When we last conferred, I was still banging on about my broken heart. I could fill several more posts with the rambling tales of my ill fated lust but I will resist. The short version is -

I was understanding once more of his ever changing mind. Then I lost the plot and told him to stop FUCKING WITH MY HEAD! We then maintained a nice friendship for a week or so before we started kissing and hand-jobbing all over the gaf (mmmm… lovely image). Then we had sex. As in coitus. As in penetrative. If my memory serves me correctly, three blissful days of it. Then the proceedings were halted once more. On Christmas Eve. I know. My little face. All upset on Christmas. I was on the bus home with one of my very best friends who unfortunately has been hypnotized by the allure of the continent. Such insightful, profound words of advice he had to offer me on that exquisite voyage through the midlands;

“Ah no. Fuck him.”

I told him to give me some space over the holidays and not to text me everyday. He complied for one day. Disobedience I will not stand for. He spent the season in a drug and alcohol fueled melancholy. If I’m honest his behaviour disgusted me and I refused to see him for several weeks. Due in part to the black misery Christmas seemed to pour over me. I had spent a week at home with my parents and my two brothers. Manipulated into cooking every meal and sleeping on a sponge masquerading as a mattress. If that isn’t a recipe for depression, what dear friends is?!

We had one more romantic encounter. He said I was the most beautiful person he had ever met and that I was amazing and that I glowed beauty. I told him I liked him  more than anyone I’d ever been with. He freaked out.

He tried a few more times. I resisted. Yay for me! I slipped once. You have to understand that I was an insane amount of horny.

“She’d get up on a cracked plate.”

That’s how you might describe the condition…if you were an utter prick. Anyway, I had barely been given the chance to casually imply I might be up for it, when said he didn’t want to anymore and that it was likely he was still in love with his ex girlfriend.

So it’s over. I love him, cause he’s my homey but I’m not in love with him. Honestly. He’s staying with me now, due to the fact that he’s actually homeless (I’ll be joining him shortly I fear) and I feel nothing for him. Nada. Zilch. He’s so kind. He’s extremely witty. He’s amazingly talented. Wonderfully insightful. But I don’t want to fuck him until he bleeds, and that dear friends is the main thing. That said we do sleep in a tight embrace and have done the deed several times. But we won’t speak about that. <Hands over ears LALALALA>.

In other news…

I have gone over to the dark side. The dirty filthy dark side. The side that turns you into a boring sack of dull shit. Where your friends eyes’ start to glaze over when you speak of it. Where you get consumed with measuring and counting and comparing.

DIETING

Worse than dieting.

Lipotrim

For those of you not cool enough to be in the know, Lipotrim is a food replacement diet. Instead of eating food, you don’t. Nothing. At all. And then you drink three shakes a day, or  you can have some chicken soup, which conveniently doesn’t have any chicken in its recipe. Yay! And then you drink four litres of water and settle into a quiet life of loose fitting clothes, razor sharp cheek bones and chronic constipation.

I’ve been on it for two weeks.

On the second night, I dreamt that I was in the backseat of a moving car with my little brother. He’s only twelve. Aaawh! He was eating a bag of Charleville grated cheddar.

“Does this taste funny to you?”

He handed me a piece. Without thinking I put in my mouth. On realising the grave error I had made, I shoved my fingers down my throat trying to induce a good vomit. I then opened the door, hurled myself out of the moving vehicle on to the dusty motorway. The last image I saw before I woke in a state of panic was me on my hands and knees scraping at my tongue trying to coax the bastard back out.

It’ll all be worth it when I’m emaciated.

Man Friend said my face looked gaunt. Well he didn’t but it’s what he meant. He also asked if I have no gag reflex. Sometimes the romance gets too much.

I will get a job today.

Delusions aside, I am loved up. That is the good news. How long for? Not too long I would imagine.

When  I left you, Man Friend had confessed his everlasting – can’t live without me – I am his world, love. Ahem…  I am a writer; giving hair and make up to the truth is my job.

What to do?! I might as well admit that I am absolutely besotted, infatuated, limerent with MF. Of course I had to do the initial

“I don’ t think I feel that way about you anymore… I’ve moved on (in the form of energizer rabbit Clunge from graduation, although I didn’t specify how I had moved on.)”

Let me just point out that I am not really this calculated; time has just given me the gift of hindsight. At the time I was trying to resist the star crossed mess I knew it would become.

