My Mumbling Thoughts

It's very strange being employed these days and regularly going to a place that I assume I'll be at for the next couple of years. I receive a regular paycheck for the time that I spend here taking care of daily tasks for other people; I get sweet benefits, flexible hours, a bitchin' cafeteria, lovely coworkers, room for advancement, opportunities to learn and work on my own personal growth. The company I work for has been listed for the past nine years as one of Fortune's Magazine's Top 100 Best Companies to Work for.

And it really is.

One thing that I've noticed, though, is that while everyone is extremely professional and lovely all the time, there is an underlying dating scene that seems to be happening very quietly without anybody noticing. I remember at my previous Hell Job that I used to work at before I went to uni, people were unashamed and let their personal relationships fly proudly out in the open for everyone to view, judge and whisper about over lunch. I was the center topic in quite a few of the gossip headlines, and I remember hating it, and hating myself for being so naive about my privacy. If I could do it all over I wouldn't have done half of the things I did with half of the people, and there's no way I would have told a soul about the sins that occured.

At my new, shiny company, however, where everyone smiles and farts rainbows, there is a lot of discression, and more importantly, maturity.

I've only been working here roughly two months now, and I've already been asked out four times. Yes, three times was by the same person (persistent little bugger), and the other time was from a married man, but nonetheless, I have been asked out.

I said no each time, because quite frankly, I didn't want to be That Girl again. Ugh, That Girl I was in the past was a total slut. A HUGE slut. And it was okay for her to run rampant in London, but it's definitely not okay to let her run loose at the new awesome job that I love and have a clean slate at. I've learned my lesson, and while it is tempting sometimes (and I know it'd be so easy) to send a flirty email, or go out to a "harmless" lunch, I've restrained myself from going down familar paths.

Professionalism is the new word I live by.

Although......

Although.

Old habits are hard to break, and while I've said no to dating/sleeping with anyone I work closely with, I still have a tendancy to gossip, to lean my head in close and whisper about people. And while I have elected to not date anyone in my department, it doesn't mean I can't talk about dating them. Which is totally what I did yesterday afternoon with two of my fellow admins.

We're so cliche' when it comes to gossip. We love it. We love talking about the geeky/nerdy/cute engineer scientist guys we work with/work for/take care of. They're all so sweet, and I know they have to be those guys that I rarely spoke to in high school, and now they've ended up getting sweet jobs, at awesome companies making serious bank.

So we talk, us admin ladies, and we look but don't touch. We scope out the scene and say who we think is cute, who we would totally go out with if they weren't already married, and hang our heads in sadness when we find out that another one is in engaged. There's no harm in talk.

Of course my fellow admins that I talk with are already married or have a serious boyfriend of the past two years. I am the only single admin around these parts it seems. I think I'm the only single person in my group of friends. Everyone is shacked up with someone, and I'm starting to feel like maybe there's something wrong with me. Maybe I'm too picky. Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe this whole time I thought I was ready for a relationship but I'm really not, and subconciously I've been keeping myself emotionally distant this whole time.

Maybe. I don't really know. I haven't given it much thought recently.

But my fellow admins know of my singledom and want me to jump in the discreet work dating pool, give it a go and see what happens. New Shiny Company is very, very large, and there are plenty of other departments I can sink my teeth into. And who knows, maybe I can get with one of the super smart, super cute, super nerdy guys who are also super sweet and make serious bank. It's early days.

Posted by Sam at 10:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

OH MY GOD SHE LIVES.

Well, kind of. Barely. I'm barely living.

That is so not true. I am LIVING. ALIVE. LIVING EVERYDAY TO THE FULLEST.

Okay, not really. I'm just busy now, and I have a job, and Humphrey goes to daycare, and I sit in traffic, and I think of outfits to wear for the next day, and I work through my lunch breaks, and I, and I, and I.....

Oh yeah, I GOT A JOB.

FINALLY. You remember like a gajillion years ago when I was unemployed and hated my life? Well, now I'm EMPLOYED and LOVE my life. Okay, the all caps makes it sound way more exciting than it actually is, but I was definitely over the moon and had what seemed like an endless amount of what I like to call, New Hire High. Seriously, I've never been so happy in my life. My coworkers are lovely and were so welcoming when I first started I just wanted to hug and kiss every single one of them whilst telling them through my tears of joy how happy I am to be here.

SO HAPPY.

So, so very happy.

I've come down off the New Hire High, but I'm still very much happy to be here, to have a place to go to everyday and work and be productive and learn so many new things. It's the complete opposite of my previous Hell Job all those years ago, and it's still taking me some time to get used to the fact that people are genuinely happy to be here. I mean, I thought they were all sick when I first got here because they were always so damn happy and that they were definitely on something, because every time I turned around there was another smile staring at me asking me how I was doing. I thought it would get annoying after a while, but even after being here for nearly two months now, its kind of rubbed off on me, and sometimes I can't help myself from skipping down the hallway or randomly jumping up and down with giddiness.

Lots of joy. Lots of happiness. Lots of no longer being bored. This job definitely keeps me busy and sometimes it's hard to find large chunks of time that I can use to cruise the internet to do important things like update this here blog that I love so much, and neglect equally so.

To be honest, though, it felt good not to write for a while. I have done absolutely zero writing since I turned in my final portfolios (that nearly killed me during the Christmas break). The need to write wasn't there. The thrill, as they say, was gone. The urge had disappeared. I was happily occupied at my new job, with my new coworkers, doing new things that I didn't feel like writing. It was a much needed break after forcing myself to write mediocre things that I felt nothing for.

So one week turned in two, then turned into one month and so forth. I had no mumbling thoughts.

They always find me eventually, though. There I was standing in the shower at 4:12a.m. rinsing shampoo out of my hair and I found myself constructing would-be sentences for future blog posts that I'd want to write. I even physically wrote some of them down in a fancy notebook that I permanently borrowed from the work supply closet.

Whenever I have one of the longest days ever before the sun rises, I like to listen to rap. It makes me feel better and puts life into perspective. Have I ever had to sell crack on the corner while getting shot at by enemy gangstas? No, I haven't. My life is petty in comparison.

The words popped into my head, began forming sentences, paragraphs and would continue winding their way through my thoughts while I was in morning traffic, and would reappear whenever I found a spare minute at work.

They always find me eventually. And I can't stay away.

Although now that I'm sitting back behind the computer screen and typing all of these fabulous words out, I find once again I have nothing of importance to say. There's no point in recounting the past two months, and aside from my newfound employment nothing of substantial merit has happened. Nothing to me anyway. Far, far away from my tiny world in Virginia, many substantial things have happened and are definitely worth mentioning, and thinking about. However, there aren't many more words that I could contribute to the already unspeakable events.

The world turns, the days go on, shit happens and there's not much else we can do about it. Nothing, I supposed, except to pick up right where we left off.

It definitely feels good to be back.

Posted by Sam at 07:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My back hurts.

My back has been hurting all weekend and now on this Monday. All I can really do is sit with a heating pad on the lower part of my back and ask people to hand me things.

"Mel, can you get me some reese's cups please?"

"What?"

"Reese's cups."

"What?"

"Reese's cups goddammit!"

It's really annoying and a not-so-fun surprise to have a sharp, paralyzing pain shoot throughout the entire lower half of my back randomly throughout the day. Every so often you can hear me yelp out while trying to pick Humphrey up, or trying to stand up after I've been sitting for a long period of time. Over the counter pain killers do very little for me (just give me the morphine already!), so it seems I am bound to the couch with the heating pad turned up on HIGH.

Of course I'm no longer much fun for Humphrey anymore as I can't play fetch with him, bend down to his level to do tricks or, well, do much of anything. He's now left to entertain himself while I howl in pain for no apparent reason.

Being couch bound does have a few upsides I suppose, like forcing me to get my work done since I have nothing else better to do, or catch up on more TV shows that I've fallen behind on. Momma occasionally asks me how I'm doing and if she can make me a cup of tea (yes, please!) and I don't mind letting Mel share more of the puppy responsibilities. But now it's Monday and I'm forced to walk around at a 90 degree angle like a proper old lady.

Fun times.

Other fun times include watching the house transform from Regular Living to Holiday Living. I realized that it has been three years since I've been home for Thanksgiving, and I am here this time round to help with all of the holiday decorations. Usually I'd come home and everything would already be set up, whereas now I can participate!

Well, so long as my back cooperates.

It's always on the weekend after Thanksgiving when we pull the tree out, set up our little St. Nicolas Square Christmas houses and hang the stockings. The house fills up with annual festive smells that only last for a little over a month, and in that time I am transformed, as I always am, back into a nine-year-old girl who runs around the house in her jammies finding different places that haven't been adorned with tinsel yet.

I fucking love the holidays.

I've already received an early Christmas present as well, which always makes me happy.

My student loans, which I've been stressing about ever since I came back home, have been deferred until August 2010, which just takes a massive load of stress off my shoulders. My Super Awesome Amazing financial lady, Jan, who I have been dealing with since my very first year of uni, asked if I needed to have my loans pushed back a little bit, and because I am still a part-time student, I don't necessarily need to start paying them back right yet.

I said, yes, of course.

Thank god! I was so worried that I wouldn't have started work yet, and paying my first installment of loans in December when I'd also have to be shelling out money for presents and everything else would have SUCKED to put it mildly. But now I don't have to worry, because I don't have to pay them back for another nine months! Hooray!

So thank you, Jan, for giving me the greatest gift anyone could ask for.

Speaking of not having a job yet, I'm really fucking annoyed that I haven't started working yet. I mean, REALLY FUCKING PEEVED. I've been dealing with this company now for over THREE MONTHS, and have been wrangling them for one particular job for over a MONTH now. Seriously, how long does it take to process someone's paperwork? Honestly? Because this is just fucking ridiculous. I don't know how much longer I can wait on them, and I don't care how awesome their cafeteria is (it's pretty nice actually), I need to start work like, yesterday. I need a paycheck like, last month. I need to get cracking like, RIGHT NOW. I'm dying here. And I'm wondering if maybe I should start looking elsewhere again and see what comes up.

Although if I really don't get this position I will cry for three days straight, because that would have been THREE MONTHS OF MY LIFE THROWN DOWN THE DRAIN FOR NOTHING.

God I'd be so pissed.

I'm not sure if I should call them, drop someone an email and be like, "yo! What the fuck is going on with my shit? I don't have time to sit around and wait for y'all to fluff around!" The last time I spoke to anyone was last Monday, and she just called to confirm that I knew how to use all of the latest versions of Windows (I totally lied and said that I was fluent in everything that deals with Windows, even Windows 7).

I really don't know. I guess I probably won't hear anything this week either since it is Thanksgiving, and most people generally peace out for an entire week. Maybe next week I'll finally hear something. I've just given up on guessing which day will be the day when they tell me I can start.

Maybe I'll just start going in every day even though they haven't told me a start date. Maybe if I go every morning like it's normal and I've been doing it for years they'll finally recognize me as an employee and give me a paycheck. And if anyone asks me why I'm there, I'll just say that I got an email giving me the green light and I thought it was okay.

Yeah, that'll do. Next Monday I'll totally go in for my first day of work whether they like it or not.

Posted by Sam at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Hey! Look at this! I have a blog! That I actually pay for every year, so I might want to start using it more often.

Meh, what am I saying? That's never been motivation for me in the past.

So what is going on Internets? How have you been? Have you been enjoying this sweet autumn weather that we've been having? I mean, aside from when its been raining, because those were really crap days. Only they weren't so crap, because even when I was all cooped up inside, I was still snuggly in my flannel pajamas drinking hot cocoa and playing with Humphrey.

Aside from my days that resemble a Cuddledown magazine, I've been keeping busy. I won't say that I've been busy, because then that makes me sound like I have real important things going on, but that's definitely not the case. I've just been finding things to keep myself busy. It's a very big difference.

Humphrey obviously takes up about 87% of my time, all the time, day and night. I've gotten past the frustration stage with him, where all he wants to do is chew on everything that's not any of his chew toys, and me tearing out my hair wondering if it's possible for me to cover everything in bubble wrap hoping that the popping noise scares him from touching anything in the house. We are now in the stage where he knows that he's not allowed to chew on the rocking chair, the table leg, the carpet, the lamp chord, the couch, etc and have now moved onto he only wants to chew on my hands. I don't mind cuts and teeth prints on my fingers - I do mind furniture that looks like a crumpled piece of paper.

Other than my pride and joy, Humperdink, I've been writing other things for other people. Well, there are my final two uni projects (they better be my final ones!), and while one project is pretty much finished, I have my other one that is part of the novel I've been working on for the past however many months, and that is taking up a lot of time. A lot of time because I've decided to change the story a little bit. Okay, a lot. I'm re-working the entire thing and adding more characters, working on all of their back-stories and adding so many details I won't know what to use and what to get rid of by the end of it all. My part-time lecturer who is working with me this time around with my story is actually really cool, really nice, really helpful, really motivating and really engaging. I'm really upset that I never had her as a lecturer while I was actually there.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I sent her everything I have for my novel thus far so I could catch her up on where I was and what was happening in the story, and she sent me this MASSIVE email back with a lot of constructive criticism that I wasn't expecting. But it was okay, because I didn't cry or feel like a complete loser. Instead I was really happy that she even took the time to read everything that I sent and talk about my story like it was real. I know, that doesn't make much sense, but when I used to get feedback from lecturers about my novel, they would say very vague things like, "it's too dialogue focused. You need more details." That didn't help me very much. Details on what? Why is too much dialogue a bad thing? I think my dialogue is funny!

They were rubbish.

But Judith (my awesome lecturer), she talked about my characters as if they're real people. How does Erin get to work? How did she meet Lily and Mary? Who are Erin's co-workers? Does she date any of them? What's her emotional journey from the beginning to the end? What does she learn throughout the story? Blah, blah, blah. All of that obvious stuff that I tend to overlook because it's so, um, obvious.

I know none of this makes sense unless you've actually read some of what I've written (hi, Erik!), but because of Judith's critique I know more about what I want to write now. I know the story that I want Erin to tell. I know what I want to change and what I want to add. I know what I need to work on and what I'm already good at. It's a good place to be for my novel right now.

So yeah, THAT'S sucking up a good chunk of my time, and so is another little project I've decided to do. I don't know if y'all remember back in the day I mentioned how I went to this networking group and won a bunch of free business cards? Well, back in the day (summertime-ish) I went to this networking group and I won a bunch of free business cards. It was pretty cool, the food was yummy and I met some nice people. I thought it was funny that I won the business cards, because I don't really have anything to put on a business card. I don't have a cell phone, a work address, my own business or anything worthwhile, so I was drawing a blank when I was told to think of what I wanted my business card design to be.

That's when I thought about this very blog and thought, "what the hell. I'm going to advertise myself."

And so I did.

Cate is the woman who runs the networking meetings, and also maintains her own networking website, and she is the person who was super awesome and hooked me up with these bitchin' business cards. They match my website perfectly, and I even love the fact that they aren't clogged with all of that "necessary" information like cell phone numbers and whatnot.

WELL, when I went to meet her to pick up my business cards, she asked me if I would mind writing a bi-weekly article for her website and talk about what it's like being unemployed in today's economy, the process of getting a job and all of that not-so-fun stuff. And because I have TONS of unemployment experience, I told her, "of course I'll contribute to your website about my six months of hell!" I have a lot of writing material.

So I'll post that link here at some point once it's up and running.

And that's what I've been doing to occupy my time. In between I've been harassing Human Resources for a start date (YEAH I'M STILL WAITING ON THOSE FUCKERS), teaching Mel how to drive so she can FINALLY get her driver's license, taking Humphrey on his daily walks, catching up on TV shows when I get some free time and making cupcakes.

Also, I went to the clinic last week to find out that I am actually free and clear of ALL STDs. Well, at least I am of HIV, syphilis, chlamydia and gonorrhea (so most of the scary ones). This only proves to me that Jesus does exist. TRUST ME. HE EXISTS.

But that's another post for another day. Right now I'm just going to eat a cupcake, rub Humphrey's belly for a while and keep cracking on with my days.

Posted by Sam at 03:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't know who I was trying to trick.

The Mother Gene exists inside of me. Right there. Can you see it? RIGHT. THERE. There it is. It's quite small, but trust me, it's very much real and ever since I picked up my new baby, Humphrey, it has exploded inside of me and taken over my entire body.

Humphrey Fredrick is the newest addition to our family, and ever since this past Halloween (trick-or-treat!) our household has revolved completely around this three-month-old with fur scurrying around the townhouse. Whether it's the middle of the night, or in the middle of the day, chances are you can hear Mel, Momma or myself repeating over and over, "Humphrey! Humphrey! Leave it!"

Oh, but how we all love him to bits and pieces. He could get away with murder with that sweet little face, and it's so hard not to scoop him up when he's whining and shower him with lots of kisses and play with him until he's so tired he falls asleep while standing up. All I want to do is let him lay in my bed, and rub his belly while watching the latest, It's Me or the Dog episode with Victoria Stilwell, who is a goddess in my eyes.

It is like having a small child in the house, though, and I'm having to constantly be keeping an eye on him so I can correct him when he starts chewing on the carpet, or chewing on a laptop chord, or chews on the corner of the plant stands. Even if I'm sure he's being entertained with one of his doggie chew toys, the second I turn around he's disappeared and is underneath a table or chair and has found some random screw to start chewing on. I'll sure be glad once this teething phase is over with and he's not sticking everything in his mouth.

I do love him, though, and while he is a lot of work I'm really glad we have him. I only wish I could have gotten him during the summer when I was so bored out of my mind I couldn't see straight. He's certainly not boring, and it's a challenge for me to come up with new and interesting challenges for him. Trying to keep the dog entertained keeps me entertained.

Mel is home from work today, so while she's taking time to keep an eye on him, I'm taking time to catch up on things that I've forgotten about for the past six days. I have so much uni work to do today, so many blogs to read, and my YouTube videos are stacking up (I'll definitely be watching those during my breaks). I've given up all hope on my farm and I have so many messages and emails I need to respond to. I think I might also have a proper meal as well since I've actually stopped eating and instead just munch on random snacks that I find in our pantry.

Oh yes. I'm THAT girl now. My new little puppy has taken over all aspects of my life just like a newborn child and I've already forgotten about what life was like before he arrived. I can't wait until the novelty and newness of him starts wearing off and we all can just get on with our days.

It's nice being able to stay at home with him, though. I like that I'm able to be with him in the beginning days and take care of him while he's still young. I've had to leave him at home a couple of times to pick Mel up from work, and even though I was only gone for about an hour it tore me up inside not being able to bring him with me. It seems like he's coping a lot better than me, since I'm the one practically crying on the way out and he just looks at me like, "it's okay, crazy lady. I'll still be here when you get back." God knows what I'm going to be like once I finally start work again.

Oh yeah, work. Wasn't that one of my main concerns all summer? Getting a job and being able to pay for things? Why yes, it was. And it seems as if I do have a job now, I've just been waiting for things to "process" and be "approved." I mean, what kind of miracle needs to happen in order for me to get a start date already!

It's with that one company that I waited on for OVER A MONTH, the one that I am completely relying on 100% because I haven't applied anywhere else and really want to work there, because the people seem nice, the building is really pretty (with a cafeteria!) and the job is perfect for me. THAT job.

Well, they emailed me about TWO WEEKS AGO, saying that they were "interested in bringing me on board" and have "begun the paperwork," and then nothing.

Nothing.

I've called once, emailed once, and both times they told me to be patient. Things are "processing" and are waiting "approval."

Seriously?

I mean, seriously.

SERIOUSLY.

So I'm still waiting, and waiting, and will continue to wait until I break down to their mercy and beg them to give me a start date. JUST GIVE ME ONE. I've been through enough torture this year I think.

Until then, I'm taking advantage of this free waiting time, and am playing with my new puppy, Humphrey. My little pride and joy who has reminded me what it's like to be active again, and is teaching me how to be patient every single day.

Posted by Sam at 12:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

In a circle of friends, everyone has their dedicated role. Whether you recognize it or not, it's true. In my particular circle of friends, I'm considered to be the Story Teller. Crazy things happen to me (generally brought on by myself), and then I relive the stories over and over for my friend's entertainment. And it's a pretty bitchin' role to be honest. I don't mind everyone gathering around and listening to me recap one crazy evening after the other. I like the attention. I crave my friend's laughter. It's one of the nicest feelings in the world. So I do my best to keep them all interested and each time make the stories bigger and crazier.

"And then we all dropped some fat ass MDMA bombs and let the good times roll!"

That was then.

This is now.

I don't live the same crazy nights over and over here in VA. My life is the pure definition of "polar opposite." There are no "fat ass bombs," "crazy sexy times," or staying up until the crack of dawn talking a bunch of shit while tweaked out on cocaine. There's none of that. Instead there's more sleeping time, TV watching and couch potato relaxing. I hardly recognize myself here.

However, just because my two different lives are separated, doesn't mean that they aren't connected. Of course they're connected. By me. I am the single similarity that brings the two of them together, and now I realize that the two overlap each other in a very negative way.

Everything comes with a price, and it all depends on how much you're willing to pay whether or not you'll buy into something. In London I bought into the night life, the drug scene and promiscuous sex with strangers. The price I paid was not simply the mental repercussions, but also the physical dangers putting myself and my body in danger. I was retarded. I was an idiot. I was naive. I was this, and that and all of those other names. I wasn't thinking of the long-term affects that my actions would have on me, because at the time I was all about "living in the now." Isn't that a great mantra to live by? Who cares if there isn't a condom nearby! Let's risk it and see what happens! Why? Because I'm fucked out my face, he resembles someone pretty I recognize and I need this right now.

I need it.

Five months later, I'm still decompressing from the past three years. I went on a complete detox after I arrived (no drinking, no drugs, no cigarettes), and am still rifling through my past emotions of everything that happened in those three years. I don't know if I'll ever completely finish rifling through my three years there, but every day I think about it, and every day I think to myself, "no regrets." Everything was worth it.

Or was it?

I know I shouldn't watch TV all the time, because I'm one of those people that easily gets drawn into what's happening on the screen, and I always put myself in other people's shoes so I can feel what they feel. It's a domino effect and one of the reasons why I cry so uncontrollably just watching the evening news, because MY GOD that person's house was burgled and the intruder killed their cat! How is that fair? I've always been one of those people who takes on other people's problems as my own, and feel the pain so much that I believe it's all actually happening to me rather than the original person. It all may sound really narcissistic, like I believe that the world revolves around me (because it does), but I always think that if I can relate and get a better understanding of what someone is going through, then maybe I can help them figure out a solution.

It's the reason why I cry with my friends when they cry, and when I see them hurt I feel like I can move an entire mountain to make them feel better. It's why I stay up many nights and imagine the worst possible things happening to me and my family, and why my mind never shuts off thinking about the constant, never-ending "what ifs." Because what if it did happen, and I wasn't prepared?

So I was watching TV, and I saw these women on Oprah, who were all HIV positive. They were all older ladies who were recently divorced, but had been in long-term marriages. They all had met this one man and every one of them had unprotected sex with him, resulting in them being infected with HIV.

It was a terrible story and I thought, ain't that a bitch. It would suck to have HIV.

Then Oprah introduced a doctor who was rattling off all of these statistics about people who are at higher risk of contracting HIV, and why these women's story was so rare. Middle-aged, upper class women who all believed that they were in a monogamous relationship don't generally get HIV. Gay men, drug addicts and people who have unprotected sex do.

First off, I didn't really like that doctor. I mean, I know she was trying to prove a point stating that anyone could be at risk to getting infected, but she just made it seem like gay men, drug addicts and people who have unprotected sex were all running rampant spreading the HIV and loving it. I know a lot of gay men, drug addicts and people who have unprotected sex, and they're all lovely people. Sure those groups tend to be at a higher risk, but damn.

Anyway, after she babbled on with her numbers and percentages, I had a flash of all of the unnamed faces I had stupidly slept with and I couldn't remember whether or not there was a condom involved. And then I remembered that one Mtv commercial where these two people are about to have sex, but then their room fills up with all of their past partners and then there's a voiceover person that says something along the lines of, "remember when you sleep with someone, you're also sleeping with everyone they've ever slept with too. Use a condom. Get tested." And then because I'm a masochist, I researched everything there is to know about HIV and every STD under the sun and scared the living shit out of myself. And then I remembered that one time when I slept with SBS, and we definitely didn't use a condom because I had to get the morning after pill the next day when I was on the verge of death, and I vaguely remember him saying something about how he had lost his virginity to a prostitute, and god knows whether he used a condom then! And then the other time I slept with Ando and we also didn't use a condom (stupid! stupid! stupid!) and how six weeks later I got the flu, but how it could also be the first "sign" or symptom of HIV, and how most people don't even know that they're infected until ten years later! And then I thought, god, please, I know I was irresponsible, but if I have anything let it be gonorrhea or something that I can take some antibiotics and clear up within a few weeks. Don't let it be HIV. Please, I don't want HIV. Anything but HIV! And hepatitis. Hepatitis would suck too. Okay, anything but HIV and hepatitis B & C.

After I had my meltdown and convinced myself that I had HIV, I decided to call our local free clinic. I don't know why I didn't just go when I first got back home (or while I was still in London), but I think it's because somewhere in the back of my mind I'm pretty damn sure that I have something. I don't really have any kind of visible symptoms, but I have got to be a carrier of something. I couldn't have done everything that I did (and trust me, that list is pretty fucking long), and come out scot free. If I did, then I might start believing in some kind of higher power, because THAT right there would be a miracle.

So I'm going on Tuesday at 1p.m. to get tested for every kind of known infection, and have a full exam to make sure that I'm not just walking around in blissful ignorance completely unaware of what's happening inside of me. It will give me some much needed peace of mind, and then I can stop thinking horrible thoughts about myself. I piss myself off as well, because there are real people out there who actually do have HIV and live with it every single day. I shouldn't be thinking "what if I have it" when they really do. It's not right, and on a weird level it's really selfish of me, and fucked up.

I'm obviously hoping that I'm fine, things are fine, everything will be fine. I don't want to have to "cross any bridges when we get there." I just want to consider this a major lesson learned, and join the crusade of safe sex and become an advocate of condoms, abstinence and getting regularly tested especially for those of us who are in the "higher risk" category.

I'll make that my new story that I tell all my friends, and while it may not be as wild and crazy as my other ones I have filed away, it will hopefully steer them away from the stress, worry, and paranoia that I'm going through now.

Posted by Sam at 02:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Nowadays I don't step out of bed until I have one pair of socks on, and then my slipper socks on top of them covering my feet. The cold wooden floors are no longer welcomed as much as they were in the summertime. We are in a slight weather limbo, though, because as the day goes on the temperature climbs higher and higher until we're able to open the windows and clear the house out with a nice warm breeze.

But the morning times are what I crave. I find myself waking up earlier and earlier these days just so I can sit on the sofa in my hoodie, fleece pajama pants and two pairs of socks. I sit in the dark and watch as the light slowly begins to fill up our living room like water in a bathtub, enjoying the quiet moment right before the animals start waking up, or the crickets begin chirping. It's one of the familiar changes that I love.

We are right on the brink of autumn, and of course the holiday season. The trees are no longer green, but instead all of those classic autumn colors - rustic red, burnt orange and golden yellow. Every time we step outside we're showered in crunchy leaves. It's as if the trees know that we're watching and feel obliged to look so beautiful and sound so whimsical. It gets me every time. Something about the cold, crisp air feels magical to me and turns me into some kind of festive elf that's always cheery, always wants to make hot cocoa and always has some goofy smile on my face.

I can't get enough of it.

I'm not just on the brink of colder weather, but I'm also on the brink of getting a new job and finally finishing up my degree. I'm halfway there, teeter-tottering right on the edge and all I need is that extra little push over the edge to wrap up some final details and get on with the season. Of course I'm gritting my teeth and getting so anxious from all of the waiting around. I just want it to all be over with so I can start doing things I want to, and sort out things I definitely need to do.

I keep waiting to hear back from this job, though. It's the one that I interviewed with OVER A MONTH AGO. I've since had three more interviews and have spoken to at least ten people, including folks in Human Resources. It's mental, and if I don't get it I will genuinely be so upset, because I love the job, really like the people, and have I mentioned how awesome their benefits are? Because they're pretty damn sweet. It's my first choice in companies that I want to work for, and even though I really shouldn't be banking solely on this job, I am. I haven't been searching for any other places, or applying anywhere else ever since they called me back A MONTH LATER. I want to work for this company. No other company that's even similar to it. Just this one.

So I'll be waiting to hear back from them. Hopefully it'll be good news.

I've been fighting an uphill battle with my university as well. While I have been working on the assignments that were given to me over the summer, I'm still really annoyed with the fact that they waited until after I left the country to tell me that I was 30 credits short, and ON TOP OF THAT expect me to pay more tuition for a mistake that I blame entirely on them.

Entirely on them.

Absolutely. 100%. Entirely on them.

Such assholes.

Once I'm finished with these last bullshit 30 credits, I'm going to compose a letter so intelligent, so inspiring, so poignant, and so mean to the head honcho describing in terrifying details how upset I am with the treatment I received, how let down I am with the education I received and how ashamed he should feel to know that this kind of behavior is happening on his watch. I'm going to point fingers, name names and ask for a full refund since I believe that the standard of services I got were well below acceptable.

And even though I'm sure I won't get anything in return, I'll at least feel a little bit better knowing that I put my angry feelings into a letter and let my final words to that university be a big FUCK YOU.

Then I'll take my diploma, make a photocopy of it and then burn the photocopy in a ceremonial circle that I'll create to release all of that negative juju into the air and out of my life for good. And I'll seal the original copy and keep it in a lock-box for safe keeping.

Right on the brink. It'll feel so good once something is finally not on the brink, but properly finished.

Posted by Sam at 01:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I have a piercing on my face.

Just a little one. The technical term is a "labret," but that word tends to scare people for some reason whenever I say it out loud. It rests in between my chin and lower lip, right in the middle looking dainty and not causing any problems or any harm to anyone. It's very small, but for me it holds so much.

Whenever I go on an interview, I always pause and wonder if I'll take it out and temporarily replace it with a clear stud that isn't anywhere near as cute and surprisingly more irritating than my metal studs; the clear ones are more acceptable, though, and what I consider to be a compromise between what I like and what the company considers to be distracting. Sometimes I take it out, and other times I simply leave it in because I can't be bothered to take it out. I think, what's the point? If I do manage to get the job I'm not going to want to take it out every single day and replace it with a clear stud. They should know that I have it and accept it straight away. My argument is, why should I remove something that reflects in no way my abilities to do the job? It's a piercing, not some kind of disability.

This past Saturday, Momma, Mel and myself all went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast with one of Momma's friends, Janet. We were all sitting there eating our breakfast when Mel pointed out to me that one of the chefs had a hair net over his beard, which was very long and Santa-like. I then said that it was cool of the restaurant to give him the option of wearing a "face-net" rather than saying that he had to shave it off, or work in a different part of the restaurant where his long beard wouldn't be as much of a distraction.

That started off a friendly debate between Janet and myself over what is considered appropriate for work/different businesses and what it means for people who must change in some way to conform to a more "society appropriate" look. Mel rolled her eyes and occasionally Momma would pipe in with her two cents, but mostly it was Janet and I going back 'n' forth over people's personal looks and the companies that want to change them.

Janet brought up a lot of good points that I normally wouldn't take on board (because in this case I believe to be right and everyone else is wrong) and assessed that while companies shouldn't "judge a book by its cover" so to speak, everyone knows that first impressions are keen, and not just on interviews. The way people dress, the different kind of styles they have and so forth is an extension to some point of their personality. While a person's piercing(s), tattoo(s), dreadlocks or whatever doesn't necessarily mean that they're incapable of doing a certain kind of job, those looks do normally indicate that perhaps they have a more experimental side to themselves, a wild or radical side even, that a company might want to be aware of.

She then pointed out to me that while 98% of my look suggests that I am conservative, this one tiny piercing on my face says that I'm a risk taker and don't mind living a little dangerously, which to be honest, is very true. Whether we realize it or not, the way we represent ourselves in day-to-day life speaks volumes about who we are as a person. There are many, many, many studies out there that have proven this fact on more than one occasion.

So we continued our chat and she carried on to say that everyone's look changes over time, because we change as people. She knows people who started taking out their piercings as they got older, or would cover up their tattoos and would change because they were leaving their younger self behind and growing up into their adult self who was now accepting all of their new responsibilities. There would be no more partying and living like a crazy heathen (or a lot less of it), and they instead traded it all for the Corporate Office, dry cleaned suits and a more "grown-up" look. It's just that next step that a lot of people take at some point in their life.

I got to thinking about it, and it all made perfect sense. I know it seems so blatantly obvious now, but I was so hell bent on making my point over my tiny piercing that I blocked out all other opinions. I also think that I was so defensive about leaving my piercing in because in all actuality, I don't want to make that next leap into "adulthood." It isn't really about the little stud, because I know what it is for me and I could care less what other people think. It's really about the "growing up" part and saying a final farewell to my Student Self. All summer I could pretend that I wasn't really leaving, but now that university has kicked back into full gear and I'm not apart of it, there's not much I can really do except say goodbye and accept this new phase in my life that I'm entering.

I'm going to be turning twenty-four this week. I'm going to be one year older and no more wiser than I was last year. I am growing up, one day at a time, and I need to get it through my thick skull that my days of lazing around and careless living are over. I'm not a student anymore. I'm going to be a full-time worker at whatever job decides to hire me and have to start acting like an adult. I guess it all has to happen to us at some point.

But I'm leaving my little piercing right where it is, as a reminder of my Peter Pan days, and any company that doesn't accept it can sod off. That part is staying with me, even if it's not who I am anymore.

Posted by Sam at 04:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

For some reason ever since I came back home I've had a strong urge to start smoking again. It's probably because I don't do anything except sit at home and count the cracks that are forming in our walls, so the boredom leads me to start thinking about those dirty little friends that used to hug me whenever I wanted one. You can only search for so many jobs, or clean the house so many times, or read so many books until you finally think to yourself, "fuck it. I'm going to buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke those bastards like there's no tomorrow."

I didn't start smoking again, in case you were wondering. Mostly because I'm stupidly poor and can't even buy a pack of gum to try and ease the smoke cravings. Instead, I've found a new addiction that I believe is a lot healthier for me and teaches me some valuable lessons.

I am of course referring to that bastard game on facebook called FarmVille. I've only been farming for a little over a day and already I'm hooked like some kind of farming crack addict. I plow, I harvest, I pet my animals and clean up my neighbors farms when they're away. I do this for hours and forget that I'm unemployed, still finishing up my last term of university and should probably even take a shower now and again.

You wouldn't think that a game like this would teach anyone anything, except to waste endless amounts of time when I could be doing something much more productive (like blogging, for instance), but it teaches me how to be more patient, which as we all know is a very hard lesson for me to learn. I'm greedy, selfish and want everything to happen RIGHT NOW. Why do I have to wait for my pumpkins to grow in eight hours until I can harvest them? That's so long from now! I WANT TO HARVEST THEM NOW.

That then leads me to start planning things a little bit more on my farm. I have to calculate how long it'll take something to grow and if the coins I'll receive for my patience is even worth it. Can I be bothered to plant an entire farm full of strawberries? Sure, it only takes them four hours to grow, but I only receive 35 coins for my patience. Not worth it in my book. I'd much rather go for the rice that takes 12 hours to grow, but costs 89 coins when it comes to harvest.

Oh yes, my friends. I am that girl on facebook now.

Aside from perfecting my electronic green thumb, I have been doing other things. I'm still half-heartedly searching for a job and have some promising prospects in my near future. Why, just this Thursday I have double booked myself for two interviews! Last week I was supposed to go in for an interview for an executive assistant position. It was cancelled twice (!) and then re-scheduled for this Thursday at 5p.m. Like, who has interviews that late? Seriously. It's such a pain in the ass. Either way, it's scheduled and if they cancel on me one more time I might just tell them not to even bother with me anymore.

This morning I was woken up by the cell phone ringing and had to practice saying, "hello" a couple of times before I answered. I didn't want the person on the other end to hear my groggy voice, even though I was sure they could still probably tell I had just woken up seconds before.

Turns out it was the hiring manager from a company that I interviewed with a month ago. A MONTH AGO. A full month! Who waits that long to get in contact with a potential candidate? Seriously. Pretty ridiculous if you ask me. She didn't even ask if I was still available for work! She just said that they would like me to come in for a second interview to meet with someone I didn't speak to before on my first interview, which happened A MONTH AGO.

I agreed of course. Even though it was a month ago, it's still with a bitchin' company whose benefits are twice as bitchin'. I mean, if I could land this job I'd probably stay with them for years because the benefits are THAT GOOD. You know, if I get it and they ever call since they seem to like taking their sweet time getting in touch with people!

While I'm there, I'm going to meet up with my good friend, Erik, who also works at the same company. We haven't seen each other since he was in London to visit with me, so it'll be nice to have a couple of tacos from Chipotle and catch up on each other's lives. I'm really excited for it actually.

I have a third job option as well, which came from that one previous Shit Job That I Hated With A Burning Passion. The Shit Job was "put on hold" because the Shit Company didn't even know if they wanted to keep that position anymore. I was like, "thanks for letting me know A MONTH LATER." I'm glad I wasn't waiting for that to pull through. This new job, however, is working for the recruiting company that was trying to get me the Shit Job (if that makes sense). It turns out that their accounts manager needs an Executive Personal Assistant ASAP and said that they'd let me know their decision by Friday. I already had a phone interview with them at 9P.M. RIGHT BEFORE GREY'S ANATOMY STARTED. Who calls people at 9p.m. to have a phone interview? Seriously. What is wrong with these companies these days?!

Mr. Late Night Phone Call interviewed me for twenty-three whole minutes, and because I wasn't exactly in an interview mood, and I was watching Grey's Anatomy on mute while he jabbered away, I gave some pretty forward answers that I probably wouldn't have normally given if it was a standard, normal interview. Although, I think he thoroughly enjoyed my super honest answers and said that he'd let me know something soon. I just hope he doesn't call again during any of my other favorite shows.

SO. It looks like even though I've pretty much given up on this whole "job searching" thing, stuff seems to keep coming in. I hope one of these jobs sticks, though, because I'm getting really tired of being unemployed. Sure, it was fun for a little while, but now I want to have a different reason to leave the house, other than going out for groceries. It feels like something should happen for me soon though.

Until then, you can find me out on the farm.

Posted by Sam at 07:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You know what I love to do?

Complain.

Oh, god (!) do I love complaining! And whining and crying and all of that really annoying shit that people generally can't put up with because it makes them feel like glass is slowly being inserted into their brains.

BUT, I love it. It's AMAZING. Therapeutic even.

Sometimes I even like to hear other people complain, because I realize that we all have problems that we need to vent from time to time. Do you have a problem? If so, EMAIL ME TO COMPLAIN ABOUT IT. Because I know after people complain, after they get that heavy load off of their chest and share it with someone else, you usually feel SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Of course, after you do all of that complaining, you had better go and try to do something to fix it, because I can only handle so much complaining on the same topic before I start going a little mad. Complaining is just the first step to actually fixing whatever it is you're complaining about in the first place.

But for the most part, I'm totally down with complaining.

SO. Here's my blog post where I don't do anything else except complain about my problems. Enjoy.

Continue reading ""Hope it changes, hope my life changes; gets alright somehow; oh, I'm waiting for tomorrow"" »

Posted by Sam at 09:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This past week I have been watching way too much TV.

Way too much.

I used to not like American TV. When I was away (and even a bit before I left), I hardly watched any TV, and the time I did spend in front of it, I mostly watched British reality shows. Whenever I'd come back home and flip on the telly, it was too much for me to handle in one go. American TV, if you're not used to it (or have been away from it for a long period of time), can be very In Your Face at times and is DRAMA, DRAMA, DRAMA all the time. Our morning news channels, our entertainment channels, our reality TV, our sit down sitcoms, everything. It's always very over the top and can be a tad over dramatized.

BUT, once you get used to it, god it can be addicting. I can't get enough of it now, and for the past two weeks I have relinquished any kind of responsibility to finding a job or doing any kind of productive writing, and have instead taken to watching anything that's on TV. And what have I learned in the past week that the television has taught me?

We are all crazy.

And it's cool. But we're all definitely bat shit crazy.

Just this past week, I've watched countless episodes of E! True Hollywood Story. Oh my goodness y'all, I love this show. I have always loved this show, but when you watch so many back to back, it can really have an effect on you. I watched one about kidnappings, which frightened me so much, now every time I hear a noise in the house I swear it's some pedophile trying to break in to kidnap me and keep me locked away in some motel room for months. I watch all of these stories about famous people who have hard times, and either manage to overcome it and make extraordinary comebacks, or eventually lose their battle with the limelight and are forever remembered as an icon who left a prominent mark on the entertainment industry.

One of my favorite episodes is the one about Christina Aguilera. When the pop stars like Christina, Britney, Mandy and all of the boy bands were first emerging, I was going through that phase where everything pop was retarded, and so I never admitted to liking her music. I thought she was just some air head pop star and I was showing how cool I was by not buying her albums, but instead listening to Linkin' Park and screaming about how I felt misunderstood. Little did I know that I'd eventually morph into one of her biggest fans and grow to admire her as a person and acknowledge her amazing talent. Now I can say that I am a full fledged Christina fan, and have boundless respect for her.

This week was also the premiere of Oprah's 24th season, and she opened with a two-day show and a very candid interview with the legendary Whitney Houston. I had been waiting for ages, as most of the world has, and I was eager to hear what she had to say about her seven year absence.

It was awesome.

That interview with Oprah and Whitney Houston was awesome. And I don't care what anyone else says.

Bless Whitney Houston, for being so open, so honest and just telling it like it is. Her voice was a little scratchy, and it sounded like she could have done with some water, but I totally understood where she was coming from. Her life is obviously ten thousand times bigger than mine, so her stories were on a much grander scale, but nonetheless it was the same. I related to Whitney. I felt where she was coming from. I knew what she meant when she said that she used drugs to cover up the pain, how she can sometimes have the desire for it, and trying to take it one day at a time. I knew what she meant when she was talking about her attraction to Bobby and how they had passion for the passion, and how the relationship eventually became destructive. She was trying to find herself, like we all try to do. She just had to do it very publicly and was criticized every step of the way.

When E! updates her True Hollywood Story, she will be one of the entertainers that makes it out to the other side.

Then there is of course, this past Sunday's antics at the 2009 Mtv Video Music Awards with Kanye West showing how much of a dick he can be. I watched on as it happened live and cringed, and felt so horrible for sweet Taylor Swift who was so genuinely shocked and excited. And then not so excited.

I rarely get too upset or thrown by things that famous people do these days, because I'm like, meh, they're famous. But this whole hullabaloo really upset me, because it was rude and humiliating to Taylor. Regardless if people like her music or what their opinions were about who should have won, it was her moment and he ruined it for her. I don't like rude people, and I certainly do not like Kanye West (although his songs are damn catchy).

People are saying that it was staged for one reason or another, but I don't care either way. On Sunday we all saw Kanye West make an ass out of himself and now he's having to live with the aftermath. He even stated on Jay Leno that he was going to take some time off to reflect on himself, which I think is probably for the best. We all need that kind of time. Whitney Houston took seven years. I'm taking time off now. There's nothing wrong with it.

These famous people, these superstars, these icons, these legends - they're all people. They're all humans who have problems just like you and me. They all have talent (well, most of them) and we place them up high on these pedestals and then set unimaginable standards for them to constantly live up to; no wonder most of them go off the deep end and lose themselves. I can barely live up to my own expectations, let alone everyone else's. Why should we expect them to be any different? But we do, and then we judge them.

It must be hard to live under those bright lights and try to please everyone. I used to say that it was their choice to be famous, so they have to live with the consequences, but I don't think that anymore. In some cases, yes, people are simply famous because they're famous, and bring on a lot of unwanted attention to themselves. But musicians, actors and other famous personalities are just trying to make it like the rest of us. They make movies, or they sing songs. That's their jobs, we should let them do it and give them some peace. Otherwise we end up tearing down the people we helped raise up, and that's not good for anybody.

Posted by Sam at 02:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was at university, I thought I was invincible. Obviously, that wasn't really the case since I was ill 3/4th of the time I was there and spent numerous days in bed recovering from my hangovers. But nonetheless, I was still invincible. No one could stop me, get in my way or prevent me from doing anything that I wanted. I'm not sure where this unknown power came from, but alas, there it was.

It's so weird to think about my time at uni, now that I'm back at home and have had time to sort through all of my leftover emotions and memories. I'm not sure if anyone felt the same super powers that I did, but I never felt that I wasn't safe, and I certainly never thought anything bad could happen. University was shrouded in this invisible safety bubble that kept us all shielded from the outside dangers and I never worried that I'd ever fall victim to any kind of horrible misfortune.

Since I've come back home, however, I am now acutely aware of every single danger that surrounds not only me, but also Momma and Mel. Perhaps it's having too much time on my hands to sit and think about all of the different things that could happen, but I'm not sure that's it; I had loads of time to sit around at uni and I never thought about the different bad things that could happen then. It's only now I realize how lucky I was nothing bad happened, and how I should probably be a lot more careful in the future.

But it's this new worry, this new stress, this new over protective feeling I have over Momma and Mel now that sometimes can keep me awake at night. Not long after I got back home, I either developed, or had reawaken this feeling to make sure that they were both taken care of at all times. Part of me wanted to keep them at the house at all times so I could keep an eye on them and make sure that they were okay; and every time they stepped outside to go to work, I was so sure that they were going to get in some kind of horrific car accident and I'd get a phone call to come down to the hospital.

It's these thoughts that constantly swirl around in my head, and I think to myself, if I just keep thinking about it, then nothing bad will happen. It's always when you're not thinking about it, when you least expect something, is when all of the bad things imaginable happen. So I keep torturing myself and thinking of every worst case scenario, to make sure that that particular day isn't the day I dread the most.

I'm more worried about Mel, though, and am always making sure that she's taken care of. After I left, I didn't realize how much of an impact it would have on her. I was her best friend and we did everything together, but after I was gone, she was bound to the house and has since developed her own group of "work friends" that I despise and am positive are getting her into hard drugs (even though Mel is the complete opposite of me as far as rebellion goes and can barely stomach a Smirnoff Ice, let alone do a line of coke). I've never met her friends, but I don't trust them. The Big Sister Instinct comes out, and whenever she leaves the house to go hang out with them, I'm glued to the house phone in case she calls needing me to come pick her up from a house party gone wrong, and give her a ride back home.

Just a couple of weeks ago she went out to a club in DC with one of her work friends that I hate the most, and I couldn't sleep properly. I imagined her being peer pressured into drinking until she couldn't control herself and then taken advantage of by some strange man with greasy hair and a dodgy mustache. I instinctively woke up at five o'clock to make sure she was back home, and there she was in bed, sound asleep. She appeared to be fine, and after my interrogation the next morning, I was positive nothing bad happened, and it was just a typical night out.

I hate that I constantly worry about them like this. I hate that I imagine horrible things happening and wondering if I'd be able to handle it. I hate that there's this guilt that has come out of nowhere and now I feel like I should make up for the time that I was away. I know they're both perfectly capable of taking care of themselves (obviously Momma has been taking care of herself for a very long time now), but now that I'm back I feel like I should be the one taking care of them. Maybe it's a way of me saying, "thanks" for letting me go off to find myself and supporting me for three years. Or maybe it's a way of me saying that I'm crazy and need to learn how to let them do their own things. Bad things happen, and me constantly stressing about it won't help. I know this, and yet I still worry, I still think about it, and I still believe that I'll be more prepared for when the inevitable happens.

Posted by Sam at 09:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Jon and Helen liked to call it "weather hugs" when they were here for their visit two years ago. I just like to call it muggy. SO. MUGGY. The heat and moisture in the air that likes to cling to my body the moment I walk outside, and feels like it's suffocating me from the inside out it's so thick.

On a day like today with the mugginess, I remember when Jon and Helz were here and we spent nearly two glorious weeks being American together and I proudly showed them around all of Northern Virginia. This is my state. This is where I live. This is where I know the back roads and try to maneuver my way out of traffic when things tend to get backed up whenever there's the slightest disruption on the roads. This is me.

Only it's not me anymore, and I realized it last night when I was in bed staring up at the ceiling for nearly forty minutes before I decided to turn off my lamp. I'm not Sam from Virginia, I am simply Sam. I am a girl who is indecisive, constantly changing and retracing my steps because sometimes I get a little lost and don't know what to do.

Last night I got to thinking about all of those big Life Questions that I mentioned a couple of days ago, and thought I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to be in this state of Virginia, or this state of mind. I'm tired of going round and round in circles wondering what it is that I want or don't want and teeter-tottering back and forth between everything. So I came up with a simple list of What I Do and What I Don't want.

I do want to be home and near family. I'm glad I came back to be closer to Momma and Mel, and now that I've been back for a couple of months I really see how much they need me, just as much as I need them. My sister needs me, and part of me feels guilty for even leaving her in the first place. My mother needs me to help with my sister and I'm glad I can be here to help.

I don't want to be in Virginia anymore. As much as I love being back near family, this state just isn't for me. I thought I wanted to come back and get back into the government scene and be a kick ass admin again, but I really fucking don't. The only bad part is that I'm going to have to do it anyway now since I only have $65 to my name. At least for a little while.

I don't want to take this shit job that I've been offered earning (what I consider to be) pennies. I don't want to make their charts and graphs and do gay research for a contract that probably isn't going to last any longer than a year. But part of me already knows that I'm going to accept it, because it is a paycheck, and when you only have $65 to your name, and a debt of roughly $50,000.00, you'll take anything you can get. I tell myself that it'll only be temporary, and if something better comes along, I'll totally jump on it, but still the other half of me is screaming WASTE OF FUCKING TIME. DON'T EVEN BOTHER.

I do want to get into writing. I don't have any fucking idea how I'm going to do it, or if it'll actually manifest into something potential, but every day I'll give it a go and see where it takes me. I applied for an internship with another online blog/magazine and should have a phone interview set up for sometime next week. Obviously all of the work that I'll be putting in now will be unpaid (we all gotta pay our dues I suppose), but I don't care. I need the experience. I want the experience.

In time, I do want to move back to England permanently. The goal I've set for myself is about two years. I'm giving myself two years to work at crappy jobs here that I hate (hopefully paying much more than this shit company has offered me), save up ass loads of money, then apply for a work visa. I've already started getting emails ready for my "contacts" that I have over in London that I know will know how to help point me in the right direction of getting a job. My awesome recruiter, Tabitha, for starters who loves me and always got good feedback from me wants me to come back. And then there's my tutor from second year, Sarah Turvey, who was born in the states and has been living in England for the majority of her life. She'll definitely know all of the ins and outs of the red tape I'm sure I'm going to have to fight with.

I thought about all of that before I closed my eyes, and thought, "yes, that is exactly right." Before I left I was so naive, thinking that I knew everything about everything and had never experienced anything substantial, but certainly had an opinion about it. Work was work, money was money, friends were friends, family was family, and I never worried about anything else.

Then I went away and learned so much about myself, I can't even begin to try to explain it all. "Life changing experience" doesn't even chip away the corner of what happened to me. Those three years taught me more than the previous twenty years when I was in the states. And now I am more comfortable with myself and have cold hard experiences to back up all of my opinions now.

I know I had to leave. Even though every single day is tough because I miss everything I left behind, I know I needed to come back. For Momma and Mel, yes, but for myself. I was a fucking mess the day I left and mentally, I needed some time to cool off from the city that I liked to battle with. I had no stability, and I certainly didn't have any balance. But I had a life. It was my life that I could call my own, grab with both hands and do whatever I wanted to do with it. It was all mine.

I never really had a life in Virginia. I definitely don't have a life now. All I had back then was work, a little bit of money and the mall to visit every single Saturday buying up things that I'd probably throw away two months later.

Of course I say all of this now, but who knows what will happen within the next two years, hell, the next two weeks? Maybe I'll decide to move to Boston, or Texas, or New York (liked I said I would) and find a new happiness there. Maybe I'll find a dream job here and decide to live out the rest of my days in Virginia and laugh at this post that I've written when I'm much older. All I know at this very moment, though, is that when the time is right, and when I'm properly set up, I'm going to leave. And hopefully I'll finally be able to remain stationary, instead of rocking from one side to another.

Posted by Sam at 12:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Today I got ready backwards. Well, sort of. Generally before I get in the shower, I pick out clean underwear and clothes so I can have them with me in my bathroom. See, my room is all the way on the third floor of our townhouse, and the bathroom that I lucked out with is the one on the bottom floor next to the garage. It may sound a little dodge, but it really isn't. Since we re-organized the entire family room, now I spend the majority of my time downstairs with the big TV. I feel better when I'm not laying in bed 24/7. Now I'm on the couch.

Anyway, I was downstairs today and I couldn't be bothered to walk all the way upstairs to get my clothes. I decided to just hop straight into the shower knowing full well that I'd have to go back upstairs eventually to get some clean clothes. So I took my shower, dried off, blow dried my hair, brushed my teeth and put on deodorant all completely stark naked. Then I walked upstairs (still naked) to my room, put on some clean underwear and pajamas.

It was a different routine that I usually follow, and it felt daring. I was living outside of the box. Hell, I was completely defying the way that I live!

And it was amazing.

I thought I should do more crazy things. Maybe I could blog two days in a row? HOW INSANE WOULD THAT BE?!

Someone stop me now.

**

As I mentioned yesterday (and one time on twitter), I found a new, upcoming online magazine that has so graciously let me write for them. Granted, I've only written one article so far, but I've got another idea brewing for this week and I thought I should probably give this whole "writing" thing another go. For real this time. I should honestly think and act like how a real writer would do, like writing a little bit of something every day, regardless if it's truly revolutionary, or ultimately run-on sentences that make absolutely no sense whatsoever, or even have a point.

Hence the blogging two days in a row.

Not only do I have some articles I need to write every week for this new online magazine, I have some unfinished work that I need to get cracking on really soon (like, yesterday kind of soon), because before you know it, I'm going to be a part-time student again with two final projects that I need to whip together for a final grade so I can officially have a goddamn Bachelor's degree that I've been struggling on for the past three years. Honestly, I need to sort it out.

I've set up the desk, organized it, cleared off some space and am practically ready to go. Now all I have to do is stop watching movies on Mel's laptop through Netflix and actually do some bloody writing.

Write Sam, write Sam, write Sam, write Sam, write Sam, write Sam, write Sam, write Sam.......

One of the things I wrote on my first article that I sent in for the online magazine was talking about how a person should get to know themselves when they're unemployed (P.S. my article is called "10 Things to do When You're Unemployed - aside from look for jobs"). It's number six on my list of things to do. A person should sit and properly get to know themselves. You know, like ask themselves all of those really hard life questions that people eventually have to ask themselves at some point in time, and then make a decision. What are they passionate about? Did they really enjoy the last job they were at? Do they want to go traveling? What is it that you want to really do with your life? Waste it? Put it to good use?

I was writing it all and I thought, "fuck, I haven't even asked myself these questions." Here I am advising people to do it themselves, when I haven't even done it. That hardly seems fair.

So today I started asking myself some of the questions. What do I want to do with my life?

What an insane question! Who knows that answer? Well, I suppose some people know that answer. Perhaps some people have always known that they've wanted to cut people open, poke around on their insides and then sew them back together hoping that they make a full recovery. Or maybe some other people have always known that they are simply born to mix ingredients together and wow (!) people's taste buds with their edible works of art. I'm sure some people must know.

But I don't know. And I hate to say it. I know I'd like to write, but I don't know how to go about it. I know that I need a job for the time being to start collecting some money to sustain some kind of life that makes me feel more independent and less like a fourteen-year-old girl living in a small rural town listening to 3 Doors Down and thinking that their words mean something. And I know that all of these jobs that I'm applying for, I'm very much qualified to do, but it's certainly not a place I want to be stuck in for the next twenty years.

I know I want love. Don't laugh! It's cheesy, but it's true. I may always sound like some kind of commitment phobe that doesn't want to get emotionally close to someone because I'm scared of, well, commitment. But I'd like to find someone some day who knows that I speak in a baby voice to make people laugh when they're mad at me, and someone who knows I hate the lovey dovey shit out in public, but when it's just the two of us I'm just as corny as a Hallmark card.

I wonder if I'm doing the right things. I worry that someone may never hire me because I sweat when I'm nervous and make bad jokes about the weather. And I keep thinking that the reason why I'm still unemployed is because I'm wasting time looking for jobs that I'll end up hating (given enough time), and I'm not spending enough time doing what I should really be doing. What I'm meant to be doing.

It's just some things I've been thinking about before I have to go and pick my little sister up from her job.

Posted by Sam at 07:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"Tell me," she says to me while we sit across from each other in the interview room.

"Why should we hire you?"

The first thing that comes to mind is, "geez, they really ask these questions in interviews? I thought it was just something for people to write about on the internet."

The second thing that comes into my head? Because I need the money.

Of course I don't say that. I say something along the lines of, "because I'm an excellent and hard working individual. I believe I can fulfill everything that you're seeking in an employee and will happily if given the chance to do so."

Something like that. Only I stutter and shake because I'm shit at interviews. I have come to the conclusion that interviewing with a company is just like dating, only with suits and much more forward questions that you're supposed to cleverly answer while believing in everything that you say. I am equally shit at dating, so there ya go. Unemployed and single. Awesome.

I've been on three interviews now, which I suppose is a good thing. At least I know my résumé isn't shit anymore. People are calling and asking me to come in to meet with them. Now my only problem is the actual talking portion of the process and I seem to be failing spectacularly at it. I mean, I once prided myself at being a fantastic conversationalist and now all I keep thinking the second I walk inside is, PRESSURE, PRESSURE, PRESSURE. MUST GET JOB SO I CAN PAY BILLS AND LIVE. I try to do research about the company beforehand so I can have something to talk about with them, or perhaps even ask some semi-educational questions towards the end, but nothing seems to stick in my brain. It's nothing but oil and water up there.

So I just go to these interviews thinking that I can wow (!) them by sitting pretty and smiling and hoping they don't ask me anything too hard.

Oh, the job market. It sure is hard to deal with these days. Surprisingly, I am dealing okay. After my first really sad breakdown, I've actually been upbeat, staying positive and moving forward. I've been applying for not just the administrative roles, but also some writing gigs that I find whenever I get tired of looking at all of the office jobs. So far I've managed to land one gig that is pretty flexible and I'll be able to show off the finished product once the website launches in September. It's so cool, I even have my own "About Me" section, with a picture and everything! How cool is that? Um, for someone who has absolutely zero writing experience, it's pretty damn cool. I've already written one article for them, and plan to write at least 1-2 articles every week about.....stuff. I have to think of the topics, but the point is I get to write about it without many limits.

And while Home Life can be pretty boring most of the time, and looking for jobs round the clock isn't the most stimulating of activities, I think I've gotten used to hanging out here on my lonesome. I just keep thinking that we'll have our own little baby running around soon (once he's old enough to leave his doggy mother), and then I won't be so lonesome. And that every day you never know who might call with a potential offer for....something. I've decided to take some good advice and enjoy unemployment life while it lasts. Once it's over with, it's finished, and who knows when I'll get another break? If anything, I should really take this time to stand in front of the mirror and rehearse some educated speeches for when I'm sitting across the table from another recruiter asking me why they should employ me.

Posted by Sam at 09:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Let's just get this out of the way right now, shall we?

I used to take drugs.

There. I said it. I used to take a myriad, cocktail-induced amount of drugs back in the day. You name it, I've probably taken it. There was my phase with prescription pills when I was in high school (somas, percocets and speed were my favorites), and then there is of course the time I spent in London at university. I smoked my fair share of weed, enjoyed chilling with the white lady from time to time, went on a far out ride on mushrooms once, took adderall for "concentration reasons" and enjoyed coming up on MDMA. It was just something that I did to experiment, experience and feel for myself. Now I can say I lived it and am officially over it.

I was never really "addicted" to any of the drugs to the point where I was willing to do unimaginable things to get my fix. I wasn't turning tricks on the corners or giving head to strangers just so I could get a free line or two out of someone who probably had crushed up some aspirin and wrapped it in some paper. It never got to that point. I was a regular user though. A recreational user. A social user. A whatever user. On and off during my three years at university I was on one the above mentioned drugs at some point in time.

If I had to pick, I'd say that cocaine was the worst, and the ugliest of everything I used to do. I did it for the longest time and there was a point for a couple of months during my first year that I thought I might have developed a problem. I used to cut up my lines, roll up a five pound note and snort every last morsel of powder that I could find, and rub the remaining remnants on my upper and lower gums. One time I even attempted snorting a dangling earring that some famous person was wearing on the cover of a magazine, which I had mistaken as a second line. I was so excited until I realized that I was actually snorting nothing and looked like a moron in more ways than one.

MD was the last drug I took, and it was on May 30th of this year, only a mere three months ago. MD I would have to say was my favorite out of everything I've ever taken and was "good" in a lot more ways that put cocaine to shame. The first thing would be when I would "come up" when the drug would start to properly kick in. God, coming up was one of the greatest feelings in the world, especially if the environment that you were in complimented the drug. Drum 'n' bass music on full blast, a dark room and strobe lights would race through your body and you felt everything from the inside out. All you want to do is dance with your water bottle and be left alone to enjoy the moment.

It also would last for ages and one hit would keep you awake the entire night, rather than having to constantly run to the toilets or a dark corner to sort out another line of coke. The come downs once the drug started wearing off weren't as horrible as my come downs used to be on cocaine either. MD was definitely the drug of choice.

I hate it when people who look down on drugs or don't agree with them ask, "why did you do it?!" as if I was forced in a corner with a gun to my head and didn't take the bullet instead. The thing is, I don't really know why I used to do it. I don't think it was because "everyone was doing it" that appealed to me. I think it was more of a curiosity that I wanted to know what would happen to me if I did indulge. I thought it would make my nights out amongst all of the city lights better, enhance them a little more and I would be more in control of myself and remember more things, unlike whenever I was drunk off my face. Drugs did give me a little more control funnily enough, and yet still allowed me to be completely wrecked on a different plane.

Our uni world that we lived in made it seem like taking drugs was normal, acceptable and safe. No one would ever bash you for not taking drugs (more for me!) and everyone seemed like an expert. This batch looks like good MD, this coke is weak or whatever. I never felt like I was going to get caught, harm myself or others, or that it was even bad. It was just there, a part of our lives and I happened to be one of the people that said yes, rather than no. Once the drug would wear off and clear itself out of my system (usually a process that required a full day), then I'd go back to doing normal every day things that didn't require me to be high.

