Phoenix Fights

"The only thing we have to fear is fear it'self – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified, terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance." Franklin D. Roosevelt. Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2015….


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EAR WORM No. 26 – Genesis – FOLLOW YOU FOLLOW ME #socialmedia #narcissism

I sometimes think I should come off social media completely as everyone seems to be getting on my fricking nerves nowadays.

Unbeknownst to them, I’ve already blocked two women’s comments from my Facebook feed as I’m sick to death of their terminal narcissism.

‘OMG, soo funny, I’m walkin down the street and this guy says Giv us a smile luv so I do and he said i’m bewtiful an I said watchit im a grandma and he said “you never u only look 30” O my days, how funny is that?’

Not.  Fucking.  Very.

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‘Blessings indeed, this director lovely James called me and said come back and work with us yr a ray of sunshine i said who me and he winked oh saucy, such a compliment being asked back AND paid feel like a Queen….’

Oh and these can pop up at about five or ten times a day.

Minimum.

I get honked by blokes in vans/lorries pretty much every time I go out (until they see me from the front – hah!) or winked at by builders, but do I bang on about it?

NO!

Because it means jack shit!  Most men would bang their wang into the office shredder if that was the only slot available to them, so I don’t really consider such behaviour as complimentary.

The only time I’ve posted about some finding me attractive was when some bloke tried to ‘friend’ me and when I clicked on his page, he had an AK47 slung over his shoulder.  Highly amusing.

If chilling. :-(

So male cat calling and flirting is merely a dick reflex, so get over yourself love!

brittany

The other one isn’t as big on words, but selfies?!  Oh my she aces in that particular field.

Again, five to ten times a day she uploads a captioned photo of herself.

On the train, smiling, looking, in all fairness, lovely – “All set for the challenges ahead!”

You go girl!

On the same train, smiling, with a croissant and a Pret coffee – “Breakfast!”

Yum?

Standing outside her destination avec sunglasses, posing with arm behind head and leg cocked in the air, sending herself up to prove she does have a personality and sense of humour – “Here!”

Great!  Good.  Now can we leave it at that please before I…

Sat in a cafe with a panini and coke with a nearly-as-pretty companion, pouting – “Bitches be gagging for lunch!”

Then put the fucking selfie stick down and EAT, BITCHES!

Then there’ll be one of her working, travelling home, getting ready to go out in leopard print robe and hair in rollers (but full make up, can’t be seen to look minging on FB), and then, Oh God, numerous shot of her having fun with a gang of equally vacuous bints and a whole host of gay BF’s, all gyrating, posing, pouting, clutching Moet bottles (an empty from the adjoining table no doubt – miaow!) and mugging for all they are worth.

Kill.  Me.  Now.

And it’s the same every day.

I have no problem with people uploading photos from an event, party, or special occurrence in their lives.  Good for them!

The people who moan about a friend boasting about her new baby/lovely husband/new car don’t know how lucky they are.  This bird could make selfie-ing an Olympic event.

One to one, both ladies are really rather nice.  A bit boring, but perfectly pleasant.  And I sometimes feel guilty for momentarily despising them so much.

So I edited my permissions rather than de-friend them as I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

THEN.

Then my friends I get an invitation from Selfie bird inviting me to ‘like’ her new page.

Sigh.  Really?

Resigned to my fate, I click on it.  It says ‘Ditsy Dumbass – Official’ and she is categorised as a ‘Public Figure’ whatever that means.

I know she does some extra work so I assume this is self promotion, but why’s she dragging me into it?

It feels to me that (a) we are already ‘friends’ but (b) she is now letting me know that she is elevating her status over mine and (c) is now asking me to worship at her altar.

And, look, there are all the selfies I have managed to avoid looking at over the past month or so!

Oh.  Goody.

Deep.  Fundamental.  Joy.

FUCK OFF

How I LONG to message her and point out that if you have to ask someone to be your fan, then SURELY they’re not your fan in the first place, because if they were, they’d have sought you out of their own volition, no?  Especially when they have done everything in their power to avoid looking at you at all cost.

I don’t know why it gets to me so much.  But it does.  It does.

Social media has it’s place I think.  It’s great for keeping in touch with those friends you never see, it renders those boring Christmas card bragfests obsolete (because we already know all about your year, gobshite!), you can stay in contact with mates from overseas etc etc, but it seems to have turned our youth into a nation of self obsessed zombies, and let me tell you, they’re not content to keep their content to themselves.

