I arranged to go to a party tonight.
I bailed last minute.
I’m lonely and beating myself up over my cowardice….but it would have taken so much effort to mingle with all the strangers. Like Bernard Black from ‘Black Books’ (see above quote), I seem to be at my happiest when stewing at home in my own misery.
Plus, said the little voice in my head, what’s the point of socialising with these people when you’re not staying anyway?
Earlier in the day I met a friend for coffee.
‘I haven’t seen you for months!’ she squealed causing me to wince at her shrill enthusiasm ‘what have you been up to?’
I can’t remember what I answered. I think I just lied through my teeth as the real answer was ‘I’m not exactly sure…every day seems like the last….are you 100% sure it’s September? I could have sworn it was still June!’
And I had to explain my current situation and try and make it sound positive and exciting, but I don’t think I was fooling anyone.
‘So, I need to sell up and if all comes to plan I’ll move to a beautiful clapperboard cottage by the sea….but in all likely hood I’ll end up in the armpit of the UK in an ex council house next door to Mr & Mrs Asbo and their thirteen kids and pack of rabid Dobermans, but hey at least it will be mine!’
Shrieky looked as unsure as I feel.
‘How, erm, exciting, you must keep me posted!’ And scurried off lest my now tangible desperation was contagious, whilst I scurried off in the opposite direction to the safety of my lair.
I’ve always felt like a leaf carried along by the wind.
But never have the currents felt so stormy and unknown.
I’m tired of being that loser who everyone gossips about.
I always start so well, and seem so normal. But it’s hard to maintain the act when you’re not working, not dating, not travelling and have just gobbled up over two years of your life without making anything of yourself.
It’s then that the penny drops and people realise that underneath your oh so plausible, pleasant veneer is nothing more that that, and that you’re about as substantial as a blow up doll.
How long will I be able to stay in this new place before I have to move on ‘cos I’ve been busted yet again?
Maybe I should just go into full hermit mode and buy a smallholding on the Outer Hebrides and stay at home with the cats and a couple of chickens and live off the land.
Knowing my luck though, fucking Donald Trump would probably rock up, build a whorehouse on top of my hen house, and cut off my water and kick me in the crotch for good measure. Which would be unadvisable as I’d tear his fucking wig off for him…but I digress….
Bottom line is, I don’t know who I am, where I’m going to go and what I’m going to do.
And I’m so afraid.
I’m trying to be positive, but when you’re Nowhere Woman it’s like trailing your bricks and mortar around the desert, nowhere is safe and it’s not going to work.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK…..