Now that I've been "clean" for three months, I don't find myself having any cravings or itching for a little dab here and there. I think about it from time to time, but that's about it. Besides, it wouldn't feel right for me to even be doing it here in the states, because the scene isn't right, the people don't understand and it doesn't feel as natural as before. Thinking about me doing any kind of drug in the states just seems really weird.

However, just because I have that mentality and I don't consider myself to be an addict, doesn't mean that my past of using doesn't still follow me around. It is proving to be extremely difficult to get a job of any kind around here, because all of the security paperwork requires me to list all the drugs I used to take in the past and how often I used to take them. It also doesn't help that the last time I dropped an MD bomb was just three months ago. Not enough time has elapsed for anyone to consider me as "rehabilitated" and with all the rest of the drugs I listed together makes me look like I was some kind of crack whore on my applications.

I'm not a bad person because I used to do drugs. I'm simply a person who happened to take drugs. And just because it is going to be a lot harder for me to get a job now, I wouldn't change one thing about any of the drugs I used to do while I was over there. The experiences, the knowledge I gained and stories I have will always be with me and have helped shape me into who I am today. I realize that there are risks and that other people may have not had the same kind of outcome as I did, but it is a part of who I am, who I was back then and who I want to move on from in the future.

Posted by Sam at 08:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It is so true what they say: when you're busy, you're usually so busy you can't see straight and it never feels like you can catch a break. But when you're not busy...when you're stuck at home with absolutely nothing to do, you don't really know what to do with yourself. There's never a happy medium of "in between," which is so annoying.

The first month was great. Lizzie came to visit, we had good times and it was nice to finally get that break from the stress and worries that used to follow me around in London. I didn't have to worry about cooking for myself anymore, bills piling up around my feet or any of the local drama. I was at home baby! And I was loving it, living it up and soaking in this newfound relaxing freedom! I mean whew (!) why didn't I do this more often?

The second month came out of nowhere and it finally hit me that maybe I should get a job. A good paying job at that. December would be here in no time and that's when I need to make my first student loan payment. And then of course when I found out about my lacking of 30 credits, I realized that I need to pay for that hefty payment in one lop as well. And I wanted to go places, do things, socialize. That all required moolah that I just did not have. So the search began. And so did the waiting.

Now I'm rolling on month number three. Three months since I left London, came back home and have spent 85% of my time in bed watching re-runs of The West Wing on dvd, and eating soft chocolate chip cookies for lunch. I would say it's the good life, but my time of relaxing is over. I'm tired of doing nothing. I want a job! I have things I want to buy and save for. My list of Things I Want is getting longer with each passing day, and I'm headed straight for the Unhappy Place in my head.

This past Friday I cried for two hours. And the whole time I hated myself because I know things aren't that bad. Things have been a lot worse for me in the past, and things are hella bad for a lot of people out there that I don't even know. Why am I being such an impatient whiny baby? I mean, hell, at least I went on one interview. At least I have a few people on "the inside" at a couple different companies who are trying to pull strings for me and shove my CV into different people's hands. At least I have a caring mother who lets me stay at home completely rent-free, feeds me and wants me to do nothing else except pay off all of my student loans. Why was I crying? AGAIN? OVER NOTHING? I'M SO UNGRATEFUL.

I was crying because even though I know all of that, I still get frustrated with things. I am super impatient and when things don't go my way I tend to get cranky. I am a five-year-old living inside of my nearly 24 (!) body and sometimes the only way I know how to cope is to just sit and cry. Cry, cry, cry, C-R-Y. I cried in the shower. I cried in my room. I cried when I was brushing my teeth. I just cried. And if felt good to do something other than me sitting like a bump on a log watching re-runs on the telly.

I'm trying to stay positive. I know these things take time and I'm trying to relish all of this free time I have to finish up the books on my night-stand, or lay out by the pool when it's sunny outside. But those worries and stresses aren't far away in my mind, and I still think about when it's time for me to pony up some money and I just don't have it on me. What will I do then?

Probably cry.

But after that, I'll have to wipe my eyes, blow my nose and figure out a different solution to the same goddamn problem.

Posted by Sam at 05:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Let's talk about being alone. Or, more to the point, let's talk about being lonely.

Because my dear Internets, I've never been so lonely.

Almost two months since I've been back, and without much to do here, and not many people to hang with, I've been rather isolated. I only know two people here in VA now that I make the effort to hang out with and talk to on a regular basis. One of those people being my dear friend, Mendy. Everyone else that I used to work with or hang out with have long since disappeared, and I can't say that my life is any worse without them. I'm glad I don't speak to my old coworkers. I was a bad person with them. I wasn't who I am today.

Most of the time I spend my days reading, cruising the internet, watching the telly, or cleaning out some hole in the house. I have read more books these past two months than I read my entire three years at uni, which is sad to admit, and I've made more trips to our local Salvation Army to chuck out boxes of junk that we seem to collect. I get excited whenever Momma asks me to go to the grocery store for her and I wander up and down each aisle spending as much time there without being accused of shoplifting. I quit going on my walk/runs after the third day, because I'm lazy. There's not much else to that. And I'm constantly applying for jobs left and right with extremely slow results.

Aside from all of those stimulating activities, I sleep. I take my daily naps or I daydream of worst case scenarios that could happen to me while I'm at the house by myself. I like to torture myself and get myself all riled up about burglars breaking in and me having to call the police while hiding in Momma's closet. That would happen to me while I'm alone and have yet to take a shower. And at least it would be more exciting than sitting in my room deciding which pajamas I want to wear on that particular weekday.

I've accepted the fact that I'm here in Virginia now and I won't be going back to London for uni. In fact, I've discovered that my London memories are fading from the forefront of my mind rather quickly (too quickly for my liking) and now I only think about what I plan to do in the near future after I get a job. For instance I've decided I want to buy a dog. I love dogs and used to have the greatest little Pekingese named, John, and he was the perfect pet ever. My favorite pet really. So a dog we're buying in the next couple of months after we get the house ready with a new fence and such.

I've picked out which new car I want to buy next Christmas since mine is nearly ten years old and I'm ready for an upgrade. Hell, I've even started thinking about where I want to live in the next two years or so. Those future plans have started to show themselves in my brain and I'm ready to start thinking about them. What's next for Sammi Jo? What do I plan to be doing for the next five to ten years of my life? Where would I like to be? What would I like to be doing?

I know I've always seen myself writing and living in England, but that's no longer the be all, end all for me. If I find an opportunity that will lead me there again, then I'll probably take it, but I know it'll be a while before I can manage to live over there for the long-term. Until that day arrives I'll probably just be going over for holidays and have people come visit me over here. And I've accepted that fact surprisingly well. Maybe it's some kind of newfound adult that's rising from inside of me, but I know if someone would have said that to me even two years ago I would have thrown a massive tantrum and cried like a four-year-old. I prefer this new adult way a lot better.

Instead I've taken an interest in Human Resources. Before I left for university I used to assist our HR department and it was a lot of fun for me. I enjoyed planning/preparing the open houses, meeting the new employees and even handling all of the mundane paperwork. HR is where it starts for people and I know how hard it is for people to get that first step in the doorway (which is exactly what I'm going through now). I want to be able to help in any way that I can.

I've also been seriously doing some research on living in Texas. I don't know why that state all of a sudden appeals to me, but I wouldn't mind living there for a little while. The job scene is really good and it'd be nice to start out somewhere new again. I can't leave out the fact that one of the coolest bloggers I know lives down there as well. I mean, can we all just say FUN GALORE.

These are all plans, thoughts, ideas I've had. Without much else to occupy my time I've found that planning for the future is actually good for me, and a lot better than looking at a stranger's profile on facebook. I hope it all pans out according to plan, but as we all know life likes to throw wrenches into most ideas.

I hope something changes soon, though. This loneliness, this isolation, this never-ending waiting is crippling me.

Posted by Sam at 03:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Me: "You know how they show those pictures of when we first walked on the moon?"

Mel: "Yeah."

Me: "It doesn't look real. How do they walk on the top like that? I mean, we don't walk on the top of Earth do we? Are we on the edge too?"

Mel: "It's a little thing we like to call gravity, Sam."

Me: "I don't get it."

Mel: "It just feels like we're upright, when really we're being pulled towards Earth's center."

Me: "So we're really standing like this?" (Tilts to the side at a 90 degree angle)

Mel: "Yeah, pretty much. You do know that Earth is round, right?"

Me: "I don't like it. I don't like it one bit."

Posted by Sam at 12:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I sent my CV to one of those places where they dissect it for a couple of days and then send you the results back for FREE! within two to three business days. I didn't really think that I would agree with anything they said, and I told myself that they tell everyone the same things so that you would inevitably buy the deluxe package where a professional writer re-writes your entire CV, plus a cover letter, you get to have direct contact with the writer and a guaranteed job within the following three weeks, all for the low and convenient price of $69.95 a month. I thought they were all a big hoax until I did actually receive my results and it was a two page breakdown of everything that was wrong with my CV.

I know you're not meant to take things personally when searching for a job, but I've now applied for over 30 different positions and the phone has yet to ring. I don't believe in all of that "poor economy" bullshit and think know that I deserve to have a job. I am a good worker goddammit, and I want a fucking job!

Of course it's that kind of thinking that has probably kept me down and unemployed, which is why Miranda's words struck a chord with me while punching me in the chest.

She begins her summary of my CV nice enough and even apologizes ahead of time for being blunt and harsh. She doesn't seem to believe in wasting any time and wants to make sure that I'm up and employed sooner rather than later. Then she just cuts right to the chase and it feels like she has taken dirty axe and swung it directly at my knees.

She tells me that I am a very qualified worker, however, I'm not memorable. If she were a recruiter looking over my resumé it simply says "cooked meat" rather than "sizzling grilled steak". My presentation is sloppy and not what she would expect from an experienced administrative assistant at my level and the thing that stings me the most is when she says I'm only a "doer" not an "achiever".

Thank you, Miranda, for making me feel smaller than I already am.

Needless to say I felt pretty bad afterwards. Is this how I've been representing myself all these years? With a cluttered CV that's just cooked meat? Do I not sizzle? Am I really not memorable? Am I only someone's bitch who doesn't want to strive to be anything more?

I decided to eat the rest of the rainbow sorbet in our freezer and go to bed, because I figured that's what underachievers do.

Yesterday I forced myself awake 6a.m. even though for once I wasn't woken up by my charming neighbors, who for some unknown reason feel it's necessary to keep the engine running for at least 30 minutes on their truck that is probably equal in size or larger than a hippopotamus every single morning. Even though I wanted to roll back over and sleep until ten, I got up, got changed into my "appropriate" walk/run wear (which is basically just pajamas that can be worn outside without instantly being recognized as pajamas) and went outside for my second walk/run exercise regime. I know it's only the second time that I've actually managed to go for my little walk/run, but already I feel like it's doing some good. It's not about me hating my body (okay, I hate my thighs), or even being healthier. It's just about me needing to get out of the house for a little bit, even if it's at the ass crack of dawn.

After my power walk, I took a shower, got ready and headed over to Target. I only had a few things I wanted to pick up and needed to get Miranda's stupid words out of my head. Who was she to tell me that I'm simply a doer. I achieve things when I really want to. I got myself to London for university, didn't I? And....I've done some other things after that as well.

I decided to buy a diary since the one my uni gave me ended at the beginning of July. I never did understand why anyone would hand out a diary that stops halfway through the year, but in any case I needed a new one. I don't know what it is, but keeping a diary on hand just makes me feel a lot calmer about all things in life, even if I don't really have that much to pencil in. I also bought my first bottle of SPF 30 sunscreen since I'm now obsessed with not getting skin cancer at any cost. I've decided I need to go to the dermatologist as soon as I get insurance because I want to have every single mole examined on my body, just in case it does turn out to be some kind of cancer. And I finally bought Heather McElhatton's book, Jennifer Johnson is sick of being single, which I've been eyeing ever since Lizzie was here and we perused the book aisle on one of our many Target trips.

Since I've gotten back home, I've been reading so much more than I ever did at uni. I guess I was too busy with going out and distracted by pointless drama to ever take the time to read an entire book, but there ya go. Now that I have all this free time, occasionally I close my laptop and pick up a book which is always a good feeling. I feel smarter whenever I do. Currently I have four on the go, because I tend to flip flop depending on what mood I'm in. I have one by Kazuo Ishiguro called Never Let Me Go about cloning people just for their organs in England. It's a really good book, but because I started reading it while I was at uni, I've yet to finish it and have to be in the mood for something "deep". I'm also reading an essay by Eric G. Wilson called Against Happiness: In praise of melancholy. I generally love reading essays (I don't know when that love developed), but the beginning of this one is hard for me to get into, so I only read it when I'm up for a challenge. And the other one is by David Ebershoff called, The 19th Wife wherein a sister wife shoots her polygamist husband and her son that she dumped on the side of the road in the middle of the night when he was only 13 years old now has to try and prove her innocence.

All very good reads, but it has been a while since a book as really clawed into me and forced me to read it cover to cover. That is until yesterday when I got a hold of Jennifer Johnson is sick of being single. I mean let's face it, I'm a girly girl who likes to read girly things. But I'm a dark and twisty girl, a la Meredith Grey, and I like my girly girl books to have a bit of a dark and twisty end.

[*** BREAK NOW BECAUSE I'M ABOUT TO SPOIL THE ENTIRE NOVEL IF YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO READ A GIRLY GIRL BOOK WITH A DARK AND TWISTY END ***]

First of all, Heather McElhatton wrote my life. I'm not even playing, the main character, Jen, is me. I've thought her exact thoughts and have been in the exact same positions. I mean, hell, she even STUDIED CREATIVE WRITING IN COLLEGE. She says it, right there in the book:

"Mrs. Biggles slinks in between my legs, purring. She knows I was going to be a real writer, but there were a lot of things I was going to do and then didn't. I'm lucky to have my job, because I didn't go to school for anything marketable. I studied creative writing because I wanted to travel the world and write deep, poignant novels that illuminated small but significant parts of the human condition that had heretofore not been uncovered or expressed so eloquently or with such graceful power."

I mean HELLO. THAT IS ME IS IT NOT? I have said those words I don't even know how many times! I've said those words to myself in my head, right here on this very blog, to my friends and family who care to listen. I'VE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS.

Not only that, the book goes. It just grabs you and goes. You are literally shooting from one day to the next and it doesn't really stop. There aren't any chapters to slow you down, but rather three different sections that are roughly 90 pages each. Each day you follow Jen through her standard days at her job and the new relationship with her new boss and all of these new things keep happening to her. I mean, and all of these things had to happen to the author at some point in her life, because the details she gives, THE BRILLIANT DETAILS are so....detailed. Someone couldn't have just made it up. One of my favorite parts is when she's having a particularly bad day and she once again rips the words straight out of my brain and puts them in her book. Case in point:

"The next day at work Brad has still not responded to my e-mail and I'm in a ferocious mood. I accidentally knock someone's coat off the hanger when I'm hanging my parka up in the employee closet and I don't even pick it up. Instead I stare coldly at it on the floor and think, that's right, life's a bitch. You get knocked down and nobody picks you up, you just lie there in the dark, damp and alone."

ME! ME! ME! MY THOUGHTS!

But then, THEN you finally get to the end of the book. And you know what? JEN DOESN'T REALLY GET HER HAPPY ENDING. I mean, she kind of does, but it turns out her happy ending is more like a happy nightmare, and the man she was supposed to end up with (lovable Ted that makes her laugh) goes to her wedding where she married Brad, the rich Mama's boy who cheats on her with a stripper.

I WAS GOING TO WRITE THIS BOOK. Well, not this book exactly, but a similar version! My main heroine wasn't going to end up with any guy whatsoever, but I was going to leave it open-ended with a bit of hope that maybe something could happen in the future.

This is now straying and going way off what my intended point was.

[*** TO ALL THOSE WHO SKIPPED THE SPOILERS, YOU MAY NOW RETURN. I'M DONE RUINING THE BOOK FOR EVERYONE ***]

My point is, this is what I needed. I needed that reminder of why I love writing. Her book, Heather McElhatton's book, reminded me this is why I went to university in the first place to pursue creative writing. The words, the sentences, the structure, the flow, the quirkiness, the wit, the humor, all of it. That's why I wanted to write. University knocked a lot of love and passion out of me while I was there, but I picked up a few pointers over the three years, and can take that small amount of education for a big price and apply it to my love and passion for writing.

I want to write Heather McElhatton a letter to say thanks for writing this book, thanks for reminding me why I wanted to write stories too. Maybe we could get a brew together one day and I could dog-sit her pug for her.

But first I'm going to take this newfound writing energy and put it into my CV. Why pay another writer to re-write something that's about me? I'm just as good as they are and best of all, I know everything there is to know about me, so I'm already one step ahead of them all. I am a sizzling steak, thank you very much, and I won't have anyone tell me otherwise.

Posted by Sam at 12:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Recently I've felt like I need to be writing.

No, I haven't felt the need to write, really, but more like I should be writing. I should be writing something, yes? I just finished three years of studying Creative Writing. Shouldn't I start writing something now? I don't know what exactly, but something. I should definitely have something in the works.

The truth is, I don't. I don't have some kind of urge to write. I don't know if I want to write, if I miss writing, if it's something I want to continue to do. Not that I was even really "doing it" in the first place. More like I was pretending to be a writer these past three years and now my time of playing around is over.

This past month since I've been back, I actually felt relieved that I didn't have any kind of writing project haunting me at night, luring above my bed while I slept and taking over my subconscious. I've done nothing, to be quite honest, and it felt nice. At least it did for a while. I haven't been thinking about anything in particular, nothing too serious and have been perfectly content (if not occasionally bored) right here in the townhouse.

I have been slightly stressed about getting a job. That's probably the only thing that has been weighing on my mind, however, not too heavily. I've applied for roughly fifteen jobs now and am still waiting to hear from one HR lady (c'mon Caroline, seriously!). I'm not a religious/spiritual person, but I do have hope and believe that I'll hear something soon. Every weekday that passes by, I'm sure that the telephone will ring once and on the other line it'll be a recruiter asking if I have time to come in for an interview.

But now, now with this "I'm 30 credits short from graduating" development, I'm being forced to think once again and decide what it is I want to write. Or, decide what I have to write, because I don't really want to.

When you go to counseling (or when I went to counseling, I suppose), Maria always asked me at the start of our sessions how I was feeling.

"How are you feeling today, Samantha?"

"Mmm....fine, I guess."

"Fine? Are you feeling anything else?"

That was our routine until I would eventually tell her without much argument how I was really feeling.

Tired. Frustrated. Annoyed. Happy. Stressed out.

And then she would ask me why.

How am I feeling now?

I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. These days I don't really have feelings, I just have ... a blur. It's a strange description I guess, but that's how I feel. Like a blur. Like I'm not really here. Like everything I do is useless and pointless. Sometimes I'll have a high moment when I'm speaking to someone online, and other times I'll feel quite low when I start to let my mind wander off into the darker corners of my brain. I try to keep myself from staying in the dark places too long.

But otherwise I don't feel much. I get up, I sleep, I check my regular websites, I'll drink a glass of orange juice, I'll go back to sleep. It's fairly routine and mundane. Nothing special to report on. While I'm doing all of these non-tasks, though, I wait.

I wait for something to happen, for someone to call, for something to change. Because this new non-state of being I've found myself in is slowly eating away at myself, my personality, my life. Whatever light I had to bring into a room is slowly fading and I feel like I'm turning into one of those people who exist solely in their own minds, always with a glazed look in their eyes.

I'm supposed to think of another idea to write about, another proposal for my convener. I don't know what to write about. I can't seem to think of anything "outside the box" or even inside the box for that matter. I don't have the energy, the motivation, the flicker of excitement inside of me to give them another proposal. Another one.

Goddammit, why do they need two? Can't I just give them the one? Isn't that enough? They need me to drag two out of some small crevasse inside of me?

You know what that feels like? Impossible.

I don't want to write, and yet the only way I know how to express it all is by taking to the keyboard and literally spelling it all out. I hope this feeling passes soon.

Posted by Sam at 02:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Every day it's sunny here.

Every. Single. Day.

I can't escape it. I can try by closing the blinds and shutting the curtains, but that doesn't mean that the sunshine doesn't find a way inside. Or it doesn't mean that I can't still feel the heat in my bedroom roasting me underneath my sheets.

And because it's sunny every single day, I get annoyed that it never rains, or that it's never grey. There's no pleasing me when it comes to the weather.

Last night when I was briefly speaking to Momma before she went to sleep, I told her that it has been over a month since I've been back, and I've only gotten one stupid email from the stupid HR lady who seems to have disappeared and never responded back to me. Over a month I've been back!

She corrected me and told me that it hasn't been a month yet. I got back on the 11th of June. It'll be a month on Saturday and then I can start moaning about how it's been over a month.

It feels like it has been over a month though. It feels like I've been back three months. It feels like I'm really bored and if I don't get some kind of brain stimulation soon that requires me to leave the house every day and earn a paycheck, I might just go completely insane.

The house is different than the flat in many ways. I'm alone a lot more, sitting here trying to find ways to occupy my time. I'm pretty much broke and can't even afford to drive around in order to leave the house. It's too hot to walk anywhere (aside from the pool). Did I mention that I'm alone a lot more?

The transition from London back to Virginia has been okay. I don't want to say it was easy or effortless, because there were a couple of days when I couldn't even be bothered to leave my room to brush my teeth. I was consumed with my sadness as if it were the end of the world now and I had to figure out how to be this New Sam in my Old World. I found it hard to not be able to ring people up, walk down the corridor to the kitchen or to someone else's room and have a conversation with one of my friends. I looked out the window and instead of seeing people walking around campus, I saw trees, random animals and more suburbs.

Where was everyone?

Luckily, one of my friends from London came over to visit for about a week. It was amazing having Lizzie here in the house, if only because it was another human being I could talk to throughout the day and have someone be near. We had a nice combination of relaxing and exploring, and the nice thing was that we were both going through the same experience of transitioning from Uni Life back into Real Life. I could properly chat to her who knew everything from the past three years and it was comforting to know that I wasn't the only one feeling this way at this particular time.

It was also nice to be able to take her around my neck of the woods, and whilst everything was new to Lizzie, I was rediscovering my old life and realized that where I live doesn't suck as bad as I thought it did. True, it's no London with it's high streets, collection of foreign accents and a pub on every corner, but it does have it's own perks that I forgot I missed so much. Like, Chipotle.

Of course once Lizzie left to spend her remaining days in Washington D.C., I was bound to the house once again and left to my own devices for entertainment. I decided to start applying to jobs since Momma's "connection" at her job has still yet to respond to me after she got in contact about two weeks ago. Momma says that there's "still hope" and I should be hearing something "really soon," but I'm just so damn impatient.

I also found out this week that I'm 30 credits short from graduating. Hooray! That's what every unemployed student wants to hear. I can't even put on my CV that I have a BA yet, because I'm 30 CREDITS SHORT. I don't understand my university sometimes.

I thought that not graduating this month would be a lot harder for me to handle, but part of me already kind of knew that it was too good to be true. Something was going to happen and prevent me from getting the diploma, because that's just how my university life has been since day one. They weren't going to give it to me just like that. I'd have to suffer a little longer. It's just annoying if anything.

Because of my shortfall, I have to take an online module that is only 20 credits. My convener said she's going to try and see if The Board will waive the last ten credits, but if she can't then we'll have to find another way for me acquire the final ten. And my online assignment is another proposal that's due in by the end of November will monthly email check-ups by one of my lecturer or my convener.

This summer hasn't been peaches and cream, but it hasn't sucked entirely either I suppose. All I really want right now is a job. That's all I keep thinking about. And until then I'll just sleep. Maybe I'll even go back to the pool and sleep in the never ending sun.

Posted by Sam at 01:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The past couple of weeks have been pretty surreal for me. It's like nothing even happened, yet I'm sitting at home with evidence that yes, it all very much did happen and I had a rockin' good time. I have three bracelets on my right wrist that I still refuse to take off, simply because they are the wrist bands that I needed to have to get me into the Dot to Dot festival that was in Bristol, my final third year summer ball and the epic final bop where a lot of ugly crying went down.

I know it's silly, but I just can't bring myself to cut them off and stow them away in one of the many memory shoe boxes underneath my bed. Not yet.

After Mel and I finally made it back home, I spent the first couple of days cleaning, unpacking, organizing and sorting things out so that I was properly all settled in. It gave me something to do and I thought that unpacking everything and meshing it all together with my other things that have patiently been waiting for me here at home would finally switch something on in my head to make me realize that I'm back for the long haul. This is not simply a summer vacation break for me. I'm here now. I'm back now. And I don't exactly have a plan of where I need/should be going.

That didn't really work and instead I was just pleased that everything wasn't in shambles anymore.

Once all the cleaning and organizing was finished, I parked myself in my room for the next couple of days and caught up on all of the latest Hills episodes. Nothing really says "move on" and is semi-relatable to people in their twenties (with millions of dollars at their disposal) quite like The Hills. I mean, Lauren is moving on, Whitney moved on to New York and Lo....well, Lo is just there to look cute and adorable.

I hate to admit this, because it is kind of embarrassing, but I did get a little teary-eyed at one of the episodes where Audrina and Lauren make up and become friends again. That was touching.

But I didn't have a full on ugly cry like I know I need to do.

Once I caught up on all of The Hills, I went over to Mendy's house that I've hardly seen since I've been away, for some birthday festivities at her new apartment with her husband (as if I have a real married friend now). She had invited loads of friends and family over to celebrate, and as happy as I was to see her and catch up, I wasn't exactly in a very group social mood. It was all a bit too much for me to handle so I decided to leave around 11 o'clock and drive back home listening to Camera Obscura in the dark driving the empty roads.

Her one song, "Country Mile," made me get a little misty-eyed but nothing else. I told myself I couldn't have the ugly cry in the car when I was tired and driving. It simply wasn't safe.

Since then I've pretty much been doing nothing. I've been catching up on a lot of sleep, yet I still wake up around six o'clock in the morning and wonder what I'm going to be doing for the next sixteen hours. I've been reading more, which is nice, and catching up on books that I never read/finished reading while I was at uni. I've gone out to run a few errands for Momma and have eaten out at a few of my favorite places.

But otherwise, not much else.

You would think that now I have the time, I'd be thinking more. I should be thinking more about reality and the future and what I should/could/need to be doing in order to take the next steps towards the next life chapter and all that crap. But I haven't really. I'm in a strange haze where I just wander around aimlessly without any kind of attachment as to what's happening around me. I daydream a lot. I fantasize about my pretend future that I know will never happen, yet I still like to roll around in my sick hallucinations. I have looked at so many pictures on facebook from the last weeks of university so many times I'm surprised Bridget hasn't blown up. And I relive my last memories of a life that I've known and have gotten used to, but now that I've left.

When I was still in London, caught up in the busy social events or sitting out on Digby lawn soaking up the rare English rays, I told myself that I wouldn't let myself feel too much of the sadness because I wanted to enjoy my last weeks to the fullest instead of sitting in a puddle of tears and snot from all of my crying. I wanted my last memories to be happy, with all of us laughing and being completely in the moment knowing that we might never get a chance to be like this ever again. Absolutely carefree without one worry in the world. There was no point in dwelling on what was coming when it was out of our control. So every time I felt tears welling up in my eyes, I immediately thought of something else and shoved it aside.

I love how we didn't really acknowledge fully the situation that was at hand. Whenever somebody left, we just treated it like we would see them in a few weeks time. I gave them all a hug and kiss on the cheek and told them I loved them as they walked out the door. I don't think it felt real to any of us. It still doesn't feel real to me.

I know eventually I'm going to need to accept the fact that I am back in Virginia and I won't be leaving anytime soon. I know in time I'm going to have to mentally leave London, rejoin reality and get back on board here so I can start doing adult things once again. Even though I've come back home, it doesn't feel as natural as it did whenever I was back at Christmas or summer. I feel like I've come back changed and everything here is the same as I left it.

But for the time being I want to sit a little while longer. Like I said, I'm not ready to cut the wrist bands off just yet.

Posted by Sam at 09:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

As of today, I only have twenty-four days left here in London. Until when? Until I don't know. I don't know when I'll be coming back, because I won't be living here anymore. I'll be back in Virginia, rocking out there and trying to set my life back up to be more routine and regular. Whatever that is.

I decided that I wanted to go back home early and skip over the whole graduation mess. What's the point in going when I couldn't really afford it, Momma wouldn't be there and I can't stand all of that hoopla shit. It gets on my nerves. Instead I wanted to rock out hard the last couple of weeks that I was here and end my university life not in a cap and gown, but rather how I started off: in a bar. My bar.

There wasn't really much point in my sticking around then, if I didn't want go to graduation. I suppose I could have hung around and did the odd jobs every so often to keep me afloat, but I didn't want to struggle until the end of July, which is probably what would have happened if I had decided to stay.

So June 10th, 2009. That's the date. That's when I'll be getting on a plane headed for Virginia and that's where I'll be staying, because university is finished. Done. Kaput. Over. No more.

***

***

***

***

Now what am I supposed to do?

As if I'm all finished with university. As if I actually did what I said I was going to do nearly five years ago. As if all of this really happened.

It's kind of a big moment for me. I'm a little lost for words. I'm a lot dumbstruck. And I'm not entirely sure what's next for me.

So far the only plan I have is to go back home, get a job and start paying off these scary student loans I've managed to rack up. I kind of already have a job waiting for me. Momma managed to hook me up with another admin position at the new place she's working at. Yeah, back to the admin scene, doing the admin thing. That will just be temporary, though, until I can figure out what I really want to do, and where I really want to be.

Since leaving the Corporate World, I've seen what else I can do in life. I am perfectly capable of making a real life for myself doing what I love: writing. I didn't get this degree for the hell of it. I do plan to use it in the future and see where it eventually takes me. I definitely do not want to be someone's little admin bitch until I die. I'll find something - a magazine, newspaper, publishing house - and I'll apply to work there and be their bitch until I can work my way up to where I want to be. I could continue to work on the novel I started here a couple of months ago (I definitely want to work on that, but it has been put on a big PAUSE until I can sort my brain out and tackle that beast). I could work for an online magazine or be a freelance writer picking up odd jobs wherever I find them.

Whatever I want to do, I can do it. Because if I can manage to get myself over to London for three years, then I can sure as hell do whatever else I want. And nobody will stop me.

But those are thoughts and ideas I've barely even given much thought to because it makes my head feel like it'll explode all over the white walls of my room here at uni. I'll give them all much serious thought after I've gone home, cried for two weeks and allowed myself to wallow in the fact that I left my life here in London and must start again in Virginia. Because that's what it feels like.

All of my friends are here. My stuff is here that I've been accumulating over three years. My buses are here. My favorite foods and restaurants are here. My stores/markets/shops are here. My life is here. My heart is here. I know London and I haven't always seen eye to eye on some things, but I do love it. And I'm going to miss it and everything that it will be holding for me while I'm away. I'm trying to be an adult about the whole situation and realize that I do need to go back home, if only for a little bit so I can sort myself out. I'm a mess in London at the moment and I need a seriously long break out of the city to clear my head, adjust my perspective and get out of this student mindset. But it's hard to be an adult and accept the fact that I won't be here for a while. Instead I revert back to the only way I know how to deal with things and cry like a fool after one too many alcoholic beverages. I know it leads me nowhere in the end, but that temporary numbness sure is nice to help me forget the reality that will be smacking me in the face soon.

I'll deal with the loss after I get back home. I'll sort myself out and then think of a new way to come back over here and live. Because while I know I need a break right now, and even though it's one of the most painful things I've done, I also know I'm not finished with London. And London isn't finished with me yet either. My love/hate relationship with this city has only just begun and one way or another, I'll be back more refreshed and ready to take it all on again.

Posted by Sam at 10:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Ugh, life is long, life is so bloody long.

But whatever. Who cares? BECAUSE I'M FINISHED WITH ALL OF MY UNIVERSITY WORK.

I think I've damaged my right thumb in the process of work, though, because now I hate to type anything. I use only my right thumb to hit the spacebar and now it actually makes me cringe to think about doing the action like nails on a chalkboard. I was hoping it was just a phase, but no, I actually hate doing it. It should be interesting to see how that pans out for me in the future.

Since my uni work has finished, I've been spending a lot of time spending a lot of money. Too much of it, in fact, but it's okay because I deserve to splash out every so often. I haven't properly spent any money on myself in so long (that wasn't food), I almost forgot what to do when I was in all of the different shops.

Almost. I quickly regained my feet and went to town enjoying some much needed retail therapy.

But aside from shopping like a demon, I've also been going out, drinking, doing a bit of traveling and embracing this newfound work-free zone that I've stepped into. I remember being confused and unsure as to what to do right after I handed in my last portfolio. I was in the flat and things appeared to be the same, only it was much different now that I wasn't chained inside of my room. I could go outside if I wanted to. I could watch some TV completely guilt free. Hell, I could have a lie-in until 9a.m. and not stress that I just wasted two and a half hours of prime writing time.

Now I'm perfectly fine and happy to wake up when I want to, and things appear to just keep happening without me having to worry about being too bored without any work to keep me occupied. My social life is being resurrected and it's about damn time.

Last Friday, after I got finished dropping some serious cash in Kingston, I got a text from my friend Ando. He has been trying for ages to get me to come visit him back in his hometown, but I've never gone because I was either too poor or....well, mostly just because I was too poor. But considering I had just gotten paid from working at The Shop over Easter break and I was now free from all university work EVER, I decided I would go and pay him a visit.

I quickly got ready, threw some essential items in an overnight bag and caught the train to make the very long journey two hours outside of the city to a small town called Farnham. He met me at the train station and then we walked to his house so I could drop my stuff off before we headed to the pub where he works at. Everything, I learned, was within walking distance of his house, which made things so nice and easy. And his house was actually amazing. I don't know why I was so shocked and surprised to see that his house was awesome, but for four guys living together, it was pretty bitchin'.

When we got to the pub, all of his friends were there, some crazy regulars who were blatantly coked out their face and then there was me, taking all of these new sights in. It felt cozy. It felt comfortable. It felt nice to not be in the city with strangers. Even though I didn't know Ando's friends, I felt like I could get to know them and be included in this group that was so close knit it made me want to make a good impression so that they would like me as well.

I did get to know them. I had fabulous conversations and wasn't attached to Ando's side all night like I thought I would be. Apparently I was a big hit and everyone loved me. One of his friends even said to Ando that he "loved me and she is fucking cool."

"Yeah, I know she's pretty awesome," was all that Ando said and smiled at me.

I had an amazing night. I had an entire bottle of rosé to myself. I accidentally had sex with Ando for a second time. And I woke up wondering if this was a new routine we were getting ourselves into.

He had to work the next day and left me in bed after his three different alarms went off seven hundred times. I heard someone come into his room at one point and I laid still with my eyes shut hoping they wouldn't notice me there, even though I'm sure all of his friends knew. Sometime around ten in the morning, I received a text message from Ando asking how I was getting on and to help myself to the cereal downstairs.

So I finally emerged out from under the covers, stretched and clicked all of my limbs and braced myself to face all of his friends sober downstairs who I could hear laughing and walking around. It would be fine. They all seemed like nice people when I met them last night, and I was sure they'd all still be the same nice people the morning after.

They were. They were hilarious and lovely and nothing was awkward. What was this magical place that I had landed in? Why didn't this kind of surrounding exist in London? Or anywhere else in the world for that matter!

I had a cup of tea and sat with Ando's friend, Alex, who chatted with me for at least an hour while I curled up on one side of their sofa still wearing my make-up from the night before. It was then that I decided I fancied Alex and wished that I wasn't leaving so soon. Why did I have to meet him now? How come I couldn't have met him months or even years ago? That would be my luck.

After I showered and got ready, Alex invited me to go to the pub with him. I declined, however, and decided that I wanted to have a wander around Farnham. How small was this place? Did they even have a bank? Because I needed some money and some lunch.

It turns out that they weren't lying when they said you could walk anywhere and reach anything. From Ando's house, it took me about ten minutes to walk into town. I found a cash machine (after asking for directions), bought some lunch and a magazine, then walked to a local park that I saw near the pub and sat there for about two hours as the sun dodged in and out of the clouds. It was a lovely afternoon and great way to cure my hang over.

I got some more text messages from Ando, though, asking if I was going to stay another night. I said that I didn't mind, but that it was up to him. He then gave me a couple excuses about how he had to work late at the bar, get up early again for work the next day, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stay and chat with me. I could take a hint. I got the underlying message. He didn't want me to be there anymore, and I didn't want to see him after he got off of work.

I walked to his pub, found Alex and asked if I could borrow his house keys so I could peace out and head back home. He seemed a little sad that I was going and I thought it was heartbreakingly cute when he said, "oh, well, I guess I won't ever see you again."

"Don't worry, I'll come back for a visit," I said to him, even though I was pretty sure I'd never step foot in that magical place again.

Just because I'd probably never go to Farnham and see Ando again, it didn't stop me from adding Alex on facebook. Or sending him a message with my phone number, letting him know that if he's in London anytime before June 10th that he should ring me sometime, and we could hang out. Or something.

He replied to my message saying thanks for the nice message, and that he couldn't have left me locked away in Ando's room all day. It gave me a little bit of hope that maybe I would see him again before I leave. Hopefully.

Posted by Sam at 11:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

*I kind of geek out about iMovie and Apple in this post, so if you don't care about Macs, you probably won't care about this particular post.*

I have lots of spare time.

THIS IS A GOOD THING.

Actually, it's a great thing, because I was originally stressing that I wouldn't have enough time to do my final two portfolios (you know, over the whole three week Easter break), but it turns out I've managed my time pretty well and I have extra spare time leftover to do things like EDIT and WRITE BLOG POSTS.

Who knew.

I woke up this morning to grey clouds and a bit of rain which made me sad since for the past week we've had nothing but brilliant sunshine and blue skies. Some folks already broke out the disposable grills from Asda and had a barbecue yesterday out on the lawn. It was torture to smell that amazing beef being grilled in my room while I was video recording one of my projects, but it was nice to know that we even had weather that would permit some people to use a disposable grill.

Now, however, it seems like the sun has overtaken the rain once more and outside my window are brilliant blues, greens and...umm....brown? The brown building is our library. Not a great view for me, but whatevs. At least I can see the gorgeous weather.

In other news, I went to the Mac Store on Regent Street on Thursday. I also went on Sunday but wasn't able to geek out completely since I was with Livvi and her boyfriend. They're (sadly) still Windows users so they didn't feel as comfortable or right at home as I do whenever I get near any kind of Mac appliance. I tend to develop a slight twitch because I'm so excited. It's like I'm getting a fresh dose of crack and I start to spaz out.

This Thursday, though, I went to the store at 10 o'fuck in the morning. That might not sound early, but when you're me who has to wake up at 7a.m. (early for my slacker self these days) and then travel at least an hour to get there, it's a lot of effort.

So why did I need to go to the Mac Store so early?

WELL, because for one of my final portfolios, I decided to take a vlog style approach to it, and I wanted to know all most of the tricks that I could do in iMovie. I couldn't be bothered to write a 3500 word short story and though it'd be more fun and "innovative" (since it is for my Fiction and Innovative Form lecture) if I recorded it all. Then I told my lecturer that I was recording it based on death of the author and hypertext. She loved the idea. Ate it up. And I got to do an extended vlog for my final project.

So that's why I was at the Mac Store in the wee early hours. Okay, not wee early hours, but whatever.

I sat there for TWO HOURS while some guy named Darren and his trusty assistant, Kate, told the four of us studious learners how to add text to our movies, how to change the color of our movies or how to add different sound effects or music to our movies. It was all very informative and helpful and made me wish that I had enough money to shell out on a new laptop with iMovie 09 on it.

Oh, I know, I have my darling Bridget, and I love her, but she is getting up there in age (nearly four years now!) and she doesn't work as well as she once did.

That's a lie, she works fine, but there are a couple of things that don't really work and it kind of annoys me about her.

Take for instance the iMovie that I have on Bridget. One of the options that I should be able to use is to record directly onto my hard drive using the iSight (the little wee built in webcam, for people who don't know what an iSight is). When I go into iMovie, I load up the iSight, click record, start talking and whatnot, but when I play it back the sound is completely jacked and I sound like a bunch of bees flying around. I don't know why it doesn't work and it annoys me too much to try and figure it out.

So because I can't even use the iSight in my iMovie, I have to rent out a video camera from our library so that I can do my vlogs and such, but for some reason Bridget never recognizes the camera properly whenever I plug it in so that I can load my movies up. She opens up iPhoto instead of iMovie and leaves me royally ticked off.

It's little things like that that really peeve me and get under my skin about her.

I can't really complain, though. She has been pretty bitchin' ever since I got her and has taken care of me many a-nights and days whenever I was stressing about an essay or just plain bored out of my skull. The only real problem I've ever had was when she scared the hell out of me and crashed out, but that was taken care of and luckily I had most of my information backed up on my external hard drive, Carrie.

Because Bridget is on the verge of being taken to a retirement home, I've decided to use one of my fresher's MacBooks to do all of video editing on today. Emma's MacBook, Pip, is a bit newer, a bit shinier, a bit more sprightly than 'ol Bridget and has no problem recording my voice using iSight and recognizes the video camera in iMovie, not iPhoto and tends to run a little bit more smooth. Pip doesn't need to rub Deep Heat on her joints to keep going. Pip just goes and does her thang.

That's what I'm going to be doing all day then. Sitting in my room, recording footage, editing footage and then hopefully burning the footage onto a DVD so that I can hand the bastard in with my essay that I've ALREADY WRITTEN. I didn't know how good it would feel to have an essay written six days before it's due in, but I tell ya, it feels good. I kind of want to do a jig.

And with all of this spare time I have, and since I'll be mainly working on Pip today, I might even put up a new vlog. Who knows! I guess you'll just have to wait and see.

I know. I can hardly stand the anticipation as well.

Posted by Sam at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

There are two things in this world that I am religiously obsessed with: music and tanning. Sometimes when it's nice out (actually, especially when it's nice out) I like to listen to my music while I tan. I know. It's crazy!

London is waking up, the sun is shining and where am I?

Stuck inside doing the last bit of my uni work. That's where I am. Or here, typing up this post avoiding uni work.

All of it will be handed in by the end of next Thursday. Then I'll officially have no more work and can spend as much time outside that I want laying in the sun, soaking up the rays and proving everyone wrong who thinks I can't tan underneath the English sun. I've done it before! I'll do it again!

But, ugh....this whole Sitting Inside business when my window is open, the curtain is pulled back and there's a pool of sunshine warming me up, is so damn distracting! Especially when I know I could be outside right now feeling that slight tingle on my skin. That's what I want. That's what I need. It's what I'm craving right now.

Sometimes I'm bad and lay outside anyway making myself think that I'm going to hand write all of my work and then type it up later. Ha! What a load of bollocks. As if I'm really going to be focused when my eyes are closed and I'm on the verge of falling asleep on the lawn. I DON'T THINK SO. Or when I decide to go out for lunch with some of the babies and Helen (like I did yesterday).

I CAN'T STAND THIS TORTURE.

I am a sun-loving, beach babe at heart and all I want to do is walk around in a summer dress, sip on a pint of Pimm's (hello Pimm's o'clock!), fire up the grill and live outside until it's time to come inside and look at everyone's funny tan lines. I don't want to plan chapter three. I don't want to write two essays. I don't want to do a fictional vlog on dating. Someone else do it for me!

In other non-weather related news, I unfortunately didn't get the job at the music college that would have been SO PERFECT for me. Tabitha rang me up yesterday afternoon as I began the digesting process of a massive burger from GBK, and told me that they "went in a different direction" for someone who was "more qualified".

Blah, whatever. I'm sure another job will come rolling around soon and I'll do just as fine at that. I suppose until I do hear from her I can spend my days out on the lawn. You know, after I do my stupid work. And Chris said that I could always go back to working at the shop if I'm really desperate, which I do believe I'm on the verge of.

Oh, what am I even doing on here?! I need to be planning out my work and essays!

Posted by Sam at 07:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Can someone please tell me why those random homeless people (well, I don't know if they're really homeless) that stand on the high street sidewalks selling those obscure magazines that nobody's ever heard of, always have a rottweiler dog tied up next to them?

I was just wondering that while I was out today.

This has been a successful Thursday, which is nice considering I had a lovely Wednesday yesterday. I don't know if y'all already know this or not, but Wednesday is my favorite day of the week. Really. I love Wednesdays. All good things generally happen for me on Wednesdays and yesterday was no exception to the rule.

It was Jon's 21st birthday and I was going to see Helen for the first time since....well....she was last in London for a visit (Christmas?). Our plans were to go into Kingston, eat an amazing jacket potato from Spuds, then drink. What could be more fun than that?

Nothing is more fun than that, I'll tell you now.

For the past three years I've noticed something about the Easter holiday break. It is always around this time that London transforms and becomes even more lush, green and lovely. Now some people may call this time of year "spring" but whatever. I notice the transformation every single time and am amazed every single time when the trees become full once again with leaves and baby birds. Our clocks rotate forward one hour allowing the sun to stick with us for a little longer while we linger down by the river with fresh fruit in our pints of Pimm's in plastic cups.

(Is it just me or does the above sentence have a lot of alliteration?)

Wednesday, my favorite day of the week, was a nice reminder of what I love most about being here. Jon, Trish and myself met Helen in front of Primark at three o'clock and I think overwhelmed her with our enormous presence. I don't think she was expecting such a welcoming in Kingston, but alas! There we all were sharing hugs, poking boobs (as Helen likes to do to greet her friends) and immediately kicking off the banter that our group has. We ate, we made dirty jokes, we laughed and we all caught each other up with the latest gossip that has been happening in our lives. And boy, was there gossip (which I'm obviously not at liberty to discuss since I've been sworn to secrecy. Just know that blood was involved).

After we filled our bellies with the best jacket potatoes in town, we headed straight to the Slug 'n' Lettuce to get cracking on with the drinkin'. You can't celebrate someone's 21st birthday without involving drinks. Helen and I bought our Pimm's while Trish opted for her usual lager and Jon stayed sweet with a mojito. We sat at one of the tables outside in the sunshine and talked about the past, present and future and laughed about what was, what is and what will inevitably be. That was us, four friends having a laugh.

And goddamn did I laugh.

We decided to get a bottle of white wine and rosé as well, and while we were quickly draining those two bottles I received a call from my favorite recruiter, Tabitha. She asked me (as she always does) if I was free to work, which I told her I was, and she then continued to tell me about a position that has become available working at a music college earning £9 an hour (!). I would have an interview on Monday at eleven o'clock in the morning and if I was successful (cross fingers!) then I could start the following week. It is a three month contract and I'd just be doing regular administrative assistance things that I always do.

I spoke to Tabitha briefly, hung up the phone and took another sip of wine. Nothing could really get better.

Except of course stopping into a shoe store drunk, before getting on the bus so that Jon could buy a new pair of trainers. And dancing to the shop music. And singing along.

That was definitely icing on the birthday cake.

It was a brilliant Wednesday and made me a little nostalgic to go back in time, if only for a little while, and relive the happy moments, the funny moments, the time we all spent together in the sunshine. I remembered our skin glowing as the sun would set, laying comfortably out on the lawn with our arms over our faces to shield our eyes from the English rays. We consumed mass amounts of Pimm's, Magners and beer while listening to songs that would shape our memories and remind us later of a time when things weren't dramatic and stressful, but more carefree and loving.

I only realized yesterday (after I sobered up a little bit) that this would be the last time for me to live so carefree. At least for a while. I realized that now I'm on a countdown until my time's up and I head back home. I was a little sad but I know it'll be fine. I'll always have the vivid colors in my mind of the green leaves, the thick grass, the vibrant flowers, the glossy stones. I'll still be able to smell the disposable barbecue grills dying down, the second hand smoke from people's rollies, the thick air in the city and the undefinable smell of Lee House that you only know about if you've ever lived in Lee House. I'll still have the streets I walked down, the places I danced at, the people I cuddled with and all of the million other memories I've created here with me. All of that I'll be taking back. And I know for a fact there aren't enough suitcases in the world to hold all of my London memories.

So here's to many more Wednesdays.

Posted by Sam at 11:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I was speaking to Gerry the other day when he told me that he wished I updated my blog more (yes, all of my children have my blog address) when I thought to myself, "huh, I wish I updated my blog more too!"

Now I'm not going to make any promises, because I'm shit at keeping them, but I will try my best to update more here on My Mumbling Thoughts. I mean hell, it's not like I'm so busy I don't have any time. Trust me, I have time. Without a job to go to, or any lectures to go to, and being completely alone in the flat, I'm swimming in time. True, there are things I should be doing like my coursework and making time to visit our local hospital (I'm going today dammit), but I prefer to waste my time by watching funny videos on YouTube, or by shaving my legs and putting on my amazing tanning lotion that doesn't leave streaks or turn me orange (seriously, I'm addicted).

Besides, it'll be better for me to do something more constructive with all of this time I have besides watching re-runs of Friends every night on E4.

SO. I never went over to Trilby boi's house in the end. Mostly because I could feel a terrible cold creeping around inside of my body and I couldn't be arsed to go all the way to his house (he never does come over here, the bastard). But also because after I had a conversation with Trish about him, I realized how much of a weird freak he is and was immediately turned off.

I don't want to fuck that weird freak ever again.

Ever.

It's just such a shame, because as I've said before, he was a damn fine lay.

Anyway, while I was not going over to his house and my body was getting progressively worse because of The Plague, I did some thinking and have decided that I am once again going to cut out the peen.

That's right ladies and gents, no more sex for at least two months. I thought that a month would be too short for me this time round and have decided to add on another month and see how I manage. Lent might be over for the rest of the world, but it's just starting for me.

Why then have I decided to cut the peen out once more? Well, it mostly has something to do with what Trilby boi said to me when I was over there last week.

We were sitting on his sofa, the telly was on in the background, we were having a conversation about....something (I never really did listen to him) when he suddenly asked me, "so tell me about that time you were fingered on stage."

The first thing out of my mouth was, "which time?"

Yes, I have been fingered on a public stage not once, not twice, but three times. And there were only two occasions when it was a stranger. The first time was with one of Zoe's friends, so I kind of knew him beforehand.

The time that Trilby boi had heard about was last year when I was running for International Officer in the university's elections. I hardly remember it because I was so drunk, and he was so drunk, and it was so dark. I guess it wasn't that dark though, because Trilby boi's ex-fiance saw me with some guy's hand down the front of my shorts. Then because she's awesome a gossiping bitch, she told Trilby boi and all of their friends.

It was then I realized that I really do have a reputation here at my uni, and it's probably not the greatest one to have.

Now, I don't care about what people have heard about me or what they think of me. I honestly don't. Everyone that doesn't know me personally and judges me solely on my reputation can go fuck themselves. Everyone does crazy/whacky/stupid things when they've been off their tits, so I know better than to think for one second that a person is only their drunk alter egos that come out at the bop, or Fez, or the Grand, or the bar, or anywhere in Putney/Central/Kingston/wherever. Behind my Sharon lies a chilled out Sam that is nice and likes to make large meals for everyone in the flat. And I'm sure behind everyone else's drunk alter egos lies a sober, nice person as well. I hope.

What I do care about is myself. I care about my feelings, my self-esteem and the emotional damage I'm causing my heart every single time I go out, get wasted and hook up with some randomer. I know in the long run it's not good for me. And if you want to break down some of the psychological walls of my destructive drinking, I know it's because I have low self-esteem when it comes to guys and the only gratification I get (and the only gratification I think I deserve) is by having multiple one-night stands with strangers that I can remain emotionally detached from.

Hence why I've decided to cut the peen out for two months.

When I was at Trilby boi's house, I realized that I was there purely for sex. Which is fine, yes, but how long have I been saying that I want something more? He didn't ask any questions about me, he didn't seem interested in me at all as a person, he didn't want to get to know me. Instead he talked about video games, the food in his cupboard and himself. All of which were so boring to me I just wanted to roll over and go to sleep.

I'm sorry, but I am worth more than some weird 24-year-old, World of Warcraft loving, pretentious know-it-all that makes me feel like nothing. I know what I want. I know what I'm looking for. I just need to stop having all of the stupid sex with stupid people get in the way. It might be instant gratification that sustains me for a few days, but after a while it gets me nowhere. I don't want to end up Nowhere. I want to end up Somewhere with Someone that knows that I'm a chilled out person that likes making large meals for people.

Posted by Sam at 08:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

*Before I begin my post gushing over my beautiful children that I love and adore more than anything in the whole world, I must first make an announcement about Elisa's new website that she started called Save the Writers. It's a brilliant idea that she has come up with for all of the freelance writers out there who have been laid off in the economic crisis. Times are hard for everyone, but the publishing industry is one of the businesses that has been hit the hardest. So if you want to pop over, pay her a visit and leave a lovely little comment, I know it'd be greatly appreciated. And who knows, maybe even yours truly might even put her own two cents in eventually. You know, once I'm finished writing all of the other stuff I have piled up on the right side of me.*

********

I do believe it was one of my last sessions with Maria that I brought up my wee freshers, my darling children, my kids that aren't from my body but that I claim as my own anyway. For this particular fifty minute session, we would discuss the dynamics of our group, why it was formed the way it was and what I got out of it personally. What did I gain by calling Emma, Livvi, Katie and Gerry my kids? And why did I want this kind of set up from the very beginning?

It was a nice little discovery that I made and it turns out I'm not such a Kid Hater after all. I just don't like kids that I don't know. If I were to ever have children, or if any of my friends were to have children (hey, we're getting up there now when it's almost that time) I'd be head over heels! Just keep those stranger's kids away from me, otherwise I might push them on the ground and blame it on the big dog that's nowhere to be found.

What discovery I made, however, was that I am a Family Girl. I love the dynamics of Home Life, of being a close knit group and forming those kinds of bonds that last for all eternity. I'm not simply one for getting to know a person and then forgetting all about them ten minutes later. What's the point in that? If I'm going to tell you information about me, then prepare to know me for a LONG TIME. We're going to be best friends whether you like it or not. And we're going to bond a lot. We're supposed to share things with each other, have snuggles, cuddles, make dinners together, work together, play together, laugh together, cry together, do everything together.

I love that shit, so feel free to call me out whenever I say that it's lame.

My Home Life has always been Momma and Mel. It has been the three of us for as long as I can remember. No father. No other Outside Man Influence. Nobody else except for us three ladies ruling our own lives.

When I moved over here, I obviously broke the Home Life dynamic of our tripod. At least Momma and Mel had each other, though, because three thousand miles away I was struggling to cope on my own without my other two halves, without my two best friends. Even though we each clearly had our own roles, we were all equals and I missed having Momma and Mel around.

Enter my darling freshers. This was my chance to recreate that Home Life that I had been missing ever since I left. I was going to have my babies and I'd be the momma and we'd all make dinner together every night, and they'd all pile on my bed to have long and in-depth conversations for hours and it'd be just like home.

Obviously I never consciously thought this out (god, talk about creepy), but I did want our flat to feel as homey as possible, like in my first year. I wanted everyone to get along, to be happy and to have the greatest flat on campus, because I know how hard first year can be and feeling like you're coming home to family makes that giant leap a little bit easier.

Livvi and Katie, my blond babies, my little darlings that I cherish and want to squeeze so hard until their little heads pop off are the two that happened to recreate that tripod for me here, just as I have back home. I am the momma, and they are my two children, yet we are all equal. I do everything with them, share everything with them, talk to them for ages and tell them what they need to do if they ever get sick, or need advice on anything. And in return I have gained so much from knowing them both that I'm surprised whenever I learn something new.

The two of them have taught me to be so much more kind. I know it sounds weird, but I've never met two people who are so ridiculously sweet. I didn't think it was possible! And Katie, my little Boobah, is quite possibly the cutest person on the planet. I could never get angry at her. They've also taught me how to be patient, how to have self-discipline and to not let my emotions cloud my judgement and get in the way of what is truly important. They've taught me that random cuddles throughout the day is perfectly normal and in some cases, needed. They are an amazing support system, and I don't know what I would have done if I had never met them.

Then there's Emma and Gerry, who are so independent it baffles my mind. They don't necessarily need or even want me to mother them, but I look after them anyway whether they like it or not. Before Gerry left to go back home (we miss you Ger-Bear!) these two were the fairly odd couple. Emma is a born again Christian that knows everything there is to know about anything (seriously, I dare you to test her), and Gerry is the evil gay that will shank a bitch and call them a fucking retard to their face. Yes, the combination is odd, but the two of them get along like a house on fire and it was a sad day when our little token gay boy decided to peace out after Christmas to go back home.

The two of them have taught me how to stand up on my own two feet, even when I've already been standing for two days straight and want nothing more than to collapse on the ground. They've taught me how to navigate through the vintage shops in Brick Lane, how to bake a cake from scratch, how to be more open-minded to people that I once thought were legal nutters and how to keep going even when all the odds are stacked against me. They are both firm believers in tough love and showing no mercy, so I find that they're an awesome balance after Livvi and Katie.

So yeah, I lucked out when it came to getting freshers this year. My girls and gay are more than I could have ever wished for in freshers, and have taught me valuable lessons throughout my final year that I know I'll keep with me long after I leave this place behind. And who cares if it's not the most ideal way to set up a group? It works for us and we're all happy. They've made me realize so much that I never knew I even wanted and have kept me grounded and stable this whole year. I just hope that I've been able to teach them as much in return as they've taught me.

Posted by Sam at 04:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Now what have I done? Look at what I've gone and done! Great. Just. Great.

Awesome.

Minus the awesome.

You know, I think it's funny, or cute, but the next thing you know I'm sitting in the corridor, drunk and crying down the phone to Livvi, because HE DOESN'T WANT TO FUCK ME ANYMORE.

Jesus, who would want to fuck me? I'm a crying, belligerent mess on the floor. I just want to stand myself up, give myself a good couple of smacks across the face and shout, "PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER WOMAN!" Because being a crying heap on the floor isn't a good look for me. In fact, it's the complete OPPOSITE.

So what did I do ladies and gents that's so terrible? I resurrected Trilby boi. Don't remember him? He's the one that I hooked up with and then he got a girlfriend roughly about three days later. They then got engaged but have since broken up leaving him single once again.

Yeah. THAT guy.

I don't know what possessed me to breathe life back into that relationship (not that we even had a relationship of any kind), but safe to say that after about a month and a half, I get a little frisky for some man-loving and apparently I'm so desperate I don't really care where it comes from anymore. Well, I'm desperate and cheap. Who can afford to keep going out to club after club, getting ridiculously wasted and hoping that some guy will want to come back home to do the nasty? And who knows if he'll even be decent between the sheets! No, no. Trilby boi is a definite guarantee good lay and is only a quick five minute bus journey down the road (I guess I could walk for free, but I'd prefer to conserve my energy).

So one random Wednesday, I saw that he was on MSN (HE added ME, for the record) and for shits and giggles, I told Trish that we should send him a message, fuck with his mind a little bit and play some mind games on the guy that hooked up with me and then casually tossed me aside without thinking twice. It would be fun. It would cure our Wednesday Boredom Blues. It'd be interesting to see what he had to say for himself.

We then proceeded to have a TWO HOUR LONG conversation about....oh, I don't know what about. Trish was doing most all of the typing and I was just cringing next to her shouting, "I WOULD NEVER SAY THAT. DON'T TYPE THAT."

After that epic long conversation about nothing, we then continued with the text messages. It was about two weeks of flirting, building up, intense sexual tension and me constantly declining his invitations, because he wasn't just gonna get it like that (also because I was waiting to go and get the contraceptive shot in my left ass cheek so I don't have to worry about babies for the next three months, and no sexy times is allowed beforehand; that was a very difficult waiting time for me).

Well, we finally hooked up. FINALLY. After two weeks of waiting, after a very hot, sexy preview, after me going to the bop, getting stupidly drunk and crying because I was stood up on the Friday, after no text messages all weekend!

We finally had sex.

And it was good. It was better than good. It was MIND-BLOWING. Amazing. Fantastic. Out of this world.

Yeah, you get it. It was awesome.

But here's the thing.

I remember the sex being amazing and it sure did live up to my memory's expectations. I do not, however, remember him being amazing. I remember him being the exact same way that he is still to this day: arrogant, condescending, patronizing and on occasion, rude.

Honestly, no wonder I drank when I was around him. I didn't understand half of the things he was talking about. How many times does our water get filtered in between leaving the water plant to the time it reaches our taps? I don't know! Who cares about this stuff? Aside from people that work at water plants? I don't want to talk about hash and how it's been baked in the sun and it's the purest form of weed. I just want to smoke the shit. No, I don't know who the comedian with the handlebar mustache is, I just think he's really funny. Can't we just watch the telly?

WHO BLOODY CARES?!

Yeah, our personalities definitely don't click. They don't mesh. They don't gel. They aren't a good combination in my honest opinion. But our sexual chemistry is dead. on. We get along fantastically when he isn't talking about how he built his computer from scratch.

Then I thought, maybe I'm being too harsh? Perhaps he's just super smart and lacks a little bit in the people skills department. I don't get the math numbers he's throwing out and he doesn't get my funny Americanisms that seem to confuse him ALL THE TIME. Maybe I should give him another chance and stop over thinking shit like I always do and go with the flow. Besides, he has the next six months worth of movies already in his possession (he's a pirate) and I could do with a film night plus sexy times.

Whatever the reason, I'm going to try again later on this evening and see what the results are.

Posted by Sam at 10:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Everyone can feel the end drawing near in the pit of their stomachs. It makes me sit up a little straighter, it makes my senses a little sharper and I wait on edge for the grand finale. Soon, all of this will be over. Soon, I won't have to worry about what this lecturer said about my essay, or what that lecturer thinks about my ideas for my final project. Soon, I'll go back to the way things were in Virginia and soon my life here in London will only be a story that I'll tell to people who've wondered where I've been for the past three years.

Soon.

But not yet.

At the current moment I'm mustering up enough energy to get me through the next couple of weeks, which I will inevitably be sat at Bridget clicking and clacking away at essays, proposals, chapters and character checklists. Finally I do believe I'm ready to start hacking away at the words that have been on constant repeat inside of my head for the past two months. Hopefully they'll be coherent enough for me to pass my final year and leave me feeling like I at least accomplished something semi-respectable while I've been here frittering time away as if I have nothing else better to do. It's a slow and tedious process, like squeezing jam out of those "simply made easy!" bottles, but I'm sure I'll get there in the end.

These days I'm more at ease with myself yet I don't think that I've fully realized that yep, I'm almost done with university. I try not to look more than three days ahead into the future, because looking any farther would surely make me sink back down into my self-loathing cave to never return. I'm looking forward to being done with all of this university nonsense, however, I'm sort of left standing with a dumb look on my face as to what I'm supposed to do after I'm finished.

