I’ve given up on Stuart. Making a baby out of thin air is exhausting. Not to mention unrewarding. My boobs might have gotten bigger but who wants birthing hips and stretch marks? Not me, friend.
Dylan is relentless in his pursuit. I miss him when he only texts 9 times before noon.
My mind runs riot.
“What does this mean?”
“Was he knifed to death in city centre?”
“Did he perish in a freak motorcycle accident?”
“Is he with another woman?”
Call me irrational and I will point to a diva who's seen it all, lost it all, and is impossible to surprise.
Dylan calls me every night. We talk for hours. Until 7, because he has to feed his dogs. They make it really difficult to build a foundation. (Mental note: get list of shelters.) Dylan says I need personal growth before I’m ready for a relationship with him. He says, sex is liberating and will help me find my core. Maybe, but it seems like a stall tactic. I think he’s afraid to let go and allow himself to love.
~xo Seonaid
Stuart returned this morning looking quite hung-over and more than a little over-sexed. I almost kicked him out. Instead I rinsed his toothbrush in the toilet and left without a kiss.
I turn my hatred inwards, dear reader, but sometimes it runs amok. I imagine how it would feel to stab him with a fork. I wonder if Kate Middleton ever has such thoughts. Does she ever gaze across that expansive table and think, “If only I could hurl this 15th century ivory-handled steak knife into William’s pasty white throat, severing his vocal cords, so that I would never have to hear him laugh like that again”? I wonder.
Tomorrow the country celebrates their love. Today I think, I wish I could sleep through tomorrow. I celebrate this goal. Toward my goal, I have begun drinking whiskey. Thirty minutes ago I switched to shots. I’d like to make a toast. I drink to my oblivion. Stuart is out with our turtle masseuse. He thinks I will never know. I know he will never think where his toothbrush is headed next.
i hate who i am when i'm with him reader. i really do. i really really do.
I spent the weekend with my mother. At the institution. My brother went hungry underground. Who knows where my sisters were, those neglectful bitches. I don't pity my mother, but what did I do to deserve an asylum holiday? Petty gods laugh at my expense. Don't think I am ignorant of this.
My boss enticed me back to work with a free session with Dylan, an organic life coach. I resent his cunning. Everyone has a price, and he knows my price is free.
Dylan is handsome, but he has terrible fashion sense. Flip flops in April, with those toenails? Bamboo fibers will not wear well if you don't put in the work. My soul cries out for the justice that only a lifestyle diva can deliver. Even this promise of heterosexuality could not soothe my anguish. I longed to clasp him to my bosom and heal him of his own personal betrayal. His head was halfway to my chest when I remembered Stuart. Stuart who did not come home last night. Yes. I remembered.
~xo Seonaid
Stuart just left. He brought take away (curry for me, crickets for Hugo) and changed the locks on my door. He had a charity shop remove her things from his flat. Said Berit made threats. She's been ordered to attend anger management classes. A hooker with a heart of darkness. I'd laugh if not for fear of internal rupture.
I told Stuart about our baby. He seemed to take it well. Plumped my pillow. Pinched my breasts. Obviously, we couldn't consumate the relationship. I'm recuperating. Also, my cycle doesn't end until Tuesday. I'm so horny I'm fearful.
~xo Seonaid
Dear Readers,
I write to you from my sick bed. There's been a terrible development. Please believe me when I say, I absolutely never meant for this to happen. In this crazy, random, happenstance universe, through no fault of our own, we are sometimes forced into the wrong place at the wrong time. Like yesterday.
Berit, without provocation, experienced a total loss of control. I don't mind telling you, since you weren't there and must trust my sincere account of this remarkable incident: I've never seen anything like it. I was in front of my flat taking Hugo Turtle for a walk, when all of a sudden, I heard…grunting. I looked across the street and there stood Berit with Stuart. She must have been crying out to me - her mouth was moving but the noises she made…were inhuman. Guttural. It puts me in mind of the Exorcist. Have you seen it? She sounded just like that little girl. Unreal! Just like her.
