aback but Steve's not one complain. I looked at him for one last time. Men fall into many different categories. There is the 'make breakfast in bed for' guy (the one you sleep with and dont want to leave the next morning). The '3 am guy' (last resort), the 'fourth cocktail guy' (more commonly known as the product of beer goggles) but Steve was something new altogether. Steve was a member of a rather elusive category of men, one that only the very bravest and fear-less women will encounter. He is the '12,000 feet guy.' And although i see no future for us on solid ground, im sure our relationship would flourish amongst the clouds overlooking Lake Waktipu.

Oh Steve. We will always have our free-fall.

Regular old angel routine

The last few days have seen me tucked away down in Tauranga with my Grandfather. The weather has stayed exceptional and, having yet to master the concept of 'suncream' i am looking a little pink, resemling an under-cooked kebab. Ironically i also look as if i have eaten 20 of them...with a side of chips everytime. My diet must start tomorrow. It simply MUST!

My Grandfather and his girlfriend are the archetypal Grandparents. Lovely, kind and sweet. Even if a little...bumbling. And i must say, i am playing the role of angelic Grand-daughter with terrific ease and conviction. I am generous with my p's and q's (which believe it or not, comes rather naturally. After all, i may be the one that accidentally snogs your boyfriend but i wall ALWAYS say thank you after i do so). But i must say i feel like a bit of a fraud and i think two nights here might just be enough before my act starts to slip.

For example, the topic of 'current affairs' particually the modern social crisis (of which i believe me and my friends back home to be key players) comes up regularly and i keep finding myself condemning teenage drinking (with false enthusiasm i can assure you). 'i know isnt it awful' i declare with imitated disgust (all the while visions of me and my friend Liz stumbling back home from the club BUTT NAKED taking part in what we have now named 'the naked mile).
'And you should see how these young girls dress' My Grandfather says, shaking his head in dismay.
'I know' i find myself continuing 'these girls back home wear virtually nothing' (again my mind slips back to my bedroom in England to the regular Saturday night routine of getting ready where Emily exclaims 'i dont think my dress is short enough', in a garmett that if it was any shorter you'd be able to see what she had for breakfast).

A few days earlier at my Godparents house in Auckland i had emerged from the spare-room in my outfit for the days boat trip across to Whaiheke. 'Ok we'll just wait for you to put your shorts on and then we'll go' my Aunty said innocently packing up the sandwiches. I looked down at my dress. It wasnt that short, surely. But, not wanting to spark an unnecessary debate about the ever-rising hemlines of Europe i turned back to my room and put some shorts on. In my opinion it totally ruined the concept i was going for. Sort of leggy-chic, but nevertheless. My God-father is very passionate about global-warming and i was tempted to tell him that the receeding hem-lines were as inexplicable and inevitable as the receeding ice-caps. Only while the latter could spell the possible end of the human race, the former was probably resposible for the increased procreation of the species (illegitimate procreation, but procreation none-the-less).

I do feel like i'm betraying my own kind of course. Why i feel the need to so passionatley argue against them i do not know. I suppose i feel like, the more opposed to something i am, the better i am at hiding the fact that deep down all i want to be doing is lying comatose in a puddle with kebab smeared on my nipples. However, maybe i should cool things a little. After all, it was wise old William Shakespere who said 'the lady doth protest too much'. Perhaps im not as convincing as i believe and maybe when i say ''my friend' walked home naked one night' it is all too obvious that the friend to which i refer, is me.

Earlier my Grandpa was mid-rant about how my Australian cousin who i am to visit soon, is a heavy smoker. I told him i would do my best to wean him off it but really all i could think was 'free smokes, free smokes'. I felt like one of those cartoon characters when dollar signs light up in their eyes, but instead, i was seeing cartoon fags.
Similarly when Grandpa asked 'do you drink?' upon my arrival i almost laughed out loud imagining what my friends back home would think of the question. Instead of saying 'well of course i do Grandpa, crack open the gin', i sweetly replied 'i do enjoy a nice glass of wine Grandpa'. Still, i think cracks in my demure facade began to show as i finished my third glass while he still sipped on his first.

But you know, i've decided not to feel too guilty. Yes i suppose i am not being TRULY myself. But i'm not exactly going to divulge details of my debauchery to my elder family members. I do not want to be responsible for any premature deaths and i certainly dont want my Grandpa's grave-stone to read 'He loved his family dearly-except his wine-chugging, promiscuous Grand-daughter'. I think its just something you have to do to preserve a healthy relationship. I suppose thats the kind of logic that sees adulterers lying to their partners, but this is definatley different. Family ties are irrevocably fragile and i completely condone a few white-lies in order to preserve them.

Because really, unlike boyfriends, family are for life. Not just for Christmas.

Travellers guide to smoking, shagging and sniffing; Part 2

Never under any circumstances sleep with your roommate before establishing what level of ass-hole he is on. Give it at least three days and if you get ANY indication that he will behave like a class A cunt after your sexual encounter (this can be assertained by watching his behaviour with other females he has seduced and subtle questioning of his friends) then do not, i repeat DO NOT sleep with him. This will make the rest of your time in the hostel VERY unpleasant and you may even have to do the cringe-tastic post-sex room change.

If you really MUST shit where you eat...leave it until your last night and book an EARLY bus ride outta there

Dilemma: Food or sex, Solution: Food DURING sex

Maybe i just wasn't that into him. Maybe he just wasn't that good in bed. Or maybe i was just that fucking hungry. Whatever the reason for me reaching for my burger as *Jack headed South, continuing to go to town on my take-away while he went to town on me, i just can't decide. What i do know is, it was glorious.

