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John Dave Geoff Other
This is the
easiest most fun hardest letter I have ever had to write.
I’ve spent most of the morning
drinking rum dancing naked in the rain crying. I realise that there was nothing I could say that you wanted to hear. I hope I didn’t make a nuisance of myself. I’m a total arse-biscuit fuck-donkey twat-face noob like that.
In a way, it is better that I express myself through
mime sky writing blogging. I can’t say everything I want to say here, but, I hope you know anyway. Otherwise, it’s all been for nothing.
Choose one or more of the following clichés:
- it’s not you, it’s me
- it’s for the best
- time’s a great healer
- it will get better
Or write your own:
I never saw this coming. I thought we were solid. How farking shiteballs.
In the meantime I will put on
an air of nonchalance a tartan cape a brave face. This may seem stupid uncaring cold-hearted or all three but I don’t know what else to do. Life has been so stupidly totally really hard lately that I sometimes feel quite hysterical. I guess this is all a coping mechanism. Hope you find one too.
Choose one or more of the following sentiments:
- I miss you √
- I will always adore you √
- you are one of the best people I have the privilege to know √
Or write your own:
You said it won’t ever be the same. But in my heart I know one day it will be better than it ever has been.
WARNING: PUBLISHING THIS LETTER IS ILL-ADVISED, ESPECIALLY IF THE USER IS UNDER EXTREME EMOTIONAL DISTRESS AND HAS NOT REALLY SLEPT VERY WELL. THE USER MUST ACCEPT ALL RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ADVERSE REACTIONS. IF YOU ARE THE USER AND ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY, CROSS HERE : X
Choose one or more sign off:
- yours sincerely
- yours faithfully
- that’s all folks
Or write your own:
Print your name here:
a broken-hearted MoVo
Friends. Friends are good, yeah? There’s songs about them. And TV sitcoms that revolve around groups of them. Literary novels and epic poems written in their honour. They’re everywhere. Look! A friend! How lovely. I love my friends. Y’all are supery-dupery niceness on a plate, with added shmink and rum cocktails. Innit.
We need friends. Friends get us through all the troublesome bits of our lives. They lift you above the scummy patches. They make you lemonade when all you got is lemons. Or something. I’ve counted on my friends A LOT in recent times and I am truly grateful to every single one of them. Makes me feel all warm and squishy inside, it does. Though that could be the rum cocktails.
This is why I am ruminating on friendship: I’ve been worrying the last week whether it is possible to remain friends with my ex. I mean, sure, it is POSSIBLE. But do I want to? This is a man I am still married to, but separated from. By all accounts we now lead different lives. He has his friends, a new job starting soon which means a move to a different city, opportunities to get on with things afresh and – ostensibly – without my input. Fine; fair enough. Am happy with that. I’m doing my own kind of moving on. We’re cool. It’s groovy.
But friends? Like I said, friends do good things for you. They’re yo buddies, ya mates. I can’t think that I’d call my ex if I needed a good sob about my love life. Ack, no. Similarly, I don’t want to know about his. I’m guessing that topic is totes off limits, as might be money, personal bodily malfunctions, family matters, celebrity divorce (too topical) and, erm, the state of the economy (just cos I find it boring). So we talk about the usual stuff, which generally means: Moo. And films. Again, fine. No problemo. I can do the whole ‘let’s be amicable’ bit. It’s when things get a bit iffy that I baulk.
Like last weekend, when I had some issues with one of his so-called friends. Ha! That’s a whole different vent about friendship and what it means. But I guess y’all got the gist of that anyway. Yeah. Ahem. Indeed, I just feel awkward now, knowing that a person I object to rather violently is still a part of his life, and it seems I can’t do anything about it. Fun times. On top of that, it’s our wedding anniversary at the end of this month. A day of sadly fond remembrances. Huzzah. Wahoo. That’ll be weird on a stick.
So it’s a tricky concept, methinks. The whole friends-with-my-ex thing. Am I hoping for too much? Is there always going to be a barrier there? Or do I just need to give us some time? Everything is still so raw. I can’t conceive of ANYTHING long-term right now, cos if a year ago you’d have said all this would be happening, I’d have guffawed in yer face and most likely given you a Chinese burn for being a cheeky minx and making up such horrors about me and mine.
