The Last of the Famous International Playboys

A girl who I was persuing last night (and subsequently conquered) quoted me as “the last of the famous international playboys.” I was not quite sure what exactly she was on about, until I discovered that it is actually quite a good song by Morrissey.

Eve.

My Heart of Stone

It is bleak and dreary outside, and I find it absolutely delightful.

We’re out on the town again tonight – looking for answers, although we’ll probably have to wade through a submerged city to find them. That’s alright, my friend Alistair always says that the prettiest girls come out in the rain. He is a strange character, very charming and affable, he is convinced that he’ll be the one to introduce me to the love of my life. I still remain adamant that it will never be possible. Women are so precious but, for me, they also symbolise the deterioration of everything pure and beautiful. In their youth, they blossom and shine like flowers, raising gracefully and gloriously up into the rays of a vibrant sun, but slowly the world has his vicious way with them and they shrivel and die like the most common of vegetables. Of course, this happens to all of us, but for one who worships the aesthetic beauty of the female as much as myself, it becomes all the more painful. I can scarcely lay my eyes on a modern day photograph of Bardot without weeping.

Alistair insists that this is just a phase, and that, perhaps as I mature, I can look for something deeper in a woman, something less physical, something immortal. But until that day, I guess my love will have to remain satisfied with my sad old parents, my dear old cats and every perfect image of Brigitte Bardot (before she got all old and racist.)

Eve.

Guess Who?

Well, hooray for everything, my father managed to wangle me a spare laptop so now I don’t have to sit with the rest of those reckless perverts at the Internet Cafe checking emails and categorising my Brigitte Bardot photographs to the symphony of merciless clicks of unbridled passion.

Jemima is staying at my house tonight. Her roomate is having an important date and so she asked Jem to piss off for the evening. I’m not going to sleep with Jemima, if that’s what you’re wondering. I never have, in fact. I tried once, but she told me I was too scrawny to have sex with her, and that was that.

We played Guess Who before – but our own version of Guess Who where we ask personal questions about the characters, and then eliminate people due to our own assumptions, so, as opposed to “do you wear glasses?” we ask “are you currently divorced?”, “do you use online dating sites?”, “have you ever been an alcoholic?”… in most cases we both end up with the same person.

Here she is now, Jemima wants her voice heard…

hallo BLOG GOERS. why on EARTH do you spend your precious hours reading about this man’s life? go buy a Mills & Boon novel, those are probably more descriptive, and the leading men are better built..

Thank you, Jemima. Such a sweet girl, yet foolish enough to allow herself to be photographed by wayward camera men whilst drunk and clubbing…

Unemployed.

Here I am, back at the Internet Cafe, wondering how many lonely men have pleased themselves to free, online porn in this seat I am now sitting in.

I was thinking today maybe I should get a proper job. I haven’t worked at the flower shop for about a week. I just don’t show up, and don’t answer the phone when mum calls. I’m bored of it. But I really don’t have any idea of what I want to do with myself. I have a BA in English, but “what can you do with a BA in English?”, shit all, I think is the answer to that question. Jemima asked if I wanted a job at her agency, she works as some sort of graphic artist, and she said I could do sketches and rough designs for them, but I really don’t think I could stand any of the bloody pretentiousness that goes along with that line of work.

Perhaps I’ll write a novel. About the woman I fell in love with.

A fictitious work, obviously.

Eve.

Mouse Trap

If you were wondering, ‘mouse’ did come back to mine, and I’m glad to say that the carpet is absolutely glass-free.

Nobody Told Me There’d Be Days Like These

Strange Days Indeed.

It seems I have been removed from the cyber network due to the unfortunate events that have ocurred during the past week. They all began last Thursday, I was out shopping for jeans when I happened to stumble on an old friend and her rather attractive new friend. Liesel I knew from uni, we were in the wine tasting club together and we once shared intimate moments in the back of a bus taking us on a road trip to the Hunter Valley. Her friend was quite beautiful, with turbulent green eyes and mountains of long, shiny brown hair that bounced and curled down onto her lower back. I think she was introduced to me as Michelle, and suddenly I knew what Paul McCartney was whacking on about in that song of his. Anyway, the three of us went out and got coffee, and soon after Liesel had to head off to work, so Michelle and I dilly dallied about the city a bit more. She had an alright character, a touch frail and a tendency to repeat the word ‘so’ a lot in conversation, but such things can be forgiven. After employing my miraculous ability to charm even the coyest of women, I soon had Michelle dragging me back to my apartment, and practically tearing my clothes off in the staircase. There was an inevitable conclusion to that series of events, and as she lay in the bed next to me and lovingly stroked my hair, I spoke.
“I’m leaving, Michelle”
M: What? Where?
“Alaska. My father lives there, he owns a moose ranch, and he just had a heart attack. Everything is getting too much for him on his own. My flight leaves tomorrow.”
M: Are you for real? So, you’re just gonna go and live in Alaska?
“My father needs me.”
M: But, what about us? When were you thinking of telling me?
“I just told you. I’m sorry that this has to be it.”