Rampant protestations dealt with, the vibe that we were going to get it on it the next time we saw each other was in the air. So beautiful. Like blossoms in the breeze… No at that point it was more like – the need to finish a job.

Do you know when you’re canoodling with someone, flirting, giving the dirty eye over a time period? And for whatever reason, you didn’t end up getting your hole? And then you have this overwhelming urgency to FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED. Whether they want to or not! (I’m joking…) Mama didn’t raise no quitter.

I was still being chained to a desk for eight hours a day at this stage. He came over one day after work. I mean it was planned. I gave the sitting room the ol’ once over. Spent about an hour and a half in the shower. Practically burst a vein when I discovered Wife had used the last of my Veet, then proceeded to plan b it with some wax strips I found in my drawer from the late nineties, making a complete mess of the triangle I was trying to maintain and causing myself untoward emotional distress and physical pain. So yea, a casual meeting.

Man Friend doesn’t give a shit. It’s part of his charm. He says that he really cares about what people think but his demeanor would indicate otherwise, which is why I was so surprised when he unzipped his jacket to reveal a big fancy man shirt. Was he actually into this? As much as me?

We went to Teco, bought some treats, kissed in the kitchen, ate some salad, kissed on the couch, watched Misfits, cuddled on the couch, went to bed… the good part is coming… We didn’t have sex.

Once in my Venus Man Trap, sorry, excuse me, I mean bedroom, I started to unbutton his shirt. Not in a “I don’t give a fuck about how much this cost” kind of way, just the top two buttons.

“What are you doing?”

What do you say to that? In a Russian accent,“I am seducing you.”

I just settled for.

“Umm…”

“I feel a bit stupid standing here with my shirt like this.”

We kissed for a while and I cursed my bad judgement for making me remove every stray hair on my body because of a premature assumption.

“Did you want to have sex?”

The clock was ticking and I was conscious of the fact that I had turned into a massively dull bastard and was thinking about getting up for work the next day, so I ruefully said no.

I skipped to work the next day leaving MF sleeping like an angel. Back in the old days, when I had a job and could afford to eat food other than root vegetables, Friday was a half day. I came home and got back into bed. We cuddled and kissed for a while (I looooove him) and then his Dad called him about their lunch date.

He damned the bad timing of it all but then decided since it would only take an hour that I should just come to his house and play with his kitten (the masculinity of it) and wait for him. We snuggled on the couch all day and then he started to get a bit cold and distant so I thought it best to leave him be, he walked me out, and kissed me on the street. I kissed him back and he said,

“Ugh… I’m not big on public displays.”

Choke it down DM.

I walked home and the next day he text me and said he couldn’t handle getting into another relationship and the whole thing, the pressure of it was making him feel shit.

Man Friend.

I missed my blog so much. But all my everything was entwined with him and I couldn’t write anything without breaking his confidence. My poor house mates, wife in particular, must be driven mad by my constant droning and conversation ‘quirks’ like these;

“Did you say you had pasta for lunch? Man Friend doesn’t like pasta! Can you believe that. Yea, seriously. He thinks it has a weird texture.”

I know. That grip is coming in the post. (As in GET A)

Man Friend has a kitten. Gorgeous. It was his mother’s. He engaged in a short term adoption of this kitten when she died. Six weeks ago. I have a friend, a couple of friends actually, with a lesser gorgeous kitten and they expressed an interest in rescuing another orphan.

MF although constantly moaning about what a pain in the arse this cat was, would sit, for hours, cradling him like a baby and occasionally breaking the silence with,

“Look at his facial expression.”

Or

”Feel how soft his fur is. He looks like a lima.”

Anyway, a trial period of a weekend was agreed upon, and a time for the drop off was agreed. It was my college graduation on that particular evening. I had invited MF to the ensuing party. He declined. Too many people. Not in the mood. Probably be busy. When he wanted to be your friend he was great, so much fun and interesting and interested. Then he would just drop out.

I was in my second week of work and was finding the nine to five quite tough. Not the tedious course of tasks, the actually time consuming nature of a full time job. You can’t really go and roll around in your own vomit on a Tuesday night if you have a strategy meeting on Wednesday morning. When you get home, you have time for dinner and THAT’S IT. Then you have to go to bed. It’s bullshit. Needless to say, I wasn’t paying Man Friend much attention, and it was annoying the fuck out of him.