I’m sure what we have is better than what others have. In fact, I know it is. And I know I’m most likely overthinking again. But that’s what blogs are for, right? Overthinking spillage? But I genuinely want to know: how do I deal with this?
I made someone else cry today. No, not Moo. Someone I’ve never met, yet who is dear to me in a myriad of ways. They read my blog post from yesterday and reached out to me because they thought I needed contact. Which I did, just in a way that I can control – so in writing, by email, or text – because I don’t trust my voice right now. I am genuinely grateful to this person. And it’s weird, but they know the correct things to say, to me, and for me. I won’t go into it here – it’s private – but one thing struck me, which I feel I can share with y’all. I confessed to them that I felt ashamed, and they said that was OK.
Yeah, I feel ashamed. Almost more than anything else. A shame that kind of cripples me. I’m being particularly hard on myself at the moment, so this maybe magnifies the feeling. But it seems stark to me: I am an intelligent woman. I have had a good education. I have had good opportunities in life. I am surrounded by people who love me, and I generally – when not infected with lung plague – have a blooming health.
So how is it that I am brought so very, very low?
My situation embarrasses me. I do not want to be living like this. It was not how things were supposed to pan out. I worry that my parents will not be proud of me any more. I fret that my friends won’t want to be my friend, because all I do is whine about how rubbish my life is. I feel burdensome and needy, and yet so very alone. I’m even debating whether to publish this stupid post or not, because it’s so farking miserable and I’m a finalist for the ‘Laugh’ category in some blogging awards, FFS. Ha ha farking ha.
I’ve not ever thought that it’s OK to feel ashamed, which is why I only just revealed that I did so to my confidante, today. I didn’t really want anyone else to know. I was ashamed of my shame.
The fact is, what I want, I cannot have. What I want is just not going to happen. So while my frenzied brain tries to sort an alternative, I’m having to deal with this shame born out of failure and bad decisions. I can’t see a way out, and this scares me. I’m not a believer in psychic ability, but during hard times, I’ve always instinctively felt that things would be OK. Not this time. This time, my gut has nothing for me. Merely a residual panic.
There’s nothing I have to ask of you this time. Your words of support are welcome, as usual. I’ll keep writing – maybe even do a funny one next – because I’m not sure what else I can do right now.
There are blessed few kids’ TV programmes I can endure. Most of them are arse-tripe. I’m sure kids LOVE them, but oh my life, are they arse-tripe. I do, however, value a special, golden few. They are less than arse-tripe. They are maybe guff-waft. Or ear-cheese. Y’know, something not so bad.
One of these programmes is Charlie and Lola. You know it. The one about the boy, Charlie, and his little sister, Lola. You’re already singing the theme tune in your brains, aren’t you? Sorry about that. But I really like this programme. The animation makes me go all dribbly, and in a good way. It appeals to my artistic side, and the side of me that hankers after dodgy fabric patterns. Sure, the characters are faintly annoying but there’s a hint of surreality and I have been known to snigger out loud (SOL?) on occasion at some of the ridiculousness. Also, that there theme music is a bit 1970s and hideously catchy, innit. Now you’re HUMMING it. You’re so suggestible.
But ANYWAY, the reason I mention it is cos Lola has an imaginary friend called Soren Lorenson. If you click the link I’ve just inserted you go through to his Facebook page. He has more friends than me. A fictional, imaginary person. THAT’S HOW FARKING POPULAR HE IS. Bastard.
I would like to confess that I, too, had imaginary friends when I was growing up. Yes – plural. Friends.
The BBC website for Charlie and Lola describes Soren Lorenson as Lola’s ‘confidante, her security blanket’ and ‘sometimes… Lola’s true voice’.
My imaginary friends were largely useless, being imaginary. There was one called Sally. She was the naughty one. And one called Mary. She was the good one. I s’pose you could say they were my confidantes. I had a variety of brothers in my childhood house and there would be NO WAY I’d confide in them, cos boys have fleas, innit. But my imaginary girl BFFs were always there for me. I remember Sally had copper hair and a brown checked dress. Mary was blonde with a blue dress (imaginative of me, must be that one Sunday school class I went to, FFS). They usually manifested themselves just behind me, and they were faded, like old photographs. I don’t think they had ‘voices’ as such. I certainly don’t think they were my ‘true voice’. Unless they harped on about Care Bears, or Enid Blyton. Which was mostly what I was obsessed with.
