My Mumbling Thoughts

I remember a couple of months before the summerball last year, Zoe and I decided to go on this serious diet after our Easter holiday. I was tired of being fat (or at least fat to me), and so was Zoe. We had definitely put on the fresher's 15, and even Momma and Mel said that I had gotten a lot bigger since they left me at the airport eight months prior. I suppose it was inevitable; I ate shit food and drank twice my weight in alcohol. I would look back at old photos and missed being a size 2.

It really hit me just how much weight I had put on when I went into Betsey Johnson in the Tyson's Galleria, and could barely squeeze into the dress that I wanted to wear at our summerball, and it was a size 4. I needed both Mel and Zoe's help to get the zipper up, and it was at that exact moment standing in the dressing room with the two of them, looking in the mirror and trying with all of my might to suck in my cider gut, that I decided it was time for me to get my fat ass on a diet.

Zoe and I decided that if we were going to do this, we were going to go all the way and be extreme. We never do anything by half, and figured the sooner we Got On It, the faster the weight would fall off. And it did.

We cut everything out. Everything. It was a lot easier to list what we were allowed to eat, rather than list what we couldn't eat. It was simple: only fruit, vegetables, low fat yogurt with sunflower seeds, chicken (grilled only) and fish. We drank gallons of water, and if we were going out for a night on the town then we could only have vodka and cranberry juice.

That was it. Nothing else was allowed. Not even potatoes, eggs, brown bread or pasta. No juice. Definitely no chocolate, candy or snack foods. We even cut out salt and butter.

Nothing.

And you know what? We were right. The fucking weight fell off in no time. And I have never felt better to be honest.

It was nice to have Zoe there with me as well. We would go to Asda every week or so, buy all of our fruits and vegetables, come home, cut them up, separate them into the different tupperware containers and prepare all of our meals together. It was actually a lot of fun.

Of course there were some days when I could have just sat on the floor with a whole chocolate cake and eat it in an entire sitting.

I didn't. But I thought about it.

And on those days I had Zoe there to tell me, don't do it Sam. It's death. DEATH.

Everyone in the flat thought that we were being a little too extreme and that we were developing some kind of eating disorder, but it was fine. I was thin, tanned and felt amazing. And not only that, it gave me a sense of power over myself that I had never felt before. To know every thing that I ate, keep track of it, monitor myself and be as strict and disicplined with my diet was extremely empowering. I could see how some people do get a little carried away and go over the top, but so long as I kept myself in check and on track, I would be fine.

When the summerball finally came around, I was able to zip my dress up by myself, and that alone was quite possibly one of the greatest feelings in the world.

After we all broke up for summer, the diet fell apart and I went right back to eating hamburgers, drinking tea, chicken sandwiches and all of the food that I had told myself was death for the past couple of months. It was just so much effort and I wasn't in the mood to do it anymore. Now, however, I kind of wish I would have stuck with it.

I'm not getting back On It, mostly because it's fucking expensive to go and buy fresh fruit and vegetables every week, and if you don't eat it, it goes off and then you've just wasted that money for nothing. BUT, I do plan on getting myself back on track as far as my diet goes. I'm not going to be as extreme as Zoe and I were last year, but I'm going to start cutting out a lot of shit that I eat all of the time simply because it's easy. No more mini rolls (maybe no more chocolate all together), frozen pizza, chips, crisps or any of that processed shit that isn't good for me. Instead I'll replace my Bad Snack Choices with healthier alternatives that I did really love while I was On It. For example, today I'm having strawberries with low fat yogurt as a snack instead of the chocolate mini rolls that are currently sitting in my desk drawer.

Besides, healthy food just looks so much nicer and colorful. A lot more pleasing to the eyes.

I'm also going to steal Melissa's idea and cut the peen out until August 1st. She's right -- it just seems like a good day. No more peen. At least, no more one night stand peens. I think I went a little boy crazy the past couple of weeks and need to take a serious step back. I blame it on the hot weather. And the fact that I'm slut. Yeah. I know I am.

I've got a big list of things to do this summer, and sleeping with as much peen as possible is not one of them; although it was really fun while it lasted. I'm going to try a new angle and actually talk to guys rather than just sleep with them. Not only that, this past Friday was not one of my proudest moments (again, I apologize to X who was awesome and saved me from my own crazy, mental ways). I was just sat alone at the flat, stirring, thinking, and going round and round in circles in my head about one, stupid boy that doesn't even matter. He doesn't mean anything to me. But good lord did I ever want him to mean something when there was nothing there to begin with.

So I'm going to chill out, take it easy, and get my ass back on track. I need to save money anyway for when I go and visit Zoe in Greece this summer. Save myself for the Greek peen.

Posted by Sam at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Another Friday has come and gone, and I'm back in the flat, chilling alone. Well, I suppose I'm not really alone, if you count the little kids that live across the way in the back. They're so loud they might as well be playing right here in the kitchen. Noisy bastards.

I stopped off in Putney this afternoon so that I could pay some of the rent that has been accumulating since February and then rushed home so I could finally eat my lunch that I had been carrying for over an hour, which I bought after I had gotten off of work at 1:30. Since I only have to work thirty-six hours each week, I generally leave in the early afternoon every Friday. It's nice. I'm able to come home and get things finished that have been piling up throughout the week.

But today I came home to an empty flat since Helen was at work and Trish left this morning to go back to VA for the summer. It seems emptier now that she's gone. She's not just away visiting her boyfriend, Will, for the weekend. She's gone. In a plane. Somewhere over the ocean right about now.

And for some reason, even though people have been slowly leaving one by one to go back home, it doesn't feel real to me. Zoe was the first to fly away to Greece for her summer, Carlene left a little over a week ago (not that I was bothered by it much), and now Trish has packed her things up as well and flown the coop. It's just Helen, Alex and myself now, although with their work shifts being opposite to mine, I hardly see them either. It just feels like we're on some kind of extended holiday and when it's over, uni will be going on again, everyone will be back under the same roof like always, and the house will be buzzing with noise once more.

Last night, Trish and I were hanging out in the lounge, as we usually do, and put these moisturizing face masks on that we said we would do all week. We watched, When Harry Met Sally and afterwards she started to finish the rest of her packing.

"Can you help me pack my things please?" she hollered from her room.

"No," I told her while I was stood at the sink washing dishes.

"You suck."

It just didn't feel right. None of it. It felt weird and off. She wasn't really packing her entire room up because she was moving out. She was just doing a really intense spring cleaning. That was all. Why did I need to help her clean her room?

When I finished the dishes, though, and it was time for me to head upstairs and go to bed, we said our goodbye's, gave each other a hug, and that was it. I wouldn't see her for two months. But I could still hear her from my room upstairs while she was on the phone to Will.