I didn’t mention my graduation again, and I knew he would want me to come with him when he dropped the kitten off but I said nothing. He text me a plan the night before; movie, takeaway, all that stuff. I told him I was busy and couldn’t go. Outrage!

He said that I obviously thought that he wasn’t living up my standards. For once, I didn’t enter in to it. I didn’t shower him with attention and try desperately to appease him. I didn’t care.

I had to work a half day on the Friday of my graduation. I went home and Wife and I proceeded to spend a good three hours piling on the slap. Due to the glamour of the lifestyle that I live, I had to fix our washing machine before we left the house. The floor was a bit on the damp side and as we rushed out the door, Wife’s parents in tow, I slapped off the ground. Wife, such a generous soul; Her smoker’s cackle could be heard across the square.

Ego. Bruised. Blood. Everywhere.

My creepy, tan, granny tights were RUINED. They looked like something you’d use to strangle a prostitute with. I ran upstairs to change. What if I fell on the way up to collect my scroll? That dress was compressing my rib cage something fierce (making my tits looks amazing) and now my heart was beating so much, it was making me sweat in the worst possible place.

HANDS.

We finally arrived at the venue. My dear parents, completely aware and yet completely uncaring of the fact that I wouldn’t be granted access to the gown fitting room without the invitation which they had in their possession; decided to stay and savour their steak dinner, making the hands clammier than ever.

We got in to our class groups and everyone exchanged lies on what they were doing with their lives. It was amazing to actual say I had a job and know that I wasn’t talking absolute bollocks. No one needed to know that my contract was temporary. The class bully and complete mentaller actually denied having a job all together, even though everyone knows that he’s working on contract in RTE and being mentored by probably Ireland’s most successful editor. He then proceeded to stand in front of me for all the photos that were taken before we started the unnecessarily long procession out into the library.

The service was shockingly elegant and the speeches weren’t half as full of shit as I was expecting. Some guy from a British university was awarding the certificates, with the respective department head by his side. Half way through the animation class getting their props, a whisper made its way down through our class. From a person who is so bullied, that he is now a bully himself, he instructed all of us to break the guidelines which had been set by all the graduates who had been trudging across the stage for the last twenty minutes, and shake not just the dignitary’s hand but wreck the rhythm by grabbing our course coordinator’s hand as well.

This is the kind of shit I’ve had to put up with.

I nodded an acknowledgement and put my eyes back on the MC.

“DRIVEL MACHINE!”

It was the kind of loud angry ‘whisper’ that your mother might use if she caught you snorting lines of coke off your cousin’s boyfriend’s naked torso at a family barbecue.

Jolted. I looked toward the anger.

“Pass it on!”

Good fucking god. Could these people not get off my back and stop licking arse for one evening? The results were already finalised, there was nothing more he could do.

Afterwards, Wife and I went for a drink with our parents in the neighbouring hotel. I like to think that I’m not usually a stressor. Introduce my mother in to the equation and that statement is blown out of the water. Embarrassing as this is to admit, I was forced several times to remind her that this was MY night, not hers. I love the woman, but she’s a massive pain in the gee at times. Usually the times when you would especially benefit greatly from not having a pain in your gee. Even my father agreed that she was being a total wagon.

I calmed down once I had a few glasses of wine inside me. I went out for a cigarette and gave Man Friend a call; to enquire about the cat fostering. He was spending the night with his grandmother, he is caring like that. I said I would keep him updated. I could tell he had things to say to me but didn’t want to look like a little bitch in comparison to my nonchalance. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t care anymore.

We went back to a party that had already started in our house. Our friends were just so proud of our achievements! Bless.

I got a bit too merry on the ol’ sauce and start relenting tales of my favourite…encounters. For fuck sake. Why can’t I shut the fuck up?

We fell out the door sometime later. After stopping to tell the bouncers, the barmen, the smokers around the door, the glass-collectors and the cloakroom attendant about my academic achievements, we made our way to the dance floor.

Ladies, you know when you’re busting a move with your gal pals; lezzing off basically, and a man lurks behind you trying to appeal to one or all of you? Blissfully unaware that lurking is about as sexy as phlegm. Dirty looks included, he just wouldn’t piss off.

I said he looked like Sam Rockwell. He said he felt his face more resembled Clunge from The Inbetweeners. Clunge. He really was a charmer. I was sold at that point. I wasn’t really. But he kissed me and I let him. He said he was working towards a PhD in Chemical Engineering. (Later found out to be true, due to subtle detective work).