Why do people have imaginary friends? I wasn’t lacking in real-life ones. Sure, I was living in a mostly male household but I could dress any willing siblings up in my clothes and pretend they were a sister, and they were FINE WITH THAT (she says, laughing evilly). But I seem to remember being out and about and busy and doing stuff with people, a lot. A farking fine childhood, by any account. No complaints here.
But I could really do with a Sally or a Mary right now. Occasionally I get quite lonely, and if my (very gorgeous and super) real-life mates are unavailable then I tend to wander the park or haunt the soft-play café like a miserable wraith. If Sally or Mary were there, then they could keep an eye on Moo while I grab a cup of tea, or have a go on the swings, yeah? That would be OK, wouldn’t it?
No? Oh right. Cos they’re not real, I get you.
So did you? Have pretend friends? And why do you think that was?
A typical conversation with my mother goes thus:
Mum: [arrives with bags of food] I bought you some food. Do you like crumpets?
Me: No, I don’t, but Moo might.
Mum: You’ve done the washing up!
Mum: And you’ve hoovered. And… [stares at washing drying on clothes horse] you’ve done some washing!
Me: Yes. I can look after myself y’know.
Mum: Are you feeling OK? How are you coping? Are you eating properly?
Mum: [triumphant] YOU’RE NOT EATING PROPERLY. I knew you weren’t coping!
Me: I’ve never eaten properly, Mum, remember when I was a kid and I didn’t eat properly?
Mum: ARE YOU OK??
Me: YES, I’M FINE, I REALLY REALLY AM.
A conversation I had with a vague acquaintance in the park goes thus:
Friend: So… how are you?
Me: [wrestling Moo out of the sandpit before she eats it all] Yeah OK, thanks.
Friend: I heard about… y’know… you’re going through some tough times, yeah?
Me: [wiping sand out of my eyes] Uh, yeah, I guess. I am OK, though.
Friend: Wow, it must be really shit. I’d find it so hard, being on my own, with a baby.
Me: [spitting sand out of my mouth] Yeah, well, good days and bad days, I s’pose. But I am OK.
Friend: How are you coping?
Me: [digging Moo out of the sandpit] Fine. Just fine. I’m OK. I AM OK.
Friend: [head tilts to one side] Right, well, bless you. If you need anything…
Me: [scraping sand from my every orifice] I AM FINE, I REALLY AM.
A conversation I usually have with a good friend:
Friend: So, how’s things?
Me: Yeah all right.
Friend: Cool. Want a cheese sandwich?
To all concerned parties, vague, blood-related or otherwise, this is just to let you know that I am OK. OK? And thanks be to you. I know you care. And that’s great. You knows I loves y’all.
Yesterday I was in the mood for some vitriol. A great, big, steaming, smoking, noxious green-goblet full of bitter vitriolic tonic. Mmmm. Always best served with a side order of sharp tongue, or a bowl of claws. I felt like an ireful beast. I am PRETTY SURE I can shoot ACTUAL SPARKS from my eyes when in such an electric mood.
What a difference some sleep – and some perspective – makes. Yes, I still feel marginally scrappy. But after a quick Twitter poll – don’t you just LOVE Twitter polls? – I have decided to be the bigger person. My claws are retracted. For now.
And I am going to give a shout out to the sisterhood. To all the women out there, who, in the spirit of feminism and sisterly solidarity, can honestly say that they support and stand alongside their fellow woman, no matter what befalls them. The women who can forgive, forget, and move on; who can stop picking unnecessarily at a near-healed wound, and leave well enough alone, because they know that that is the right and valiant thing to do.
I believe there are women like that out there. I like to think I am one of them. I hope I can be.
I love women. I know some fabulous, truly beautiful women, and it is a privilege to know them. Let’s celebrate the sisterhood. I need my faith to be restored! I need to be buoyed. Tell me about your fabulous women.
For the sisterhood!