I was confused by it all. I know I'll see her again, but generally when I don't see people for long periods of time, I say goodbye to them in an airport, properly, maybe have a bit of a cry and then that's it. They're gone. I'm not wearing my pajamas and then head upstairs to go to sleep. It was all backwards and felt like I was in some kind of weird dream that didn't make any sense.

When I woke up, I got ready for work as usual, came downstairs to eat breakfast as usual, and paused by my baby's door.

She's still here, I thought to myself. She wasn't actually leaving to go back home.

But when I came back home after my trip into Putney, I definitely knew that she was gone. I didn't feel her in the flat anymore. I didn't hear her on her laptop or see her in the balcony doorway smoking a cigarette. She was definitely gone. And already after a few short hours, I miss one of my best friends.

I started thinking about Helen and Zoe. If this is how I feel about Trish who is only going to be gone for two months, what am I going to do when Helen and Zoe have left the country for an entire year? What am I going to do after uni is over and we all split up and go our different ways into the careers that we've been working for? What are we all going to do?

It's a mixture of sadness and weirdness to think about. Right now I know that Helen is still here living in the flat with me. Right now I know that I'll see Zoe at the end of this summer. Right now I know I'll be living in the same house with Trish in our third and final years.

Right now.

But after it's over, after uni is finished, after everything is done and completed, then what? If I'm already missing Trish and it has only been a few hours, what am I going to be like later on down the road? A fucking emotional train wreck probably.

I've always said that Helen, Zoe and Trish were my three best friends that I've made since I've moved here. If it wasn't for those three ladies, I wouldn't have made it. I would have probably gotten on the first plane back to Virginia after two months of trying to make English life work for me and cried to Momma about how much of a failure I am. But those three have made living here incredible. My American side-kick, Trish, my Irish party animal, Zoe, and my mental savior, Helen. They're my family here. I only hope they think of me the same way and I measure up in their eyes.

Right now I'm just sitting in the kitchen looking around at what I'm going to clean first. I'm going to sift through the leftovers in Trish's room and take it easy this weekend. I don't have to think about what we're going to do in the semi-near future. Not yet I don't. Right now I can just miss my friends and know what in a few short months, we'll all be reunited as we should be.

Posted by Sam at 04:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I have a "place" now. A place where I go every morning and I'm a Regular. The man smiles at me every morning when I pop in and says, "tea, two sugars and a plain croissant, yes?" and I smile back replying yes, even if I don't really want the croissant because I've already eaten cereal for breakfast. I just can't help but say yes because he's so lovely, and I think, well, I can eat it later in the morning when I know I'll be hungry. I never wait, though. I eat it after I log into my work computer and drink my tea while I read my morning blogs. I figure it doesn't matter and I've only paid £1.30. Why the hell not? I should get the damn croissant.

It's nice to have a place. I've always wanted one, kind of like Cheers, where everyone knows your name. Only they don't know my name, they just know my order, which is cool as well.

But because I'm a freak, I think about falling into a rut, a routine, or being predictable. I don't want to be that girl, that work girl that always has a tea with two sugars and plain croissant. I'm spontaneous. I'm wild and crazy. I'm not just a morning brew and croissant.

So sometimes I'll get a pain au chocolat instead, and that makes me feel a little better. I also get a little satisfaction from the man's face when I shake it up and tell him that, no, I will not be having just a plain croissant. I'm deeper than that.

I am that 'work girl' now though, and I'm fucking loving it. I wake up in the morning, I get showered and ready for work, I commute, I walk with my iPod blasting kick ass, motivational morning tunes in my ears, and then I go into my Place and continue on to my job where I sit all day in front of a computer and work. Then when it's time for me to leave, I walk all the way to the bus stop dodging mothers with their children, and those annoying men who love to shove a free newspaper in my face that I decline every day. And by the time I get home, I'm exhausted. I'm tired. I just want to sit on the settee, put my feet up and have a rest from my long day of sitting.

Even though I do fuck all every day, I'm out of the flat, I'm earning money, I'm out and about and I've notice how much happier I've been these past few weeks. I knew it'd do me a world of good once I got a job. I'm not one of those people that can simply sit in all day for long periods of time. We all know this, I'll end up just going insane. I'm reading more, and I've just recently started blogging more here on My Mumbling Thoughts. I don't want to jinx it, but sometimes I think when forced to sit behind a computer all day, my blog is better. Okay, perhaps not 'better', but the material is more frequent for sure.

I was talking to Momma this past weekend on Skype, and I told her how I feel more like I'm part of the city now. I'm not just a poor student that's trying to make it through every single day, but rather I'm more of a city person; I've joined the crowds of business suits and speed walkers that are rushing every morning to the bus stop. It's a nice feeling to have.

"Well don't get too comfortable," she said to me with a hint of nervousness in her voice. "You're coming back over here once your school is over."

Bless her. I know Momma would like for me to be closer to home and working there, but even though I've only been doing this for a few weeks, I could see myself doing it for a long period of time. Granted, I wouldn't like to be working for the council, but maybe if I were doing a work placement somewhere for a newspaper or magazine; I could get up every day, have a tea with two sugars and croissant every morning and work my way up the writing ladder. I could do it easily. I can do this. And I'd like to try. Who knows what lies ahead after my third year of uni.

I'm just happy to be here, working, reading my morning blogs like the old days, drinking my morning cup of tea with a croissant. Or pain au chocolat if I'm feeling wild and crazy that day.

Posted by Sam at 10:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm not a big fan of children. Really. I think somewhere along the way of me growing up, I lost that maternal feeling that most little girls have playing with their baby dolls and carting them around in those annoying plastic strollers. I mean yes, I think wee little babies are cute when they make those baby gurgling noises, and a part of me dies a bit every time I see tiny outfits because they're just so damn precious.

But as far as me having my own kiddies running around making those baby gurgling noises wearing those tiny outfits? Um, I don't think so. Thinking about squeezing a human being from my body not only turns my stomach with sickness, but actually makes me curl in physical pain just imagining laying with my legs spread wide for everyone and Jesus to see.

Saying all of that, though, I think I'd make a rockin' momma. I do tend to take on the "mother role" with my friends as well. When they're sick, I nurse them back to health making sure that they stay doped up on the best over-the-counter pills and cough syrups I can find. If a boy makes them cry, I hunt that boy down and will make sure he knows that he never deserved a second of my friend's time. I make big meals and feed my little ducklings. I clean the flat and there's a motherly tone in my voice when I tell them not to mess anything up that I've just tidied. Somewhere, deep inside of me, Momma Sam exists and she cradles her friends when they don't have enough strength (either emotionally or physically) to take care of themselves.

And I don't mind taking on that role from time to time. In fact, I kind of like it, and occasionally I get a small sense of pride that parent's must feel when they see their children grow and reach a milestone, no matter how big or small it is.