The lights came up, and what had seemed to sparkle like glitter was in fact sweat. I wasn’t well. So tired. So drunk. In dire need of a good vomit.

I left, with the gang, and Clunge in tow. I needed the air. A mass could’ve exited through my mouth at any minute. Outside was like a teenage disco. Clunge was hinting to come back.

“Look you can come back if you want, but I’m not having sex with you and I’m probably going to puke so you’ll have to hold my hair.”

Clunge must have a very developed sense of humour because he kissed me again. His friends had all left, as had mine. We were alone on the street. Twice a man came to us asking for money. Conveniently in the middle of Clunge’s “Yea, so I’m doing my PhD and I lecture in UCD part time,” speeches. We decided to hail a taxi and I reiterated the rules to Clunge. I was joking! Half joking. I’m not that conceited or bossy, I swear! A passing stag party overheard and started cheering. I narrowed my eyes at Clunge.

“You’ve made me look like a total slag now Clunge. Thanks very much.”

He laughed. He actually got my sense of humour.

We eventually dragged ourselves away from the windowsill we were leaning on and got in the car. I was weak. I definitely needed a power nap. Never one to turn down the chance to get my dick wet (BOOM!), I thought this might be the first time. We sat on the couch with Wife and her friend for a while. Clunge and I shared the same birthday. I did actually like him. He was really fun and warm.

Wife’s friend asked how long we were together. He said we looked like were in love.

For that night. We were.

We went to my room. I was ready for action, but first I needed to replenish. I don’t think Clunge was too impressed when I made us both take power naps. Sweet as it was, it’s hard to sleep when someone keeps kissing your forehead and stroking your hair.

I woke up out of my coma to find it snowing outside. How long had I been asleep?! We got down to business, I won’t bore you with the deets but it was good. Very good. It was also very…affectionate. I woke up the next morning still enveloped in a spoon. And I liked it. Usually I’m more –

“Right that was very nice. Well done. Now this is my side, that’s your side. There’s the line. Don’t try to share my pillow.”

While we still lay tight together, chatting and taking the piss out of each other, I got a text. It was only ten o’clock. Who in their right mind…? It was Man Friend. I had forgotten about him. For once.

Such a dear. Enquiring about the state of my digestive system and telling me to just wipe the vomit away and go back down to the session. He does know me and my weak stomach very well. I wondered had I ever text him while he was in bed with another girl. I didn’t really mind if I had or not. We were friends now.

Clunge went on his merry way. Not before we had an awkward moment at the door when he didn’t ask for my number and I asked him why he hadn’t. Half joking. He looked like he had been caught licking a used condom.

I tried to summon some energy to meet my parents and my little brother for drinks and lunch and dinner in town. I was like a briar. So TIE-ARD.

On Sunday Man Friend called me and told me the adoption had not worked out and he was to go and collect the kitten. Would I come with him? He came to my house after work on the Monday. Usually when I knew I was going to see Man Friend, I put in a bit of effort. We’re talking make up and everything. But we were friends now, friends didn’t care if you were showered or not.

It was snowing quite heavily and the ground was very slippy. We edged our away toward Gay Best Friend’s apartment. I slipped once or twice and grabbed Man Friend’s arm. Not because I wanted his dick, but because I didn’t want my brain blood all over the path. He was so charmless about the whole thing.

“Don’t pull me down with you. – I’ll help you up if you fall, but I’m not falling with you.”

We were definitely just friends.

We picked up the kitten and had an awkward thirty minutes in Gay Best Friend’s sitting room, where due to anxiety and shyness he refused to meet Man Friend’s eye. He was put out and it put me in that terrible situation you have with clashing friends, where you’re all,

“You’ve started jogging really? Paul used to throw the javelin!”

It just fuelled MF’s paranoia/ego (I can never be sure which) because as we had rounded the corner to GBF’s house, Man Friend said,

“I’m a bit nervous about going in here and meeting GBF. I feel like he’s your big brother or something. He probably hates me after all I’ve done to you.”

We walked the short distance, through the alley to MF’s house. He wrapped the kitten in a big bear hug, and I carried his case and his toys, including MF’s bear that he had when he was a baby. Aaaawwwww.

MF’s flat is freezing. I sat on the couch with my hood up, shivering. He covered me in a huge blanket and ordered us a Chinese. The kitten lay in my arms sleeping like a baby. We watched Alan Partridge and talked. It was the first time we had hung out, probably ever, just as friends. It was really nice.