I know I want to go home. I so desperately want to go back to Virginia. Whenever folks ask me here about my plans after university, for some reason I always say that I'm looking for internships, work placements (which I am looking and applying) and I wouldn't mind staying here for a while after the Student Life. I don't know why I tell them that, though. It's as if that answer is pre-recorded in my brain and the moment any variations of the question is asked, I spit out that automated response. And I don't really mean it.

Mostly I think it's just because that's what I say for conversational purposes, or maybe I think that's what people want to hear from me. And I don't want to tell them that I'm dying to go back home to my mother and my sister. Why leave the glamorous life of London to go back to the country life in Virginia?

Because deep down, y'all, I am a country girl. And the saying is so true: you can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl.

I left my "simple life" that I thought was boring and dull, to move over three-thousand miles away to a city that I love, yet taught me that I'm not cut out for all of this. My relationship with London has slowly grown to the point where all of the things that I once loved, now really get on my nerves and drive me up the wall. The sirens, the masses of people, the cluttered buildings, the noise, the different "scenes", the traffic, the constant moving, the drinking, the pounding, the smoke, the dramas, the heartache, the struggling, the Everything. I just can't do it anymore. I'm not built to constantly be on the go. I'm not a Modern City Woman. I can only wear high heels for so long before I'm slipping into my flat shoes so I can walk without contorting my body into some kind of weird pretzel figure.

And I think part of me finds it difficult to accept that fact. Maybe I'm not a city girl. Maybe I belong back in the quiet space of the townhouse wearing American Eagle jeans, flip flops and a t-shirt. I'm a simple gal. I enjoy sweet tea at any time of day. Give me a front porch with a rocking chair and stray cats at my feet any day of the week and I am happy.

Oh, but how I so desperately wanted to live out my fantasy as the Modern City Woman. I wanted to wear the high-waisted skirts, the crisp, fitted blouses and black stilettos that would cause a crowd to separate and recognize that I was a force to be reckoned with. That would've been awesome. It would've been hot. It is what I thought I could be here in one of the greatest cities in the world.

There are so many reasons why I fit and mould into The City Life. There are fantastic things about being in a city that I love, appreciate and am enamored by. They are beautiful, historical and a perfect battle ground for people to show what they're really made of in today's society. But the reasons why I fit aren't good enough for me to stay. At least not right now.

I miss the drawl of a deep southern accent. I miss the cowboys. I miss the sticky air, the vast openness, the symphony of crickets and June bugs, the sunsets behind the townhouse, the mountains in the horizon, the dust that my feet kick up, the funny tan lines, the hot rain and the fact that it takes me at least forty minutes to drive to the nearest city (hello DC!).

I miss home.

I am torn and a strange hybrid of City mixed with Country. I can't seem to find the right balance between both lives, or I can't seem to choose which one I'd like to stick with for more than three years. I'm sure after I take a break from the City Life I'll be dying to come back. I am such a fickle creature and wish I could hurry up and make up my mind. All I know is that right now my heart is dying for some fried green tomatoes, a tall glass of cold lemonade and some folk music playing in the background.

Posted by Sam at 02:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Something unusual happened that caused me to disappear for the past two weeks. Something that I'm generally not used to and had to step back, recognize and deal with.

I was in a genuinely good mood.

Scratch that.

I was in a genuinely FANTASTIC mood.

Oh my god, I was over the moon, slap my knee, jump up and kiss my uncle thoroughly happy. And I soaked every last drop of it in as if I were a cactus in the desert during a monsoon thunderstorm. I tell y'all, it has been a while since I was so happy.

Now, I'm still quite happy. My mood hasn't dropped significantly nor has it continued to sky rocket, but it is a nice, stable happiness that makes me swell up like a balloon and float off into the clear blue skies that London has been blessed with for the past week or so.

Perhaps it's the lovely weather that has been stretched over the city. Perhaps it's the fact that I had a big breakthrough in one of my counseling sessions that made me more aware of what has been weighing me down. Or perhaps it's the fact that two of my deadlines have been pushed back giving me enough time to breathe and not stress anywhere near as much as I was stressing beforehand about all of my work.

I would have to say that it's a combination of all three.

Y'all, this is the last "official" week of my university life. After this week, I no longer have any lectures to attend. Yes, I still have work that I need to do and turn in after Easter, but once this week is through, university is kind of over for me. No more lectures. No more in-class assignments. No more homework. No more tutorials (unless we ask for them personally). No more. I'll be done. Finished. Kaput.

And I have never been happier in my life!

I did discover, though, why I was having such a difficult time writing before. While I do have some "mother issues" and some "fear with failure" issues, the main issue was that I was in mourning. I was grieving the loss of my university life that I never had.

Continue reading ""Red squirrel in the morning, red squirrel in the evening, red squirrel in the morning, I'm coming to take you home"" »

Posted by Sam at 07:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Thursdays it seems will probably be heavy emotional days for me. Well, at least for the next five weeks anyway. I went to go for my latest counseling session and even though my new counselor, Maria, isn't as good as Fran was (in my humble opinion), it still did help quite a bit and gave me some new things to think about. Or perhaps, not-so-new things to think about, because we all know that I have "mother issues". I don't think that these "issues" are necessarily bad, but they do tend to hold me back from time to time. Which, I suppose to some people would be bad. I just think that it prolongs what I'm going to do in the end and I tend to think about things a lot longer than most people.

It's not a secret that I've been finding it hard to do my uni work for the past couple of months. I've felt no motivation whatsoever to take up a pen, or rest my fingertips at the keyboard and begin typing away. There's nothing there folks. It's just me staring off into space for three days, then going out somewhere to distract my thoughts from the fact that I have still yet to write anything. I suppose you could call it writer's block, but it's not the fact that I don't know what to write about. Because I know what I have to write. I know how I want to write it. I've done all the necessary reading, made all of the necessary notes and everything is planned out. All that's left for me to do is to actually write it all out.

Write.

Write it all.

After my first session with Maria, I discovered (through all of my incessant talking) that I have this massive fear. This giant, mountainous fear of failing. Not failing myself, because that I could handle and deal with. No, no. Failing my mother.

Momma. I cannot bear failing that woman anymore. All of my life has been one giant failure after the other (at least in my eyes). Even though I know she's proud of me and I know that she loves bragging and gushing to all of her coworkers, there's this tiny part inside of me that never wants to fail her. I only want to make her happy. I only want her to be proud of me. There's nothing more in this world that I want than to please my mother. And in my mind, if I ever were to fail her, especially fail at university, it would be the worst thing in the entire world. There's no such thing as failing in my mind. Failure is not an option. There's only planning every last minute detail, then executing all of the plans perfectly and finally living happily ever after.

My only problem is that I can't execute everything that I've been planning for weeks.

Maria told me that I need to spend some time alone for a while. I need to stop distracting myself and Just Do It. And through the next five sessions (our university says that after six sessions they'll decided whether or not we need further counseling or not) we'll explore the reasons behind why my brain clogs up like a rusted sink and fails me when it comes to important things like my final university projects.

Maria also told me that I need to take notice of when I do distract myself; what do I do? Do I go into the kitchen? Do I surround myself with the babies? Do I listen to music and get lost in my thoughts for hours upon hours?

Yes, yes and yes.

We'll also talk about that in my next Thursday appointment.

After my allotted fifty minutes, I called Trish up and smoked a cigarette.

I know! I know! But y'all would have needed a cigarette afterwards too. I was on the verge of tears (because I'm emotional cry baby) and it's hard to talk about Momma the way I was talking about her behind closed doors. My throat went really dry, I was avoiding all eye contact (the floor is an amazing space) and being as open and honest as possible with somebody who would gladly sit in silence once I stopped talking. Sitting in silence isn't fun. It's uncomfortable.

That cigarette was good. Damn, it was good.

Then for the next two days I decided to get out of the flat and wander around different shops by myself. I went into Kingston on Friday, and on Saturday I popped into Hammersmith. Both days were equally fulfilling and definitely helpful to clearing out my mental space. I just walked around with my iPod, combed through random dresses and thought about everything that I said whilst the sun was blinding me in Maria's office.

I am scared. I am so terrified about these next couple of weeks coming up that I can hardly stand it. I'm scared of failing. I'm scared of doing all of my assignments wrong. I'm scared that I might have to spend an extra semester here making up for not having enough credits to graduate. Most of all I'm scared that if I do fail, I'll have to tell Momma and deal with her wrath. I know how expensive it is to live over here. I know how much money she has put forth for me to live and study over here. I know what she has done and given up for me.

And I know that if I fail, it'll be another disappointment from me.

So there it is.

I now know, though, after talking to myself in Maria's office and thinking to myself on Friday and Saturday that me sitting around and staring at a blank wall waiting for some kind of fairy to come in my room and bop me on my head with their magical Motivation Wand isn't going to happen. I gotta do this. I just need to suck it up, knuckle down and squeeze every last possible word out of my fingertips if it kills me. And at the end of the day, whether I fail or not doesn't matter. Because the next day will arrive just as the previous one did before; the world will still keep turning. Somehow, I'll manage to keep going forward just like I always do.

Posted by Sam at 12:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I had sex with the only good straight, male friend that I have.

There. I said it.

I don't know why, because it's not like I wanted to. He was there. I was there. We were both so drunk. And, well, as the saying goes, "one thing led to another..."

I've known Ando since my first year of university. I remember seeing him in the bar and it was when I was going through the whole, "I'm over boy Sam, but not really over boy Sam and plan to disguise my pain by hooking up with the first fit bloke I see" phase. Right on cue, Ando waltzed through the bar wearing a yellow t-shirt and trendy jeans looking ever so fit and bearing a strong resemblance to this guy.

Ever since that fateful day when Trish pretended to be a journalism student to nonchalantly get information out of him about whether or not he was single, gay, his age and so forth, we've been good friends. My crush for Ando turned into friendship and nothing more. He had a brief thing with Carlene and so it has always been.

He dropped out halfway through second year, though, and we only see each other whenever he makes a visit into the city, one of those visits being this past weekend. We decided to meet for lunch, have a couple of drinks and catch up. Trish was away for her birthday festivities, Carlene wasn't responding to any of his text messages, so it'd just be us two for the afternoon, which was fine with me. I was a little bit unnerved when I thought that Carlene would be with us since I don't speak to her anymore, but it was just us two in the end.

We had lunch, had two pints and decided to go to another pub with a garden so he could smoke while we watched the football. It was Tottenham versus Manchester United in the FA Cup final, which meant absolutely nothing to me, but I watched with him anyway whist we drank many more pints and laughed and laughed about anything and everything.

The thing about Ando is that he's just like me, except a man. I talk to him about the guys I've been with and he tells me about the girls he has hooked up with, fancies and whatnot. Our relationship is so easy because we're practically the same and understand one another. And I think one of the reasons why I don't fancy him is because I know him now. We've passed that barrier that most guys and girls have to go through and there hasn't ever been a question of whether or not I fancy him or he fancies me. No. We're just friends, that's all.

As the afternoon turned into evening, though, and my vision became blurry and my brain wasn't thinking clearly, I did wonder for about two seconds whether or not Ando was flirting or making an attempt to flirt with me every so often. I just brushed him off, though, and told him to piss off and made a joke out of it. It was just him being silly and drunk and didn't mean anything. It wasn't until he was in my bed and kissed me that I finally thought, "oh dear."

There's always that fear that if you have sex with one of your best friends that it'll change the relationship. It'll never be the same and now there will be constant awkwardness because ick, now I've seen you naked and you've seen me naked. And that fear was there for a little bit. I was scared that I had just ruined my friendship with one of the few single, straight men that I know. Why! Oh why do I drink!?

But that fear soon dissipated once Ando woke up and asked me how I was doing. I was still me, he was still Ando, and this really wasn't a big deal. If anything, it was more comical. We laughed, he told me that he was not looking forward to being at work for 9a.m. with a massive hang over and I flopped back into my pillows and remembered him falling off the bed at one point and me laughing my ass off. It was a comfort that I haven't felt for a while with a guy and I was glad that we could both be so calm and casual about our drunken antics.

He gave me a hug and left early in the morning so he could catch his train, and I slept until it was time for me to get ready for an afternoon lecture. I don't plan on speaking to him now until he next comes down for a visit, but it's not weird and I won't be stressing over anything, because that's just how we are. It is a rare security for me that I'm comfortable with.

I'll tell you who did send me a text message though.

Why can't some guys just accept that I don't want to talk to them?

Posted by Sam at 11:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Wednesday. My favorite day of the week. Hump day. Middle of the week. Halfway there. Almost Friday.

Almost to the end.

For some reason I've been feeling "meh" recently. Not bad. Not good. Not overly anything. Just....blah, I suppose. Blah is probably the best description I can give it, if I bothered trying. I'm just kind of here, with not much to do, inside, looking out my window at the same grey, desolate days.

Wow, desolate. That doesn't sound good. But desolate it is.

I know for a fact that I'm nowhere near as bad as I used to be like last year. I can still get out of bed, brush my teeth and hair and smile for the most part whenever I go into the kitchen and see my babies. I don't mentally beat myself up saying that I'm a lame-ass that never does anything except mope in my room. I still go to my lectures. I'm working on my work (even though I have to grit my teeth and plow through it). Generally my Things Around The Flat stay clean and tidy. My room doesn't look like a homeless shelter. At first glance, it would seem that I'm fine.

But goddamn if I don't feel something in my throat starting to form. A lump that has a familiar feeling, something that I could start choking on if I don't spit it out now. I know the drill. I know what has to be done. I know where it's leading.

A couple of weeks before I left for the Christmas holidays, I wasn't feeling too great. I knew that I was down and that I should see someone, but I just put it off because I thought that everything would be fine once I got back home. Everything is always better when I go back home. And it was. Life was hunky dory.

Then I came back, and not even a week later I had that furious meltdown where I just sobbed and cried until I thought that my face would be permanently swollen and purple. True, the weep-a-thon did relieve some of what I was carrying round inside, but ever since then I've just been wandering around with this unsettling feeling inside of me and I can't seem to shake it.

I spoke to Helen about it (because Helen is always the person I speak to when it comes to...well....anything), and she said that maybe I should consider popping down to pay Fran a visit. Yes, I had been thinking the same thing for a while now, but gah, it's just that first phone call that's always a pisser for me. It seemed to be such a difficult task, because even though I know that speaking to Fran has helped in the past, I thought maybe I could just battle through this on my own without anybody sitting across from me with a notepad and pen asking questions. So I kept putting it off for a couple more weeks while the lump in my throat continued to grow and I found it more difficult to breathe.

About two weeks ago I found myself down at the medical centre for non-counseling related things, but decided since I was down there, I might as well ask about the uni's counseling centre and if it would be okay for me to pop round the corner and see if I could book a quick appointment with Fran. That is when I was told some terrible news that Fran was no longer there! In fact, the bloody counseling centre wasn't even there! They had to change some things and now I needed to start over from the beginning and be referred by our university's doctor.

Ugh. Effort.

But I did it anyway.

Now I'm going in for my first session next Thursday to meet with my new counselor, Maria. For some reason I'm more nervous this time around, because I'm not ridiculously depressed like last year, but I can feel myself on a familiar path. And last year I knew that the main reason why I was so down was because my finances were in a horrible state and I didn't know how to deal with it. Yes, there were some other underlying issues that I didn't even know about, but mostly the reason why I was so torn up was pretty blatant. This time, however, I'm going in because...what? Life is too hard? I can't hack it? Maybe I just like to hear myself talk about how blah my life is?

Part of me kind of knows that I'm just really stressed out about work. Another part of me isn't sure if it's just the work or if there's a hidden iceberg lurking in the back of my subconscious waiting for me to crash into it. Either way, I'm hoping that me going back into my counseling sessions will help shine a light on whatever is nagging at the back of my brain so I'm not just wandering around aimlessly in the dark.

Posted by Sam at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This Sunday I've spent the majority of my time in bed reading the GINORMOUS newspaper I bought yesterday for a pound, or reading one of the four girly books I bought on offer at Waterstones. Yesterday was a beautiful day, one that I haven't seen in London for a while now, and I spent my entire Saturday out in Central with my Ger-Bear who came up for a one night visit. We literally walked all over London and it was so nice out that I didn't even bring a jacket with me. Of course I'm not going to babble on about my day just yet. I'll vlog about it later over yonder, you know, once I've showered and don't look like a greasy cat. I have pictures to include and I just think it's bitchin', because I hardly ever (well, never) take pictures when I go out. And I want to share them with the Internet.

What I do want to talk about is how ass backwards and fucked up my life is. Oh, Universe! You are SO. FUNNY. Only not funny in the slightest. Why? Because that one night stand that I thought I'd never see or hear from ever again turned out to be a little too interested in me for my liking. Yes. The overly eager 19-year-old (!) army surveyor would not. stop. ringing. me. He would also not. stop. texting. me. The texting! Jesus, the texting! All he would do is send me a text, then ring three times, then text again asking if I was ignoring him, and how come I wasn't answering, and again, why don't I answer my phone?

Um, I don't know buddy. Maybe because we only slept with each other ONE TIME, and you being super duper clingy and all kind of suffocating is really off-putting for a chick that has severe mental issues when it comes to men.

It's really ironic, though, isn't it? How I've been going on about how I'd really like to "find someone" and how I'm "ready" and all that nonsense. Then here comes along this 6'2" dude that is ALL ABOUT relationships and whatnot and immediately I'm like, whoa! Hold your horses mister! I'm not ready for all of that. Especially considering the fact that I've only know him for a nanosecond.

Bless him. A couple of weeks ago he sent me a text asking if he could come for a visit and hang out. I was slightly confused because a.) guys don't do that, and b.) what were his ulterior motives? Because guys obviously have ulterior motives all the time, no matter what, according to the Psycho Side of my brain.

So I agreed (even though something inside of me felt really off about it all). I said, sure, yeah, why not. Come back for a visit. We'll have a good time, a good shag and whatevs. Nothing weird about that. Let's just keep it casual, nothing too fancy.

I suppose agreeing to let him come for a visit, though, was also an invitation for him to CALL and TEXT me NON-STOP. I was out at my friend, Ryan's gig, and after I told him that I was out with some friends at a gig, he STILL KEPT CALLING AND TEXTING letting me know that he was bored, watching 300 and "what were we going to do over the weekend?"

Well, not much at this rate. That was my first red flag that something wasn't right. I don't like the phone in general (horrible invention; I really only use it for the time), so to have it constantly going off while I was out and about was really annoying. I don't like to be annoyed. I like for people to get the hint that I'm out doing things with my friends and I don't want to be rude and unsociable by texting back a response that only says, "Lol!" It's retarded.

When it was the end of the week and time for him to arrive, I had barely made an effort, I wasn't wearing any make-up and I couldn't even be bothered to tidy my room. He got to my uni two hours earlier than I was anticipating anyway, and I actually cringed when the phone started ringing. Now I had to entertain another human being for an entire weekend? Seriously? I was not in the mood for that.

He didn't stay the whole weekend though, thank goodness. He only stayed for one night because I was flat-out exhausted from already going out three nights in a row. I think I was running on a total of ten hours of sleep and I didn't want to sit and talk about what he does in the army, or what his friends do in the army, or what his plans were while he was in the army. He just yabbered on and on and I caught myself drifting into my own thoughts while we ate our dinner at Wagamamas. This wasn't right. He was lovely, but we didn't click. We didn't mesh. We didn't gel. It just wasn't there.

After he left, I was really confused. I was also really tired, but mostly confused. What was wrong with me? How come I couldn't get on with this guy who was, yes, a little brash, but still nice enough all the same? He was really nice, and lovely. But he was also just not my type. It would seem that our personalities were not a good mix and I knew it when he told me that he liked Nickelback.

I'd have to disagree with that. I'd also have to disagree that their "latest album really rocks." It does not rock. Nickelback sucks.

So I hoped that he wouldn't ever call me or text me ever again. I also pushed it out of my mind that I was some crazy woman that freaks out every time a guy tells her he's interested in more than "just sex." Sure, Aidan said he wanted to "get to know me" but I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to get to know him. So I marked it down as a strange incident and that I would wait until I found someone that I did click with immediately and who didn't constantly talk about themselves whilst bragging about how awesome and amazing they are at their job.

That is until he sent me a text again, just like clockwork, this past Thursday, asking if I wanted to go out again. His plan this time was to get a hotel in Central. We'd spend the day roaming the city and spend the night "shagging our brains out" (his words, not mine. Ew). His other text was just plain minging, to be quite honest, and I didn't even dignify it with a response.

Then yesterday, he started again with the ringing and the texting and the Bothering Me While I'm Out Having Fun. It was approximately half eleven when I told Trish, "this is crazy. I'm not even DATING HIM."

I decided right then and there to cut off all ties. This couldn't go on. This was driving me INSANE. I felt like it was a complete role reversal, but damn, I don't think even I would have jumped all over a person I was interested in like he did. He was like a terrier with ADD and needed to be put on Ritalin immediately.

Trish wrote out a text for me the first time, but it was too long-winded and I just wanted to say something that he couldn't even respond to. So I asked Ryan and he told me to tell him I was seeing someone else, that it was complicated and that we had a history. I opted for a little white lie, but now that I think about it, I kind of wish I just told him that I didn't want to speak to him anymore. I wish I would have just said, "heya, no, I'm not ignoring you, but I don't think I'm ready for all this. I'll give you a call sometime." Even though I'd never call. Ever. It seems a bit more truthful, and I would want to be treated the same if it were me.

Either way, it's done. I don't think this whole situation has helped me any with opening up to men and learning how to trust, but it has definitely shown me the opposite end of the fence when it comes to commitment. I guess I'll have to reiterate my request to the universe:

Yes, I would like to find someone, and yes, I am ready to be in a relationship. BUT WITH SOMEONE WHO IS SANE AND KNOWS WHEN TO LEAVE ME ALONE.

Thanks.

Posted by Sam at 03:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Before I get going, I just wanted to put it out there that I'm now "live" on the web. Oh yeah. I'm officially a "vlogger" (is it just me, or is that word disgusting?). If you can't get enough of me here on My Mumbling Thoughts, then maybe you would like to hear me mumble over here. I'm not sure how often I'll post a video, because MY LORD, editing is a mission (especially since I'm still learning what cool tricks I can get up to in iMovie), and I have a lot of uni work that I've fallen behind on, but we'll see. Should be good times either way.

With that said, I guess I can go on to say that I survived the great VD without spilling any blood. I actually had a half decent Valentine's Day considering there seemed to be a substantial amount of couples gallivanting around, and I didn't vomit in my mouth every three minutes. So yes, overall, a very good Valentine's Day. All of the babies headed out for a night in Central with some of their friends from home, and I stayed in with Trish, Alex and one of Alex's freshers, Jemma, who is a delight. We figured since we're low on cash and have boyfriends that couldn't be there to share the day (okay, all three of them have boyfriends that they couldn't be with), we'd spend it inside in our jammies, lots of chocolate and girly films. And wine of course. There definitely needed to be wine.

We ordered an Indian takeaway and it was absolutely delicious, you know, after I waited THREE HOURS to get it. First of all, I'm never ordering from that place ever again. And second of all, they were so rude and inconsiderate, just taking their sweet time to deliver my food for the second time after they got my order wrong. Whatever. It got there in the end, and the leftovers this afternoon was amazing.

There was also some mildly entertaining boy that kept on ringing the flat and wanted to talk to us through the little speaker box. Bless his heart, he was pissed out his face, but it was fun to chat to him for a short time and have him go on and on about how sexy mine and Trish's accents are.

Yes, it was an okay day. I didn't cry, sit in my room alone and feel sorry for myself (or vlog) which is a good thing. I wasn't even that bothered by other people gushing over their Valentine's day gifts from their boyfriends. Don't get me wrong, these people are my friends and I love them like family. I probably couldn't handle listening to strangers gush about their boyfriends, but whatever. I digress.

I was really happy for them, and Alex showing off her giant Valentine's Day card from her boyfriend, or seeing Katie's toaster that toasts the words "I love you" into her bread, was really cute and sweet to me. I didn't roll my eyes or sigh with annoyance, because that's not cool. They're in happy relationships, and that makes me happy for them. Just because I'm rolling around in my Singledom doesn't mean that they shouldn't be allowed to have a moment of "awww's" from an audience of girls.

I kind of think of it like my quitting smoking. Just because I've stopped smoking (almost four months now!) doesn't mean that I'm going to scoff and chastise those that have continued to inhale that smoke that I once took so much pleasure in. I really don't have any room to say anything, and I don't like being a hypocrite.

Speaking of me being a non-smoker now, can I just take a moment and give myself a pat on the back? I thought I was always going to smoke, because man, when you do smoke, they are just SO. GOOD. But now, I find them absolutely disgusting and I don't even like the smell of secondhand smoke. Occasionally I'll get a pang to have one drag off a cigarette, but it only lasts for a couple of minutes and then I forget about it. I'm really glad I stopped for a multiple of reasons, but mostly because I just didn't like knowing that I was addicted to something, that I needed them. It was such an unhealthy codependent relationship I had with them. So here's to me being smoke free for many more months to come.

But now I feel preachy, and I hate getting into the politics of smoking and not smoking. Or being in a relationship and not being in one. Who cares in the end? So long as you're a happy bunny and life is good, then keep on rocking and rolling.

Posted by Sam at 02:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It's about 1:15 in the afternoon right now, and I decided to take a break from my "getting ready routine" so that I could update this here blog. And of course, just as I open a "Create New Entry" window, about five people decide to start talking to me on Skype.

Okay, maybe like two people, but whatever. It's hard for me to multi-task sometimes!

Anyway, I decided to update my blog to write about how much of an internet geek I am. Seriously. Just tattoo NERD on my forehead. Why? Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I spent a total of SIX HOURS on YouTube yesterday and watched this girl.

I just want y'all to know first of all that I 100% blame Trish for my newfound obsession with watching Vloggers on YouTube. I also blame her for the fact that even though I don't have any money whatsoever, I'm seriously contemplating selling some of my useless precious belongings on ebay so I can afford my very own handy dandy video camera and start my own vlog! I mean, it's bad enough that I already have this blog, but then to add on a VLOG. Seriously? How much more self-absorbed can I be?

A lot. Trust me.

So I am truly an internet geek. When I was thirteen, I used to sit in chat rooms for HOURS. Doing what you may ask. Well, I wasn't talking to pedophiles, that's for sure. No. I was PAINTING AVATARS. If you know what that means, then well, we should talk. 'Cos I'd like to take my mad painting skills to another level. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'm sorry I shared that embarrassing information about myself with you, and I'd like you to pretend I never said anything about it.

Right. So this whole vlogging thing is new to me, and interesting, and yeah I might be four years behind the times, but whatever. It's new TO ME. And because I am such a geek and need to figure out what all of this about, it'll probably suck up at least two weeks of my life. I'll be inside, the curtains will be drawn, people will ask for me to come out with them for a drink and I'll be all, "Sure! Just after I'm finished with editing this one clip!" And then before I know it I'll have a wicked case of jaundice and will forget who my IRL friends are and my internet web friends will be the only people that matter.

I don't even want to talk about the most recent boy that has mind fucked me. No. I want to edit a video clip that Trish and I made yesterday in iMovie. My laundry that I planned on doing FOUR DAYS AGO, is still in my room. I don't even know what my room is now. It's a scary cross between a tornado ripping through it and some weird science project, because who knows what's growing in here.

Gross.

I suppose if I were to start vlogging, then first of all, I'd have to purtify myself every time I clicked the record button. As of right now I'm chilling in my room with no make-up and fluffy hair. But y'all wouldn't know that because these are just words. And I'd also have to endure listening to my god awful voice. I sound congested, ALL THE TIME. But I'm not. That's just my voice. And it sucks.

Right. I'm going to end this now, because I've revealed way too much of my Crazy and I need to tuck her away. And make some lunch. I haven't eaten today.

Dammit! I lost the game!*

* Look it up, yo.

Posted by Sam at 08:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I slept all day today. ALL. DAY. I woke up because my phone was ringing, listened to a woman yabber on about how my university sucks, went back to bed, woke up sometime around 3p.m., had a shower and after I made some food, I fell back asleep around 6p.m. and woke up around half 8 when I decided that it was probably best for me to finally get out of bed and be semi-social. (Wow, that was a LONG sentence)

I figured since I've been such a lazy shit all day, I should probably update my blog. Because THAT will make me feel less guilty, obviously.

Ugh, it was just such a non day. I hate those days where you feel more compelled to exist in bed and ignore the door whenever someone stops by and knocks. I felt a lot happier laying in my room that is piling up with dirty clothes, extreme dust bunnies and dirty sheets. I hate dirty sheets, and yet today, I stayed wrapped up in them with my face buried in my pillows. I didn't open my curtains. I didn't answer my phone (after it woke me up with bad news at half 9 in the morning). I just stayed in the same fetal position all day listening to the new Franz Ferdinand album* on constant repeat.

That's all I did.

Sometimes you need those days, though, in order to prepare yourself for the hellish days that are about to come hurtling forward for the rest of the week. Like tomorrow for instance, I have to go to the medical centre to see one of the doctors just so I can be referred to our counseling service. It seems like our university counseling centre no longer exists and we have to go to different channels to see someone so we can sob about our unimportant day-to-day problems. Hopefully Fran is still there, because I'm really not in the mood to whinge to someone new.

I'm also going to be having lunch with my friend, Dave, that I haven't properly caught up with in ages, I'll be sending in my yearly chlamydia test sample (always good to get your check ups!) and then meeting up with Trish so that we can get our heads around our Business of Writing project. I also have to go and pay our university finance department a visit AGAIN, because they are awesome retarded. Along with all of that fun stuff, I have laundry to do and I need to clean my room in general because it's disgusting, yet again. It's ridiculous how dirty our rooms seem to accumulate filth. Or maybe it's just me being fussy and seriously OCD. Speaking of that, I can't even think about the state of our refrigerator right now. It upsets me too much.

It's just all of those little things that pile up that slowly seem to grab hold of your ankles and begin to drag you down. And it seems like it's all I can really focus on at the moment, which leaves my writing on the very back burner and it suffers. I suppose if I were to look at the upside (there's an upside?!) I could be proud of the fact that this whole term I've only missed one lecture. For me, the girl that used to never show up, is a pretty damn good improvement. And I do have a much better grasp on what's going on with my course. So yeah, there's a semi upside.

I don't even think there is a point to this post. It's just me saying hey, what's up? I plan on drinking an entire bottle of wine to myself on Saturday and watching nothing but chick flicks in my pajamas. And not thinking about the most unimportant thing that has unfortunately started worming it's way into my brain: boys.

What about you?

* This Franz album is definitely different, but it's nice to have some new tuneage. I think I like it. A lot.

Posted by Sam at 01:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The secrets that we keep we say them in our sleep
And wrestle down our souls if they would speak
I watched you board a train in the London rain
And waved bye-bye as you slipped out of view

Diane
Diane
We'll make it out together
We'll make it out together
We'll make it out
We'll make it out

In your dreams when the smile now comes
You're mumbling words with a lazy tongue
We lie together when we say it's love
Who were you just thinking of, Diane?

Diane
Diane I don't say it but I know you know

The theme returns so deep
And visits us in sleep

To define the you and I as we

So we pass the time and occupy our minds
And close our eyes and hope that we'll be fine

Diane
Diane
We'll make it out together
We'll make it out together
We'll make it out
We'll make it out

And I may leave in time you'll see
I'll come right back for you
And I may leave in time you'll see
I'll come right back for you, for you

Posted by Sam at 10:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Alex's 21st birthday and she wanted to go to the bop. Ugh, the bop. Seriously? THE BOP? Really? But what about my streak of not going to the bop all year? I was going to break that now? Well, I suppose it was her birthday, and what the birthday girl wants, the birthday girl gets.

So I was going to go the bop. First things first: I needed to get absolutely wasted before I even got to the front doors, which meant drinking an entire bottle of rosé by myself, a double vodka and orange, plus a random shot and a glass of Strongbow. By the time I made it to the bop, I was already picking out which guys I wanted to pull later in the evening, and Sharon was in full force talking about where she lived in America and putting on the World's Ugliest Southern Accent, because for some reason they love it over here. Strange.

I bought another drink at the bop (a Strongbow maybe?), stashed my coat away some place safe where I could get away not paying the £1 for the cloak room, and then headed straight for the dance floor where I had a couple of dances with my group of "friends" that I've hardly seen all year. We danced and danced up until I saw Jon, ran up to him, jumped up, wrapped my legs around his waist and shouted, "OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU AND HAVE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!" He clearly wasn't anywhere near the wasted point that I was at, but gave me a big kiss and said, "let me get a drink. We'll have a dance later, yeah?"

I slid off of him, and just as I was about to go back, I saw Jess, Hannah and Sara walk in with Guy and some other dude that I had never met before. I gave them all big hugs and kisses and they laughed because they were still relatively sober and I was off my tits.

"Sam! Hey! This is Aidan. He's my friend from Bristol," Hannah told me. I said hi to him but then wandered off to find Jess and Sara. They said they were in the process of getting some MD and I was very much up for that.

I saw one-eyed Jack, and I gave him a hug as well, called him a cunt and said that I missed seeing his greasy face around. I don't know why people put up with me, but just like my ugly southern accent, they seem to like my obnoxious drunkenness and laugh along. Jack and I had a small conversation and somehow I managed to end up in the small bar where I bought yet another pint of Strongbow even though I wasn't finished with my first one. I sat down with the girls and Aidan and decided that he was really fit and I should try and get with him.

Oh, we chatted for ages. He would tell me a fuckload of information that he would have to re-tell me in the morning because I wouldn't remember any of it. We went to the toilets, I saw Adam 1, chatted to Sam's girlfriend's twin sister (awkward), danced some more in the main room and gave boy Sam the finger as he walked by and I danced with Aidan.

Sharon is such a bitch.

We (Aidan and myself) didn't stay for long, because I was wrecked and we decided that we should definitely go back to mine for a cup of tea and sexy times. As we left the gate, I thought to myself how I was really glad that I decided to shave my legs earlier. I didn't plan on bringing anyone home, but I did and it was amazing.

He quickly established himself as my Best One Night Stand Ever. It wasn't just because he could make my toes curl and I didn't fall asleep halfway through (which I've done before), but it was also because he was just so cool and casual about everything. He was such a little chatterbox as well talking, talking, talking about his future plans, his life in the army, his ex-girlfriend (which wasn't weird to talk about), his house in Bristol, how he met Hannah, blah, blah, blah. And because he was an entire foot taller than me, I just curled up in his man nook and fell asleep listening to him quiz me about the events from the entire night.

"I bet you'll wake up tomorrow and be like, 'who is this ugly mug I brought back home.'"

"Don't be silly," I said.

"Me silly? You're the silly one tonight, drinking and doing drugs. I bet you don't even know my name."

"Sure I do....Derek?"

"Wrong. Try again."

"Um, Charlie?"

"It's Aidan. And you're Sam. You're twenty-three, studying creative writing and are from Virginia."

"Wow, I told you all of that?"

"Yep."

"I must have really liked you to tell you the real truth about me. Usually I make people up and pretend to be someone else."

Oh, he was lovely. He even stuck around in the morning time to have a cup of tea, watch a Harry Potter film and have a quickie before he left. He asked me to come out with him for lunch, but I was so tired and hung over that I passed and after he left I rang Livvi to tell her about the hot, sexy times that just left our flat.

Yeah it was good times, but like most things nowadays, I don't expect anything to come about, even if he did say he wanted to come back up with some of his army mates and pay us all a visit. I doubt I'll ever see or hear from him again, which is perfectly fine. The girl I once was might believe that there was a chance, but the woman I am now knows better than to dream up funny little fantasies. Instead I'll just mark him down as another in Sam's History Books and go on with life as normal. Besides, there's another guy that I'm seeing on Friday for a "drink" which Livvi said was a "date".

I really do need to quit. Bad Sharon.

Posted by Sam at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

With these rare moments of sun that I steal and mentally scotch tape into my mind, I try and trick myself into believing that it's not shitty January that I'm still living in, but rather it's springtime and if I were to step outside right now, I'd be wearing flip flops, my toes would have a fresh pedicure and I'd be wearing one of the cute airy dresses that I have patiently hanging up in my wardrobe. I open my curtains, open my window and air my stuffy room out. I'm partially tempted to even give my room a big clean, but then I sit down and think, "nah, too much effort." Instead I put on some of my self-tanning lotion and tell myself that it's in preparation for the warmer months that I hope decide to come early.

I've finally gotten over that unfortunate breakdown that I had about a week ago and am now doing much better. I think I was just really overwhelmed with all of the work that I have to do and the stress, my god, THE STRESS was really overpowering. I needed to cry, and if you were sat in my room looking at all of the module readers, notebooks and required books from the library that I have all stacked in my room, you would have cried with me. But I'm okay now. I've written everything out that I need to do, I've put down the days that I plan to work on it, I go to every single lecture so I don't miss anything and I'm taking it one week at a time. It doesn't mean that I'm still not a big stress ball, but I'm not on the verge of crying into someone's ham sandwich that they're having for lunch heaven forbid they ask me something like if I have any plans for the weekend. I can still have a social life. I just need to get my work done first. DUH.

In a lot of ways, though, I think that my work is a lot harder than most people's, mostly because if you're really serious about writing (like I have been since I was eight), then the immense pressure you suddenly feel to do your absolute best is all consuming. I'm constantly sitting, critiquing, going over, re-reading, re-editing, re-drafting, re-whatevering until I'm completely satisfied. And then there are our workshops which are quite possibly one of the scariest things I've ever sat through. No wonder I never went for the first two years of uni! But it's okay now, because I got into a good group that tell me their opinions, but don't leave me in a heap on the floor chewing on my hair. They give me some really good ideas and all I want to do is sit and expand on what I've got and just keep going.

Of course one of my group members asked me if I even have enough substantial information to write an entire novel, but his opinion doesn't really count. He's not my target audience. And I DO have enough information. I HAVE THE PAST TWO AND A HALF YEARS OF UNIVERSITY. That's not even including life BEFOREHAND. Trust me. It'll be fine.

Aside from that I'm doing okay. I need to move on from my first chapter that I've already written, though, and get a move on the next two which are being marked in my final grade and really matter. Obviously, the overall thing matters in the end, but as of right now, chapters two and three are a bit more important than the first one. I do get to hand in the re-edited version, though, as well as the next two.

It also helped last week when I was sitting in my Business of Writing lecture, and we spoke to four graduates who left my university a little over two years ago. They've been OUT THERE in the REAL WORLD and are MAKING IT in the WRITING BUSINESS. There was a point in the lecture when I thought I might actually throw up and I could feel my chest tighten with severe anxiety, but my nerves were eventually calmed when one of them said, "it's okay to go slow after you graduate. There's not a real big rush."

And she's right. All of us are so excited, impatient and chomping down hard waiting for anything to bite, that we all need to take a percocet and chill the fuck out. Yes, it's our last year of university, but we're not all going to hit the jackpot in one go and become multi-million dollar writers. As gay as it sounds, we need to live life and work on our craft. Writing is hard, when you do it properly and look at every aspect of the written word, break it down, word and sentence structures, characterization, word placement, etcetera, etcetera . You can't just bash something out and voila! your masterpiece is done. Perhaps maybe one in a million will get that chance. But for the rest of us, writing takes time.

It will be okay. I will be okay. My writing, once I work on it a little more, will be okay. And no matter when my "big break" happens, or whatever form it takes (i.e. being published in an anthology, having a book published, working in the editing/publishing world, being published online) I'll be ready to accept it and handle it all as it comes to me. The only thing I have to do is keep going and don't stop until I'm finally satisfied, because as the graduates also told our eager class, nobody will care if you stop writing; nobody will notice if you stop writing; only you will.

Posted by Sam at 02:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Yeah, leave it to me to have a big ol' weep-a-thon only a week after I returned. I told y'all I would cry didn't I? Didn't I say that?!

Yes, I believe that I did. And you know what? I was right. I was SO RIGHT. I had a surprising Cry Fest last night, and what's scary is that I think there might still be some left inside of me! I feel like I could cry again today, and I hate this! Ugh, I hate to be all female and hormone-y and agitated and irritated and tired and frustrated and annoyed with EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING. I've just been wandering around the flat glaring at all of the babies like, "Yeah, that's fine! Just go out and drink, and party and have fun WITHOUT ME. IT WON'T BE ANYWHERE NEAR AS FUN BECAUSE I'M NOT THERE WITH YOU!!!"

Seriously, what's my issue? It's not their fault that I'm being a crazy nut-job right now.

So I keep myself in my room where I can sulk and feel sorry for myself alone listening to the weird humming noise from an unknown source coming from my bathroom. Unfortunately I do have to leave when I want to eat, and then I just go in the kitchen, moan about my work, be a HUGE Debbie Downer and make everyone feel uncomfortable. How awesome am I? I know. The greatest flat rep EVER.

Oh, but it was good to get some of it out last night when I was talking to Momma and Mel on Skype. I could just moan to them for ages and be a big cry baby about all of the work that I have to do, the fact that I'm unemployed, I have no money, life is hard, I have the flu, it's cold outside, the grass is green, the sky is blue, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. And bless them, they did a damn fine job to try and pick me up off the ground, dust me off and give me a big electronic hug over the Atlantic. It just gets to me, though, and yes, the fact that I have to sleep like Dracula every night hot-boxed under the covers with Vicks just so I can breathe out of both nostrils, does get under my skin.

It's just being back at uni, though, and this ridiculous mountain of work that I have to do by March 31st. I have to hand it ALL IN at 6pm on that day, and quite frankly, it's a bit daunting. Perhaps my three years at university hasn't prepared me well enough for this task, but I'm telling ya folks, I'm scared shitless. And I don't get scared easily when it comes to my work. If anything, I put it off until the last minute, then remember it's due in two days, shovel something together and miraculously manage to get respectable passing grades. THAT is what I'm used to. I'm definitely not used to having THREE PORTFOLIOS, FIVE ESSAYS, TWO COVER LETTERS and TWO CHAPTERS OF MY NOVEL all being done and complete in only a mere 11 WEEKS.

WHAT?!

Not to mention my editing groups, the occasional group project AND a trip into Central neatly piled on top of the rest. I mean, I think anyone might have a cow over that amount of work. And it has to be done well. Really well. Because in my Business of Writing lecture? Part of our portfolio is that we have to send in our own work to REAL AGENTS AND PUBLISHERS. Real people! Like, people with skin who will read our work, judge it harshly, make us (i.e. me) cry and tell us not to quit our day jobs because our writing SUCKS.

I can't handle that y'all. I thought I could, but really....I can't. Someone telling me that my work is bad, I'm a bad writer, I'm washed up, used, rubbish, crap, no good, a wannabe or that I should go back to the kiddy section would cripple me. CRIPPLE ME. I don't know if I could recover from that.

I've been writing since the second grade. Ever since I was little this is all that I've wanted to do. And now, NOW I'm coming to an end of my university life and I can already feel the realness starting to hit me, I can feel the heavy weight being piled on my chest and I'm scared. I am actually frightened to death.

I realize that my work isn't perfect. I do know how to accept constructive criticism. I also know that I will more than likely be rejected by fifty publishers before someone can even be bothered to look at my work. But that doesn't mean that I like it. While part of me does understand what's expected of me, the other half is frozen in fear and all I can picture is me sitting completely naked in a room full of people that are pointing out all of my flaws.

"Look at her stretch marks!"

"Did you see the fat creases?"

"I was too distracted by her blotchy skin.

Well, that blotchy skin isn't the thickest in the world, and I guess I'm still in the process of being comfortable with myself and with my writing. I know our lecturers are always telling us to tell the voice of The Judge to piss off and leave us alone, but sometimes when you're not feeling your greatest (like when you're under the covers huffing Vicks in the middle of the night), that voice overpowers everything else in your head, leaving you in a pile of tears, snot and low self-esteem.

Posted by Sam at 03:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Back in London and I literally picked up right where I left everything. My room is back to being in an organized cluttered state, I had a tutorial to sort out my last term, I've handed in work that I have been working on throughout the break, Tabitha is back on the hunt to get me a job, I'm seeing Helen tomorrow for lunch, all of my children are back under one roof and I've started out the year on a high note sorting things out with Trish.

"So..."

"Yeah..."

*cough*

It was good. Everything seems like it has stood still since I left, except for the fact that I'm well rested, thinking a lot more clearly and am so ready to finish this year. I know that coming to university is usually something that you only experience once, and I am so grateful to have been able to do it in the first place. But my GOD, I am so tired of doing this. I'm ready to go back to work.

It's okay, though, because I'm not as edgy as before and am taking things in strides. I know I've only been back about three days or so, but whatever. I'm me and I have to take EVERYTHING one day at a time. I can actually say that even though I'm still poor and unemployed in London, just like how I left it, I'm happy to be back and seeing everyone again.

We had a slight fire on Saturday as well, which I thought was a pretty exciting way to kick off the term. I was in my room when Emma came banging on my door screeching that the toaster was on fire. Of course when I went to go check on it, it wasn't on fire, but rather smoking quite a bit. I figured that it would eventually die out on its own since she UNPLUGGED THE TOASTER FROM THE WALL.

Nope. Even though it didn't have any power connected to it, the toaster that was possessed and hated our flat still manage to produce some serious flames and melt its plastic self all over our counter top. We have actual scorch marks up on our ceiling and even after we get a new toaster, I'll probably still choose to use the grill in the oven to make my toast. Oh, toast.

Yeah, not much to really say except that I'm feeling pretty good about myself so far. I'm sure that'll wear off soon and two weeks into the term I'll be crying because life just isn't going my way (!), and why doesn't anyone listen to me (!) and I just can't wait to go home (!). I'm such a cry baby. I always have been. Every night before I go to sleep, I read some of my old entries in one of the FIVE journals that I brought back with me. I've always whinged in my journals, and I always apologize as well. Some things will never change.

And because they're just too damn funny (in my opinion anyway), I'm going to share another oldie, but goodie from Sam's Past.

***

This one is older than the last entry I posted. It is back from when I lived in North Dakota and had my first kiss. It should be said that where I was sitting was in this weird race car game that was like a mini car, only without a door. It's nice to see that even back then, eight-year-old Sam still got some action, and I always kept it classy. Go me!

Thursday, August 25th, 1993

Dear Diary,

Today I got my first kiss. It was so funny because we were in the car and Steph & Cory was the door so we just kissed. Steph & Cory kissed to when me & Josh was the door. So then it was the boys turn to kiss us. Corye was nurves and Josh was scard but us girls took it fine.

Love,
Sam

P.S. I love you Josh. (drawn heart)

Posted by Sam at 06:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Over the Christmas holiday I ordered the book, Cringe by Sarah Brown. Reading other people's personal journal entries from back in the day inspired me to rifle through some of my old journals that I've been stowing away in my bedside table. I have since been sitting on the sofa and reading page after page of my melodramatic teenage self. It's HILARIOUS. And so funny that occasionally if I find a real gem (well, they're all really 'gems' now aren't they?), I'll post it up here for a good hearty laugh. Starting with my first week of high school....because where else is a better start?

***

This lovely entry was written a week after my first day at school. I wrote a previous journal entry already talking about Micah McSwaine and how I "fell for him immediately." Yes, so hard that I couldn't even spell his name right. Then I proceed to go on about all of the things that have been keeping me so busy from writing in my journal every day. I was lame. And apparently didn't realize that I, too, would one day end up living in an apartment. All misspelled words and improper use of punctuation has been left in to show how bad of a writer I was. I REALLY loved the comma.

8-28-99 1:22p.m.

Man o man, I haven't written in a very long time. I don't even think I wrote about my first day of school. Okay, I did. I've just been really tired.

A bunch of stuff has happened. First of all, school is okay. I hate gym, and love english. Spanish is okay, and Interior Design is borring. I told you about Micha, right? Yeah. Anyway, not much has happened between him and I. I'm just the "brain" who sits behind him, hoping that he'll turn around, and say, "Hi. I'm Micha. What's your name?" I've dreamed about it constantly but of course in the real world, you have to make your dreams come true. Maybe, who knows; fate just might bring us together and we'll have to do an english project together. That's just too perfect.

Other than my not so love life, I got a room change. Mom took me to J.C.P, and I found the coolest bedset. They came [in the mail] not even after a week, and now I love them. It's sooo cool. All I need, is my desk, and I'll have the perfect bedroom. I don't know why I think this, but I think if I get a desk, my grades will sky rocket. Maybe it's just me.

Things are pretty good at home. I'm still getting used to that Mom has to work [the] 2nd [shift], and I have to be in charge. All I can say, is that it'll help me, and not hurt me. Mel and I get in a lot more arguements, but as usual, we patch them up. I'm very lucky to have a sister like her. Of course, she can't know it. That would be too "Full House" like.

Mom said that I could start calling Isabel twice a week. Wait, twice a month. Yeah. We would just switch off. She would call one week, then I would call the next. That sounds pretty good to me.

You know, when I think about it, I have a great life, and I should be grateful for it. A lot of people don't live like I do. Half of the people on my bus live in apartments. That's sad.

Well, I'm very sorry I haven't written in awhile. I've been very tired. I'll try and do better from now on. Write ya later.

- Samantha

Posted by Sam at 01:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

There's this small duck family that lives out in the pond behind my house. Yeah, I totally have a mini man-made pond behind my house, and it's awesome. Anyway, there's this little duck family; the mallard and his wee wife in her less flattering brown colors. Occasionally, if it's not raining outside and the pond isn't frozen over, I'll see both of them swimming around down there having a grand old time. I'm in love with them and every time I go to the kitchen sink, I find myself peering over the window ledge to see if they're down there.

I'm going to miss seeing them during the day.

Today is the day for me to peace out back over the pond and finish out this last chapter of university, and I'm not sure why I'm finding it more difficult to leave the house this time round, but there ya go. I don't actually take off until a little after nine o'clock tonight, so I have the entire day to fluff about and take my sweet precious time. Part of me wishes my flight was super early in the morning so I could just get on the damn plane and be done with it. Why do I have to wait around for so long? It's annoying.

I remember when I first left. I think I may have blogged about it. I'm sure I did and it's somewhere in my archives. I don't need to go back and read what happened, though, because the memory is still fresh in my mind and I can easily pull it back to the front when I want to. Hell, I remember what I was wearing; my stupid green t-shirt with a picture of a lemon on it and the words that said, "squeeze me" written on it. I thought it was so funny back then. Now I think that the shirt was made funny and sits on me awkwardly and I never wear it.

On the day I took off to come to university on my lonesome, I remember not being sad of leaving Virginia. Good-bye you boring state that I need to run away from! I was stepping out into the Unknown, by myself and I wasn't even a little bit sad that I was leaving home. I think part of me might have been slightly shocked by the fact that it was all even happening. And I remember the airport being strangely quiet with the occasional announcement over the loud speaker and some man sitting next to me quietly reading his newspaper. Momma didn't cry when I left her behind at the security gate. Mel didn't cry. And my friend at the time, Amy, didn't cry either. We just kind of said good-bye like I'd be back at the weekend.

"See ya later!" I shouted, and then they were gone.

I left with my pink razr phone that I loved and would later drunkenly drop in a puddle when I went into Central with Helen and had one of the greatest nights ever. We stole an umbrella that night. She still has it at her house to this day. It's a damn fine umbrella as well. The phone has since been replaced.

I left with two gigantic suitcases, one shoulder bag with ALL of my toiletries, my book-bag AND my Coach purse that they said was too big and was considered to be a second carry-on piece the first time I left. I remember being so sad and upset that I had to shove everything from my Coach bag into my book-bag and Mel took my Coach bag back home. This time I'm leaving with one suitcase packed to the brim full of gifts for other people, a pecan pie for me to eat alone in my room and my book-bag. I don't need much else.

It's funny how things change.

Now when I go back, I'm a little bit older, I suppose a little bit wiser and yet for some reason I feel like I might cry on the second night that I'm back just like I did when I first arrived three years ago. I'll be sad this time when I walk through the security gates and won't be relieved to be leaving the state that I once thought was so boring. I'm not walking into the Unknown and I am fully aware of what's going on in the city where I took my first steps of independence.

One thing that I'm ever so grateful for, though, is that when I go back this time, I won't be completely alone and by myself. I have amazing people over there that I know and love like family. And while I might be sad now because I'm leaving home, I know I'm going to be just as equally sad, or even more sad, when I have to leave those people and London almost five months from now.

Sometimes, things just aren't fair. But I suppose that's a choice I didn't know that even I made when I was sitting alone in Dulles airport in my green t-shirt with a lemon on it.

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

So I'm down to the last couple of days until it's time for me to jump back into reality and live out the last couple of months in good 'ol London Town. Oh, London, you silly lover that I've grown to know over these past few years. What will I ever do with you?

I'm ready and rested to go back, but I'm not really sure if I want to go just yet. I love being at home. I love being with Momma and Mel. I definitely love having my car back. The past few days I've done nothing except drive back and forth all over northern VA trying to get in as much time behind the wheel as possible. And with gas prices being a whole lot cheaper from last year, I don't mind driving around aimlessly with no particular destination. It's just me, my tunes and the open road with amazing skies. I have been living the quiet simple life since I've been back and have almost forgotten what it's like being in the city.

I make dinner for Momma a lot these days and have introduced her to jacket potatoes and more importantly, toad in the hole. She liked it, which surprised me since she usually thinks I'm crazy every time I mention anything new that I've eaten since I've moved away. It seems like the new, more grown up and mature Sam fits in well with home life again, and I'm glad. Mel enjoys having her big sis back and we just sit around and argue with each other like the old days and are constantly challenging each other's knowledge on recent pop culture. I thought that the novelty of me being back would have worn off by now, but it looks like I just like being back and can't wait to be graduated already.

I do miss the babies, though, and having everyone close by. I miss Helen watermelon and miss being able to send people random, funny text messages whenever I want. In my perfect world, this townhouse, Momma and Mel would all live on the outskirts of London. That would be everything I need within arm's reach.

This break has been amazing for me. My head is back in a good, healthy place and I'm ready to finish up university so I can come back here, get a job, start paying off these massive loans I've accumulated since year one and get back into a steady groove. A new and improved Sammi Jo will be arriving in London for the final scene. I have a bangin' new hair cut, some bitchin' new glasses and a new attitude in general. I haven't forgotten about the end of 2008, but I'm not so down about it either. January will be spent cleaning up last year's mess and getting on with things. Then I never want to ever think about that horrible year ever again.

Something weird has been going on since I've been back home, which is slightly frightening for me. My ideas and thoughts on family have been changing and I think I may want to find a man, settle down and have a wee little family to call my own some day. I know! Who knew that ME of all people on this entire planet would actually want a family and go through the whole child raising process, but there you have it. This feeling has been inside me for a couple of months now, but I've been ignoring it, because...gah...it was just weird for me to think about. I don't want the home life. I want to be young, cool, hip and fabulous all by myself. That is who I've been for so long now that it was damn scary to find myself actually daydreaming about kids and some imaginary man (with a well-groomed beard, mind you). I don't do this. I don't DAYDREAM imaginary families. How boring? Then again, these days boring doesn't seem so boring anymore. It seems full, happy and what I apparently want.

We all come home at the end of the day. What I come home to in London is a flat full of wonderful ladies that I am privileged to know and call my children. What I come home to here in Virginia is Momma and Mel. When I'm done with my uni life, when I've moved out of the house for good to live on my own, what will I come home to then? It is nice to have my alone, quiet time, but I'm also thinking about the next chapter of my life. Will I always want to come home to no one?

I think before, when I was out and about, living the party life, having endless one night stands and keeping myself emotionally at arm's length with guys, I told myself that I didn't need to get to know them, because what really was the point? We were going to use each other, leave each other and the day would go on. There's no point in talking to someone that I was only going to know for a few hours. Hell, I honestly can't remember all of their names either, but there you go... I told myself I was happy with the way things were and that I didn't need a man to be happy.

TRUE. I don't. I'm perfectly happy the way I am now: single, in my early twenties and eagerly waiting what life holds for me round the corner. But there's still a part of me that isn't completely fulfilled and wouldn't mind living out the family life. Being a mini Samantha Jones protégé was fun, but I never really felt that great about myself in the long run. I'm tired of always not caring about guys. They're not so bad.

I don't know why it was so hard for me to admit that I wouldn't mind having a family to myself. I don't know why it was so scary for me to let myself embrace the thought of being in a proper, grown-up relationship and allow myself to feel all of those new feelings. I guess it's just a new identity for me that I'm not used to. I know what has happened in my past with different relationships and my deadbeat father, but why should I be a cliché with daddy issues who ended up in multiple failed relationships? No thanks. I know what I want now, I'm ready to accept it should it ever happen, and won't be absolutely devastated if it never does either. I'm going with the flow people. Look at me grow.

Of course with this new life realization about myself, I'm going to need help to sort through the mental pieces. So as soon as I get back to university and back into the daily grind there, I'm booking myself an appointment with Fran.. Good 'ol Fran. I haven't seen her in ages and I think it's time for me to pay her a visit. We have some new things to talk about, and this new life development of mine would be one discussion. There's also my "forgiveness issues" I'd like to touch on and blah, blah, blah. Watch me turn into one of those people who say, "well, my therapist says..."

Posted by Sam at 12:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Holy shit, have you guys ever used Clinique's pore minimizer thermal-active skin refiner? Fuck me, this shit is INTENSE. I literally just used it a couple of minutes ago to...well...minimize my pores and all I can say is SHIT. It does the job. I mean, if the "warming sensation" doesn't freak you out, then maybe the slight redness of your face will after you rinse it off and you look like you have mini forest fires happening around some of your pimples. It's SCARY.

But after all of that weirdness, your face - and more importantly - the pores on your face are instantly smaller! Yeah, it's probably classified under "caution: use at your own risk," but I don't really mind. My pores have never looked better!

Okay, that's the end of that little public service announcement. Really, I'm not here to babble on about a beauty product (even though it's freakishly amazing!). I just had to share with y'all, because that stuff is serious.

***

What I am here to babble on about is, um, well, myself. What else! Hello, this is my blog.

Welcome 2009! (well, in roughly 20 hours and 45 minutes). All I'm really going to be doing when that clock strikes midnight is sitting on the floor rocking back 'n' forth with my fingers crossed saying to myself, please, lord, let this year be good. PLEASE. I can't bear for another bad year. 2008 was really bad for the most part and all I'm hoping for is a nice and neat little ending to wrap this chapter up.

I am walking into this with high hopes, though, as I always do. God, when will I wise up and stop hoping for each year to be better than the last one? But no matter what, I always end up thinking to myself, yep, this year is going to be different. I can feel it. Really, I don't feel shit except even more hopeful than the year before. I'm sure I'll get it into my little head one day to stop hoping and just accept that a new year doesn't mean anything really. It's just another day on the calendar and a way for keeping ourselves organized with the dates.

I was having a little browse, though, through some of my old archives (because with me being hopeful, I also get nostalgic) and perused through some of the past new year's that I've shared here on My Mumbling Thoughts. There was one time when I celebrated early and another one that I didn't post, but where I ended up passing out at half ten and waking up on my bathroom floor alone with an empty bottle of vodka in my hand. 'Cos you know, I'm a classy gal like that.

Oh, this shitty holiday.

This year, I'm not going anywhere, I'm not doing anything particularly special or acknowledging it in any way shape or form. Wednesday is Wednesday, just like how it always is, and when I wake up, hey! it's going to be Thursday. Look at that.

I was thinking of going out with Mendy and celebrating with some of her friends, but to be quite honest, I'd much rather sit at home with my fingers crossed and a bottle of wine. I guess that would be considered "acknowledging" this so-called "holiday," but whatever. I never was good with following through anyway.

I did have a laugh looking through some old posts, though. I mean old posts. Old for me, considering my wee blog is only a mere three years old. First of all, I used to ramble! Good lord, I would never shut up! All I did was bitch about this thing in the office, or that thing in the office. Blah, blah, blah, moan, moan, moan. And my writing style wasn't very good either. I was quite boring and who knows how I managed to snag some pretty cool readers (I love y'all!). But I was consistent and wrote pretty much Monday through Friday like a dedicated little bee. I have certainly come far since being an administrative assistant in a power company working for stereotypical archetypes that get turned into sketches for SNL. Now I want to go back to the admin world, but with a little more life experience under my belt and a better understanding of who I am as a person and my voice that I want to project into the world.

Sure, these past two and a half years at university have been a rough ride for me. I know I've blogged about how this sucks, or that sucks, or how goddamned depressed I am one day and how I'm perfectly fine the next. I am a constant, never-ending bouncy ball that hammers through each day completely blind and yet still sees everything in front of me. But it has overall been AMAZING and I wouldn't change one goddamned thing for the whole world. Coming here to university and being surrounded by my uni life has been tremendously helpful (while at the same time being curse since I can NEVER get away from it). I've learned a lot at good 'ol RoeHo about being a writer, myself as a writer and how I want to continue my writing "career" whenever that gets started. My expectations have been put into perspective and while I do think that my degree is a bit of a toss off, it's still challenging and forces writers today to really look at what they're doing and think twice about putting something out there for people to read. So aside from all of my "life issues," being at university has helped me, I think, in more ways than one.

One of my lecturers, Leone Ross, said to a room full of 25 potential and - here's that word again - hopeful writers that about five us will move on to have successful writing careers and get published in some form. The writing industry is more competitive than the music industry and perhaps if we're lucky, one of us might even be the next J.K. Rowling* even though it's highly unlikely. She didn't want to tell us to crush all of our hopes and dreams, but really, c'mon...we're not all going to get published, be successful and live happily ever after. That just doesn't happen in real life.

She did say, though, that there are different alternatives for us all other than aspiring to be the next Big Thing. We can publish short stories in anthologies, work for freelance newspapers and magazines, publish online and still have a successful writing career. It may not always be glitz and glam, but hey, who said we were writing for the big bucks anyway? Those who write solely for money will eventually run out of steam and their lack of passion will end up being their downfall.

I'm excited to see where I'll be in the next three years. If anything, these past three years have been a means to answer some of my very own quesitons I had for myself before I even stepped one foot at university. The girl who once didn't know what she was going to do with her life, now has a better idea and clearer picture of where I want to be in this world and how to get there. I suppose ending each year with a big celebration is fun or necessary for some people. I certainly know what it's like to need closure for some things. But I don't want to stop or pause or put an end to things. I just want to keep going and going until I'm satisfied with where I end up.

* Why is it that J.K. Rowling is always the one person to get compared to whenever being judged on how successful you are? I can't stand it anymore.

Posted by Sam at 04:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

6:05a.m. - Wake up, shower.

