Love is so short, forgetting is so long

It's all about the past these days.


I think about you.


I think about you as-you-were, not as-you-are, which seem to be two different people.


I think about being met at the airport.



I think about a train to Goa, twelve hours late, and I was so sure you wouldn't be there. And my eyes already started to tear, as I looked around in panic for a PCO so I could call you and as I turned, I collided with your chest and you smelt familiar and you wrapped your arms around me and we just stood. And we rocked back and forth for a bit, while co-paasengers watched us, amused. And in the taxi, on the way back, at 3 am, you gave me a pad of stationary, with letters to me written on it.



I think about before we were dating, when we teetered close to dating. When we sat at Flavours, on the lawn, your knees behind my back, my fingers looking like they were running through the grass, but really caressing your ankles, thinking innocently, that no one noticed.



I think about checking my phone during my 2.40 to 3.30 class, and seeing daily smses, saying, "Hanging out at bus stop." And I'd run as soon as we were released, spray quick deodarant on my body, and you'd be at the college gate, waiting with crossword and lit cigarette and you'd take my backpack and my car keys and drive us to your house to eat cheese toast.


I think about how you used to run my back when I coughed, looking at me anxiously, murmuring, "Bas, bas" till I stopped, soothed.


I think about how we read together, in your room, with the A/C high. Or at my house, how our legs always tangled on the couch, and how after we fought for the remote, you always let me have it eventually.


I think about going to Dharamsala, and meeting a couple of your friends there and sleeping on the way back to Delhi, with my head on your lap, and how you carefully spread a shawl over my head and carefully rolled a joint, even though the bus was shaky you never spilt.


I think about that first office party you came to, and how you dropped a drunk colleague home, and how you spoke with everyone and made them love you and my heart swelled because I was with you.


I think about you, propped up on one elbow, watching me sleep and when I woke up and asked, "What?" you said you loved me.


And now, how dare I settle for anything less than what you gave me?

Uh-huh, this my shit, all the girls stomp your feet like this, coz I ain't no hollaback girl

Wow, it's been a busy weekend. And as a by-product of this hecticness, I'm feeling immensely tired and immensily run down. More the latter than the former, I would say, because I'm not really that tired, but I do have this overwhelming urge to be cuddled. But if someone was to be the cuddler, I have no doubt I'd immediately burst into tears. I'm weird that way.



Was out at TC last night till four in the morning, with Small and two writer friends. All of us proceeded to get smashed, Small more so than the three of us, but still, we were all like bumping and grinding and generally making spectacles of ourselves. At three thirty, when we were finally kicked out, I noticed my watch was no longer on my wrist and freaked out. Piles of cigarette packets and broken beer bottles were poked through by my rummaging fingers till I was finally dragged away, practically weeping and then, I noticed by the bar, a woman who I had bummed a smoke off of and there it was, at her feet, the strap snapped. I nearly kissed her and the manager and everyone else around me, including a group of very drunk men, singing Hindi songs at the top of their voices. Everyone cheered and patted me on the back and Small and I went home and made ourselves Bournvita. I love TC late at night.



We were also pretty tanked up before we got to TC, thanks to (the very hot) Upamanyu Chatterjee's book launch at the Taj Mansingh. Oh, he is so hot. Oh. And he has the nicest voice all deep and resonant and it sets off little hunter-gatherer instincts in my body, which I'm sorry to say, distracted me terribly from the actual reading. I wasn't the only woman in the audience leching, but. I spotted quite a few with the same expression that I had, head half-tilted, mouth half-open all thinking deeply, "Upamanyu, Upamanyu, take me now!" Grah. How to seduce him?



Anyway, so there was much red wine being passed around, as we huddled close to angheetis and tall heat thingies and ate parmesan squares and I felt very posh. Small, apparently, is quite a celebrity, thanks to this blog, because a girl (who chooses to remain nameless, but hello there, anyway) showed much excitement upon being introduced to her. Small does not like her own pseudonym very much, because she kept going, "I'm not THAT small, I'm not, I'm not!" (But she is.) Oh, speaking of blog celebrity-dom, I must also mention something that made my week, last Sunday, when I was out drinking with friends and a girl came up to me and asked me whether I was indeed the Compulsive Confessor. (Thank you, noble random stranger) This made me most happy, and I instantly launched into Fame, "I'm gonna live forever, I'm gonna learn how to fly, (high!), baby remember my name!" This also made assorted friends make much fun of me, but I don't care coz I got recognised and they hadn't. Hah.