He asked me did I want to stay. The snow was thick. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait until the morning? There was no way I would be up on time to go to my house, change and then go to work so I left around midnight. I hailed a taxi (the driver was an absolute lunatic, but that’s another story). I shut the door and my phone beeped. It was a text from Man Friend. He had been watching from the window and was offering me congratulations on my taxi flagging skills.

Then another.

“I really like you DM, you’re so nice.”

And then

“I really wanted to kiss you so many times tonight but I didn’t think you wanted me to. Did you?”

Fuck sake.

Apart from the stress of wondering who is going to be next, working in an office is quite good. I went up to the kitchen today to grab an aul’ mug of water and kill some time. One of the hags from finance was twitching nervously by the sink. One of the quiet women from the cleaning team was enjoying a brew at the table. The hag cleared her throat.

“Umm..ugh. Excuse me. Do you… Do you know who moved this chair over here?”

Poor quiet cleaning lady was a bit taken aback.

“No.”

And then accounts woman put her cup in the dishwasher and went back to her mad life of investigating chair relocations.

I wish I could pen all this stuff down in to a hilarious two series, six episode mockumentary to be shown on BBC2…

In other news…

Man Friend is giving it the hard sell. I’m pretty certain that at some point last night after the eleventh hour he realised that I was over him. Because at that point he began sending me some mad desperate texts and he hasn’t stopped. When one tells you one is in work and will text you at lunch, it will make you look like a sad bastard if you send the following in rapid succession:

“We’re bffs aren’t we?”

“What are you thinking?”

“How are you?”

And then. Then.

“You know I was just thinking the girls I’ve gone out with or been properly attracted to are all smarter than me…”

Dope.

“My niece’s twins are crawling. They’re only nine months.” Yes it was as abrupt as that. Fat Hev is a true mentalist.

I can’t. I just can’t. I would have laughed in her face. So I just keep quiet. The responsibility to answer falls on advice giving colleague. Again.

“Oh, that’s great…Is that early to be crawling or..?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

Silence.

A minute passes and we’ve all almost gotten over her previous outburst when…

“She tried to give them water. But they wouldn’t take it.”

Advice giving colleague doesn’t even leave room for us to answer because she knows that we’re bastards and we won’t.

“Why?”

“…They just didn’t want it.”

What? Fucking what? What the hell is this woman bull-shitting on about. There’s only four of us in the office. That’s too much mental for us to carry.

Moments later, Fat Hev strikes again.

“My other niece was walking at nine months.”

First off, that’s bullshit. I’ve never seen a nine month old baby walking. Second, who gives a fuck about your thirty-five year-old niece’s history of auto-mobility?

No one knows quite what to say but luckily it doesn’t matter, because at that particularly riveting chapter of Fat Hev’s reading of her autobiography, our boss Stella walks in.

“Hev, can I talk to you for a second?.. Outside.”

This can’t be good.

She returns a few minutes later. She looks insane. More so than usual. Some shit has definitely gone down. She goes to her desk and begins to tidy up her paperwork. We’re on five week contracts so we don’t have that much paperwork but she’s making a day out of it. I can see the sales administrator looking at Hev from the corner of her eye, looking extremely uneasy. I keep my head down.

The Windows Shut Down theme rings out and disturbs the stillness. I look up. She has her coat and a huge pink ushanka on.

“Are you off? See you tomorrow so…” This is the sales administrator. It’s only four o’clock. There’s another ninety minutes left.

She beams at all of us. Not like the way Marilyn Monroe might beam. More like Jack Torrance. Without saying anything, she leaves.

Poor Hev.

In other news…

It has been confirmed. By me. That Man Friend is a bit of prick. He’s been sending me very vague, attention seeking text messages of late which I have no choice but to take a tough-love stance to. I’ve invited him out and about loads of time, coffees, lunches, drinks, movie nights… but he just wants to stay in bed all day and wallow. Which is fair enough. He’s definitely entitled.

He is not entitled, however, to throw back my kind offer of friendship and concern back in my face by saying I’m only being nice to him because I want his dick (not in so many words). The cheek! This is the person who apparently suffers from low self esteem?! I really think he was just trying to fuck with my head. This whole time.

“I don’t want to see anyone. I just want distance. Don’t know how fair I’ll go.“

I hate to say this for lots of reasons but… he can have it.