The Ferg burgers found in Queenstown are like nothing i have ever tasted. Even my most worldy girl-friends would have a hard time getting their mouths around these beauties, no matter how many blokes they've deep-throated in their time. Perhaps this is why most of it ended up all over my bare chest instead of in my mouth, but give me a break, try pretending to be aroused when munching on at least half a cow. Luckily i think *Jack mistook my burger-induced groans for an orgasm as after a while he stopped. The thing that bothered me is, he was so completely obsessed with me that night that he didn't even find it disgusting (which i think we can all agree-it was). In fact, all he did was laugh and even went to lick some sauce off my neck. Now don't judge me too much. I wouldn't do commit this criminal act of sexual repulsivness with just anyone. But *Jack was so distinctly average that i simply didnt care. The opitome of a 3am guy (a guy you find just as the bar shuts for lack of anyone more fullfilling), *Jack had thick, dark shaggy hair and a smudge of stubble which i could help but find endearing under the 3am vodka spell. 'Rookie error' i thought an hour later when the spell had worn off and i had a nasty case of stubble rash from one ear to another.

But thats the thing, the sex that night was increadable because i really couldn't care less if *Jack went away thinking that my rolls were repulsive or my minge resembled the amazon rain forest. We did it everywhere that night, the shower, the sink....DANNYS EMPTY BED (haha fuck you asshole) and in the blinding light of the loo, with my legs behind his head i simply just enjoyed myself instead of trying to tuck my blubber away. I do think that for that very reason, some of the best sex i've ever had was with people i don't find attractive.
It's a bit fucking annoying. Like standing in Macdonalds trying to order. You OBVIOUSLY fancy the Big Mac and fries knowing that it will definatley hit the spot but also knowing that while you eat them you wont be able to stop thinking about the nasty workout you're gonna have to do to compensate. Then you've got the weight watchers chicken wrap...defiately ediable, even if a lot less satisfying but you know you can eat it without worry. Cleary Danny is the Big Mac and *Jack the Chicken Wrap. Therefore, My track record might be less impressive but at least ill be fucking skinny.

Jack's unattractivness was like a triple Vodka shot, causing me to loose all inhibitions. It was very clear that being picked up in a bar didn't happen regularly to him which only furthered my sexual confidence and desire to experiment. Why is it when we really fancy the fuck out of someone we close up? I know for me it's a fear of rejection and the feeling that if i play it safe then there's less chance of things backfiring. However, what i have come to learn over the years that this method isn't fool proof at all. In fact, it has fucked me over MANY a-time. See i believe the best people are like marmite, love 'em or hate 'em. Who wants to be in the middle and just be thought of as 'nice' or 'ok'? I call them 'mehs' because that is the sound people make when asked if they like them..'meh, they're alright i suppose'. Unfortunatly for some reason when i fall for someone i immediatly become a 'meh' and this is something i'm fucking determined to stop doing by the time i finish this trip.

So anyway, after our shower shennanigans *Jack romantically towelled me off, kissing my neck and looking deep into my eyes as he did so...(sorry i just gagged as i typed that-this isnt a fucking Danielle Steele novel buddy). Then he INSISTED on some serious pillow talk in which my gag reflex was given a severe workout. You might wonder why i didnt kick him out immediatly after all i had just slept with him and it wasn't like i would be kicking him out for forcing me to use a condom or anything. I realise it would have been perfectly within my whoreish one-night stand rights, but he HAD bought me the Ferg burger and he was just so sickeningly sweet. it would have been like beating a puppy with a bat. So i indulged him for as long as i could.

I did almost vommit when he told me he was 25 and had only slept with 5 people, to which i smiled sweetly and told him i had only slept with 6 and that this was my first one night stand.
'But Danny told me you slept with him the other night' He shot back. For Fucks sake. Not caring enough to make up a decent excuse i told him,
'First one night stand that i can remember properly...i was another level of drunk when me and Danny slept together'.For some reason this made him smile smugly and hold me tighter like i had just given him a life time supply of porn (or knowing this guy (as i barely did) a life time supply of smiles and furry bunny rabbits. Fucking pussy 'ol). Is it me or, if a girl you liked just admitted to not counting one night stands with strangers because she was too drunk to remember them happening, wouldn't you be out the door before you could say 'gonorrhea'?Anyway, a girl has her limits and when *Jack suggested we be'lovers' for the last few days of my trip i decided that enough was enough. I told him that i didn't want Danny to come back and see him (not because i cared about Danny i assured him as he immiediatly became jealous-err you're not my boyfriend mate)but because it would be awkward. He agreed this was the case. So not a complete dumb-ass after-all. So i marched him to the door so his insistence that he take me out for lunch the next day. I said that sounded perfect, knowing it was the only way to get rid of him but planning my escape route for the next day as i did so.

I was finally able to slam the door on him and his cringey self but not until i heard this.
The fatal line.
The nail in the coffin.

'ok, ill see you for snuggles tomorrow then'
Sweet. Jesus.

Nice guys keep walkin'

There is something very wrong with me. Why is it that spending a night with a guy who insists on telling me how amazing i am, how increadable my body is and how much he thinks he likes me results in me skulking around the hostel for the next day making sure i dont bump into him? In fact, somehow my painfully selective messy memory reminded me that we had arranged for him to come over and see me the next day for lunch so i made damn sure that i left my room a good hour early in order to 'accidentally on purpose' be out.

I thought i handled the whole affair quite glamerously to be honest, with my head scarf and big sunnies darting from pillar to piller i was sort of celebrity-spy chic. Very Jackie O. Sadly i bumped into the group of guys i was meeting from home on the trecharous sprint from the bathroom to my bedroom and was forced to divulge details of my sordid affair. I don't think they quite grasped why i was so keen to avoid someone who was so into me, but then, unlike my girlfriends they remain unaware of my penchant for steamy one-night stands and practical allergy to anyone who might want more from me than a quick tumble.

Soon the vodka was flowing and me and the boys were swapping steamy tales. I toned mine down significantly, omitting the dirtiest details like the 'bleeps' in a PG Eminem album. I truly didn't think they could handle it. They were horrified enough with the PG verions. This is all well and good but the worrying thing is, that a guy who sleeps with me, virtually ignores me AND chucks girls out for refusing to wear condoms results in me skulking round the hostel trying to 'accidentally on purpose' bump into him.