Trish would be my baby. She is my child, and I look out for her the most. I hounded her about getting an Oyster card, lectured her about how much money she would save if she got one and how they make your life so much more simple. I also hounded her about getting her national insurance number sorted. These are just things in life that people have to do in order to live in London. And the day she got both of these handy little cards, she called me just to say, Sam! Guess what I got? My national insurance number! And there I was sat in the bar clapping and squealing because my little baby sorted those things out. It was a relief, because I was constantly telling her for months to take care of those things, but I was also a proud momma.

Helen I consider to be my eldest girl. She's independent, she can take care of herself and doesn't need me for every day practical matters. But there are other things, boy things that I'm there for. Her ex-boyfriend (who was her first serious boyfriend) has been a plague (in my opinion) upon her for far too long. She has cried to me on many occasions about him, confides in me about how he makes her feel and the mind games he plays. This does not make me a happy momma. For the most part I keep out of their business, because I don't want to be one of those friends that gets in the middle of other people's relationships; but there are only so many times when you can have one of your best friends cry on your shoulder about the boy that causes her so much pain.

So I made sure that he knew and everyone else in the world, how much I despised him, how much I hated him, how I would find him and gut him like the spineless bastard that he is if he ever did anything to hurt my baby again.

And he knows. And he fears me. As he should.

When the summerball came round, I watched my babies get all dressed up in their nighttime dresses, took pictures for them and sent them out the door shouting and waving, "call me if you need anything! Be careful! And have fun!" I stayed at home and cleaned the entire flat and kept my phone close by if any of them called on me to come and get them, or if heaven forbid, anything bad had happened. I stayed up as late as I could, but still kept one ear open to hear the door when it opened and they dropped their shoes and bags on the floor.

Later on in the morning, my babies piled on my bed and filled me in on all of the details of the night. Trish sat at the foot of my bed and Helen curled up next to me under the covers. I listened as each of them told me the funny or random tales and stroked my Helen's head, bless her.

It's good to feel needed, to know that I have someone to take care of. Next year, when I have my wee freshers, I want it to be like that. I want our flat to be a family and for me to be there if they need help with anything. I want to watch them grow, and learn, challenge their minds about life, and develop into well-rounded people who are good human beings that are respectful and appreciate things. I want to be there when they're struggling with an essay that's due in, when a boy/girl makes them cry and be their strength when they have nothing left. I want us to be close knit, have each other's backs in a crisis and can have a laugh together.

And then I want to send them out in the world and hear about how well their flourishing on their own. My little ducklings. My freshers. My babies.

It almost makes me reconsider squeezing an infant from in between my thighs. Almost.

Posted by Sam at 09:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

"I'm worried about you, Sam. Three guys in two weeks. Really," Trish said to me over the phone on Sunday morning.

"What? I'm fine. I'm just making up for lost time," I laughed.

But I suppose she did have a point. Three one night stands in two weeks? Maybe I should take a step back and have a weekend off or something. Which is what this past weekend was supposed to be, I guess. But I made sure that I did everything I could think of so I wouldn't be alone in our tiny flat.

Being alone is something that I'm not very good at. There's being alone in the flat when you know that someone is just at work, or has popped down to the shop to buy a few things; they'll be back, either within a few minutes or by the end of the day. I won't be alone for too long to sit, and think, and wander about aimlessly. And then there's being alone. Properly alone with nobody else.

So I went out on Saturday night with Josie and her friend, Tat. I met them at the train station and we walked to the nearest pub for a quick drink and so Tat could go to the bathroom. I felt so much better being out for the night, all dressed up, looking good and getting to know two people that I hardly knew but found to be quite charming. It was going to be a good night. I could feel it.

We walked to the club which sounded promising. They played indie music, and where there's indie music, there are indie boys with their skinny jeans, messy, greasy hair, tight t-shirts, tattoos and chain smoking habits -- all things that I find extremely irresistable.

While we were standing outside waiting to go inside, I warned both Josie and Tat that when I reach a certain level of drunkeness, I tend to wander off and do my own thing. I'll either find a new crowd and be the groups best friend for the evening, or I'll find a boy that I want to hook up with for the night. It was nothing personal, just my drunk, alter ego, Sharon. She is a different being who knows no boundaries; she is rude, offensive, sexual and very much In Your Face. She likes to fight, make-out, dance and drink until she's sick and then washes it all down with vodka again. Oh, Sharon. The stories that she has about nearly being arrested and kicked out of who knows how many clubs. Her mouth has gotten her in quite a lot of trouble as well, and there have been a couple of occasions when she has needed her friends there to apologize to strangers for her bluntness.

Josie and Tat kind of laughed it off; yeah, people get drunk and do crazy things. I'm not sure they fully grasped what I was trying to tell them though, and instead just decided to see where the night would take us.

We got in for free, and all drinks and shots were a half off until midnight, so we decided to buy as many drinks as possible. I was looking forward to have a relatively cheap night out with good music and dancing, but my eyes kept on drifting as all of the indie boys slinked past me with their pints of beer. I was getting distracted in our conversations and did not even try and conceal my harsh stares as my head swerved on my shoulders.

It didn't take long until I was drunk, and feeling a tiny bit sick after this minging shot. I just drank more double vodkas and oranges until it went away. As the alcohol pulsed through me, I could feel Sharon starting to wake up and she began to take over.

I wandered outside for a cigarette and somehow started talking to these boys who claimed to be in a band.

"Yeah, I'm the drummer," the tall indie boy said with a mountain of tangled, black hair on his head.

"Blah. I've already been with a drummer," I said, quickly shrugging him off.

"And a guitarist who's the lead singer?" a blond boy chimed in.

"Nope. But I wanted to. He had a girlfriend though who was so nice."

"Well I say we change that tonight," and I sat a little closer to the blond boy with blue eyes that appeared to stand out more because of the alcohol and the moon.

Josie and Tat found me outside, but they weren't met with very much enthusiasm by me. They had just encountered Sharon, and she was busy with a blond guitarist that had intertwined his fingers with hers.

I did leave the guitarists behind and went back inside for a couple more dances. I climbed up on stage with Josie and had to convince Tat to come up as well so we could swing our hips, hold onto the metal rails, dip low and sing along with with the fantastic songs that were being played. But it wasn't long until I told them I needed to use the toilet and didn't see them for the rest of the night.

I roamed around the club alone for a while until I found myself outside again, cigarette in hand and searching for the guitarist with the shining blue eyes. I didn't find him though. Instead I bumped into a different boy that literally caught me as I tripped over my own shoes.

"Wow. And that was terribly embarrassing," I said straightening myself up.

"Don't worry about it. I'm just glad that I was here, otherwise you would have ended up on the pavement."

As I stood back and regained my composure, I immediately forgot about the blond guitarist and was now interested in this new boy that had short, peach fuzz, brown hair, glasses, a nice fitted white buttoned shirt, and dark jeans that sat easily on his hips.

He was cute. I wanted him. Immediately.