Friday night was spent at the Kiran Desai book launch at the British Council, after which everyone wanted to know where they could go next. "TC?" I suggested hopefully, as I always do, but no one seemed enamoured of that, so then I suggested Drunken Duck, a new pub at Piccadelhi in PVR Plaza. It's very nice and they have a nice live band also, the last time I went, for the opening, the lead singer was very hot. But alas, I suspect, gay, because Damien and I both hit on him, and he hit on Damien. Darn.



But on Friday night, the mic was taken over, first by publishing person, Radha, then her husband, then another writer who was there, while the rest of us clapped or booed wherever it was appropriate. Then Monica produced her Bluffmaster soundtrack and put on Right Here, Right Now and tried to get me to dance with her, only I was feeling shy and only moved my torso around a little bit, before giving up. Oh, also got to hang out with another celebrity blogger, Hurree Babu, who listened with patience and understanding to the sadness that is my love life and was so kind and comforting, my regular confessing became uber confessing and now I'm afraid I will have full body blush next time I see him. :)



While I'm namedropping, I must also mention that I met Chandrahas last night at the book launch, not in Pakistan because of visa issues. Small and I gave him a lift and tried to talk him into coming to TC with us, but despite our batting eyelashes and plaintive appeals, he chose not to. Perhaps we're losing our touch? Hmmm.



As a result of all this activity, no doubt next week is going to be all blah and rundown. Oh, but wait! One of Best Friend In Whole World's happy to you is next week, on Republic Day and so we're going to party. Any thoughts on what to get her? (Dee, look away NOW!)

Lunch, munch, brunch, hunch

I have discovered my new favourite website. And because it's my new favourite website, I'm going to quote from it and you can't stop me.



Aside from sounding wonderful, I like the word because saying amoeba at random is a good way to throw my friends. I'll be talking about the latest bestsellers, and I'll pause to gather my thoughts. And then, out of nowhere. I very carefully pronounce "Amoeba", just for the joy of saying the words. My friends will stare at me, wondering if they really heard me say amoeba out of nowhere or they were just hallucinating, as I finish thinking and start talking again.





I read a story in The New Yorker about Ricky Jay, a magician, who mentioned that he was sometimes perturbed by the "magic lumpen." I was mystified by this word. What did it mean? Was it some sort of magic wand? My own dictionaries did not contain this word but I finally discovered the meaning in an unabridged dictionary. I have since used the word lumpen to determine the completeness of a dictionary which might boast of hundreds of thousands of words. If lumpen isn't contained within the dictionary pages, I'm not interested.



The word makes me giggle. What a funny name for a rather unattractive piece of anatomy. The more I vocalize elbow the funnier it seems.



Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango
Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening..."
I named my cat Scaramouche, it's just fun to stand at the back door calling her.



The site is My Favorite Word and it is brilliant. Only I am faced with a small dilemma. I have so many favourite words, I don't know which one I'd pick.



There are some that I'd pick because of what they mean. Like 'pulchritude', which I met for the first time in Zadie Smith's White Teeth. Great physical beauty or appeal hidden in an ugly, long, hunchbacked word.




Then there'd be 'elan' and 'verve', because I love saying them. I love the way elan runs off my tongue. And even though Blogger doesn't let me put the accent over the 'e' I imagine it that way anyway. I love words with accents or umlauts. (Hell, I love the word umlaut. It's such a nice, German-sounding word). Uber, if you say it like the 'u' is a 'Oooh' with a little 'y' sound. 'Naive', 'cafe' all those words. Incidentally, the little 'i' with the two dots? What's that called?




I like animal words as well. Like 'gargoyle' that sounds like you're mispronouncing 'gargle'. Or wildebeast. Wildebeast, wildebeast, wildebeast. Or pheasant, when you're thinking 'ph' but you're doing fffff with your teeth over your lower lip like a screen.




I like words that remind me of other things. Like 'moot'.
(Cross reference Friends episode:
Joey: It's a moo point.
Monica: It's a what point?
Joey: Moo. Like you know, a point a cow would make? It's moo.)
Or like 'unanimous' or 'privelege', the first big words I ever used which I actually knew the meaning of.