What the fuck. Yes i KNOW *Jack was M.C Cringe and i just couldn't get down with his 'cringe-dizzle' but to still want to get with someone like DANNY who clearly gets boners from the thought of impregnating strangers!!! I must have been dropped on my head as a baby or something. Either that or walked in on my parents having sex. I wish Freud was around to give me some insight into my warped pysche. He would probably just tell me i fancy my Mum though. Which i can assure you is not true.

I think my ex might have fucked me up more than i gave him credit for.

Travellers guide to smoking, shagging and sniffing; Part 1

Cigarettes and sushi are rapidly burning a hole in my pocket as it turns out that fags are a travellers crotch. Asking to borrow a lighter is the most efficient way to meet someone when being a lone ranger and i have quickly made firm friends with a number of chain smokers (which also happen to b my favorite kind of smokers/people).

It is also nice to know who to go to in order to bum a smoke.

This leads me to my second point. Prioritising.
What do i want more...a $10 box of sushi which, whilst being an orgasm in my mouth, will only go straight to my ever increasing waist-line and make it more difficult to get drunk (and pull)....OR.....be able to afford a few more drinks that night probably resulting in sexual deviancy (and STI's)

Now of course i would rather be fat than have aids BUT if i can master this condom conundrum i would rather be a skinny, starving drunk than chubby, sane and sober.

My parents have always wanted me to grasp the concept of prioritising, ever since my school days when i would be on the phone to the bastard ex until the wee hours of the morning on a school night. They would be so proud i have finally done so and chosen alcohol over food.

condom conundrum

Now condoms arent my favorite thing in the world. They are slimy, ugly and in my opinion, completely ruin the moment (and the sensation of sex). In fact, when im intoxicated, unless the guy is sane and sober enough to initiate it..i tend to forget about them altoether (bad girl...yes I KNOW). I am pretty much a walking advertisment for safe sex...you know, the example of what not to do. I may as well have 'want respect, use a condom' tatooed on my forehead (or fanny).

But i have realised that things out here have to change. PARTICUALLY as the other nigh a girl i was out with told me this rather horrifying tale about dear old Danny...Apparently he had seduced her after a night out as he did me yet she was unfortunate/fortunate enough to be kicked out having refused to use a condom.Me and Danny. A match made in heaven? I think not. I mean, i never conciously REFUSE to use one...it merley just slips my drunken mind...if i wake up in the morning having used one with my one night stand then i am very proud of myself (gold star for me).

This does not bode well.
I will be heading down to the clinic immediatly.

The face-rape

As is usual with rape victims (or so i have heard) post-traumatic stress often results in your mind blocking out painful memories of the attack. I believe my hazy memory was be more likely the result of extreme inebriation having been given numerous free 'teapots', but please dont believe this makes the event any less tragic.

I was doing my thing on the dance-floor with a good lot of Swedish girls who were challenging my alcohol tolerance like noone before (i always like to push myself though and i feel i may have reached a new personal best that night). Now i didnt believe he was THAT bad but then again in my drunken mind Wayne Rooney could give Brad Pitt a run for his money in the looks department and the fact that Camilla was dragging me away from him at every opportunity probably should have indicated the poor standard of his physical state.

Now it wasnt like i WANTED to get with him, but at that point i ws pretty much doing my 'oblivious dog' routine and being passed around the dancefloor like a limp puppet looking for my puppet-master. I suppose this guy took it upon himself to fullfill that role, but instead of taking control of my arms, he decided to take control of my intestines...with his tounge. I knew immediatly that he was European as (at the risk of obscenely generalising) my experience with European men is that they like to get to know your internal organs before they get to know your favorite colour. At any rate i knew he wasnt English because English guys will usually tend to stick a finger up your skirt on the dancefloor rather than go straight for your oesophagus.

Nevertheless i wrote the whole event off as standard routine, deciding not to press charge as it wasnt the first time my face had been raped and i doubt it will be last. I alwasy find these things extremely funny anyway and mortifying not for me, but for the guy...and his next victim.

However what i found in my inbox later that day was the more obscene, more lewd than anything my face or fanny has ever encountered. It appears that along with my mouth,my inbox had also been raped.

Hey Olivia,

Got your email address last week in Queenstown, and I thought let's mail you......! I know I was quite drunk that evening, and friends of mine told me that I had to feel ashamed because I kept stalking you all the time. Therefore I'd like to say sorry for that, hope it wasn't too bad.......!
Currently I am in Invercargill in a hostel, in two days I'll be back in Queenstown again for a couple more days. I don't really now what I told you (feeling ashamed again..) but my name is Leon van Exel and I'm from Netherlands and I am travelling for two weeks along the South Island. Next week I have to go back to Sydney where I am working for a couple of months. Now I am typing all this, I know this mail is very ridiculous haha.....
Maybe, if you want to meet me again, but in a more normal state you know, you can text me on...

Kind regards,

Leon Van Excel

Now i am no expert into the minds of rapists or the mentally insane (of which i suspect he is a member of each) but surely 'kind regards' is slightly too formal to sign off to a victim of mouth molestation. Furthermore, on what delusional planet would you believe that your victim would want to hear from you...maybe things are done differently where ever Leon Van Excel is from but serrrrrously men of Europe step your game up, get some common sense. If you meet some random girl in a club and your mates tell you the next day that you were stalking her, learn to appreciate the value of annonimity and the fact that it is one big world we live in and you will probably never see this woman again.

And, from the bottom of my oesophagus i implore you to beware the face-rape.
Men of the world, a tounge is like an iron. Dont use it unless you know exactly how it works or you WILL get burnt.