It was at that moment that she burst into a fit of violent tears. She hugged me and then pummelled her fists into my chest, she howled at me, then kissed me, and then fell into her pillow and sobbed some more.
What a Crazy Lady.
I finally managed to simultaneously calm her down and get her out of my apartment, which was a relief, because my eardrums were on the verge of bleeding from the sound of her incessant wailing.

So Friday rolled by, the day my “flight left”, and there she was at my door, at 7am, ringing the buzzer, nattering into the speaker, offering to help me pack for the trip. I didn’t answer. Perhaps she would think I already left.

What is it with women? I didn’t give this girl hope for a long term relationship. I gave her a good bout of love making. That is all. Apparently she accidentally got the wrong idea, and however unfortunate that may be, I cannot be held responsible for her inability to semantically assess situations.

Around comes Saturday night, and I get a message from Liesel. She heard all about the events that ocurred, she knows I lied to her friend and she tells me she is coming by to talk. When Liesel arrives, she is carrying two full bottles of vodka and enlightens me to the fact that she doesn’t want to talk, and would rather recreate the more intimate events spent on Thursday with herself inserted into the ‘Michelle’ role (fortunately minus the violent weeping.) It was a most bizarre arrangement but I was willing to comply, granted the drinks and orgasms were on her, which they were. This went on for a number of hours until we were considerably drunk and desperately exhausted. At around 1am Sunday morning, the buzzer goes off, I was softly sleeping, so Liesel clambers up and without inquiring into the visitors identity (the dumb broad), she lets whoever in. And WHO do you think it is? THAT’S RIGHT.

MY MICHELLE.

Liesel opens the door, and Michelle bursts in and goes. mental. If you thought Thursday night’s sobs sounded bad, they were nothing compared to the tempest storm that broke out Sunday morning. Oh Lord, it was awful. Liesel and I got pegged with dinner plates, vases, coffee mugs, empty beer bottles, anything the crazy bitch could find at her disposal. She got her hands on my precious laptop, and hurled it off the balcony. What an insidious wretch.

So here I am. Blogging. At an Internet Cafe, on Tuesday morning. I should be at work but I’m too depressed. Mum can get on with her bloody flowers without me. I’ve been miserable because of the state of my flat. I’ve tried to clean it, but there is only so many mascara-based tear stains you can scrub from out of the carpet.

There is a nice, mousy-looking girl who works here. Perhaps I’ll talk her into coming back to my place, and she can help me pick up the rest of the broken glass.

Eve.

The Road to Enlightenment

As hideous and banal as this may sound, sometimes I want to do nothing more then just stay at home and sleep every day, like the cats.

I suppose that statement is an indication of my current and future existence, as a meaningless, non-productive collection of lackadaisical atoms, brought into this world to live and create, and then kicked off it without creating so much as an origami swan.

My reason is ‘why bother creating something that may not be perfect?’ And isn’t that the case with every invention throughout history? Everything created is flawed in some way, even non man-made creations, natural life forms. They all wither and die eventually. Now, I’m not some maudlin, morose tank of depressive gas here, I simply observe. And my observation tells me that, although we may have made miraculous progress through technological, scientific, biological and artistic achievements – psychologically and spiritually we may be more oppressed than ever before. Perhaps we have spent too much time creating things that cater too strongly to our physical selves, and not enough that helps us evolve spiritually.

During lunch I had it off with some strawberry blonde hussy who works at the coffee shop near my flowers. Her name was Laura, but I’d preffer to remember her as Stella (she reminded me of that character in A Streetcar Named Desire). She gave me a whole shoebox full of new age tapes from the likes of Wayne Dyer, Stuart Wilde, Ekhart Tolle. Her mother told her to get rid of them, and I don’t think Stella could bring herself to throw them out, so I was there to lovingly accept her refuse. I’m not sure why I took them in, even more unsure as to why I listened to them. Perhaps I yearn within myself to become more of a spiritual being.

First step, I guess, would be to stop sleeping with so many women.