I feel really bad for bitching the back of Stella yesterday. She’s actually alright. She did make me wait in reception for twenty minutes but all in all she was very pleasant. She brought me to my desk and introduced me to two others in the sales team. The third one was pulling a dirty sickie. My login didn’t work so she left me call the tech support company.

They are my downfall.

Stella returned thirty minutes later to find me still chatting to Mike on the service desk. They’re all such flirts, I can’t help it! Luckily she blamed it on his incompetence and not my over-flowing sexuality. In all seriousness though, he needs to put his dick back in his pants. You don’t need to ask if someone is going out at the weekend to give them access to the T Drive.

It’s great having my own nook. When I was in the communications department, my desk was just shoved up against a window, which to my horror was blacked out, and everyone could see my screen. All the time. It was awful. In that department, everyone took a ten minute tea break every forty or so minutes. I never did, but maybe once a day I would take ten minutes to read a paper or a blog. I just felt so put upon. Like everyone was judging and staring with their beady little eyes.Now I have my own corner, I could spend all day playing solitaire if I wanted to. Of course I never would. I’m far too honest and hard working.

The job  basically comprises of ringing managing directors and flirting with them until they agree to buy something. It really is a dream job. There is a disproportionately high amount of them called John though. Do not worry little ones. It is something I will investigate further and report recurrently on.

My colleagues are very nice and friendly. One was very generous with advice. The other… Now I don’t want to judge too soon. I did only spend one day with the woman but… you know Hev from Eastenders? She looks a lot like her. Except, a bit redder. Every time colleague number one gives me any guidance, Hev says,

“Yea, yea, Julie is our star. Our champion seller!”

But it doesn’t sound like a compliment.

Every hour or so, she turns to us and asks us how many sales we’ve made. We answer casually and honestly but when the question is returned she says,

“But I haven’t even made any phone calls!? How could I have made any sales? I’m only collecting email addresses today.“

Then lunch time rolled around. I was just finishing up spread-sheeting the shit out of some numbers. Advice giving colleague had just slipped out for the hour. Hev turns to me and says,

“Lunch is from one to two”.

Shur I know, haven’t I worked here for four months! But she stares at me. This dead stare. I slowly turn my face back in the direction of the computer screen. Without turning my head, I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s standing with her lagging jacket looking coat on, about thirty centimeters from me. Expectantly. Like we’re going to lunch together. I went to bend town as if I was reaching for something under my desk, but I only did that to distract her, cause there was nothing under my desk.

Then I grabbed my bag and legged it out the door.

Like a nutcase.

I went through all the career aspirations most people do.

Barrister

Psychologist

Journalist

Film Director

I remember once when I was in fifth year at school, we were at a career guidance class. I was sitting beside my friend Aine. It was one of those classes where if you decided to stay underneath the bridge smoking, you wouldn’t have been missed, so it was quite empty. The teacher, a lovely man with the biggest pair of purple lips you’ve ever seen, asked Aine what third level courses she had researched, as prescribed in the previous class.

“Pharmacy. In Trinity.”

A class discussion ensued. I turned to Aine in disbelief.

“You dull bastard!”

She told me to fuck off and then explained how high a salary a pharmacist could expect to earn. Money never even entered my mind when I thought about careers. Aine didn’t have a passion for pharmaceutical sciences, she had a passion for cash. We debated it out for the rest of he class, while good aul’ blow-job lips tried to re-gain control and drew a big ideas web on the board.

Aine argued that every job was still a job at the end of the day and the more money you were compensated with, the easier it would be to do it. I would rather work a job that I loved for pittance than I job I hated for millions.

So young.

After my leaving certificate, and the CAO course I had been offered was suddenly cancelled, I decided to move to Waterford and do a portfolio course in photography and journalism. No real thought behind it. No career plan. I liked photography. I wouldn’t mind being a journalist. I was desperate.

There was a film and editing module in the course. I loved it! I had always had a career in film at the back of my mind but I was scared. It would be too technical. Too tough. How wrong I was! Look at me here, in Waterford, mastering this camcorder and this domestic editing system.

I applied for a few film and tv courses in Dublin and Cork and ended up with two offers to choose from. The one in Dublin was far more prestigious. Better qualification. Better reputation. This will be bleedin’ rapid. I’ll be making music videos for Jape in no fucking time!

