Repeat: I am not pointless. I am not pointless. I am not pointless.

Oh, yesterday was such a bad day. So many things happening at the same time, and I swear I have some form of depression because I just wanted to have never existed. I couldn't see the point to being alive anymore. It seemed like nothing I do, nothing, was worth anything, that we all just spend our lives hoping for some future happiness and we have to put up with all the crap before we get there and we might die at any time anyway and what the hell is the point in putting up with other people getting what they want when I don't even know what I want, let alone going about getting it, and blah blah blah.

Not good.

And then I went to work and forgot about how pointless I was and did my job. And I felt a lot better.

And then I talked to my dad about why I was so damn mopey for a few days and he gave me a talking to. As all good dads do.

There is no avoiding sucky jobs and stupid people and heartbreaks, but it is all in pursuit of happiness. And happiness, even future happiness, is worth putting up with it all. At least I hope it is.

I also realized that I am not pointless. My existence is necessary and important. If only because I sometimes help my dad out and I play the piano for little kids. Even if this is the only reason I am to exist, no one else could have done it. Just me. So, from a logical point of view, I am worth something. I am the only me that would have made the choices I have made and helped the people I have helped and loved the people that I have loved. And that means I have contributed to the world in some small way or another.

In conclusion, our insignificant lives are actually rather necessary and important. So don't give up just yet.

Memories at Dangerous Decibels

I'm doing that thing again. Wanting someone I shouldn't want. Craving a closeness I shouldn't crave. Getting frustrated over my inability to live logic rather

Our song. This song. It just came on. This is so ironic. I thought I was over you. I was just talking about someone else. I was craving someone else. And now our song is playing and I am remembering the way you danced around your room and I laid on your mattress and I just laughed because life was so good and you were so good and love was so good and then you clambered over to me and kissed me like I was made of glass and I thought you would never let me go...and it's that part of the song when you would drink me in with your eyes and you'd sing it to me because it was us, this song is us and it will never be anything else and you could tell me that just with your eyes and maybe you already knew that we would fall apart but you couldn't tell me that because this was our song and you know how happy I was, how happy you made me, watching you dancing and singing and kissing and being--because I loved you most when you were just being. And all of that is this song.

I am a bit of a mess. I am craving one person who is not in any way good for me, and I am aching because of another who will never again be mine. I was so convinced I was done aching. And that made it okay for me to crave someone else. But now it is obvious that I do not love either of them, and I need to, yet again, find that place where I am content being alone.

The other night I took my rifle up to the attic and fired approximately 400 pellets at paper targets and if you had been standing in front of them you I would have shot you because my aim is excellent. I had Calvin Harris playing at dangerous decibels, but it was acceptable because the whole world should have been listening with me and feeling with me and concentrating on that bulls eye right where I think the dip in your collarbone would be if I lined you up correctly and maybe someone would understand the reasons why I have no lovers, only weapons and words and wantings.

The world's beauty spyglass sucks. I like mine better.

Here's a fact that will not be in the least bit surprising. I can count the parts of my body that I like on one hand.

1) I like my collarbones.
2) I like my eyes.
3) I like the color of my hair.
4) I like my wrists.

That's all. Four things. Name any other body part and I could tell you what's wrong with it. It's mostly to do with my skin--I am a lump of stretch marks and red scars and the hills and valleys of cellulite that are a testament to my love of pastry and lack of exercise. I am rightfully ashamed of my blotchiness, my skin being so white that the transparency leaves me veiny blue. My chest, shoulders, and back are a canvass of spot constellations.  I already have the beginnings of varicose veins on my legs. I am not noticeably chubby around my middle because I hold my stomach in all the time, but if I didn't do that I would look a couple of months pregnant. Which wouldn't be so bad. If I were pregnant. But I'm not. So it's bad.

I could continue. But there's an actual thing I want to say besides I don't really like how I look. The truth is, I would be perfectly happy with my body if I didn't feel I had to fix my stretch marks and my flabby legs and my man fingers to be acceptable. I wish I didn't feel like the world shudders whenever I wear a pair of shorts or go out without make up. And to a certain extent I have the ability to not care about the public's preferences when it comes to a woman's body, but in the end I would like my appearance to translate how I feel. I feel beautiful when I don't have to look in a mirror or go outside. The world, however, only sees beautiful in a certain way, so to get that sentiment across I have to fit in with everyone else's standard of beauty. It kind of sucks. But there it is. At least there are four things about myself that I'm proud of.

I'm a single lady. My hands are up.

I hate being single.

I hate it.

I need someone to love.

I need someone to love me right back.

Not just ‘love’.

LOVE love.

It’s getting to the point where my brain is making compromises and cutting corners to convince myself that it’s okay to be with people that I really am not okay being with because at least the whole love thing will be happening.

THIS IS NOT GOOD. I AM TELLING MYSELF LIES. REALLY, REALLY NICE LIES.

I want to believe brain when it tells me that I can ignore certain characteristics in men and consider them as potential partners. I have no faith in the idea that I am guaranteed to find the perfect man for me in an adequate time frame. Every day that passes is a day that I am not spending with aforementioned perfect man. So settling sounds like a wonderful option.

