You Guys Are Probably Right

Probably, I'm just on the rebound. Probably, I'm just getting my leg over. Probably, it's just that I haven't had sex in so long, I'm getting confused by all the happy fluttering endorphins and hormones swimming through my veins like Uncle Kracker (you know the song; ''All you know is, I make you free/and swim through your veins like a fish in the sea...'')

There's some danger of digression there. Moving on, and my point is--fuck you guys. No offence meant (lots taken?) but he's a little man-babe, and I'm having him, and if anybody gets hurt it wont be me because I'VE BEEN TOO FUCKED FOR TOO LONG, NOT IN THE NICE WAY, AND THERE'S NOTHING LEFT OF ME TO HURT.

That's the whole *point* of this blog. I started it because I was burning, and bitter, and angry, and yes okay a little bit of a whinge, and I needed to vent my rage, because I'd already cried myself out of tears.

I have cried myself out of man-tears (that's tears over/about/regarding men, obviously; I'm not implying that I shed particularly manly tears, which would surely be a contradiction in terms). The next guy I cry over will be my son, if he turns out to be A) autistic, or B) a prat. Other than him, well... I'm just not sure men are worth it, to tell you true. From where I'm sitting, you--and that is literally all men, really, pretty much every last one of you--seem to be one part uselessness and two parts delusions of grandeur, with a splash of self-righteous advice-giving thrown in for good measure.

Does that sound good to you...? It's not, really. In spite of my natural inclination towards you, you're not all that tasty a beverage, as a rule. And if I've found one of you I can stomach for even a few weeks, nevermind months or years or eternity, I'm gonna count myself lucky and drink my fill. That's all you can hope for, really, isn't it--fuck knows love doesn't last even when it IS real, and most of the time it's just lust anyway, and who even gives enough of a shit to learn to tell the difference? Not me. Not anymore. I'm just taking my thrills as they come, or cum, as the case may be, and not worrying about anything else. Besides.

Everyone's probably right. I couldn't possibly be in love with him.

Unbelievable

I am in love.

That's it, that's all, there's nothing more to say.

I am in love.

Oh GOD I'm scared now.

Nervous - Part 3

And again, ignore my *last* post.

I am nervous. And I do hope everything is okay.

I've done all I can do. I've written a little letter, I've said a little prayer, it's out of my hands now. All I can do is sit back, wait, and shit a few more bricks...




Times like these, I just want my mom.

Nervous - Part 2

Nevermind my last post. I've changed my mind.

I am sick, absolutely *sick* of my Bastard ex having a go at EVERYONE who's currently a significant part of my life.

We'll start with a friend of mine who, because she doesn't want her personal details splashed all over the web, I'll neither name nor describe in detail. I will say that she's pregnant, and there are *all kinds* of issues going on with her... and my asking Bastard to watch HIS OWN KIDS an extra couple of hours on Sunday so I could visit her in hospital amounted to a seemingly-endless rant (a bit in person, and more on his blog later) about how she's a shit friend, and I have an attitude problem, and so on and so forth, et cetera et cetera et cetera.

That's it. That is purely the last fucking straw. He's just mentioned how fucking much it bugs him to be 'guilted' into having the kids on his 'every day off' one time too many, and I've just had enough. Assuming things go alright tomorrow, he can celebrate by having the kids this weekend--if he wants them. If not, he can wait until the first weekend of August; I'm not having any more of this. I am just not having anymore. He can have the kids every other weekend, like every other divorced father in the history of the world, and he can just be damn grateful for what he gets. Pissed off about my new bloke seeing them more than you see them? That's just too damn bad. You complain every time I 'guilt' you into taking them, so you can just take them less, and he can occupy the role that you've abdicated.

I'll *try* to remember to correct them, when they start calling him 'Dad' instead of you.

And. On the subject of 'him'--I'm glad they'll have a decent male role-model to look up to. I'm *ecstatic* that I've found a guy I think is worthy of spending some time with my kids. I can't wait to see how much happier, healthier, and just nicer they are in the long run, as a result of his influence. I look forward to the day when I turn around and thank him, for his part in the fact that my kids have grown into kind, thoughtful, honest individuals. I look forward to some of his integrity and willingness to work hard and general usefulness rubbing off on them.

I literally cannot wait to see how much better they turn out, for having a decent father-figure in their lives. God knows they'll be better off without their biological father's spiteful, vindictive, fantasy-based, misanthropic mutterings in their ears.

Finally. Just to return to my pregnant friend--I want to apologise to her, for sharing any of her details with my Bastard ex in a misguided attempt to call on any sympathy or decency he may possess. Clearly, he has none of either, and is just low enough to stoop to taking pot-shots at heavily pregnant, seriously ill women who already have far too much on their minds and don't need his self-obsessed SHIT on top of it. Again, I'm sorry--you and I both know you've always been the best friend you know how to be, and if you've ever fallen short of the mark of perfection, well, that's what people do. They fall short of perfect.

And GOD KNOWS I've fallen short of it, yeah? You know what I'm talking about. The time of Secret Sandwiches, etc. I was such a dick then. I blatantly *deserved* you being a shit to me afterwards.

