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
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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