This is ‘X Factor’ nation where everyone thinks they are oh so unique and special and that it only takes the desire to be famous (oh and perhaps the support of Simon Cowell, zombie god par excellence) in order to make your wildest dreams come true, and whilst I have nothing against self confidence and ambition, the hard work aspect doesn’t seem to have registered.

So now I have to click on ‘like’, be added to her ‘fanbase’ and once again, block her from my feed so I don’t have to look at all her tedious snapshots ten times a day.

THEN, before you know it, she’ll be asking me to share her stuff on MY page!  Well she can fuck right off, I can tell you.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I do NOT belong to this planet!

And there’ll be hell to pay when the powers that be discover their gross error.

Beam me up Scottie….please?!

Rant over.

Namaste x


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CHEAP WINE AND A THREE DAY OATH

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‘Coleman!  I’ve had the worst nightmare!  I was poor and no one liked me.  I lost my job, I lost my house and it was all because of this terrible (alter) ego….’

Yes, this actually happened to me.

Last night, I dreamed I was back in my old life.

The rose coloured specs version natch.

I was with friends in my favourite restaurant.  I was dressed well, my nails were manicured, my hair was recently highlighted.  I was still working.  A holiday in the sun was in the not too distant future.  I didn’t have to rely on anyone else’s charity.

And I was telling them that I’d had this awful dream where I’d been let go by Bastards Inc, had a breakdown, lost everything, I was poor, I had no friends yadda yadda…

And then I woke up.

For real.

Welcome to the ‘Feeling Worse Before It Gets Better’ phase of group therapy.

I’m sorry I haven’t been blogging of late, but it’s been a tough time.  Nothing but bad news and more of the same, and of course my writing, along with everything else that’s good for me, crumbled.  How many more times could I tell you the same story but in different words?

I was bored, boring and as in real life, didn’t want to bore the people I cared about with my tedious, self pitying shit.

Until today.  The irony of dreaming I’d dreamt the nightmare that was and is my reality was too ironically, cruelly amusing not to report back on.

And like Dan Ackroyd’s Louis Winthorpe III, I momentarily felt like I’ve had a life that was actually good, ripped away from me.  But unlike Louis I couldn’t blame anyone else.  Because it was down to me.  I cracked wide open from 50 odd years of trying to play the part of someone that didn’t actually exist at all, the shiny facade that passed for my real self.

And whilst I would and could never go back to such a life, I do miss aspects of it.

Being respected in a tough industry.  Having an impressive CV.  Being solvent.  Being able to have holidays.  Buy presents.  Pay my way.  Feeling financially safe.  Well, safer than I feel right now.

That said, whilst I liked and still do like nice things, I  have coped with the spending restrictions admirably.

But some things I cannot, will not accept.

Some of my fellow nutters suggested a group evening out after therapy at a free concert in London.

I was reluctant.  I hate crowds, central London and the band they wanted to see.

‘Oh come along it’ll be fun!   It won’t cost anything!  And we can go into Asda and grab some sandwiches and a couple of boxes of cheap wine….’

And there it was; the straw that broke this camel’s old hump.

Let me make this quite clear, I’m not a snob.  I know this because I have friends that are very snobby.  I on the other hand, love a bargain, buy vintage, am not impressed by designer labels and cannot tolerate waste.

But cheap wine?

As some of you will know, I love food and wine.  Food is how I comfort myself and have done since I was a child, but it has to be good quality.  I’d sooner have some fried left over potatoes with rock salt and home made mayo than a mass produced meal at a rubbish restaurant.

And let me tell you, cheap wine, like cheap chocolate, will never ever pass my lips.  I’ve had too much of the good stuff to go back now.

DrunkTornado

People drink cheap wine for the same reason as they drink moonshine, cheap supermarket spirits and meths; not because they like it, but because they want to get wasted.

And the idea of drinking something akin to warm vinegar whilst munching on mark down lunch time sandwiches that taste of nothing (and were probably made by illegal refugee slaves) in a public place for all the world to see just filled me with despair.  Especially as my infrequent but relatively consistent part time work has suddenly stopped dead.

Presumably due to something I did or did not do, or said or did not say.  I have no idea.

And then, after my oath to myself to do yoga every single day, I broke it on the fourth.

And whilst I’m not doing anything that good for myself, I’m trying really hard not to binge on food which is my first point of call when feeling this lost and lonely.

I’m even the odd one out amongst my fellow BPD-ers!

But I always knew that.