Not that you *were* a shit--we have our own lives, we drifted apart for a bit and then YOU made the effort to get back in touch with ME (and I'm so glad you did, I missed you, you know?). And even if you *had* been a shit--what you are going through is unimaginable. I am so, so sorry, once again, for mentioning ANY details of your plight to my Bastard ex, or his Bastard family. They think I'm the anti-Christ, well, they're about to find out just how fucking evil I can be. Don't stress yourself out. Too much has been said, and none of it's meant in a nice way, and he/they won't get away with it.

I'm not being vindictive. I just don't want my children associating with that class of people any more than they have to.

Nervous - Part 1

Just what the sign says. I'm nervous. Specifically, I'm nervous about something that's happening tomorrow. If you know me, you may know what it is, and if not, you don't know me well enough for me to tell you. It's not my personal business, as such; therefore I can't run about telling my friends all the gory details.

Suffice it to say, I'm *appalled* that the best I can come up with is 'nervous'. What a slap in the face that is... and I *know* it's a slap, and believe me, if tomorrow results in an avalanche of shit smacking the fanblades and flying about coating every surface within flinging distance, I will be so, so far beyond nervous. I will feel *completely* *TERRIBLE*. I cannot overstate it. I will feel like the worst person who ever walked the face of the earth--I will want to harm myself, I will be in a state of near-total, horrified, guilty despair.

That being said, all I can do is wait and see what happens. How the cards fall. Which way the wind blows. Etc, etc.

But oh, have I done it this time. Have I finally managed to do something I'll have trouble living with? Have I finally, after years of playing it safe, intersected periodically by mad bursts of impulsive self-destruction, finally managed to do something I'm going to regret for the rest of my life?

I hope everything's okay. For me, but not just for me. I just hope everything goes okay.

Fairytales

I've been thinking about them a lot, lately. Whether or not they come true in real life, if they do are they as gruesome as their literary form, what's the alternative to a fairytale ending, etc. Somehow, that's led me to the Legend of King Arthur, or, as one translation was entitled, The Death of Arthur.

What I remember most, about reading those stories and books as a child, was how I felt completely torn between Lancelot and Arthur, yet had NO sympathy for Guinevere whatsoever. I *hated* her, with a burning, angry, intense passion. I wanted to slap her face. I wanted to push her off a balcony. I could have garotted her with a piano wire. And I just wanted to hold Arthur and stroke his weary brow and listen to the details of his stressful day and comfort him in ways which, as a ten or eleven year old, I didn't even understand... and at the same time, I wanted to fling myself into Lancelot's arms and kiss him and bite him and scratch him in a fury of greedy desire (yes, at ten or eleven, lol).

I remember understanding how wrong it was, that Guinevere, with the best man in the world by her side, should yearn for his best friend. It seemed good to me to wind up with Arthur OR Lancelot--either one would have been acceptable--but to claim both? Sheer greed. Sheer unfairness. Sheer unfathomable luck. She had two of the best men in the world (albeit fictional versions of them) and I just knew, I would have been better for either of them.

I was so jealous. Reading those stories, I was half-mad with jealousy, that a fictional character (and not even a very good one, just a pretty, indecisive, silly female) would have two such fine examples of man to choose from, and I had nothing. I knew then, better than I could explain, that there were no lion-hearted kings walking this earth, no white knights riding out of the mists, just skinny gawky teenage boys with bad skin and worse manners. I wanted to weep; I wanted to believe I was weeping for Arthur, or even the destruction of Lancelot's morals, or the whole sad sorry ruination of men in general; but I knew it was for myself.

That was more than half my life ago.

Nowadays, I've been around just enough (literally *just* enough--our survey says, I've spent much less time shagging about than most people my age) to have proved myself right. Maybe I've only had intimate contact with a handful of men, but it's taught me more than one lesson I'm not likely to forget soon.


Men are pigs. Men are liars. Men are unfaithful, and undisciplined, and unknowingly destructive. They are greedy, and selfish, and shallow, and stupid, for the most part. They are generally not worth the time and effort you put into them, and they are almost always too dense to even be capable of understanding their own flaws.

And I think I've found one I want to keep. Unbelievable.

My Ex's Blog

Is just a pure pile of unbelievable SHIT. I have never read so many lies, half-truths, made-up nonsense, and absolute fantasy all rolled into one mediocre journal entry. Many of the entries are nearly as imaginative as the one I read today, but that one seriously takes the Cake of Ridiculousness.

First of all. FIRST of all. First of ALL.

WTF does my boyfriend-in-waiting's name have to do with the price of crack in Sunderland? How is this remotely relevant? What does it matter? He changed it when he was 8 years old, for godsakes; I hardly think he was a hardened criminal by then. And even if he had been, it would have been a juvenile record, and no one would be able to find out anyway, so there'd be no reason to change his name in the first place.

