you and me could write a bad romance.

I'm not sure what it is but for some reason I only ever attract boys who aren't good for me.  By the same token I'm only ever attracted to boys I can never have; boys with girlfriends, boys with emotional baggage, boys with criminal records.

If I believed in all that "The Secret" hocus pocus, I could conclude that I'm getting back the result of what I give out.  I'm going to hope like hell that's not the case.  Not that my signal-reading skills are anything to go by, but I'm pretty sure I don't give out "I'm an emotional retard - please let me cheat on you or take your everything then change my mind".

I don't get what it is though.  I never like the good guys.  The good dependable guys that I'm supposed to want to build my forever with.

I think I just get bored too easily.  I need it to be dramatic or risky or exciting or I don't feel like it's real.  Something in my subconscious has decided it's just not worth my time if I'm not going home to cry myself to sleep.


It's like I only know how to flit between two extremes - silent agonising boredom complete with hay bales on one end and over-the-top crazy jerry springer drama at the other. Anything indecipherably between the two and I'm completely at a loss with what to do with myself.


I think my heart operates on a bit of a reverse-psychology basis.  I can't love him if he's good because that makes me a conformist.  It's too neat, too clean, too perfect.  Tell me he wants me back and I'm suddenly creeped out that he's too keen, too needy; worried that he'll smother me to death with affection.


But tell me I can't have him - that it won't work - that he doesn't even know I'm alive and suddenly I want him bad.


One of these days I will learn my lesson.  Promise. Til then it's a work in progress.


Lesson Sixteen: Know your worth. 

she's so dangeroussssss.

Sometimes when I look at certain people in my life, I wonder: why the hell am I friends with you?  I don't mean to be judgy (even though, clearly, I am) it's just that sometimes, when I see the things they do/ hear the things they say, I'm not sure who I want to stab more - myself or them.  I genuinely can't figure out which of us has changed - whether they've turned into completely socially-retarded selfish morons overnight or whether they were always that way and at some point along the road I just became numb to it?  If it's the latter, someone just plunged me into an ice bath (not unlike an Inception "kick") because I am officially awake and I don't like what I see.

I get that it's kind of a self-preservation/ survival tactic type thing to be a strong, independent, no-nonsense woman but it's a fine line between that and just being a downright b*tch.  I'm okay with strong.  Sassy I can even admire.  But I will never understand why people go out of their way to hurt each other.  While I am often impressed by the lengths some girls (or people in general) will go to simply to feel better about themselves at someone else's expense, mainly it's uncalled for and juvenile.  More than that it's just not classy.  

Reckon it's time for some friendship re-thinks. Social purges. Life deletion.


Lesson Fifteen : Treat others as you wish to be treated. Failing that, just stop being a dick. 

wasted days & wasted nights.

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago after a particularly drunken venture.  I didn't post it at the time because I was (of course) curled in a ball on my floor waiting for the room to stop spinning and hating my life.  
I read it the other night as I was getting ready and as a result got back into my pyjamas and went to sleep early.  
Let's hope it has a long-lasting effect...
 
My head is pounding.  I have random bruises everywhere, my throat feels like I swallowed razor blades and I'm almost convinced I was beaten in the lower back by tiny ninja fists in my sleep. 

Any kid between 18 (16 if you're one of those eager types) and 23 knows that means I went out last night but for anyone outside of that range who has forgotten what this feels like, is in denial about their own alcoholic heyday or is of the opinion that generation Y is a lot worse than they were, these are classic symptoms of a hangover.

It always starts the same.

It's someone's birthday - "I don't usually go out but tonight I have to" - Just one drink okay? I'll be home early.

Lies, lies, lies.

The night always starts with "we'll just go out for a little bit" and typically ends in "I think I'm going to be sick".

Even my recovery session is predictable; I take the legal limit of pain killers that I'm allowed for the day, drink several litres of water, pretend to look like I'm doing something useful so Mum won't look at me with her "I told you so" eyes while feeling sorry for myself and then I make myself a promise that this is the last time.

Which is what I said last time.

And also the time before that.
So what is it that keeps us coming back?  Because the night's analysis always concludes that the club was gross, the music lame, the boys unimpressive and my new outfit wasted on yet another forgettable night.
But surely, it must be something.  Or are we just gluttons for punishment?  Personally, I think we're addicted to the lie of it all.  The hope that tonight will erase the week's pain, heartbreak, disappointment.  That tonight will make us forget everything that happened before it. 

Wrong again.

From experience I've learned not only does the night out do nothing of the sort, it also tends to make things worse. In my drunken stupor I'm more likely to make a fool of myself railing against the injustices of my lot in life.  And in the morning all I have to show for it is a headache, an empty bank account and a feeling something akin to regret.

I've come to realise that my life is slowly spiralling into something reminiscent of an absolutely fabulous episode but less amusing sans the english accent. And despite the fresh promises I make myself as I get ready each time, every post-big-night-out I die a little inside.

I have to admit, I am slightly horrified that at 22 I no longer have the stamina or elasticity I had at 18.  In my glory days we'd go out three nights in a row, drink the bar clean each time and still get up for class at 8am.  Now if I venture into the city on a Friday, I'm still hating my life come Tuesday. By Thursday I'm still promising myself my drinking days are over and then just when I'm starting to feel a little like my normal self, it's so-and-so's birthday all over again and I'm back to where I started.

My mum has always said that 'nothing good ever happens after 2am' and as much as I hate to admit it, I think she might be right.  Between 12 and 2 I'm having the time of my life. After that I'm throwing up in an alley way, crying in a potplant, reassuring her that the new girlfriend is ugly or doing something else I am sure to regret come morning.  Something else foolish that I hope my grandkids never find out about and blackmail me with. 

I am on a mission to change this pattern - to go home early while the night's still amazing - before it becomes just another link in my chain of regret.

I'll let you know how it goes.

For now though, unsurprisingly, today's lesson is an easy one. 

Lesson Fourteen:  Nothing good ever happens after 2am.

Wish me luck!
Have a great week xx