So.  What the fuck I am going to do now?

I don’t know.

And unlike previous posts, I’m not going to even try work out a plan and promise to do it.  As I’ll only fall flat on my arse and let you lot down yet again.

I just wanted to share.

I’ll drop by again when I have something to say.

Oh and this is the song that inspired today’s blog post title.

Pray for me please?

Namaste all xx


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Daily Prompt: CRINGEWORTHY – “TONIGHT, MATTHEW I AM GOING TO BE….CRINGY!”

brucey

“Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What’s most likely to make you squirm?”

Oh Lord, are you kidding me?

If anything I actually feel more uncomfortable than the person making a tit of themselves.

Not only that but my eyes water, which is a dead giveaway to anyone who knows me well, that someone should just sit down and shut the hell up.

I’ve suffered from this affliction for as long as I can remember, at least since very early childhood.

If my drunken Dad got up to sing at Butlins dubiously named ‘Talent Night’ to sing (especially if he did Al Jolson’s ‘Mammy’.  Oh God, just thinking about it make my arse clench), or my Mum sang along to a chart song (with all the wrong words, natch) dancing around the kitchen, I’d practically shove my head up my own sphincter in a vain attempt to escape the abject humiliation.

I used to die inside when the theme tune for ‘The Generation Game’ used to strike up on a Saturday night, as I knew that from the first cringetastic Brucey pose (“Alright m’loves?”) right through to the end credits, my eyes would stream as couple after couple would be made to perform all kinds of humiliating stunts and tasks, such as dancing with a samba troupe, making some strange, messy European delicacy or acting in some God awful play whilst Bruce eye rolled, goaded and jeered, for the delectation of the viewing public.

I think my sister has an over sensitive cringe gene too, as she would actually disappear into the pantry and put a tea towel on her head, such was her distress at British Light Entertainment in the 70’s, and this became the alarm cry for approaching mortifying moments in our house.

So whenever someone cried out ‘To the pantry!’ we would all scatter and do what we could to avoid the eye watering event whenever possible.

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Nor did this affection abate as I got older.  I could not, would not, watch ‘Stars In Their Eyes’.  I tell a lie I watched about ten minutes of one episode and when the contestant announced “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Richard Marx”, I just knew that the hellishness was just moments away.  And sure enough when some bloke emerged from the dry ice with a mullet wig and a dopey grin to the soppy strains of ‘Right Here Waiting for You’, I seriously, honestly wanted to fucking kill myself.

I can’t bear it when people are being duped and refuse to see it (ref Paul McCartney/Heather Mills).

I die inside if someone is trying to be funny but isn’t.  Especially if they don’t even know it.  Yes I’m talking about you, ‘Newzoids’ (impersonators are some of the worst offenders)

And of course I can’t stand karaoke.  When I was working in the corporate world, I used to get dragged to these fun filled ‘team building’ nights that would end in some manky hole of a club in the West End, where we would be forced into a grubby room with sticky carpet and fag burns in the leatherette sofa, and forced to warble into the mike (“No no Sista, you have to do at least one!”) alongside some twat you despised, which would then be uploaded onto Facebook or You Tube for added humiliation.

For that alone, I should have walked out a long time before I actually did.

Again, I tell a lie.  I’ve done it once or twice.  But ONLY with people I like, who made no effort whatsoever to make it sound nice.  We just bawled ‘Living on a Prayer’ like a pack of howling wolves, and that was alright.  We knew we sounded shite.  We took the piss out of ourselves, played mock air guitar and shook our heads Wayne’s World stylee and that was, if not enjoyable, then tolerable.

It’s when people try and think that they’re actually good at it that opens my tear ducts, especially when they’re really earnest about it and then feign modesty when everyone tells them how good they were (with fingers firmly crossed behind their back) when they are just GRIM.  That is absolutely torturous to me, and I don’t know whether I feel sorry for them or wish them to spontaneously combust.

Probably both.

Oh, how could I forget?

For the life of me, I have yet to be able to sit through all 4 minutes of this, especially the last minute:

Absolutely.  Agonising.

I have no idea why I take on other people’s humiliation so eagerly.  I mean it’s not like they benefit or appreciate it.  In fact they probably just gaze at me, puzzled, wondering why I’m crying and/or looking so pained.

I am HSP and empathic though which may account for some of it.  Quite why I syphon off people’s humiliation instead of their confidence, triumphs or good luck is a mystery, but I’m putting down to my BPD and probably a whole slew of shitbag karma.