Loosing my NZ virginity

I guess i should have known about Danny when it was announced over drinking games that evening that i was his roommate and someone shouted out 'good to see your still walking'. Tragically, this only intrigued me more. Many of my more sensible friends would have requested a room change upon entering the dirt infested lair that was to be my room, but seeing the lads mags scattered on the floor and the insatiable smell of mens cologne pungent in the air, only made me more excited to meet my room mates ESPECIALLY having heard the rep that proceeded Danny (he even had my favorite name). For the first night he was an elusive character and i only knew of him what the lads told each other, to which i listened intently. His reputation certainly did proceed him, but i had met 'geezaaaas' before so i believed this wasnt new territory and being my roomate i anticipated a drunken hook-up or two.

My second day in Queenstown was spent predominantly bed-ridden after consuming-one-too many teapots in 'World Bar' the previous night. I had stayed in the girls dorm after be-friending some lovely lasses from London and had dragged myself back to my room at about 9am. I eventually crawled out of bed at 5 and on my way to the bathroom, looking like a drug-addicted prostitute who had just had a busy night at the brothel...i bumped into Danny. Now Danny was complelty average looking, nothing wrong with him, in fact quite cute, but nothing to cum in your pants over...that is until he opened his mouth.
'Alright darlin' he said in a laddish essex drawl. I melted and mumbled something about being hungover.
'Good night was it then? Heard you come back at 9. Lads room on the first night. Good on ya' he winked without a hint of judgement. I tried to defend myself with the story which was actually true (i only wish i ha got lucky that night), but he just laughed and went on doing what he was doing. At that moment i made it not only my intention, but my all-encompasing mission to get with Danny that night but ALAS he had a slowly improving case of the 'man flu'(week long hangover) and was staying in. FUCK was all i could think and although i had only just met him, for the rest of the day whenever i remembered his accent a tingling in my nether regions couldnt help but get me dissapointed.

Still, not one to be dissuaged i carried on and significantly drank through the hangover from hell.

That was the night i got face raped. Which i will detail in my next blog.

So apart from said face-rape the night was quite uneventful sex-wise and despite having a fucking fantastic night with a group of swedish girls i trudged back to my room with another girl with that tingling in my pants still unsatisfied. When we got back to the room Danny was awake and reading. He seemed more than happy to indulge me and my accomplice in drunken crime in smashed chat for over an hour and even encouraged us to read aloud from his book which was without a doubt the most crude literature i had ever laid eyes on. The scene Danny had been reading was a ghraphic account of how the misogynist protagoninst was sucking listorene out of his lovers pussy!!! The thought of Danny reading alone in the room and getting turned on only incensed me more but i was drunk and he had 'man-flu'...i didnt see it happening. Somewhere in between our conversation i passed out and was awoken sometime later to my friend saying her goodbyes. I quickly said mine, keen to go back to sleep but somehow found myself chatting to Danny....Even now, despite trying my hardest, i can not remember what was discussed but whatever it was cant have been too humiliating as after a while he simply said 'do you fancy getting into my bed?'
My hear pounded.
Did i hear him right?
Was my mind trying to fuck myself over and simply inventing things?
Was i, like a lost man in the desert desperate for water creating a sexual mirriage due to extreme hornieness??? All these questions flooded my mind only to be assuaged by him repeating his proposition. 'Well? he asked.
'Well' What you gorgeous arrognant son of a bitch. Of course i fucking fancy it. His accent added to his extreme arrogance made him irresitable. But doubts flashed in my head. 'I am a nice girl and nice girls dont simply roll across to their room mates bed to give out blowjobs', 'he is my roommate and this could be seriously awkward tomorrow', and the most overriding factor 'he is sober and i am smashed therefore while i wont remember all fanny farts etc yet he will have them emblazoned on his memory'.
OBVIOUSLY these doubts were quickly answered with 'fuck it' and i hopped, skipped an staggered over to his bed. The memories that follow are a flurry of kissing, 69ers and sex with nothing going hideously wrong (that i can remember).


Anyway, i woke up in my bed and for a brief moment forgot the sexual deviancy of the previous night. I slowly turned round to inspect the damage, groaning and cringing in my head as i did so. Dannys bed was empty and my pants were on the floor, perfectly positioned between our sides of the room. If i was in any doubt before about what had occured, i need not be for long. Scooping up my cum-sodden niks i sprinted to the bathroom, keen to avoid any post sex awkwardness. Looking in the mirror i violently cringed as i inspected my reflection. Picking a chip out of my hair i shuddered, hopped into the shower and attempted to wash myself of humilation for 15 minutes.

and so it begins...with a glass of wine

A glass of wine (or three)was all it took to steady my nerves. A lethal mixture of anxiety about flying and the sudden overwhelming sadness of saying goodbye to my family for 5 months caused a breif outbreak of tears which i quickly remidied with a large pinot grigio. The way i look at it, there are only two ways to relieve on-board anxiety...an orgasm or intoxication. Since i was in no hurry to join the mile high club with any of the men i could see in the departure lounge, the choice was an easy one.

I was seated next to a few guys from Uganda (i pretended i knew exactly where this was) and began the obligatory 'ummmm-ing' and 'ahhhh-ing' as they chatted about the turbulent political situation (which, after some number of glasses later, i decided i was an expert on and was passionatley inputting my point of view). I don't think i did the British rep any favours that trip as im sure my ignorance and more importantly, alcohol dependency shon through like the sun breaking the clouds at dawn.

After they left the plane i spent what must have been a good hour trying to work out just how sex-on-board was feasable...even desirable. First of all there is the logistical promblem of the positioning of the loos themsleves in relation to the stewardess' and i decided that unless the airline took to employing the blind or persons with an IQ the equivalent to a mentally retarded infant, sneaking in with someone else just wouldnt go un-noticed.

HOWEVER, more importantly, if i wanted to be penetrated in a position and lighting that would undoubtedly make me resemble a pregnant walrus who had just eaten another pregnant walrus i could initiate this myself...at home...without being in a shoe box stinking of piss. Now i accept that sometimes one just has to 'get ones end away' and if the opportunity arose up there at 20,000 feet then i probably wouldn't say no. But what i did conclude from all my detective work is that the mile high club is one institution that i do not aspire to join and instead, as i would discover later that week whilst riding a gondola in Queenstown, the quater half mile club is a much more logical fantasy.