We chatted for a bit, he lit me another cigarette as I stubbed mine out with my high heel, and I told him about how I was trying to find a boy that was in a band.

"I'm glad you didn't find him. They sound like a bunch of rude boys anyway," he put his arm around my waist and pulled me close.

"Yeah. They all are," I said, knowing that he, too, was a rude boy, just disguised differently.

"Let's go inside and get you another drink," and he lead me by the hand back inside the club.

From there, I don't remember much. We made out on a couch, had one dance and it wasn't long until we were standing in the queue to the cloakroom so I could gather up my coat and try to find a taxi to take us home.

Mr. Ben is what I liked to call him. I rested my head in his lap and fell asleep on the journey back home. He was sweet and gentle, and softly spoke into my ear as my dress fell to the floor.

In the morning when I woke up, I didn't feel too bad and felt an arm around my waist. As I turned my head over my right shoulder I saw Mr. Ben and felt him lightly breathing. His legs twiched every so often and I bit my lower lip trying my hardest to not laugh, because I found it so cute. And as I basked in the morning afterglow of yet another one night stand, I felt the happy satisfaction drain out of me a little bit, and thought I would much rather be at home with a complete stranger, than be alone in the flat for one night. Sad.

It wasn't long until Mr. Ben awoke after me, and he needed to get ready to leave for work. He told me that he would be at the same club again this weekend and hoped to see me there. I gave him my phone number and he said that he would call me after he got off work. I didn't believe him. But a small part of me did wish that he would be good on his word. We kissed once more and I shut the door on Mr. Ben.

I don't know why I hate being alone in the flat. One of my greatest fears is that I'll be at home alone when somebody tries to break in. They'll find me in the flat and then they'll murder me. If nobody comes home, then who knows how long I could be left there, dead and alone. At least if I'm there with someone, or if they're coming back relatively soon, I would be found instead of just lying there. And I don't know why I feel better with a complete stranger in my bed either, but at least it's a warm body, someone else who's there to entertain me, to talk to me (even if it is only awkward conversation), to be there.

Yesterday afternoon, however, after I got off work, I came home to the empty flat. I knew that Trish was going to be home later in the evening, but until then I would be on my own. I had a little rest, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, read a little in one of my books and did all of my ironing. I listened to Stephen Fretwell, Josh Ritter and Richard Hawley serenade me while I smoked and looked out to the clouds mesh in with the sunset.

And I thought, this isn't too terrible. I could do this sometimes. And I probably will for a good majority of this summer now with Trish leaving this Friday and Helen having an opposite work schedule to me since she works in a pub. I could be properly alone in the flat and be okay. I don't need to go out everytime I'm alone and find someone to take up space in my small bed. I may fancy myself to be a pint sized Samantha Jones from Sex and the City, but unlike her, I wasn't just sleeping with strangers because I felt like it (well, that was one of the reasons), but also because I'm looking for something, for someone, and it's hard for me to admit that. It is so uncomfortably hard for me to say it, because it goes against everything that I've been taught and raised with.

You don't need a man to be happy my mother's words will ring in my ear. And she's right. I don't need a man to be happy. I would just like one to be around.

But going out every weekend and finding a new boy to give a new nickname the next day, because I can't remember their real name, isn't the way to go about it. Yeah, I had a dry spell for a couple of months, but now that has been taken care of. I, like a lot of other people in the world who have already learned this, need to be okay with myself, alone, before I can even begin to think about being okay with someone else. And when that day comes, I won't have a nickname for him. I'll simply call him by his name, because I'll want to say it.

Posted by Sam at 09:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This weekend I have the flat to myself.

Alone.

Completely. Utterly. Alone.

Whilst Helen is away in South Africa on holiday with her parents, Trish is up in Rugby spending her last weekend in the UK for a few months with her boyfriend, and Carlene has already moved out for the summer, I'm left here in the flat watching my load of laundry spin round and round and round.

Don't get me wrong, I love to watch my laundry spin round and round and round, but you can only do it for so long before you eventually fall asleep and go, "well there's another Sunday gone."

I sent out a virtual S.O.S via facebook (as one would do), and received a response from one of Helen's friends that I met at her birthday party last Friday. Beautiful Josie has come to my rescue with a proposal of going out with her in Kingston tomorrow evening, which I will most likely go to, because woohoo! interaction with other humans and alcohol! You can never go wrong with that.

Until tomorrow evening though, it's just me and my laundry.

As soon as I got home, I immediately dumped all of my crap upstairs in my room and completely cleaned the flat. Everything has been wiped down and hoovered up. My laundry of course will be an exciting task for me throughout the rest of the evening. But our flat is only so big and I finished my cleaning within a few short hours and am now left with nothing but the internet and a few good books I've wanted to finish for a while now.

I decided to put off the reading until after I've made myself dinner (and cleaned the kitchen as well), and while I'm waiting for dinner to finish cooking, I'm cruising the internet, as if I don't do it enough at work. I have realized though that my blogaversary is steadily approaching, and My Mumbling Thoughts will be three-years-old.

THREE YEARS.

That's insane folks.

My first year, one of my very first readers, Erik, wrote a lovely post for me, because I didn't want to write a blogaversary post myself. And my second year I actually forgot because I'm lame. This year, however, I'm putting the offer out there again to anyone who would like to write a blogaversary post for me. Trish already said that she would write me one, which is awesome of her, but it doesn't hurt to have more than one. And you can write about anything! That's the beauty of it. Take this blogging gig out of my hands for a change and write something that you want to write. Go wild. Talk about pandas, world war II, breaded chicken fingers or how your shoelaces are rainbow colored; I'm really open-minded.

If you have a gander to that sidebar over to your right, you'll see a little button that says "contact me." You can just send them there if you do decide to have a go at it. I get really excited about things like this.

And while I'm at it, I just have to say that I apologize to anyone who has ever left a comment on here and I've never responded, or those folks that send me email and again, I never respond. Do I have a good answer as to why? No. Other than I'm shit and don't really know what to say when I get emails sent to me, or even when people leave comments. I do read them all though, and smile and always find it amazing that people actually take time out of their lives to read my random drivel on here. I keep an eye on my stats (still a stats whore to this day) and have noticed that my small group of readers has slightly grown a bit over the past year and a half, and while I do realize it's not the "official" de-lurker day, I'm also inviting the folks who have never ever commented to at least say hi, just this once, for me.

Come on! I'm at home alone all weekend! I need some action. Some lovin'. Some blog lovin' that is.

Now watch nobody comment and I end up looking like a dweeb. Ah well.

Posted by Sam at 07:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

There are three things in life that Momma always told me to never discuss with anyone: politics, religion and money. Those three things always get people in trouble and cause grief between even the best of friends. Folks just feel really strongly about all three of the things mentioned above, and no matter what you try to do, they will more than likely always stick to what they believe.