I’ve never seen anyone navigate such heavy traffic with such speed, agility… not grace, no, but speed and agility kept her from getting hit. Too bad, because, burdened as I was with turtle, I was unable to escape. Helpless to defend against the onslaught. Berit hammered me with her fists, screaming obscenities. My arms, of necessity, were over my head and thus blocked my vision but I imagine Berit didn't look her best. Until the bruises fade, I won't either.
A neighbor called the police. Berit was arrested. I’m filing an order of protection. She’ll be forced from her flat. That’s unfortunate but, as Stuart pointed out, she brought this on herself.
Talking of which, he was very tender towards me and our turtle. He’s stopping by to nurse my wounds. I'm going to tell him about the baby. He deserves to know.
~xo Seonaid
My life is ruined yet I am taunted by hope. My boss approved my expense budget – for £30. Sarah hasn’t spoken to me since her husband yelled my name during sex - my whole name, including the middle bit. As if I would have her husband. He’s irrational. Overweight. And shit in bed.
I want to be with Stuart but he refuses to answer my calls, emails and texts. He’s chosen Berit even though she’s all wrong for him. You may think I’m jealous, but in my experience, once a drug-running hooker, always so. Her tits are massive, but has she read the classics?
She's not worthy. I owe it to him – to our former love – and the love we’ll share in the future - to get rid of her. I’ve taken a flat across the street. And a part time job to pay for two flats. It’ll be worth it.
It has to be.
I called Stuart to share our news: I’m pregnant with his baby. I heard him tell the secretary he wasn’t in. I went by his work. He snuck out the back. I called his mobile. Berit, whore du jour, answered.
“He died,” she said.
“Bitch, do I sound lucky?” I said. She hung up.
She called back from a remote location. I knew she would. Her kind always does.
She asked what I wanted. I asked what she wanted. She asked again. I repeated myself.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. “With Stuart’s child.”
I hung up. I called back. “Me too,” I said.
She hung up. She called back. “No you’re not,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I know you,” she said. “I’ve been you.”
She hung up. She's not pregnant, but will be. Just as soon as her period is over.
But enough about her. Why is my life so difficult? All I want is a man to love me. And our unborn child, come to that - if it must.
Last week, my mother was institutionalized after finding my father in bed with a dog. I had her committed. Yesterday I discovered my worthless father is having an affair. The only thing wrong with my mother is her vision. I left her in the asylum on principle.
My brother joined the army. Two weeks later he went AWOL. In our parent’s basement. I bring him food under cover of darkness three times a week. I would never survive a women’s prison, but what can I do? He’s family. (Supposedly.) I've given until I'm empty.
Does anyone consider Seonaid? I'd end it all if I thought someone would find me in time to pump my stomach. Such anxiety beats in the heart of every single woman. Still, I feel alone.
I could be pregnant with Stuart’s child. If this were a just universe. I curse each egg that succumbs to the relentless and bloody ritual of menstruation. With these ovaries, this uterus, I'm destined to die alone.
Never let the sun go down on your anger. Or so they say. I’m here to say, that’s bullshit. Let the sun rise on it too. Never let them see your anger when the sun rises. Always keep them guessing where you've gone to. Ladies, I’m talking about your men.
Today my boss called me in for an unscheduled review. "You need to leave your personal life at home," he said. "No more crying at your desk. Arguing with your boyfriends. Vomiting into the break-room recycling bin." Blah, blah. What a crap excuse to keep from giving me a raise. As if I didn’t know what he was about. Since when does a lifestyle diva not blog about…her life?
Perhaps I should do as my Editor does, and take "work" home instead. I didn’t want to point fingers, but a reporter’s first obligation is to the story.
BLIND ITEM
Which control-freaky Editor of a prominent webrag is romancing which staff sexpert behind closed doors? We hope it’s not office doors, but some of us have lives and therefore are not here ‘til all hours. (This blind item has two parts. Your part is to determine who plays them.)