I returned from the J1 looking like a fat crack whore.  I had two days to find a place to live and start my new life. My dear mother even had to register for me. I gathered with the rest of the freshers for orientation.

Alright.

Lots of interesting hair colours.

Nice selection of Vans.

Some conveniently arranged clothing to expose tattoos.

Few very loud voices.

Bunch of try-hards, the whole lot of them!

I hated every minute of it. There seem to be some policy on quashing creativity. They wanted to turn us into an army of RTE drones. Our lecturers’ highest hope was that one of us would become an Afternoon Show producer and give them a job. Half the class already knew each other and weren’t shy about letting the rest of us know. There was definitely some big dick on campus syndrome going around.

The whole course was team based. Obviously. Decisions were made by who could shout the loudest and after only a few months I gave in. I barely went in. Just enough to pass. Most people thought I was a shy, retiring, dullard.

If these are film people, they can have it.

A huge surprise to myself, my parents and my friends, I actually stuck with it and I passed. I handed in my last assignment in May and happily signed on the dole.

I hope I can stay signing on until at least August.

Oh, Drivel Machine, you little fool.

While I didn’t exactly keep my eyes peeled for jobs, I kept them narrowed for opportunities. Careers like.

I just finished working my orse off  in college for three years! I deserve a career. I’m not just going to take any old job. My parents pay taxes. They’ve never once signed on. This system is in place so I can find the best fit for me. This country owes me.

…sigh. These were my thoughts. <Hangs head in shame>.

I got bored and restless in August and started to put in a lot of effort. Still oblivious to the fact that there are no jobs. I got an unpaid internship. I was still focused on careers and graduate level positions. I changed my CV for every single one of them, sent an individual cover letter, researched the company history and the positions offered. Most companies didn’t even acknowledge my submissions. I read that two part-time jobs had been advertised for Bagel Factory and by the close of business, there were already two thousand applicants.

Money was getting really tight and I had to ask my parents to pay my rent. And back pay my rent. They were not pleased. I made the difficult decision to stop focusing on careers and look for a… job. Receptions didn’t need me. Sales teams didn’t place any heed on my experience. Even the company I was working for, free of charge, and getting publicity for in magazines they had never been featured in, wouldn’t even give me an interview.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

Maw and Paw, generous as they had been, put their foot down and cut me off. The possibility was looming that I would have to leave Dublin. Move to Tipperary. With my parents. Where they live. At the foot of a mountain. Eight miles from the nearest town. When I don’t have a car. The house is also conveniently located on a patch of cursed ground, along with two other houses, that won’t pick up broadband. My brother had returned, in September, from eighteen months of travelling and was staying in my room until January. I would have to sleep in the attic-room, with it’s Arctic cold at night and sweltering temperatures by day. It’s resemblance to Samara’s bedroom in The Ring is uncanny.

Then I started sending applications in for jobs. Proper, no satisfaction, work, work, work, joyless jobs.

Eddie Rockets. We’ll be in touch. Quite pleased with that really. That uniform is a lot of responsibility.

“Yea… there isn’t actually a salary for the first six months. It’s commission based. But most people earn between €350 and €600 per week. You’d do very well!” I couldn’t imagine selling €600 worth of family portraits, at €5 commission  a package.

McDonalds called me in for an interview. I recognised him. We had definitely worked at some charity event together. He was in the middle of taking over his fourth store. Looking for some friendly faces to join the new team.

“So… DM. Tell me… Why you?” For fuck sake, you’re hiring me to put burgers in a bag, not cure cancer. Get off your high horse.

They called me for a second interview. For fucking Maccers?! How well do they need to get to know me? I have limbs and I can talk. Job description filled.

The area manager was quite taken with me.

“If you are offered a position with us… our hierarchy is up for review in January. I think you would do very well in a supervisor’s role… or even a shift manager if you really wanted it.”

The company I was interning for eventually stopped being such ungrateful dick-heads and brought me in to interview for an eight week clerical contract for a special project. I did my best. Ish. I spoke a lot of bullshit. It’s basically data entry. Spreadsheets. So the board can review their department’s work and give them more money.  E. Zee.

I didn’t get it.

They called me in again to interview for another position that I had applied for a-jazz ago. Working on this application was the reason I had missed 17.59 on Arthur’s Day. Who was conducting this interview? The new girl from HR, oh yea I always see her in the lift. Seems nice. And Stella. The biggest wagon in the whole company. Great.

