Saturday, 25 February 2012

Men And Their Dogs

I had a date yesterday. It went well.

I say 'well', but that may be slightly misleading. I embarrassed myself on a number of occasions, talked him through the musical numbers in Burlesque and, at one point, interrupted a story that he was telling me so that I could change my mother’s amazon account password (something that APPARENTLY she was incapable of doing).

But, I mean, I didn’t set anything on fire and nobody cried. A success in anyone's book.

Obviously this was just a first date. I don’t anticipate entering into a Great Romance in the near future, so why do you even need to know about this nameless young man? I’ll tell you why. Because he told me a story about his dead dog.

Wait. I’m going somewhere with this.

The date had been pleasant enough – I was charming in my wonderfully awkward way and he was handsome enough that I didn’t really care about what he was saying – but the turning point came when he asked me if I had any pets. Yes, I said, a dog.

Oh, he said, I love dogs. I used to have one but it died a few months ago.

That’s sad, I said, What happened?

And he proceeded to tell me a devastating tale of a dog that was blind in one eye and crippled with stomach cancer.


Actually, it was a little bit romantic, in the weirdest way possible.

By the end of the story, I was in the palm of his hand. I would have married him there and then if he’d asked me, let me tell you.

HOWEVER, it has very suddenly occurred to me that this was not the first time I have been seduced by a story about an unfortunate pet. In the first few days of our relationship, Idiot told me about his beloved mutt and it’s tragic death at the hands of some sort of bone-thing. Fringe had a photo of a dead cat in his wallet. Even Stretch, for all his faults, had managed to show a modicum of emotion when telling me about giving his dog up when he sold his house.

So, basically, my question is this: is Tell-A-Sad-Pet-Story an actual thing?

And am I the only one being taken in by it?


Thursday, 23 February 2012

Why It Is Actually A Good Thing To Have A Crazy Bitch As Your Girlfriend

It has occurred to me that, during this annoyingly drawn-out emotional crisis, I have not been advertising myself very well to any potential suitors. The sheer magnitude of my grief and sorrow may have alerted some (previously) interested parties to the fact that I am a headcase of the highest order. This is especially true now that we have all come to realise that the person I was so upset about is, in fact, a [something I’m not allowed to say on the blog in case my mother reads it] who doesn’t believe in free speech* or in, you know, being a decent person.

The Verdict Was "Wow", Gil Elvgren

Anyway, I have compiled a list of the top three reasons as to Why It Is Actually A Good Thing To Have A Crazy Bitch As Your Girlfriend. Most of you will need no convincing, but I thought I’d make sure we were all on the same page.

1. Two/Three/A Million For The Price Of One
Far be it from me to generalise the entire heterosexual-male population, but I am under the impression that a large majority of you get a bit restless in a relationship and often seek solace in the arms of women who are not your girlfriend.
Well, men-who-are-like-that, why not invest in a Crazy Bitch? It’s like a million girlfriends in one handy, woman-shaped package.
You will literally never know who you are coming home to. One day, you’ll be greeted by the loving, cake-making, pinny-wearing dream-wife you’ve always wanted and, the next, you’ll walk through the door and narrowly avoid losing an eye as you dodge a flying fork that has been sent towards your head because you didn’t answer that text at lunch time.

2. Excellent Emotional Communication
Oh, those ‘normal’ women might be all nice and understanding when you make a mistake, but do you ever really know where you stand? Of course not. They keep everything bottled up. It’s unhealthy, is what it is.
That doesn’t happen with a Crazy Bitch. One way or another, you will be made VERY AWARE of her feelings regarding every little thing you do.

3. Transferable Skills
In today’s job market, you may find yourself a bit caught out when you’re filling out the old Curriculum Vitae, there. Not much work experience? Not many transferable skills? Well look no further!
Managing a Crazy Bitch will provide you with a wide range of skills that will impress any company looking to recruit. Dispute Resolution? You’ll pick that up fairly quickly. Complaints Management? Ditto. Speaking a foreign language? There’s nothing more foreign than the language she’ll be directing at you, sonny-jim.
You'll be at the top of the corporate ladder in no time.

There. Argue with that if you can. Crazy Bitches are a catch.


*Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you may have noticed that a blog post has gone missing. I mentioned no names and said nothing disparaging, but I was effectively threatened and told to remove it from my blog. I’m also never allowed to write about Stretch again, because apparently that giant, grown-up man has got a bee in his bonnet about being portrayed as a [something I’m not allowed to say on the blog in case my mother reads it]. YOU’LL NEVER BE MENTIONED AGAIN, PET, ALRIGHT?

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Hi, Can We Be Friends Yet?

Dear Stretch,

It has been approximately three weeks since you decided that I wasn’t worth your time. And that’s ok. It really is. Unfortunately, I really liked you – even before the mess of falling in love and not being quite up to your standards.

When you decided that we shouldn't speak anymore, I did quite well for the first few days. It was almost a relief to know that I didn’t need to check my phone, because – as you told me - you’d “spoken to some friends” and they had agreed that it was best for you to stay away from the little crazy lady.

After those first few days though, the silence really set in. I was an absolute nightmare. I wasn’t leaving the house, I wasn’t eating properly and I couldn’t sleep. I still can’t sleep, in fact, and I’m not a massive fan of leaving the house. Also, if I’m being really honest, the eating thing may never go away. I’m not exactly blaming you for all of these things, because I was cripplingly unstable before I met you, but I think you should take SOME responsibility.