6:41a.m. - Eat a bowl of Honey Combs, drink a glass of orange juice, make first cup of tea of the day.

7:02a.m. - Begin to see the morning sunrise. Feel happy to be home and see familiar sunshine.

7:08a.m. - Check facebook. Proceed to facebook stalk for the next ten minutes.

7:18a.m. - Put load of laundry in the washing machine.

7:27a.m. - Tidy room.

7:43a.m. - Decide that this is the perfect time of day.

7:44a.m. - Check facebook.

8:00a.m. - Start cruising iTunes for new music. Folk is definitely my new thing to listen to.

8:51a.m. - Go to the toilet and move soaking wet clothes around in the washing machine because it's off balance.

9:07a.m. - Speak to Elisa from Diary of an Unlikely Housewife on the phone.

9:22a.m. - Move clothes around in the washing machine again.

9:25a.m. - Listen to more music.

9:26a.m. - Check facebook.

9:38a.m. - Open up a new Word document and write down my Chapter Plan for Chapter 1 of Sleep Better Alone.

9:45a.m. - Move clothes around in washing machine again.

9:47a.m. - Go downstairs to make second cup of tea and eat chocolate chip biscuits that Livvi and Katie got for Momma and Mel from Marks&Spencer.

10:00a.m. - Move clothes around in washing machine again.

10:07a.m. - Load Foals CD to Carrie (external hard drive).

10:08a.m. - Notice that it's past ten in the morning and wonder if the clocks are wrong.

10:09a.m. - Realize that the clocks are fine and now realize that I've wasted the entire morning doing fuck all.

10:10a.m. - Check facebook.

10:18a.m. - Move clothes around in washing machine again.

10:22a.m. - Try to buy Blind Pilot from iTunes.

10:22a.m. - Fail. No monies.

10:22a.m. - Check facebook.

10:30a.m. - Pick up pen and finally begin writing.

11:12a.m. - Break for food, another cup of tea and update blog.

11:13a.m. - Forgot about the clothes in the washing machine and get up to move them around once again.

Posted by Sam at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

There is something about this house, about being inside of it when I'm both alone and also when Momma and Mel are here; there's something about it that I get lost in. The first few days I was back all I wanted to do was purge my stories from my fingertips, and yet the longer I stay I sink lower into our living room couch and my memories just as easily fade. And a scary feeling washes over me.

I could live right here, on this couch forever and be perfectly fine with that.

I don't want to move. Do you see how frightening this is? I need to get up. I need to move. For fuck's sake, I need to get out of this goddamn house!

I've been away from all of these comforts for one whole year. That's the longest I've been away from any of my comforts my entire life, which might seem kind of sad and pathetic to some people who have been living away from home and doing everything for themselves for years and years now. But for me, it's pretty damn tiring. I've been living my days in London day after day in Roehampton waiting and looking for something in the city, and not being entirely sure what it is I'm waiting on or what I should be looking out for. So now that I'm back at home I'm sinking quickly back into a life that I remember so well and I've been missing for so many months now.

I remember, oh so many fucking years ago now, when I did the so-called "boring" admin job and lived my "boring" life here in Virginia and wished for something so big, so grand, so much more than what I already had. Out There, there were so many other things that I had yet to discover, to see and learn and experience all for myself. While I was stuck doing my boring 9-5 job, out There is where everything else was happening without me.

So I left. It took me a while, but I managed to eventually peace out, pack my shit up and move over 3,000 miles away from everything that I know and considered familiar. Now look at me, three years later and wishing that I could sit on this couch forever and never have to leave the house ever again. What was so wrong with being right here with Momma and Mel? Why could I never appreciate all the things that I had before I left?

It really is one of those cases of "you never know what you have until it's gone." Well, I've been gone, away, far far away and now I'm ready to come back home. I definitely do not regret one bit my decision to leave, because lord knows I had to go out there and figure some things out for myself. I have met some amazing people and will have these friends that I've met along the way for the rest of my life. I know this. And as much as I love London and our extremely dysfunctional love/hate relationship, I know now that I belong close to home with my family.

With my third year starting to round up and having the end so near to me, people are always asking if I plan on staying after I graduate. Before I came back home I always said that I was undecided, and that if something were to pop up before I left then I might consider it. But this trip back home would be a big factor in that decision. If I was just homesick and needed some time to recharge my batteries before I headed back in for the umpteenth round with London, then three weeks would probably be enough for me. But its only been a week and a half and already I want to dig my heels into the ground and slow time down just a little bit longer. Can't I drag this out a little more please? I know I have a little over two weeks left, but that's just not enough for me.

I know my family needs me right now. Mel has been stressed recently with some of her own problems, and I think Momma is just glad to have someone else to have long conversations with, because Mel isn't really the type to sit and have a heart to heart on any day of the week. It's time for me to come back and recover from this three year stint that I've been on.

Only six more months, though. Really, I think I can manage a little bit longer before I have to come back and be American once again. Besides, my southern accent is back in full swing and I didn't realize how much I'd miss that too.

Posted by Sam at 08:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Since I've been living in London for the most part over the past two and a half years, I've decided to compile a small list of things that I've learned while I've been over there. Yeah, I've learned some life lessons, but there are also some things I've learned about being an American in big 'ol London Town. And when I tell people about them over here, the looks on their faces are hilarious. Things like...

- If you were born in England, then you are English. Do not confuse that with Irish, Welsh or heaven forbid, Scottish. Also, all of the UK is British. England is just English.

- How to properly say the word 'twat'. It rhymes with 'matt' not 'watt'.

- That their 'chavs' are kind of like our trailer park trash or wannabe gangsta's.

- That 'toad in the hole' and 'bangers 'n' mash' are names of dinner meals, not cool drinking games.

- Yorkshire pudding is not a dessert.

- It's okay to have about five tea breaks during the day. Hell, maybe even more if you feel like it. (Tetley tea is my favorite)

- Asda is like Wal-Mart, but with the sales tax already included in the price, so there's none of that guessing about the final price.

- Double decker buses are the shit.

- When talking about 'squash' it probably isn't about the vegetable, but rather a tasty drink.

- Brown sauce is the way forward.

- Throughout all of the UK, fries are generally known as 'chips' except in McDonald's where they are still called fries.

- Football only makes sense to me when I'm in London. After I leave the city, I have no care for it.

- Also, once you pick your football team, you better damn well stick with it, through the good and the bad.

- It's not impossible to take your leftover's home if you're out eating, but you might get some odd looks for taking your leftover's home (unless the place has a takeaway option, like Pizza Hut).

- You cannot trick vending machines, CoinStar, bank tellers or sales folks into taking American coins. I've tried it.

- My favorite word that I've adopted into my own vocabulary that everyone here in Virginia hates is 'innit'.

Posted by Sam at 06:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I cannot write in London: FACT.

There is something about being back home that makes it so much easier to write here. Perhaps it's the fact that it's so quiet and I'm back out in the "country" without any distractions whatsoever. Perhaps it's my strange sleeping pattern that wakes me up well before the sun rises, and I stay up well into the evening with a continuous urge to write. I feel like I want to stand up with my laptop at my feet and shake all of the words off of me and into Bridget. It's always there, this feeling, this very familiar feeling that I have been missing so much in London. I just want to take my Writing Feeling, pick it up, stroke it like a cat, kiss it and whisper in its ear how I've missed it so much.

My story, this "novel" that I was supposed to be working on for the past three months at uni, has been at a complete standstill until now. When I locked myself in my room and tried to force the words out of my fingertips, I'd read back every word and part of me would cringe at the computer screen.

"WHY DID I WRITE THAT?!" I'd scream at myself and then punch myself in the face, because only a loser, shit writer would ever write that ridiculous piece of shit.

But here, at home....things are different. I haven't even been back a week, and already my fingers are taking to the keyboard with a vengeance, and want to make up for so much lost time. I don't bother distracting myself with re-reading over what I wrote, distracting myself with the whole editing process. No. I just write and write, endless paragraphs that probably have a million mistakes, but I needed to get the words out of my system otherwise I might explode.

Oh, it's good to be back.

My story, this novel that is required for me to pass my third year at university, is autobiographical. I won't lie. I can only write about what I know, and what I know is that I've just been through a three year personality transformation and I want to talk about it. Yeah, not everything will be exactly the same (because, good lord, I like to think I'm a lot more creative than that), but those who know me, that know everything, will know the specifics of the story.

When I was in London, though, I couldn't write it, because...well...it's set in London. I'm pretty much still living the story, so to speak, and things change, things are always changing, and after I wrote something, I'd have to change it to incorporate something else, something new, something different, and then that would go on to fuck up the rest of the story. I couldn't focus and I was so frustrated at one point that I wanted to scrap the entire thing and write some kind of stupid story about a girl and her dog.

But at home, I'm away from it all. I'm away from the whole mess of things and have such a clearer picture of everything. I can take more of an "outsider's perspective" on things and write about the girl that used to live over there. I can separate the two people and not get stressed about things changing all of a sudden, because I no longer live there. It's so much easier that way.

So I'm going to take advantage of this time away, this exorcism of words and go ballistic, which is something I've been missing for such a long time. If only my time here at home was a little bit longer.

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

The plane journey was extra long this time. I think it's because I was just so damn impatient about getting here. In my head all I kept thinking was, "oh, come on! I've done this a million times, let's just get this show on the road already!" I was thinking that, and of course, "please don't let me die on this plane ride and drown in the Atlantic or be eaten alive by sharks." Because that, is one of my worst nightmares about flying. And losing my luggage. Yes. Those two would be my worst nightmares.

I made it all in one piece, though, with both gigantic suitcases (one, which was filled entirely with dirty clothes, because our washer and dryer at the house are the two greatest appliances that we own). We arrived a little bit later than we should have, but it was fine. I made it through customs like the haggard student I am, and almost kissed the officer when he said, "welcome home."

Yes, thank you! I AM HOME.

It's the second full day that I'm back, and I think my body and brain are still trying to catch up with everything around me. I know I'm home. I see I'm home. But it is actually exhausting for me to believe I'm home, if that makes sense. My head hurts when I look around and see all of the changes. To be fair, things haven't changed that much, but it's enough for me to have to sit and process it all. They've moved lots of furniture around. They've gotten rid of old things and replaced them with new, fancier, more high-tech things. I don't know how to work the new TV remotes, but I try not to fuss with the TV too much anyway, because it's all too much for my brain to take in. I can watch Mtv again?! Holy shit, THE TODAY SHOW?!

Yeah, I had to turn it off.

It appears that we've accumulated a lot more stuff as well. Our house is too cluttered and I don't know how or why we've got all of these extra bits and bobs that we don't really need, but it's irritating me to sit in it all. Mel has obviously gone shopping to fill up her time when she's off on Wednesdays, and Momma is too busy to run down to the local Salvation Army to drop off the mountain of boxes and bags that are collecting in random corners of the house. It needs to go. All of it.

Everywhere I look there's something I see that I want to change, that I want to clean or organize and tidy up, because...well, why not? It doesn't really feel like mine anymore, but rather it's Momma and Mel's stuff that they've gotten without me here. I figure if I do something with it, like clean it, or move it or something, then it can be mine too.

Aside from the house being different from the past year, it's good to be home. I have forgotten a lot about being back, and some little habits of mine I've discovered never change despite that I've been away. One thing that's still taking some time to get used to, though, is the silence. It's so quiet here and I've found that I always need something on in the background just so it doesn't feel like I'm in some kind of self-contained quarantine building. The silence is deafening and actually hurts the top of my head. I sometimes think that I might explode it's so quiet. Where are the people? Where's the sound of traffic outside? Airplanes? Birds? ANYTHING?

I'm going to have to take things one day at a time. Now that I'm here I feel like I should be doing something every minute, because I'm on a countdown. I haven't actually relaxed yet, or chilled out or took some time to just sit and be, because I'm always up and looking around to find something to do. I'll just chill out, though, take a second and slowly work my way through the house, re-acquainting myself with each part one day at a time. I don't have to do everything in one go. I can't wait to see what else I find or discover while I'm sifting through it all.

Posted by Sam at 10:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When I walk around outside these days, I'm no longer part of my body; I'm not myself. I am simply just a means of transportation to get from one place to another. The rubber on the bottom of my faux Vans are the wheels, and through the soles of my shoes I can feel the cold from the sidewalk seep through my socks and begin to freeze my feet. My hands are the cup holders that transfer my cup of tea from one fingerless glove to the other. My glasses are the windshield that occasionally fog up whenever I exhale. My iPod, the radio. And my legs, constantly moving, walking, going without stopping until finally I reach the front doors of the clinic and I can step inside and begin the semi-painful process of thawing out like a human block of ice.

I cannot wait until it's time for me to go home. The closer I get to the 16th of December, the more excited I get and become all jumpy like a terrier on speed. Even though I have a full schedule from now until that plane leaves the ground, all I want to do is lay in bed and sleep until I have to leave for the airport. But, my suitcases will not pack themselves. My dishes will not wash themselves. Money (as I definitely know these days) will not magically appear in my bank account. I do have to do things before I can spend three blissful weeks back home in the comfort of Virginia and Momma's cooking.

Uni is cold and dead to me. London is cold and dead to me. I definitely have the winter time blues and am so impatient to go into hibernation mode. I cannot wait until I can flop down onto my full bed with the pillow-top mattress, catch up on my American TV shows and just relax back at home. I hear the Christmas songs, I see the Christmas adverts and eat the chocolate out of my Barbie advent calendar, but it won't officially be Christmas for me until I watch A Charlie Brown Christmas with Momma, or listen to Mel try and guess what all of the gifts are under the tree. The closer I get to actually being at home, the more vivid my memories become as well. For some reason I can remember our wooden floors, and what it's like to shower in a proper tub, rather than a basin down on the floor.

2008 has been dreadful. This entire year, overall, has been one big pile of shit. True, there have been some good times, and I'm nowhere as depressed as I have been round this time of year, but I'm hoping for 2009 to kick this year's ass. Never in my life have I gone through so many different emotional upheavals and have had so many different arguments, fights and fall-outs. Third year of uni is almost finished, and all I can say is, thank fuck. I'm exhausted! Do you know what it's like being constantly poor? Or having people let you down time and time again? Or always feeling like you work and work but never get anywhere? 2008 was just that for me.

I thought that getting a job would make me feel instantly better, and while it has given me something to do during the day other than sit around and feel sorry for myself, I'm not entirely happy. No matter how hard I try to budget and save and keep an eye on my finances, things are always coming up that require me to shell out more cash for one reason or another. My time has been slashed in half, I'm always tired and spending most of my time traveling to places that I don't want to go to. I can't seem to really catch up with myself and it's exhausting.

Not only that, the dynamics of university life are completely different for me this year. Everything is different. Zoe's not here, Helen's not here, Alex is always busy with something and our entire little "group" has disintegrated. When I sit back and think about everything that has happened over the past couple of years, I can't help but think that a good reason why our group is no longer together, is because of me. I seem to be at the center of all of the major fall-outs, and because of me things are awkward whenever I go out to a uni event and see someone that I don't necessarily get on with anymore. The weird vibe is constantly there and while I sit alone with my drink, I look around at all of the other groups that have survived these past years at The Roe, and wonder how they managed to stick together. Am I that difficult? Am I that unreasonable? Am I the reason that LB400/18 Ramsdean are no longer close knit?

I was talking to Livvi about it the other night, and about how reflective I've been recently about certain things. I was proper beating myself up, because while I don't accept all of the blame for why I no longer speak to certain people, I do feel partly responsible for the weirdness that lingers whenever a group of us will go out. I can't seem to forgive and forget. I am incapable of sitting people down and telling them how I feel in a calm manner and instead completely write them off as being dick-heads that I no longer want to deal with. Entire relationships I will turn my back on in one swift instance and just like that, I'm one friend down. We are no more. They no longer exist.

I do have my reasons, though, and they aren't stupid little reasons like, "oh, she didn't return a shirt of mine that I let her borrow." They are true, deep reasons that are usually bothering me and fester for long periods of time until I lose my shit over something completely unrelated, i.e. a text message or pie dishes (you don't want to know). And just like that, I'm done.

Momma hasn't spoken to her own mother in over ten years. She hasn't spoken to one of her sister in over twenty years. She also hasn't spoken to our father, one of her best friends and another sister. Once you piss Momma off, that's it. You don't get anymore chances. She always tells me that I shouldn't have to put up with people that give you a legitimate reason to be fucked off with them. It's true, people do squabble and have fights, but in the end, why should I have to deal with people that have screwed me over?

Her answer? I don't. Don't deal with them. It's not worth it to waste your time on someone who doesn't care or won't bother to try and make things right.

But then I got to thinking, whenever I've done something in the past that hasn't been an amazing shining moment, I want people to be able to forgive me for the wrong that I've done. I can think of two instances with Helen in particular where I didn't deserve the World's Greatest Friend Award, but still asked for forgiveness. And she did. And we're fine now. All has been forgotten and I do believe that our friendship is better for it.

It's a bit hypocritical of me to want people to forgive me whenever I've done something wrong, but I can't forgive them whenever they've made a mistake. Like I said not even a couple of months ago, nobody is perfect. Don't we all deserve a second chance? At least once?

I want to be able to forgive. I want to be able to trust and be completely honest and talk calmly to people about my irritations with them. But it's hard for me. Thinking about it actually makes me want to cry. I don't want to hang out with people that have hurt me, but at the same time, I don't want to completely shut others out as well.

I know that things will never be like they once were. I have got to stop trying to re-live my first year. I need to leap out of the past and spring far into my future. I'm behind. All of this time that I spend clinging onto things that have been bothering me so long ago, has been wasting precious time, yet I can't seem to shake. It has only just been recently that I've been able to forgive myself for what I did to Ash at the beginning of my first year, and finally lay that to rest. When will I be able to get over the other things? Santos? Carlene? Even Fiona and now Trish? Why can't I just let it go? Even if things are never the same like how they once were, surely I can at least be able to go out and have a civil conversation?

That is quite possibly one of the scariest thoughts for me.

Once I step on that plane, 2008 is over for me. I know I don't ever set resolutions, (because I generally can never stick to them), but I want 2009 to be a year of forgiveness. I want to be able to get past this clog that has been holding me back. And I want the last few months I spend in London to be filled with happiness like the other groups in the bar; not awkward tension that leaves me sitting bitter and alone in a bar that I once used to call my own.

Posted by Sam at 09:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Where did I go? What is going on? What the fuck has been happening?

Lots people. Lots of things are happening. It's amazing how I'm always surprised when life takes a complete turn from being absolutely bored and doing nothing, to being ridiculously busy and staying constantly on the move. That's how it always is, though, and how it will always be, I'm afraid. It's ironic, because now I no longer have time to sit and do nothing. There's no more time to play with in my hands. I am a busy person once again and fucking hell, that does wonders for me and my moods.

I got a new job, one that's legitimate and requires me to sign a timecard every Friday. They took my bank details, I will be getting paychecks and no longer have a reason to sit and cry because I'm poor. Not anymore folks! I am back in the admin world where I'm comfortable and can snuggle happily against my manila folders, post-it notes and staplers. I work in a psychology clinic with a woman named, Bridget, who is a lovely old lady that keeps the office running smoothly. I'm her second in line and am quickly learning how their office works and applying my mad skills from back in my old Admin Days. It's like riding a bike or slipping on a pair of jeans that you forgot you had in the back of your wardrobe. It just fits.

It doesn't hurt that I'm getting paid a nice amount as well, and the hours are very reasonable along with my uni timetable. I'm very pleased with it all and it keeps me happy, busy and surprisingly energetic. I come home and do washing up, tidy the kitchen, tidy my room, organize my diary and stay pretty chripy for the most part.

I've been going out, I've been kissing boys (and then some, to my horror) and even took some time yesterday to go to church.

Church.

Me. In a house of God. Frightening.

BUT, it was a lovely experience and hallelujah! I've discovered this untapped resource of hot, beautiful and yes, very religious men.

Aside from the good looking boys that resemble Jesus, it was really cool and nothing to what I had originally expected. Church has always been a scary place for me and in my head I've just had all of these negative thoughts about it. Yesterday though, my eyes were introduced to a completely different setting and lo and behold, I really had a good time. First of all, it was held in a warehouse-type thing, not a standard church and there wasn't one cross with Jesus nailed to it anywhere in sight. People brought their own bibles, they weren't out everywhere on the tables, and there was live music! Granted, all of the songs were about Jesus, worshipping him, their lord and savior, but it was a good vibe. At first I thought it was weird how people were really getting into the music, but then I thought hey man, it's just like whenever I go to one of my music gigs and proper feel the lyrics. I've cried at concerts before! It made sense.

Speaking of music concerts, I've also gone to see Death Cab for Cutie with Livvi and one of her friends from back home. It was my second time seeing them live and it was an amazing gig. There was one really tall, annoying, drunk man standing behind us that I would have loved to gag with an old sock because he would Not. Stop. Talking. throughout the entire show. The gig itself, though, was amazing, beautiful and we were right at the front, just like how I believe all live music should be experienced. And it only made me want to procreate with Ben Gibbard even more. Oh, if I could be left alone with him, the things we would get up to...

The days are quickly dwindling to my departure and there's so much I have to do. It looks like my days of sitting alone in my room are gone (thank goodness). Now when I'm left in my room, I am always working on one thing or the other. No more "too much thinking". No more "feeling bad for myself". No more crying over spilled milk. Only work, getting things done and planning for the days ahead. I hope I can keep up with it all.

Posted by Sam at 01:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

If I could have it my way, I'd split myself into two halves and part of me would always be in London, and the other half would always be at home with Momma and Mel. When I'm here amongst all of the foreign accents and living out the rainy days, part of me always longs to be back home in Virginia; and when I'm back home where life moves slower and I have all of my American luxuries, part of me aches to be back here in London.

It seems like I have blurred the lines between here and home these days, and drift in out of both worlds whenever I get a quiet moment to myself. Sometimes I can hear Momma yelling at me to come and clean the kitchen while I lay upstairs in my bed watching TV under the covers with Mel next to me knitting something, for someone that never really takes any shape. For a couple of minutes I'm back home and when I snap out of it and see that I'm really just sitting in my room staring out of my bedroom window onto the Digby lawn, I get a small sinking feeling and wish to not be here anymore. I am tired. With each passing day I'm getting increasingly tired of this, this uni scene, this uni life, this goddamned uni bubble.

Fuck it all to hell, is what I usually think to myself and want to just lock my room and never let anyone else in. Go away! Please go the fuck away!

Uni life can't be like this for other people. I know it's not, because they don't have the same worries that I do, the same stresses that I've been dealing with ever since my first year. International students have it much harder and I can't believe that Trish and I are one of the few brave ones that have stuck it out for this long. No wonder a good majority of other international students only stay for a semester. What were we thinking?! Live in London? FOR THREE FUCKING YEARS?! ARE WE CRAZY?!

Yes. Yes we are. And the prices we have to pay will constantly be following us until our deaths. Why? Because going to university overseas for the full three years is motherfucking expensive.

Of course I knew this when I signed up for it, but my eyes were temporarily blinded by personal happiness and dreaming about all of the new experiences that I was going to have and living in one of the greatest cities in the world, and nobody - NOBODY - was going to take that from me.

Now I'm nearing the end, and while I don't regret a single thing (this is an experience that nobody can take away), I'm dragging my feet, I'm slowing down big time, I'm ready to fall over, collapse and pray that someone can carry me the rest of the way. There are other prices that I've paid without dollar or pound signs in front of numbers, and it appears that you will run out of energy at some point and everything will catch up to you in the end.

I need a pick-me-up quickly. I need a jolt, a fire lit under my ass, a kick up the backside and a good talkin' to. I can feel myself starting to slide into that dark place that lurks in the back of my mind, that place that's so alluring and tempting to visit whenever London doesn't see any sun for a few days and all I hear is each individual rain drop fall down from the grey skies.

Just sit inside, don't shower for three days and feel sorry for yourself. Do it! It's fun. You know how it's done; you've done it so many times before. Now go!

I don't know what it is. It's probably not just one thing. It's probably a culmination of many small things that have all banded together to make one, big Sammi Sad Ball and now it sits in the middle of my chest. I just don't feel like I've caught a break yet to be honest. I got a job, but it's a load of crap and seems to be slightly illegal, so Trish and I are quitting on Thursday. Nothing else is really happening because I don't have any money to do anything, and my debts are increasing right before my eyes. I miss my friends. God, do I miss my friends. I know I have the babies and Trish here with me, but there's still a part of me that wishes so much for Helen and Zoe to be here. I'm sad about our group falling apart, and even more sad because if I wanted to, I could put it back together with one conversation between me and Carlene. But I won't, because I'm stubborn and have too much pride to go and say, "hey, let's forget about it." And I'm frustrated. I'm getting more and more frustrated just waiting around for something to happen. Anything! I want something BIG, HUGE, MONUMENTAL to happen. I want a good job, I want to meet someone, I want to land on something fantastic that no longer leaves me feeling like I'm in this huge holding pattern, barely making ends meet. I want to go out, go crazy, swing my hair all over my face and forget that any of this is real. I don't want to sit in my room and dream about being at home anymore.

So I'm going home.

It has been nearly a year and a half since I've properly been back. I know I went back for Christmas, but I was only there for two weeks and I barely remember the break. I've been gone for ages. I feel like I've forgotten me. I used to be someone that knew what she wanted every single day when I woke up. Now when I wake up I just wish for the day to already be over. And while Thomas Wolfe has been quoted many times stating that "you can't go home again," clearly he never lived in London with non-existent funds that would forever and always leave him wondering why he was even here in the first place.

I'm looking forward to December 16th. All I have to do is make it to that day and I'll leave London once again to re-charge my batteries. I'll be back home for a whole month and I will drive my car, visit Mendy, eat at my favorite food joints, get new glasses, get a doctor's check-up and remember what I want every day when I wake up. I'll forget about this whole mess here for a little while and come back to be the girl with a little more fight in her who won't fall susceptible to the dangers of negative thinking.

Posted by Sam at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It is this time of year that is my favorite. What is it about putting multiple layers on to keep oneself warm from the outside, putting flannel sheets on one's bed and drinking multiple mugs of hot cocoa that isn't attractive? 'Tis the season to be merry? More like 'tis the season to snuggle under the covers! I'm not one for romance (all of that emotional chow chow makes me want to be sick), but there is something ridiculously magical about this time of year walking around hand-in-hand with someone, but with gloves on.

I don't have "someone". It has been a while since little Sammi Jo has had "someone" to call her own. Or to just call. All of my "someone's" I kick out of bed the next morning and hope to never see or hear from them again. My god! And the characters I have gotten with! Trish in particular loves to tell the babies of my past one-night stands. Her favorites are usually "ass man," "air con guy," or "Trilby boi". They are quite the crowd pleasers. And I usually lay on the settee with my face covered to hide the fact that my entire head has caught on fire from sheer embarrassment.

Ever since Ash, and the train wreck that was boy Sam, I've kept myself far away from any guy that may have "potential". What is that anyway? Boys are stupid. I live by that motto. Just stay emotionally detached and you never have to worry about getting hurt, about crying over some stupid man that wasn't worth your time anyway. Just use them for one thing (like they use us for; not that it should be "us" or "them"), quickly dispose of them, and voila! You get what you want, they get what they want and we both walk away with relatively clean hands (haha gross). It's a nice set up.

But then the chilly wind begins to blow, the leaves float down the ground and crunch underneath my shoes, and for two seconds I'll get this pang in my chest and part of the words begin to form in my brain...

Hmm....it sure would be nice if...

No! Stop that right there! You don't wish that! You never have. You remember where that leads you? Down to the trail of tears motherfucker. And you don't want to be that sad, sappy bitch ever again.

I haven't been actively "looking" but I haven't been actively not looking either. I kind of just roll with the punches these days. I know all of that relationship nonsense will all grab a hold of me when I'm not looking. That's how it always happens. I'm of the mind now that I'll have to be tricked into a relationship because I'm so terrified of being locked down. It will be when I least expect it. It will be when I least want one. And hopefully I won't be a coward that runs for the hills. I mean, I have some serious emotional/relationship issues these days that I should probably work through with a counselor. I'm constantly going back 'n' forth between "wanting to be in a relationship" and "wouldn't touch one with a ten foot pole". I need to stop bouncing all over the place and just pick something dammit. But I'm a fickle gal. What can I say?

One guy that had "potential" that I briefly mentioned on here, Ed, is no more. He was a hopeful, then not hopeful, then hopeful again (!), and then flopped without any chance of getting back up. It was a pretty sad attempt, now that I think about it, but ah well. Shit happens.

I'm going to take this magical time of the year, and enjoy it with my babies, my best friends and not get caught up in the fuzzy love atmosphere that gets generated by all of the couples rubbing up on each other. We have so many laughs together and to be honest, I'd much rather share it with the dozen or so people that I love, rather than to give all of my time and attention to only one.

Posted by Sam at 11:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The trees have changed color as they do at this time of year. Standard. The leaves all look like dry, crumpled claws scattered all over the ground and scrape along the sidewalks. I love it. It's getting to the point now where the wind bites my face and I have to put extra moisturizer on after I've washed my face because of the dry skin. Welcome to autumn in London.

It's true that every time the seasons change I get all nostalgic for home. I suppose it also could be because I didn't go home over the summer, and now there is the potential that I won't be going for Christmas either. Again, it's not because Momma and I have had some terrible fall out, but rather that money is tight, the economy isn't in the greatest conditions and because I was unable to get my loan, the money is coming straight out of our family's pocket rather from my checks.

I guess it could be a good thing to spend my last Christmas in London for a while. After this year, who knows when I'll be back. Obviously I will come back. I have friends here that I'll want to see and visit. But I mean to live. I might not live here for a while after my third year of uni.

So far things with me have been okay. I've been going to my lectures (I really don't have an excuse not to go considering I only have two each week AND I'm only a five minute walk away), and Trish and I have gotten our jobs working together as estate agent assistants. Money has been non-existent, but I'm not as stressed out about it, because Momma and I actually have more communication about my lack of funds and she has been helping me out big time. It'll be a lot better once I start earning an income and can properly support myself throughout my final year. The babies are all doing so well too, and our wee flat is my new home away from home. There haven't been any major dilemmas that couldn't be easily mended, and we're each just going out, doing our thing and having a good time.

Life has not been dramatic. It has not been stressful. It has been coasting almost, and it's kind of freaking me out.

I think I've mistaken my no-stress as "boring". Is my life boring now? Is it because I'm not so completely caught up in third year drama that I've become "blah"? Or is this how other "normal" people live without stress and constantly worrying about everything around them? What is going on? I'm not used to this! True, I stay in more, but that's because I'm saving money and it's getting increasingly colder, but it's not like I'm a hermit. I've gone out a few times in the past week and I've just had a generally good time. No one has cried. Nobody has had their feelings hurt. Things are just....fine.

I shouldn't complain though, and take this time to do things I need to do. I still haven't been reading or writing enough. I'm just not feeling it like I did in the old flat when we lived on the estate. And with this new job that Trish and I will be starting on Monday, my free time is going to be cut in half. I will be one busy motherfucker, and am going to enjoy my last week of time off.

Things aren't fantastic, but they aren't a pile of shit either. It's a weird feeling to have for me since I'm always used to one extreme or another. I guess I'll just see how long it lasts and see where all of these new developments take me.

Posted by Sam at 08:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I never really spoke to him, nor did I really know him personally myself, but I cried for him. I cried with his friends. I felt for his friends and his family.

My god, his friends.

It was quite possibly one of the weirdest days I've ever had. It began on a super high note with Trish and me getting a joint job interview together for later on in the week, and ended on one of the lowest lows I've felt in a long time. One of our fellow classmates, Jason Dixon, died for no reason other than it was just a random blood clot that ended up taking his life.

Immediate. Sudden. Gone.

I hadn't showered yet, even though it was two o'clock in the afternoon. When you're unemployed and only have two lectures a week, you don't really have the motivation to get dressed and make an effort. I was confused when I opened our main door to find Vicki standing on the other side, because she never comes to visit me even though we're relatively good social friends.

"I don't want to scare you or anything, but all third years have been called to the chapel. We all have to be there by half two. Dan's crying. I don't really know what's going on."

The chapel? Fuck. What could be wrong? Who died? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Trish and I rushed to my room and I quickly changed into jeans and my uni pullover, and brushed my teeth. We thought of the worse case scenarios and even though I'm not a religious person, I was hoping and praying beyond anything that it wasn't anyone that I knew. Please don't let it be someone that I know.

We thought it was Dave, so Trish gave him a ring but he didn't answer.

Fuck. Please don't let it be Dave. My god, please don't let it be Dave.

He rang back shortly after and was crying. He told Trish just to go to the chapel.

Right before we left, one of our security guards came around knocking and told us all to head over to the chapel as well. All of our university needed to go, not just third years. So we rounded up the babies and began the short walk with everyone else.

As we walked up I saw Rowan and Jimmy standing outside together just watching everyone as they walked in. They weren't speaking. They barely gave eye contact.

We all walked in cautiously, unsure of what was happening. I heard the crying, then saw the crying and quickly scanned the whole room. There were his friends off to the left side uncontrollably wailing and crying in a heap on the floor: Claire, Holly, Jack, Hannah, Emma, Dan and all the rest of his friends in their group.

Trish and I saw Ryan sitting in a chair next to two girls who were quiet and staring down at the floor. Ryan was quiet as well and told Trish that it was Jason Dixon.

Wham! There it was, his face brought to the forefront of my mind. I knew him, but not well enough to cry. I spoke to him, but not often enough to remember distinctly. And now he was dead? What the fuck?

We gave Ryan a hug and moved over to where the babies where sitting. Our main principle was speaking for a little bit about the counseling service in case we needed help to cope with anything, and he said some other things that didn't quite register because I was still in shock trying to wrap my brain around what was going on.

I was in a chapel? Because someone that I know has died? What? How? When? Why? Fucking hell.

But then a face I know a little bit better stood up in front of everyone in the chapel as people kept filing in and Ali told us exactly what happened the night that Jason passed away. She stood with Jimmy and you could tell that she had been crying, because her cheeks were flushed and her voice cracked when she spoke. But my god was she strong and so brave to speak to us all, to tell us about how Jason had been on crutches for the past couple of weeks because of his dislocated knee, about how he cried out in pain when he left their house to walk back home, about how Jimmy rode with him in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and how he died sometime around five o'clock in the morning.

And as she spoke I began to cry, because hearing it come from Ali, hearing her words made it real and I could see it all happening, feel it all just as if I were one of them. She was one of his best friends. She was one of "the groups" at our university. We all knew them and they all knew us. We are always out together and our groups make that small talk that you do when you're out being social. And I cried for them, because I thought, "what if it was one of us in my group."

The rest of the day was hazy and I just remember briefly speaking to Carlene and putting our differences aside, because fuck, one of our classmates has just died. I sat and ate chicken fajitas with Livvi and Katie. I went to the bar briefly with Jon and listened to Bloc Party, because it was Jason's favorite band. And finally, sometime around three in the morning, I laid in my bed, thought about Jason living upstairs in the room above me, and thought about his freshers. I thought about his family. And again, about his friends.

The thing about our university being so small is that we know everyone, whether you want to or not. In some sick, incestuous way, we are all related to one another, and we are all one big Digby family. For three years, these people are your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, your blood. They are apart of your world, and when you lose someone, everyone feels it because we're all connected.

The atmosphere has been eerie and strange. The mood is heavy and there feels like there's a cloud over our uni. People can feel that something isn't right, and there's nothing we can do but let time mend this period of sadness. It's a serious fucking wake up call as well, and now I know why people want to be surrounded by their loved ones these kind of circumstances. When I found out, when I saw his friends, there was nothing more I wanted in the world than to be surrounded with our group.

***

Since people have found out, people have been writing on his facebook wall, and this was written by one of his best friend's, Hannah, that is taking it really hard. It makes me feel so many things I've never felt before and I empathize so much for them.

Jay,
Im not going to come to the Bop tonight
You know I was there last night and I danced with you and had a couple of drinks
But Jason darling, I just don't think I can come tonight
I am finding things quite hard my sweetheart, everyone is
I think I need to spend a little bit of time away from uni and the people here
Its not that I dont love them or you, god knows I love you all SO much
Its just that I need to be alone a bit, do you understand Jay?
Im only going half hour away, I will still be in London so if you need anything just call ok
The person I am going to see is helping me Jay, I told you about them yesterday and you were cool with it, they make me smile if only for a bit my sweet
So I wont see you at the Bop but I coming to see you in an hour or so
Ill come up to your room and then Ill go the chapel, not for long but we can have a chat for a bit
Celia is dancing like a loon Jay, you loved our moves!
I love you babe, see you in a bit,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Posted by Sam at 01:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The thing about babies is that they grow up and no longer need you for those easy beginner steps that you're more than happy to show them over and over until your eyes begin to bleed. The thing about babies that aren't babies in the first place, but full grown adults who are only in their first year of university but you like to call them your babies anyway, is that they quickly gain their feet on the university grounds and piss off to leave you the lone parent in the flat wondering "hmm....now what?"

Yes, my babies. My wee freshers. My darling angels that needed me for so much in the first few weeks of university are now able to work things out for themselves, on their own, without me.

"It's okay, Sam. I know where the building is."

"Really? Are you sure? Do you want me to walk there with you? DON'T FORGET YOUR HAT! IT'S COLD OUTSIDE!"

I don't think I could have been put with a better group of girls. Yeah, there are growing pains, but that's how it is when you're learning about different people and wading through all of the Life Shit to get past to the other side where all of the goodness and fun is. My babies dance, cuddle, hug, laugh, cook, work, sing, shop and spend time together. We are literally one big happy family and I can easily walk into the kitchen and want to spring up off my feet into the air and give whoever is in there a big morning hug and squeal "I MISSED YOU WHILE I WAS SLEEPING!" We have even adopted a few freshers to call our own (I *heart* you Gerry), and Trish is always round ours hanging out and gathering the babies round in a big circle for Story Time.

It has been a fantastically wonderful time.

But.

Oh yeah. The BUT.

Just because things are so amazing doesn't mean that my problems have magically disappeared. I'm still in need of a job. I'm still at university and need to be making a sufficient amount of time to actually WORK and WRITE and READ for my course. These things haven't just kindly walked away because I'm having so much fun with all of these new people.

After the party from Hell and I gained some serious perspective and worked out my priorities, I've been doing better with keeping myself at home. It's a bit boring, but I let the babies go out and have their fun, and while I have that alone time, I read, or I work on finding myself a job. Occasionally I'll chill out with Trish and we'll eat chocolate while laughing at funny Dane Cook skits, but I do get things done. If I'm gonna be the Momma of the flat, then I need to sacrifice some fun things just like my Momma did while we were growing up. It's not MY first year, but THEIR first year. They should be the ones going out and getting wrecked, and I should be in waiting for them with a hair tie and a tall glass of water.

Of course that doesn't mean that they want me to stay inside on my lonesome all the time. They do invite me out and I have to kindly decline saying no to their offers to buying me one drink. Babies should not have to be buying Momma drinks. They have been amazing though, and know of my "situation". Livvi in particularly has been a nice listening ear and Gerry is so ridiculously connected with people in London.

"I know people, Sam. Trust me, we'll find you a job."

I don't know what that's supposed to mean exactly, but I'll just take his word for it.

It has been good so far for me though. I try to keep things quiet about how stressed out I am about some things, but they can pick up on my Different Mood Vibes already. Livvi already knows and will give me these looks like YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ME, SAM. I CAN TELL YOU'RE DEEP IN THOUGHT. Yes, you caught me Livvi. And while I'm sitting alone in my room applying for jobs online, Livvi, Katie and Fee will come into my room with a cup of tea and give me cuddles because they could tell that I wasn't feeling like my usual self.

Posted by Sam at 11:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Assignment for my lecture Writing for the Internet, which is a load of wank. Maximum words? 300.

I suppose the real question would be what hasn't my mother told me? She is the one person who has taught me everything that I know, and everything that I thought I learned by myself, I know she has taught me first and I just pretend that I learned it all on my lonesome. She was the one who told me that if you wash your dishes up as you cook, then it won't seem like so much to do when it's time to clean the kitchen. I'm not sure why that piece of advice sticks out the most in my mind.

Never trust a man with your heart, always have hospital corners when you make your bed and the three things to never talk about with other people are politics, religion and money; people are too set in their ways to change their minds about any of it. Don't be ashamed to use coupons ("if it's free, then it's for me!"), depend on nobody in life but yourself and always make sure you have at least $20 on you at all times because you never know when you'll need cash.

These snippets of advice from her life lessons that she has learned over the years stick with me. There’s nothing that I don’t know to this day that she hasn’t already said to me at least once, no matter how big or small. The only thing that mother has never told me is how to live without her, and that’s one thing I hope to never learn.

Posted by Sam at 01:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I gotta get back into it. This. My writing. Get back into my old groove. Not back into my old ways and habits.

Almost four weeks into my third year and I'm finding the changes and the different dynamics very strange. Things aren't the same for me. Just because I walk the campus where things used to happen, doesn't mean that everything is the same. Time doesn't stand still. It moves forward and with it, things change.

We all know I don't handle change very well, although considering my Change Disability, I think I've been coping alright for the most part. I think that part of the reason why I've been able to deal with it, though, is because I've been occupying my time with distractions. I've been recognizing some things as well, and have noticed that I easily slip into old habits, and I refuse to let it grab hold of me again.

So I'm going to stop. I'm going to stop forcing things and just be myself, with myself and chill out. I don't have to be the It Girl all the time, but I also don't have to be some used up wannabe that lives in the past all the time.

Last night I went to a party and got absolutely wrecked, just like the "good 'ole days". I dropped some MDMA, did a line of coke, smoked some weed and drank anything within my reach. But I didn't have a good time. I woke up at 3:15 in the afternoon and had a slight memory of a weird dream that I couldn't quite remember in my drug infused state. I remember everything for the most part, and found the entire experience to be really off and left me on edge. I was really stressed out for some reason as well, and didn't have the comfort of my close friends nearby for support. I was literally just out at a house party where I knew people, but they had no idea who I was.

It was as if I was re-tracing my steps from first year and having to get to know people from scratch and I hated it. Why wasn't I just with people that I knew like the last two years? Why wasn't I just chilling out and having a good time? I was sitting around people that had already defined their university groups, and I was left alone because my uni group has fallen apart.

Helen is in Paris, Zoe's in Peru, Alex is busy with a million different things, and I don't speak to Carlene, Santo or Fiona anymore. Our group used to be THE group, and now it feels like I'm alone. Thank god Trish is still here with me, or I might not be able to handle anything.

My freshers are amazing, bless them, but they're not my best friends. They don't know the history behind things, and we haven't gotten to that level yet where we're comfortable just saying whatever we want to each other. We're still going through the growing pains and learning things about each other so we know where to draw the lines and not step over certain boundaries. And they're still getting into the uni groove, learning things about being away from home and trying to handle their first year. I want to be there for them and shield them from all of the dangerous things within the uni walls, but I can't teach them everything in one go. I have to learn to let them go out, fall down and get back up by themselves. Trish has told me many times already that if they don't experience everything for themselves, they'll never learn. I know that. I just sometimes wish it didn't have to be like that.

After my ridiculous bender last night, I've decided to take a major step back and chill the fuck at home. I've got a catering job where I'll be busy waitressing big events in Central which will be good for me and keep me out of trouble. I know now that the uni scene, is no longer my scene. My third year will not be about repeating past mistakes, but about new starts. It's still early enough in the year for me to calm down and get a new crowd that doesn't involve me being off my face to have a good time. And I'll be here for my babies when they need me, but I won't be there getting wrecked with them. I can't do it. I'm getting too old for that game.

I think it's just going to be me and Trish this year, which is perfectly fine with me. I love that bitch more than anything, and together, we will rock our third year like it's 1999.

Posted by Sam at 09:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I wore my ugly yellow t-shirt that they said all the floor reps had to wear on Sunday at ten o'clock in the morning. Seriously, it was quite possibly one of the ugliest t-shirts ever. We all stood around looking like knobheads (im)patiently waiting for our wee freshers to arrive. Maybe that was one of mine? No, she lived on Bede. Perhaps that girl? Newman. Her? Shaw House.

Lame.

Finally, after standing around for about forty-five minutes, my first wee baby arrived and I didn't think she was mine to begin with. I was so excited to see that she lived on my floor that I squealed a little too excitedly, and I think I may have startled her and her father a bit. Slowly, one by one, they all started to arrive, and slowly, one by one, our flat began to take real shape.

I have a Christian, an atheist, a dancer and a model. I've got a sweet cheerleader, a tomboy and my favorite. Together we make LA0. Our flat is comfortable, homey and easily lived in without any kind of troubles (so far).

Livvi is my darling baby that I've taken on as my favorite. I know, I shouldn't have one (I do love them all the same), but there's something about Livvi that I see in myself and know that she's going to be the next one to carry on my legacy after I've gone. What my legacy is exactly, I'm not entirely sure, but I do have one, people do know me and I'm going to teach her everything that I know personally so that she knows this university inside and out. She will be able to take care of everyone else, grab the reins, take the lead and show everyone out to the other side when things aren't so peachy. I know she can do it.

I've already introduced her to a good portion of my friends, getting her face and name out there. She's (unfortunately) already pulled one of my friends (dirty one-eyed Jack), but has recovered from that without any damage to her shiny new reputation. She likes to go out, but I'll guide her and make sure that she doesn't lose important sight of her studies. She will go to all of her lectures, she will make good grades and she will have a cracking good time if it's the last thing that I do.

They've all molded together nicely and it makes me smile to see them all crowding in the lounge with their laptops and laughing at the pictures from the night before. They're all so excited, they're all buzzing with anticipation and I'm loving this newfound energy that they've given me.

Of course I don't go out every night with them, but I am there if they ever need me for anything. They're always asking about where a certain building is, what's the protocol for signing someone in to stay overnight, and to watch their faces in shock at the stories I've told them about my previous two years here is just so priceless I can't even form the words. It's a strange feeling to have people look up to you, to rely on you for certain things and to need you to be there for them in case they need a helping hand. And I'm more than happy to do anything they need.

They all know they're my babies and that I'm here for them if they ever need me. They know that I want to give them all the greatest first year of their life, and be a floor rep that actually is around unlike my useless floor rep in my first year. I will be there for anything they need, and they know that if anyone messes with them that I'll be there without any hesitation and shank a bitch.

This is the new generation of RoeHo. These are my wee freshers -- Katie, Emma, (fresher) Sam, Hannah, Jess, Fee and Livvi. Here's to a new beginning.

Posted by Sam at 05:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Hey! Look at me! I'm still here! And dying from exhaustion. Moving back to uni? Is LONG. Moving back to uni AND being a floor rep? Is LONGER.

The good news is that I'm pretty much all moved in, and now the only thing left to do is sort my clothes and, oh yeah! Have the wee freshers move in. Funnily enough one of them moved in earlier today, but now she's gone and I'm left alone in the flat once again. But it's okay, because I'm savoring this quiet time, this alone time, this time when I can walk to the kitchen in nothing by my tights and bra and not worry about someone freaking out because OHMIGOD! I'm halfway naked. Blah.

I've had the proper floor rep training (lasted two LONG days), and my, I didn't realize that there was so much to do and think about. Especially fire safety. Wow! I will never again stay in the building if there's a fire alarm. I know that may sound weird, but there are literally about two hundred fire alarms going off every year, and quite frankly, I can't be bothered to go outside, in the cold or rain, just because someone burned their toast AGAIN. But after my floor rep training, you can bet your ass I'm going to be high tailing it outside and counting each of my girl's heads making sure they are safe outside.

And yeah, I said girls. I have EIGHT GIRLS to look after this year. One of them is named Sam (because my name is just so popular around here), AND she's a lesbian, which just makes me feel superior than all of the other flats for some reason.

"Oh, well one of my freshers is a lesbian, so there! My flat is better than yours!"

Okay, so it's not a competition, but kind of, it secretly is. We all want good, fun freshers that don't kill each other or drive us insane. We all want to be a close knit little family that love and take care of each other, and that's the environment I'm going to try and create from day one that starts tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll all be together in unison as I walk them down to the bar for the free barbecue and a landslide of cheap, student drinks. I'm not sure what will happen after that.

Aside from preparing for my wee freshers, I've also been getting myself sorted and prepared for uni in general. I still have to sort my loan (stupid banks!), pick up some things that I left at Helen's house while I lived there and deal with one stupid drama after the other.

First drama? Carlene. She knows I'm upset with her and is trying the whole "can't we sort it now so things aren't awkward?" move. And I'm just sitting there thinking, no, we can't. I can't be bothered to sit and have that discussion with her right now. I don't want to talk about ALL OF THE MILLION REASONS why I no longer consider her to be a friend. I have way too much going on to try and figure out why our friendship is over and she's so dysfunctional.

Second drama? Ash sent me a reply to my email and I've been so busy I haven't had a chance to properly think about it and decide if I'm going to respond or not. The email wasn't mean or harsh or awful; I was scared to read it at first though. It was just very poignant. Very honest. And just.... it was Ash. And with everything that is going on with me now, I haven't had time to digest it all. But I want to.

Third drama? There is a new guy in the picture that is... lovely. At first I wasn't so sure, but now I think I might actually have a crush on him. A tiny one, but there is definitely something there that makes me do that stupid girl giggle. I've been talking to him for a few weeks now and haven't mentioned it here, because that has kind of been a jinx for me in the past (um, Swindon anyone? Aussie boy?), but I think this could be a something. All you get for now is his name: Ed. Oh yes. It's Ed.

Fourth drama? Do you remember Drummer boy? Well, he kind of asked me out on a date. Okay, I'm not sure if it's a real "date" but we're going to go see Death Cab for Cutie in November. We may be in a group, it might just be the two of us, I don't know. I don't have the details. But I haven't seen him since we, um, well hooked up. I haven't really talked to him either now that I think about it. I just really wanted to go see Death Cab. Yes, I'm a horrible person.

Fifth drama? I had a really bad preggo scare right before I left Helen's house. Yeah, it was probably the worst scare I've had...ever. I know I've had a couple of close calls, but this one was bad. So bad that I actually found myself standing in the pregnancy test aisle with Helen trying to control my breathing and my heart from exploding. Luckily, I wasn't preggo and I didn't have to deal with all of that, but fucking hell it was messing with my head big time. And it made me consider some new things, you know, about kids and me actually having one. Not now, obviously, but I don't think I'm as anti-kid as I used to be. I think maybe, if I feel like it, I could have one. Hell, maybe two if I'm feeling ambitious.

Do you see this? Do you see all of this that has been going on since I've been busy and moving back on campus? This is why I try not to leave the house, because stuff happens and it clogs my brain and makes me get all...blah. And I can't update my blog properly with full details in a story-like manner like I prefer. Next week things will chill out a little bit (I hope!) and I can get more of a routine going. I'll have my lectures, I'll get another part-time job and I'll finish out this last year in one piece.

But one step at a time folks. Right now I'm going to go make some dinner in my underwear and listen to my music loud in the kitchen. Why? Because I'm alone and I can.

Posted by Sam at 06:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Quiet. Peace and quiet.

I truly do need a balance of alone time and family time. I can't deal with noise all the time. And the TV. Christ, why does the TV need to be on all. the. fucking. time. Just turn it off man! It'll be okay. Why don't we put on some music? Music is nice. It can be soothing. You can bounce along to it. And it can linger in the background while we do other things that don't require me to sit and stare at the moving pictures on the TV!

I'm moving out of Alex's house today and heading back to RoeHo where I'll finally gather all of my things under one roof once again and get settled in for my third -- and most importantly -- final year.

No more uni after this folks. Remember when I wanted to move over here? Yeah, well I did and now it has come to it's final scene. Fucking hell am I exhausted.

I have had a very busy summer indeed, and yet so much time has been wasted sitting around waiting for things to happen. I'm waiting for uni to start, I'm waiting to hear about a part-time job, I'm waiting for my fucking loan to kick in, I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, always waiting.

And y'all know I don't do well when all there is to do is wait around. I need to be doing something.

I've been sat in a blur for the past week and now I can get back to being active, interacting with humans that don't always want to feed me bacon and steak, and start to regain my footing once again. But while I've been waiting to get a move on, other things have been waiting for me. Carlene is waiting for me to respond to her message about why I haven't spoken to her at all this summer; Mel is waiting on me, Momma is waiting on me, Sarah is waiting on me and perhaps even now Ash is waiting on me.

Oh yeah. I said Ash. He responded to my email that I sent him a couple of weeks ago and now I'm digesting his words, his very poignant words that didn't cut or hurt me, but woke me up and reminded me of some things. It'll be okay though. I'll be okay, and I know that he'll be okay and maybe after some time we can finally lay all of that mess from two years ago to rest and be okay with each other.

I feel like I'm in a holding pattern and that everything is just waiting on something. There's everything waiting for me at uni. I'm waiting on my freshers to arrive, introducing myself and getting to learn about all of them. I'm waiting to set up my room, sort out my work, crack open my notebooks and get back to that novel that has been sitting on my mind. I'm waiting to see old friends that I've been missing all summer and will be waiting to see those that have gone off to other cities. And I'll deal with it all as it comes to me.

Mostly I'm just waiting to get back into the swing of things, get back on a regular routine and not have to live out of a suitcase any longer. Then I won't be waiting anymore. I'll just be back and be better than ever.

Posted by Sam at 01:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Ugh, why is it that the minute things start getting busy, everything else must come to a halt because hey! now I have to deal with all of this new shit that's getting thrown into my face.

Of course it's not all bad, but some things just make life more stressful.

Right now I'm waiting on Alex to give me the go ahead to meet her in Putney so I can go and live with her for the last few weeks of summer vacay. It's going to be fine, I know this, and it's going to be fun, but at the same time it's sad because I'm leaving Helen's house, which means I'm leaving her for a couple of weeks while she goes off to Paris and becomes all french and shit. It's sad, but at the same time it's fine. Very strange and hard to describe.

On top of all of this sad emotional stuff of parting with one of my best friends, I've also been having a few random blasts from the past, with one of my super old high school friends finding me on facebook. A long story there that needs to be told (maybe). Then there was also a not-so-fun pregnancy scare for me (yay!), seeing the Bede boys for the first time proper all summer (yes, including boy Sam and David) all while trying to sort through my finances and make time for more time.

There have been drinks, there have been tears, there has been lots of rain and a slight feeling of the end and the beginning merging into one. I'm not sure, but all I know is that with all of this new shit flying at me at warp speed, things are going to be a bit slow here on My Mumbling Thoughts until I get a little more settled. Then I'll be able to update properly when my feet aren't cold, my head isn't fuzzy and my belly doesn't ache.

Posted by Sam at 02:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

So I've been writing.

Correction. I've been thinking about writing, how I'm going to write it, planning it out, making lists, sketching it all together and composing bits and pieces in my head.

I've also been reading.

There's one book that I have called Will Write For Shoes which is really good and makes sense, and then there's also one I have to read for one of my lectures that starts in a few short weeks called The Weekend Novelist, which is always getting referred to in all of these other books I've been reading, but it's just so hard for me to properly get into it. Why does it have to be so painful for me?

And I'm still reading good 'ole Virginia Woolf. God. She's just so awesome. Why can't I write like her and tell stories like she does? All of her words make sense when they're pieced together.

And mine?

Well. Let's not talk about that right now.

This past week has been me chilling at Helen's house, because last week was my last week of work since they told me that I was no longer needed. I didn't get fired, but my temporary job just came to an end. It happens. I knew it was going to happen. It wasn't a shock. I decided to take advantage of this free time that I've been given and get a good start on constructing the first chapter of the novel I'm supposed to be working on, because I've been wanting to send some stuff over to my friend, Erik (not VA Erik, but blogger friend Erik).

And what have I written? A page and a half of boring, mindless drivel that serves no purpose in my story. And what are they always telling me in my lectures and these writing "self help" books? They tell me that EVERY WORD MUST SERVE A PURPOSE. And I'm all, "hey, let's write about stupid shit that doesn't belong in the story, but you think should go there because, why not?"

Yeah. None of it makes sense.

I've decided I'm going to scrap it all because it's all a load of wank. Trust me. I would let you read it, but I'm not that mean. I'm not that cruel. I wouldn't want to inflict that kind of pain upon you.

All summer I've been piecing together this story that I've thought of, I've been sculpting it all together and planning, planning, PLANNING. I even have the first two chapters sketched on notepads, have done all of my character checklists, thought about them all and have re-structured things so that they fit better and have scrapped ideas that seemed good, but would be better to be left out in the long run. All that's left to do is to start writing.

Write.

So I started and have decided that since the first page and a half sucks (which it has taken me weeks to write that pathetic page and a half), I'll just get rid of it and start again.

With the page and a half that is, not the story. I'm keeping everything else.

I don't know why I choked. The only reason I can think of is because I just put way too much pressure on myself. Already, I know. When I sit and think about it for any length of time, I get all holy shit, this is the beginning of my first real novel and I panicked. I proper freaked out in my head and lost sight of what I wanted to write about, whose voice I wanted to be speaking throughout the story and forgot that writing is supposed to be fun, not stressful. I wanted everything to be perfect and when I finally took to the keyboard my fingers decided to betray me and write something completely opposite to what I've been thinking about all summer long.

So that page and a half? Is going straight into the little trash bin icon that sits in the bottom right hand corner of my screen.

I may have said good-bye to the past two years that have caused me so much grief, but that doesn't mean that the fear I have inside me hasn't gone away. My fear is that it'll happen again, and I definitely do not want an encore of any of that. I'm excited to get a start at a new year, but I'm so scared that I'll fall susceptible to all of the same things and will end up right where I was only a bigger failure.

So this story, this novel, I've been putting everything into it all summer. I want it to be fresh and funny, but I also want it to be a proper representation of me, my writing skills, what I've learned over the past two years and tell a story that is super close to my heart. I don't want it to be a "chick lit" or a "dramatic story" or anything like that. I want it to be about life and have people relate to it and take something away from it.

I remember when I was in the second grade in Mrs. Bowman's class. We lived in Denver, Colorado at the time and it was when I learned about the tall tale. We were told that we were going to write our own tall tales. We were going to write them on those brown sheets of paper with the blue dotted lines on them that kids use when they first start learning how to write, and that each sheet was going to be connected to each other. Then we were going to take a picture of Paul Bunyan's head and his blue ox, and staple it to the top of our story, and then staple their feet at the very end. The finished products were going to hang in the hallways from the ceiling to the floor and be on display for anyone to read who walked by and cared to read whatever a second grader had to say.

Boy, I got excited. I remember thinking to myself that I was going to write the most and have the longest tall tale ever, and my story was going to make sense and be ten times more awesome than everyone else's. Why? Because I was awesome, that's why.

I took my brown paper with the blue dotted lines home and I worked on it for TWO WHOLE DAYS, which for a second grader is a fucking long time and a big sacrifice. I missed out on Ghostwriter, which was one of my favorite TV shows. But I wrote non-stop while Momma cooked dinner for us, all throughout the day and only stopped to sharpen my pencil.

When Monday arrived and we started piecing our stories together, I saw that many of my classmates wrote about six or seven pages and that was it. I had easily written the most and was so proud that the bottom of my Paul Bunyan's feet needed to be rolled up and paper-clipped together because my story was just THAT long. I remember there was one boy whose story was longer than mine, but it didn't matter in the end and you want to know why?

Because Mrs. Bowman kept my story. She asked me after our stories had been on display in the hallway for two weeks if she could keep mine to show other students in the future what a good tall tale is, and what an impressive writer I was at such a young age. She said she understood if I wanted to keep it for myself, but I told her she could have it. She didn't ask the other boy. I saw him shove his into his plastic backpack later that day.

I may have gotten slightly derailed over this new story of mine, but the second grader that still lives inside of me is dying to get to writing again; properly writing, just like how I did in Mrs. Bowman's class. I want to be able to get so freaking excited about a story that I don't stop for anything except to recharge my laptop battery. The second grader Sammi Jo wasn't afraid of writing anything back then, and she shouldn't be scared now either.

Posted by Sam at 11:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Wow, it has been a while since I've done one of these, but it came just at the right time. I could use a little exercise to get the 'ole writing mechanics going again. Because today? I am struggling bad.

Monica was awesome and tagged me in a meme that I think I've done before, but because I'm shit and have a crappy memory (unlike dear Monica), I can't remember, nor can I be bothered to sift through all of my archives and find out if I have. In any case, here it goes...

The Rules:

1. Link the person who tagged you.
2. Mention the rules on your blog.
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they've been tagged.

Sounds easy enough, except I don't think I really know six other bloggers. Well, I'll tag 'em anyway and see what happens, but if I don't tag you, feel free to take it upon yourself and do the meme. They're really good fun and a nice way to talk about yourself even more on your own blog.

1. I'm double jointed. I don't know if y'all already knew that about me, but yes, I am double jointed from head-to-toe. And yes, it is handy, before you even ask. Along with the double jointedness, however, I also have flat feet, which are gross and I hate them. It's the one part on my body that if I could have them surgically fixed, I would. It prevents me from wearing a lot of my cute high heels comfortably, and as we all know, you just don't fuck with a woman and her shoes.

2. I have a thing about being touched in public. It's not as bad or weird as it sounds, but whenever I'm on the bus, or train, or in a store, or out walking, or anywhere in public, I don't like being touched by strangers. Especially when you're sat somewhere and you can feel their elbow lightly touching your arm as they read their morning newspaper. I just want to turn to them and say, "yo, is it really that hard to stay in your own personal space? Really? I'm not about the touching." It really bothers me.

3. I totally have a thing for Barry Gibb and sometimes wish he would sing How Deep Is Your Love to me before I go to bed. I don't think much else has to be said about that.

4. You remember that magician David Copperfield? Well, when I was really little, I remember watching one of his acts on TV where he made himself fly and could produce snow straight from his fingertips. That night, I had the most vivid dream that he made me fly, and it was so real that when I woke up, I was so sure I had magical powers and could fly whenever I wanted. I couldn't fly. I also couldn't move objects with my mind, but I liked to believe that I could.

5. When I find something that I like, I will become utterly obsessed with it until...well, forever. Things like these pretzels that you could get only from the North Carolina mall with the World's Greatest Lemonade. Every single time we go down to visit now, Mel and I have to go and get one, because I miss and love them so much. Or this bagel bakery that is in Virginia where I used to eat every day for breakfast and lunch when I was still in high school. Or American Eagle. I am forever loyal, and it would take a lot to make me stop loving the things that I'm obsessed with.

6. I will randomly blurt out comments that no one else can relate to or follow, like "hmm....smells like the house in North Carolina", or "yeah, that's funny, because your eye smells".

