Yes, more Internet Dating, but I'm gonna be tough(ish)

Something better change. It's an old song for the new year.

Thing is, things have changed so fast and so often, I feel like I can barely keep my head on at times. Fret not, it is affixed fairly well, and I am truly appreciative of those who have contributed to this state!

Had a lovely avo with da mamma yesterday. She made me nice sandwitches (witches?) and we had some really funny conversations that cheered me up immensely. Ah, one was a play on words. I was being horrible about some old trout (can't even think of who I was slandering now) and pondering if she'd had a hysterectomy. Mum thought I'd said a 'mysterectomy'. So we decided that was a good word anyway. Mum made up the definition to follow:

Mysterectomy: something has been removed, but you're not sure what it is.

Been busy with social engagements as one does tend to be at this time of year. Had a nice drinks date last night with a blue-eyed Canadian. He was very handsome, nice, possibly a little highly strung. Yes yes, I know, what the fuck ... I'm back on Internet Dating! Ha ha!

Geeze, you'd think The Painter would have put me off until the new year wouldn't you? But I think I'm going to just be a bit tougher about it this time. I think it's not really what was done, but how it was done. I need to remember that he wasn't actually trying to hurt me. People are funny and confused, especially if they have a history of addiction and mental illness, I should know that by now. It's all a learnin' that's for sure. Still learning and always will be.

Here is a weeeeeee poem for your pleasure:

The Undoing

Between Jesus and Lady Death
I lay down
and innocence undid me

we are naked
unashamed
reaching for the tears
that wash away this fear
of being seen

I saw you
I sipped upon your sorrow
I did not turn away.



Merry Christmas to those who see, who stay, who do not turn away. And merry Christmas to those figuring out how to do it. ;)

Oh, The French Intellectual! More Internet Shennanigans.

Listen carefully.

It's the sound of me crying in despair! Sob.

Yes gentle reader, The French Intellectual was GORGEOUS, interesting, funny, intelligent, thoughtful, ecologically aware ... and just not that into me. Damn. Oh, and did I mention that he was also tall? Oh o.k, he doesn't have a car or drink alcohol, but nobody is perfect.

It all seemed to go so well too, and I was already smitten by his incredible power with words. He wrote the most AMAZING things when we were in cyber-space, really funny scenarios, his humour second to none. He should be script-writing or something, the way he wrote had me hooked. I had decided he could even be ugly and I would look past it. Imagine how I felt when he walked in looking like someone pretending to be a nerd, but not being able to hide his full lips and fine bone structure.

It's like Clark Kent wearing glasses. Silly. Everyone can see you're Superman.

To make matters worse (for me), he had thoughtfully done this amazing thing. I had joked that I wanted him to make me feel the ages 14, 22, 33 and 40 throughout the evening. He made up four beautifully labelled bags for each age, and each one contained a different kind of sweet correlating to that age. I know! No one has ever done anything like that for me before. It was like something in a movie.

There will be some good reason why TFI didn't sweep me into his arms . He might have impotence problems or be really scared of the fact that I don't listen to classical music. I might have resented always picking him up in my car, and feeling judged every time I had a nice glass of pinos gris.

Whatever the case, ma petit fromage, you were certainly a fine creature and I will miss not ever knowing you. Sobbing ceases. Cut to the way the light is pouring through the window and the cat sits looking all bunchy and furry on the bed.

Fuck my hands are cold. Winter has arrived in NZ. Beware of French Intellectuals, they will not keep you warm, but boy do they know how to write.