I'm pretty good at not talking about politics or religion, mostly because I don't really know shit about them, and don't really have an opinion on the matters. You believe in what you believe, and who am I to say otherwise? Just don't push any of your bullshit thoughts on me and we'll be gravy.

Money is a completely different issue to try and avoid, though, when you move into a flat with people you've never lived with before. Hell, when you move out on your own for the very first time. It always sits at the forefront of any young person's mind (or anyone's mind in general really), and the problem is never really "dealt" with. You're either dirt poor (been there, done that, have a collection of free t-shirts), or you're making an income and are still trying to stretch your paycheck to the max (how I currently live). Granted, I'd much rather have a paycheck to stress over than no paycheck at all, but when folks learn that you're now making an income, sometimes you get surprising knocks at your door.

I've always lived by the rule that I'll never post anything up on my blog that I couldn't say to your face. And if I do write about you (whether because I have a problem or not), I usually try to write it in a not-so-obvious way that points out I HAVE AN ISSUE WITH YOU, because gah, that just seems so lame to me. But I've also learned that when you live with certain people, you can't always be upfront and frank with them, because they always take things the wrong way and are so sure that you're having a personal attack towards them. And because everyone in our flat this year has been skating on thin ice and each of us are constantly tip-toeing around eggshells, I didn't really want to be the one labelled SHIT STARTER over one of my particular flat mates -- Carlene.

It's no secret that I've had money problems this year. It's no secret that I just have money problems in life. I always have money problems, and even though I've tried different ways to deal with them, the problems with myself and my bank are constant and I'm afraid ever lasting.

I never asked Carlene for money. I never ask anyone for money, except Mel and on the very rare occasion, Momma. I hate asking for money from anyone at any time, because I'm always so embarrassed and ashamed that I'd even have to do such a thing.

But I'm not one to turn down an offer either; which is exactly what Carlene did. She offered me money. And I refused. And she offered again. And then I accepted her very gracious offer.

While I was unemployed, she knew that I couldn't pay her back, but now that I have a job, she keeps pestering me to pay her back immediately, right now, PUT THE CASH HERE IN MY HANDS. And I'm all "whoa, calm your horses, missy. I've got other shit to take care of first, like, oh, I don't know, RENT." And she's all, BUT I NEED THE MONEY RIGHT NOW, BECAUSE I'M POOR BUT AM STILL SOMEHOW MAGICALLY ABLE TO GO TO PRIMARK AND BUY FOUR MORE PURSES THAT I DON'T NEED, PLUS JEWLERY, AND GOING OUT TO GET DRUNK. So because I'm a bitch, I'm all "I'll pay you next week." And when next week rolls around? I say it again. "I'll pay you next week." And that just continues until she's blue in the face and steam starts bursting out of her ears and her head spins round and round on her shoulders.

Honestly, it's driving me insane. I understand that I owe her money. I've understood this for many, many months. I also know that I owe Helen and Zoe money as well (god, I'm such a ponce), but not once have either of them bugged me to PAY THEM RIGHT THEN AND THERE. Because Carlene has been on my back every fucking week, I'm just going to keep delaying it until I can't handle it anymore and throw the money in her screaming face. I already decided a long time ago that I'd pay Helen and Zoe back (with a bit extra, because I always add interest, even though they hate it when I do that) and will leave Carlene to the very end, simply because I can and she irritates the shit out of me.

I've always told my friends that I will do anything that I can for them if I'm able. If I have the money (which is rare, but now that's no longer the case), then I will be more than happy to loan them any cash and they can pay me when they are able to. I will not hound them, I will not pester them, I will not constantly remind them every other fucking day how much money they owe me right down to the last penny, nor will I remind them how long this debt has gone unpaid. And why will I not do that?

BECAUSE IT'S A FUCKING PAIN IN THE ASS.

We're all students. We're all very much aware of how expensive it is to live in London. We are all irressponsible with our money from time to time. And we should all understand that things are tough, especially when you are international and don't get those handy dandy overdraft accounts; they simply don't exist for us. And not all of us are getting any kind of allowance from our parents.

It's just me, with the occasional helping hand of my little sister just so I can buy food, and leaves me feeling like a right shit every time I have to send her those emails with the subject, "Favor Please." It's humiliating and leaves me feeling like a puppy crawling up to it's angry owner with his tail in between his legs. It never leaves me feeling excited and happy, because yippee! I can buy groceries now! No. I have to make that stretch out as far as it'll go and it's extremely stressful to do that for months. Months.

This job was my savior. I'm making good money for a student on their summer holiday, and I'm able to have so much more freedom. I have regained my independence, and It feels like I'm taking care of myself again. To be able to catch up on rent and pay people money I owe them is going to be the day when I shout yippee! because HOLY SHIT, I don't owe people money anymore.

So for Carlene to be that annoying monkey on my back with her claws sinking deeper into my neck, knowing full and well how much I've struggled this past year, knowing how depressed it made me, knowing how bad I feel about it already, and yet still continuing to scratch and pull at me about it, really chaps my ass and pisses me off. Because I know if the roles were reversed and she were in my shoes, I wouldn't for one second be doing this to her.

There are so many things about Carlene that I learned this year about her that I don't like, this being one of the main reasons as to why I no longer consider her a friend. I originally thought that she was a good person with the best intentions, but after living with her I realized that she's a malicious, manipulative, two-faced liar, and there's no way I want to be associated with her at all next year. So I'll happily pay her the money that I owe her, and after that I no longer want anything to do with her. I've thought about sitting her down, having a chat and trying to work through it with her, but it got to the point where I didn't even want to do that anymore. She showed her true colors. And me? I've learned a very valuable lesson about money and managing my finances.

Posted by Sam at 02:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Recently I've been thinking about my ex, Ash.

First of all, even to this day, it feels strange for me to say "my ex" in reference to Ash. And second of all, I know. I shouldn't be thinking about him, because I've always said that I don't have that right anymore. I lost all of my rights and priviledges as friend/girlfriend that night I left my own room at uni, and didn't return until I was sure that he was gone.

But nonetheless, I have been thinking about him. Not about getting back with him, because that just delves into a whole other part of my brain that I never want to get into; not only that, I don't think I would ever get back him, nor would he get back with me if that were to ever arise. We just have far too much history to even attempt taking a trip down that crazy, swirly road.

What I have been thinking about, however, is what would happen if we were to ever randomly bump into each other? There was that one close call when I was out in South Kent with Helen. One of my friends that I visit from time to time, Stacey, is not even a ten minute walk from Earl's Court tube station, which stands like a statue, reminding me so much of him every time I pass through it.

The history of our relationship runs so deep inside of me still to this day. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if that horrible night had never occurred and we were still together today? How would things be different for me? Would I know the people that he works with? Would he ever manage to get on with my friends? Or would I just remain the mysterious American girl that disappears off into Central every weekend and not really know any of my friends that I have now?