Rest assured, dear reader, all will be revealed if said Editor denies the expense budget for my Caribbean expose.
As tragic as my daily existence is (and you just cannot even imagine), I am still miffed that anyone in this dump should question me after years of faithful service! Yes, last night I lost at quarters and beer pong to three underage tourists. That’s all I can tell you because there are huge holes in my memory. Perhaps I should have stopped after the six drinks I remember having. It would appear that I didn’t. Excuse me.
Yes, I woke up in the alley adjacent to the office. No, I was not in the dumpster. I was on a box, beside a naked man, covered in a mural of newspaper and trash bags. It was he, not I, who stank of cigarettes and last week’s urine. My ensemble is none of Mr. Wreck’s business, even if it is a repeat. The Belgians do it all the time yet no one calls on them for an impromptu eval.
You’d think I was the only problem, but ours is an office rife with scandal.
BLIND ITEM
Which ginger-haired suck up recently made waves at company headquarters when he was spotted by a certain lifestyle columnist using colored contacts to hide cat-like pupils? Methinks there’s a story there, but who am I to tell it? He’s high on…life. That’s all I’m saying.
But, what of the quarters and beer pong? Who were those mysterious tourists, and what have they done with my memory? Did they take my number too? Faithful following, it seems I am dangerously close to revealing details about my own personal life. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?
Henceforth, I cover who, not what, I know. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to post this for my Editor’s review.
I’d have to confirm with our sham psychic but I think I see a raise in my future.
~xo Seonaid
Dear Readers:
As Mercury drags his feet ever backwards, my life is drawn into chaos. Three men, all of them ex-boyfriends, each a loser in his own right, none of them sober, called last week. I am beset by present options, yet disgusted by past choices. It's better to be alone than with the wrong man. Right? Always. Don't you think?
Bodean: one-time fiancé, slurry with the home brew, crying after a toss-up with his momma. He’s living with her on the east end of town. (There’s a mouth begging to be silenced by some knife-crime.) He seemed surprised by my lack of interest. I am anxious for her to make herself known to their neighbors but why Bodean thought I'd be sympathetic is a mystery that endures to this very hour. And that call came on Tuesday.
On Wednesday I opened my door to delivery-man Daniel, emotional and neurological epileptic. He bore the flowers I’d sent to myself. To make dead neighbor Gary jealous. Before he died. Epic fail, as they say. Daniel and I made angry love by the fireplace. Twice. My nails are still filthy with coal dust. Daniel denied the circumstantial nature of our sex and called to schedule an after hours delivery. I spent the night drinking. In my tub. Alone. Second-guessing my decisions. Analyzing the boggy, stagnant quagmire of my love life. Googling ways to restore a mobile that's been thrown into the toilet. As is my custom.
Yesterday it was Tristan, the man I drink to forget – most nights. Tristan embodied the change he wanted to see in the world. I did not admire this about him. We started out with a Sunday morning church date, to atone for the sins of our Saturday night. It was endearing – the way he asked my name over our shared waffle, mispronounced it between sips of our mimosa, how he held my hand as he led me into the sanctuary, almost fearful I might escape. Would that I had thrown myself into traffic, dear readers.
When Tristan slid his £2 into the collection bin, I wondered but didn’t ask if that was truly 10% of his income. But how could I doubt this saint of a man, even if he was a complete sinner between the sheets? The sex was...compelling, when supply equaled demand, but eventually I could not keep up.
It all came to an apocalyptic end during bible study. Mother Universe, in Her ineffable wisdom, chose not to end my torment with one well-placed smite. Although She was asked. Repeatedly. Weekly devotionals were tribulation enough, but I was on holiday. In the middle of the Caribbean with a thong up my ass. Who did this bastard think he was, booking his dead God on our vacation? I am a tolerant girlfriend, but even I have limits.
It turned out Tristan only wanted a donation. He’s cutting out to New Zealand. I’m sure he’ll find someone who needs reforming. I pledged £2. I think he's worth it.
~xo Seonaid
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