Now I shall tag ajooja, Elisa, Melissa, Morgan, Miss Grace and last but not least, Trish.

Have at it!

Posted by Sam at 08:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Helen knows that every day when I get home from work, I have to take up at least fifteen minutes of her life while I update her on all of the mundane facts of my day; the lady on the train that fell asleep on me, or another Office Story that I have from sitting at my desk for eight hours. She turns off the TV, sits up a little straighter and gives me her full, undivided attention while I ramble on about nothingness.

That's just me, and she knows it.

She is my best friend (one of a small handful I have and keep close in my heart). We have had a couple of rough patches, but nothing that we haven't worked through and came out on the other side brighter and closer. It's something that I believe all best friends have to go through, because no relationship is perfect all the time. We get annoyed with each other, fall into a funk, a mood and can get easily irritated because the other one is just blinking at the other. Why does she do that!? God!

But for the majority of the time, we are best friends. I consider her a sister.

Helen is beautiful. When I say that, I mean it in the purest way. She is beautiful both on the outside and the inside, and to me, that is extremely hard to find in a person. She's ridiculously smart and there are so many qualities that she has I wish I could have in myself; one of them being that she's financially independent to the max. Helen keeps her finances very private, never discussing them with anyone, and I wonder if I should take a page out of her book. She has never had to borrow money from anyone, and keeps tight lips about the number that flashes on the cash machine.

Aside from the fact that she knows how to manage her money, though, she is damn near perfect. She's what I like to call "classic beauty". She has blond hair and the bluest sparkling eyes that she dresses up with glittering eyeshadow and a slick layer of mascara. She chooses all of her clothes carefully and everything in her wardrobe fits her like a glove. She has her own personal style, and knows how to work it. She is a true London Girl, being born and raised here and knows the city inside and out.

On top of all that, she's ridiculously sweet and will do anything to help you within reason. You can't not like her. It's virtually impossible, and she's so personable. I see her when she chats to people and she just has a way about her that makes you want to be her best friend. She's my little princess and I can't wait to see what the future holds for her; she deserves everything in the world.

My darling little Helen, though, does have her own fair share of woes. It pains me to see her when she's unhappy (damn you boys that can't see a good thing when she's right in front of you!) and there's nothing more I would like to do than just to make all of her problems disappear. I know how she is, how she can be and how she beats herself up over things that she shouldn't be worrying about. I wish I could make her see all of the wonderful things that I see in her, that everyone sees in her, but that she occasionally can't see from time to time.

She's moving to Paris on the 9th of September. Since she studies French and Classics, she's required to do one of her uni years abroad in the country whose language she is learning, therefore taking four years of uni rather than the traditional three. She'll be in another graduating class than all of us. She'll be gone for our third and final years. She'll be missing out on the London uni scene. But she'll be gaining so much more in return. She is embarking on a new journey, getting a clean slate and is starting over in a brand new country. (Sound familiar?) As much as I'm going to miss my wee Care Bear being so close, I'm equally excited for her and can't wait to hear about all of the French Things she's going to be doing. I wonder if their university life will be the same as our university life? Probably. It's just all in French.

And it's not like I'm never going to see her again. I've already told her that our first reading week that we have, I'm hopping on the first Euro Star train and coming to visit her so we can be Parisian together and terrorize the locals. They'll hate us, but we're going to love it. I want to get the full experience of eating lots of bread, smoking inside cafes and getting looked down upon by all of the french folks that despise us Americans. It'll be great.

I haven't thought about her leaving that much. I'm not sure if she has really thought about it in depth. I know she had a day or so after she returned from Poland, but we don't talk about when she's not going to be here. I don't think I'd be able to handle it. What will I do without her? Who am I going to have long, hench chats about boys with? Whose shoulder am I going to cry on? Whose room will I go into and lay on the bed and have chats with while she's getting ready for work or a night out? Who am I going to eat peanut butter and nutella with at 11:30 at night? What am I going to do? What is she going to do?

She has been with me through so much over the past two years. I remember when we were practically inseparable from each other, and living virtually parallel lives. She was the one who I always cried out for whenever I was drunk and being extremely emotional. She was the one who listened to me well late into the evening and took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. She was always the one I would think to call first or want to talk to first whenever something BIG would happen to me throughout my days. She was my first best friend here in London, and for that, I will always be grateful that I know her.

If I know my Helen, I know she's going to be fine, more than fine even. She's so strong (a lot stronger than she thinks), and she will flourish with all of those frenchies like a fish taking to water. And when I come to visit her, we will have changed a little bit more, but not that much. She will always be the small English girl that I wanted to become best friends with when I first moved over here. And we will always be amazed by how similar, yet extremely different we are at the same time. I will miss spending time sitting quietly with her in the morning whilst we eat breakfast, and have it not be awkward. There aren't that many people in the world that I can do that with, and with Helen, I just know. I find myself saying quite a few times to her, "don't act like I don't know you and how you are."

Ah, yes. And we will always be lesbians together. One day, it's going to happen. I know it's already written in the stars.

Posted by Sam at 04:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This past weekend I went to the Notting Hill Carnival with Helen, Louisa, Trish and Lorna (although Trish and Lorna didn't join the festivities until Monday). It was...brilliant, to say the least. And that's all I'll say, because what happens at the Carnival, stays at the carnival. Capiche? Capiche.

Swiftly moving on...

I'm currently typing this here post up at work, even though I'm not sitting in my Super Awesome Desk that allowed me free range on the net without any paranoia. I guess I'm living on the edge today, but mostly I just wanted to write a little update, because LORD, I have no time. Well, I do have time, but the majority of it has been spent traveling from ZONE 6 TO ZONE 2.

Three hours, my friends. Three hours every. single. day. I am either on one of the THREE trains that I have to take to get from Helen's house to work, or I'm walking. Lots of walking. All the time. I walk.

I must mention these birds that I see every morning after I leave Helen's house to go to the first train station, though. Apparently (from what Alex has told me), a couple of years ago, some exotic birds escaped from the zoo and are now flying all over the place in random parts of London. I think that a wild bunch have made their new home in Helen's neighborhood, because I see a large handful of these parrot-looking birds that are a vibrant green color and make the most annoying noise in the early morning. It felt like I was in some kind of Disney movie with all of them swarming above my head.

Right.

I don't really mind the journey itself. Yes, it's long and I have to wake up at 5 o'clock in the morning in order to catch my train at 7:26a.m. on the dot. I'm just not used to it, I suppose. It was so easy when we lived in the flat, because I jumped on one bus and stayed there for a maximum of thirty minutes (even with traffic) until it was time for me to hop off and walk the three minutes to the flat door. Easy peasy. I certainly took it for granted.

With the longer journey, though, and the fact that I'm on the overground and the underground, I get to see a variety of more people all heading into Central to go and do more important other things where they are required to wear fancy suits and shiny shoes. No more chavs/chav mothers/chav children for me to block out.

I go into work looking like I'm headed out for a day at the beach, regardless if it's sunny outside or not (which, recently it hasn't been so bright). I feel like I should make more of an effort now when I go out to be with the "fancy travelers". It's partly because now I'm living out of my suitcases while I stay at Helen's house, and digging through the never ending abyss that is holding all of my "office clothes" is just far too much effort for me to muster after I've woken up and fallen out of bed. I just can't be bothered.

I have also traded in my morning music whilst getting ready, and now instead listen to the morning news on the TV in the downstairs office while I fuss with my hair dryer and try to keep quiet from waking everyone up. It's different, but I feel more like I'm being kept up to date on my current events, which is a lot better than me listening to The Subways latest album for the hundreth time. Or maybe not, depending on who you're talking to I guess.

With all of this extra traveling time, though, I feel like I'm going to burn through all of my books in no time, leaving me with nothing to read, and "old" music that I've already listened to on repeat until my ears started bleeding. So I'm asking: y'all have any recommendations for me to keep me occupied? Music? Books? Funny magazine articles? It can be recent or old; so long as I've never heard of it, it'll be new to me. I just hate those annoying little newspapers that those guys are always handing out in front of the train station; they piss me off and I feel like I'm reading the same thing that everyone else is reading (hardy har har)...I like to be different.

And if you don't hear from me in a week or so, send out the search party. I probably got lost on one of the trains.

Posted by Sam at 03:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I just finished cleaning my temporary room that I'll be living in for the next few weeks. Well, I say "clean" when really it was more like re-organizing things so they don't look so disheveled and like I'm living in a pile of my own dirty clothes. And I hoovered. Very important.

I'm back at Helen's house until it's time for her to kick me out and move to Paris for her year abroad. Away from me. In a new country. Living. Speaking a different language. Lucky bitch. I wish I could!

But one thing at a time. My Helen watermelon/chinchilla/Care Bear/English muffin, was kind enough to let me crash at her place after we moved out of Shitville. I've been to her house before and had a really nice time away relaxing and remembering what it was like to live in a proper house, with proper things that don't break when you sneeze too hard. I've washed my first load of laundry in her amazing washing machine and separate dryer. I must point out the fact that the dryer is indeed a separate machine that isn't combined with the washing machine, therefore allowing our clothes to be properly washed and dried. I pulled out my damp clothes after the washing machine had done it's run and inhaled deeply.

"This," I happily thought to myself, "are how clothes should be washed." And oh my god (!) they weren't covered in lint! That's when I sat on the floor in her small laundry room and silently weeped to myself because I was so happy.

They have a dishwasher that they use every day. Every. Single. Day. We had a dishwasher in the flat, but we never used it because a.) it used up too much electric and water, and b.) when we went through the Bug Phase, we discovered that they liked to hang out in there, which gave me the shivers. Disgusting. I refuse to put my dirty dishes in something that will make them seem dirtier than when they originally went in.

Not only that, I can't seem to get over the fact that they have Name Brand items. They don't have Asda's own, or Tescos own, or Sainsbury's own. Fuck that. They spring for the good shit that's more expensive and works properly.

Oh, and can I just mention the CABLE TV? You don't understand how much I've been missing out on because I haven't properly watched TV for nearly a year. A WHOLE YEAR. I haven't watched any of my favorite TV shows (that weren't already on dvd), the news, music videos and crappy commercials. These things I have been denied for so long, and while I thought I wasn't missing much, in truth, it was just because I had forgotten how handy having a TV can be. You can easily get lost in the nothingness of The Tube, forget all worries and go completely numb in bad daytime talk-shows. I love it. I fucking love it.

Yesterday, Helen walked me to the train station where I'll start my very long morning commute to get to work. She lives...far. Out there. In Zone 6. It is such a small town, the lady for London's Transport had no idea what I was talking about when I rang up to ask about prices for my travelcard.

"It's near Kingston," I told her, which is the nearest 'big town'.

"Oh! Kingston. Wow. That's hardly London."

True, Helen's hometown is quite far, but I love it. She tells me not to get excited when we walk into "the village," but I can't help myself. While I do love the perks of a big city, I am truly a small town girl at heart. We wander inside a small shop, and the store owner knows some of his customers by name, and what they already want to buy.

One really old lady, Barbara, comes in every day and buys two chocolates. He knows this. And it makes me smile inside.

We walk around her neighborhood and she points out certain houses where her school friends live, or used to live, and tells me little stories about the people who lived inside the big houses with well-groomed English gardens, or of the time she got drunk at their house party. It's nice to walk around and hear Helen's stories about her childhood. I feel privileged that she's even telling me, because Helen is generally a very private person. She likes keeping her different lives (i.e. "uni life" and "home life") separate, unlike me who will spill my entire life story all over your lap if you'll let me.

As we were walking back to her house, there were two young boys, I'd say maybe about twelve or thirteen-years-old, standing at one of the very few bus stops. They appeared to be nice young boys with moppy hair and gave us a little smile as we walked past. But as we walked on a little farther, we heard one of them holler out to us in a fake girlie voice, "alright sister!" Helen and I just laughed a little and she said, "god, I love living in this town."

It is so nice. I know why Helen used to come back every so often in our first year of uni, because it's so ridiculously relaxing. And of course, it is her home where most people feel most comfortable. The first night here, I slept hard as a rock and had never felt so refreshed. I remember thinking that it has been a damn long time since I've slept that well. Of course when I woke up the next morning, I was slightly confused about where I was and thought it was Christmas, since I had the same feeling I usually get when I go back home to Virginia.

It's not Virginia, but it is a home. Every home, I've discovered, appears to be the same for people: it's where we can lounge around, watch TV, eat loads of yummy food, hang out in our old room, remember old times and indulge ourselves on all of the goodness we normally don't have back in our Every Day Life. It's hard to think that our childhood home used to be our Every Day Life. Instead now going back home is only a place where we go to recover, to relax, to remember. It is a mini break, almost a holiday and a place where we can truly be ourselves and forget that there ever were hard times.

Posted by Sam at 05:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I look around and there’s so much shit everywhere. Just shit. Everywhere. Part of me really wants to just throw it all away or leave it behind and let the next poor group of people who have to live here after us deal with it. Maybe they could use twenty tins of Asda’s own peas? Or decorative lights? Or all of my dishes? I don’t care for any of it now. I don’t want any of it anymore. It’s all just shit. More shit, piled on top of more shit, on top of more shit.

Shit.

Packing things in suitcases, boxes and bags always makes me feel like it’s The End of something, as if one door is closing, yet a window is wide open with the wind starting to blow through. When you move, you’re usually leaving something behind, or someone behind or some place behind. Generally you say goodbyes, make sure everything’s packed tightly in the car and double check that you’re not leaving any lights on, and that all of the windows are locked. You usually walk around the empty rooms, listen to your footsteps echo and bounce off of the walls, and think, “yes, this is the end of me living in one place; now I’m moving on to bigger and better things.”

I am saying goodbye, as I always do when I leave a place that I’ve lived at for any length of time. It’s just another step in the “leaving process” that helps me feel like I’m done, it’s done. I can leave in peace and know that there’s nothing left for me there. I’m saying goodbye to the disgusting walls, to the unknown smell that always lingered around, the filthy floors and the pain in the ass washing machine. But I’m also saying goodbye to all of the depressing days and nights I spent in my tiny room, and goodbye to all of the horrible, dramatic events that took place. I’m saying goodbye to all of the stress, the worries, the pain, the heartache, the laziness, the mistakes, the obsessions and the god only knows how many headaches caused by all of the negativity. I don’t want to carry any of that with me into my future. To be honest, it’s so much heavier than all of my clothes in my gigantic suitcases combined.

The only things I’ll be taking with me are my beloved items that have been quietly sitting around the flat waiting to be moved to a happier place. If it can’t fit in any of my bags, it gets tossed. I obviously don’t need it, nor do I want to make space for it. And I’ll also be taking the small memories that I have been keeping in a safe place that I hide inside of me. All of the hours that Trish and I spent downstairs watching TV programs on Bridget. Or whenever all of us would be getting ready for a night out, with four different songs blasting out of our rooms and vibrating the walls, drinking beforehand and dancing in our high heels on the wooden floors. Or just sitting with Helen quietly in the lounge in the morning times and not saying anything to each other, and it not being awkward.

Yeah, I’ve grown up quite a bit, and I’ve learned my fair share this past year, but it was tough. For the most part I did my best to keep myself happy and not let the girls know just how much I stressed about things, but there were a few times when I would cry silently to myself in my room, because the pain was all consuming, and even though I wasn’t alone, I felt so secluded. I didn’t want them to worry, but I also didn’t want to always be complaining and crying on their shoulders. I know they would have said that it was okay and that they didn’t mind, but really, I know that there is only so much down time that one person can take, and I didn’t want to be the one handing it all out in large chunks every other day.

However, even though this was a pathetic second year, I have come out on the other side a better person, and dare I say, a stronger person. I have gained even more perspective about living with people and understanding myself. The greatest lesson learned? Nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody, is perfect. Why? Because everyone makes mistakes, whether it’s forgetting about paying a certain bill, or making false judgements and not being open and honest about things straight away.

It’s true, you always hear people say it, and you know they’re right, but for the words to actually strike you in the face and for you to believe it, to understand it, to take in the words and have them mean so much more, is something completely different. Forgiveness is divine, and letting go of things - be it physical or emotional - is necessary in order for one to move on with life. It’s a hard, and very bitter pill to swallow sometimes, and I’m still learning every day how to move past certain things, but I’m sure it’ll get easier with time. Forgiving the little things is the easy part; it’s the bigger ones that take a lot longer to process and accept.

I can’t wait to shut the door one last time to this hellhole, and lock inside all of my past that’s not coming with me. Everything that I’ve been holding onto for the past two years can kiss my ass goodbye, because I don’t live here anymore.

Posted by Sam at 07:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

I have decided that the next man I want to be with must be insanely tall and have a well-groomed beard.

This morning. I decided that this morning on the bus.

I do realize that about 87% of the people on this great big planet are a lot taller than me, but I want a man who is like, really tall. Like, people will wonder how we have sex because he's so tall and I'm so short.

I'm not sure why I've all of a sudden taken an interest in beards, but there ya go.

Recently, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I know most of it has to do with the insane amount of alone time I had in the flat last week, but all of those thoughts that have been following me like baby ducklings all tied to a string since I first arrived here, decided to grow into mean, scary, evil birds that took that string they were tethered to, tie it around my neck and choke me. It wasn't fun, people, I'll tell you that now. It was, well, crazy. Insane. I would not do well in a torture camp. In fact, it would be really easy to torture me just by leaving me alone for a long period of time, because by the last day I'll be ready and willing to tell you all of my deepest darkest secrets without a second thought.

I'm sure that I could have done something to alleviate the thoughts that were plaguing me, but I decided to sit and savor each of them, to roll around in them all and let them soak through all of my pores into my blood stream. I was drenched in The Past, and it finally got to the point where I really was going to do something crazy if I didn't figure out a way to just let it all go.

Fucking hell, Samantha Leigh, let it go.

But I couldn't. I just sat there and let my imagination run amok, and it got really morbid to where I started thinking about the "well, what if he died? Or I died?" scenarios. Would I really want to die knowing that I never did anything? Would I want to be That Girl that just had yet another mental weekend? How much more was I willing to take? I had wasted a day and a half allowing myself to sit and soak in my guilt. I was disgusting.

Hence the email to Ash. It took me nearly three hours to write an email that was long, but not long enough or short enough. Nearly three hours where I scrutinized every comma, every word, and made sure that things that needed to be capitalized were capitalized, or that I hadn't forgotten a word in my nervous haste. Nearly three hours of me analyzing what This would mean, or what That would mean. Was I even getting my message across, or was I just rambling on like some fucked up ex-girlfriend that had gone all psycho? Probably both.

Then I thought maybe I was just doing this because I'm all alone and fucked up. Maybe I should do something, like call someone and have a two hour conversation? Maybe that would make it go away? Maybe I would remember that I'm not crazy, but just having a Crazy Moment?

But that would only be a distraction, and every single time I was alone I would be back exactly where I started with nothing accomplished. So I sent it. And then I cried like a motherfucker. But goddamn, it was one of those really good cries that I haven't had in a very long time. Healthy.

Learn from the past, instead of longing for it.

That wasn't the only thing I thought about, though, while I was sitting and squirming over The Past. I also thought about The Future, and what I want to do. I mean, what do I really want to do? My third and final year is fast approaching, and I should start constructing a plan for life post uni. I've always had the very vague thought of staying here in the UK after I graduate, all based purely on If's -- If I get a job here. If someone hires me. If I can find a place to stay. -- There's nothing solid about it. But then I thought, maybe I should move?

And that thought sparked a New Plan. A new, more definite and solid plan.

London is my lover. I fucking love this city so much it pains me. However, it can be rather difficult at times. If I could, I would put my relationship status on facebook as "it's complicated with London". Sometimes we fight and I cry, or I'll scream back in anger and the city will finally ease up on me and then we'll make up (always my favorite part). There are so many wonderful things about living here, I can't even bring myself to make a list, because it's never ending. Even the things I don't like, I secretly love, because hey, that's just London for you.

But -- yes, the 'but' -- I'm starting to get that all too familiar feeling I usually get after being somewhere for two or three years. That's what happens when you're a military brat and are so used to uprooting your entire life. It's time for me to get a move on, scrap everything I know and try again elsewhere.

Which is why I've decided if all the If's don't work out for me, I'm going to try my luck in New York and see what happens.

I was supposed to go last summer with Helz and Jon, but had to cancel because of work (blah!). And I've fought with Momma about spending my third year of uni there. But now I feel a lot more ready about going after uni. It just made so much sense when I thought about it. Why visit when you can live there? I am definitely a city gal, and moving to New York has so many pros: I would be really close to home, which is what I like the most about New York being located where it's located. As much as I love London with all of the beautiful accents and being able to travel easily to so many different countries, New York is only a mere three hours away from home. I could still have my own, separate life in the Big City, and Momma and Mel could be easily reached if I needed to go back, or just wanted to go back for a weekend. Besides, London has trained me well, and I'm sure I would work it out just fine in New York, just like how I did here.

I've thought about it, and I can picture myself there. I want to get a job in a publishing house, or work for a magazine company, or be some low-end newbie at a newspaper office. I'll look for a small, over-priced apartment (they don't call 'em 'flats' over there), where I'll hopefully not get broken into or have to dodge bullets, and eat amazing chinese food every night. It's going to be scary (because New York is so scary to me), but it's going to be brilliant, and I'll make it work and fit, just like how London is to me now.

Of course I'm not leaving just yet. It is still just a thought, a plan, an idea. Something could change a year from now, and I'll have to start all over again with a completely different route. But right now, that plan sounds the most promising, and the best one I've had. And I still have one more year in London before it's time for me to put any kind of final ending on anything. So for right now, I'll just curl up in London's arms and enjoy the time we have together.

Posted by Sam at 11:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Helen is back from Poland with her pretty, pretty vodka, I've started back at work this week, and life once again feels like it's moving at a normal pace. Sadly, because I'm lazy and took a week and a half of time off work, I'm not able to keep up with the whole "moving" and "living" parts that get in the way of my "sitting" time (or more importantly, my "napping" time).

Ah yes, work. I was slightly nervous about going back and showing my disgraceful mug round the office after my poor attempt of dropping off a simple note. Like, what was that about really? I received a text message from Helima when I was on the bus that simply said, "ARE YOU READY?"

Um, not so much, I thought to myself, sitting there and imagining what it would be like for me to walk through those doors again that I so happily let close behind me the week before.

It turns out we aren't working for the same office, but rather in a different building with a whole slew of new people to look at and play the yes/no game with (all of them, once again, are 'no', aside from this one potential guy who smells strongly of alcohol every morning, in case you were wondering). The good news is that this job requires slightly more brain power than what I was working on before. The bad news is that my computer is facing everyone and their grandmother, therefore leaving me absolutely no time whatsoever to piss about on the internet on the company's dime. Do you think that's why more offices are incorporating the "farm" or "pod" layout these days? So people have less privacy, therefore making them much more paranoid about who's peering over their shoulders?

On top of that, I've been feeling slightly under the weather. My health is so poor it's appalling; so I bought some vegetables and will be preparing a colorful and delicious salad (The Helen Salad) later on this evening. I left work early today (I know, on my second day back) so I could come home, change into my pajamas, and sit on the settees like I've been doing for the past week and a half!

It was better this time round, though, because Helen and Jon were here to keep me company, and I laughed because they were making jokes, rather than me just laughing out loud to myself because I'm crazy.

I'm glad there are people around once again, though, because this past weekend was pretty heavy for me. I guess those last two days were just the breaking point, and I couldn't handle my own company any longer. It was so quiet in the flat, leaving me with my thoughts, my crazy and insane thoughts. I couldn't bake anymore cookies, I couldn't listen to anymore music, I couldn't watch anymore TV on dvd, I couldn't read anymore books, I couldn't clean anything else in the flat, because I had already done it THREE HUNDRED TIMES.

So I sat in bed, and blankly stared outside my window where I watched the weather switch from rainy and windy, back to sunny and breezy every fifteen minutes. I would get up to open my window, only to have to get up again to shut it when the rain would start spraying everywhere.

And my thoughts, while I was stuck in that circle routine for nearly two hours, consumed me. They engulfed me. They swirled around and swallowed me whole. And finally I thought, "if I don't do something about this soon, I'm going to kill myself."

So I emailed Ash.

Obviously.

And then I cried.

Obviously.

And then I sang and danced to Rilo Kiley.

And then nothing.

Posted by Sam at 06:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

God I'm rank.

That's what happens when you've been cleaning ALL AFTERNOON.

I guess I don't do things by half.

Today has been successful in many ways; first, I left the flat, which, let's be honest here, is a major accomplishment for me. Not only did I just leave the flat, but I even got on a bus, went into Putney, paid some more of my rent, AND went to the grocery store. Let us also mention that while I was at the grocery store, I spent £10 less than I thought I would spend, which is always a good thing.

Oh yeah, and one important thing that I bought whilst at the grocery store? A six pack of Diet Coke. Oh hells yeah. I have a hunch that me not having my daily dose of crack is why I've been so - blah - this week. Because after I had one sip of that sweet nectar, I was up and about in no time (yeah, I know it's probably all in the mind, but whatevs). It was so damn good that I had TWO WHOLE CANS. And I'll be damned if I didn't feel fucking spectacular.

I cleaned the flat, and out of nowhere I decided to clean Trish's room, just because... There was no real reason except that her room was there and it has been sitting with the door shut needing to be cleaned for weeks now. I've been putting it aside because I've been scared of what was hiding and waiting in there for me, but today I had no qualms with snapping on some yellow rubber gloves and diving in. I went all out as well, opening the window and lighting a candle. Now the door is staying open just so I can see the beauty I've created every time I walk past. It's just a shame that she's not here to see it and properly live in it.

I cleaned my room, did a load of laundry and vacuumed everything. The flat still disgusts me, but at least now I can walk around barefoot without picking up an entire rug of lint on the bottom of my feet. I almost want to invite someone over so they can stare in awe of my mad cleaning skills.

Of course now I feel like I can't cook anything or make the slightest mess without cleaning it up straight afterwards. I suppose that's a good thing, but it gets annoying real quick. I mean, hair is going to fall from my head onto the floor, and I just don't have the energy to clean my floor every single day. Effort.

Looking at the calendar, though, I see that we only have about a week and a half left here in this shit hole. Then we'll be moving into Helen's house for a couple of weeks until it's time for her to head off to Paris for a year (!). Then I'll go stay with Alex, and then move on campus. It's going to be a mission, but anything is better than staying here where I need to have a can of Raid attached to my hip like a pistol in case any random bugs decide to surprise me. The ones that fly are the worst, because they freak out and fly in random directions until they finally fall dead on the ground. I run and scream trying to keep them away from me so they don't land in my hair, whilst holding my breath from the fumes. The worst one was when a HUGE moth was in the shower with me, and I ran out of the bathroom screaming completely naked and soaking wet with shampoo still in my hair. Thankfully Helen wasn't here to witness my moment of insanity, but ever since then, I always have the Raid within arm's reach.

What was I even talking about? Oh right, leaving this shit hole. Yes. I'm really looking forward to it. I'm also looking forward to mooching off my friends for a couple of weeks and living in a real house. We already know how much I love it.

I'm tired again. I think I'm going to have another Diet Coke.

Posted by Sam at 07:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

As we all know, me being alone in the flat alone for long periods of time simply isn't healthy. I need to have something to keep me occupied and gets me out of the flat; if I don't have a reason, I won't do anything except slouch around and eat cookies (the cookie eating is really nice, though).

So this past week has been frightening for me, and I say frightening because I've literally done fuck all. Nothing. I haven't left the flat. I haven't put on make-up, done my hair or cleaned anything. My routine is fairly simple with me having a shower sometime in the afternoon just so I don't feel grimy.

I do make cookies and watch all of my TV shows on dvd. I lounge around in my summer night dress and think a lot about what I should be doing. My list of Things That Need To Get Done, But Haven't Gotten Done Because I'm A Lazy Bum, is continuously growing and I simply don't see a point in doing anything when it doesn't need to be finished straight away. What's another day going to hurt? It's not like I'm going anywhere anytime soon or that I have a job to look forward to. There is no end to this monotony.

Until Nikki called me.

Nikki is Simon's little helper that calls up people and asks them if they're available to start on this day, at this time for this pay. She called me on Tuesday asking if I had any experience taking minutes for meetings, and I lied and said that I did have "intermediate" skills. But she wanted me to start at half one that afternoon, and she called me at 12:30. I had just woken up, so I told her it was unlikely that I'd make it on time.

I was a tiny bit down in the dumps wondering if they were ever going to find me a job, and I was starting to get nervous, because I haven't paid all of the rent back yet (I'm so close!) and I need money in order to, oh I don't know - live. I mean, there has to be plenty of admin jobs out there right?

Apparently not. However, Nikki did call me the next day saying that I must have left an impression, because my old job WANTED ME TO COME BACK. For four weeks. Starting bright and early on Monday morning.

"I can have you start earlier if you'd like," she said to me over the phone.

"Oh, um, no, that's okay. Monday should be good. This Monday?"

Jesus. My old job. My old mind-numbing job, where I just so happened to drop off a certain note on a certain person's desk, who hasn't called.

"Are you sure you can start? You sound a little hesitant," she asked.

Of course I'm hesitant, Nikki! Do you know what I did there on my "last day" of work? I left a note on a guy's desk who hasn't called me, and I thought that would be fine because I thought I'D NEVER SEE ANY OF THEM AGAIN.

"Oh, no. It's fine. Really. I'm just working out how I'm going to get to Hammersmith from Kingston. We're moving soon is all."

"Oh right. Okay. Well I'll send you an email with all of the details, and you can get back to your old job."

"Fantastic."

I could have died. I was on the phone and I already felt my face turning red. It's as if the whole world knew, and now this was a terrible, cruel joke that was being played on me. If I wasn't so desperate for money, I would have waited for another job to come up. But no. I'll be going to back to do a "similar" task with all of the old records I've already looked at. I can hardly wait.

Not long after Nikki called me, my phone started ringing again, and I saw that it was Helima, one of the ladies who used to suffer alongside me. She told me that her agency called her with the same offer, and so did Sandra and Anna. It looks like we'll all be back together for a reunion after not even being apart for a week. I felt slightly better knowing that my fellow comrades were going to be there with me and that I wasn't walking in alone with a giant red bulls-eye on me. There will be some friendly faces for me to look at when I'm not staring at the wall.

The universe certainly does have a sense of humor. Unfortunately for me, I'm not laughing. No. Instead I'm huddle in a corner and slowly dying of embarrassment.

I suppose the upside would be that since I know I'm going back to work on Monday, I have motivation to start working on things here at the flat. Not much motivation (I still have the weekend), but there is an end to this boring routine of mine.

Posted by Sam at 12:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember when I was really young -- perhaps eight or so -- and Mel had done something to royally tick me off. I can't remember exactly what it was now, but it was bad enough for me to convince her that she wasn't part of our family. She wasn't blood related and that Momma wasn't her birth mother, but rather her adoptive aunt that took pity on one of her friends and decided to raise her "as her own". I even went so far as to pull out a family photo album and point out who her "real mom" was, who just so happened to be one of Momma's friends from a few years back.

"See," I said, pointing to Momma's friend, Doreen, who had blond hair and was English. "That's your real mom. Who knows where she is now, but she just dumped you here because she didn't want you."

Yes, I was cruel older sister.

Mel cried, obviously, and ran upstairs to Momma asking if she really was part of our family. Momma had to assure her that yes, of course she was part of our family and that no, Doreen was not her birth mother. If that was the case then Momma wanted to know why she had to suffer through the hell that is Childbirth.

I would grow up and there would always be a small part of me that hated myself for ever telling Mel that she wasn't part of our family. Mel is, in so many ways, what holds our small family together. If it wasn't for her, I'm not sure where Momma and I would be these days.

In reality, she is my younger sister, the baby, the last wee youngin'; but her role is more like the middle sister. Momma and I bicker at each other, and she's unfortunately the referee that is stuck in between the both of us, listening to each of us bitch and moan about the other, and in the end Mel just throws up her arms and screams, "WHY DON'T Y'ALL JUST SORT IT OUT YOURSELVES. YOU'RE ACTING LIKE TWO-YEAR-OLDS!"

And Momma and I will just sit with our arms crossed not looking at each other, hating the fact that she's right, and she's the youngest.

But my sister, my best friend, my Pookie, she is the greatest friend that I've had my entire life. Our relationship isn't a complicated one. We don't ever need to explain anything to each other, because we just know, this is how it is. This is how we are. I know that Mel isn't a sappy sentimental person, and we rarely tell each other "I love you". That's just not what we do. It's not because we don't love each other, but it's because we don't have to tell each other as a reminder; we know that the love is always there, constantly surrounding us. There's no need to point it out and make it out to be some Big Deal.

I've given in to the fact that my younger sister is also smarter than me. Mel knows everything about Everything. She's a whiz at Jeopardy and knows plenty of useless information that no human being should ever know; but it's there, in her brain, just waiting to score 400 points. She also knows everything there is to know about Designer Name Brands, high fashion couture, and can spot knock-off purses from a mile away. It's a gift really.

She also has a sixth sense about men that we date and will tell you whether or not he's the right guy, simply by you talking about him. I don't know how she does it, but she knows every single time; and not just with the guys that I'm interested in or Momma goes out with, but my friends as well. We'll disagree with her and tell her that she's wrong, but later on down the line (whether it's two years or two months), we learn that she was right the whole time. It's scary, but I've learned to trust her word and never argue when it comes to Mel's Boy Approval.

I could go on for days, weeks even, about how cool and understated my little sister is (who's not so little standing tall at 5'8"), but she's one of those people that you have to meet to understand. When people first meet her, they tend to either not like her or think she's really shy. She won't speak much, but that's only because she's quietly watching you, observing you, judging you and deciding whether or not you're worth her time. You may even forget that she's in the room, but that doesn't mean that she's not listening. And you'll know when she has made up her mind about you, because when you least expect it, she'll pipe up with one sentence, one sentence that is so dead on, so poignant and funny, that you'll be laughing for five whole minutes while trying to hold your bladder together. That's just her.

Nobody else will ever come close to figuring us out, not even Momma. We have millions of inside jokes, and can quote a lyric from a song, or recite a certain part from one of our favorite movies and just Get It. She will only do her Chander dance for me. And trust me, that is something special that I wish she would share with the world. She recommends TV shows that I'll like, sends me music, and she'll know what I'm talking about when I say, "it's all happening." We will fight, argue and hate each other, but five minutes later everything will be fine and we'll go back to laughing because, good lord, she farted again and it was a silent killer. We have conversations with each other while one of us is in the shower, and she'll scare the living shit out of me when I wake up to find her face five inches away from me, staring. And when I ask her what she's doing, she'll say simply, "just waiting for you to wake up so we can watch TV."

She'll be turning twenty-one this year, officially making her an adult that can legally purchase alcohol (even though she's not much of a drinker, unlike her big sis). She still works at Target and could open up her own store and run it smoothly if she wanted to. She's just now starting to get over her fear and has begun her driving lessons, and is going back to school this fall back home at our local community college. She's doing things at her own pace, and is in no hurry to step out on her own in this big, intimidating world. And I don't blame her. It can be a harsh place to live in sometimes.

She's not so little anymore, though. She has been growing into her own person for a while now, making decisions and learning just like me how we're going to do this whole Life thing. I consider us extremely lucky in that we don't have to do it entirely alone. I'll always be there for her, just like when I got suspended in high school for three days for threatening to run over a girl with my car who was bad-mouthing Mel around the school. And Mel will always be there for me, making sure that I get care packages from back home stock full of TV shows on dvd and my favorite magazines (where she has already filled out the crossword puzzles - Thanks Pookie).

boop

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And that would be the tattoo I got for Mel. You know Garfield and his bear Pookie? Well, that's what reminds me of Mel. For as long as I can remember, she has always been Pookie. So I got the tattoo just for her.

Posted by Sam at 02:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

So y'all remember that awesome idea where fellow bloggers interview each other and all of that good stuff? Well, Elisa is her name, and she sent me her set of questions to interview me, which I happily answered. She posted the interview on her blog, so rather than me post here today, I'm telling (yes, telling) y'all to run on over there and read it!

Posted by Sam at 01:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My advice to anyone who plans on moving ever in their lifetime: don't. What's wrong with staying put in one place for all eternity? I am kind of growing to the fact that perhaps I was wrong all along. Maybe living in the same place all your life isn't such a terrible idea. I've come to this conclusion, because I've just now started to pack my things up in the flat, and can I just say, MISSION.

Since I'm jobless once again and waiting around for Simon (I hate waiting Simon!) I figured it couldn't hurt for me to climb out of bed and start getting some things done around the flat that have been looking at me ever since I came home and propped my feet up on the coffee table with a big plate of chocolate chip cookies. I have to pack. Everything. And if it doesn't get packed away, I need to throw it out or donate it to a charity shop. It must all go somewhere.

But packing is such a daunting and tedious task. It's so difficult and hard and laborious. It's so much easier for me to just sit down and finish eating my chicken alfredo that I made the night before. That sounds far more appealing.

I am forcing myself to sift through all of my crap though, and harshly decide if I really need my t-shirt that says, "I'm Rick James bitch!" on it, or if it's just a want. I mean, I never wear the thing. Not even as a night shirt. I think I just have it as a novelty tee. Still, it's hard for me to give away something that just means so much.

I've always known that I'm a pack rat, but honestly, how did it get to the point where I owned so much shit? I came to London with three suitcases, a shoulder bag and a book-bag. Now I can barely fit one-fourth of my belongings into the same suitcases and bags. I filled an entire suitcase today with HALF of the clothes just from my drawers and it's still halfway full of clothes I left that I know I wear practically every week, and all of my underwear. And that's something I'll never have to worry about -- underwear. I have at least fifty taking up space in my top drawer!

I suppose Momma and Mel have sent me quite a few boxes, but most of that was food that I love and can't do without, or books and magazines. I hate to say it, but I've bought a lot of useless crap. Who needs three purses from Primark? Sure, they were only £4, but now I have no place to put them. Or all of my shoes. Christ! My shoes!

And as I'm going through all of it, I think, yeah, I can pack that. I never use it anyway.

What is that?! Why do I have something where I can actually think that?

I suppose the only good thing is that it's all getting done now when I actually have the time to sort through it all. We officially move out on the nineteenth, and I think this might be the first place that I've ever lived where I'm not going to miss it one bit. I hate this place. It's disgusting and no matter how much I clean it, it remains in a filthy state. I hate the chav children that scream at all hours of the day. It always smells like trash. There are bugs everywhere. It's just shit. It holds far more negative memories for me than good, and on my last day here I will not be crying or feel a small twinge of sadness. I will probably be leaping in the air with joy. I can't wait to move back on campus, be a Lee House Girl and not have to worry about all of the shit that we put up with round here.

I do have a temporary guest as well for forty-eight hours. Carlene's younger sister, Sonya, is down to do some things with the American embassy and yadda, yadda, yadda. I don't know what it's all about, but she needed a place to crash while she was getting it all sorted. I didn't mind so long as Carlene wasn't coming down with her. We still haven't spoken since we fell out, and I guess it's mostly my fault, because while she has made an effort to speak to me (a couple of messages on facebook), I earnestly ignore her and will message her when I need to.

I must say, it's strange to have another person in the flat. Somebody that I don't really know either. I didn't exactly put that much thought into preparing for her arrival. She should be happy that I even had clothes on, since I've gotten way too comfortable with roaming around here half-naked. I've realized that being alone in the flat for long periods of time makes me extremely lazy. I mean, who's going to really care? I'm alone!

Not so much anymore, and now I feel like I should do something; I'm not sure what. Perhaps hang out with her? Make conversation? Mostly I just want to say, "hey, can't you see that I'm reading in my underwear? Go entertain yourself!"

And this is why I'm going to make an awesome floor rep.

Posted by Sam at 12:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday was my last day of work.

Not completely. Hopefully I'll get a call from Simon within the next couple of days saying that he has found me a new job to start. Temp jobs are, well, temporary, and thank goodness this one has come to an end. I was so bored sitting at that stupid desk and trying to find something to hold my interest for five hours every day, while at the same time trying to appear like I was doing work. It was a lot harder than you think, considering that reading three books doesn't look like merging council records in an excel spreadsheet.

For now, I have some time off to chill out, relax and maybe even get some things done round here in the flat. Helen has gone to Poland for two weeks, leaving me to my own devices. I'm getting on okay and have discovered that living by yourself isn't so bad; I frequently walk around with little to no clothing on, pee with the door open and don't have to worry about anyone walking in on me while I sing and dance in the kitchen with my music turned up to full blast. It's kind of liberating.

Before my mini break and cutting loose from the chains of The Council, I had one tiny bit of business to take care before I left -- business that dealt with Aussie boy. I made it my personal business to talk to him, to ask him out, and to get over my fear of talking to boys that I like.

That proved to be slightly more difficult than I had originally imagined. I thought I'd just be able to walk up to him, say good morning, ask about the traffic with the trains and the weather and the whatever else small talk I could think of, and that would be it. But I didn't. Sometimes people give off that "don't talk to me" vibe, and I kind of got that from him. I tried to see if I could make some eye contact, get into his head, perhaps see what he was thinking by simply staring at his face, but he wouldn't even look at me! He'd just walk into the kitchen, get his lunch, and then walk back out leaving me with my leftover dinner and whatever book I was reading that week. No eye contact. No small whisper of a "hey" or anything.

I decided to devise a new plan. I would not be thwarted by a small hiccup in my Trying To Get To Know Him efforts. If at first you don't succeed, try again, right? Right.

So I remembered back when I was in the fourth grade and Valentine's Day would roll around. All of us small tikes would spend an entire afternoon cutting out pink, purple and red hearts from construction paper and Elmer's gluing them onto our small shoe-boxes with a small slit in the top for people to drop their valentine cards inside on that very special day that many adults now hate and have to try to keep from choking on their own bile whenever that depressing day is forcefully shoved in our faces every year.

But before it became a day that made people up their diazepam prescriptions, we used to enjoy it. I know it was always fun for me to pick out which person got which valentine with what message and how many candy hearts I wanted to attach to it. And then closing each individual valentine in their miniature envelopes and writing out your classmate's names. It was fun! Or at least I was somehow tricked into believing it was fun, because I don't do that anymore. I've lost that arts and crafts side of me and have instead replaced it with a cynical old woman.

ANYWAY, I decided to try and possess those childhood feelings once again and write dear Aussie boy a note. A funny note. A quippy note. Something that would be heartfelt and endearing. Not something that would scream sociopath. I wanted to convey my message in a light-hearted way, catch his attention with my words, and show in a few simple lines that I am a funny, interesting and a lovely girl that he would like to get to know. That he would like to call. And ask out. For drinks. And perhaps even food beforehand?

I can't remember what I wrote (I knew I should have made two copies, dammit!), but I let Helen read over it before I wrote the final draft.

"It's pretentious, isn't it? God, do I sound like fucking Lucy -----? Please don't tell me I sound like that poser cunt," I rambled as I paced back and forth in front of Helen as she silently read it.

"No, no. It's good. I like it. But I would suggest that you - "

"Scrap it entirely and start again because I sound like a cunt?" I interrupted.

"No. Take out 'if you're available' and the bit at the end of 'that would make me feel a lot better.' Otherwise I think it's good," she said giving me her final conclusion.

"Really? Take out the 'if you're available'? Because I thought maybe if he already had a girlfriend...."

"Nah, don't worry about that."

With Helen's good words, I re-wrote the final draft, folded it neatly and put it in my desk drawer. I then planned out how many records I had left, did some minor math to figure out which would be my last day, and decided that on Thursday, I would give him my note right before I left at half five, because I knew that he always stayed until six on Thursdays.

God, I do sound like a psychopath.

However, I didn't take into account that perhaps he had a holiday planned and that he would leave at lunchtime on Wednesday and not be back until Monday, meaning that I wouldn't be able to give him my note like I had originally planned, and instead leave the note on his desk. Just like those valentine cards, only without the shoe-boxes, and being in the fourth grade part.

I certainly wasn't going to back out now. I wrote god only knows how many drafts before I finally came to the final one! And I hadn't come this far to pussy out just because he wasn't here to accept my note personally. I mean, I had originally wanted to hand him the note myself so I didn't seem like that big of a douchebag, but he just had to go and throw a wrench into that plan.

So Thursday (yesterday even) arrived and there I was sitting at my desk staring at his empty chair where he would have been to accept my note from my trembling little hands. How was I going to do this? How was I going to casually slip a note on his desk without everyone in the office seeing and wondering what I was doing near his desk. I had no reason to be loitering around because we never talked (not entirely my fault).

I decided to do what I always do in these kind of situations (which pop up more frequently than one may think) and channel one of my idols: Sydney Birstow.

Yes! She would know what to do and how to handle this situation. She is smooth, blasé and smokin' hot. She has been in far tougher situations than this, but a simple note drop-off is a lot harder than most people think. You have to be quick and discreet, and never draw attention to yourself. It is a secret that only you and the Note Receiver knows about, but is blatant in front of everyone else without their knowledge.

I quickly devised a new plan which was a lot simpler in theory than when I actually executed it.

His desk is located right next to our water cooler in the middle of the giant office. I would place the note in my right pocket and act like I was going to refill my water bottle, and while I was screwing the cap back on, I would "accidentally" drop it on the floor near his desk and then while I was slowly getting up, I'd take the note out of my pocket and place it nonchalantly on his keyboard so it would be the first thing he saw when he walked in on Monday morning.

Simple. Easy peasy. I had this in the bag. Sydney Bristow would be proud.

When the Big Moment arrived, though, I found myself start to choke up. Jesus, what if something went wrong? What if I dropped my water bottle all over the floor soaking the carpet and then have all my co-workers rush over to try and help me clean up the mess? Or I tripped and broke something? I am a clumsy person. These things could happen.

I eventually just sucked it up, grabbed my water bottle and started walking (very aware of every step so as to try and prevent myself from tripping on the bloody carpeting). There were only three other employees in the office and I'm sure they found their BBC news article to be far more interesting than me refilling my stupid water bottle.

Of course it still felt like all eyes were on me, only because I knew what was going to happen; I knew what was about to go down; I knew what was about to take place. And I thought, thank god he's not actually here for me to give this to him. I might pass out. He's not even here and I'm having severe anxiety.

I refilled my water bottle as I normally do, but rather than dropping the cap on the floor, I simply paused by his desk while I was walking back and slid it on ever so slightly. It wasn't on his keyboard like I had wanted, but at least the damn note made it on the desk.

I kept my eyes firmly at my feet below me and in my paranoid state could have sworn that somebody whispered, "what did she just put on his desk?" I quietly grabbed my things off of my desk and exited the building for the last time, still without making any eye contact with anybody. As I let the door shut behind me, I smacked the palm of my hand against my forehead and yelped, "d'oh!" I am such a lameass.

For some reason I was walking a lot faster than normal to the bus stop and had to force myself to take it down a notch and cruise the sidewalk. Nobody was after me. I wasn't being chased. I was no longer channeling Sydney Bristow. But I felt like a dumbass. Who does this anymore? Who leaves notes on people's desks? Really, though? Seriously? Who does that? God, what if someone walked by, opened it and read it? What if they saw my words written to him and laughed? Or worse, called me.

I just laughed it off because, hey, I never have to go back there ever again. It was after all, my last day of work. I may or may not hear from him. I'm thinking the chances of him calling are extremely doubtful and I'm not getting my hopes up, especially after I proper worked myself into a state by just putting the damn note on his desk in the first place. But I did do it, which is important and a very big step for a girl who once used to pick out the special chocolates for the boys she really liked in the fourth grade.

Posted by Sam at 04:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Yes, this one goes out to all of my fellow little ladies out there that live their lives day-to-day and are vertically challenged. We are those small ladies that you can barely see in the crowds and are easily shoved aside while all of the tall giants stroll right past us and jump on the bus before us leaving us to stand. We are not invisible, though! We may be little, but we have big voices! And we're damn proud to stand up (as tall as our tippy toes will allow us) and say, "hey! Down here!"

I won't lie -- I like that I'm short. I like being small, petite, tiny, miniscule and teensy weensy. Being small comes with perks and I fully take advantage of my short stature.

Of course, there are some disadvantages that come with being shorter than the average 5'7". It's difficult to find trousers that fit properly (they either fit in the waist and are too short in length, or they're long enough but too big in the waist), and I do envy those leggy women that can wear all of those long, flowing, summer dresses without looking like a small child that's playing dress up in her mother's clothes. Some things simply weren't made for us little women. However, we can get away with wearing shorter shorts and extra mini skirts without looking like we're "showing off too much skin" which is always nice when you want to go out skimpy but not look like a £2 hooker.

Nowadays, though, you can find clothes that are made specially for us that weren't blessed with legs up to our necks. There are many different stores that have designated "petite" sections for the women that aren't built like your typical model who has plenty of leg to spare. It's not so much of a chore now, nor do you have to spend time and money altering hemlines just so your skirts fit nicely on your waist. It is one less thing for us to not have to worry about in our wee little minds.

Aside from clothes shopping, though, there are other daily battles that we must face. We're constantly weaving in and out around people, trying to reach things on high shelves in stores and look like minature pack horses when we have a big day of shopping. There you'll see us with all of our grocery bags dragging low to the ground, or us hunched over at a 90-degree angle because of massive bag that we have propped up on our backs. Whoever said that short people have it so much easier has never had to carry a full load of groceries from Asda on the bus, alone, without any assistance from anyone or anything. Let me tell you, it's hard. My hands are only small. I can only carry so much at a time!

We are also discriminated against at water parks, theme parks and local fairs. That giant rollercoaster that looks so intimidating but thrilling at the same time? We're not allowed because we're "too short". It's so unfortunate.

But here are the things about being smaller than average I do like:

- Always having plenty of leg room. You'll never see me struggling folding up my legs in economy on an airplane or squeezing them close on the tube or bus. I can sit comfortably for the duration of my trip while everyone else has to figure out where they can put their ankles without having to twist it in an odd shape.

- Strangers will generally help you when you are visibly struggling with bags or a stroller. Unlike the doyley lady, I don't expect people to help me just because I can't seem to handle all of my shopping bags; then again, I never turn down a kind stranger when they offer a helping hand. I just hope that one of those "kind strangers" doesn't turn into a theif who runs off with all of my things.

- I'll never have to worry about a guy being too short. Some taller women have a thing about the guy they're dating being shorter than they are. Me? I don't have that problem. I suppose a guy could be too tall, but I doubt it. I've been with some tall fellas and we've managed to work it out every time.

- On a similar note, some guys prefer shorter women. They don't like all of that extra leg getting in the way, but would rather have us pint-sized chicks.

- On a couple of occasions, I can still buy things (mainly cute pajamas) from the Juniors department and clothes there are cheaper.

- These days, short girls rock.

So yes, there are good and bad things that go hand-in-hand with being short, but I suppose that goes for anything really. We may not be able to glide along like the glamazons and have to trot alongside to keep up, but nonetheless, we have some fine points that the tall people simply don't have. There seems to be some kind of novelty for us women that never have to duck under anything. We are cute, special and many people feel the need to take care of us, protect us, or handle us with care because of our small size.

But the next person who feels the need to pet me on the head like a minature chiuaua, I will bite your hand off without any hesitation.

Posted by Sam at 03:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Because Miss Grace (aka Jennifer) is awesome, she speedily sent me her answers to my standard interview questions. And considering how below par my creativity is recently (hence, the not-so-creative questions), her answers are superb. I give her a thousand gold stars and a pat on the back!

This interview thing is fun. I may sign myself up to do it again.

**

1.) Why did you start a blog?

I think my blog evolved out of my attempt to escape from mass emailings. After college, my friends were all in these far flung places, and I got really tired of writing 15 versions of the same email letting everyone know what was going on. Because of that, I started a blog on MySpace to keep friends abreast of what I was doing (this was when MySpace was shiny and new, and you could legitimately participate without being grouped amongst 14-year-old girls and child molesters). I moved over to this blog because I wanted a better format, and I had started to read blogs where I didn't directly know the writer, and wanted to start building on that community.

2.) Do you think that your blog is a decent representation of who you are in "real life"? Do you really care?

I write as myself, and I think that my blog is representative of who I am. However, there are things that I won't talk about online (current relationships, for example), and there are some general moods that I don't tend to write in; I'm not a very good writer when I'm depressed. So there are sides of my personality that don't necessarily come through on my blog; not because they're censored, but because I don't ever feel like writing when I'm in that place.
I do care how I come across in the sense that I want people who read my writing to feel like they are getting to know me, and not some persona I created for the benefit of the internet. I do not, however, care if you don't like me.

3.) Kind of a two-parter question: do you think everyone should keep a blog? And if so, do you think that blogging can be taught? It's kind of like the popular question in my creative writing classes of "can creative writing be taught?"

In short, no. Some people just aren't writers. Some people are great, fantastic, funny people, and it just doesn't translate well into the written word. Other people just aren't very smart or very funny, and I don't really want to read what they have to say. Did I mention that I'm not always very nice, or very diplomatic? Sorry.
I also think that if you're uncomfortable with blogging, and the whole "scary internet" thing, then you might not want to do it.
But anyone who thinks they might want to start a blog? Should definitely give it a try.

4.) What about blogging makes it enjoyable?

My favorite thing about blogging is the chance to write on my own time, without it ever feeling like work. Actually no--that's my second favorite thing. My FAVORITE thing is the community, and all of the wonderful writing and interesting lives I discover online.

5.) About BlogHer: I've never attended, but I read that you went this year. 1st - What can you tell newbies like myself to expect if/when we go? 2nd - Was it all it was cracked up to be?

1st - Everyone who's going is going there at least in part (if not in full) to meet people, so be prepared to introduce yourself A LOT. You can't be afraid to approach strangers, and I don't think there's room for being shy. Also, I'm tired of the posts I've been reading about how someone couldn't "talk to so-and-so because they're too BIG." There are more and less well known bloggers, but everyone at THAT conference is open to meeting everyone else (that's why they came), so if you want to say hi, you absolutely should.
2nd - Yes, it 100% is. I think that my writing has become tangibly better as a result of going, in ways that I can't begin to explain.

6.) I'm all about music; love it to infinity and beyond. What is your favorite band, type of music and so forth?

I always have a really hard time when people ask me this question. I honestly listen to everything. Like, EVERYTHING everything. You are equally likely to find Tom Waits or Nas or Johnny Cash or Counting Crows or Depeche Mode or Justin Timberlake in my CD player. I've lately been going through sort of a folk phase, which has featured Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch, James McMurtry, and John Prine. But three months ago I was in an early-90's hip-hop sort of a mood, so it's hard to predict. Growing up, the family business was a nightclub, so I went to a wide variety of concerts and shows from a very young age, and was therefore exposed to a lot of different sounds, etc. I also learned that the ability to produce a good CD does not necessarily translate into the ability to put on a good show, and visa versa.

7.) In your spare time when you're not raising your son or blogging, what do you like to do when you get a quiet moment to yourself?

If I'm not otherwise occupied (and I'm not asleep) I: read, knit, walk/bike, or sit around on my couch and stare at the wall. Okay so staring at the wall is the most likely, but they're all equally satisfying.

8.) How long do you see yourself blogging for?

For as long as I'm getting something out of it and enjoying what I create, I see myself doing it.

9.) Have you ever received any negative comments and/or feedback about your blog? If so, how did you handle it?

I have an ongoing negative reaction from my son's father, mainly because HIS father is one of my regular readers, and I don't think he likes to be exposed as categorically insane. While I make a point to never use his name, he did notably comment on one of my entries. The main reason I published everything that we both wrote was because I wanted him to be less abusive to me in emails, and the fact that I have no qualms about publishing them has kept him pretty much in check since then. It doesn't really matter whether I write about him or not, as it's the simple fact that I blog that upsets him, and most of the time, my entries have absolutely nothing to do with him. Aside from that issue, which is ongoing, I haven't really had any negative feedback from readers. I've found a wonderfully supportive community.

10.) Do you think that the "blog hierarchy" is a load of wank?

I think that some bloggers are more well-known than others, and I think that as long as you have a community of people doing the same thing, some of them are going to invariably become more "famous" than others. However, I don't think it's quite the same as "real-life" fame in the sense that most bloggers are still very in touch with their communities.

Posted by Sam at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I have nothing important (when do I ever talk about anything "important" really) to write today, so instead I shall introduce y'all to The Great Interview Experiment. I discovered it over at Monica's blog and thought that it was a fantastic idea as soon as I read it.

I'm participating and decided to share this great revolution to y'all out there who would also like to be interviewed by a complete and total stranger. I mean, really, who wouldn't love that? I'm still waiting to hear from the lady who is supposed to interview me, but I already sent my set of questions to Miss Grace. What I've discovered? It's probably best that I'm studying creative writing instead of journalism, because I'm a shit journalist. However, Miss Grace is a fantastically funny writer that kind of reminds of me of Trish.

I do believe that this idea is a great way to discover new blogs (because my lord there are so many out there), reach out an internet hand to your neighbor in this vast space and get to know who else is out there rather than sitting in the same corner. We may not all be a Dooce, a laid off dad or a former stripper turned writer in New York, but we all deserve to be interviewed at least once.

Posted by Sam at 03:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It seems like I am continuously learning who are good friends, who are great friends, and who are lifelong friends that I should hope to know until we're old. For as long as I can remember, all the way back to the fourth grade when I knew Stephanie Ramazini, I've traded, recycled and gained new best friends every single year. Stephanie kicked off first, then there was blond Heather, red-headed Heather, Tabitha (whom I got in a big fight with and never spoke to ever again), Shella, Kirsty, Gina and finally Sarah in my junior year of high school.

Halfway through my senior year when I lived in North Carolina, Momma moved me up to Virginia with me kicking and screaming the whole way. I didn't want to leave halfway through my senior year, yet it was my fault for leaving in the first place. She said I could stay if I remained on good behavior, but because I was going through my "rebel phase" (which appears to only now be fading away), I was forced to move twenty minutes away from the nation's capital leaving all of my small town friends behind with no word, not even a small note saying good-bye. It must have seemed like I had been kidnapped, however, skipping school and getting my friend's dad to pierce my belly button when we were all drunk after Thanksgiving was not part of the Momma-Sam agreement. I had relinguished my rights as a free spirited 17-year-old and had to spend my last six months of my high school career in a brand new school, with brand new faces, in a brand new location. It was quite possibly six of the worst months of my entire life.

During my time spent at T.C. Williams (yes, where they filmed Remember The Titans), I kept to myself mostly and worked to get my GPA up. While I was living in my small, southern town it had sunk to a pathetic 2.1, and by the time I walked across the stage to collect my diploma I managed to raise it all the way up to a 3.5.

Yes, it was quite an accomplishment, but it didn't mean that I was happy while I worked on getting those good grades. I was very quiet, meak and hated every new person that I came in contact with or tried to get to know me. Everyone there was stupid and didn't understand me. Or better yet, I didn't understand them; what was with them calling cigarettes 'jacks' anyway? They had stupid words in Virginia.

I did briefly make a new friend, Lauren, who was in a similar boat that I was in, only she was from Oklahoma (who knew people actually lived there!) and she was a junior. We met in gym class and talked about how shit Virginia was together. It was a nice common ground and we understood that we weren't really best friends, but that each other's company would do for the time being until it was time for us to go our separate ways.

In between my alone time hating everything that was in Virginia and my time spent with my temporary friend, Lauren, I met Mendy. I can't remember exactly how we met each other and started talking, but I'm pretty sure it was during one of our many gym classes that we loathed. We would sit in the locker room getting changed into our gross uniforms and talk about how pointless physical education is for students in the 21st century; we'd be lucky if we burned off our calories from lunch. We also thought it was a bit hypocritical to have a gym teacher that closely resembled Fat Albert.

Immediately our friendship clicked into place like two pieces that had been waiting to find each other. She was so funny and smart and made me want to speak differently, more like how an educated adult might speak; and she helped me not feel so alone like the weird, awkward, small town outcast that I was. She was my soulmate, the one person who just got me immediately without having to ask any questions. We were inseparable, and yet at the same time we could go for long periods of not speaking to each other and not have the time apart make one bit of difference. We could so easily pick our friendship up right where we left off and slip back into the S&M (hehe dirrty) ways. We went to concerts (oh, so many fulfilling gigs we went to), we worked so hard to come to London, and in between we spent the rest of our time chilling by the pier in Alexandria, talking about the future, talking about life in general, and talking about when we would be free from our parents and living independently.

She is, to this day (aside from Mel who I've obviously known all my life), the only best friend I've had for longer than two years. Six years later after I made that unwilling move to the state I once despised, and we're still going strong like an old married couple. We've had our disagreements, the occasional argument, but more good times than bad. I would certainly not be who I am today without her.

I remember after I told her that I was going to try and move over here to London so I could be closer to Ash and start a new life away from all of my different ball and chains (i.e. Momma, my job, my boring routine life); she was not the happiest person and it took her a while to give me her support. The whole time we had always talked about how we were going to move away and live together. We would get jobs together and be poor college students together, and here I was just taking it upon myself to break our future plans without consulting her about it first. It was a strain on our friendship and probably the hardest hit we've ever taken.

Looking back on it now it's silly, because lord, we were so young. She was just seventeen, and there I was at nineteen going on twenty and our lives just felt so big as if we were at a major crossroads (god, that sounds so shit and cliché, but there's really no other way to describe it). But we were. We were leaving our teenage years behind us and welcoming a new chapter into a more adult life. Sure, we thought we spoke like adults and acted like adults, and for our age we were considerably mature, especially Mendy; she was always more like the adult between the two of us. However, we were still so inexperienced and didn't know shit about life. As much as we thought we were our own person, we heavily relied on each other. Breaking off all of our mutual plans left us alone in this great big world and that was terrifying for us both to accept.

Now we are certainly different people, we are both our own person, we both have moved away and have been living our own lives, creating our own rules and have that freedom that we both talked about so long ago. I am no longer in the firm grips of Momma and have a strong relationship with her now, and Mendy has been supporting herself, continuing her education and engaged.

Indeed. Engaged.

I've never met him, but I know Mendy, and I know she's a smart gal. I may not understand getting married at twenty-one, but I understand her, and I know that she wouldn't be doing it unless she was completely sure. And that's the thing about us -- we may not always agree or are on board straight away with each other's decisions, but that's only because we worry and are concerned for our friend. But the trust that we have in each other puts our worried thoughts to rest. I know she will only do things that she's ready for and from the sounds of things, they're really happy with each other, which is all I could ask for. I am there for her through the good and the bad, just as I know she is for me no matter what we get ourselves into.

Mendy: I really miss you, I miss our eternal conversations, I miss you being my soulmate. You've always been able to understand me like no one else. We have changed a lot, but in some ways I think we'll always be the same. I hope our friendship never changes.