Ash was the only real long term relationship that I've ever had. He knew me inside and out, through and through; and while it was scary to have someone know me so well that it was chilling, I loved knowing that we had hundreds of inside jokes; he would buy my things just because he knew I'd like it, recommend different music artists or bands, and would write to me in a way that sent shivers up and down my entire body. I always felt like we were a perfect fit, and while life wasn't always peachy or easy, somehow we would make it on the other side with a better understanding of each other.

Since then I've only had the severe emotional train wreck that was boy Sam (thank god I moved past all that), and have fluttered between different men with the occasional woman thrown in there for experimental purposes. I've had crushes (or at least thought they were crushes) on a few guys, and had a mountain of one night stands that kept me mildly entertained for, well, that one night.

I'm not sure what is wrong with me, but it feels like I'm having an internal tug-of-war game with myself. I get pulled from "wanting to be in a relationship" with someone, and "wanting to continue being free as a bird who isn't tied down to any man." I can't seem to make up my mind and become increasingly frustrated with myself. Being single isn't so awful; I get to go out when I want, with whomever I want, to do whatever I want, and I don't have to worry about the jealous boyfriend giving me grief when I come walking back barefoot because my feet hurt from my fantastic high heels. But on those days when I get home late from work and my lower back aches from sitting in the shittiest computer chair ever designed, it would be nice to have a boyfriend there to pull me into bed, give me a back rub and kiss my forehead to make me feel better.

It would seem that I would want the best of both worlds -- I'd want the guy there, but also have my own liberties to do what I want, with limitations of course. It's just a matter of balancing everything out, compromise and the trickiest of all tricky things, trust. While I have always had issues trusting men in general (i.e. money, cleaning, matters of the heart), I'm not entirely sure I trust myself. Since I have so little experience in the relationship department, would I even be capable of having a successful and flourishing relationship? Or would I just keep him around until I got bored and wanted to be single again? I know what I'm like - fickle. I'm extremely fickle and I get bored easily with being in a relationship. I would need someone that could keep me entertained and hold my attention for longer than a week. And in return? Well, I'm sure I can think of some ways to thank them, that would mostly likely take place under the covers.

I just keep telling myself that it'll happen when it happens. Patience is a virtue, yes? And one day, some day, hopefully, I'll meet someone who compliments me as much as I compliment them. We'll share the same taste in music, be extreme Mac addicts, love to lounge around in our pajamas in the middle of the day and read books in bed, and hate public displays of affection, but sneak in the occasional sly kiss here and there when we think nobody is looking. I have him, right here in my mind. I can see him. I know his face, see his style and when I'm out and about in town, I might find a tie that would look good on him and buy it just because I could. I just wish that somewhere, someone, hopefully, has me already in their mind as well.

Posted by Sam at 06:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Monday I went where many south Londoners rarely go for any reason: north London. I'm not entirely sure why the lines were even drawn in the first place, but you're either south of the river, or north of the river (or east or west, I know, I know). Me? I'm southern, as always. I know the District line and Piccadilly line. That's all. I don't need anything else. I don't use anything else. Everything else is Unknown.

But on Monday I needed to get on the Central line to get to the Northern line so I could go for a Turkish bath. It was far, but worth it.

Many moons ago, my darling Jon, said that we could go for a Turkish bath for my birthday. I'm not sure how the conversation even came up, but it sounded amazing; sitting in one place and sweating through my eyelids? Sign me up! I thought he had long forgotten about it, but last week while I was idly sitting at work, I received a text from him asking if I could take this Monday off so we could sweat up a storm with each other. I happily responded "yes" and that was that. We were going for a Turkish bath!

Now I had never been for a Turkish bath before, but I had a vague idea of what was involved. Jon just told me to bring a bathing suit so I wouldn't have to go in my birthday suit (like the locals).

We decided to make a full day out of it and I met him at our uni gates at eleven o'clock exactly so we could begin our journey. He told me that he wrote the street names down, but not if we had to turn left or right, so it should make for an interesting trip nonetheless. I told him it would feel more spontaneous not knowing which direction we were going in, and didn't feel my normal panic attack that I get whenever I don't know Exactly Where I'm Going At Eevery Single Moment.

Somehow we went straight to the place without getting lost once. We decided that north London was very easy to maneuver around, and that pleased us and made us feel like we had already been there a million times, which was comforting. When we got to the place that held the Turkish baths though, we were told that we were an hour and a half early, since the Turkish baths didn't start until two o'clock. We were fine with that though, and thought it would probably be good if we got some food in our empty stomachs anyway. Traveling from south London all the way to north London had certainly worked up an appetite.

We quickly made a note about how empty this part of north London was though. It looked like we were on a movie set and just felt very...white. It wasn't like we were even London; it felt like we were traveling to go to London, and this was just a random town that we were passing through. A town where ladies wore Donna Karan suits, always had a fresh coat of lip gloss on, and not one hair out of place. The men wore Armani suits, carried brief cases and always had their mobile up to their face chatting away about some meeting or other.

Jon and I felt like tramps in our flip flops and bookbags.

We stopped at a Costa for a snack and a fruit smoothie (that was so good), and afterwards tried to find a patch of green where we could smoke. We looked like such random tourists when we stopped at a map and saw that we were only a five minute walk from what appeared to be the world's smallest park that was full of people lounging during their lunch break.

"I'm worried we're not going to be able to find a space," I told Jon as we walked trying to find a place where we could sit.

"I'm worried we're going to offend someone if we smoke outside."

I laughed. It was very true. Smoking in north London might just ruin the picturesque landscape that they had carefully carved.

We found a bench that was really warm, as if there was an electric heater underneath it, and the second we lit our cigarettes, the lady next to us immediately stood up and left.

"Oops," I said and laughed a little.

By the time we had finished smoking our sinful cigarettes, we made our way back to the place where we were going to sweat every foul toxin out of our bodies. Mondays were the only unisex days, and the two of us separated in our respective changing rooms to get into our bathing suits. I knew that I had walked into a changing room, where people get changed, but I was still surprised to see completely naked bodies in the shower rinsing off from the swimming pool, or after a hard workout in the gym. It caught me off guard and I wasn't expecting to see old women's ladybits on display.

I kept to myself in a bathroom stall, and wrapped up in my towel. I guess my comfort level isn't where the other ladies comfort level is when it comes to the nakedness of my body.

I followed Jon's instructions since I had never experienced a Turkish bath. He said we should sit in the sauna for a while, then hit the plunge pool, sit in the steam room, plunge again and then at the end we should have a full body scrub. I thought it sounded like a good idea and followed him into the sauna, where it wasn't very long before I could feel the sweat beads run down my forehead, back, armpits and other places that I didn't even know could produce sweat. It was strangely liberating sitting there and sweating so profusely and being 100% okay with it. Even though I felt disgusting and rank, I knew with every sweat bead that fell off my body, I was cleansing myself that. much. more.