I like words with concious images. Like 'float' which reminds me of a pink, nylon nightie. Or 'twilight' which is all cricket-y and blue-y. And 'slender' and 'damask' and 'powder-puff' and 'scent' and 'liquid' and 'pirouette'.


Pink. Little. Tip-toe. Drama. Feather. Melting. Exquisite. Salute. Thistledown. Forgo. Delicate. Sandwich. Thesaurus. Rendezvous.


Have a wildebeast evening, y'all.

The Grand Flatmate Auditions, Round One

Candidate: Christopher aka Uber Stylist

Vital Stats: Male, 23/24, likes Sylvia Plath, dislikes Ayn Rand, has lip piercing, homosexual, dating good friend Damien, Gemini

Chemistry Factor: High

Damien has been dating Chris for a while now. I think about two or three months, if not more. I've seen Chris around, he's a regular at the fashion party circuit, darling of the models, who seem to be constantly touching him, in the manner that models do, and he seemed like a smile-y sort of person, just not my type, I decided then, because he WAS involved in the fashion world after all, something that was completely alien to me.


Chris is a bit of an eccentric dresser as well. I loved his sense of style, the well-cut blazers, the fitted sweaters, the long scarves looped just so. And then there's his hair, formed into a mohawk. And his wide, slightly shy smile, and of course, the silver ring that runs through the fullest part of his lower lip.


Anyway, so he's dating Damien, whom I love, in the way it is only possible to love someone you see occassionally, or have drunken dinner with, but not someone you talk to every day or hang out with twice or thrice a week. We have a mutual appreciation thing going, Damien and I, where we hair-tousle and kid each other and do little take-off performances for each other and applaud loudly for each other's successes. He has not seen me annoyed or annoying, or weepy or first thing in the morning and vice versa.



Chris used to live with this girl but she moved out and now he wants a place to live that doesn't involve security downpayments and brokers and all that jazz. We have a ready-made flat, with the maid and dhobhi and all already taken care of, and I could see he was sold from the moment he walked in and took note of the hanging lamps in the drawing room and the orange kitchen, looking its best, because the maid had come in after a WEEK and cleaned up, and my room, which would be his room, looking cozy and lived in and cupboard-full.



Small came home later, with her dog Leah, who she was babysitting and because Damien and I were busy helping ourselves to dinner in the kitchen, Chris very naturally opened the door and soon we were sitting around the drawing room and just talking like we had been living together for years. "We should get a cat," he said, and I grinned and said, "Yay!" and Small rolled her eyes. Damien was the only one who noted that first 'we' and the consequent 'we's' after that. We told him our house rules, we promised it wouldn't take him more than fifteen minutes to get to work in the morning, by auto and we also promised the men in the construction site downstairs wouldn't stare at him, something he faced on a regular basis. Small and I, being women in this city, have gotten used to the stares, the songs sung behind our backs, the accidental-on-purpose brushing past, and we ignore it, or if we're feeling aggressive, we match stare for stare. But it's different with men, because Chris told us, instead of backing down when he stares back, they get incensed and more aggressive than before. It's a sad world we live in.



And after they left, Small and I did a little war whoop and decided we wanted to adopt him and add him to our family. Let's hope he says yes!

Only two items on the agenda

> I find I am more suited for random posts these days than long stories. It hasn't been a long story kind of week. But on that note, I had the oddest sci-fi type dream the other day, not episodic and hard to put together like most of my dreams, but an actual story. See, Small and I were in Jaipur for some event or another, and we were befriended by this older dude, who Small thought was fantastic, but I thought was a little creepy, coz he kept feeling me up. One day, we were all sitting in this amphitheatre thing, listening to this very annoying, very young singer perform, and she was sitting a couple of rows above me. Anyway, so at this point, Jaipur was overrun with aliens, with purple and blue and green claws, and they were out to get the humans, and we all knew that they were planning to kill us, slowly, one by one. So we were trying to lie low and be quiet and everything, and this singer chick kept yapping and suddenly, out of this helicopter that was hovering above the amphitheatre, this huge claw reached down in front of her. To fuck with it, she put her hat on it, but that was a MISTAKE, which she realised once the claw shook off the hat and hooked itself into her throat, ripping out her voicebox through her mouth.