Me: It's true, we have experienced many changes over the past couple of years but I believe the two of us will forever remain to be 19 and 17-years-old living in Alexandria. That part of me you have for eternity. It is something that I have never taken for granted.

Posted by Sam at 06:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"Alright sexy?" he said as I walked past him down one of the many side streets in Kingston.

Ugh, just ignore him. Fucking chavs.

"Hey now, I'm just kidding. But you are sexy."

Oh yes, you modern day Casanova. That is exactly how I've dreamt of meeting the man whom I hope to share the rest of my life with. Can't you just picture us telling that story to our mutual friends at parties?

"Well, I was just walking to meet my friends at the pub, when who should walk by me and say those sweet words that I've been waiting to hear for so long!"

And here I thought that romance was dead.

I went out on Thursday to meet one of my friends, Josie, so we could go to the local "indie club" and have a good night out with the ladies. I really didn't have any expectations for the evening except to get reasonably drunk and have some laughs. Really it just turned into me getting rat-assed drunk and complaining about men and gosh! why I haven't I found him yet, huh? Where the fuck is my goddamned Prince Charming already?!

We went to two different pubs beforehand down by the river so we could have some pre-drinks and enjoy the warm summer evening that London rarely sees. Somehow I ended up chatting to a twenty-eight year old man named, Matt, who was engaged to a woman from New Zealand named, Katie. She didn't like kiwis apparently, which is just baffling, because I think kiwis are very tasty. He told us how he went about proposing to her (flowers, a trip to the opera, hotel room in Kensington) and how yeah, everyone says it, but when you know, you just know, you know?

Not so much, Matt. I can't say that I do know.

He was lovely, though, and it made my heart swell with butterflies and rainbows seeing him talk about her, and the sickly sweet smile that he couldn't help stretched across his newly engaged face. He said that they had only known each other for six months, but he knew that she was the one he wanted to be with forever.

Forever.

"Were you nervous?" I asked him.

"When I proposed? Oh hell yeah. I've never been more nervous about anything in my life," he said still with his wide smile.

"And you proper got down on one knee and everything?"

"Of course, yeah. There's no other way to do it."

"Did she cry?" I inquired as if I was some kind of wedding journalist.

"Yeah she did."

"Fucking tears of joy. That's just awesome."

I'm not sure why I feel like some kind of internal clock has been switched on inside of me, but recently it feels like I've just been on a man hunt. I've been living here for two years, and the majority of time I've been single. Yes, I've had flings. Yes, I've had one-night stands. Yes, I broke up with Ash after not even being back with him for a month. But for the most part, I've been solo. And I've been cool with that mostly. That's just who I was at the time. I never felt like I "needed" to have a boyfriend or be another half of a couple. I would see my friends argue with their significant others and think, "fucking hell I'm glad I don't have to deal with that shit."

But recently I've been thinking that I wouldn't mind to have someone to bicker about petty things with. It makes me worry, though, because I don't want to come off as one of those disgusting desperate women that needs to be with a man, needs to be in a relationship and desperately needs that attention. I'm not desperate. I don't need any of that. I would just like it. It seems nice. And I kind of miss being on the arm of someone.

One of my worst personality traits, aside from procrastination and hitting people when I get overly excited, is that I'm impatient. I am quite possibly the most impatient person on earth. I know of no such things like "delayed gratification" or "good things come to those who wait." No, I want it now, do you hear me? RIGHT. NOW. And if I don't get it, my head will start swelling until it explodes right off of my shoulders and all over your shirt that is dry clean only. That is how I look at this whole new "development" if you can even call it that: it's not me being "desperate," but rather "impatient". It's not like I can just run down to the shop and pick up the first man that I see and want. They're not puppies.

Although saying that, how cool would it be if you could do that? Just pop down to your local shop and buy a boy/girlfriend? Weird, but cool.

When I was single and wanted to be single, it was easy for me because I was the only person I needed to worry about. When I wanted a warm body, I went out and got one, then swiftly forgot about them the next day as they shut the door. At the time, that's what I wanted. I didn't want anything serious to tie me down. I liked being able to traipse around the city either on my lonesome or with my ladies. Now I don't want that. I want to share my city lover with another person, walk around the city together, go out together, and really be together.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Matt said to me towards the end of our conversation. "Being single is great, and you're still young. Live it up while you can."

It's true, being single comes with its perks. However, there are quite a few downsides that make it more unattractive when you're in the frame of mind that I've been in for the past couple of weeks. Going out, shoving your way to the bar and fighting off nineteen-year-olds that spill your drink all over your shoes just so they can ask the bartender that they know why he didn't text them back, is no longer joyous for me. It's a pain in the ass and makes me want to take those girls aside and give them a good talkin' to about waiting in line and respecting those that are older than them.

Posted by Sam at 04:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

So, like, I live in London, but I never post any pictures, because to be quite honest, I'm lazy. But I was going through some old photos when I found these pics of the flat that I took when it was nice and clean for Momma and Mel. Turns out us students like to live extremely minimal. We spend our money on alcohol, not trinkets to furnish our flat with. We'd probably break it anyway when we were drunk.

Yep. So that's where I live at the moment. Hopefully I'll post pictures every now and again, because it's good to have a mental image, rather than me just blathering on and not using my adjectives properly.

Posted by Sam at 03:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I think I'm a non-smoker.

I'm not entirely sure why or when it happened, but suddenly, I no longer had the need inside me to light up every day and inhale all of that harmful smoke that at the time felt oh so damn good. The last time I bought a pack of cigarettes was a month ago, and over those four weeks I've been slowly phasing cigarettes out. I've got one left in my pocket-book just because, well, it's just there. And yeah, I get the odd pang every so often (I've actually got a mini craving now simply because I'm writing about it) to stand outside and let the wind sweep my hair all around my face as I slowly suck on my filtered cigarette. I'm not sure those pangs will ever go away; once a smoker always a smoker in my book.

I wonder if this is a phase that I'm going through, this non-smoker phase that I'm trying on for size and seeing if I can actually make it, manage to sustain and deal with my nerves without the aid of those fantastic miniature crutches. I have gone through plenty of non-smoker phases every so often, but they only lasted for about three days until I began to smoke regularly once again.

But this is the longest I've been without regularly smoking at certain points during the day. I used to always smoke after I ate, or while I had a drink in hand. I smoked when I was bored, when I was writing, when I was just sitting around and watching DVDs. Smoking was always there, and now it's just slowly petered out. I've smoked those cigarettes that I bought a month ago and they've spanned out whenever I thought that I should smoke. Yes. I need a cigarette now. I just ate a giant meal. Now would be a good time for a fag.

So I lit up, and didn't like it. All of a sudden I didn't find them as beautiful as I once did. I didn't enjoy the smell anymore, I didn't enjoy pulling that smoke inside of my mouth, down my throat into my lungs and inhaling so deeply to make sure that I soaked up every last drop of nicotine. I didn't like drinking with them dangling from my fingertips. I didn't like the way I looked when I exhaled. They were revolting. Smoking had all of a sudden become disgusting and I thought fucking hell I can't believe I've been smoking since I was sixteen. That's a long time to be looking like an old disgusting hag.

I watched other people smoke when I was out and about and they looked filthy surrounded by that loitering cloud. I could see the small particles cling to their clothes, wrap around their fingers and comb through their hair. It was nasty. I hated walking by smoke recepticles that gave off that stale stench of old cigarette butts. How did I get duped into thinking that smoking was so glamorous?

To replace my dirty habit, I've picked up a new one: drinking Diet Coke. It has to be in a can (the ones in plastic bottles taste different to me) and I drink at least one every single day. Sometimes I'll have two, but I'm trying to keep it down to just the one a day. I don't want that to get out of control as well. And as always I'm constantly chewing gum because if I don't have gum I'll freak out and kill someone.

I try not to think too much about me being a "non-smoker" because truthfully, I doubt I'll ever properly quit. I'm sure down the road I'll have the odd cigarette here and there just for the sake of Good Old Times, but as far as me huffing and puffing on twenty cigarettes every other day? I think those days are past me.

As I say good-bye to an old friend that harmed me, I've also lost the need to go out and get proper wrecked on alcohol and drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm still all about getting drunk and dancing my ass off. I don't believe that I'll ever get tired of that. But as far as the drugs go, um, no thanks. Even when I was poor I always thought I could go for a gram of coke or buy a Henry, just because I thought it would make me feel better, but alas, that feeling has dissipated inside of me as well. I'm not sure why I found the tragic life of being constantly strung out attractive and glamorous, but there was a time not so long ago that I would have sold my left kidney just to chill with the white lady. It's sad, but true.

Perhaps it's because I'm a wee bit older than when I first moved away from home, and with age comes experience and perspective. I had my time of "fun" and now I'm over it. I no longer want to wake up late in the day with my nose blocked up and feeling like it has been turned inside out because I once again snorted an entire fucking gram of powder. I hate getting stoned because it makes me too fucking paranoid and I'm tired of feeling out of control and wasting my money on a temporary fix that doesn't fix shit. I don't want to escape my reality any longer, but rather live in it and enjoy it. I'm not sure why I was so scared of it in the first place, but it's really not a terrible place to be.

Last summer was hard for me for so many reasons, but when I got back to my city lover I thought my second year was going to be exactly like my first year: crazy, mental, a whirlwind of drugs, alcohol and promiscuous sex. Goddamn those were the days, the fucking good days when I was out every night meeting new people left and right and never giving my body the rest that it needed, that it used to scream out at me in furious pain and I ignored because hey, I can handle it. I'm Sam. I can handle anything.

My second year of uni was nothing like first year. It was shit. It sucked. I was depressed and poor for 3/4ths of the time, and it was mostly my fault. And I actually thought, 'fuck, if I only had a gram...'

This summer has been much better for me. I'm still with my city lover and while I do occasionally go out from time to time to dance as the evening sun sinks below the buildings, I'm not as wild as I was only a few short months ago. I'm not as depressed which is just a blessing. Being in those dark corners of my mind last year was a scary place and I thought I'd never see the end. I've had plenty of good nights alone, which is something that I've learned I can do and be okay with it. I'm still trying to clean up my debts, but when that's taken care of I can finally say good-bye to the year that nearly killed me, and it can take my bad habits with it as I walk away with my middle finger pointing straight up to the sky.

I'm not sure what my third and final year holds for me, but I know I'm walking into it with a lot more confidence that I've built for myself, and with a clear mind that knows what I want; I know I want to do really well, to spend a hell of a lot more time writing and to keep a part-time job (which I'm sure I can easily do with the help of Simon). I want to read a full library of books, really make an effort in my classes and stay focused. Of course I want to have fun, go out and take care of my wee freshers, but I know I don't have to live excessively all the time. But mostly I just want to enjoy myself and be happy. Third time's a charm, eh?

Posted by Sam at 12:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The weather plays an important role in my memory, as I'm sure it does for many other people. It surrounds us 24/7 whether we consciously realize it or not. I think about it almost as much as a meteorologist might think about it, but probably in a different sense. I think if it's going to be extremely warm, then which summery top will I want to wear; or if it's going to be cloudy and rainy, I have to remember to pack my umbrella for the day, even though I hardly use it. I enjoy feeling the raindrops fall on me even if it is particularly cold outside.

But the weather triggers different memories inside of me, memories that don't necessarily hold any kind of importance, but are replayed across the front of my mind nonetheless. Whenever it's particularly cold and crisp, with the sun shining and being reflected off of the frost that has stretched out across the leaves from the night before, I remember the mornings when I'd be leaving for work early and climbing into my car. The garage door would be open with the morning sunshine falling at all different angles. I'd squeeze in between the wall and the edge of my car, crank on the engine, sort out which CD I wanted to listen to that morning, strap myself in with the seatbelt and wait until the car was warm enough so I couldn't see my breath every time I exhaled. Those were my mornings every single day, Monday through Friday while I worked back home. The routine is engrained inside of me, and even when I went back for Christmas holiday, sometimes I'd wake up and wonder why I was still in bed. I was supposed to be sitting in traffic fishing out my second cigarette with the window cracked so to not let all of the heat escape.

Summertime holds so many more vivid memories for me, though. The swealtering heat, the stale lingering moisture in the air and how I would do my best to not move unless it was absolutely necessary. With every movement I was sure that I was generating more heat and making it hotter than Mother Nature had already inflicted upon us. North Carolina summers were always scorchers and there were some days when Mel and I didn't do anything in the house except lay in our dark rooms with the ceiling fans on the highest setting to keep the air circulating. Momma hated running the air conditioner all day because it "ran her goddamned bill through the roof," so she left it on a timer and we would get our hands smacked if we dared touch it. Those ceiling fans were our best friends for nearly four months every year.

We would watch the evening news with Momma and the weather(wo)man would let us know if we were at level Red or level Orange, and if that was the case they told us it was probably best if we stayed indoors. If it was level Yellow, then it would be safe for us to venture out into the natural sauna and they would always remind us to wear our sunscreen for protection.

When dusk finally came late in the day people would step outside briefly to water their lawns. "That's the best time to do it," Momma would say to us. It was so the water wouldn't be wasted just evaporating underneath the unforgiving ball of fire that baked us with no remorse, never giving us a break until sunset. It was a temporary relief until the sun rose again the next day.

After a week of trying to think of new ways to prevent from melting, I would step outside and smell a change in the weather. The smell of rain was always so thick and even though the clouds had yet to roll in I knew we should be expecting a nice thunderstorm even without the help of our local weather forecaster. I became so in tune with predicting the thunderstorms that sometimes I would sit in our breakfast nook and wait as the dark clouds quickly took their respective positions above our house and watch for the first drop that would immediately dissipate after hitting the scalding concrete. One by one I watched as the raindrops fell and evaporated until there were so many falling that the ground couldn't keep up with absorbing them all. That's when I would stand up, push the chair back under the table and walk outside barefoot without an umbrella.

I would walk the entire neighborhood alone as my clothes became heavier with the weight of the rain on me and feel the warm water slowly run down the side of my face and hit me on my eyelashes. I'd be sure to keep an eye on where my feet would step as well to avoid smushing the worms that came up from the soil gasping and breathing the fresh air. Steam would always rise from the hot asphalt and I walked through the mist as if I were the only person in the world who ever did this sort of thing.

Usually the lightning and thunder would start erupting in the clouds after some time and that was my cue to start walking back home. Momma didn't mind that I liked going out in thunderstorms when it was a heavy, steady rain, but she didn't like it when I would go out with a greater chance of being electrocuted. After I was back indoors, I'd towel dry myself off, slip on some lightweight pajamas and feel like thunderstorms were Mother Nature's gift to us for all of the suffering hot days when we thought we could no longer take it.

We don't get many days like those here in merry old England. We get rain, but it's cold and there's never any steam rising up from the streets. I'd never take a stroll outside when the rain pours over here. When I'd come back inside I'd be purple from the cold and have to go to the hospital for hypothermia. Summertime here is very different and a lot more unpredictable than from North Carolina. Every day I'll check what the weather will be like, and if the temperature begins to peak above 72 degrees (F) I can already begin to feel the prickle of heat on the back of my neck and the sweat shine on my face. I get all sweaty with excited anticipation and can't wait to feel the warmth surround me, to feel the layer of humidity on my skin and have to peel my thighs off of plastic chairs and benches.

This week has been like that for me, pushing all of those memories up to the surface and leaving me aching to be back in our house in North Carolina with the windows wide open, drinking sweet tea, eating bar-b-que and wiping my forehead with the back of my arm because it's just so goddamned hot outside. The warm weather here (which is hardly 'hot' in comparison with the heat from home) is a decoy and off in the distance is a mirage of my past summers.

Posted by Sam at 02:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember the first foursome I ever had. Well, the only foursome to be correct. It wasn't long after Ash and I had broken up the first time, and I was left alone in a giant building with nearly three-hundred middle-aged men that always stared at me while I typed prettily behind my desk. They disgusted me and I always said no matter how desperate I got, I'd never touch any of them with a barge pole. Aside from the interns who only came around during the summertime, I was the youngest person there at the ripe old age of twenty. I'd prance around the office in my cute outfits, teetering on my designer heels and knew that the majority of the men that I came in contact with could barely speak without chewing on their own tongues. It never made me uncomfortable, but more angry that I couldn't even go into work without having to swat off their inappropriate comments about my tiny size, my young legs that easily carried me everywhere and their accusations that I teased them simply with my presence.

But back to the foursome. I was "tricked" into it, and because I was pathetically naive back then, I didn't understand what G meant when he kept on asking my friend, Sarah, if I was "cool".

"Is she cool?" he kept asking her. And Sarah kept on reassuring him that, yeah, I was totally cool.

After G left us outside in the suffocating Virginia heat, Sarah asked me if I wanted to go out to a happy hour. Of course I agreed, because when do I ever turn down a chance to get rat assed drunk? I don't. She told me that we were all going to meet up at seven after work and that her and I could meet at work and then drive over to the bar together. It sounded just like every other happy hour except she told me not to tell anyone else about it.

"We want to keep it quiet, you know, only a select few that don't piss us off," she explained to me. And it made sense. It sounded fine to me, and I was glad that I wasn't going to have to listen to Earl ramble on about his pyramid scheme and try to convince me to buy his book on money saving strategies.

Seven o'clock rolled around and I met Sarah in the work parking lot, just like she said and told me that we were going to meet G and another guy, C, at their hotel. Apparently all of the bars were strict on carding on this particular evening and they thought it would be safer, since I was still underaged, if we just hung out at their hotel room and drink beer. I wasn't too keen at first, but Sarah said that it would be fine and it'd be fun.

So there we sat, just the four of us, in G's hotel room drinking light beer and watching Deadwood on HBO. I felt like I was back in high school, awkward and unsure of what to do. I didn't even like beer. Where was the vodka? Or the southern comfort? Or hell, even the tequila? I nursed one beer for about an hour and that was all I drank the entire evening leaving me stone cold sober.

I'm not entirely sure how anything got started either. It just seemed like one minute we were watching TV and the next Sarah was sitting on top of G's lap making out with him.

Huh. So they're like that. That's cool, I thought to myself. I knew that Sarah was separated from her husband and on the side she would hook up with random co-workers whenever she felt like it. I never judged her; I could care less who she slept with. Of course there wasn't much left for C and me to do except sit there and make even more awkward small talk.

C told me that he had never done anything like this before, and the only reason why he even considered it was because G said that it would help his marriage.

"Do what?" I asked him stupidly.

"You know. This."

I sat there trying to grasp onto what he was saying and it finally smacked me right in the face when Sarah lead G into the bedroom part of the room and tossed her top aside.

Ohhh....wait a second. I'm supposed to be - with C - here? Now? Oh god.

I could have gotten up and said no thanks, it's not my bag of goodies. I could have left. Nobody was forcing me to stay there and participate. But for some reason I stayed. I stayed and I let C take my halter top off, and we shared the bed with Sarah and G only to switch partners halfway through.

To this day I'm unsure of why I stayed. I was completely sober and if I had it my way I would have been out my face or on my drug of choice, but that wasn't an option. I don't even remember much of anything except that I didn't like it, I faked it the entire time and didn't even feel like I was a part of the whole thing.

A couple of days after the whole ordeal, I sent one of my favorite bloggers an email describing the entire evening and asked her for advice, for guidance, for support. I told her that the whole time I didn't feel like I was there; it was as if I was hovering above near the ceiling and watching some other person inhabit my body, and I observed the entire thing from a bird's eye view. I told her that I didn't have anyone to talk to, anyone who wouldn't judge me; I mean, I had just slept with two married men and a married woman (who, yes, was technically separated). I was confused and felt entirely alone.

She sent me a full response that helped me find the light at the end of my mental tunnel. There was so much in her response, but there was one part in particular that stood out to me and to this day I live by her words:

I think the best gift you can give yourself is a blank check to make mistakes. Forgiveness is divine, and finding the divinity within yourself is crucial.

Those words were exactly what I needed to help me move past that situation and not make it out to be some kind of huge deal. I had had a foursome. So what? Okay, they were married, but that was their problem to deal with, not mine. I even forgave Sarah for not telling me the whole truth about what was already planned for the night, and told her that in the future she could trust that I wouldn't freak out and go mental on her. I was capable of handling those situations, but I'd like to be prepared for them beforehand. I like to be kept in the loop.

I took that night and my mentor's words and decided right then and there that I wasn't going to feel bad about my mistakes any longer, whether they be sexual or not. I was young, single and allowed myself to live freely without reservations. It made me brave. It occasionally made me reckless when I wasn't in a sober mind. And it enabled me to live with myself and be okay with the life that I was carving out day by day.

Now, almost three years after I sent her that email, I'm happier with myself than I ever was back in VA, or with any of those old perverts that fantasized about me and fucked me to feel younger and better about themselves, regardless of how I felt. I feel more in control of my life and comfortable in my own skin. I know there's still a lot of things that I need to come to terms with, but I'm sure I will with due time. But I've had my time alone, I've had my one-night stands, I've had my fair share of drunken encounters and drug/booze infused nights. For so long I was scared to allow someone into my heart, so I kept them at arm's length and felt more in control when I was emotionally detached from them. Now I just want someone who will look me in the eyes when we lay together. Finally I can say that I'm ready for that.

Posted by Sam at 12:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The other week I had a brief stint of bravery. I remember it so clearly and it pittered away almost as quickly as it came. I had built myself up and convinced myself that this was indeed the day that I was going to swallow my nerves and ask Aussie boy out. No more sitting around and pussy footing around the issue, I thought to myself. Sometimes you can't just sit by and wait for things to happen. Sometimes you have to kick the damn ball in order to get it rolling.

I didn't ask him out because he left work early to go on a three day holiday. By the time the weekend was over and we were all back in the office, my courage had slinked away back into the dark crevases in my spineless body. Again I went back to sitting and staring at him thinking why doesn't he buy shirts one size smaller? They would look a lot better on him if they fit him properly. Or why didn't he get a hair cut? He wouldn't have to always have to brush it out of his eyes if he'd just get it trimmed a little.

Yes, I'm a stalker freak. I've accepted this fact about myself and do my best to seem as "normal" as possible whenever I'm in public. Needless to say, it's constantly proving to be a challenge for me. On days when I find it hard to hide my stalker freak tendancies, I blame it on the fact that 'I'm a writer, and I need to observe people in their daily routines in order to better describe my characters in the stories that I write.' Ha! Whatever.

The other night, Helen and I found ourselves sitting opposite each other on our settees, and had a very deep and honest conversation about the boys in our past, the boys in our present and the Unknown boys of our futures. We talked for a fair few hours about why we put ourselves through so much stress over the most simple things? Text messages leave us hindering by our phones all day, and when we do get a message, we hate ourselves a little bit every time we jump with excitement. Then we hate ourselves even more when the message isn't from the person we were hoping to hear from, but rather just a friend to send us a funny story about some random stranger on the bus. Facebook is the deadliest place on the internet and if we're not careful we can easily spend an entire day combing through their profiles; we look at every picture, scrutinize it until we're satisfied with the imaginary story that we've invented, and then move on to their wall posts. It's not until the other person comes home and we realize that we haven't even gone to bathroom all day.

Why do we torture ourselves? We're almost 100% positive that the boys we're interested in don't do this. They go and do other boy things like play the Wii, watch football and cut trees down in their back gardens. They don't care enough to pilfer through our internet profiles or wait breathlessly by the phone.

And then I wondered out loud to Helen about how it's stupid we have all of these dumb games between men and women. What's with waiting a certain amount of time to text a boy back? Or call someone? Or sending messages? Why can't it just be simple? Why can't a person just honestly go up to another person and say, 'Hey. I think you're cute and was wondering, if you're interested, if you would like to go out with me sometime?' Why do we need all of the boundaries and those shitty 'rules' of dating engagement? Why does it have to be so hard?

I know why I don't really put myself out there. And by 'really' I mean 'emotionally'. It's just as basic and simple as all of the above questions: fear of rejection. It's a big one. Nobody wants to know that the person that they've taken an interest in, doesn't share the same feelings. Nobody wants to get shot down, left in the middle of a room humilated and stripped naked exposing their raw emotional feelings. Who cares if they're a stranger that you may never see again? They're a stranger who hasn't earned the right to see me in a vulnerable state. And telling a boy that I like him? Is a very vulnerable place to put myself in.

And also, hidden deep within this I Am An Independent Woman veneer, lies a hopeless romantic. I don't care if it is the 21st century, I want a boy to ask me out. I want him to charm me. I want there to be something. I'm an easy girl to please. It doesn't take much to make me smile. Even a little bit of conversation and banter would do it. Why do I have to be the one to ask them out? Isn't one of the priviledges of being a lady is that we don't have to get the ball rolling?

And also (again), I automatically assume that if he doesn't ask me out, or even speak to me, that means he thinks I'm ugly, isn't interested and would much rather fuck a chicken.

Remember, I'm a freak.

I told Helen that it feels like it'll always go back to Ash for me. He's there still, all the time lingering in the back of my mind, reminding me of our past relationship. I still compare boys to him. I know, I shouldn't do it, but I do. I read old emails. A couple of weeks ago, I found myself on his old blog that he doesn't write on anymore and read some posts that he wrote about me that weren't easy to read. And there it was, all of those raw emotions again boiled to the surface and left me remembering about a time when I wasn't pleasant to be with.

"It scares me," I told Helen. "I'm scared that I'll never be in a healthy, happy relationship ever again. What if I fuck the next one up too? You know, if I ever get another one. It makes me want to crawl under a rock knowing how much Ash hates me."

"Well, if I'm honest, I know that I don't really hate D. He is a good person, and we were good together. But I had to hate him just to deal with things, because if I didn't, I'd sit and go mental. I would think about his next girlfriend and know that she was getting all of the good qualities that I had first. Maybe that's what Ash had to do with you. There's a fine line between love and hate."

"Yeah. Something that makes me not hate D just a little bit is knowing that if he feels anywhere near as bad about what he did to you, like how I feel about what I did with Ash, then he's living with quite a burden. Because I feel it every day. It never really goes away. It just sits there and I haven't been able to let myself let it go."

Which rounds me all the way back to Aussie boy. Yes, we haven't ever really spoken properly, and yes, he might think that I'm ugly, or even have a girlfriend, and the chances of me getting shot down and humiliated are high. My face will flare up, I will stutter, I will ramble, I may even trip and fall flat on my face as I'm walking up to him. But nonetheless, it never hurts to try. I have to get over this fear that keeps me (literally and figuratively) sitting in the same place. Otherwise I may never get to experience the other half of goodness that might happen if he agrees and says yes.

Posted by Sam at 10:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My mother is the strongest person I know. She has struggled for the majority of her life and yet she still stands, she still wakes up every morning, she still continues to go on with life every single day trying to make it a little easier on herself. True, we haven't always seen eye to eye, but what kid always agrees with their parent? You know, unless they're like that creepy robot kid. Of course we're going to argue and have disagreements and I'll march off in a huff because gah! parents just don't understand!

I have never cursed Momma ever. I'm actually afraid what she would do. Probably hit me. I've only raised my voice at her one time in a proper shouting match which scared me, and shocked the hell out of her. Not even an hour later we were both in her room crying and I was apologizing over and over for being so disrespectful.

But even though we argue and we don't agree all the time, she is the one person in the world whose opinion matters most to me. I know it kills her that I'm so far away and it must seem like I must have abandoned everything I know by living over here; she doesn't like London. She visited once for a couple of days and "didn't see what I liked about it".

"You need to give it a proper chance, Momma. You can't just stay in Central for three days doing the tourist thing and walk away thinking that's London. It's not. You should come to my uni, see where I live, go to the neighboring towns. You'll see. London is a lovely place."

"It's dirty and they don't have AC. I have menopause, don't they know this?"

Just because she doesn't like the city, though, doesn't mean that she doesn't love to brag about her eldest daughter that moved away and is studying to be a writer. She tells me that she goes to work and tells everyone how I did it all by myself, how she didn't help with anything except signing on the dotted line, which was a mission in itself. And she tells them to wait, because one day, just you wait and see, her daughter is going to have the best selling book on the shelves.

Oh, how she loves to exaggerate; but I swell with pride knowing how happy she is and how proud she is of me. I am her Wee One. And when she's feeling really good and wants to annoy me, she calls me Manta, which I hate but secretly love.

Our relationship these days is a lot stronger and healthier. After I went back this past Christmas, we had a long talk about things and I just kept repeating to her, I'm twenty-two now, Momma. I'm twenty-two. I'm twenty-two. I'm not her little girl any more, and when I say I don't want to do something (like move to New York), I don't have to, because I'm twenty-two. She has to listen and respect my decisions, just like I do hers. Now we talk for hours like adults, and I'm even brave enough to slip in the odd curse word or two in our conversations.

"Samantha Leigh," she'll say to me in her motherly tone.

"What? It's true. He looked like shit."

"Well there's no need for you to say it like that."

"You forget that I learned it from you."

Which is true. I get everything from her. Everything I know and everything I was taught, I learned from her. I am the spitting image of her when she was my age. I remember a portrait that used to hang on my grandma's wall in her small mill house in Ranlo, North Carolina. It was Momma sat in one of those poses that painters of the 70's made people sit in, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was wearing a pink cardigan, her hair short and bobbed, generally like how I wear mine, and when I saw it I was startled by how similar I resembled her. I am my mother's daughter no doubt.

Aside from her physical attributes, I gained her stubborness, her ability to clean a bathroom like nobody's business, her shyness, her boldness once we get over the shyness, and yes, even a bit of her strength that I admire so much. Although, there are some things that I'm sure I got from my father even though he split when I was only young, like my smoking and my heavy drinking. Momma has never been a fan of The Drink, and she has never inhaled any kind of smoke the entire time she has been living on this planet, even though Grandma used to smoke two packs of Camels every day up until her heart attack. But daddy smoked, and she made a comment about how we smoked the same kind of cigarettes when she took them away from me when I was sixteen. I believe that a big part of who I am now is based on how I was nurtured, by sometimes you can't help what nature engraves inside of you and fall victim to the statistics.

Come July 31st, it will be Momma's fiftieth birthday. It's strange to think about, because as far as I've ever known she has always been forty-two in my mind. But this birthday seems big for some reason. Maybe it's because she's entering into a new decade. She's leaving her forties, the decade when she retired from the Air Force, of us moving away from North Carolina, and the decade when Mel and I were teenagers giving her hell. Her fifties is a new era of her getting her business law degree, earning the most money she has ever earned her entire life, and her two girls turning into two women that are embarking on a new change in their lives as well. Everything is different and I feel it.

I remember one night, Momma and I were looking through pictures as we occasionally do. We both get sentimental and like to sit down and remember how life was Back Then. Mel doesn't share the same kind of feelings, so usually it's just Momma and me, sat downstairs on the couch flipping through the years when we lived in that house in California, or that other house in Colorado. I remember the house in North Dakota. I loved that one the most. I'll stop on one of the birthday pictures of when I was small with half of my body lying across the table with chocolate icing on my fingers, and there's Mel sat off to the side with chocolate icing on her face and her tongue sticking out a little bit.

"Yeah, that's when we were poor and I had to make all of your cakes," Momma said with a little laugh.

"Are you kidding?" I said to her. "I loved those cakes. They were so much fun to make. My favorite part was spelling out Happy Birthday with those sugar letters. Those were awesome."

"I suppose you were young so you didn't care or know any better. There are better cakes out there."

"Yeah, but those cakes don't matter. I'd take a Momma-made cake over some crappy store bought cake any day."

And it's true. If I could, every single one of our birthdays would be celebrated like that photograph.

To celebrate the big 5-0, Momma and Mel are driving down to North Carolina to visit Janice. If I'm not mistaken, Janice is making her birthday cake (with Splenda since Janice is diabetic; everything that's sweet is made with Splenda in Janice's house). Mel jokes and says that Momma is turning half a century old, Momma tells her to wait until she gets to be her age and she won't find it so funny, and I just sit and listen to them argue over petty things like they always do and can only hope that my momma has fifty more good years ahead of her.

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

I don't buy much 'stuff' these days. With the majority of my money going towards rent and back rent that I owe, the only stuff that I buy is stuff that I need.

Yeah, I would look fit in that dress, but I kind of want to have money to eat this week. Although, if I don't eat, I'd probably look a lot better in it.

Then I remember that food is necessary to live, and I want to look hot in the dress, not be buried in it.

So when I received my care package boxes from Momma and Mel last Thursday and Friday, I was really excited to have stuff that I don't necessarily need, but want nonetheless. Mel was awesome and hooked me up with some of my favorite magazines (Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Us Weekly), I got two new pairs of cute pajamas, dvds and six new books that should keep me very busy for the remainder of this summer. I also got a mountain of Kraft mac 'n' cheese (hello Velveeta!), who knows how many packets of gravy, plus many more packets and boxes of cookies and brownies (so much for being healthy; when I have Duncan Hines in my possession, all reason goes out the window).

I was so excited just to have new stuff, to see new stuff to have it all be mine. It was like I had a massive shopping trip at Target and I wasn't even in my small flat in London anymore; I was back in Virginia making dinner with the TV on in the background (or in this case, Bridget since we don't have a TV).

Friday night it was raining outside. I could hear it lightly tap on the window. I was alone in the flat since Helen was working, and I thought that being at home by myself isn't so terrible these days. I think I'm slowly adjusting and getting used to it. It's nice to have the flat to myself every so often, to clean and have everything stay clean for more than an hour. Occasionally I walk around in just my underwear. Why? Because I'm alone and I can. I pee with the door open. I listen to my music loud and sing along even if I can't hit all of the high notes. I dance. Lord do I dance.

It's fun.

With my new boxes full of stuff, this Friday night was especially nice for me. I changed into a pair of my new pajamas. I made mac 'n' cheese, and only mac 'n' cheese. I read my Us Weekly magazine from cover to cover, while listening to my iPod and singing loudly hoping that the neighbors could hear me. After my mac 'n' cheese was ready to eat, I put in the first disc of Weeds Season 3 and watched a couple of episodes back-to-back, histerically laughing out loud and talking to the screen as if the characters could hear me. I didn't want to watch them all in one go, though. I wanted to save some episodes and slowly savior them all since I wasn't sure when my next box of stuff would be coming. Instead I opened up one of my new books and read deep into every page for hours until it was a little past midnight and my eyelids were slowly falling over my eyes.

I considered it to be one of the best Friday nights I've had in a long time alone. I didn't get dressed for a night out. I didn't spend any money. I didn't drink myself into oblivion. And more importantly, I resisted the peen.

Of course I enjoy going out, partying and getting lost in the London haze. But on this particular Friday night, I had a better time indoors sitting on the settee alone in my new jammies and listening to the rain.

Posted by Sam at 02:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

X needs no introduction. Thank you, sir, for writing this guest post. I can only hope that someday you will grace the internet with your writing again.

***

I have my faults, but I never hesitate to apologise when I am in the wrong. I started to compose a new email.

Sorry for being so immature last time we spoke. Just want to clear the air.

I sent it.

Her response wasn’t as quick as it had once been. It used to be that, back when we were absolutely and sickly infatuated with each other, we used to bounce messages back and forth, dozens every day. She’d never admit it if you asked her, but she used to love hearing from me. The timestamps on the messages made me feel as though she did nothing but sit, prettily waiting in front of her computer, checking her inbox for a message telling her how I couldn’t wait for the next time I’d see her, then reply and tell me how much she couldn’t wait to have me hold her tightly in a strong embrace.

Things had changed since then. We’d grown distant recently, alternating between blowing up at one another in bitter arguments and ignoring each other. I had almost forgotten that I had sent her an email by the time I’d received a reply:

There is nothing to “clear”. Leave me alone.

Where I pride myself on not holding a grudge, she apparently hadn’t gotten over me breaking up with her and fucking her best friend.

I don’t claim to be an expert on relationships because given my track record, claiming such a thing would make me a liar, and a liar is not something I claim to be. I am, despite that, treated as though I am a relationship expert, and people often come to me with questions, the people mostly being girls seeking to improve their understanding of the opposite sex. One thing I am asked over and over again by girls is, “where is this going?”

It is, despite its appearance, a valid question. It is valid in the sense that an answer can be given, much like the similar questions, “what is your problem?” or “can a fist actually fit in there?” Much like with those questions, however, a straightforward answer is rarely possible, and much explanation is often required.

I can preface the following with “no word of a lie”: every time I have been asked where “this” is going, I had not thought about the destination of “this” until that exact moment. The reason for that is that the endpoint of “this” only seems to become an issue to women after they create a situation in which there is no concrete reason for men to care about where “this” is going. If you’ve just implored me to push three of my fingers in your vagina in an alleyway (and my fingers are not small, trust Amanda on that one) then it’s highly likely that I don’t want things to get any more complicated than they already are. I’m not sure your vagina could take the four-finger salute without adequate preparation.

While fitting four of my fingers inside that girl’s snatch proved difficult but eventually possible, it has become harder and harder to say the same about picking up women these days. There’s no challenge left in it any more. If there’s any one thing about a woman that sets me after her, it’s her not being easy. It’s not solely about being pretty, it’s about being attractive, and believe me, your sale price for the cow is definitely not looking attractive when you’re round every morning delivering your milk to my stoep.

By all means, ladies, if you want to score, go for it. (Sam’s got my number.*) All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t try to use sex as some sort of bait to try and trap a guy into a relationship. As the old saying goes, how can you expect a guy to respect you if you don’t respect him? Or even yourself, for that matter?

And that’s all it really boils down to. What I’m really on about here is treating yourselves the way you’d like to be treated: with some fucking respect. Otherwise he might end up in a relationship with that hot best friend of yours whose legs weren’t so easy to part in the first instance.

---X

* I’m just kidding. My girlfriend is better-looking and smarter than you, whoever you are.

---------------------------------

Trish, my fellow American, my Virginian lover, my English sidekick. You are too random and hilarious for your own good. I miss you. Thanks for writing this for me, Poodle.

***

How does one describe a girl who gets so drunk that she doesn’t even remember her own flatmate because she dyed her hair brown? Well, I guess that would be a good way to.

Ahh, I remember the day I met Samantha ------, in the smoking room of the airport because the Customs Woman made me cry. Bitch. She, ever so shyly, came up to me and asked me for a lighter. Little did she know, that I possessed no lighter, but in fact matches. I would hope that they would have suited her, and they did. The rest of the time was spent smoking cigarettes. Hers, might I add. Cause I had none. And I probably still to this day owe her loads of cigarettes. I should bring her back a carton. Effort. During that first encounter, we judged each other. Harshly. Because that’s what we do. She thought I was one of those ditzy bitches who’s vindictive and malicious. And to be fair, I am. Sort of. I’m more blunt then anything, and I shant lie when you ask me a question, even if it's mean. Then I judged her. Probably hasn’t left her computer for 14 years. This is a first for her, leaving the house and all, I thought to myself. Here’s the kicker:

I, too, “haven’t left my computer for 14 years” and she, too, is “one of those ditzy bitches who’s vindictive and malicious”.

Here’s another kicker, just cause I like saying the word.

Turns out, she’s a computer geek, in a that-could-probably-get you-somewhere-in-life.
I play World of Warcraft.

And the whole bitch thing? In this case, I’m totally better than her. Only because I’m nice to people when they drop their bags in the middle of the tube station. Samantha walks right by cause it ain’t her business. I feel compelled. She goes up to people and yells at them when she’s drunk simply because she is drunk. And bored.

Samantha is the kind of girl that I can walk into the Bop with, when it’s covered in confederate flags everywhere, and we think to ourselves silently “we’re home”. But we know we’re thinking it. We have silent conversations. FREAKS.

She and I both, however, are slowly but surely, becoming Blair and Serena. No idea who’s who, but we’re doing it.

She got me to start blogging again. I haven’t done it much, but I do it. She’s convinced me to diet with her, and to smoke less, and we gossip behind people’s back within earshot. She has introduced too many T.V. shows that I have missed out on. And what have I done for her?

Stolen her cigarettes. I know. I’m awesome. But I knew you’d miss it! (HAH! MEL TOLD ME!)

We scare people. No, seriously, we scare people. Pete got scared. Swindon got scared. I’m pretty sure half the University knows us as “those two americans” or “those two yanks”. Can I just make this clear? We are not yanks. There, I said it.

God I can’t wait for my Chinese food to get here. OH! It’s here!

It’s funny whenever people type like that because it seems like I typed it out all together, but really, there was a good 15 - 30 seconds where I was just staring at the door like a weirdo.

We’re the kind of people who say to each other “if you don’t have anything nice to say, then come sit in the corner with me and talk shit about everyone”. But at the same time, we’re also the kind of people that say to each other, “I love you, but if zombies come after us, I’m tripping you”.

So much love.

The rest of the years that I have known her were filled with alcohol and boys. Stupid, stupid creatures with their stupid, stupid…alcoholness.

Annnnyhoo, it wasn’t until 2nd year where we became as close as we are now, and I learned the truth about Samantha:

She’s a blogger. And a drunk. And lazy.

But I knew those last two in the first year. And yes, I am aware that I have misused the use of a colon (hehe..dirty). But you know what? I don’t care. And do you, fellow reader, know why?

Because I am hung over.

SO, when Samantha asked me to write this entry for her, I felt no less than honoured. I just want to take a minute here to say that yes, this really is how I am in real life. Samantha is a dear friend who feeds me when I am hungry, gives me drinks when I am thirsty, and feeds me addiction when I am fiending. Such. A good. Friend.

Every bumper sticker that you see on our profiles on Facebook from each other, is totally us. I mean totally and completely.

So this is my ode to you. I love you Samantha -----. One day, we will have our babies. But please, please don’t tell my children that Free Willy is dead.

Posted by Sam at 12:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Because I don't have time to write a proper post, but still want to write nonetheless: bus observations. Happy Friday!

* Yesterday when I was sitting on the bus after work, two guys began slapping each other and play fighting - well, I hope they were play fighting. Normally, this wouldn't bother me, but one of the guys who was getting slapped was sitting right next to me. I ignored it for the most part and slanted my body towards the aisle a little more to avoid a fingertip grazing my cheek. A girl who was standing near the door gave me a look that said, I'm so sorry you are sitting next to him. I'm also glad it's not me.

* I noticed when one man got off of the bus, he shouted at the bus driver, 'fucking wanker!' I wasn't sure why he shouted that because I had my earbuds in, but I figured it had something to do with the fact that our bus driver kicked us all off at the next stop. It wasn't too far from the flat, so I had to walk a little further, but it was still funny to see that guy yell at the bus driver.

* There is a woman that I see every so often, either in the morning or afternoon, and for some reason she drives me crazy. She's quite small, I'd say about my height (5'2") or maybe shorter, and she carts around this gigantic stroller (pram) with two kids that are nearly the same size as she is. I do realize that everyone has the right to ride the bus, but what annoys me about her is the fact she seems to expect everyone to either help her with her giant stroller with two toddlers in it, and accommodate her. First of all, your kids seem old enough to walk - make them. Second of all, stop expecting everyone to be nice strangers and help you push your mini bus around. And when we don't help you, don't give us horrifying looks as if we're Satan. They're not my kids. That's not my mini bus. Not my fucking problem. P.S...I don't like your collars on your shirts that resemble doilies.

* And no, I don't mind mothers, fathers and their wee offspring. I just mind it when they think that the universe must bow down to them simply because they've procreated. Guess what? People have been doing it for years. You're no different. If you're having such difficulty living in the city with your kids, then perhaps it's time to consider moving elsewhere; I really don't like that doyley lady.

* On a related note, I do get fucked off with folks that that are healthy and perfectly capable of standing, but won't give up their seat to an old man/woman or a pregnant woman. If I can, then I always try to give up my seat to those who shouldn't be on their feet in a jerking bus. Especially if it's raining; life just seems so much more difficult when it's raining and you're standing on a bus.

* There are also two guys that I occasionally see on the bus, and I shamelessly stare at them; one of them is the spitting image of Kevin Spacey, whom I have had the biggest crush on since I was fourteen and saw him in American Beauty. I swear, if I could, I'd have my way with that man. And the other guy looks exactly like Matthew Bellamy from MUSE, you know, if he was addicted to heroine. Still, heroine chic is quite hot.

* I wish that London had a better bicycle route for all of the annoying bicyclists that get in my way every morning and every afternoon. I commend them for getting out there, conserving energy, saving the planet and wearing lycra in public. But when your giant ass is the only thing I can see and it's not even eight o'clock in the morning, AND you're slowing down traffic because you don't know how to scoot over, then I get really peeved and wonder why don't you just get a bloody Oyster card, pay the measly 90p and get hell out of our way.

Posted by Sam at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday I recieved my first rude comment ever on my blog. At first when I got it, I was all, Awesome! Helen, come and check this out! My first rude comment EVER. But after thinking about it for a little while, I wasn't too impressed. Who was this person that just took it upon himself to call me whiney and tell me to shut up? On my OWN BLOG? I don't think so, man. That's just not gravy.

And before I even carry on, I don't want this post to seem like I'm just a pussy bitch that can't handle one person saying something negative about me. I'm sure there are loads of people in this world that like to say mean things about me, and I know of a couple people who just plain hate my guts, and that's fine. I don't really care. It's the principle in this case that bothers me so much.

I have to approve for comments to be published, mostly because I don't want to let the spam comments through advertising 'hot asian bitch that get cumshot'. Um, no thanks dude. That's not really what this blog is about. But in the back of my mind, I thought about that one fateful day that might arise -- the day that someone writes something mean in the comments. Do I publish it? Or do I just chuck it in the pile of porn advertisements?

I decided to join a couple of blogging communities here in the London area, because I thought it would be nice to try and develop some relationships with other local bloggers. I mean, I can't go to BlogHer, so why not try and find something similar here? There's a whole community out there, and wouldn't it be nice to try and connect with others of similar interests? And that's when Mr. JT walked into my life here on My Mumbling Thougths. I had to decide yesterday whether or not to publish his rude comment. I figured since he had taken the time to read my one post (and I'm sure that was the only post of mine he has read), I should acknowledge that and publish his comment, even though it wasn't exactly rose colored for me.

But then I thought about it a little more, and thought, oh hell no. This is MY blog. MY Mumbling Thoughts. MY words. And his comment simply isn't kosher. It's something that many other bloggers before me have been repeating, but it's true -- nobody is forcing you to read this. If you don't like it, simply move on quietly and you never have to return. Personal blogs are just that: personal. It's all about me. This is where I write about my life. I am Narcissus and my blog is my pool of my own reflection (although, I suppose that isn't a good thing since he drowned, but whatever. You get the point).

And yeah, I tend to whine a lot. I write about when I cry, how I feel sorry for myself and have elaborate pity parties just for one. I'm shallow, selfish, conceited, rude, obnoxious, offensive and self-absorbed. I complain all the time about how I live in one of the greatest cities in the world, but how life is still shit, because GOD, everything isn't perfect All. The. Time.

I can do that though, and you want to know why? BECAUSE THIS IS MY BLOG AND I'LL CRY IF I WANT TO.

If you have a different opinion to me, then that's awesome, feel free to tell me. But do so in a respectful and fair manner. You wouldn't go up to a random stranger on the street and call them whiney and tell them to shut up (at least I hope you wouldn't), so what gives you the right to do so on someone's blog? I know when we post things on our blogs, we're exposing ourselves to everyone else in the world with an internet connection and may have to face their scrutiny, but at the same time there's a common courtesy factor that one should take into consideration as well.

I may not have control in my every day life to delete people and their rude comments, but I do have that power here on my blog, and I think I'll be exercising my right to not let anymore negativity get pass here. It looks like JT was the (un)lucky randomer to be my first and last rude commenter. Besides, I'd hate for some of my extraordinary regular readers to be jailed for shanking a bitch. Thanks y'all. You guys rock and make me smile.

Posted by Sam at 10:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't know what it is, but for some strange reason I tend to attract old people. I'm not sure if I have Good Samaritan written on my forehead somewhere, or maybe it's just because they think, hey! That nice girl looks like she'll help me! but I can't rid of them.

Just the other week when we were having some of the nicest weather that London has seen in weeks, an old lady who was standing at the edge of the street was waving me over. I was walking with Alex who was on the phone and mumbled to me, 'just keep walking. She's crazy.' But I couldn't help myself. She was looking at me dead in the face and continued waving to me in a rushed panic.

I walked over to the old lady who was dressed in a heavy winter coat, a hat and mittens. She had a slight tick as well and couldn't help her head from shaking every so often.

Please don't let her be crazy. Please don't let her be crazy, I repeated to myself.

"Hiya. Are you okay?" I asked her.

"Oh thank you, dear. Could you just help me cross the road please? I've just gotten out of hopsital, and I'm too afraid to cross the street on my own."

"Yeah, sure. That's fine."

"Thank you, honey. Thank you so much." She hooked her arm in my arm and we waited for the Green Man that says it's okay for us to cross.

Once we made it safely to the other side, she told me that she was just going to Sainsbury's and that she'd be fine from there.

"God bless you, honey. God bless. And be careful crossing back over. These people are crazy drivers here."

"I will do. And it's not a problem," I said and let her continue on her way to the store.

When I crossed back over to where Alex was, she was laughing at me.

"You're too fucking nice," she said.

A couple weeks before that, I had to help another old lady who was blind and had an accent that made my ears strain just to try and decipher what she was saying. I think she might have been a little bit crazy as well, but it just added to her insane character.

I left work early and was on my way to Kingston to meet up with Helen. I had my earbuds in, as I always do when I'm out and about on my own, and I had a glazed look across my face, which should let people know not to stop me; I don't want to have a conversation with you; I don't want to fill out a survey; I don't want to join that fucking charity. So I was startled when when out nowhere, this arm came flying towards me and caught me off guard. An asian man who was apparently too busy to help this old woman flagged me down. I took out my earbuds and gave him an annoyed look.

"What?" I asked in a pissed off tone.

"Can you help her get to the store since you're walking in that direction? I'm going this way," and he pointed in the opposite direction.

I looked over at the old lady who was chewing on her bottom lip and staring at the ground.

"Are you serious?" I said.

But he didn't even answer. He just walked away and left me there with her.

Fuck. Well I can't just leave a blind woman standing here on the busy sidewalk.

"Hiya," I said in a sweet voice to her. "So you're going to the store, huh?"

"Just to Sainsbury's. I need to get my lunch," she replied in her thick accent.

"Great. Well, let's go to Sainsbury's then." I took her arm into mine, and began the very slow walk leading her around like a guide dog.

She talked and talked and talked, and I just walked and said 'mmhmm' when it was necessary. I found it interesting, though, at how many people would notice that she was blind and quickly got out of her way. We just took a straight path and every one else made room for the two of us. I thought that was kind of cool. And when we finally made it to the store, the man we asked to help us find her lunch (two bars of dark chocolate and a chocolate milkshake), was really nice and patient with her.

Up at the till, she counted out her own money which seemed like three years. It was only £2.30, but she insisted on feeling every single coin in these plastic bags that separated them all. When I offered to help her out, she snapped at me and said that she could do it herself. Fair enough. The woman who was patiently waiting pointed at her and mouthed to me, is she your mother?

No, I mouthed back and shook my head. I just met her ten minutes ago.

She smiled and acted like it was the nicest thing she had seen her entire life.

Yeah, I guess.

After she finally paid for her very chocolate lunch, we made the long journey back to the social services building where I dropped her off. The man (security guard maybe?) that was trying to find her social worker didn't have the same amount of patience as the lady at Sainsbury's, and I could tell he was getting frustrated with her. She didn't know the woman's name. All she knew was that she was a 'team manager'.

I really needed to get going, so after I checked with him that she would be fine and was in the right place, I left. I felt bad, but at the same time I thought that I had gone above and beyond what some people would have done.

But the one old lady that I partially take care of is our neighbor two doors down from us named, Olive. You would think that she was my grandmother, and now I'm afraid that she relies on me too much. When it gets to be time for us to move out, I'm not sure what she's going to do. She's 87-years-old, just had a pacemaker put inside of her and has lived in the same building for over forty years. It's crazy.

I've been helping her out for the past two months or so, taking her trash down for her and occasionally going to the shop for her to pick up a few things that she needs. She always gives extra money to me, but I refuse and give it back to her, sometimes when she doesn't realize it. And I don't mind, because it's not really that big of a deal. However, sometimes I get slightly weirded out when she randomly calls me 'just to chat,' or when she gives us small nick knacks from her house that we have no use for, just because she wants someone to have them before she dies. And when we do chat, the only thing she talks about is how she's really independent, her daughter with schizophrenia and she can be really patronizing about us 'young kids' these days.

I get it, Olive. It sucks to be your age.

Bless her. I realize that she doesn't really have anyone else, and I do try to help her when I can. Momma always says to me, how would you want to be treated when you get to be that age? Well, I suppose I'd want some nice, young girl to help me across the street when I just get out of the hospital, or not judge me when I have only chocolate for my lunch. And I suppose I'd also like that nice girl to listen to me ramble on about the same stories every time we chat and not have her complain when I give her pointless things from my mountain of crap that has been collecting dust since the 19th century.

Or, I'd much rather just be left somewhere in a cottage where I wouldn't bother anyone and let nature take its course.

Posted by Sam at 10:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

One o'clock on Saturday afternoon and my phone rang. I thought it was Alex to talk about our funny evening; getting drunk in an Australian pub whilst dancing to Jamaican music on the 4th of July is funny. FUNNY.

"Hello," I answered in my sleepy voice.

"Hey, Sam. It's X," the voice replied.

Not Alex! It's not Alex. Quick, sound alive like you're not hungover. Oh, X doesn't care. He knows about your drunken ways. He made a comment about how I sounded like I had just woken up anyway, so it's not like I could have disguised it even if I tried.

We made plans for my first ever blogger meet. Back in the day, X used to write on his blog called october4th, but closed up shop, because "not having any drama" gave him zero writing material, which I highly doubt. I always enjoyed reading X's words, no matter what it was about. I remember ages ago as well when I first moved over here, he sent me an email saying that if I ever wanted to meet up to give him a shout, but because I'm lame and got caught up in my own little world, we never did. We decided to meet up on Sunday around 3ish at Victoria station. I could manage that. Afterall, I had been to Victoria station once to pick up a friend a little over a year ago. No biggie.

Helen mentioned that I could take the 170 straight to Victoria and not have to spend extra on the train. It would be a little bit of a journey, but when did I ever hate long bus journeys where I could stare out the window and listen to my iPod? I love that kind of shit!

I wasn't even on the bus ten minutes when we ran into scary traffic and I thought, now is exactly the time I hate being on long bus journeys. Traffic is always annoying, and it's even more annoying when the weather is being typically English: rainy, cold and windy. X rang me while we were paused on a ramp and told me that he had just missed his train and might be a little late.

"That's alright, I think I'm going to be late too," I told him.

"Well we can be late together then."

During the hour long bus journey, I didn't really think much about 'the meeting'. It didn't exactly feel like a 'blogger meet' rather than just me finally meeting someone that I've already 'mentally met' in my own head. I do that with all of the bloggers that I read -- we've already met, I already know them, and I'm sure that they already know me. I talk about them to all of my friends as if we've known each other for years and keep in contact over the internet. Why do I do this? Because I'm strange I guess.

I also had no idea what we were going to do in Central. I don't usually go to Central during the daylight hours. If you want to know of any good places to go clubbing and for drinks though, then I'm the girl to ask. Roadhouse in Covent Garden? AfterSkool at The Quad? Koko in Camden? Zoo Bar in Leicester Square? I'm all over that shit. But during the daytime, I'm useless.

I actually made it to Victoria on time, and smoked a cigarette before I went inside the huge station. I stood around for a little while until I started getting funny looks from some of the workers. I guess they thought I was going to cause some kind of trouble, because I must look like the trouble-makin'-kind. I went into the larger area of the train station with all of the shops and scouted the place for the bathroom. I figured I could kill time by emptying my bladder, but decided that paying 30p to pee was ridiculous. I wondered what would happen if someone was really desperate and didn't have 30p to pee? What then? Would people get offended if they took care of business in public? They really couldn't get angry; it's their fault for charging the public to do something that is natural and they can't really help.

After a while of waiting and watching the pigeons walk around, my phone started vibrating and I saw that it was X calling. He had arrived and asked me where I was.

"Um, I'm in that big, open space by the toilets."

"Right, that's a little vague."

"I don't know, the place with the big board with the numbers on it."

I am shit.

"Okay, what shops are you near?"

"Oh right! Well, there's HMV, WHSmith, Monsoon."

"Well I'm near WHSmith. I don't see you. Jump up and wave or something."

"No! People will think I'm a mentalist. Oh wait, I see you."

And then what did I do? I waved like a mentalist. And as I was walking toward him, all I kept on repeating to myself in my head was, don't call him X. Don't call him X. He has a real name.

From there, we kind of just walked around Central for about two hours and chatted about random things. It was really cool. He knew all of the names of all of the popular streets and knew which direction they went. I just walked around aimlessly and took the most complicated routes around all of the different people, which X pointed out to me. What can I say? I'm a complicated woman.

We stopped into his favorite record shop, and I could tell why he loved it so much: because it fucking rocks. If I wasn't poor and saving money, I would have loved to do some damage to my bank account in there, but alas, the lightness of my purse reminded me that I would need to save it for another day.

Whilst walking around though, it began to rain and we decided to tuck into of one of the Virgin Record stores. In the bottom basement area, they were having a serious sale on CDs, books and DVDs; you could get a CD for £2! And books for 50p! Honestly, it was practically like we were robbing the place. However, after a quick glance at the items that were on sale, we could see why they were so cheap -- most of it was shit. They had about twenty albums in some weird language that X apparently knew how to speak, and there were albums with titles like "Even better than the original!" by cover bands. Awful. Although, I really could have gone for the Olivia Newton John album (Xanadu was on there!) and the best of the Bee Gees (nothing from Saturday Night Fever, though, so we didn't see how it could be 'the best').

In the end, I managed to get an Oasis album that I don't have for £2, and X got a book for 50p. It was pretty good, and right up our price range.

I had to pee so we stopped into one of the many McDonald's where I didn't have to pay anything to use the toilet, as it should be. After that, though, X told me that he had to dart because it was getting near his bedtime (early dude!). It was probably good that I was heading back then, though, because while I was on the train back to my side of London, I recieved a text message from a nervous Helen that simply said, Yo sam i'm worried. Just give me a txt. Just as I was typing up my reply, she began to ring me.

"Hey honey, what's up? What's wrong?" I asked her.

"You're okay?

"Of course I'm okay. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I don't know. I was just getting myself all worked up and in a panic. You know how my paranoid brain is. I just was really groggy when you left this morning, and didn't even ask where you were going, or what you guys were doing. And I thought, 'what do I know about this guy? Nothing! What does Sam know?' He could be chopping her up into little bits and hiding her in a floorboard somewhere! I'm a terrible friend! Honestly, if you hadn't answered, I might have called the police."

"Honey! Aw, bless your heart. No, no I'm fine, and alive. It's okay, really. I had a good time. X is lovely, and not a murderer." If I could have, I would have reached through the phone and gave my care bear a hug.

Later on that day, she told me that she had had a really bad dream that left her shaken up.

"You know how sometimes when you dream something like that, it really affects you? Well, the logical part of my brain kept on telling me, 'Helen, she's fine. She's just out having a good time and will text you later.' But the paranoid part of my brain, that little one percent was telling me that you were getting cut up and put in a freezer somewhere. See? I don't just stress over boys. I stress over my friends as well."

As I was talking to her, my phone started ringing upstairs. Alex tried calling me, so before I went to sleep I gave her a quick ring back.

"Hey honey, what's up?" I said.

"Nothing much. Just got off work and wanted to see how you are, how your day was?" she asked me.

"It was really good, I had a nice time. I just hope he doesn't think I'm crazy. I tend to ramble a lot and talk about random stuff. Poor Helen, though, she thought that I was dead somewhere. Bless her."

"Yeah, me too! That's why I'm calling; I was just a little concerned. I mean, you've never met the guy before, and Central is a big place."

I didn't bother explaining that I had already 'mentally met' him. I don't think she would have understood my logic. Instead I reassured her that X was a really cool fellow blogger, a really cool guy, and that she had nothing to worry about. I love my worrying friends.

All in all, I would consider it to be a good first London blogger meeting. I've already told him the next time he should come round to my neck of the woods, and I'll show him my side of London. I'll even go to east London if he doesn't mind this crazy American walking around his town, probably embarrassing him because I have no sense of direction. London is such a big place; I should cover as much ground as possible. But I'm thinking we should go to my London first. One word for you X: Yogo. And it has nothing to do with NASCAR.

Posted by Sam at 02:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

A conversation that I had in my head yesterday. Now you can see why it's hard for me to live inside of my brain...

- Look at 'em. They're so cute.

- For dirty pigeons, yeah, sure. If that's what you're into. I wish you would stop feeding the greedy bastards.

- Well it's better than letting all of Carlene's cereal go to waste. I don't eat it, and those are four perfectly good boxes of Rice Krispies and Wheatabix in there.

- OR, you could have just given it to someone at work. I'm sure someone at work would have taken it. Now thanks to you and your fucking bright thinking, there's going to be thousands of them out there next week just waiting for you to refill that pitiful wicker bowl.

- Whatever. I think they're sweet. Look at her! She's cleaning the random bits of Rice Krispies off of the man pigeon. That's love right there.

- Or nature. You're gay. And feeding the pigeons is stupid. You want to know something? Doves. They're pigeons, just all white. LIke, albino. So the dove being a representation of love? Is really just a dirty pigeon cleaning random bits of Rice Krispies off of the dude pigeon. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

- God, pessimistic much?

- Nope. Just realistic.

**

Anyone want any cereal?

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

My darling Trish has gone back to VA for the summer, and is realizing that no, sometimes you just can't go back home. Her mother is constantly on her case about things and her brother irritates her non-stop.

It's hard to adjust being back under the parental's roof when you've been gone for so long.

I was talking to her online last night, and trying to remind her that she should enjoy being back home and take advantage of the time that she has now with her family. Yes, it can be annoying when your mom treats you like you're still 14-years-old, and if you have to pull your brother's finger out of your ear one more time because he has given you another wet willy, you might actually scream. It's okay. We don't really realize it, but even though we say it's annoying and we could tear our hair out in frustration, somehow we find comfort in all of those things that drive us insane. It wouldn't really be home if it was any different.

It got me to thinking about when I go back home, though, and how I do find it hard to adjust back to American Life. When you've been out on your own and managing alone every day for so long, in a different country no less, sometimes it can be really difficult to fall back into home life. When I was alone in the townhouse last summer, I would scour the pantry and wonder where the Ribena was, or Nice biscuits. And for fuck's sake, why didn't have any yorkshire puddings with our dinner? Is that too much for a simple girl to ask for? Really?