Hell fire.

Here’s hoping this life is my last shift.

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/cringe-worthy/


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ONE FOR THE ROAD #bpd #sex

dr love

Like most BPD-ers, a lot of the time I hurt.

Usually spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.

But now there is a physical aspect to it.

I did a long and boring job the other day, much of it in extensive proximity with other members of my species, chatting, laughing, some even getting in my face, and at the end of the day, when all decended into chaos, with lots of jostling, pushing and shoving, it reminded me how much I loathe human beings en masse.

The situation was intolerable for someone like me.  The only thing that is plentiful in my life is my own space, and the choice of whom I do and don’t mix with, and when I felt my body stiffen with disgust and outrage, I inevitably sank to their level by fiercely and aggressively barging my way out, shuddering with distaste as I escaped into the rainy night.

Strangely enough, at odds with the days events, I was further tortured that night with weird sexual dreams, and when i woke the next day with a sore back, tight lats and a totally locked, inflexible neck, there was a different kind of nagging twinge between my legs, and I was reminded how unused to touch of any kind, especially that of a loving, sensual variety.

This is undoubtably not doing me any favours.

But by the same token, even considering doing something about it potentially opens up a whole new world of doubt, vulnerability and pain for me, so whilst my body might want sex, I want it about as much as I want my next pap smear test.

prostate test

For men, who obviously haven’t experienced such things, it’s kind of like a prostate test I suppose, but with something sharp that has a good old scratch and scrape around when it comes into contact with resisting flesh.

Plus we have to do them every year.

Every.  Year.

Yes?  You there yet?  God.

I used to physically enjoy intercourse, but since my orgasm lessened into a shadow of it’s former self, I can barely even be bothered to walk anymore.

Plus whilst a quick shag up against the wall might afford some genitalia related relief, I think I’m also missing sensual caresses, skin on skin contact, and, horror of horrors, being held.

And that’s even more scary than a pap smear test with a rusty coat hanger.

I don’t feel sexy anymore but more than that, I do not feel loveable in any way, shape or form, plus the thought of being emotionally vulnerable or needy in front of any man sends me into a panic attack to end all panic attacks, because the need for love lurks surreptitiously behind all of these pretenders, and I cannot hope to be able to fulfil this wholly unrealistic desire any time soon.

dr love

To be honest, if I could afford it, I would seriously consider booking a male prostitute to swing by and pretend to love me once a week, in the same way I would (and will) book a massage to fix my traumatised neck.

That said, the thought of someone turning up on my doorstep with a six pack and gelled hair, smirking like Theophilus T Wildebeest would be enough to make me slam the door, and send me hurtling back to my vibrator tout suite.

I have had men come on to me of late, and the next time someone does, I might just call their bluff and do it.

Not at mine because my home is my sanctuary and I don’t want someone turning up unannounced, intruding on my space.  Not at theirs as they might be a rapist cum serial killer and do a ‘Dexter’ on me.

It will  have to be on neutral territory.  Maybe in the back of my car even.

It will no doubt be tacky, grubby, sexually unsatisfying and embarrassing.

But at least I’ll know whether it’s worth all that to my poor, starved, traumatised carcass.

Even it it’s just one for the road, it you will.

Whether or not I have the guts to carry this out is debatable, but I’ll keep you all posted.  In the meantime, pray for me please!

Namaste x


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SONGS OF ANGER 3 – GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE – Elbow

Last stop Despair, the next stop is Anger Central.

Stand clear of the doors please!

Today has been and is still a very ANGRY day for me, for some valid reasons, but none of which should fill me with a burning rage that is currently boiling and humming beneath my surface.

If you were in my local Tesco Extra earlier, you’d have seen a normal, slightly harried looking woman looking for something to go with her home made pesto.  You might even have smiled at me (some bloke did), and I would have returned that smile (and I did), out of politeness, but you would not have probably sensed that it would only take the very slightest provocation for me to take your head, plus the entire roof off the building with my soaring, volcanic, bottomless rage.

The cuss word commonly known as ‘see you next Tuesday’ seems to have taken the place of the word fuck, and is getting pretty commonplace here in ye old London town, that said, I don’t tend to use it very often.  Let’s face it, if c*** replaces fuck, what replaces c*** when you need to say something really offensive?

But today, my friends, must have been St. C’s day as there was a lot of it about.

Like one of the shrinks that kept asking me questions she didn’t like the answers to, then used every passive aggressive trick in the book to get an apology out of me.