As it happens, there are personal, family-based reasons for the change. NO, he was not molested--he's on good terms with both his parents, all his assorted relatives, he calls his mum and uncle at least once a week and his dad when possible--but, well basically, he's taken his mum's surname following his parents' divorce. His first name? He flat didn't like it, and it is WAY too common in this country, so he changed that at the same time. Hey presto, a name you can be comfortable with; and it's nothing to do with being on the wrong side of the law.

Secondly--WTF is my soon-to-be-ex-husband smoking? Because my BIW has never had a previous girl, he's going to turn into a crazy, uncontrollable, bad-tempered jackass because he might have a little more responsibility than he used to in the past? Oh, husband, grow the fuck up. Talk about viewing *everything* through the narrow, tainting, misanthropic lens of your own sordid feelings and experiences. Just because YOU can't cope with the reality of what everyone else calls 'life' doesn't make everyone else equally incompetent. Learn to be a fucking man, you spineless, mindless, whingy bastard, and if you can't, at least learn not to take shots at someone purely for being more of a man than you.

YES, I said it. Floppy fringe, gay accent, general Southern fairy behaviour notwithstanding, he is so much more of a man than you are. Moreover, he's a good man--and that in particular is something you'd know nothing about.

Oh, husband-who-we'll-call-Pedro-for-the-purposes-of-the-blog. Pedro. You misguided fuck. Will you never understand?

If you had been *half* the man he is, I'd never have looked elsewhere.

Moving on, to my third point; how much do you NOT understand this, at all? ''Seducing my wife;'' he couldn't seduce a newly-divorced 40-year-old with the lowest self-esteem imaginable, much less a young, pretty, reasonably confident woman. He'd crap his pants if he tried. He'd piss himself. He'd be a shaking, nervous, gibbering wreck--which I'd know, because I kissed him on the cheek once and he nearly fell over, OMG-WTF-RL-GRRL-style.

Don't kid yourself. Seduce your wife, indeed. You wanna look at that from the appropriate, and completely opposite, angle?

And, for my fourth and final point. "He's no Prince Charming...."

Too bloody right he's not. A prince would be like you and your useless brother, a couple of spoilt, selfish little kids, who sit on their lazy backsides while their mummy runs around after their 30-year-old asses, cooking and cleaning and making packed lunches and ironing their shirts and just generally shielding them from the harsh unfairnesses of life. A prince might be someone who, when he can't be arsed to work, goes on the sick for 6 months at a time, or lets his wife forgo university to get a full-time job while he's on the dole, or who can't fix a goddamn broken toilet seat for 2 years straight. THOSE are examples of princes. God forbid that I should ever, ever be stuck with one of those again--because princes don't want princesses. They want slaves.

Like fuck am I anyone's slave.

And like fuck am I some blushing maiden in a tower somewhere, while we're on that subject. I'm a WOMAN, in all the best and worst incarnations of that word. I am, in no particular order, a compassionate shoulder to lean on, a friendly conversationalist, a great fuck, a fun night out, an arguably more fun night in, a spirited debater, a tease, a good laugh, a possibly talented writer, a relatively logical thinker, a realist, a pragmatist, a dreamer, a romantic, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover, and potentially one of the finest examples of life partner anyone could hope to snag. I am beautiful. I am unique. I am capable and intelligent and interesting and likable and shaggable and so, SO many things you never took advantage of; yet all the while, you very much took advantage of ME.

Never again. That will just never happen again. I've managed to find someone who *sees* me, as I am, not just my good points, but also my flaws, and he sees them as they are. He sees the minutiae composing all the smaller facets of who I am, but he doesn't miss the way it all fits together. He is concerned with the little details, but he doesn't neglect the bigger picture.

I can well believe that someone like you, would have trouble understanding someone like him. But I'll try and put it into perspective for you; think back, 7, 8, 9, nearly 10 years... there was a girl, a sweet, shy, trusting, thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent, moral, unique, interesting, potential-laden girl, a girl like no one you'd ever met before, just waiting for someone to give her a chance to show them how fantastic and amazing she was, underneath all that shyness and lack of self-confidence.

Now imagine that it's not a girl, but a grown man, whose worst vices are a touch of Japanophilia and his love of a rousing game of Left 4 Dead, and whose attributes include all of the above, plus a hell of a work ethic, a sense of personal responsibility, and more general kindness than any man I've met before or since... and you'll kind of understand what I see in him.

No Prince Charming? No shit. He's more of a white knight; but instead of trying to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away, oh-I'll-handle-it-dear style, he's actually not rescuing me--he believes in me enough to help me rescue myself.

Don't you get it? It's not about whether he drops me in the shit or not, in the end... it's the fact that he knows, if he did, I'd just handle it. Because I am. Capable. Of running my own life.

He doesn't try to isolate, or bully, or manipulate, or coerce me into needing him--he wants me to *want* to be with him. Not because he thinks I can't make it on my own, or because I'm just a little woman and I need a big strong man to look after me and sort my life out--but because he's aware that I AM getting my life in order, and I'd like someone equally pleasant, and bright, and capable, and likable, and just plain fun, to share that life with.

And now I've found him. I have finally, maybe, no-chickens-counted-but-fingers-well-and-truly-crossed, found him.

And everyone who's got a problem can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.

:)