Momma and Mel would always give me hell whenever I'd say things differently or my accent would slip a little and I'd blurt something out sounding like a right chav.

"That doesn't make any sense, Sammi. Shut up. You're in America now," is what Mel liked saying to me.

Yeah, I was back in America indeed, and while I was glad to be amongst all of the tasty and familar fast food joints that I occasionally have dreams about, I couldn't help but notice all of the obvious changes in myself. I may have been back on American soil, but my heart still lived in London, still walked around the city streets with my iPod blasting UK bands in my ears that sing about the queen and Kings Cross station.

I noticed that I started to find American accents annoying as well. If I don't already know you and you're American, chances are I probably hate your accent. I went to the American embassy in Central with Trish one day so she could replace her passport, and while I was sat in the waiting area without my iPod, I had no other choice but to listen to all of the other Americans in the room waiting for their ticket number to be called. They just sounded so...American that it killed me. God, why were they here? Why were they speaking? Why do their voices sound like that? Jesus, did I used to sound like that?

Yes. Yes I did. And it makes me cringe to think that I used to sound like that.

The more I listened, the more I squirmed in my chair. Little American kids were running around and screaming, and their parents just sat there in their Old Navy t-shirt with the American flag plastered on it, wearing their birkenstocks and didn't do anything to control their demon that was running amok.

No wonder the rest of the world can't stand us. We're awful. I know not every single American is like the stereotypical bible thumping fat ass, but at the same time, there's a reason why it's a stereotype. We can be so blatantly ignorant, rude and inconsiderate of other people, that it's embarrassing for me sometimes to go out and say, "yeah, I'm American."

There was a boy in my Process of Writing lecture last term who was from Colorado. Every Tuesday at ten o'clock in the morning, it took every ounce of energy I had to not jump across the table and choke him. Alex and I would whisper to each other about 'fucking Americans' and how 'they needed to go back to their fucking country.' He sat there on his all-mighty pedastal and had to announce, or point out in some kind of way that hey! I'm American! We do things differently!

I wanted to say to him, yo, jackass. I'm American too, and is there really a need for you to wave our goddamned flag around every. cunting. class. Shut up. Nobody cares.

He was a fucking suck up that acted like he knew everything there is to know about anything, and if he had crawled up any further up the lecturer's ass, she could have spit him out through her mouth and onto the table on top of all of our literature books. It made me sink so low in my chair and want to apologize to everyone in the class. I wanted to explain, hey, we're not all like this. Some of us know when to keep our mouths shut. And others, like Mr. Colorado over there never learned how to keep quiet.

It's a lot of little things about the Americans that I encounter over here that really get on my tits; the fact that they think everyone is 'British'. No, dear. English. They're English. Because we're in England. It's along the same lines if someone thought you were Canadian.

Or how the tourists make a HUGE DEAL about everything. Have they never left their house?

Oh my god! Look at it! Just look. at. it. That's AWESOME. SO. FUCKING. AWESOME.

Chill out dude. You're going to give yourself a stroke.

I can't really say much, because I know that was me not even four years ago when I came to visit Ash. I squealed, my eyes got twice their size and there I was jumping up and down with my disposable camera and wearing a British flag jacket (hells yeah; it sits in my closet back in VA. There's no way in hell I'd be caught with it over here). Now, though, now that I live here and am completely immersed in my life here, when I see a fellow American doing the tourist thing, I can't help but do one of two things: 1) smile and remember when that used to be me, or 2) point and laugh because that tourist hat they've bought looks stupid.

It's not that I hate America now or am ashamed of where I came from. I will argue with people over here that want to start on me just because I'm American and give me grief about our president and blah, blah, blah. I always tell them to fuck off, and you don't see me talking shit about your queen and the royal family, so how about you close your trap about my president and its government? I can't fucking help that shit so don't blab on about it in my ear when I could fucking care less. America is an amazing country, and every place has its faults: like how I will never understand why I can't ever get a drink over here with ice in it. Try to do it. I dare you. It's fucking hard.

Perhaps a little part of me does consider myself to be slightly superior now, though, since I moved over here. I won't lie. I'm glad I'm not still stuck in my aunt's trailer living in Dallas, North Carolina anymore. I've come far since then, and I'm fucking proud to say that I've done better for myself and have managed to see things and learn about things that a lot of people in my family could never even imagine. I'm sure that they're living perfectly happy lives in their small town, but I've always thought that it wouldn't hurt to explore a little bit more, and learn a little bit more about others in the world. I just think that us Americans need to tone it down a little, and be more open-minded about people who aren't from our huge country. Believe it or not, not everywhere in the world has air conditioning. Sometimes all you have to do is open a window.

I do think I'm a strange hybrid of cultures all rolled into one: I'm American, and southern American at that. I'm half Filipino (thank you, daddy), plus now that I live in London, I've incorporated many English things in my life. With the 4th of July looming right around the corner, it's funny to think about celebrating the holiday over here instead of at home watching the fireworks inside from a safe distance away from all of the mosquitoes. I don't see why I shouldn't; Trish and I celebrate Thanksgiving over here. But at the same time, I don't think I really care about it too much. Yeah, we declared our independence from Great Britain, but I've come back to the Mother Country and feel more like myself here, than I ever did stuck working for the U.S. government in a dead end 9-5 job. I might just throw some burgers on the George, light a couple of sparklers and call it a night.

Posted by Sam at 10:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Monday and Tuesday I should have just stayed at home, since I was only in work for a total of ten hours. Our servers crashed early on Monday afternoon and we all went home seeing as we didn't have any work to do, and I couldn't be bothered to stay inside any longer with the sun shining. Tuesday I left early anyway because I had planned over the weekend to leave early on Tuesday and enjoy the hot sunshine that we haven't seen much of recently.

Yeah, I've totally been climatized by living over here for so long. I was used to hot, humid days that left me feeling sticky and craving the air conditioned buildings of Virginia; now whenever I see that the temperatures are over 75 degrees (22C about, I think), I freak out and mentally start putting together my cutest summer outfits. Yesterday was the first time in a long time that we were in the very low 80s (27C!) and I wasn't going to spend my day stuck inside inputting data at a desk. I have a second job that I like to call Tanning, and I had missed too many days already.

I came in, quickly did all of my 200 records that I usually stretch over the entire day, and left as soon as the clock hit 12:30. I was going to Richmond park with Alex and Lizzie, and it was going to be brilliant.

It was a brilliant day as well. I love just laying out in the sun in nothing but my bathing suit and drifting off to sleep listening to my iPod. Occasionally I'll move so I can flip over and bake my other side, but other than that, nothing. I don't speak; I don't move; I simply soak up every sunshine ray that I possibly can and feel my skin tingle under the harsh sunlight. It's fantastic. All I needed was a pool and I would have been in heaven.

The thing I love most about Richmond park is the fact that it's so huge and has deer roaming around everywhere. The minute you step into the gates, you just see herds of deer walking about and minding their business. They're harmless so long as you don't charge up to them. One time while I was laying out, a small group of about six or seven were napping in the shade right next to me for about two hours until I it was time for me to go. They were so close that I could smell their pungent scent and it reminded me of going to the zoo.

One time, we saw some random ducks waddle past us as well. People bring their dogs down to run around, and you'll see loads of people dotted all over the grassy stretches either tanning, having picnics or reading. It's so lovely.

We stayed in the park for a couple of hours and then left after around five, because Alex needed to pee and I couldn't handle having all of the little bugs landing on my legs and getting stuck to the tanning lotion. We walked all the way back home, bought a Calippo ice lolly on the way and I had a shower immediately after I got back to the flat. I had definitely caught the sun on my arms, chest and face, but my legs could have done with a bit more time.

I was supposed to go round to Alex's house so we could order chinese takaway, but I fell asleep after my shower and was woken up when she called me.

"We're ordering the food, do you want anything?"

"Um, some of those chicken ball things, and that chicken noodle stuff," I grumbled to her.

"Okay. We're going to watch a film, so get over here."

"I wil, I will. I'm awake. I promise."

I know I said I was going to be healthier and all that, and for the most part I have been, cutting out all of the bad snack foods that I munch on during the day, but after spending many hours under the hot sun, eating chinese food is quite possibly one of the nicest things ever. And watching American Pie Wedding. It wasn't even ten o'clock when the film finished, but I went back next door, did my washing up in the kitchen and then fell back asleep. It was just an all round really nice day, and I was glad to have been out and about rather than merging council records together.

Today it's back to overcast weather and the clouds tease us all down below making us guess whether or not it'll rain. I'm not too bothered by it though. I have my umbrella in my bag and look like I've just gotten back from a mini holiday. Sadly, I have to stay at work to make up the hours I lost on Monday and yesterday, but it was totally worth it. I'll be able to catch up on records, blogs and reading until it's time for me to head on back home.

Posted by Sam at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

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.

Continue reading ""They call me hell; they call me Stacey; they call me 'her'; they call me Jane; that's not my name"" »

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)

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)

I didn't run for newspaper editor of my uni, nor did I go to my second counseling session with Lena. Why? Because I got a job and that is priority numero uno for me at the moment. Spending money now is a lot less stressful knowing full and well that I am also accruing funds that will replenish my bank account this coming Friday. It's going to be oh so sweet.

Simon managed to hook me up with that job that I mentioned last week. It turns out that two of the other people they had hired before me, turned out to be flakes, so they decided to replace them with me! And two other ladies that started this past Monday as well.

The job itself is a pile of wank, but the pay is right up my alley. I've done the calculations, and after about a month and a half worth's pay, I should be out of my debt hole and can start saving money for when Mel gets here in August. I'm excited about these new developments, and was so happy to have a job, that I could have reached through my phone and gave Simon a big, sloppy kiss.

Sunday night, I had already mentally decided what I was going to wear for my first day of work, and was so excited to get ready, I woke up AN HOUR BEFORE my alarm went off. That's FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING PEOPLE. Do you know how long it has been since I've woken up at that time? And haven't been out in some random corner of London? A long time. It has been a very long time.

I rolled over and caught the last hour of sleep, but as soon as my phone began playing my morning wake-up call, I quickly jumped in the shower and arrived at my new workplace thirty minutes early. I was quite eager and ready to see what I would be doing, who would I be working with, what was everything going to be like? I was particularly happy to be back in an office setting. How sad is that? But it's true. I'm comfortable amongst all of the computer wires, telephones and mini-kitchen break rooms. It's what I know. It's what I do.

It turned out to be a very standard office, with bare minimum... everything. My enthusiasm was slightly deflated, but I wasn't going to let this get me down. I was at work. AT WORK. And I was damn happy.

The work that I do is so mind-numbing I have to listen to my iPod, Sugar, to keep me awake and my brain functioning at some kind of normal level. It takes me back when I used to work back in VA, and reminded me why I love to hate places like these offices. It was strangely comforting to be working in Excel and Citrix, doing "data cleansing" for people that look at me like I'm too young to be there, and seem out of place with my lip piercing and tattoos (which I hide underneath appropriate work attire).

The other four ladies that I work with are between the ages of thirty-five and forty-something, and they're married. We don't really have anything in common, nor do we have anything to talk about, but they're nice and with each passing day, I'm growing to like them even more. There's Mary, who's a bit... out there and never really knows when to stop talking. Then we have Susan who's the quiet one, and kind of keeps to herself, but she has been slowly breaking out of her shell a bit more and laughing with us. Anna is next in line, who was a little intense when I first met her, but now that I've gotten to know her, I think she's hilarious. Last but not least, there's little Helima, who claimed me as her "smoking buddy" the very first day. I get the feeling that she wants to talk to me about personal things (i.e. problems with her husband), but I find it way too weird and uncomfortable, and try to dodge those conversations as quickly as possible.

That would be our not-so-crazy group of ladies that sit all day, cleanse data all day, try to make it all go by a little bit faster all day...

The good thing is that this is only supposed to be for six weeks, so I won't be stuck doing this shit until I die. We each have 5000 records to clean, and I'm breezing through mine (I'm already at 1300-something). I want to try and get them finished as soon as possible so I don't have to look at them anymore, and will hopefully get something that's a bit more stimulating.

And that's my job. After work is finished for the day, I fast-walk all the way down to the bus stop and hope that I'll be lucky enough to get a seat for the long journey back. I always get stuck in the after work traffic, so instead of the trip being twenty minutes (how long it usually takes), I'm stuck there for about an hour.

Instead of going to the meeting for the top up elections last night, I decided to take a night off and go see my friend, Ryan O'Reilly play at a pub in Hammersmith. I can honestly say that he is one of my favorite people on earth that I have the pleasure of knowing. He's ridiculously smart, funny, a fantastic musician and yes, very much unavailable. He has a beautiful girlfriend, that Trish and I consider to be the luckiest woman on earth.

I love going to Ryan's gigs when I can. The only reason I tend to not go to them is because I'm too poor, but since I have a job now (that will never get old for me to say), I thought I would go and have a nice night out. I never have a bad time at Ryan's gigs. I love it because you get to meet new people, discover other great acts, and travel to different parts of London that I may not otherwise know about.

Last night was one of my favorite performances I've seen Ryan do. He was just so on. He told stories, the audience laughed, he sang with so much feeling and captured the entire night. I know I'm bias, but he was my favorite act of the evening.

And it was so nice not being at uni. Not being around uni people. Not having anything to do with university at all.

Since my last exam, which was the last uni-related thing I had to do, I haven't been back in any kind of full capacity. I pretty much fell off the uni map, and haven't missed it in the slightest. I don't want to deal with any of it for the time being. I just want to push it aside for right now and for once, not care about any of the worries from the past year.

Posted by Sam at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I can't update my blog at the moment, because I'm working.

Oh yeah, baby, you read that correctly.

WORKING.

I shall have a proper update when I get a little break and I'm not so tired from all of this work that I've been doing. Hells yeah I'm going to wear that word out: work, work, work, work, WORK. I'm a working gal.

And this working gal needs sleep so she can get up early for work in the morning.

AWESOME.

P.S... I already miss you Internet. I hope you miss me too.

Posted by Sam at 10:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

A couple of days ago, I watched this video on Current about this "ghost granny" thing that was scaring locals in Sri Lanka. I have no idea why I watched it; I hate scary shit. I'm not one of those people that particularly enjoys being scared for fun. My heart can't take it. I'm a smoker.

I decided to watch it anyway, because while I may not like scary things, sometimes I do get intrigued by the whole "unknown paranormal" stuff. It's interesting and can make your brain wander about things that maybe we don't always see with the naked eye. I pressed play and watched it with Carlene and Trish next to me, all of us waiting for something weird to happen. The video was only two minutes and a few seconds long, and towards the end, we were surprised to see this scary old lady on the elevator camera after these two men stepped out. It scared me and Trish so much that we actually screamed out loud, and then scared Carlene because we screamed out loud.

Ever since then, I've been a stupid, little baby, and have been having trouble sleeping at night, and I never have trouble getting to sleep; it's one of my favorite things to do. I've turned into this weird nocturnal creature that occupies myself with anything until I'm so ridiculously tired, I don't have time to open and close my eyes twelve times to make sure nothing is hovering over me. And quite frankly, it's starting to piss me off.

Then, while I was laying in bed at five o'clock in the morning, catching up on blogs and occupying my mind once again, I read Chelsea's latest blog about clowns and fear. It wasn't exactly what I'm going through, but it was similar, and made me realize a few things, like how silly this whole ghost granny thing is. I'm probably just making it out to be a much bigger and scarier thing in my head. No, I am making it a much bigger and scarier thing, when it doesn't need to be. I've been living here how long, and I haven't had too many problems... that I know of. I'll be fine. My sleep schedule should get on as normal, I hope.

But it also got me thinking about a few other real fears that I have. Fears that can't simply magically disappear. Fears that I'll have to deal with one way or another, whether that's telling someone who can help me out, or finding something that will quickly make it all go away - like winning the lottery.

With all of this heavy and intense life shit going on around me, I've been trying so hard not to close up and head back to Denial Island. While it is a lovely place to stay at from time to time, I fear that I tend to get lost in all of denial haze, I lose track of what's important and what needs to get done. I'm scared that I won't get a job, that I'll have to tell Momma that I've royally fucked up again, and that it's going to take me an age to get all of my finances sorted out. I fear that I won't have my share to pay some of the bills, that people will hate me for owing them so much money for so long and hold it over my head. I'm scared that I'll start lashing out at people, which I tend to do whenever I get into these kind of situations. And I'm scared that I'll never sort myself out properly. What if I'm always that girl that has money problems? I don't want to be her. Nobody likes hanging out with her, because whenever she asks for a favor, people's first thought is that she needs money, when really she was just wondering if she could borrow your curling iron. It's not a good thing.

Aside from all of those fears, I've also got those horrible little niggles that many girls my age, who are single think about every so often (read: every second of every day). I'm scared of being alone.

There. I said it.

That horrible thing that I hate to think about, let alone actually say. What am I, sixty-seven?

No, I'm definitely not old. Not yet anyway. But I'm also not the most patient person on the planet. Anybody who has ever met me, even for one second, knows that. But it would be nice. To have someone. Who is a man. To be here. With me.

Of course then I always go back to the whole, "if you weren't having any of these problems right now, you wouldn't even be thinking about this." Which is true. I have always prided myself on being the girl that doesn't need a man. I only need a man for one thing, and I can get that whenever I want. It's easy. I'm easy. London is a big city, and there are a lot of potentials. And after the big Ash/Sam train wrecks, I've been keeping my distance (emotionally, that is) from other potentials. Yes, there was Swindon for a brief couple of weeks, but that quickly faded along with my hope (we never did go on that date either, the schmuck).

Perhaps I'm in a rut, who knows? Maybe I'll find out when I speak to Lena this coming Tuesday; we are talking about relationships (or so Fran said we might be when I saw her the last time). Maybe I'm just going through a dry spell, a phase, a bump in the road. Or maybe I'm just letting my fear completely consume me. The ghost granny has claimed my sleep, and all of my other bigger fears appear to be claiming my sanity. And I fear if I don't conquer these fears soon, I'll be watching a lot of sunrises from my bedroom window at half five in the morning.

Posted by Sam at 05:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Summer has definitely touched London, and for the past week and a half or so, I've been laying outside with just enough clothes on to not get thrown in jail for indecent exposure. We walk around in flip flops, tank tops, short shorts and our hair pulled up and off of our necks to try and keep cool. It has been nothing but bright, blue skies, hot sun and ice lollies. And slightly pink skin from absorbing too much of the hot weather. I forget that my skin isn't used to all of this sunshine, and got a bit too excited about staying outside for hours on end. I've since spent the past two days mostly inside, shielding my gentle skin and letting it recover from the harsh rays. I do believe that tomorrow I should be fine though, and will be going out to the parks for more naps out on the grass.

It has been a lovely break from the past few weeks where I've locked myself indoors, only to stare out the window and wishing I was outside, but rather had to force myself to do coursework that I hated and wanted to throw over the balcony to the random animals so they could tear it into little shreds of nothing. I have been making up for lost time, to say the least, and am enjoying my little rest from the hell that was the end of my second year at uni.

This next week, however, will not only just be spent dozing off in the grass, but waiting for Simon to call with any potential jobs. He called me last week for a job that paid so well, but that quickly dissipated when all of the positions were filled before they even reached my name. It was sad, but I'm hopeful this week will bring something else. I also submitted my CV to another temp agency called Office Angels. Apparently they're supposed to be really good as well, so I hope to hear from them too. I suppose it'll just be a race to see who can get me a job first. The sooner I start work, the better I'll feel about a lot of things.

Until then, I've just been doing chores around the flat, making sure that things are ready for when I actually do get work. I bought a couple of shirts to go with some of my nice trousers, ironed all of my clothes that require ironing, bought groceries, and so on. Everything will be ready and stocked for me, that way when it is time for me to work, I don't have to worry about running late because I didn't iron that one shirt that goes so nicely with my light pink trousers. It also keeps my mind occupied from going absolutely insane.

Today is Mother's Day back home too. I called Momma and Mel via Skype and chatted with them for a little over two hours. It was good to catch up with them, have chats and imagine that I was back in the townhouse for a little while. Everything they said, I could picture in my head: I saw Mel making pork chops for Momma's Mother's Day dinner, saw us watching P.S. I love you downstairs on the couch, while Momma rode her exercise bicycle, and saw Momma in her room doing her Sunday ironing and watching all of her shows that she recorded on TiVo. I saw it all as if I was right next to them.

I've got another counseling meeting coming up in the next week. It's with Lena this time, not Fran. Lena called me last week and wanted to schedule a time for me to come in and chat with her. At the time when she called me I was thinking, "I don't need these things anymore, I'm fine," although now when I think about it, it is probably good for me to go in every so often and clear my brain out. So far it hasn't done any harm to me, so I reckon it can only help me in the long run. She actually gave me her mobile number as well just in case "I needed to reach her." Kind of scary, but at the same time, nice to know that I have a counselor on called, heaven forbid I have a random mental break down in public; I can just reach for my phone, give her a ring, and she can help me stop hyperventilating without me even being in her office.

It's lazy days at the moment. While it is nice to not have any obligations or coursework weighing me down, I would like to get a steady schedule so I can have something to do during the day. There are only so many things I can do here at the flat or at my nearby parks, before I'll start getting irritated, before I start going mental. I want to work. I need to work. I'm ready to work. And in between working, you can find me sprawled out in a warm sun patch in some soft, green grass.

Posted by Sam at 10:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

We leave the windows open all day, despite the danger of wasps finding their way in, and most of the flower petals on the trees have fallen off and floated down from the trees with every leap from the squirrels on their branches. It feels like summer is creeping up on us in the city, and while it does feel...warm...it also feels new and hopeful. I'm excited. I'm curious. I'm anxious. And I'm going to be staying in London all summer.

I won't be going back to VA, not because of anything terrible. Momma and I haven't had a fall out; in fact, life with Momma has never been this good before. We just thought it would probably be better for everyone (and cheaper) if I stayed here, work and save my money, rather than go back and fluff around all summer. Mel will be coming back here for a few weeks, though, which will be nice. I'll be with Helen for the majority of the time, since Trish will eventually be going back home, Carlene will be heading back to her hometown, Zoe will be in Greece, and everyone else will be spreading out back to their homes. It'll be weird, I'm sure, but I guess everyone has to do it eventually - we can't always just go back home.

I think it'll be good for me as well, to sort everything out as far as my own finances go and state of mind. I can learn to get back on track by myself, without having to head back to the slow pace of life in VA whenever things get a bit rocky for me. I've got a good support system here, and I forgot that until my meeting with Fran this past week.

Yes, the counseling meeting went very well. I was a little skeptical at first, and even considered not going, just because it was raining, it was early, and I wasn't in the mood. But then I decided to put on my boots and head out anyway. You never know until you try, and don't knock it 'til you try it, as they say - whoever 'they' might be.

I arrived completely drenched from walking in the rain without an umbrella. I thought the hood on my jacket would be enough, but I was wrong. I was slightly early, but that was fine, and it gave me enough time to sort myself and dry off a little bit before Fran arrived, who was prepared for the cloudy weather with a massive umbrella in her hand.

We sat opposite each other in her quaint office and the door shut. I noticed a small table off to my left that only had a homely lamp and a box of tissues on it. I guess I wasn't the only one who might have cried behind the closed door.

She had a couple of forms resting in her lap and began by asking me general questions: what was my full name, my phone number, address and so forth. She then told me that she would be making notes throughout our conversation and asked me if I minded.

"No, no, I don't mind at all," I told her and smiled awkwardly. I wasn't entirely sure what to do, how to sit or what to say.

"Have you ever been here before, or ever had counseling before this?" she asked me.

"Um, nope. This is my first time," I said.

"Well, what were you expecting from this conversation?" she asked in her gentle voice.

"I guess just to get a better understanding of myself, and why I've been feeling the way I've been feeling recently."

"And how have you been feeling?"

"Like shit."

She laughed a little, and from there on out, our conversation flowed easily as if she were just one of the girls who occasionally made notes on the papers that rested in her lap. It was a simple thing to do - she asked me questions and I answered them. However, the questions she asked me were different from the ones that other people ask me, or the ones that I ask myself. They were more simple and direct, and to the point. It helped me put a lot of different things in perspective and made me realize different things about myself that I had briefly considered in my own time, but quickly shrugged off, because I was not dependent on other people; I did not take on other people's problems as my own; I did not over work myself. Those were definitely things I was not. But I was. Denial is a crazy thing.

There were a couple of moments when I thought that I might break down and cry, but I managed to swallow the lump that was in my throat and hold the waterworks back a few times. It was mostly when she asked me questions about Momma, and our relationship. I am a classic cliché who tends to have issues stemming straight from her mother. Go figure.

The meeting ended with us swapping different name's of author's whose books that we loved, and deciding that I don't need regular counseling. I'm a stable person with a good head on her shoulders, but I will be going back every few weeks just for check ups to see how I'm doing...in life. Although, I'll be seeing somebody else since Fran won't be here over the summer. A lady named, Lena, who she said that I'd probably really like and get on with.

I walked out and lit up a cigarette immediately, but felt good. Really good. Refreshed. Like a big weight had been lifted off of my chest and made me optimistic about things again. I felt like she had unearthed the old Sam that believes she can do things, and believes in herself. Yeah, I've been kicked down in the dumps, but I'm strong enough to pull myself up and out of this. I can do it, but I don't have to do it alone. I've got good, close friends here that I can rely on. I've got Momma and Mel back home, and I know I have my ladies here that I can count on, even if I don't tell them things straight away.

I know I've written a lot about how my second year has been shit and horrible, and how bad I've felt recently, but even though life has been a bit crap for me the second time round, I'm hopeful that I can turn things around this summer and kick off my last and final year on a good note. The entire time I've been here in London, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. I do focus a lot more on the bad, than I do on the good, and I forget that even though I've been through some really shit times, I've always made it out on the other side a better and stronger person. I like to consider myself more of a city girl now, and I'm a lot more confident when it comes to me navigating my own way around the city. And if I do get lost, I'm positive that I'll always find my way back home. Hell, I seem to do it every time I'm drunk, and miraculously make it back with all of my belongings.

I've met incredible people that I'm sure I'll know for the rest of my life. I've learned how to interact with others, how to network my way around, learned new things about people and learned new things about myself. And every now and then, I have to be reminded about those things.

So while it would be nice to be back in VA, driving around, listening to music and eating food that I've been craving for months, it'll be good for me to stick it out here in good 'ole London Town, sorting myself out. I'm looking forward to that, and more importantly, I believe I can do it.

Posted by Sam at 12:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I always thought that people who go to see therapists and counselors were pussies. God, can't they hack it on their own? Losers.

But then I moved away from home and discovered why people go to see counselors and have therapists - it's because life is shit.

Recently I've been feeling a bit down; not quite my usual, chipper self. I've kept to myself in my room, alone, with my earbuds securely in my ears and my music on LOUD to keep all outside distractions out. I've got a mountain of coursework due in (and some that I discovered was due in yesterday, which I haven't even started), and I thought if I locked myself in my room, I could knock it all out in about two days and not have anything else uni-related to worry about until September.

I learned that that doesn't work. Locking yourself in your room for two days is a very bad idea and everyone should steer far away from ever doing that. I'm here to tell you that you'll get absolutely nothing accomplished, except for many hours wasted away on facebook.

When I wasn't being a sick facebook user, I would sit and think, and think, and think, and over think some more. I cleaned. I stared out my window. I cried. Boy, did I cry.

Alone.

Because of everything. Because I was alone, and sad, and depressed, and homesick, and melodramatic, and angry, and frustrated, and every other disgusting emotion that I despise. And also because I had a zit on the side of my nose that was the size of Jupiter. If there was a reason for me to cry, I did.

The annoying thing is that I would cry for about a minute, and then I would force myself to stop. I hated that I was crying over nothing. Over stupid nothingness. I knew what was wrong, so why was I coming up with other reasons for why I was sad and crying? The list of The Real Reasons To Cry has been elbowing me in the ribs for months now, so much that I'm afraid there might be a permanent bruise.

But The Real Reasons To Cry are mentally tacked in the front of my brain.

- I have no money.
- I owe people money.
- I don't have a job.
- Therefore, no money is coming in.
- Which results in me still owing people money.
- I'm late on the rent.
- I can't help pay the bills.
- When was the last time I even put electric on?

As we can all see, my main problem has been lack of funds. That's all I've been thinking about, and it never goes away. I wake up in the morning, and there's this giant ten pound note sitting at the foot of my bed, looking at me, laughing at me, and smoking.

I'm not sure why he's smoking, but for some reason that seems significant.

And he talks to me. He tells me every day, "you're a poor motherfucker."

"I know!" I shout at him. Then I tear off my covers, steal his cigarette and smoke the rest of it whilst blowing smoke in his paper face.

Sometimes he follows me when I go up to uni. I'll ignore him for the most part, but his little coin friends are harder to ignore when they're jumping all around my feet, pointing and laughing at me. I hate them the most.

Aside from my own illusions, I have been trying to do things in order to better myself. While I do wish that a million pounds would fall out of the sky and into my hands, I realize that the chances of that happening are pretty slim to none. I've got that Simon guy looking for jobs for me, and I am helping out in the flat where I can. I do know that sitting in my room and crying isn't going to get anything done.

My mental state recently hasn't been the greatest though. I've shut down to everyone around me. I'm not sure if they've noticed or not (I tried to conceal it for the most part), but it has been consuming me. I just feel like I've been sinking and I'm finding it difficult in order to pull myself out of this...mood. Out of this rut. Out of this feeling.

So I made an appointment with our local counseling centre. I suppose I'm a pussy and a loser. Oh well, I don't care. This Wednesday at 10:30a.m. I'll be meeting with a lady named, Fran, to talk about my problems and what I can do to remedy them. And hopefully remedy that giant ten pound note and his pesky coin friends. It's not that I don't want to talk about it with everyone that I already know, but I just don't want to make it into a "thing." I don't want to have a huge Sammi Spectacle and have everyone listen to me whine about shit they've already heard a million times. I know they're my friends and they'd never say that, but at the same time, I'm sure they get tired of hearing me complain about it all the time; I get tired of it.

I'll probably cry in front of her, which I'm really not looking forward to. I have a serious issue with crying in front of strangers. It's embarrassing and uncomfortable. There you are, in a very vulnerable position, raw, exposed, and in front of someone you don't know. Nothing is worse for me.

But it needs to come out. I had a bit of a proper cry today with Helen when it was just us two in the flat. All of my feelings have just been laying right at the surface for the past couple of days, and the tiniest thing pushes me right over the edge. When I began to let the waterworks flow in front of Helen, we were in the lounge and she was talking about what she wanted for dinner.

"Perhaps I'll have a bowl of spinach," she said casually.

And I couldn't contain it anymore. All I thought was "who eats just spinach? Aside from Popeye?" and cried non-stop for at least a good twenty minutes on her shoulder. It felt good. Although I'm sure there's plenty more where it came from.

***

For those of you who love Dane Cook and really love to cry. Totally me, only not as funny, unfortunately.

Posted by Sam at 09:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I don't really give myself enough credit. I am so observant. Like, freakishly observant. I see everything whether I want to or not. I can see you on the outside, on the inside, and see right through you. I know things about what I see, and I see particular moments in time that are substantial and mean something. Then I can piece together those substantial moments and learn things about you, discover hidden meanings.

And those moments, those little moments that I see, I freeze them. I'll stop time, cup them in my hands and look at them while they stand still.

It's those moments that I feel, and know what lies ahead in the future. Things change. People change. Dynamics change. Circumstances change. Life really isn't that hard to understand if only you lay those moments out in front of you and see how everything is mapped out. You can easily connect the dots and learn that no, it's not a vicious cycle that goes round and round, but rather a straight line and will continue moving right along at a steady speed. We just like to confuse ourselves and muddle things up and convince ourselves otherwise; we were "caught up in the moment" or "life was just happening around us."

The thing about that steady, straight line, is that we can't reverse time. We can never pick out certain moments and go back to the way things used to be. We can't re-create a particular moment because once it's gone, it's gone. All we're left with is that lingering feeling of happiness, of comfort, of easiness, and wishing that things could be like that forever. People try, they try to re-create moments, but it's never the same. It's forced, it's fake and you're just left feeling uncomfortable, not happy.

All we can really do I suppose, is when we do have one of the pleasant and happy moments frozen inside of our hands, cherish it. Look at it, appreciate it and smile, because we're never really sure how long it'll last. And when it's gone, when the frozen exterior finally melts away and it has slipped through your fingers, accept that it's over and be happy that you were given that moment in the first place.

Posted by Sam at 07:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It is something that I do every day. Every. Single. Day. And it's my favorite thing to do. Whoever came up with the shower, is a genius. The idea, yes, seems simple when you first think about it; water cascading over you at a nice temperature so you can cleanse your body from head to toe; and all of the excess water simply washes down the drain, where you don't have to think or worry about it. But the shower, is something that one should savor every day, and not take for granted.

It's a rare occasion that I don't have a shower. I'll either be so ill that I cannot physically get out of bed, and even more rare than that - I just can't be bothered. However, that only lasts for one day, and early on the following morning you'll hear me turn the shower on and relish the entire experience that much more.

I like to consider it time well spent alone. I sort my thoughts out in the shower, think about what I'd like to wear for the day, make lists of things to do, make lists of things I need to do, or more often, I'll day dream and get lost in my own thoughts whilst standing under the falling water. That's always my favorite thing to do; just stand underneath and feel every drop hit my skin. It's relaxing and soothing, and gives the illusion that I'm wrapped up in warm blankets - it's a hot water hug. Sometimes I'll just look down at my skin and find it funny to see that even though my hair is wet, my skin appears to be completely waterproof.

Aside from standing underneath the water with no purpose, I love using new shower products. How much fun is it when you buy new shampoo or body wash and use it for the first time in the shower? It's like a mini Christmas party in your bathroom that you celebrate every few weeks. I like to buy different body soaps, shampoos and conditioners just to see what they're like. What do they smell like when you first crack them open and the steam carries the new scent throughout the room? Are they better or worse than what you've previously used? There are so many different things out there to make the whole showering process more fun. Loofahs and shower gloves are great examples. Nobody out there can say that a loofah hasn't improved their life. The exfoliating of the skin and the new, fresh, clean layer that is exposed after you scrub away all of yesterdays old skin cells. It's amazing.

I know after every shower, I'm going to feel so much better about myself. It's not just a way to clean yourself and make yourself smell better, but a way to wake yourself up before your first cup of coffee early in the morning, a way to kick start yourself and the first step you take in getting ready for the entire day. Without the shower, there would be no blow-drying of the hair, or rolling on fresh deodorant on the surface of clean skin. It is the first, necessary step to do anything. You know that people always take a shower when they're ill, or take showers to cool off when they're angry, or they'll take a shower to be alone and cry. Showers are, in a way, therapeutic. Who needs a therapist when you can just jump in the shower for a little bit and come out feeling that. much. better.

So when people ask me why I take up to fifteen to twenty minutes in the shower every day, that is my response. Who wouldn't love to live underneath the hot water that stings at first and turns your skin slightly red? Who doesn't love re-creating a sauna every single day in their bathroom and feel their skin begin to wrinkle? Who doesn't get that comforting feeling underneath the shower head, and get lost in their own world and not worry about what's going on outside of the bathroom door? It is a brilliant place, and if I could, I'd stay for longer. And when I finally turn the water off, wring out my hair, shake off my limbs, step out on the bath rug, wrap myself in my towel and make sure it's tucked in snug underneath my armpits, I'll take a deep breath and continue with the rest of my day that is so much nicer now that I've started it off right with a lengthy shower.

Posted by Sam at 06:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I hate instant messenger. Well, that would be a lie. For the most part, I adore it since I can easily talk to my sister when she gets online, and it's funny to message my flat-mates when I'm sitting upstairs and they're all downstairs.

But sometimes, occasionally, I hate it. Because I can see when certain people are online. I can see when you're online. And as much as I hate it, I'll stare at your name on my computer screen, and I'll have a conversation with you inside of my head, without you ever knowing or caring or noticing, that while you're sat there, on the other side of your computer screen, I'm having all of these thoughts.

Every now and then, when I'm being pathetic, I'll click on your name just to have the little window box pop up on my screen, with the blinking cursor bringing me closer and closer to the edge, nudging me to type something.

Go on, the cursor will say to me. You know you want to. And then just press 'enter.' It's easy. You've done it millions of times before this.

I know, but what to say! What would I say that's not stupid, or lame, or screams LOSER. How does one even begin a conversation when there are so many things unsaid and should probably remain that way. I can't just begin to talk about the weather, or uni, or ask if you're going to the bop casually. We're not those kind of people. We don't have that relationship anymore. I'm not sure we've ever had that kind of relationship. It's always been complicated hasn't it?

Although there were times, back in the day, when things weren't as complicated. Do you remember when we used to talk for hours? Hours and hours upon hours about everything. You sat on my bed that one night, when you saw the Tiffany's bracelet on my left wrist. You took it in between your fingers gently and told me that your mom loved Tiffany's. She loved all the finer things in life, as did you. You continued to talk about how much you loved your mom and how important she is to you. I remember that night so clear for some reason, and I don't know why that memory sticks out so vividly in my mind.

Now we've been reduced to this, to an empty message box with a mocking cursor, and me with all of these insane thoughts. Sometimes I'll imagine where you might be; probably in the library, procrastinating doing your coursework that's due in soon. Or maybe you're at her flat, in her room, on her laptop.

It only makes me think about the times when you would be in my flat, in my room, on my laptop.

I just wanted to say, though, that I don't think about you that much these days. Every so often you might cross my mind, and I'll remember certain things, and wonder and day dream for about ten minutes or so; but then I'll get distracted by something else and it'll pass. I'm not caught up in what you're doing, who you're with or what you think about. I don't imagine pretend scenarios that I come up with in my head anymore, nor do I care how you feel about me. I don't even care if you know how much you've affected me, even by half. I'm exhausted from our non-relationship, and find it utterly ridiculous now that we have all of this stupid nonsense between us. I suppose it's just one of those things now, isn't it? We're those people that seemed good together, but never managed to work it out.

Instead you've got her, and I have to say that I'm surprised you managed to keep it afloat this long, what, with everything that happened (you know, with me). You have her that took you back. You know her friends, her family, her areas, her life. And even though I may wonder why you ended up with her, why things seem to work with her and not me, why she's a better fit - I'm not jealous. I'm really not. I'm not sure why, but as much as I like to think that we worked, we didn't. I was never good for you, and you sure as hell were never good for me. I like to think of us like Stuart Dybek's characters - "we made not doing it a wonder, and yet we didn't, we didn't, we never did."

Posted by Sam at 02:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm sitting in the lounge by myself. It's quiet.

I'm reading Francine Prose and am absolutely amazed by a sentence that she has deconstructed by Virginia Woolf.

Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to view, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us by the act of sickness, how we go down into the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist's arm-chair and confuse his "Rinse the mouth-rinse the mouth" with the greeting of the Deity stooping from the floor of Heaven to welcome us-when we think of this, as we are so frequently forced to think of it, it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature.

One sentence. That's 181 words in one. full. sentence.

Whilst reading this book (and a few others), my writing faith that I thought was lost, was found once again. It was restored and I was reminded why I love writing so much. It's not just because I love telling a story, but it is the actual words, the construction of writing that I love so much. I enjoy reading about words, why we use them, how we can use them, switch them about and make them sound more interesting or more appealing to the eyes.

It made me want to pick up a pen, or at least perch myself at my laptop for a few good hours and re-assemble everything I have ever written.

When I wrote the post below however many days ago, I was not a happy bunny. No. I was annoyed, pissed off and agitated beyond belief. Why was nothing going my way? Why does life suck? Why does my life suck in particular? Why is it that no matter what I do or try to do, I end up failing and things end up becoming even more shit? Blah, blah, blah. Moan, moan, moan.

And I had to blame it on someone. I had to blame the reason behind why everything I write (and perhaps everything I do) on someone or even something. So I blamed uni. Because isn't that the most logical answer?

Of course I wouldn't blame it on myself! Are you crazy? I am Sam, ladies and gentlemen. I am young, deep, depressed and hard to understand. I live my life the way I live my life, because I am just so up myself, and so complex, that nobody will ever understand me except me, therefore, my reasonings behind everything I do, will forever and always remain a mystery.

Only I'm not so fucking complex, and I'm sure as hell not a mystery. I am average. I'm normal. I'm every other 20-something university student that is trying to Figure It Out.

After Easter break, and I finally left the flat (which, to be honest, I think was a wonderful thing, and I should never be allowed to stay indoors for more than two days, regardless of my health), I got a bit more perspective and have accepted that yeah, while the majority of the things I write are shit, it's nobody's fault by my own. If I'm not going to my lectures, reading my books, keeping an open mind and listening to the constructive criticism, then of course I'm always going to sit in my shitty little flat, eating beans from cans and wondering why nobody understands the complexities of my labyrinth brain. I should stop being so fucking proud, accept my weaknesses and work on them.

So that's what I've been doing, and I've realized a lot over just a few short days. I'm hoping that one of these days, I'll be able to construct my own beautiful sentence like Virginia Woolf's that I quoted above, and will always remember the crush that I developed when I was in the second grade on words, sentences, paragraphs and stories as a whole.

Posted by Sam at 10:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You remember when back in the day when I used to blog about how sad I was because I didn't live in London? And god, wasn't it just so tragic because I lived in Virginia, and life was just SO BORING. And I would whine, bitch, moan and complain for days, weeks, months even because I wasn't in the capital of England. My life sucked. It was horrible, and I was just the world's most boring person because I did admin work in northern VA. Remember that?

And remember how much you just wanted to punch me in the face because you were like, "COME ON SAM. Get the fuck over yourself already! There are way bigger problems in the world than you not living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, okay? SHUT UP."

Well, I'm sure I'm probably going to be even more annoying (as if that's possible, but I have found a way), and tell you...I'm not so sure this was the greatest life choice for me. I'm not having second thoughts, but...I kind of am having second thoughts. Only about certain things.

No, I don't regret any of it, but it's just making me think that things aren't going as I had originally thought. I was supposed to move over here, build my own little London Life, gain all of this amazing knowledge that was going to land me my dream job of doing some fantastic writing for a newspaper or magazine and have everyone love me, because gosh, being a tiny American girl in London is just so awesome. And they're so hard to come by these days. I am one in a million. ONE IN A MILLION.

Instead I took a slight detour and it feels like I've gotten lost. Now it seems like I have spent far too much time looking at the directions I was given and back tracking all over the goddamned place. I have seen that house one too many times, and I maybe I should pull over at a gas station and see if anyone knows where I should actually be going.

University is not at all what I expected. My lectures are shit, and I've only had maybe three that I've enjoyed and find interesting. Now that I type that though, I'd probably say two. There have only been two lectures. I struggle with my work, which is piss easy, and have lost all motivation whatsoever to do any of this. I came here to write, and now that the floor is wide open for me to do that, I can't be bothered. I wonder if it's one of those cases where once you get what you want, you're satisfied. You don't need anything else, and just want to go an tackle something else that's completely different.

But then I think about it a little more, and know that I still want to write. Even with everything that has happened since that fateful day when I landed in unknown territory almost two years ago, I still would like to write as a profession. Only now that I've gone to some of my lectures and have been taught all of these different things, different techniques, I've come to a standstill when it comes to my work. I'm constantly second guessing myself, doubting myself, and saying, "no, that's shit. Scrap it all and start again. Loser."

I'll admit, some of the things that they have told me have been semi-helpful, but everything else has just torn apart everything that I thought I knew and have replaced it with their ways, their words, their processes. And quite frankly, I hate it. They're shit. They piss me off. They make me angry and want to scream in their faces, "look at what you've done to me! I used to enjoy my writing, and was kind of decent. Now everything that I write it absolute garbage!" There's no panache. I'm no longer quippy. I have nothing interesting to say. Everybody is writing heartfelt, meaningful, touching, brilliant pieces, and everything that I touch or think is just a big pile of steaming dog shit.

I have lost the writing faith, so to speak.

I blame it on them. And on myself. And on my surroundings.

When I think back on where I used to write, and how I used to write, I was always alone. Completely alone. Sometimes I'd have music, and other times it'd be silent. I'd be at my desk, at work, or I'd think about things in my car whilst in traffic. That was my place. I would think of everything in my car, in traffic, smoking, with my music and alone. It worked. It felt right. I enjoyed it.

Now, now I don't have that option. Things changed. I don't have my car. I don't have the option to sit in traffic with my cigarettes and album of the week, to sort through my thoughts and come up with different things that I'd like to write. No. Instead I have this tiny ass flat with Trish, Carlene and Helen all inside it at the same time with me. Looking at me. Breathing in the same room. Sitting across from me. Interrupting me by knocking on the door, or asking me to listen to something that they've written, never mind that I'm writing my own shit.

I love my girls. Really, I do. They're my family, my sisters, my comrades. We laugh together, we drink together, we go out together, cry together, and do oh so many other things together. But writing. My writing. When I write. I have to do that alone. In my own space. In my own time. My own uninterrupted time.

And sometimes I'll go to my room, but they come in there too, just to say hi or to see if I'm still awake.

Yes, dear. I'm still awake. And I need you to leave now so I can keep the creative flow flowing.

I don't want to say to them, "can you all just leave me alone for about five hours please? Don't come in my room, don't knock on my door, don't send me IM messages, text messages or emails. Just pretend I'm not here. Or that I went on a cruise and am unable to reach." I don't want to say that, because I do like the fact that they just knock whenever and chill in my room with me from time to time. Sometimes I like the distraction. It's a welcome break, and reminds me that I'm not a hermit that lives inside a tiny cave. And also, saying that to them would be really harsh. I don't want them to think that I'm annoyed with them, because I'm not. I'm just annoyed with myself and that every single thing that I've ever written here has done absolutely nothing for me. If I don't feel it, then I won't write it. I'll stop, put it aside, and never think about it ever again.

I think I need a new location. I need a place that I can sneak away to and hide whenever I want to get in some serious writing time. A place where I can be alone, completely alone, that nobody knows about, and has the same vibe as when I was at work or in my car. I need to recreate that kind of atmosphere here. I would consider my room, but aside from everyone and their uncle knocking on my door, I don't like my room. I don't have a desk, therefore only leaving my bed as the only space to work, and after laying there for two hours, I just want to take a nap for five hours, which defeats the purpose of me getting in "some serious writing time."

I've thought about the library, but libraries scare me. I don't like being left there alone for too long, especially at nighttime. I think about old spirits that wander in between all of the bookcases (because every library is haunted), and get distracted about ghosts and other scary forces that I can't see. Cafés are annoying and cliché. Besides, I'd probably spend too much money buying tea after tea after tea, and muffin after muffin after brownie. I don't have anybody's house that I can go to that's nearby. There's nothing. I have nothing.

But...now that I think about it...there is Helen's room. I like Helen's room. And if my memory serves me correct, she doesn't really work at her desk that she has in her room. That perfectly good desk. I generally find her on her bed with her books all sprawled out and surrounding her in a little book fort. I could sit at her desk with my iPod playing sweet serenades in my ears while she quietly worked behind me. I would have the feeling of being alone, without actually being alone (no scary ghosts), and when I would get into my "writing zone" I could just politely ask everyone to not bother me unless something serious has happened; like a fire in the kitchen, or breaking news about Britney Spears.

Of course I'd have to ask Helen first and make sure it was okay that I would always be hanging out in her room clicking away furiously at my keyboard. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. I hope she doesn't mind. It's the first place that I've thought of that doesn't make me heave. And it's local (about five steps away from my bedroom).

I'll ask and see. All I know is that something drastic has got to change for me, and soon. I'm so tired of feeling like everything I write is shit, and wondering if I was just better off on the third and fifth floor doing everyone's bidding. This short story that I'm currently writing, is the first thing where we've had a little bit of creative freedom, and now I'm even having issues with that. I read every sentence and think about a different way I could construct it, or what can I change to make it sound more interesting? Can I cut something out? Is that really necessary to include? And look at me blogging again, using up all that time, and all of those words that could have been used in my story. There I go babbling, and rambling about some stupid scene that doesn't need to be included. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I hate you creative writing degree. Eat my shit and kiss my ass. I'll write my own goddamned shit, my own goddamned way, in my own goddamned time. And fuck you if you don't like it.

End of rant. Happy thoughts please.

Posted by Sam at 04:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The past two weeks of my Easter break have been...well...nice? Decent? Relaxing? I suppose a combination of all three. I haven't really done that much, but similarly it feels like I've been keeping myself occupied for the most part. I've only got one week left of this slouching about and then it's back up to uni for two more weeks of lectures and then that's it. No more until my two exams.

Since I've been sat at the flat for most of my break, I decided to submit for endless amounts of jobs to make myself feel less guilty and keep all of my fingers and toes crossed that somebody would be willing to pay me a decent and steady wage until it's time for me to go back to VA for my summer break. I thought I had lucked out when a lady by the name of Kelly, sent me an email about a typing position and wanted someone ASAP. I'm a freak when it comes to typing (112 wpm, seriously), and figured this was right up my alley. She only sent me the one email back describing what the job was, and I haven't heard from her since. Bitch.

But then I got another call from a man named, Simon, this past Thursday. He works for a recruitment agency and asked if I could come in on that Friday to meet with him. I was elated, ecstatic, and through the roof with excitement. I was going on my first interview for an admin position here in London! Woot! Of course I was brought back down to earth though when he told me that they weren't hiring, but that they recruited people and he could help me find a job, which was good enough for me in the end. I have to send him an email with the dates of my exams, and while I'm waiting for those days to approach, he said he'd send me on interviews with any job prospects that happen to pass over his desk. So I'm still keeping my fingers crossed.

On the way back from my meeting with Simon, though, I was walking up the stairs to my flat when I saw this really old woman who lives next door to us sat on the stairs with another woman slightly bent and speaking to her. I quickly took out my earbuds, paused Sugar and asked if she was okay.

Apparently, our 87-year-old neighbor, fainted on the way down the stairs and bumped her head on the wall. The paramedics had already been called and now this good samaritan lady was trying to help her up and back into her flat. I did my small piece as well, by holding her cane while waiting for the paramedics.

The good samaritan lady, however, didn't stick around long, and once she helped get her back into her flat, she pissed off and disappeared. I sat there with her for a little bit, and asked if she needed anything. She told me that she was just going into Putney to pick up a few things and visit her daughter who was in a mental ward because she has schizophrenia. "She's a real nightmare," she said to me, and I tried not to laugh a little. You would think that a mother wouldn't say something like that about their own child, but she seemed to be really annoyed that she had to go all the way into Putney (which is only ten minutes down the road from me; I've walked there a couple of times) to visit her.

She was eventually taken to the hospital, despite her fussing and stubbornness, and I asked one of the paramedics what her name is, in case we wanted to go to the hospital and visit her. And we did go into Kingston to visit her, but she hadn't arrived or been checked in yet. I left my mobile number with one of the nurses and said to give it to her once she got back home.

Yesterday, as I was sitting downstairs reading one of my books for American Literature, my phone began to ring and I noticed it was an unknown number. Generally I don't answer them in case it's our estate agent collecting rent (which I've still yet to pay), but with all of my CVs that are floating out there, I thought it might be someone who wanted to offer me a job.

No. It was our dear old neighbor, Olive. She had been released from the hospital and asked me if I didn't mind running down to the shop for her to pick up a few things. It was a little random and caught me by surprise, but I said that I didn't mind and would be round next door in a bit after I got ready. Even though it was nearly half three in the afternoon, I still hadn't showered or put proper clothes on. I know, I'm a skank, but I didn't plan on leaving and it's only just me, Trish and Carlene in the flat.

Carlene and I popped down to the shop for her, and to be honest, it was really nice to get out of the flat and walk around. The weather has been slowly getting nicer and nicer, and I was able to leave the flat with short sleeves and no jacket. Although, by the time we were making our way back up to the flat, I could feel it start to get a little bit chilly.

We chatted with her for a bit in her doorway, smiled, nodded and refused her money when she tried to give us a tenner for taking fifteen minutes out of our lives to leave the flat. "Are you sure, deary?" she said to me. "I'm positive. Put your money away. We really don't mind."

After we did our good deed for the day, we went back into our own flat and chilled out. I finished reading my book, Trish did a bit of coursework and Carlene chatted on the phone for a little bit with family back home in Texas. It was a decent day.

The book that I've finished reading though, The Virginian, is really good. It's a country-western, and apparently the first one ever written, which lead to the famous, John Wayne, and other famous cowboys that I'm not familiar with, but should be. I have to admit, I've got a huge crush on The Virginian. He's hot. And such the gentleman. If only I could be so lucky to find a man that would stand up for my honor, even though we had never properly met. I want someone who says to another man, "Rise on your legs, you pole cat, and tell them you're a liar," because he had spoken ill of me in front of a group. That would do it for me. Totally make my day.

It's Monday now. The last Monday of our break. Our delightful little break. Part of me doesn't want uni to start up again. To see everyone and deal with everything is just so exhausting to think about. But I suppose the sooner I get all of this shit done, the sooner I can wrap up second year, toss it in the bin and forget it ever happened. That is what I can't wait for. Third year should be a lot nicer, since I'll be back on campus, in my old house (not the same floor though), and have my own little duckling freshers to look after. That's going to be funny. I find it uncanny though, how all of us that applied for floor rep, managed to get floor rep. Me, Alex, Carlene, Fiona and Santos have all made it back on campus with the new responsibility of taking care of the wee yearlings. Random, but cool. I can't wait for third year. Just thinking about third year....third year....third year....

Posted by Sam at 02:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

What is it about going to other people's houses that makes you feel extra special? Well, generally it does anyway. It's always fun to look around and see all of the new things. Where do they hide their bowls? Because they are hiding. Or how do you work the shower? It's a mystery and there are always new discoveries. I'm not sure if it's extremely rude or not, but sometimes I can't help but to have a nose around and see what other people have. It's interesting to see what other people use to wash their dishes, or what they keep in the bottom drawer in the kitchen. Our drawer back home is what we call the "junk drawer". That's where we look if we need an emergency light bulb or double A batteries.

Helen was lovely and invited me to stay with her for a coupe of days over Easter break at her house back in Kingston, which is about fifteen minutes away from uni. I jumped on the chance to get out of the flat since I had been cooped up inside for four days.

Four days. I stayed inside. And did nothing.

Saying that though, it was mostly my fault, but where was I going to go? What was I going to do all alone?

Trish was at home, but her boyfriend, Will, was down to visit her for a couple of days. I was feeling very much like a third wheel, and I never really know what to do when people are in the middle of Public Displays of Affection. Every so often I would hear them smooching on the other sofa, and while I'm glad that Trish has a man that makes her happy (every woman deserves that), I'm not too comfortable being the only one in the room while they're making love eyes at each other. I never know what to do or where to look, or should I leave?

Helen said if I wanted to get away from the love nest for a little while, I could crash at her place. I basically packed a few clothes and Bridget to move from doing nothing in one place, and going to do nothing in a new place. And quite frankly, it's refreshing.

Even though it's not my house, and I'm not surrounded by my things, it's a home. Helen's mom and dad are here and they're so lovely. We had a home cooked Sunday dinner last night which reminded me of being back home when Momma would cook for Mel and me. Helen's mom is so cute and is always asking if I'm okay. Would I like a cup of tea or anything else to eat? Am I sure that I'm full, would I like any dessert?

Yes, Mrs. P, I'd love another cookie.

It's cozy and we watch bad daytime television together. I also get a different vibe here which makes me feel like nothing would ever go wrong. Parents are here and they take care of us. We're not uni students that struggle on our own. No. We're 7-years-old and we're having an extended sleep over.

Last night Helen and I had a hench chat about stuff that we haven't talked about in a very long time. Boy drama from back in the day, and talking about what third year of uni is going to be like. There are so many new changes over the hill for us, and I wonder what it's going to be like. I wonder what it's going to do to us as people. Second year has definitely been a depressing one (in some ways, more depressing than first year), and I get the feeling that everyone can't wait for it to be done and over with so we can just shove all of the horrifying memories in a small box and tuck it away on top of a shelf in our wardrobes. I just want to forget that a lot of things even happened.

At the moment though, it feels like none of those terrible events even happened. I have gotten a sneak peek into one of the houses that I see whenever I'm stuck on the bus. It's nice and warm in the kitchen, and comfortable in the living room. I don't worry about what I'm going to eat or if we have electric. I just lay in my room in my pajamas and listen to Helen's family outside of my door. And even though Virginia is over 3,000 miles away, I feel right at home all the same.

Posted by Sam at 03:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This whole week I've done a whole lot of nothin'. Not a damn thing.

Well, I suppose that's a lie. I did leave the flat on Wednesday to take some of my posters down around uni and found out that I made floor rep for next year. Wahey! It'll be fun to have my own group of little freshers, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, just so I can introduce them to the crazy life in the small uni bubble and fuck 'em all up. I'm really excited and can't wait.

Aside from that though, nothing. I've been sat on the couch with Trish watching all of my dvds on Bridget. To be honest it has been really nice, but now that the end of the week has reached us, I feel a tiny bit guilty. I mean, this break is for us to work and catch up on writing essay and coursework. I shouldn't be slouching around the flat. I should at least be looking for a job.

So to ease my guilty conscious somewhat, I applied for about seven jobs online last night that I found. I hope someone calls. I might re-write my whole CV though and make it more "UK friendly". I'm not sure if there is a specific way that I should write mine, but I don't think it makes the list for people around here.

All of the jobs were admin/receptionist jobs that are similar to what I did when I worked back with Momma. It's easy, I've got tons of experience and I think it would be good for me to get back into a routine like I had back home. If I can find a nice equal balance like the life I had back in VA and incorporate it with going out at night like I do here, then I'll be set. I'll have a nice steady income and a means for me to go out and pay my rent.

Of course I've also been looking for freelance writing jobs, but I don't even think I'm looking in the right area for that. I would like to write, whether I get paid or not, just so my name can be out there and I can get some actual writing credentials on my CV. That would be ideal. Although, I'm not sure where I should be looking for freelance writing opportunities. You would think that my uni would be more helpful in that arena, but it's really not. Our writing department sucks.

Yesterday I also managed to clean my room which looked like a hurricane ripped through it. I had to de-boy the entire place since I let Erik crash in there when he visited me. As much as I like to think that I'm gross and can live in a disgusting hole for the entire Easter break, I'm not. I have to be a little clean and a little organized, otherwise I might just go insane.

Otherwise, not much is going on in the World of Sam. Just back with the same 'ole problems as last year, just not as depressed as when they first hit me. I know everyone has the same problems as I do. It's a just a matter of how you deal with it this time around, and hoping for the best even though everything at the moment looks pretty grim.

Posted by Sam at 10:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

The thing about politics is that generally there's a winner and there's a loser. Unfortunately this time around, I was a loser.

Yeah. It sucks.

I didn't get international officer.

28 votes people! 28 votes and that position would have been mine.

The good news is that the night I found out, I went to Whitelands bar (her territory) and had everyone, and I mean everyone tell me that they wished it would have been me to get the position and not her. My friend, Anant, was particularly not impressed and said he wasn't looking forward to working with her. But, that there are top up elections and that I should go for newspaper editor, which I think I might actually do. I mean, after I was upset for all of two seconds, I thought about it and realized I'm not a diplomat. I'd get tired of being such an official capacity and that newspaper editor was probably more my thing. My scene. I mean, it is what I would like to do in the future.

I also took comfort in knowing that Adam, aka Guinness, said that he really didn't want to make the call because he was really pulling for me. A lot of people just kept saying that there was nothing else I could do to have been more out there. My posters were everywhere, my name, my face, my body was everywhere. I went out to different events, I stood and walked around campus for two weeks, handing out flyers, talking to people, standing in the wind and rain trying to get more votes. I got a small bit of the flu, cold chills and still have a slightly phlegmy cough. I did everything, even if in my warped brain I still think I could have done more.

I definitely don't regret any of it though. I have met so many people and have realized so many great things. People who I haven't seen or spoken to in ages have come up to me and said that they voted for me and how much of a shitter it is that I lost. I tell them not to worry though, because I'll be in the RSU next year, just in a position that suits me better.

I spoke to Mo, the chick who won, and we did the whole 'congrats on winning, you were a good sport' conversation, and she doesn't seem too awful. I think she might actually want to do some good, and she's excited about working with me next year in making sure that international students are properly represented, especially in the newspaper. I told her it would be cool, because we'd have two international people up in the RSU, and we could cover more ground with both of us up there.

Of course I still think she has shitty friends who I definitely do not get along with. Who I actually got in a fight with on Friday at the bop, and then proceeded to get kicked out of the bop.

Yeah. It was DRAMA. Although, now when I look at it, I think it's really funny.

Do you remember that third year bitch that told me I was going to lose? Yeah, I got in a scrap with her. I guess she was so elated that Mo had beaten me in the elections, she felt the need to laugh extremely loud and be an obnoxious twat at the bop. Zoe was not having any of it and asked her to quit her shit (but a lot more diplomatically). We wouldn't have done that if Mo had lost and she had no reason to be such a cunt to me.

Well, the stupid, fat chav started getting mouthy as they do. I told Zoe not to worry about it and just ignore her. We went to the toilets, but after we left I somehow got separated from her. I went outside to the courtyard looking for her, and when I didn't see anyone I recognized, I marched right up to Jordan (who was also standing next to Swindon), and asked him where Zoe was. Shit was about to kick off and I needed to find her. He pointed up at the picnic tables where I saw Zoe standing with Carlene, Fiona and Despo smoking a cigarette. That fat chav and her friends were standing in a group next to them and mouthing off.

I don't remember the exact details, because I was very drunk and I think I might have actually blacked out, but all that I can remember is that I saw that stupid bitch push Zoe, and after that I just remember being held back by five other people and screaming at her, "don't you fucking start in on my goddamned friends you fucking, cunting chav! Don't you fucking start in on them!"

Yeah, it wasn't pretty. I then proceeded to get escorted off the premise by two bouncers and everyone saw. EVERYONE. Oh well.

It was a heavy evening, and I cried, mostly because I was drunk and alone. I yelled at the bouncers. I was standing outside of the gates, and when one of them asked me what my surname was I just yelled back, "fuck you!" and "you're an asshole!"

It wasn't exactly my greatest shining moment, but hopefully people will think that I'm a hard ass and won't try to start anything with me or my friends ever again. I'm a little mortified that everybody saw (especially Swindon), but at the same time I'm not. I just think it's really funny and another drunk Sam story.

Now it's Easter break. Erik left yesterday to go back to VA. And me? I'm EXHAUSTED. After two and a half weeks of campaigning and then having Erik around, I am flat out shattered. For the past two days I haven't done anything except slept and lounge around the flat. I'm thinking about staying in the entire Easter break and not doing anything except my coursework and eating. I could do it as well, because Erik brought me a carton of cigarettes, so there's really no need for me to leave. By the time uni started up again, I'd be completely refreshed and probably a little yellow from lack of sunlight.