But, hey. I value my sanity too much to get into a relationship where I am doing all the loving. I am worth more than a relationship with a half-decent guy. Heart has that figured out. Now, if my brain could do that too, that would be fab.

I’m just going to promise you now, dear reader, that the next man I date will tick all of the important boxes, and I will not be stupid.

Simmering Down

There are things we can change. And there are things we cannot change. Happily, thankfully, I am perfectly capable of changing myself. From the last post to now my life has had no dramatic turnaround. I still don't really have friends. The charity shop is still as boring as hell. I still smash fragile crockery on the kitchen floor of the restaurant. There are still obnoxious Middle Eastern women who come into the newsagents ferociously jabbering about...well...I don't even know what. Almost-Perfect-Should-Have-Loved-Me-But-Doesn't stays his quiet unexplained self with still no apology or goodbye. But I've had my time to bitch about it all (as, dear reader, I'm sure you have witnessed), and I've decided that I will stop bitching about these problems for a while.

I am now experiencing the difficult yet grand phenomenon of time healing all lovers' wounds. In the past I managed to haphazardly stitch up my broken heart with the fascinating recluse of yet another short-lived relationship. Now I welcome the opportunity, mostly out of necessity, to play peacekeeper in my own kingdom and not rely on the next male whose eyes tell me I'm pretty--or at least prettier than the other girl in the room--to make me feel whole again.

Now, in saying that, if the opportunity for an actual, well-founded, loving relationship were to unveil itself in the very near future with a man who actually cares for me and with whom I share common interests and I find attractive and who buys me flowers and lets me snuggle with while we watch movies or read out loud and who will sincerely enjoy the way I sing and who will let me cook for him even if I suck at it and who will make me feel comfortable in every situation and who won't mind if I get a little chubby (because I love chocolate and I hate exercise) and will hold my hand in public and who will love me despite the fact that I don't really like doing things outside except going for walks or picnics and is someone whom my Dad approves of  and who is a tad bit rough around the edges and who would be honestly happy with me for just being me and he could be him and we, both of us together, were happy in every way....if this were to happen, I say screw you, wound-healing time phenomenons--get over here, Prince Phillip and claim your Sleeping Beauty.

The likelihood of this happening even in the course of my lifetime is fairly close to absolutely impossible. So I plan on waiting this one out. Letting the pain and the passion simmer and mold into peace. Letting me be me. Letting life be life. Letting the clock tick onward and the planet keep spinning. Letting memories be memories, not the very air I breathe. Not fretting over what once was, but creating a great and vivid now.

The Attention-Seeking Whiner. Me.

So I had a total of four views on my last blog post. One person said they were going to miss me on facebook. I'm assuming that you, dear reader, already consider me an attention-seeking whiner. And to that I say: you're right. Deal with it. You wanna know why I might have turned into an attention-seeking whiner? Because, although I have my family and the odd friendly co-worker, I have no friends here in England except for the Sister Missionaries. Whoop. De. Doo. Since I'm not even a member of the church any more, that fact is just pathetic, as nice as they are. My boyfriend, or I suppose my ex-boyfriend, hasn't talked to or texted me in about five weeks. Fair enough. But that includes the three weeks previous to my breaking up with him, so he didn't even say goodbye to me. He didn't even say "I really hate you Danie. I'm never communicating with you again." He just....stopped. Nothing. To me, anyway. The updates about his fabulous escapades with his friends, his sheer delight as he collects girl's phone numbers, and weekly self-promoting selfies (redundant wording, I am aware) were and are all daggers to my heart. Because he has time for the masses, but didn't have time for me. If you were wondering why I deleted my facebook account, it's because I knew if I had access to his status updates and the photographic chronology of his life there would be no chance of me ever moving on from that relationship. So I removed myself from a permanent stalking of his existence. When I tried to be strong about the break-up, I just looked like an idiot. And when I tried to apologize to him publicly I got called "desperate". Guess what, reader? That is also accurate. I am desperate. I am a desperate, attention-seeking whiner. And I get to write about it however I feel like, because it's my freaking blog.

There's another thing. I've received complaints and concerns about what I write here. FINE. IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT THEN DON'T FRACKING READ IT. I am not writing to make you, dear reader, feel comfortable or give you illusions about how put-together I am. This blog is me in my resplendent madness. I'm not attempting to sell myself as a perfect human. I'm not trying to be an example of how to live life. I hope you don't expect the deep and profound here, because all you are going to find are the random musings and fleeting fancies of a confused, satisfied, angry, content, messed up human being. Because, yet again, I am all of those things. I don't like pretending to be something I'm not.

I am sorry if anyone is offended. Because I can imagine that even the random people in Korea that apparently read this blog could find something to be offended about here. But this is what it is. I wish we could all acknowledge that people are people, and we really shouldn't expect the people we know to contribute positively to our lives just because we happen to know them. That's not my job, dear reader. I have no job. I just write.

Thanks. I'm gonna get back to not sleeping before my 14 hour workday tomorrow.

I did a crazy thing!

I made a new best friend today....and checked off a bucket list item. Here she is :)

Isn't she lovely? :D