After we couldn't take the sauna any longer, we rinsed off in the showers and dunked in the plunge pool, which is just a giant tank of ice cold water. Jon and I both learned that you can't just ease youself into it either. You should listen to the word "plunge" and go for it. They don't call it a "plunge pool" for nothing.

So you plunge and when you surface again, you feel so awake, so refreshed and so cold. It's as if your body has just drank a large glass of water and your opened pores are taking in as much of the cold water as possible.

Straight afterwards, we sat in the steam room where we coughed a little whilst our smoker's lungs got used to all of the warm air. I could hardly make out Jon's blurry figure from all of the smoke in the room. It was fun sitting in the steam room as well and feeling all of the water mixed with sweat literally run off of my body. And when we couldn't take anymore of the steam room, we rinsed off in the showers again and plunged once more.

That was all we did for about two hours, rotating ourselves between the sauna and steam room whilst dunking in the plunge pool every so often. It gave us something to do while we waited for our turns on these marble slabs where we were going to lay down and be scrubbed head to toe with these massaging oils and then rinsed off. The woman who scrubbed off all of the dead skin did a damn fine job as well. After I was finished, I wrapped up in my giant white towel and lied down in the resting room where I found it very difficult forming any words. I was so relaxed, so content and had never felt so clean in my entire life.

Jon came in and laid next to me after he was finished, and we could hardly hold a conversation. We were both in the Turkish bath haze and didn't need anything else ever again, so long as we could feel this good forever. Just thinking about leaving north London to go all the way back to our end of the city seemed so difficult, and far too much effort than we were willing to give.

We did eventually leave though, and I drank an entire bottle of water in record time. We were sure that a Turkish bath is generally supposed to only last an hour; we were in there for three glorious hours, which meant we had to come back home with all of the busy worker bees that had just left their office desks. It was fine though, because we just remained in that calm haze the entire time while everyone else buzzed around us.

The entire experience was well worth the long trip to the north, and I discovered that north London is not an Unknown area that one should be worried about. It's a lovely place. Picture perfect almost. I'll just remember to wear my Steve Madden high heels and BCBG outfit for the next Turkish bath.

Posted by Sam at 10:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Whatever happened to the simple one night stand? When did it get to the point where a man and a woman who are complete strangers couldn't just have one night of drunken passion without strings attached? I miss those nights.

I've had a couple of one night stands in my lifetime, and generally, I don't call them, they don't call me, and I hope to never ever bump into them in the harsh rays of daylight. But there have been a couple of randomers that want my number, want to take me out, want to get to know me after we have sex.

My only question is, what's the point? Really though.

There is a difference of having free bootay available in your phone for emergencies. I have yet to find someone that fits the bill here in London, but back home, if I ever got desperate, I had a guy or two I could call upon to scratch an itch that I had, so to speak. Their names sat quietly in my phonebook, ready and willing just waiting for my call. We didn't go out to dinner and movie; there were no love notes left behind; we had an unspoken understanding.

But these boys (and they are boys) that want to try and make something out of a drunken, sexual encounter confuse me. Don't they know that I'll be okay the next day? That I probably don't remember their name (I still don't remember that one's guy name that we simply refer to as "air con guy")? That there's no need for the uncomfortable phone calls/text messages/emails/what have you.

For the past couple of months, I have been going through a serious dry spell, and London's hot weather was not helping me. Sitting on the bus and seeing all of these beautiful men walk around without their shirts on, seeing the sun being reflected off of their sweaty skin, was just all too much for me to handle. I just wanted to be completely wrapped up in their man arms, inhaling their man smell, being absolutely engulfed in their whole man-ness.

However, it was difficult for me to go out for an evening since I knew that I had work early the next day, and I was trying to save money so I could pay the rent, pay people money I owe them, pay for something else that requires money. How was I supposed to get laid when I had other obligations?

Last week, my friend Alex gave me a ring while I was on the bus on my way home from work. It was another hot day and I was suffocating in everyone's body odor on the bus. It was insufferable.

"Hey honey, what are you doing later today?" she asked me.

"Um, not too much. I'll probably just go home, make some dinner and tidy up before I get ready for bed so I can go to work tomorrow." I told her, thinking to myself how boring and old I sounded.

"Well what if I said that all of the drinks at the bar are a pound tonight? And that I found a tenner today? That's five drinks each. And I just figured that we haven't seen each other in a while. I think it'd be good for us to go out and have some bonding time."

She did make a good argument. So good that I couldn't turn her down.

"Yeah. That sounds good. What time should I meet you? I have to go home first and change and de-skank, because I smell like work and look gross."

"Well I get off work at seven, so we could meet then?"

"I'll see you then," and hung up my phone a little more excited about my night.

It was band's night at the bar, and since we were there two hours early, we got to see all of the bands tune up and do their sound checks. I had already spotted three musicians that I thought were really fit and wouldn't mind letting them strum my guitar. I just sat there with my Pimm's and furiously eyed them up and down.

As the night continued, mine and Alex's "couple of drinks" turned into who knows how many shots and a landslide of double vodkas and oranges. We were drunk and dancing in the middle of the bar just as the first act was taking to the stage.

"That's the one," I slurred to Alex. "That lead singer right there. I want that one."

"Well go for it! Go and tell him you think their band is brilliant and that you'd like for him to fuck you," she laughed.

"No, no. I'm not that drunk. I don't think. But I will tell him I think they were brilliant."

And so off I marched right up to the lead singer/guitarist and gurgled something about how I thought their band was really good, I thought they were brilliant, I might have even said something about how I thought he was fit.

"Aw, cheers mate. I was watching you guys. You were the only two in the whole place that were listening," he smiled.

"You were watching me?" and somehow after that we ended up outside chatting to the rest of the band members, their girlfriends (whom I love and find absolutely adorable) and smoking cigarettes while our drinks splashed about.

Not all of them had girlfriends. The drummer boy was available and we were having really good chats. He was telling me about how he had met Kate Nash, how she was a bit of a bitch, and met some other producers and named a couple of other bands that he also plays with. Bless him, he was really sweet and I found myself chatting ridiculously fast about my love of music and how if I could have a perfect life, I would be Kate Hudson in Almost Famous. If that dream never came true then I'd want to be Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

But even though he was sweet, and nice, and kind, and lovely to chat to, I wasn't particularly attracted to him physically. He had good hair, I would give him that. That being said, I was able to overlook the fact that I wasn't physically attracted to him through my alcohol infused vision and had sex with him anyway. And it was alright. It wasn't good. It wasn't bad. It was standard and got the job done.

Afterwards, he left in the middle of the night. I came downstairs and talked to Trish, Helen and Carlene who were still awake because apparently I was so loud (oops), even if I did try to keep quiet. I didn't stay up long though, since I had to be awake really early to go to work the next day.

"You are so not going to work tomorrow," Trish laughed at me.

"Ugh, I have to. I need the money."