I'm just happy that I get to rest and chill out for a little bit. And to do some writing. I'm really excited about that. In the meantime, how have y'all been? I've missed you guys!

Posted by Sam at 04:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I remember the first time I met Zoe last year at the start of uni. I couldn't understand a fucking thing she said to me. Her Irish accent was so thick and she spoke so quickly that my brain couldn't keep up with her. I was constantly asking her, "what? I'm sorry could you repeat that please?"

At the start, we didn't really hang out that much. She was part of what we called back then, "the tripod," which consisted of her, Fiona and Santos. The three of them always did everything together and at the time I was usually with Lauren going out and getting wrecked.

After a while though (and after she had a fallout with Santos, if my memory serves me well), Zoe broke out and started coming out with the rest of the group without Fiona and Santos. We started hanging out more, and before I knew it, she was coming over to Virginia to visit me over the Easter holiday. To be honest, I really didn't think that she would come. I didn't think anyone would come. Why would anyone want to travel all the way to the states to hang out with me in northern VA? Boring northern VA. At least boring to me. I didn't really have anything planned out except to take her to DC since we lived close by, but other than that, there wasn't much else. Well, except for the exceptional malls and enormous piles of food that we would consume, always followed by Zoe saying, "oh, I feel sick. I think I ate too much."

When she ran in the elections last year, I was her campaign manager (as she is for me this year) and we went all out. We went out every single night for a straight week, campaigning, meeting new people, and getting her name and face out in the uni public. And when she didn't get an entertainment position, I was there in Central when her eyes watered up, but she forced the tears back down and decided to drink the whole experience away.

Now, she is currently in my room, clicking away at the foot of my bed and working on one of her Spanish essays, while I blog because I'm not in the mood to write my short story. If we weren't extremely close last year, we have bonded to the max this year and have made up for lost time while we were apart over the summer. We do everything together, and now that I think about it, there hasn't been one day that I've gone without at least a text message from her.

Generally, I don't like to get mushy and put people out there when it comes to complimenting someone, but this week in particular would not have been possible if she wasn't there by my side every step of the way. Campaigning last year was different for me, because I wasn't in the front doing the brunt of the work, but now that it's my face that has been plastered all over uni, and my name that is pinned, blue tacked and taped up, I feel more of the pressure and have realized what a huge undertaking this is.

She has helped me put a majority of the posters up, she's gone out with me to uni events so we can socialize and meet different people, and she has talked me through tough situations when I didn't think that I was going to be able to press on. Tuesday was particularly overwhelming for me (what with boy Sam, his girlfriend, her friends, trilby boy, my opponent and her horrible friends), and while I was having a freak out moment, she just calmly said to me, "eh, fuck 'em." So I did. And I rocked it.

I have never known anyone quite like Zoe. She has so much strength that I wish I could have, and she's so motivating. Even when I'm run down, can't be bothered and don't want to do something, she's there to tell me, "come on. It'll be fine. Just a little bit longer and it's over with." And for some reason, she gets me to thinking that I really can. I can't believe how brave she is either. I know I moved to a different country, but she's going to Peru.

Peru.

Do you know where Peru is? It's super fucking far away. Oh yeah, and she won't be speaking in her mother tongue. AND she won't have an internet connection (we know how much that bothers me). She's going to be far away from town, living in a small room, with cold water (no hot showers folks), a tiny bed with a little mattress, and teaching children. Teaching children! How fucking admirable is that? And for a whole year. Without any breaks to come back home.

I don't know how she does it.

When she's gone next year, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. It's bad enough already when she's here and I can't get a hold of her for a couple of hours because I want to know what she's going to wear to the bop. We chat about the most random things, like how we're going to go to the rain forest one day and have all of the excess fat on our bodies burned off by acid rain, and it's only funny to us. We get lost in foreign countries and laugh at the most inappropriate times when we think that we're lost. We binge drink, make fools of ourselves in public and then laugh some more the morning after about the boys that we've pulled. We take care of each other and proper stick up for the other one if we need to. We don't get jealous, we don't judge and we're always understanding and sympathetic.

A couple of days ago, I was walking back home with Jack, who is one of Santos' ex-boyfriends, and we were just chatting about things that have been going on for the past couple of weeks. He was telling me about something to do with Fiona and Santos and how they have a dysfunctional relationship, when Zoe and my relationship came up. He said to me, "but you and Zoe are best friends aren't you? You guys do everything together."

I smiled and said to him, "yeah, we do everything together."

I have a feeling that just because she's going to be off in Peru doing fabulous things, we'll still be doing everything together. Nothing is impossible. One of the many things that I've learned from my Zoe Bowie.

Posted by Sam at 09:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I rented a temporary laptop from the library on Friday. It's just not the same. Things look differently on this adopted laptop. They feel different. I dislike it immensely. I miss my darling Bridget.

I still haven't heard back from the Apple hospital, but I figure I did drop her off late on Thursday evening. It's only Sunday. And I suppose no news is good news?

Until I hear back from the folks at Apple though, I guess I should be grateful that I do have this loaner...I can check the internet at my own leisure, which is handy, so I'm not constantly asking the girls if I can nick their laptops for a little bit just to check my facebook.

But still...things aren't in the same place. I'm lost on this old school IBM laptop that's cold and impersonal. I hate it.

Aside from the laptop drama, I've been a busy little bee as of late. Again, I'm behind on uni work and am getting letters and warnings already about my work. Honestly, I'm afraid I might fail. This year is definitely not going as planned, but I hope to try and turn some things around in the next week or two. But it's not like I'm not doing the work because I don't feel like it. I've just got way too many other things going on at the moment. Campaign week starts bright and early tomorrow morning promptly at 8am, I have a floor rep interview on Friday at 3:30pm, I have to make a speech on Tuesday at 6:00pm, oh yeah, and the long awaited date is finally this Wednesday.

I've also got to go out and be social for the next two weeks with money that I simply do not have. The number that I owe people steadily climbs upwards, whilst the funding in my own account is swiftly disappearing. The rent is two weeks overdue, I don't have a job, but have plenty of stress to go around and share with everyone.

I want to scream.

But I don't. Instead I sleep, because I figure that's more beneficial to me and everyone within earshot.

How do things get like this? When did I allow for things to just get so crazy without me noticing what was happening? Why am I such a freak and can't just get things done, sorted and out of the way? I really want someone to just come in and help me out. I think I might have bitten off far more than I can chew.

I suppose on the bright side of things, Mel told me that her and Momma are going to be getting their taxes done on Monday. Apparently I'm supposed to be getting a nice chunk of change, and that will help out loads when it finally comes in. I'm just glad that Momma is OCD about getting her taxes done early, rather than waiting until the very last minute (which is probably more something I would do).

I'm just not used to being busy. Like, really busy to where people depend on me for things. I'll find a groove and then things will hopefully run a lot more smoothly.

I do have competition in this year's election for my intnernational officer spot. Her name is, Mo. Seriously. As if that's a real name. Pffft....whatevs. She's from Holland (I think) and her "3rd year" friend/campaign manager felt the need to tell me this past Friday at the bop that I was going to lose.

Ha! Whatever. I was really looking forward to this being a clean campaign without any fuss, but her friend just pissed me off and made me kick my campaign into high gear. You do not tell me I'm going to lose. I could have punched her.

I have lots of people around me who are going to help me out (thank goodness), and I'm sure that by the end of next week, I would have kicked her ass in the elections and win by a landslide of votes. Bitch.

This weekend I've mostly just been in bed, thinking, thinking, constantly thinking about things that I have coming up. I know I shouldn't overthink things, because it's just going to make me stress out even more, but I can't help it. Ugh, especially about this date, that I'm actually not looking forward to anymore. Before I would have been fine, but now I've had time (too much time) to think about it, and now I've built it up far too much, therefore leaving me with expectations that I'm sure will not be met, and leaving me crushed. By my crush.

Blah....my brain is just so crowded with stuff I can't even write properly. How am I supposed to write creatively when all I keep on thinking is, "campaign, date, no clothes, dirty flat, essays, books I haven't read, no food, no time for food, have I peed today?" Oh yeah, that sounds really good.

Posted by Sam at 11:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I shall temporarily be offline since Bridget, my darling laptop, is currently at the Apple hospital being worked on.

I know! Not only am I completely devestated and worried, but now I'm disconnected from the internet. I didn't realize just how much I use Bridget until she was gone. It's like living without my right arm. She stopped working this Tuesday, and I've been scrambling ever since, running back and forth to Kingston, trying to get her sorted. Last night I left her at the shop, and now I'm just waiting, and waiting, and waiting....which is the worst part.

Hopefully she won't be gone for too long. I'm going to try and see if I can rent a laptop over the weekend from uni, because I can't keep borrowing everyone's here at the flat, nor can I continuously walk up to uni just for the internet. Especially with the amount of times I check facebook. I might as well just grab a camp bed and set up for the whole evening.

The guy at the shop, who was incredibly lovely, said it appears to be my hard drive. Yep. The hard drive. I'm going to lose everything on there, but I'm not too worried, because all of my music is safe on Carrie, my external hard drive. The only thing I'm really pissed about losing is the beginning of my short story, although that was only about 300 words, and I can easily re-write that again.

It's just a pain in my ass to not have her, especially now that life has just gone from 2-50 on the scale of how busy life is. This is only the beginning, and already I'm shattered. It's okay though, because I'll have a bit of a break over the weekend, but this next coming week might actually kill me.

Oh yeah, and did I mention that my date is going to be this Wednesday? Yeah. Things just keep getting better and better.....

Proper updates when I've been re-united with my first child.

Posted by Sam at 09:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Today was one of the nicest days London has had in a while. It wasn't hot. It wasn't cold. It was sunny and perfect.

As the day went on, the sun set and the wind began to pick up a little. Some clouds rolled in over the sky and made it darker in our little flat. And after a little while longer, the wind was so fierce it felt as if the walls might be pushed over into a slant because of the sheer force.

There wasn't any rain though. Just extreme winds. I stood in the doorway at our balcony and felt the wind whip all around me, almost threatening to pick me up and have me ride the wind waves.

It seems like that will be happening to my schedule soon. I was cruising along happily in my wind-free life, only now to start seeing the clouds roll in. The next few weeks are going to very busy for me.

My head has been muddled up for the past couple of hours, while I've been tossing and turning in bed trying to sleep. I probably shouldn't have had that nap in the middle of the day, but I woke up really early, had gone to bed the previous night really late. I thought a quick power nap would do me good. Not so much. It only appears to have messed up my body clock.

Today I went to my lecture at 9am. I stopped off at Brenda's for an egg and bacon sandwich. I went into our student union and picked up a form for elections week. Why you ask? Why because I've decided to run for International Officer for next year. I would like to make a difference in our international affairs seeing as I am an international student myself, and thought what better way to do so than run for a this highly sought after position.

Well, I'm not too sure if it's highly sought after, but to me it is.

I need to get two signatures from each of our colleges (eight in total, so not too hard) by this Friday, and I'm meeting with our current international officer on Wednesday to see what the position is all about, what I can do to change things, how I should campaign, what should I write in my manifesto, blah, blah, blah... My manifesto is due in this Friday by 5pm and at 5:30pm I shall be attending a meeting for all of the people who are running for different offices. It should be interesting. I hope. Or possibly quite terrifying.

Campaign week is all of next week, which means I will be out every. single. night. You have to. You have to mingle with the student body, get your name and face out there (as if mine isn't already) and encourage people to vote for you. It's politics baby, and I'm diving in head first.

On top of all of this, I have about four essays to write, a short story to write, two birthdays to attend to and all while looking for a job because I'm still skint. That's not including all of the books I have to read and boring lectures I must attend.

And yet, here I sit, partially awake and unable to sleep. My alarm will be going off in approximately four and a half hours, and the only wink of sleep I've had is that stupid mini "power nap" I had earlier in the day. I don't mind that I'm busy now, although I just wish it would have come when I didn't have financial worries on top of everything. That stresses me out the most, and wondering how I'm going to pay the rent along with all of the other things whirling around me makes my chest a little bit tighter. I'm trying to think about it, whilst at the same time pretend it's not there and all I've been able to accomplish is lack of sleep and extreme headaches.

I suppose the only real good thing amongst this entire wind storm that I have going on, is that I received a message from Mel today telling me not to worry about New York anymore. Momma has agreed to let me stay in London for my third year since she has finally come to her senses and realized that it would cost a lot more money to move me all the way to New York and have me start all over again. She's going to call me on Saturday so we can chat about it in full and again, talk about my future.

At least it's one thing I can cross off my list. Now if I can manage to survive the rest of the next two weeks, I should be good to go. We shall see.

Posted by Sam at 02:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I woke up at exactly eight o'clock this morning when my alarm started buzzing.

Exactly at eight o'clock. Not 7:58 or 8:03 in the morning. Eight on the dot.

I loafed around the flat for four hours before I actually decided that I should have a shower. I fluffed around for a couple more hours getting ready with no real place to go. I made some food. I chatted shit with Trish for a bit. And finally, finally around half three in the afternoon, I decided to do some work. Perhaps look at some jobs, since I'm unemployed, yet again, and am poor, yet again.

I found a couple of jobs with potential and applied for them. I'm keeping all of my fingers and toes crossed for one in particular, mostly because it's a lazy job that pays pretty decent. I'd only have to work for two hours every day, and I could work from home. Easy as cake, and it's working on Powerpoint, which is something I've been playing with for fun since I was twelve. I recieved an email back from a man named, Roger, who said that they would consider my CV (resume) and get back to me.

We want this job for Sammi Jo. Sammi Jo would ROCK this job. And now Sammi Jo will stop speaking in third person because it's really annoying.

However, before I spent a few hours job searching, I found myself in a place that seems to be comforting to me. It wasn't until about ten minutes of sitting at my window, staring out into nothing in particular, that I realized this was probably another form of a security blanket for me. All last year, I would find myself perched at my window, kneeling on my bed that was pushed up against the wall, and staring out over Digby below me. I would do this for ages, occasionally leaving to check what was new on the internet, or to go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

I haven't really done it here at the flat, mostly because my view isn't anything special. I have a messy garden below and another set of boring flats to look at across the way. Today, though, I found myself in a familar mood that I used to get in last year, and subsequently found myself in a familar place at my window.

I watched people come and go from the other flats, saw a few people walking down the street, and watched the big, ginger cat that lives in our neighborhood wander around for a bit. And I stared. I blatantly stared, but I wasn't thinking about what I was staring at. I was thinking about why am I in this "blah" mood. It's not the weather; it rains in England. That has always been a known fact. I'm not sad, and I'm not fantastically happy either. I'm not anything really. If I had to put an emotion to it, I would probably just pick bored. I'm so ridiculously bored with everything.

I continued to think about it, and it's all my fault that I'm bored. Yes, I have coursework to do, and yes I need to be actively figuring out how to get money in my hands and fast, but I'm just so bored with everything I can't really be bothered to do anything about it.

The circles went round and round in my brain, and after thinking about how bored I've been recently, I eventually got angry with myself. Why did I let things get like this? Why am I constantly blabbing on about the same shit all the time? Am I not the person who is always saying if you don't like something, then fucking do something about it? Don't just sit around on your ass and wish for things to happen. Get out there and make shit happen. That's the only way it's going to happen. Sure, for some people things may magically fall into their laps, but for those of us that aren't as fortunate, we have to bust our asses to get what we want and deserve.

I mentally shouted at myself, in a manner that Momma would have done so, and kicked myself in the ass for falling down, yet again, and forced myself to stop being so goddamned lethargic, because it's really pissing me off. Then I gave myself a hug and a bowl of ice-cream, because shouting at myself like that sometimes hurts my feelings.

The good thing is that I'm able to recognize that I'm feeling this way and can put a stop to it a lot faster, rather than letting it consume me until things get so bad that I have to have someone else come in and clean everything up for me. It's fine if I stumble every so often. For me, it's kind of expected. Things aren't always so peachy and rose colored for me. I don't sail along on smooth waters. No, I'm in the fucking ocean in the middle of a hurricane without a life jacket all the time.

I'm in London. I'm a 22-year-old single white female that goes to uni and is a writer. I'm a writer goddammit. I write. And I'm confident (well, I can portray confidence pretty well). And I'm qualified. I have skills. I can do things really well. And other things that I'm not great at, we won't worry about because they're no use. I'm ready, I'm willing and I want my life in London to change for me. For the better.

For the better.

Posted by Sam at 07:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

If you're wondering what happened on mine and Swindon's date, then that would make two of us. It hasn't happened yet. I know, right? I'm pretty peeved about it myself. The unfortunate thing is that I've actually sent a message to TJ, the captain of the team, who I would assume would organize the entire event, and never got a response to my message. Again, I know, right? I'm not very impressed.

There are a couple of things that I've thought of doing, but then I don't want to be pegged and forever known as "that girl who asked for her money back." Then I think about it a little more and figured £83 is a lot of money to a poor student like myself. I don't care if I am pegged as the stingy girl who asked for her money back. Why pay for something that I never got?

It's lame.

However, I did have a slight run in moment with our dear Swindon this past Friday at the bop. The theme was Heaven and Hell, and naturally I decided to go as Hell. It was a fairly good evening, up until the point when all of my vodka came crashing down on me and I had to leave early for fear of being ill all over the entire place. But before I was paralytic, I had a short conversation with the boy I thought had already forgotten my face.

I was standing on the left side of the bar in the main dance area, topping up my already intoxicating levels of alcohol flowing inside of my veins, when he came and stood on the left side of me. I looked at him a quick moment, realized who it was, and gave a little smile.

"Heya," he shouted into my ear, in order to overpower the music. "Are you having a good night?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's well good," I shouted back. "How about you?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's good. I'm not drunk enough yet though. And they keep giving me these drinks," he looked down into a plastic cup.

"What is it?" It looked kind of good.

"Here, try some," and he handed me his cup.

I was right. It was good. And fruity.

I handed it back to him, and he said something about how he was going to get back on the dancefloor.

As we turned around though, standing right behind us, watching the entire time, were Zoe, Stacey and Trish, observing us. Stacey was stood waiting and ready with her camera, and if I wasn't drunk, I probably would have been mortified. They were gawking at us like proud parents at prom, and it couldn't have been anymore obvious what was going on. Swindon was lovely though, as usual, and stood and had an awkward picture taken with me.

[Pic removed, because it creeps me out.]

Considering I'm completely off my face at this point, I don't think it's half bad. And I'm loving the fact that I know how to put pictures on here now. Although, if by some odd and random chance, he were to ever find this site and see his picture up here with me, I'm sure he'd call to have a restraining order put on me as soon as possible.

Whatevs. I know my regular readers, and the circle is quite small. I don't go off broadcasting about this site to everyone. Besides, I think it's a lovely picture, and I know y'all are curious. Why aren't we making babies together is all I want to ask?

When/if the date happens though, you know I'll be on here filling you all in on all of the details. Until then.

Posted by Sam at 04:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Because I'm lame, I've just now decided to try and add pictures to my blog. I know. I'm in the process of educating myself on how to do it, and I think I've got it....sort of. I just need to figure out how to make the pictures smaller, 'cos they are quite big. So, if this works out, then the picture below should be one that I took whilst in Amsterdam.

Keep your fingers crossed.

View image

Posted by Sam at 03:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Being hungover hurts. We know this. It's not a new concept that we've discovered. And being hungover all day? Sucks.

Late yesterday afternoon, Trish and I decided to venture out to Putney (which really isn't that far; maybe ten minutes on the bus). I wanted to go to HMV and Sainsbury's to pick up some things, and Trish came along with me. It was a bit late in the day, but I figured, why not? I've been sat at the house doing nothing. I might as well go outside and embrace this nice weather that we've been having recently (even if it is still really cold).

We decided while we were there to stop into this one bar that I've never been to before since they were having a deal on their cocktails: buy one get one free. To two poor, alcoholic uni students, that sounded like a fucking good bargain, so in we went.

While we were sat at the bar, we got to talking about Trish's birthday which is coming up here in a couple of weeks. She was telling me how she doesn't want it to be a big deal, and I mentioned the idea that maybe she should have a pub crawl in Putney. It'd be easy peasy, and she'd get drunk really fast, just like how you should do on your 21st birthday.

"Should we have a mini pub crawl tonight?" Trish asked me with a sly look on her face.

"Oh don't do that. Don't say that when you know I'm an alcoholic and can't resist."

We went to two other pubs, and found ourselves stationed at a pub that I quite like called, the Slug 'n' Lettuce. It was pretty busy in there for a Sunday and the music was decent. We weren't planning on getting trashed, at least not until Trish came back to our table next to the window with two sambuca shots.

"Gross. No. No, no, no, no. The last time I did this I threw up all over Leicester Square," I said to Trish with a look of absolute disgust on my face. God, I could smell it wafting up my nostrils and wanted to heave.

"Oh come on! It'll go quick. Come on. Come on," she egged me on.

We went ahead and downed our shots and I was quickly reminded why I hate sambuca. It took all of my energy to not spit it out on Trish's face.

It was a good evening, and I found myself in a happy, chipper, drunk mood. I wasn't completely out of control like how I can usually get, and it was nice to just be out and having a few drinks with one of my girls.

We were outside having a smoke break, when we started having a conversation with another fellow smoker named, Pete. Pete was sweet. He was cute. He was funny. He also held my attention for more than five minutes, so I was pleased.

Pete came and joined us at our table, and I think we were so excited to actually have a man in our company, and mixed in with the alcohol that we had consumed that was still being released into our bloodstreams, we kind of took things a little overboard.

And by "a little" I mean, we scared the poor boy and sent him running for the hills.

The thing about Trish and I, is that not only are we both Americans, but we consider ourselves to be Super Americans. We are loud, obnoxious and we fucking love it. We can easily create havoc just by ourselves when we're left alone together and sober, so you can just imagine what we're like when we've got a bit of alcohol running through us. We're Super Americans to the max.

Trish and I were constantly talking, talking, talking, and I could see poor little Pete's head looking at each of us, as if he were watching a really intense Wimbledon tennis match. We told him stories that we find fucking hilarious, because mostly they're just inside jokes between us, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed at ourselves. I think he might have got four words in the entire time he was sat with us.

When he found a break in the conversation, he excused himself to go to the toilet and outside to smoke. He took his pint with him. He didn't come back.

He did, however, leave his hat and scarf down on the floor next to my stool, and before Trish and I left at closing time, we decided we'd be funny and take his things home with us. Because we are just SO COOL like that.

We ran out of the pub as if we were being chased by the police, and laughed at the bus stop with the fact that we "got away with it." We did not get away with it. He was already gone.

After that moment, I have no memory of what happened. All I barely remember is that I really needed the toilet, and how it is my greatest fear that I get ridiculously drunk and piss on myself. One, it's embarrassing. Two, it's nasty. And three, I'd forever be known as the girl that pissed on herself.

Apparently, what Trish and I have been told by Carlene, who was sober and trying to go to sleep when we finally made it back to the flat, was that we were yelling at each other, we moved furniture around, we tried making food (but I don't think we succeeded), and I screamed at the top of my lungs from our balcony something along the lines of "hello neighborhood! It's Sam and Trish!" Good times.

This morning, I was hungover. Badly. I was woken up by my phone alarm at eight o'clock in the morning, which was downstairs, so I was forced to get out of bed and shut it off. I was topless for some reason, my jeans were in the kitchen on the floor and my head was pounding like I had a construction crew of fifty inside my skull hammering away. I wanted to die.

The rest of the day has been okay, but I've still got a wee bit of a headache, and I've done nothing except piss about on the internet. I joined BlogRoll and have managed to fuck up my links bar. I don't have my dots. I want my dots. My dots make my blog. And it's my fault that they're gone. So I'll be trying to fix that for the next couple of days since I am technologically challenged. I've also been pissing about with Twitter and now I can update that from my phone, which is oh so important.

And a little random side note for my darling Trish. One day, you will come over to join the dark side with me. I found this and thought of you.

Now I must go and down yet another glass of water, and pray that the rest of this headache goes away. I may learn my lesson sometime in the future, but right now, I'll just nurse my hangovers as they come.

Posted by Sam at 08:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Back in the day....

Things were what? More simple? Less complicated? More fun? More frivolous? More carefree? Less dramatic?

Whatevs. Who cares? Why dwell on the past when you live in the present, the here, the now, the time that affects you now.

Now I'm sitting in bed, typing, covered up and listening to my iPod with the curtains drawn to keep the sunrays out. Not because I don't like the sun and want to live like a vampire, but because I don't think I'm used to all of this sunshine that we've been getting recently. It kind of hurts my head, but I do love it. I love the blue skies, the crisp air, the changing of the seasons.

Although, the changing of the seasons, the songs on my iPod, the decent mood that I've found myself in for the past couple of days, seems to take me back in time. I travel whilst sitting in the flat, not moving, back to Virginia. I'm back in the townhouse, or driving in my car, or watching TV with Mel, or chatting with Momma in the kitchen. I'm doing all of these things, and I can hear their voices, smell the food that we're making and feel the wooden floors beneath my bare feet.

And while I am in a generally good mood, and things aren't so absolutely terrible here in the flat anymore, I'm still a wee bit homesick. Not in an "I'm depressed and feel like going back to be comforted and taken care of" way. Just an "I've been thinking about home a lot recently and remember that it wasn't so terrible" kind of way.

I decided to call home yesterday randomly to talk to Momma and Mel. It was nice. It was good to talk to them about stuff that really isn't major news, but simple Virginia updates. Momma's looking for a new job, Mel still goes to her hockey games, the weather is a bit crap, and they were going to clean the second and third floors later on that day.

"You know how I like to get the chores done before we start a new week," Momma said to me.

"Yeah, Momma. I do know how you like that."

And I got to thinking about it, like how I usually do when I'm sat around here with time on my hands, and realized I don't have to always be sad and depressed to want to go home. I can just miss them to miss them. It's allowed. Just because I moved away, doesn't mean that I can't miss how things were before I left. It's okay to think about my old schedule of waking up, getting ready, going to work, coming home, and clocking out around nine or ten in the evening, only to wake up and do it all over again the next day. And things were more simple, to a certain extent.

Even though I've only been away for about a year and a half now (with trips back every now and then), being out on your own is hard work. I know I say it again, and again, and again, but it's only because it's so goddamned true. Making your own way, making your own decisions, making your own world is fucking hard. And sometimes I wonder, how do other people do it? Is there a certain way to how most people do it that makes it a little easier? Was I completely prepared like I thought I was? Is there something I'm missing or doing wrong? Sometimes I wish I had someone here all the time to tell me, no, that's not right. Now do it this way.

I look at other people that I know, or don't know, and watch them do things. How would they do something if they were in my position? Would it be better than my way? Is everything that I'm doing just plain wrong?

Some people that I know have left uni midway through to go back home. They've left uni. Completely left. And have gone back home. Was it too much for them? Were things just that fucked up that they had to go back with the parentals that keep the fridge full of edible food, and pay all of their bills on time? Did they feel the way that I feel sometimes? Tired, tired, oh so tired of being out on my own all the time.

I think about it a little more, and know that it's just hard right now. Things will get better. They have to get better. I will make them better, because just as I know that Momma likes to do her chores on the weekends before she starts a new week, I also know that she raised me to be better, to be independent, to make good decisions and to not give up.

And I can think about that. There's nothing wrong with going back in time and remembering things like that.

Posted by Sam at 01:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This would be my second newspaper article that I wrote for my uni that DIDN'T get published. I was a bit sore when I searched for my article in the newest printing and couldn't find it, but whatevs, I'm over it now, and don't want to write for the newspaper anymore, because everyone up there is retarded in one way or another. And I can say that because I know both of the editors, and if you knew who they were as well, you'd fully agree with me.

Anyway, I've decided to post it up here, because I can, and it makes me feel better that it did get published, one way or another. Hope y'all enjoy.

***

The thing about when you go to another country, is that it’s strange to encounter other people from back home. Your ear will catch a word or two and you’ll listen in to confirm their accent. And when you’re sure that they’re from where you’re from (in my case, it’d be the U.S.), it’s almost as if you want to run up to them and shout, “oh my god! Are you from the states too? Whereabouts? What are you doing over here?” blah, blah, blah… It’s like an instant bond is made because you’re both from the same country.

Instead of bombarding the person like a mentalist though, you simply stay where you are and continue on, remembering that yes, you are not the only American that lives in London. Others are allowed into the city as well.

However, there are some times when you can sit down and question someone until you’re blue in the face.

Enter, Sarah Turvey, one of Roehampton’s great lecturers who teaches Early Aspects of American Literature. Born in Ponca City, Oklahoma, she moved to Houston, Texas and then over to Surrey, England when she was only 9-years-old. Her father, who worked for an oil company, moved her, her mother and her five brothers and sisters (one brother was born after they moved), to build an oil refinery in 1963.

As I sat with her in her office, she told me about the culture shock she was hit with, how it was a hard adjustment that sometimes left her feeling like an outsider, but how she now likes being able to play two different cards at her own discretion.

“You have to remember that I moved from Houston, Texas, which was, in 1963 an oil boom town, but it was still in some respects, a place at the edge of the known universe. And I think ‘hick’ would be a not unfair description of it.”

Starting with the school list of things to buy (i.e. art smock, knickers/knicker liners, and a complete set of silver plated cutlery with her name engraved on), she was introduced to an entirely new world, and had to learn all of the new rules and customs.

“None of these words meant anything to me, or if they meant something to me, they meant something quite different.”

Irish nuns taught her at the all girl convent school that she attended, and whenever she did something they didn’t approve of, they would say to her, “Sarah Turvey, I don’t know what you do in America, but over here we cut our bread,” or “we don’t pass the vinaigrette before we pass the salt.”

Aside from the more obvious changes in day-to-day life, there were also the more subtle differences that took her longer to disentangle and understand, like the class structure of England. It’s fair to say that the majority of the girls that she was schooled with were upper-middle class, but she took note of how different certain things could be, such as teatime.

“When I arrived, the first thing you had to do was take your shoes off, and put slippers on. And then I noted with interest that we drank tea with the evening meal, an evening meal that was also called ‘tea’. Now I had been to tea with chums, but we had cucumber sandwiches and sponge cake, and suddenly we were having a meal that was being described as tea, but was actually a meal that I recognized as breakfast.

“What I subsequently came to understand was that this was the difference between the solidly upper-middle class girls, whose tea was eaten at four o’clock with cucumber sandwiches and sponge cake, and the families where tea was the evening meal, at which you drank tea, but ate an evening meal. This was the cultural conventions of the lower middle classes.”

Being born in America though, and essentially raised in England has been, you could say, a slight tug-of-war game for Sarah.

“I moved from an initial sense of being intimidated and bewildered by everything, and wishing desperately that I weren’t an American, that I didn’t stand out as different, and that this was my country, my culture, my nationality…to at some point, […] thinking, ‘actually I like being in some ways outside of this’, and perhaps even being seen to have a kind of critical eye upon it all.”

Living in England now for forty-five years, she feels privileged on many levels to live in the country that taught her what a ‘fish knife’ is, where she went to the prestigious university of Oxford and where she raised her children, but she also considers herself lucky to be American, and to be able to flip flop, so to speak, when she so chooses.

And while it can sometimes be confusing whether she’s “too English” or “too American”, she’s perfectly comfortable to seamlessly flick one switch on and turn the other off. It comes as a handy advantage, like when she traveled to the United States to teach American students at the University of North Carolina.

I think it’s safe to say that Sarah Turvey has lived a very full life that most other people probably never experience. She has the best of both worlds (in my humble opinion), and Roehampton is one lucky university to have a lecturer like her.

Posted by Sam at 08:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Occasionally when I think about it, I find it strange that people I know and co-exist with day-to-day actually read my mumbling thoughts on here. Sometimes I feel like warning them beforehand; "hey, don't get scared. I promise I wasn't going to do anything drastic, like kill myself or anything. I was just a bit depressed. You know how melodramatic I can get sometimes. There's some funny stuff on there as well....somewhere....it might take me a while to find it."

I give them what I call "the rules," which are 1.) don't you dare tell anyone the address without consulting me first (I'll probably say no anyway, so don't bother asking). 2.) Don't talk to me about what I write on my blog (like about the serious shit anyway). It's my venting area, what I do in order to get shit off my chest.

That's it. That's all I ask for. I don't think that's too much or selfish of me.

Other times though, I think it's really cool that people I know semi-regularly read what I write. It's funny when they make certain comments about stuff and I'll laugh with them saying, "See! I told you there was something funny in there."

The thing about sharing my love of blogging with Trish is that she makes me want to do it more. And by "more" I mean it's the first thing I want to do when I wake up. I could skip over facebook for a little while if only I could just update my blog first. I have gone over loads of my old posts remembering how often I used to update (Monday-Friday, without fail), and how there was some actual decent shit in there amongst all of my crap ramblings.

I also realized how much I've changed. How much my writing has changed. If I'm honest, I think my writing was a lot better back in the day, but I think it's because I did it more regularly and didn't slack off with writing minor details, and what I consider funny anecdotes. I like to think I used to have a bit of quip in my writing, a flicker of humor here and there, with some insightful thoughts peppered throughout to make it rich and entertaining. I want to do that again.

And just like Sean told my Life Writing class on the very first day I started uni last September, is that it has to be your life. You must practice writing every day, otherwise you'll never be as good as you could be. Leone, another favorite lecturer of mine, compared it to exercising. It's rare that people can just eat whatever they want and never gain an ounce of fat; you have to work out, eat healthy, and work hard every day, otherwise you're going to blow up like a killer whale, and nobody wants that. I know I don't want to be a killer whale.

For the past two days now (I know, such a long running streak), Trish and I have found ourselves on each of our settees in the lounge on our laptops clicking away as we each update our blogs. It's fun, and what I like to call "friend bonding time" even though we don't really speak to each other. I've never blogged with somebody else before. Perhaps it'll be a more regular thing with us and I'll update every single day like how I used to when I worked on the 3rd floor. Man. Those days seem so long ago. So we'll see how it goes, and see what I manage to type up here from London on a daily basis. I'm really hoping that we keep it up, and even by the end of this month, I'll have loads of shit to look back on.

**

The morning times are still frigid when I walk outside of the flat heading to my lectures, but usually by the time we're freed from our chairs, it has warmed up quite a bit outside and I'm halfway tempted to take my jacket off and sling it over my arm to carry it around. I don't, because I'm sure I'll catch another cold and be put on bed rest for yet another week, since my immune system still isn't up to where I'd like it to be, but it's nice that I have the thought to shed a layer of winter clothing. The weather appears to be in between winter and spring, and quite frankly, I'm looking forward to the day when I can walk out of the flat wearing nothing but a nice dress and flip flops, without my packet of tissues in my purse for when my nose begins to run.

We leave the curtains open in the flat and let the sun roast our kitchen, only to shut them when we park ourselves on the settee, because the reflection from the sun off of our laptops is blinding. We tidy a little bit, we listen to a bit of music, we make food for ourselves and snack whilst we're doing work, and yet even though everyone will be downstairs doing their own thing, something feels off to me. The dynamic in our flat has changed dramatically, and sometimes I feel like it's all my fault.

Even though I say that I like to keep myself out of drama, and it's not my business, and really, could you please not tell me because I have enough shit to worry about, I find myself in the center of some mini fires that I've set myself. I can just see myself with the box of matches, lighting each one and letting it burn out, wondering which one is going to actually catch on a pile of newspapers and set everything ablaze.

There are people in my close inner circle that I've been keeping at arm's length these days, because I either have nothing to say to them, or I've changed my idea of what I originally had thought of them. I don't like what they do or how they do things. And sometimes I feel like I watch them every time they're in my eyesight, just so I can find something small and insignificant that they do that shouldn't annoy me, but does; then I'll pounce on them and start a huge argument over the fact that they don't close the shower curtain after they get out of the shower, when really it's about how much their personality has been irritating me to no end.

I know it's one of the first things that you're taught when you're a little kid, and I've been exercising my right not to speak if you have nothing nice to say. It doesn't really put a strain on me, but I've noticed that there is extreme tension in the flat. Hell, other people who don't even live here feel it when they visit, and I don't like it. I don't like that things have changed between me and some of my friends. I don't like thinking horrible thoughts about people and actually saying, "well fuck them then." It used to not be like that. We used to not irritate each other. We used to live together happily, and I can remember back in first year when I couldn't get through the day without seeing or talking to every single one of them for at least an hour.

Sometimes I think that it's because we spend too much time together and we could do with a break from each other. Then other times I think that we have spent time apart from each other. We've all just changed so rapidly since we've known each other, and those changes have left permanent marks on my mind, and I won't be able to forget about it.

I don't want to have a big fall out with anyone in my close inner circle. I don't want to have a giant argument, and yell and scream, and make comments that hit way below the belt. But I feel like there's a massive thunderstorm in our horizon, brewing and getting ready to pour all of it's angry raindrops down into our flat. And I'm preparing myself for that day if it comes. Mentally, I've been putting on my armor, gathering all of my weapons and sleeping with one eye open. It's a sad thing when you don't trust those around you. It happens though, and it's a part of life, almost like you're weeding out those people who truly love you for you, and those that are purely there for entertainment purposes, and who you know you could live without if you had to.

Posted by Sam at 05:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I have a girl crush. It's nothing new, I've had girl crushes before, but mostly on famous superstars that I'd never get a chance with in a million years.

No, this would be a proper girl crush that I've had on a girl named, Caroline, since last term. She was in my Writing Poetry class that I only went to once and never went back because it was lame and I hated it. However, we have been reunited in my lecture that I have on Tuesdays now in Writing Context.

She sat across from me on the first day, and I was surprised that she remembered who I was.

"Hey. I didn't think I'd see you again. You never went back to Writing Poetry," she said to me during our first break.

"Yeah, I hated that class. It was pointless so I decided to stop going," I explained.

"It was pretty shit," she told me and smiled.

We speak occasionally when we see each other in class now, and part of me wants to hang out with her after class, just to have chats and get to know her better. It wouldn't be the first time I played for the other team, so to speak, and I'm not one for being closed minded. You never know where things might go. If anything, I could just make another really good friend.

Although I can't get over how pretty and nice she is. She kind of reminds me of Kristen Bell, but with black hair and cool, funky glasses. Who wouldn't like that, really? And in my warped and twisted mind, we would make an awesome looking lesbian couple, which is what I strive for every day. (*sarcasm*)

In that same class, there's an American guy who really fucks me off. I don't know what it is about other Americans that roam around London freely, taking up all of my space and air. Trish and I are the only Americans that I approve of living over here, so when we come across another one, it's weird that we automatically get extremely defensive and wonder why they aren't on the first plane back across the pond. It's almost as if we're the same kind of species and when we overhear a familiar accent, our little ears perk up and it's almost as if we want to walk around them, sniff them out and see if we like them or not. Generally, we end up not liking them.

I'm not sure which state he's from, but I'll put any money that it's Montana or some place far away in some fucked up land of Suburbia. He just sits in class with his baseball cap, being loud and sucking up to the lecturer. So. Annoying.

In other random news, I almost regained my hearing while sitting and straining to listen to the annoying American boy's accent. My left ear made a small pop, and all of a sudden everything seemed louder. I was so excited that I wasn't going to be permanently deaf, but that excitement only lasted a few minutes until I was back to being partially deaf. At least I know now that I'm not handicapped and that perhaps one day I'll be able to listen to my iPod on full blast once again and have it actually hurt my brain. Those days were so nice. How I miss them.

**update**

Because I don't feel like starting a brand new post (two in one day: shock!), I've decided to just continue on with my random gurgles from earlier on today.

It seems like I have re-awakened the inner blogger in Trish. We all know Trish here at My Mumbling Thoughts, and we all love her. She just started up another new blog on live journal and I've added her on the side of my links bar. I've also included her in the very secret, very small group of people that I know in "real life" who know the actual address of this blog, so everyone give her a big "hello!" Helen and Zoe are the only other two uni folks that know of my address, so in total that'd be three, for those of you who were keeping count.

I've been trying for ages to have Helen do a guest post on here, but I think she's a wee bit shy. Although I think if I keep on pressing her, one of these days she'll grace all six of my regular readers with her amazing presence.

Zoe also has a blog, but it's all in espanol. She's taking Spanish as part of her degree, and one of her assignments back in the day was to create a blog. Of course I jumped at the chance to help her since I do consider myself an expert of the blogging sort. I'm going to try and get to her to start actively blogging as well, only in English, because while I do fancy myself to be bi-lingual, I know that my Spanish is shit, and really I only know how to ask, "where is the bathroom?" "where are my shoes?" and "what time is it?"

Perhaps if I'm lucky enough, all three of my fabulous friends will one day grace my blog with their presence and be a guest on here. Which also reminds me, if I do have any lurkers out there, or regular readers who just want to hijack my blog for a day, let me know. I'm all about posting other people's words on here, mostly just because it's fun for me.

Posted by Sam at 03:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This past weekend, Zoe and I quickly packed some must needed items (i.e. toothbrush, clean underwear, iPods, etc...) and headed off to Amsterdam for the weekend. It came at just the right time as well, considering I stirred up a brand new pot of Drama literally right before we left.

We had planned it for a while, even though we didn't tell anybody. We saw a couple of weeks ago that our uni was putting the trip together for a decent price and thought, "why the hell not? Let's get the fuck out of here for a while." Both of us could do with the break away from everything, and boy, was it a break that I greatly needed.

It wasn't a long trip; we left on Thursday evening and returned back to the fast paced life of London on Sunday evening. It gave us two full days to roam the streets of Amsterdam and take it all in. It probably wasn't our brightest idea, but we decided to get drunk before we got on the coach and wanted it to be a full on bender weekend of doing nothing but getting wrecked. I suppose we succeeded with that, but we sure paid for it in the end.

Amsterdam is a beautiful place: the water, the buildings, the clean streets, the whole atmosphere was really surprising to me. It seems a lot more chill and laid back than London. Here everybody is constantly on the go, move, move, move, move! Whereas in Amsterdam, it felt as if everyone was just meandering through the streets, chilling and taking their sweet time. Zoe and I found it to be really annoying at first, but after a while we caught on and found ourselves on many occasions just wandering the streets ourselves, with no exact purpose or direction.

The first day we hit some of the tourist spots and got ourselves acquainted with the area. We arrived around eleven o'clock in the morning and was told that our rooms wouldn't be ready for us until 2pm. We certainly weren't going to wait around until it was time for us check in, so we were skanks and brushed our teeth in the downstairs toilets, put more make-up on our already gross make-up, put on some deodorant and were out the doors to go explore.

We tagged along with this guy we know, Joe, and three other girls that we were sharing our room with. One of the girls, Kim, had already been before and knew the general direction we should be headed in. They decided they wanted to get blazed right away and Zoe and I had no objections. We hopped onto the first tram that crossed our path, and into the town center we went.

You hear things about Amsterdam and figure that it's going to be a crazy, party city, but I forgot that people do actually live there, and work there, and do regular day-to-day things there. Not everyone is sitting on a giant mushroom chair, smoking sheesha and listening to Bob Marley. Although, that would be really cool.

We stopped into a "coffee shop" and smoked a couple of spliffs at lunchtime, then had the world's greatest pizza. If you're a food vender and want to make some serious moolah, I suggest you move your business to the center of Amsterdam. Loads of people smoke and get the munchies, and when you're as blazed as we were, everything tastes so good. It's one food orgasm after the other, and sometimes you're afraid you may not be able to stop eating.

Zoe and I decided to split from our new friends after we ate and do a bit of our own exploring. We found the sex museum, which was brilliant and very educational, found ourselves in the red light district (which was certainly an eye-opener), and eventually bought some shrooms for later in the evening. When we got back to our hostel, it was nearly nine o'clock, and we were well behind our schedule.

Even though we were both absolutely exhausted, we got showered and ready for a night on the town. We ate all of our mushrooms (20 grams each of the Thai shrooms), and headed back into the center. I was feeling a wee bit sicky at first, and was scared that maybe I'd yop all over the sidewalk, and then be classed as that girl that can't hold her drugs, but the feeling soon passed, and for the rest of the night, Zoe and I shroomed all over Amsterdam.

It was quite possibly one of the best nights I've had in a long time. I was determined to find the "happy place" which was this store that we had come across earlier in the day; basically you would just take your shrooms in the store, and then chill in this back area where they had it set up especially for when people were on shrooms. There were clouds on the walls, rainbows, butterflies and all of that nice shit. I wanted to sit in there and let the experience take me over. Instead we just wandered down random streets and found everything absolutely hilarious, even though there were some dodgy things that could have been bad.

One guy came up to us and was swearing, and Zoe just kept saying, "no thanks" to him, and I just walked on by with this ridiculously huge smile plastered on my face. There were times when things would be in slow motion and I wouldn't hear anything, and then all of a sudden I'd be back in "real time." You would think it'd be really disorientating, but really it was just fun.

We decided we needed to figure out a way to get back to our hostel. We asked a bus driver if he went anywhere near a place called, "Zeeburg-something." He said that he did, so we hopped on and had the greatest bus ride ever. Zoe and I were still laughing at everything, and I was so sure that everyone on the bus knew we were on something.

After a while, we thought that we had been on the bus for ages, and why were we driving down by water? Our hostel wasn't anywhere near water. Where were we?

The bus driver shouted that this was our stop, so we hopped off the bus and he drove away. When we looked around, there was nothing. No cars, no people, no anything.

"He dropped us off in the middle of fucking nowhere!" I hollared. And even though it was kind of scary, I couldn't stop laughing.

Zoe and I were running back in forth over all of the streets, trying to read street signs, and looked on the map at the bus stop, which was a terrible idea since everything on the map was in Dutch and moving around.

We were scared, shrooming and lost somewhere in Amsterdam. Great. Just great.

I tried phoning some people that were on our "emergency list" of numbers, but that didn't work. Eventually we found a taxi and tried explaining to him where we live.

"The StayOkay hostel. It's in Zeeburg-something. I can't remember the name. Can you take us there please?"

He agreed and quite literally took us down the street and around the corner. We couldn't have even been in the cab but five minutes. When I looked out, it said StudioK bar. He confirmed with a girl outside that this was the right place, but I just thought that we were having language barrier difficulties, and he couldn't understand us.

It turns out we were in the right place, and StudioK was just around the corner from StayOkay. We walked into the hostel lobby and sat downstairs for well over an hour, laughing so hard that tears were clearly running down our faces. It was so funny. We thought we were in the middle of nowhere, scared shitless, when really we could have walked from the bus stop.

We saw people that we recognized, and it turns out that everyone went to the bar, and we were one of the few people who actually ventured out into the center again for the night. Everything was so funny, and we kept on going over the same conversation again and again.

Me: "So let me get this straight. We're in Amsterdam?"
Zoe: laughing "Yeah."
Me: "And we don't speak the language?"
Zoe" laughing harder "Nope."
Me: "What are we doing in Amsterdam!?"

It was a fucking good time. If I were brave enough, I would have tried to bring some back to the UK with me, but I didn't want to risk being thrown in jail. That would have been bad. And slightly embarrassing.

After we got a decent night's rest, we woke up for our final day in the Dam. We had a nice, hench Dutch breakfast and then headed off to the Anne Frank museum. It was really good, even if a bit depressing. To pick ourselves up though, we just went to another coffee shop and smoked a spliff before we headed off back to the hostel for a nap. The plan was to just rest for a few hours and then head back out to the red light district, but we slept through our alarms and just slept for the entire evening. We were flat out tired.

It was a good time. Sunday morning we left and made it back to London an hour before schedule. I had the best shower of my life when I was back at the flat, and quickly posted all of my pictures and videos on facebook. It was so good and such a nice break. I definitely want to go back again, only this time, I think I'll just spend the entire time on shrooms. Spliffs are nice, but shrooms are totally the way to go in my book.

Posted by Sam at 10:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I took a week off of uni to get healthy and let my body heal. For the most part, it has, but I’m still partially deaf, still have a cough and still am slightly run down. I’m exhausted, get headaches every so often and aside from feeling physically down, emotionally I feel like I may never be completely healed, which gets me down as well.

Life on the inside of the flat has been bleak and quiet for the most part; Trish has gone away for the weekend, Helen is always in and out doing her own thing, and Carlene keeps to herself up in her room with all of her TV series on DVD. I kind of just wander from my bedroom, to the bathroom, down into the kitchen, and loaf on the settee. I didn’t do any work on my mini break off, and now I find myself feeling blah and still not in the mood to get any of it finished.

Blah.

Zoë and I have been together for the most part, which is always nice. I love hanging out with Zoë. We sit and chat shit, drink many cups of tea, and wonder what life would be like if we didn’t have all of the restrictions that we have. We talk about traveling together, living together, getting rich and famous together, going out together…together, together, together…

It leaves me thinking about next year and what it’s going to be like separated from her. She is, as I always say, my partner in crime. Whenever I go out, getting drunk and causing mischief, she’s generally the one always by my side either egging me on, or trying to keep me calm. Then the next day, when we’re recovering in somebody’s flat, we recap the entire evening and try to piece together as much of the broken night back together to try and make some kind of picture out of what happened; why do I have yet another fresh set of bruises on my legs? Who did she pull? Who did we meet that’s new and probably not interesting at all, but seemed interesting at the time when we were in our extreme alcoholic state?

Next year will be different for us though. She’s going away for a year to spend her third year in Peru. It’s what students who are taking a language have to do as part of their degrees. Helen is going away to Paris for a year, since she’s studying French, and Zoë is off to Peru since she’s studying Spanish. And as happy as I am that they’re going to experience this once in a lifetime opportunity, and as exciting and kick ass I know it’s going to be, part of me is really selfish and wants to ask, “what about me?” They’re my top two gals that I need in order to keep myself from going insane. When I’m frustrated and need to vent, I find refuge in Helen’s room where we’ll sit and have chats for hours on end, until we either both feel a lot lighter, or perhaps more worked up than before. And when I’m in need of just going out and getting absolutely shitfaced to the point where I forget what my name is, Zoë is always there, ready and willing to get all gussied up and paint the town red.

Third year is wide open for me. I’m pressing on here thinking and doing things as if I’ll be back for my third and final round, whereas Momma is still convinced that I’ll be attending a university in New York. Meh. We’ll see how that all goes. I’m just trying to make it through the week. My brain is simply not in any condition to think about anything too far off in the distance. My body is definitely not in any condition to do anything too strenuous that’s going to cause me to relapse and spend another agonizing week indoors. I’m just going to try and make it to the next day and see how things go.

Until then, I’ll continue to sit here, with my girls, and soak up every minute as if it’s our last one. A lot of things change in a year’s time. I’m hoping that the time spent away will only make our friendship stronger, rather than us drift apart like how some things happen. I’m going to miss our nights out, our nights in, and our days together. But most of all, I’m just going to miss them.

Posted by Sam at 10:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

When you're ill, like seriously ill, kind of like how I am nine months out of the year, not only do you feel disgusting and repulsive round the clock, but you don't want to go outside and face the world. Why? Because you're disgusting and repulsive. That's why.

My rash is not just "a rash." It's shingles. Yeah. How fucking disgusting is that?

And it's not cool, or hot, or sexy for that matter. I've never once in my entire lifetime heard somebody say to another person, "hey, I dig that rash. It's really awesome. Where did you get it, cause I'm thinking about getting one myself."

I decided to break down and go to the hospital yesterday afternoon, because my shingles (goddamn, that's an ugly word) started hurting really bad. I was getting these stabbing pains throughout the rash area, and simply couldn't take it anymore. Besides, it's bad enough that I'm still partially deaf and occasionally shout at people because I don't know exactly how loud I'm speaking.

The lovely nurse told me that my shingles is generally found in older people, but when younger folks get it, it's because that they have a weak immune system, which triggers the virus to "wake up." It can also be woken up by extreme amounts of stress.

That's just me all wrapped up in a nutshell; a strung out, stressy, moody and continuously ill cow.

So now I've been prescribed my anti-biotics, which should hopefully kick this nasty virus out of my system. The only down side I guess is that I'm on a constant clock, since I have to take EIGHT PILLS every single day. EIGHT.

It's ridiculous, but I suppose anything that's going to help me get rid of this horrible virus that looks awful, and makes me hollar out randomly in the flat whenever I get those shooting, stabbing pains, I'll take it without any quesitons.

Unfortunately I haven't been taking anything that makes the stabbing pains go away. Instead I just cry out and shout profanity every five to ten minutes. I sound like a cat that's hungry and cries to his owners, "feed me, feed me." Instead I'm crying, "motherfucking cunting whore, you hurt like a bitch. I wish you'd leave me the fuck alone!"

Same difference, I guess.

I'm going to be keeping my infected self at home, since shingles can be contagious to anyone who has never had the chicken pox before. I'm planning on getting a lot of work done, hopefully. I'm also hoping that my date gets postponed to a different time, otherwise I may have to think of a way to have mine at another time when I'm not so ill and contagious to others. Besides, I'd hate for Swindon to think that I have some form of tourettes, what with all of my random cursing whenever I get a stabbing pain in my tit or on my back. Again, so sexy. Who wouldn't want this, really?

Posted by Sam at 05:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

So I got the days mixed up and discovered that the Digby Lions date isn't until this coming up Thursday. For me, that is a truly good thing considering that my health has been slowly deterriorating since last week. While my cough has subsided quite a bit, I have for some unknown reason, broken out in a strange rash. On my back. And my left tit. I know! Very strange indeed. Not only that, my head is extremely stuffy, so much to the point where I've gone practically deaf. Q-tips are not my friend. Neither is my ear wax drops. Nothing is working, and I'm walking around like a big, infected, dirty freak.

Against all things that I believe in, I've decided to go to the medical centre bright and early on Monday and make myself an appointment. I have got to get completely cured before this Thursday, because I'll be damned if I'm missing out on this date just because I had some kind of contagious rash that eats human flesh. Seriously, nothing will hold me back. And it would be nice to actually hold a conversation with Swindon without having to say, "huh? I'm sorry, can you repeat that for me please?" every five seconds because inside my head sounds like a hurricane. Life can really be unfair sometimes.

I don't know why I have it set permanently in my brain that I'm invinsible and able to overcome any kind of ailment on my own. I act as if doctors are only out there to make illnesses worse, rather than try to help their patients, but alas, going to see the doctor is always a last resort for me. Really I'm just scared that they're going to tell me that I have some kind of incureable disease and that I only have six weeks left to live; when really, in reality, I was probably just bitten by some kind of bug in my sleep and all I have to do is apply this here cream for seven days straight and I'll be completely healed.

This past week has been interesting for me, and now I find myself alone in the lounge with Bridget, unsure as to what to do. And a wee bit bored. Trish has run to the shop for more cigarettes, Helen is out at a gig and having family bonding time, and Carlene decided to go back home for the weekend to get away from the Roe and do some work. I know I could do some coursework, perhaps clean the dishes from dinner, or even fold my laundry that has just finished drying. But really, I just want to go upstairs, put a film on and call it an early night. How lame am I?

January has flown by me at record speed, and I feel like I'm not taking all of it in like I should be. This could be my last term here. I may not be back next year. I've got deadlines already approaching and Momma's email waiting for me to respond to. When do I want to come back home for the summer so she can go ahead and buy the ticket for me? How about never. I don't want to leave. I may not be back. And I'm finding it difficult and frustrating dealing with my university about certain things. Our international centre is shit and so unhelpful. There's just too many things swirling down the drain, and I'm not really doing much about it, other than sitting on the settee and watching it all happen in front of me, like a bad day-time sitcom, and listening out of my one good ear.

Blah. And what do I find myself constantly thinking about? Constantly day dreaming about? Constantly obsessing about?

Swindon, of course.

Because I'm a douche. And have fucked up priorities. And am a bit desperate. Well, maybe a lot desperate. And sad, sad, sad.

Who knows. Today has been a wasteful day and I should really do something productive for a change. Instead I think I'm going just going to sit here, and finish out the day on the settee where I've been sat for the past four hours. Trish has come back to the flat, and now we're going to transform our London kitchen into Northern Virginia.

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

There was no calm before the storm, or even a calm after the storm. It seems as if we were just hit with one of the biggest drama hurricanes this flat and my lot has ever seen. Why? Because this past Friday I told boy Sam's girlfriend that I slept with him before the Christmas holidays while he was still with her.

It was supposed to be a fun night, and for the most part it was. I went out, bopped a good bop like usual and kept out of trouble (well, major trouble anyway). Drunk Sharon was out in full force abusing strangers and talking trash the entire time. It seemed like it was just going to be a normal bop evening for us, and a decent one at that seeing as none of the Bede boys were out. They decided to expand out into Camden for the evening.

Most of the evening is a blur for me, seeing as before I even left the flat, I was already pretty far gone. That's what I get for drinking an entire bottle of cheap wine to myself in the span of an hour. However, there is one moment that sticks out pretty clear in my mind. When I was standing with Stacey (one of Zoe's friends who has moved down to London), I saw out of the corner of my eye, Carlene. She was standing outside where most of the smokers go, and she was talking to Katie, boy Sam's girlfriend. It sounds insane, but in that moment, that's all I could see. I couldn't hear Stacey talking to me, and everything was slow. Something switched inside of my brain and I was overtaken by something that compelled me to march up to her and spill my entire guilty conscious right on her lap.

I only remember bits and pieces of my confession...

"You don't know me, but I slept with your boyfriend. I'm so, so sorry. Before Christmas at their party. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

I cried with her, and then immediately left the bop to sob all the way home by myself. I called Helen. I called Trish. And somehow, they appeared like beacons to my drunken side, and walked me the rest of the way home.

I couldn't stop crying, and wow was I ever drunk. I smoked, and smoked, and smoked some more. I couldn't not tell her. She had to know. Perhaps I could have picked a better time and place to tell her, but either way, she needed to know.

And I was so pissed off with boy Sam for not doing it himself. He told me the next morning that he would "deal with it." That it wasn't my problem to worry about and that I should just forget about it. If only I could.

I've done some shitty things in my short lifetime, and I've done quite a lot of stuff that I'm not proud of, and I've tucked it away neatly in my little black box that sits in the back of my mind. But this was not going to be one of those things. She didn't deserve to be made to look like a fool every single day that went by without her knowing. Everybody knew. Everyone except her. And all I kept on seeing in my mind was how she was so completely, obliviously happy, and how he got away with pulling a cover over her eyes.

When Carlene managed to get home, we had a serious shouting match. She had stayed with Katie to console her, and be her shoulder to cry on for over an hour.

"And where were you when I needed you, huh? What about me, who you consider one of your best friends?!"

She called boy Sam and told him what happened, because she thought that he deserved to know. As if he wouldn't find out. Why should he get to know so quickly, and Katie had to wait? Katie had to find out from the other girl. Katie didn't get a head start, so to speak.

I passed out sometime around five in the morning and heard my phone receive a text message at half seven. It was a message from boy Sam, saying if what he heard was true, then "I was dead."

Even in my sleep/drunk state, I still managed to send him a nasty response with no spelling errors. I was quite pleased with that.

"Fuck you! It was a fucking mistake. But I'm not going to fucking stand there and lie! I didn't do it to be malicious and a bitch to you. You're just fucking pissed because your dirty secret is out. If you would have been a fucking man and owned up to it in the beginning, none of this would be happening. I feel bad for Kate. She could do a fucking world better than you!"

Quite possibly the longest text message I have ever sent. I didn't get a reply to it either.

The next morning I was woken up by Santos, asking me to come over next door for a brew. I peeled my eye lashes apart, rolled out of bed and washed the dried tears off of my face. My knees had fresh bruises on them (because I always fall down when I've drank too much), my pink nail polish was chipped and my eyes were so swollen I could barely see.

I felt like shit, and the night before felt like a really bad dream.

Uni is a land mine now. I carefully look out with each step I take and stare painfully hard at the ground if I see somebody I notice, and turn the volume up loud on my iPod. It feels like everybody knows and now I'm "that girl" that told "that other girl" about sleeping with her boyfriend.

I knew what I was doing when I did it. I knew what the consequences were going to be. I knew that not everyone would agree with me doing it, and that there would be arguments.

But I also knew that she is a virgin. And I knew that the guy she was with was a liar and a cheat that didn't really care about her. And I knew that if it were me in her position, I'd want to know so I could dump the loser I was with and find someone that wouldn't say, "I don't care."

Posted by Sam at 08:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

A couple of weeks ago, I went over to my friend's flat to watch the Hatton/Mayweather boxing match. I'm not that big into boxing, but I figured I'd go seeing as they always come to our flat whenever we put something on. It only seemed fair that I went over to their place once in a while.

The match wasn't going to be showing until 4am UK time, but there was supposed to be a party beforehand. Zoe, Carlene and myself decided that we'd go to the pre-party, but once it was game time we'd duck out because boxing really isn't our thing.

When we arrived at midnight, we thought we were late. It turns out that only Ryan, Dave, Khalida and Naomi were there, hanging out eating pizza and watching other boxing matches that were showing before the main event. We were actually early. Who knew?

We claimed our seats on the couch and had chats with everyone until the other guests arrived.

Slowly, but surely, the tiny lounge began to fill up with people I had never met before. I didn't realize that this was going to be such a huge thing. I was halfway tempted to stay a little while longer, but I was stone cold sober and had work the next morning. It wasn't going to air until 4am, and was I really willing to stay up so late when I was shattered from the night before?

Well, I wasn't going to stay until a whole load of footballer's arrived.

On my campus (Digby!), our football team is the Digby Lions. It's just like any school really; they're the popular ones, the ones that all the girls want to be with, all the guys want to be. They're known for their reputations and can easily have any girl that they want (and usually do). I don't "hang out" with them per se, but I do know some of them and they seem like okay guys, even though most of them are man whores.

But there is one that I have quite taken to. I might have a teeny tiny crush on. Small. Microscopic even.

Swindon. *swoon*

On this particular evening when I was nursing a diet Coke, I was sat in between Dave on my left, and Swindon on my right. The lounge was packed full of people (mostly guys), and there I was, this tiny American who had no idea what was going on and was sat next to a really fit guy, who was lovely and said I could have a nap on his shoulder if I wanted.

I didn't. But now that I think about it, I should have.

He explained to me why this was such a huge match in boxing history, seeing as both boxers were undefeated. Ricky Hatton, who is from the UK was the underdog that everyone was pulling for, and Mayweather was the cocky American that everyone in the room loathed. When he asked me who I was supporting, I told him I didn't really know. I should support Mayweather, being American and all, but he sounded like a dick, so I was probably going to go with Hatton.

Well, the night ended and Hatton lost (boo), but I had found a new crush (woo!). It was nice. It had been ages since I've had a proper crush. One that ma