Amongst the fields of opium

I recieved this from my friend in Thailand;

'I can't quite express how much of a good time I am having here. Shagging and sniffing going well as per. If you could see me now honey. I am on one piecey crease, Fuck *Steven for me, smoke copious amounts of crack. Inject to the max and be the all time dirty dog I am being here. I have destroyed Thailand and myself in the process. Ohhhh the stories I have to tell you mate. I tried opium last week. I feel like crying whilst I write this because your face is in my head and the smell of your vag is in my nose. You better tell everyone I am alive and well and love you all mills. I wish I could write more but it's only making me miss you more as you should be here with me to hold my rolled up notes, wipe the blood from my orifices etc etc'

That is love.

Getting back in the sack

So my friend *Ems has a new fuck buddy. Having just broken up with her boyfriend (and being a chronic sufferer of extreme horniness), this can only be a good thing. In a matter of days her messages to me went from 'I am a horny mess. I'm going through my phonebook trying to find someone to have sex with. Is it worth driving all the way to London to sleep with *Nick, even though i know it will be completely average...he does have a six-pack though', (after which i advised her that no, it wasn't worth it and that a six-pack on a guy who is bad in bed is about as useful as a six-pack of beer that’s been opened and left in the sun for a week. Flat and totally unsatisfying)to 'i have had to cancel my riding lesson for today because my fanny is so sore from having sex with *Tom all night'. She followed up the latter message with a picture of the scratches she had left all over his back. And i am truly happy for her.

See that’s the thing about break-ups, they are completely situational. The amount of time you take to get over someone is not (contrary to popular belief)related to how in love with someone you are. The first time i broke up with my ex was in his first year of uni and my GCSE year (when, i might add all my best friends, being older than me, were also at uni). This fucking sucked. Having to sit at home and revise, knowing he was out there having the time of his life, was almost suicide inducing.

However, this time round, being on my year out, with about the same amount of responsibility as a newborn baby and having my best friends around me (who were also going through break-ups themselves) meant that closure came quickly and conveniently. As i comforted my friends and offered my advice ('you're better off without him', 'you're too young to be in a full on relationship') i began to taste my own medicine. Add a LOT of boozy, single ladies nights out to a number of successful one night stands and you have the perfect recipe to getting over it (note the use of the word 'successful'-for a disappointing sexual encounter could send you spiraling back into depression). This is where friends become even more essential in 1. Encouraging you to laugh at the situation and 2. making you get back on the saddle...and into the sack.

Never underestimate the value of your friends. I don't know what i would do without mine. And the thought of 5 months without them is enough to drive me mad. I do however, look forward to copious skanky emails detailing their continuation of those boozy nights out!!!

Facebook Freaks

Break-ups are as old as time. From Henry VIII's high profile divorce from Catherine of Aragon, the illustrious end to the affair between Monroe and Kennedy to the modern day split of Jude and Sienna. Relationships have failed since the X and Y chromosomes first split and will, i suspect, continue to do so till the last man (or woman) is left standing.

As the centuries have passed the way we react to certain things have drastically altered. We no longer scorn a naked ankle; shoulder pads have been in and out...and in again. Yet the way we react to a broken heart has stood the test of time. There will always be certain songs and certain places that are off limits after a break-up. There will always be the anxiety that pervades the first meeting with an ex and most profoundly is the jealously inflicted by a new girlfriend. These things are as basic in human nature as an LBD in a fashionistas wardrobe, always there, but only brought out when the time is right.

However, while the post break-up jig had always been danced the same way, it has come to my attention that modern day heartache is being intensified by the trends brought in by the 21st century. I refer to one trend in particular. It has come to be a dominant presence in the lives of those who use it. It has become both feared and revered, like some redoubtable headmaster. It beats you but you can’t help but seek its approval because it undoubtedly holds all the power. This trend is the facebook trend, and although I was aware of its ever increasing influence, it has taken my recent break-up, and the break-ups of some close friends of mine to fully realise the power facebook truly yields.

‘I’ve had a really bad day today’ has become the common statement from my newly single friends. ‘I saw on his/her facebook wall…’ is the even more common expansion of such a statement. And so it begins. The daily war between the often warped post break-up logic and the facebook phenomenon that has the nation, fuck it, THE WORLD, gripped.

Facebook has become both friend and foe during the end of a break-up. Facebook can often be used as an online opportunity for the dump-ee to post pictures of their new (fabulous) single life, exposing new found male attention in saucy photos, any dramatic weight loss in skimpy outfits and enabling them to post news of glorious new careers, hopefully prompting the ex (the bastard that broke your heart) to think 'damn i definitely made a mistake'. I mean, isn't this what we all strive for? Even if we are completely over them, we all seek that profound satisfaction that comes from someone that hurt us, hurting over us. It doesn't make us bad people; it is again, simply human nature.

However, the danger here is highly evident and it only takes a recently broken hearted friend to expose you to the severity of the situation. I've seen it happen...I’ve done it as well!!! What happens when one is so deeply hung up on their ex that creating a facebook page which depicts just how 'over it' they are in fact prevents moving on at all.

Nights out become nothing more than obsessive photo opportunities where you forget to actually enjoy yourself, instead being consumed by the need to get your picture snapped with any male that might evoke jealousy in your ex. Furthermore, status changes are thought out with the same excruciating effort that one might put into their a level coursework and comments from boys are provoked in excess. Every aspect of facebook becomes a tool with which to manipulate your ex (where more often than not, it goes completely unnoticed).

Yet, throughout all of this is the even darker side of the facebook break-up, the constant stalking of your ex's wall which proves the above...that quite clearly they haven't been checking yours. Comments as meaningless as 'hey, how are you?' from random girls haunt you from morning till night. Perhaps they are left by a girl who shared the bed of your ex, or perhaps they are left by a distant cousin...the worst part is, you just don’t know.