I was hungover, I was extremely tired, I was running on about three and a half hours of sleep, but I still managed to be at work bright and early at nine o'clock in the morning -- and sporting a new lovebite that I didn't realize Mr. Drummer Boy had given me.

I thought that was it. I thought it was just another stranger that I had crossed paths with and nothing else would ever happen between Drummer Boy and me.

But I got text messages.

He added me on facebook.

He actually told me, "I can't stop thinking about the other night."

And he wonders if we could possibly meet up for drinks and chats later this weekend?

"Aw! He actually wants to get to know you!" Alex squealed to me over the phone while I was standing in the corridor at work.

"No! This is bad. I do not want to 'get to know him.' I want to just forget it ever happened, and find a new guy to have sex with. That's what your twenties are for. Besides, I found them on facebook and they are young. Legal. But young."

"But you said yourself he was really nice."

"Yeah. So? There are lots of nice people in the world."

"You should go and see him."

As I stood out in the corridor pacing back and forth, I thought maybe we could be friends? He was really nice and so were the other band members. And oh my god their girlfriends were just the sweetest things I could have squeezed them.

"We'll see," was all I said.

Now I don't know what to do. The poor thing wants to meet up for drinks and chats, and I just want to find somebody new. I don't even know where he lives, although I'm thinking it's pretty far away since he had to go to Waterloo to catch a train up north, and he said he didn't get home until six in the morning. I'm not getting on a train to see a one night stand. If he just so happens to be in my neck of the woods, then yeah, I'll catch a bus or something, but that's it.

I'm just confused as to when things got so complicated. Maybe it's because he's quite young? These younger guys seem to be all about relationships, commitment and having girlfriends. I thought I wanted a relationship (and perhaps I still do), but it doesn't mean I can't have fun with other random boys that I find along the way. Maybe he has a soft heart? Just as long as he doesn't confess his undying love for me and want to play me the songs that he has written for me, then it should be fine.

Posted by Sam at 09:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Contrary to popular belief, I am a very shy person. At least when it comes to some things. I generally don't like to put all of my emotions out on display, because gosh, isn't that just so awkward? I'd much rather hide how I'm really feeling underneath witty banter and sarcasm. It's how I trick myself into believing that I'm the one in control and the other person is merely along for the conversational ride (and lucky them, because I am a damn fine conversationalist).

But when I get down to the bare minimum and strip away all of my defense mechanisms in order to deal with society, I am shy. I am so easily embarrassed, not just for myself, but other people. I am a human mood ring and based on the shade of red I turn, people can tell exactly how I feel. It sucks that I'm unable to conceal my random hot flashes underneath my cheeks.

Throw in me having a crush on somebody, and that redness is intensified by infinity; it looks like I have lava running down my face.

It's rare that I find myself having a proper crush on somebody. I think loads of people are fit, hot, gorgeous and yeah, I'd totally go there, but a crush? A real life crush that makes my stomach flip and instantly turn my face a deep shade of crimson the second that person enters a room? Those are few and far between for me.

Swindon would be my last crush which faded with time. After a while, I didn't think of him the same way. We had a couple of conversations and I quickly learned some things really are better left unknown. The illusion was shattered the minute he opened his mouth, and intellectually we weren't on the same level; he liked to tell me how much cider cost back in his hometown (£2.50) and how it was made...I stood there and nodded, pretending to be interested. We didn't fit. We didn't work. We were complete opposites that did not attract.

Now I've developed a new crush, with "develop" being the operative word.

When I first started working here at my new job that requires no brain activity whatsoever, I quickly scanned the room and played the "yes/no" with myself, which is a game I've been playing alone, in my head, every time I step out my front door. It's a simple game wherein you simply say yes or no to sleeping with someone based purely on their physical look. Is it shallow? Yes. Is it fun? Oh hell yeah.

I decided on 'no' to every single person. Based purely on looks, I would not fuck any of them.

But there was one guy, one in particular that didn't catch my eye, but would fall into the 'maybe' category, that is if that category existed. He appeared to be a little older than me, he wore glasses, had ruffled brown hair and standard clothes that so many men wear to the office -- appropriate, but not enough to actually put any thought into what their wearing. And he was Australian.

Now I've been working here for two weeks, and I refer to him only as Aussie boy. I know his name, but because I've never properly introduced myself to him, it feels weird saying it out loud, almost as if I don't even have permission to say it. He sits across from me, and all day I'll listen to him on the telephone, or talking to his fellow co-workers, and think, their accents aren't that annoying. I actually kind of like his.

But isn't that the way it all starts?

I was talking to Helen about him my first week of work, and told her how I wasn't immediately attracted to him, but over the past few days he has kind of grown on me. I actually would go there, you know, if I had the chance.

"That's how all work relationships start out," she said to me. "Those are the people that you're always around, and eventually over time you end up falling for one of them just because they're there."

She did have a point. Perhaps it wasn't a crush at all, but just me being sad and desperate? What if this wasn't me craving the relationship I don't have, but rather a rude awakening from my body screaming at me YOU NEED TO GET LAID.

Yes, I do need to get laid. I'm sure having sex would ease this feeling about relationships I've been having for the past few months. But it would just be temporary fix until I started getting the same feeling again.

So maybe it wouldn't be so terrible if I was in a relationship. Maybe it is a crush that I have on Aussie boy. Maybe, if I actually got the chance to know him, I'd really like him. Maybe he'd like me. Maybe we could have something.

Maybe.

Since last week, I've been thinking about this whole thing far too much; thinking of different scenarios where we could talk to each other, strike up a conversation, and then I would be so cool, and so casual when I asked him to come out for drinks some time. We'd go to a nice bar, I'd wear a cute little dress and those shoes that make my legs looks so much longer than they actually are, and we would work, we would fit, we would match each other so well.

The only thing I've managed to ask him so far is if he could change the giant water bottle on top of the water tank thing so I could refill my water bottle. Sad and pathetic? Um, I think so, yeah.

I'm not good at this stuff! At least not when I'm sober and in an office environment. I don't know how to talk to people after I've come to the conclusion that I have a crush on them. I get all elementary school girl with pigtails who runs away from the boy that's chasing her on the playground. Then I fall down, pretend that I'm hurt and blame it on them that I'm going to get scabs on my knees.

It's awkward all around. We don't really have any reason to speak to each other, aside from pleasant casualties and small talk, and even though I was going to be lame and pull the whole "do you go to my uni, because you look really familiar" line, I decided against it, because if I can't manage to strike up a conversation with him, what makes me think that I'll ever learn how to talk to a boy properly? On my own. Without help from lame, shitty lines.

Instead I just stare at him and then quickly avoid eye contact whenever he looks up. I'm thinking if I can't muster up enough confidence by the end of these six weeks, I'll just suck it up, and write him a little note with my phone number on it....then leave it on his desk when he's not there.

Posted by Sam at 07:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)