After this, was a long afternoon nap, with this Creepy Dude, who had strange breath and kept coming on to me, I told Small he was an alien, because the way to tell was that they had bad breath. Only she didn't believe me. I went with the Creepy Dude to this conference hall thing in the hotel, and everywhere I looked I saw familiar faces, only with these really glazed expressions that said they were taken over by the aliens too. I abandoned Creepy Dude and started to rush back to our room, because I realised we had to get out of there and go back to Delhi to stay alive and then I bumped into this PR chick, who was also an alien, but who thought I was too. "Come to the amphitheatre," she said, "We can go in the same cab." "Okay, but let me get my friend," I told her and started running through the hotel looking for my room, only all the room numbers had vanished, so I couldn't find it. Frantically, I made my way to the receptionist, who was also someone I knew, but there was no reciprocal recognition in her eyes. "Room 205? But that's got two humans," she said to me, and all the other humans turned aliens looked at me oddly. "Yeah, I know it's got humans," I said, "I want to kill them." They accepted that, and I ran towards our room.


Small opened the door, weeping because her boyfriend was an alien too, and she had no idea why he was acting that way. "There's no time to explain," I told her, "We have to hijack a car and drive as fast as we can to Delhi!" Only she kept bawling, and I was getting more and more frantic and then, well, I woke up, so I don't know what happened. Weird dream, huh?




> I love music quizzes. I really do. So I'm going to make one up for my blog. You have to identify the song. Ready? Here goes:


1) You say, we've got nothing in common, no common ground to start from, and we're falling apart.


2) I was lying on the grass, on Sunday morning of last week, indulging in my self-defeat.


3) If you need me, call me, no matter where you are, no matter how far.


4) Desmond has a barrell in the marketplace, Bonnie is a singer with a band


5) Miles and miles of empty space in between us, the telephone can't take the place of your smile.


6) Unbelievable sights, indescribable feelings

7) What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing, can't you tell that your tie's too wide?

8) Kinda like Nashville, with a tan

9) You don't have to put on that red light

10) I just can't believe the loveliness of loving you, I just can't believe it's true


Leave your answers in the comment section. Enjoy!

Oh, and also this is my all-time favourite quiz, if my teeny one has whetted your appetite for more.

And my cool cousin, Horse Boy has another quiz up on his blog inspired by this one, of which I only got one wrong. Starship Who? :)

No, no, no, noooooo, don't phunk with my heart, I wonder if I took you home, would you still be in love, baby?

My all-time favourite Google keyword referral just happened today. Two words: Goddess (Saket). It takes so little to make me happy. :)


"Aapke eyebrows bahut ajeeb se hain," (trans: Your eyebrows are very weird) said the beauty parlour lady to me today. I was at this moment, holding shut one eyelid and yanking at my forehead with the other one, but I opened my eyes at that moment and gave her a teary-eyed glare.


"Why are my eyebrows weird?" I asked her, reasonably enough.


"Oh, you know, your right eyebrow is all like misshapen."


Great. Now I'm the lady with misshapen eyebrows. Had to happen someday I suppose.


To make up for it, she told me I had nice eyes. "Now if only they were a little larger and not so slanted," she commented, while I raised my now-clean-but-still-weird eyebrows in front of the mirror.


"I can't help it," I told her, "It runs in my family."

"Ohhh." she fiddled with the thread in her mouth for some time. "You're Nepali."


"No. No. I'm South Indian."

She didn't quite know what to say to that, so she told me she liked my ring. "Oh, thank you," I said, thrilled that I could at least have nice accessories, even if Mother Nature had been a little unkind, "It's from Impulse. GK-I."


"I never go anywhere." her mouth turned downwards, or maybe that was just the thread. "Tell me, do you work or are you a student?"


"I work. I'm a journalist."

"Oh, Hindustan Times?"


"No," but I smiled, because she evidently thought only HT journos did fancy things like having their eyebrows done. The rest of us live misshapenly.


"What do you cover?"

"I write on, um, " this was getting hard to translate into Hindi, but I perservered, "Books and the people who write them and news and stuff. And what's happening in the city."

She attacked my eyebrows with new vigour. "So what is happening in the city?"


"Well, technically I'm on holiday, so I'm not really sure."


"It must be the same, though, no? Year after year? There is no city like Delhi."


I smiled, pleased to meet a true Delhi-lover but modestly said, "No, no, there's Mumbai."


"I love Mumbai," she said fiercely.


"I'm a Delhi person myself, ha-ha," I winced as the thread attacked the middle of my eyebrows, which has got to be the most painful part.