She didn’t succeed.

Like the bloke on eBay who claimed the item he’d bought from me was substandard and scratched, when the photo of it showed that it was neither of those things.

I proved him to be a liar but gave him a refund, confident that the universe will take it off him tenfold.  I hope.  It had BETTER.

Like my brother and cousin who constantly block me from their little clique, just to get a rise out of me.

I won’t try and engage anymore.

Like the woman who spoke over and interrupted me every time I tried to speak at a group lunch today, simultaneously spraying me with spittle whilst doing it.

I refrained from forcing her cake and napkin AND fork into her ignorant, tactless, intrusive gob, and escaped as soon as I could.

Like the guy who nearly knocked a little girl off her bike, such was his hurry to park.

Vinnie-Jones-Lock-Stock-2

I dragged him out of his car and slammed his head with the door repeatedly, Big Chris stylee.

Actually I didn’t. But I did give him the ‘dickhead’ salute by way of compensation, much to the approval of said kid’s justifiably outraged mother.

It seems everyone jars with me right now, and that I’m incapable of tolerating my own species, but I’m the only common denominator, so I’m starting to think that divorcing the rest of the populace is the only answer.  Or turning to the bottle.  Or leaving this life altogether, which led me to this little number.

Now where’s my cocktail shaker?

And now one of my cats has just puked all over my bed, the little….sod.

C***?  No siree.  Not my Charlie.  You see, I love him so much that I’d probably forgive him anything.

There may be hope for me yet :-)

So, Life, things had better change, you’d better stop rejecting me at every turn otherwise we’ll be going before the courts tout suite.

And it won’t be Judge Rinder.

It will be JUDY, OK biatch?

You have been warned.

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/elbow/groundsfordivorce.html


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PITY PARTY TRACK 23 – RUN AWAY – SALSOUL ORCHESTRA FEAT. LOLEATTA HOLLOWAY

I swear this has to be the most upbeat ‘Pity Party song’ EVER…

I mean it should be in ‘Optimistic Mix’ or even ‘Ear Worm’ as I can’t get it out of my head.

So, I came by this blast from the past after watching ‘The Paperboy’ movie on TV, then looking up the awesome soundtrack online, then went on a bit of a disco binge, and it all came flooding back to me.

The disco era, the late ’70’s when I had just started going to clubs, when I’d just discovered my womanly wiles, could just about afford make up and was too uninformed and afraid to know how mentally fucked up I really was.

When I was poor and stuck at home.  When I was all buck teeth and National Health glasses.  When I was borderline bulimic and didn’t even know what that meant.  When all in the world I wanted was a boyfriend and feared that no one in the world would ever love me.

When, unbeknownst to me, I had the whole world at my fucking feet.

That, my friends was nearly 40 years ago, and now the future is so very bleak, I honestly wish I could run away.

Now I’m stuck in this flat.  I’ve got marginally smaller, yellowing teeth and reading glasses.  My eating habits have gone wildly dysfunctional again (pathetic, I know).  I have no partner and am now pretty 100% sure that no one will ever love me again.

I am so stuck, and there’s no way back and no way forward.

God let me go back.  Give me another chance.  I swear I’d get it right this time.

Let me do a ‘Peggy Sue Got Married’ and wake up in the morning in my svelte, 17 year old body and give me the chance to steer clear of all of the mistakes i ever made?

As fucking if.

Namaste x


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MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER, BAKE ME A MATCH…

Let him eat cake

I’ve recently been back in touch with a very old friend via Facebook.

I used to be very close to this person, and he knows i have some mental health issues, so I was surprised and bemused when after some general chit chat about how life has been for me of late, to received the following missive:

Hi hon

Read this and thought of you.

Maybe you should try this out as from what I can tell from Facebook, you still make exceedingly good cakes ;-)

Jamie x

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/apr/11/i-tried-baking-my-way-to-romance?CMP=share_btn_link

“I tried baking my way to romance”

‘Audrey Shulman was good at baking but less confident talking to men. She decided the way to a man’s heart might be cake – and her whole life changed’

Essentially, in a nutshell, this courageous young lady, desperate for a boyfriend, hit on the idea of using her baking to pull, and committed to baking 50 cakes, and taking them to 50 different LA bars in the hope that the numbers game would pay off and she would happen upon her other half.

Bless her.

Bless Jamie, the old romantic.

Aww, dontcha just love the normal folk who think that the answer to all life’s problems is getting a boyfriend/girlfriend and finding true lurve?