*burns bra* *instantly regrets burning bra* *shivers, braless*
You are my hot water bottle. You are my ferocious hug. I know we don’t see each other very often but when we do it’s fecking magnificent. I just wanted to tell you that.
For my readers who have a bestest friend somewhere in the world, whether it’s near or far from where you are – take a moment to hold them in your heart and treasure them. I had ten minutes with my girly pal last night, whom I do heart eternally, and while ten minutes was nowhere near enough, it was better than nowt. I could have sat and chatted all bloody night – we’ve got SO MUCH to catch up on – but I know you were busy and besides, you were well sweaty and could probably have done with a quick wash.
Bunny I think you’re beautiful. I think that every time I see you. When you’re on stage you act everyone else off it. Not literally, that would be awkward. But you say your lines (the ones you’ve said A THOUSAND times by now) with conviction, while they all pansy around and chew the scenery. Even when a bat, AN ACTUAL BAT, flew round the theatre and pretty much tried to attack your head, you kept cool and didn’t flinch. That’s COMMITTING TO THE CHARACTER right there. Where’s your fecking BAFTA??
Good friends are hard to find but easy to keep. We’ve known each other a long time, Bunny. Shit, a really long time. FIFTEEN YEARS. Just think, all those years ago, when we were young, fresh-faced and skinny (well, OK, when I was skinny, you totally still are, bitch), would we have guessed we’d still be mates today? Actually I would have cos I thought you were wicked, innit.
I would love to be on stage with you again someday. I know you’ll probably end up being a proper famous actress and too important to play with the likes of me, but if I could be a spear carrier or a useful piece of stage furniture, then I bloody would, if it meant farting around with you in front of an audience, like we did for As You Like It (or, I Don’t Like It, as we fondly called it). I know your career will go stratospheric and soon you won’t have to contend with bats and throat pustules and wanky people who don’t know what they’re doing. And I’ll come and see everything you do (as long as you get me a free ticket).
I’m not a lesbian but I would totally do you. I really would like to get drunk with you soon, and have a giggle-fest. Then we could go shopping, and have tea and cake somewhere. And then have an indoor picnic. With sparklers. Whilst watching Eastenders, and reading trashy magazines.
My dear Bunny, I miss you lots. I hope you read this, somehow, cos I didn’t get to say it all last night.
Thinking of you (though now, in my head, you’re chewing keys and masturbating furiously. Thanks for that delightful image)
Break a leg for the remaining performances
Do I know you? Probably not very well. We might have ‘connected’ a few times on Twitter. Maybe you’re one of the Lucky Few (yes, you are indeed blessed) to have bantered with me on the occasional evening of merriment. Perhaps we have indeed met, and formed some fledgling friendship, that one day will bloom and burst into a fully matured and fulsome lurve-in with ferocious hugs, biscuit orgies, and everything.
But even if we’ve BONDED – and some of us HAVE bonded, and I’m looking at YOU, you can’t escape, I have you now – shall we kiss? Or not?
Spare me blushes! There is no need for coquetry. I was not thinking tongues. I mean these kisses: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Some do it all the time. They leave comments and kisses with abandon, as if their charms were loosely scattered across the internet like a trail of tiny alluring breadcrumbs. ‘Look! I’ve left you KISSES! That means I LURVE you! Now lurve me back’ they seem to say, and who can resist those affections?
Certainly not me. I’m a sucker for lurve. I lurve my blogging mates. I leave kisses quite frequently. I even do it if I’m not sure I lurve someone. Sometimes it’s a habit. Sometimes a reassurance.
How many kisses do you leave?
x seems miserly to me. Not enough! NEED MORE LURVE!
xx is OK. It denotes a solid, firm appreciation of the lurve between two people.
xxx is pushing it. That’s the uber-lurve, just the right side of seriousness. You know I LURVE you if I leave three of these bad boys on your virtual doorstep some day.
xxxx is just silly.
Upper case XXXs are acceptable, and may indicate extra-big lurve on a special occasion. If you want to get fancy with it, then xXx is usually quite fun, as is xoxoxoxo.
But really, I’ll take it anywhere I can get it. And that’s a fact. And not just because it’s written on many a toilet wall. Mahahaha.
What’s your kissing etiquette? Do you leave the x with ease? Or do you save it for special lurve time?