"I hate Delhi," the thread bit into my skin, "It's full of dhoke-baazis (cheats)"


"Oh, that's not true! It's a lovely city!"

She shook her head disbelievingly at me, "It's full of them. Full."

"You're not from Delhi then?"

"No," she put some powder on my face, "I'm not."


She pointed me towards a mirror to look at my face. "See," she said, pointing at my right eyebrow, "See how weird it is? It's all strange at the top."

I nodded miserably. I DID see how weird it was. I was destined to live my life as an outcast. On my gravestone it will say, "Here lies eM. She had strange eyebrows and too-small eyes." I should just retire from polite society, now. Oh no.


As I put my shoes back on, she slapped antiseptic on my face. "Owww," I said, "That stings!"


"That's because you have whiteheads," she pointed to them, gravely, shaking her head from side to side, "Nothing I can do."

"Could I put a cream on them or something?" I asked, piteously.


"No. No cream will help. You want your upper lip done as well?"

I put my hand over my upper lip and backed away, "No. I don't do my upper lip."


She looked at me sadly. She couldn't help someone who didn't want to help themselves.


"So there's nothing I can do about the whiteheads, huh?" I asked.


"Noooo," she started to put her things away and then looked up, "Drink more water."


And that's the moral of this story.

Hello, hello, hello, how low, hello, hello, how low, here we are now, entertain us! I feel stupid and contagious, here we are now, entertain us!

> Bluffmaster was seen last night at Wave Noida, with friend and friends of friend. I love Wave Noida, the seats are fucking enormous, and often when I'm in them I find myself reaching behind me for a seatbelt. Not only that, if you go for a night show, the hall is usually empty, so you can pick wherever you want to sit. And they are the only people in Delhi who say Butter Popcorn and MEAN IT. You order your popcorn and they reach for this cool gadget with a little press down nozzle filled with a butter-like substance and they pour it all over your popcorn. PVR Saket doesn't do that, they give you plain popcorn that sticks. But they do make a superior hot dog.

The movie was excellent by the way, I fully recommend it. Only one bit jarred, where this doctor dude tells Small B that he should think with his head and he goes (in Hindi, of course) patting his heart and his head, "If this don't work, this doesn't matter." Where's that from you ask? STRAIGHT from Jerry McGuire, the lines of which I have memorised.


But the theme song of this movie was quite good, I have been looking for it online. Is it just me or does it sound a lot like Bittersweet Symphony to other people also? Oh and the item song at the end, "Ek mein, ek tu hain", I was doing full-on head-bops at this point while around me sleepy aunties stretched and exited the hall and my friend watched me bemused.



> Crisis situation has happened. Small and I find ourselves minus a roommate shortly, coz Priya is moving out. So it's either leaving our BEAUTIFUL house, because we can't afford it, just the two of us, or finding a flatmate, for which dear Internet, I turn to you. We want someone cool, boy or girl it doesn't matter, who doesn't mind living near Saket and we can offer our brilliant, beautiful company, one DVD player, two laptops, one Worldspace system and a room with cupboards! Ooh, and we have a bathtub! And we're really very nice people, we seldom fight and we're super-cool. I have witnesses also, who will vouch for this. So if you're interested, email me, okay? Oh, almost forgot, if you're like new in Delhi, this will work out, because Small and I apart from being Visions of Wonder and Delight are also very popular so you will have many new friends. (We're also very modest, as you can no doubt tell. Hell, if you're going to sell something, sell something, right?)



> It's a cold, cold, cold January people. It's been drizzling and my fingers are all frozen, so I'm making a typo with every sentence. I've been discovering some excellent music though, while on my holiday. One is You Had Time by Ani DiFranco. She has the most plaintive voice, and I'm most surprised I hadn't heard her before. Actually, I was re-reading Nick Hornby's 31 Songs and he mentioned this song, also quoted from her lyrics, "You are a china shop, and I am a bull. You are very good food, and I am full." I thought those lines were so brilliant that I immediately downloaded. And I've been listening to it over and over again. Also, not a new discovery, but something recently downloaded and now on repeat on my iPod is White Flag by Dido. I mean, I know the song is a little dumb, what with this chick refusing to move on and everything, but her lyrics just sound like a poem. I mean take the line: "And when we meet, which I'm sure we will, all that was there, will be there still. I'll let it pass and hold my tongue, and you will think, that I've moved on." Come on, how can you not identify with this song? Sentimental songs, while they make up a large chunk of my playlist, isn't everything I've been listening to. I'm on a very big Gwen Stefani thing these days, especially If I Were A Rich Girl. It's a really dumb song, but I love driving and yelling, "See, I'd have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl. No man could test me, impress me, my cash flow would never ever end. Cause I'd have all the money in the world, if I was a wealthy girl!" Only, what's a Harajuku girl? It's the kind of song that makes me all jumpy and toe-tappy and doing bumps and grinds at traffic lights. Everyone should have a song like that.

Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone

What is it about New Year's Eve that makes compulsive confessors out of all of us? For the second year running, someone has told me they love me. The rest of the year, nothing, zero etc. But come post-midnight January 1st and suddenly like Cinderella or something, I am loved.


Last New Year's Eve, there was this boy, the boyfriend of an acquaintance actually. We had been having a semi-drunk conversation about women in general, and how backpacking around India was the way to go when suddenly he leaned over, took my hands in his and said, "I love you."


"But you don't even know me," I said, slightly alarmed.

"But I love you. You're... different."


That's me, ladies and gents. Different. Not charming or beautiful like other women, or even funny. Oh, no. I'm different. Whatever that means. Good ol' different eM, with her good ol' different personality.



Last night at impromptu New Year's party at our house, this acquaintance again, who I hadn't seen for many years told me he "really liked me."


"No you don't," I told him, "No one really likes me. They just say that to get in my pants." I'm serious here, I think I'm incapable of inspiring any strong emotion. Oh, except lust. That I inspire. But lust isn't the stuff good romantic songs are made of.


"I don't want to get into your pants," he protested, "I really, really like you. You're different."


See?


The party wasn't even supposed to be a party. At the end of two very depressing days, except one high point where I caught up with Leela and we had grand slumber party type reunion talking about the past year for both of us, the last thing I wanted to do was party. Or the only thing I wanted to do was party. It kept fluctuating. One moment I was all for crawling under my blanket and dying and the other I wanted to get smashed out of my mind and have such a good time that every single sad/morbid thought would be driven out of my mind by alcohol.


Previously mentioned old acquaintance was called round and he brought a couple of his friends and we drank and drank and drank. Small and I looked spectacular, even if I do say so myself, I was wearing my red Mango dress, with cleavage cut out almost to my stomach and Small was in a black turtleneck with a short wraparound skirt. We were both in funny high shoes, which kept us teetering delicately all evening.


A little bit after midnight, when 2006 was officially rung in, the doorbell rang and our new next-door neighbour appeared with a huge box of liquor chocolates, which added to the general intoxication. He's a little strange, our next-door neighbour and he didn't endear himself to me very much, because he upset my entire bookshelf and kept trying to walk off with The World According To Garp and Collected Poems Of Pablo Neruda and I had to keep wresting them away from him, explaining gently that I never lent books to people I had known for less than six months. "If you were in Bombay, I'd let you borrow all my books," he told me, mournfully. "That's sweet of you," I said, "But we're not in Bombay." Finally he came charging in with two of his books Shantaram and something else which he handed to me and said, "Here. These are two of my favourite books. Now can I take yours?" "No," said I and in the general confusion took my books back from him again. This morning though, when I woke up, I saw his books were still there, sitting pretty on my bookshelf. Tomorrow I shall give them back to him.


Old Acquaintance was being generally strange as well. He threw a massive tantrum when I said I thought he was sweet and all, but since I didn't really know him and he didn't really know me, perhaps making out wasn't such a good plan. "You don't like me," he said in an Irish accent, which came from god knows where. "It's not that I don't like you," I said, twisting my fingers round and round apologetically. "Then you do like me?" "It's not that simple, dude," I was practically weeping at this point, "Let it go, okay? It's complicated." It's too bad though, because we had been having a very nice conversation before the alcohol got in full flow. Then he entwined my fingers in his and because I was tired and upset and just so, so fed up with being me and being in this situation and also, yes, because I was so bloody lonely, I let him.



So, not a very happy beginning of the year for me. This morning, head pounding and mouth dry I lay in bed and thought about 2006. And I made two resolutions, one, to NEVER, EVER be emotionally dependant on anyone and to also NEVER, EVER let my guard down again and two, as far as possible to be wise and consistent in my judgements.


I'm sorry. This was supposed to be happy, party-type post, but I can't.