I don’t mean to tease, I honestly don’t.

But seriously.

Do people really think that the bone aching, excoriating loneliness of someone with BDP/depression (or any other alienating condition) who has never, nor will never, ever fit in, and feels like an alien on their own planet can be cured by romance?

To be honest, I am really going through the mill right now in nearly all aspects of my life, group therapy is twanging on my last frayed nerve, so I would not inflict myself on my worst enemy, let alone some poor, hapless bloke.

As for sex, I am no where near trusting enough to allow anyone access to my body.

Also, jiggy jiggy is not a cure all!

My father used to have this rather horrible saying about physical relations, which went along the lines of…

Sex might fill your belly, but it won’t fill his!’

…the old charmer (is it any wonder I’m so fucked up?!), which roughly translated means that sex isn’t everything, and you have to be cautious and practical and not get carried away by chemistry.

In other words, ‘Don’t get knocked up, or you’ll not have a room under this roof young lady, so you better hope that laughing boy has a job y’hear?’.

But believe me, it could only ever be a minor distraction when you have a huge hole at the core of your heart that needs to be filled with some kind of self love and self belief, and it must be healed before you can even consider unleashing yourself upon the males of this world.

But he, Jamie that is, meant well.  it’s not his fault he’s lovely, loved and loved up, as opposed to fucked up.

The twat.

So I replied:

Hi Jay

A) Cute article thanks for thinking of me!

B) Hell, no

This is mainly because:

1. I have very little trust in you penis owners, and have been this way all of my life, but I am however working my way through these issues *

2. In my experience, men do prefer savouries.  In this respect your predilection to pink, iced bakes is unusual.  Anything to tell me there, Twinkle?!

3. I want to be liked for myself and not be some bloke’s cakey come up, thank you v much!

* platonic winkies are fine, so stop tucking it between your legs, you look like Buffalo Bill!

Sista x

That said, as most of you know, I love baking for friends and loved ones once they’ve made a place in my heart.  But this privilege has to be earned!

Ladies, would you go offering your coochie for free in your local pub?  No?

Like it says in the Bible “Do not cast your pearls before swine, lest they gobble them up like starved dogs, burp, then turn back to their 6th pint of swill and ‘Match of the Day’ with nary a backwards glance, the ungrateful b******s”

Or something like that anyway.

I also don’t believe in hunting for a mate.

The proof of the pudding is that this lady did not find true love via ‘cake barring’ (and she’s young and pretty!), but she did meet someone when she was least expecting it.  Oh and she also landed a book deal, which, as David Dickinson might say, was the real deal, as far as I’m concerned. :-)

David-Dickinson

Finally there are worse things than being single; this credo was fortified and embedded even deeper into my psyche after witnessing my friend’s fiancee (a distinguished Head of Chemistry at a very prestigious college no less) throw a 5 door slamming tantrum that would make a 3 year old blush with shame, ruining her birthday party, and causing everyone to leg it as soon as they’d finished their last drink.

Except for me that is.  I’d had too much to drink to drive home, hence was stuck with the pathetic little fuck for the rest of the evening.

How I held my tongue, i’ll never know.

And you best believe that the next morning at 6.30am I was up and outta there, and 60 minutes later, at home luxuriating in a fragrant moisturising bath, with a nice cuppa, some soothing music and two happy purring kitties, who were very pleased to have their momma back so early.

Seriously.  Is there anything worse than warring couples?  And why do they save their scraps for their single friends to witness? Do they consider it entertainment?

Who needs that shit?  If I’m not getting the benefits of a loving partner, I certainly don’t want to share the down side, so unless your beloved is going to service me, pick me up from the airport after a holiday, take out my trash, take me out Valentines Day, bring me breakfast in bed and paint my ceiling, you can keep the horrible stuff to yourself!

As for sex, Madame Sertraline has all but killed that urge off for me, so when a very cute rugby player half my age tried to come home with me the other day ‘For dinner and “afters”‘, I laughed and gently declined.

Did he honestly think I was going to stuff him?  Sorry, typo, I meant, did he honest think I was going to stuff him with carbs out of gratitude because he’s younger and prettier than me?

Sorry hon.  Even before i was drugged up to the eyeballs, sympathy fucks have never been an aphrodisiac to me.

But one day I’ll be better and maybe the universe will provide a kind, funny, ethical, passionate chap to share the rest of my journey with.

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And you best believe, when he does finally rock up, he certainly won’t starve!

Namaste x

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