I thought it was bad when i read emails from girls exposing his infidelity. Messages that proved without a shadow of a doubt that he had cheated. But facebook is worse. It leaves that lingering bastard question mark of has he, hasn’t he?
So why the hell can't we switch off? Are we really such sadomasochists that we must indulge in this self harm everyday...sometimes 10 times a day? One of my (male) friends sat on his ex's facebook simply refreshing the page every 30seconds, calling to update me on any minute changes. Why can't we realise that while we are glued to the screen trying to work out whether they are moving on, our ex's are out there glued to someone’s lips, actually doing it. Actually moving on.

So this is my advice to you, don't loose sight of reality after a break-up. What does it matter if your ex sees a stunningly skinny photo of you draped around some Abercrombie and Fitch wannabe if your sat at home alone constantly refreshing their page forgetting to live your life. Being perceived as happy by your ex does not compare to being truly happy in real life.

So instead of being a freak on facebook, go get freaky on some fittys face. Ok.

So Long Sadness

Things have changed. I don't know when. I don't know why, but they have. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime (but which I do admit is only a matter of weeks), my smile is genuine. You feel this change as profoundly as if you had woken up one morning with wings. Suddenly things are easier. Suddenly you're braver. Suddenly you realise that things simply aren't that bad.

And you feel foolish. You're embarrassed that your friends saw you crying (or in my case had to peel your mangy corpse off the floor), you cringe that you called him so many times, and you’re sorry that you wasted your time on someone so utterly meaningless to your future happiness. But you're at peace. No hate. No sadness. Normality begins to set it.

You don't realise until you're over it just how fragile a break-up makes you. Everything is just a ticking time-bomb to tears and tantrums. From someone merely asking you how you are, to checking your phone...anything can evoke that deep sadness, that gut wrenching realisation that it’s over.

My Mother won't mention his name (she always did take our break-ups harder than me, so was the extent of her adoration for him), and my darling little brother can't believe he let him play on his x-box' (yeah well i can't believe i let him play on my x-box while he was playing on some other girls x-box). As for me though, no longer is he the 'averagely endowed, Chlamydia ridden basterd whose only achievement in life is the rapid spread of stis and probable impregnation of countless whores around England and Wales', and no longer (and quite rightly) is his new girlfriend 'the ignorant, ugly slut who ruined my life' (although my bestie did do me a favor and send me a photo of her and frankly, it left me feeling a little smug).

I have seemingly raced through the 5 stages of grief with impressive yet alarming speed.
I left denial in the dust having quickly accepted that yes, he really does have a new girlfriend.
I quickly abandoned anger after the valentine’s text that went ignored.
I gave bargaining a brief look in having badgered his phone with psychotic intensity.
And well, i think the imaginary noose i hung for myself while in depression speaks for itself.
But now acceptance has come a-knocking, and it is glorious, like a cig after a non-smoking cab. I can't inhale it deeply enough.


So, how could a new singleton with a burning desire to exercise this new lease of life possibly do so???

A 5 month round-the-world trip should do it.
I leave in 10 days.

If there is some resentment still bubbling away inside of me, a few mint majitos on the beach in Thailand should settle it...not to mention countless buff boys in Aus...

Ex-boyfriend Bulimic

I had been doing (what I considered to be) so incredibly well. Of course, I have spent the last 2 weeks practically locked away inside my bedroom (or what can now only be described as festering pit of depression…and dirty washing), drifting in and out of half, anxiety ridden sleeps and bouts of hysteria. I venture out only with the promise of night outs (more concerned with the excessive drinking that comes with them than any other aspect that used to attract me). I am, like a vampire allergic to sunlight, developing a profound intolerance for week days. So unnervingly unchangeable, I sometimes completely forget what day it is. Sometimes I feel like a zombie (note all comparisons to the un-dead. Highly revealing of my current state of mind), just moving through each day without the slightest hint of emotion. I believe I am all cried out. I’m tired too. I should be burning thousands of calories during this week-long emotional workout. It’s simply exhausting.

Alright, so I hadn’t been doing that well, but he didn’t know that, and that was what was important. Yes, I may have been brutally unhappy, living in a state of hygiene known only by those suffering in the depths of third world countries and although every shred of pride had apparently deserted me (from my unshaven legs to my unplucked brows), to him, i remained pristine, his last memory of me somberly waving him goodbye from the platform (perfectly plucked and shaven). Having apologized for the valentines text (after which i was sure i had raped my dignity beyond recovery), i was well and truly rolling on down the high road...until last night.

Last night something gripped me. What it was, or why it happened remains unknown, try as i might to find what provoked it. Sheer panic took hold and i began rushing round the house tearing each drawer apart like some frenzied fool in the hopes that i had a phone bill or something...anything that still had his number on it (obviously having deleted it to avoid temptation). It took me ages, enough time for any sense to set in but it didn’t (perhaps that has deserted me too...maybe even my sense is having an affair). Even as dialed the numbers and pressed 'call' i knew the consequences of my actions would be dire. I was well aware that nothing good could come of it, yet still i dialed. Over and over again. Like a bulimic on some crazy binge who loathes themselves more with each mouthful but cannot bring themselves to stop. He never answered and i was reduced to a weeping foetus, curled up on the floor...angry, not at him, but at myself.

Feeling full of regret after my boyfriend binge i deleted his number off my phone once again, being sure to rip the phone bill into unsalvageable shreds, knowing it was the last record of his number i possessed.

It seems my phone has become like food to a bulimic, my opposition. My enemy. Only thing is, i can't purge myself of those unanswered calls. If only I could stick my fingers down my throat to take them back.

Helpless Bitches

There is a phsychological theory called 'learned helplessness'. It relates to the condition one develops in which they learn to behave helplessly, even if the opportunity arises to better their situation. It is often derived from the notion that we are capable of improving. Of doing better.