Really, I'm still angry with you. I think that what you've done is nothing short of cowardly. By refusing to speak to me, you have ensured that you don't have to deal with any of the aftermath of this break-up or whatever, and have left me to cope with it.

Also, lest we forget, I never even wanted to get involved with you. I made an excellent case against it, as I’m sure you remember, but you ignored everything I said and pursued me regardless. You may recall saying things like " I love you" and "I want to build a life with you". You know, that kind of sleazy, manipulative bollocks that unfortunate-looking little whelps like me will fall for in a heartbeat.

But then you got bored. Or met someone else. I’m not entirely sure which one came first.

The thing is, in spite of all that, I can’t allow you to simply disappear. It took a lot of effort – much more than you realise – for me to allow you into my life, and it would be awful to let all of that personal growth go to waste.

I realise that the prospect of spending the rest of your life with a girl who – by anyone’s standards – should be under the care of a full psychiatric team could possibly have frightened you off a bit, but I can assure you that being friends would be quite different. At the very least, it would ease my inner-monologue a little bit and stop me stalking your twitter page, obsessing over conversations between you and your new girlfriend.

If you ever had any respect for me AT ALL, you’ll be the one who sends the first message. We said we’d be friends and it’s about time you started acting like you care.

Love Always,


Update (23.02.2012): I take it all back. Let's not bother.

Monday, 6 February 2012

Valentine’s Day, 2009.

Idiot and I had not been together for very long as of February 2009. It had been approximately four months since I had allowed him to start calling me his girlfriend and so he was still quite keen to impress me. Thusly, I anticipated an excellent February 14th.


If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you may have noticed that things in my life tend to go the most wrong when I am least expecting them to. It’s just a thing that the universe and I have got going on - as long as I sit around being utterly miserable, my life stays on a fairly even keel. It is literally only when I am HAPPY OR SOMETHING that the universe remembers where I am and starts throwing things at me.

Our story begins with the deadline for my final-year Psychology dissertation, which just happened to fall on February 14th. I had been given an entire year to do this 10,000 word monstrosity, so of course we can assume that I had it finished well in advance… Hang on. NO WE CAN’T, because we are all well aware that I would rather slit my own throat than do an essay a single moment before it is necessary. Therefore, it will come as no surprise when I tell you that I was awake for four nights in a row, prior to Valentine’s Day, averaging 2500 words per twenty-four hours.

It was awful.

My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend*, when the 14th arrived, was only partially aware of the stress I had been under during the last week. (In those first few months I was still pretending to be well-adjusted, so I hid quite a significant amount of my personality from him.) Therefore he thought that I would appreciate his arrival at 7am, his arms laden with presents and a lovely breakfast, and had thought nothing of driving the two-hour journey from his home in Leicester to my flat in Lancaster at such an ungodly hour.

Romantic, no?

Needless to say, at 7am - after four days without sleep and with over 1500 words still to write - I was ready to curl up and die. But I didn’t. What I actually did was eat my breakfast, open some presents, and fall asleep on his lap for four hours. VERY CLEVER. Luckily, he had the sense to make me call my professor while I was cutting off the circulation to his lower half, and my deadline was extended.

The day continued in a similar way, if I’m honest. I would wake up, eat whatever favourite food Idiot had been out to buy for me, open another present, and fall back to sleep. It was nice. I think he liked it too. I imagine that having such peace and quiet in my presence was a wonderful change for him.

When I finally did wake up properly, ready to enjoy my happiness, the universe realised what was happening. Almost immediately, it responded by zapping Idiot’s mother with a potentially life-threatening brain-thing.


I kid you not, less than half an hour after I had regained full consciousness, Idiot got a phonecall from his brother declaring that their mother had been taken into hospital because her brain was bleeding.
(She had previously had a coil in it or something. It was a big deal. The brain is definitely not something you want to discover is bleeding.)

Anyway, being two hours away from home, he didn’t have time to hang around and wait to see if it was actually life-threatening.

So he left me.

On Valentine’s Day.**

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the only Valentine’s Day I have ever (almost) spent with a boy.


*I did not know, at this point, that he was a lying bastard.
**I understand that it is important to visit Mothers in hospital. BUT I also reserve the right to be annoyed by any and all things that ruin my happiness.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

Change The Record

For three weeks now, I have been annoying the world with my sad little sighs and my reluctance to get dressed. I’m not eating properly, I’m not sleeping properly, and I can’t even turn on the television without risking a genuine emotional breakdown.

I am almost ashamed of myself, truth be told. I have never been this affected by anything or anyone in my entire life. While I’m not exactly your traditional Independent Woman, I’ve always assumed that I had it in me to deal with stuff like this.

But I’ve been staring at my phone for several hours now.

Picking it up. Putting it back down. Moving it nearer to the window, just in case the signal is better. Moving it back, just in case the signal is worse. Picking it up. Putting it back down. Writing a text message. Deleting it. Re-writing it with the intention of making myself sound more balanced. Deleting it again, because one text message isn’t going to undo three weeks of psychotic behaviour…

You know. That kind of thing. All day.

Because today is the first day, since we met, that Stretch hasn’t been in touch.

And I hate it.

Normal service will resume next week. I apologise for being such an incessant bore.