Could this term be applied to those of us weak enough to go back to the men that hurt us? By forgiving them time and time again are we simply propagating the idea that we can't do better? We convince ourselves of this belief so much so, that when the opportunity to escape from a destructive relationship makes itself known, when discrepencies are uncovered and lies unveiled, we simply ignore it.

Phsychologists used electric shocks on dogs to demonstrate the theory and found that those dogs who were not given the choice to stop the shocks (believing them to be inescapable) learned to be helpless, while those given a lever to cease them, did so and recovered. In a crude comparrisson between dogs and humans, perhaps when we women go back to these men, inadvertently accepting that being cheated on is unavoidable, we develop a sense of helplessness and no longer strive to find a relationship in which we are truly happy, believing instead, that we can not do better.

By saying 'i forgive you' we believe we are giving a good thing a second chance but really all we are achieving is the start of the slow and painful destruction of our confidence. Our self-belief. Ourselves. In saying 'its ok' we are, just like those dogs in the experiment, helpless bitches.

We justify our actions as 'forgiving' or 'understanding'. Label them as positive traits that we all hope to possess. Love is often sly and is able to cloak our perceptions and make us blind to the truth. This is not understanding, it is helplessness. Find the strength, first of all, to be objective, to step back and see that you deserve more. Secondly, find the strength to better yourself and to get what you deserve.

All it takes is to realise that cheating is not acceptable. No matter what a 'catch' you believe your man to be, if he cheats he is incomparably and extensively flawed and it is not up to you to be the helpless bitch to mend this flaw.

A (not so) Classy Affair

I left London feeling like a two dollar whore. The events of the previous night slowly finding a way into my concious thoughts through the haze of mint mojitos i had still been consuming only a few hours before.



The invitation said 'open bar'. I should have anticipated the consequences of this. The whole evening had been a glamorous affair. London's elite, including a recently named and shamed footballer and prestigious entrepreneur to name a few. The men in crisp suits sauntered between flirtations with beautifully dressed women and intense business-minded discussions with other men. You would have been hard pressed to find a mixture of the two. It was their breasts, not their brains that the women had on display that night.



His name was Jack (i didn't care for his last name, he didn't care for mine) and while at first i was aware of his intrest being purely directed at my long legs and short skirt, i was keen to prove (if not to him but to myself) that it wasn't impossible to indulge in interesting conversation with a girl of 18. I thought i was doing quite well. He seemed fairly smitten (i mistook his frequent fetching of more mojitos for courtesy rather than a ploy to get me drunk) and we chatted for hours on life, love and politics. I felt free to divulge my young age (he was only 30) in the hopes that he would make allowances for any ignorance that made itself known during our conversation and look on it as endearing rather than idiotic.



The end of the night came (as i quickly realised, this was only the 'official' end to the night). The staff were sent home and cabs (including mine) soon arrived. As i stood shivering, not wanting a fun night to be over, and the reality of work the next day (it was a Tuesday night) to set in, i felt Jack's hand on my shoulder and his warm, cigar tainted breath in my ear. His invitation was appealing and expressed with only friendly sincerity. He claimed there was an 'after-party' (perhaps i should have questioned his definition of after-party sooner) in the penthouse suite, where men and women from the party had continued to drink.

My judgement somewhat muddled from the effects of the open bar, i finished my cigarette and, hand in hand with this friendly stranger accompained him through the plush hallways of the hotel and up to a beautiful suite where the women had apparently already started Wednesday's work-handing out blow jobs apparently. In the middle of the living room, the beautiful decor was tainted by the sight of one obese male party goer indulging in what i can only dubiously conclude from my rather profound inexperience of them, was an orgy. Lines of coke were spread across a beautifully carved table, being paid as little attention as the orgy members from others wandering in and out of the room. I couldn't help but think 'some desperate addict would sell their left leg to shove that up their nose, and yet here these people are, practically pouring it into the carpet.' Talk about social distiction. 'Mind you', i concluded, 'these basterds might be bloody minted, doesn't stop them from being totally morally bankrupt though does it!'

I tried to inspect the chubby fingers of the orgy master for the inevitable tan line of a recently removed wedding ring but the seedy lighting of the event prevented such observations. I turned to find Jack, who had already poured me a gin and tonic and was eagerly thrusting it into my hands. I told him i had to go, that it was late and i had an early start. If it wasn't the uncomfortable tremble in voice that exposed my true feelings, it must have been the sudden absence of enthusiasm for drinking that i had displayed earlier. Jack told me it was ok, that he understood but that he wanted to talk to me before i went.

Whether it was curiosity or manners that made me follow him into (what i quickly found to be) the bathroom, i will never know but even i knew through my alcohol sodden sense that bathrooms and strange men are a recipe disaster. I tried feebly to strike up conversation about the bathroom fixtures but Jack failed to be impressed and if anything my interest in the sink fittings seemed to arouse him more (it was clear i had turned on his faucet!!!) Taking into account the harsh lighting of the bathroom and the abundance of awkwardly placed mirrors my reasons for wanting to leave became two fold: i would not indulge in sexual leasions with strange men, particually when our surroundings were so utterly unflattering.

Therfore, despite quiet defiance throughout, i let him kiss my neck for the obligatory 3 seconds (this can always be pushed up to 5 depending on external factors such as looks, money, charm etc) before feigning some sudden moral intervention and pushing him, perhaps a little too violently, away. Grabbing my bag as sobriety hurtled my way, i hurried out of the suite to the shouts of 'fucking tease' from Jack's previously eloquent mouth.

'Fucking tease' I ask you!? Is the kind of derranged world men live in, where to accompany them to an 'after party' having been promised good company and great alcohol is in reality an invitation to drag us to the bathroom and suck on our necks? Perhaps i should have been more forceful, but i had truly hoped that my polite refusal would lead to an amicable goodbye. Should have known better really shouldn't i? That is (i hope) the last time i mistake motive for manners and seedy for sweet. From now on, any man that buys me a drink will be treated with the utmost caution. Any man that buys me two, can fuck off.

The addict

Three years ago i read an email he had sent to his friend. It read 'It's getting silly cheating on her every week'. It was only 6months later after i read the email from a girl he had met on holiday which said 'i hope you meant all those nice things you said to me' that i confronted him. Of course he said he had never slept with them (i also believed this after he contracted chlamidya at uni...err DUH) which in my naivety made it ok, so i forgave him... yet again.

The thing is, he was my first love. The older boy at school who, at one point, i could only have dreamed of being with. At first it was infatuation. Quite quickly it was love. After love, everything went black and i look back now in disgust and horror at the stranger who i became over those first few years, like a helpless friend wanting to yank someone they love out of drug addiction. I suppose thats what you could call it, an addiction. The craving of something, or someone so badly that it doesn't matter how bad you feel after you have it or what you sacrifice to get it. If only someone had staged an intervention, weaned me off in the early stages, then maybe cold turkey wouldn't be so damn difficult now.

I look back and i see how far i went to mould myself into what he wanted me to be. I would run home before seeing him to change into the clothes i knew he liked, do my hair the way he wanted, do the things that turned him on. It's a wonder i retained enough of 'me' to eventually pull myself out. To turn round and tell him 'this isn't who i am'. But i did, and he liked it. Turns out, while i had been so concerned with changing the superficial aspects of my character, he had fallen in love with the profound aspects of myself, which i suppose i hadn't been cautious enough to conceal. Perhaps i should have used more hairspray.

So then i was just grateful and proud, i suppose. Proud that someone 'like him' could love 'someone like me' (be careful not to adopt labels like this; it is the best way to rapidly depreciate your self-worth). I was so blindly loved up with him that i ignored the random girls who would approach me in clubs and bars around our hometown telling me 'you're too good for him' or even 'you are so much better looking than him'. I refused to believe it, and the more he cheated the more lucky i felt that it was me who he loved. Me who he wanted to be with despite sleeping with all these older, more experienced girls. I look back now and i realise, these girls were probably girls he had slept with or friends of girls he had slept with, too kind to blurt it out bluntly in the girls loos, that the man i loved was a lying, cheating bastard.

I know he loved me. He really did. But what i realise now is that unlike me, he will never love anyone more than he loves himself and for that i am sorry. I am sorry that his new girlfriend is, i'm sure, a lovely girl. Probably full of trust and naivety, unaware of the rotten spoils of human nature. And i am sorry that his hedonistic and destructive approach to happiness will destroy this in her as it did me.

I am left with the scars of my addiction, the track marks of this abuse.
And sadly, like all scars, only time will help them to fade.

Leopards and Cheaters

They say leopards never change their spots, but i've been thinking, is it really fair for us to expect them (with their all ecompasing arrogance and predatory nature) to change themselves. After all, we are all only in control of our own actions, not the actions of others.



I'm all for giving second chances, but can anything that comes after really be deemed a 'chance', whether it be third, fourth or fifthteenth. After the second chance, surely cheating just becomes a predicatble pattern of behaviour, which, if we choose to endure, transforms a gracious act of forgivness into a blindly stupid act of self-degradation. Leopards do not change their spots, so why don't we just save ourselves the trouble.

Perhaps, instead of expecting the predator to change, should it not be us, the prey, who learns to adapt. Instead of falling victim to the leopards predicatble hunt, should we not learn to out smart them so we are no longer vulnerable to attack. We should learn to recognise tierd old tactics such as 'give me one more chance', 'i love you and never meant to hurt you' and my personal favorite 'it will never happen again'. Quite frankly, if you love someone, fair enough. But that love should never compromise the love you have for yourself. Oscar Wilde got it in one when he wrote in his 'Phrases and Philosophies For The Use Of The Young'' that 'to love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance'. In that sense, while men can come and go, the only person you can rely on is you and the only possession you can be sure to maintain is your self worth.



Betrayal is the worst a person can do and the only person who can stop it, is you. The only way you can betray yourself is to settle for second best. So don't. Forgive but don't forget. Let the mistakes in a relationship be the building blocks for the future and the curb upon which to learn. But always remember, there is no such thing as a third chance. Anything after second, doesn't get placed.



Yes to second chances. No to second best.

Happy Valentines Shame

He has a new girlfriend. His friend told me. On Valentines day. Whilst i was drunk.

Actually, drunk is an understatement. The level of intoxication i reached that night having been told this news (with the same amount of tact as someone who buys louboutins for a double leg amputee) is one that only a broken heart could constitute. With each aspect of this story making it all the more horrific, like someone twisting the in blade further and further, one must have sympathy for why i sent what i sent to mend my poor sad soul (and which consequantly lost me the reminants of my shattered pride).

we have all done it. Lord knows i have, virtually everytime i go out in fact. A cringey message to a friend or potential love interest that you really wish you hadnt sent and quite frankly do not rememeber sending. Well imagine waking up to find the following message staring smugly back at you from your sent items like a little brother who's just shown his friends your diary entry about you first period. Imagine your heart sinking more with every next word.

'you are a fuckeing prick. i am goinh to get fucked by all the rugby boys and i hope they fuck me hard you heartless cunt. go fuck yourself you have broken my heart. enjiy taking out whatever slags your takingg out'

Not my finest literary moment i admitt. Please be careful to note the particually imaginative insults such as 'fucking prick', witty excessive use of swear words, precise use of punctuation and spelling and profoundly heart rendering and effective change of tone mid sentence such as 'go fuck yourself you have broken my heart.' Also do enjoy the use of 'all' instead of 'one of' when referring to my getting fucked by the rugby boys.

Now i accept this is not the ideal way to confront a delicate situation such as this. If i could go back and not have downed those fatal last vodka shots, i would. Because the fact is, i did get fucked that night. By myself. I fucked myself good and proper by sending that text.

That was two days ago.

I still haven't heard back.

He was supposed to love me. Vodka where are you now?