I had worked with Stella a few days previously. I was assisting on a photo-shoot. I asked her could I borrow some products from her department so I could put them in the photo, thus increasing her chances of selling said products, thus increasing her chances of reaching her targets thus making her professional life better thus making her personal life better. Did Stella see it like this and grant my polite request? No. Stella did not.

Horrible. Cow.

The day of the photo-shoot Stella came down to the location. Not that she was invited by the Communications team, or that she was needed. At one point when I was dressing a model, she called my name,

“DM. Can you do something with this.” It wasn’t a question and into my poor unsuspecting hand, she  put a scrunched-up paper bag and some used sellotape.

Deep breath.

So this was the brick wall I was up against. The interview was quite tough. As I answered the HR reps questions, Stella would constantly interrupt with,

“How? How did you do that?!”

or

“What? That wasn’t on the CV you sent us.”

The real low point came when I was forced to point out that although I did have a degree, it didn’t offer any form of sales training, but that my previous work experience more than made up for it. Experience being the key word. I heard Stella ruffling through pages.

“Wait. Where did you go to college?” Stella. Interrupting. Again.

I told her.

She looked down at the education section of my application which was laying on the table in front of her. She looked back up at me.

And then she sneered.

Bitch.

The HR rep called me this morning. I got it! It’s only a months contract. Due to the fact that it would be a Christmas promotion I will be working on. I went straight down to the labour exchange and signed off. Yay! All the have-nots wondering why I was being such a smug bitch. I’ll finally be able to pay my rent. I won’t have to buy Cien shower gel. I can stop buying pregnancy tests in the €2 Store.

That was a joke you disloyal fuckers!

I’m not getting my hopes up that I’ll never have to sign on again. Of course I know that I’ll have to.

When I was at college, when I told people I was studying Film, they gave me the accolades as if I was making films. It was a nice security blanket to have. But now, that’s gone and I can’t congratulate myself for something that I don’t do. I never consciously felt like I was more worthy of a job because I had a degree. I know it means nothing. I just thought it would give my life more direction. Make things a bit easier. But it doesn’t. I have to figure out what I’m going to do and how I’m going to do it because I’m not just going to have a career. Well apart from one in the junior management team at McDonalds.

I think the realisation has dawned on me that I’m not mere months away from being a television producer by day and a novelist by night and living with my big black boyfriend in Notting Hill. I’m a temp (barely) and I basically live in a lesbian coven in Dublin.

But how do I change these circumstances? That is my question…

This higher power, loyal readers, does exist.

On Saturday night, as I lay enveloped in my duvet, sleeping like some sort of fallen angel (ahem…), I woke to a weird scratching on my bedroom door. It was like an AIDS ridden kitten was trying to summon the energy to knock on my door. Assuring myself I was imagining it, I went to close my eyes. But wait! Messages on my phone? At this hour?

4.52 a.m

Three messages from Man Friend.

“Are you awake?”

“im comin to you…”

“Ring me please”

Obedient as ever. I went to press the call button. The feeble knocking continued.

“Can you open the door?”

An Italian accent. Fuck. I never usually lock my door but our new Italian house-mate had moved in the day before. It was quite clear from the get go that he hated us. There had already been a misunderstanding about money and house-guests. He took it very badly. What the fuck could he want at this hour of the morning?

“DM, will you open the door please?”

“Uuugh, just a second… I’m in bed.”

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. I had just drooled half a pint of spit on to my pillow. The nightdress I was wearing made me look like I had tits going all the way up the front of my body. I hadn’t shaved my legs in a week.

I ran into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I unlocked the door.

Man Friend.

“Hi DM.”

He was shit-faced.

“I lost my keys.”

I crawled back into the bed. He shut the door behind him.

“Why are you so tanned?”

Jesus. This dress is very revealing. The tit problem was still there. The leg problem was still there. I was wearing my glasses.

He tried to snuggle into his usual nook but it wasn’t happening. He smelled like a brewery.

He had tried to climb over the back wall of his house but had failed. Miserably. He had cuts all over his arms.

“Kiss it better for me?”

I didn’t have such scant regard for my health.

Then he had decided to pay me a visit. He had firstly gone to the wrong house. He had stood outside shouting, up to what he thought was my window, his pet name for me. The patriarch had come out and abused him. Quite impressive really that he managed to walk away without a slap. I would have given him one.

On arriving at the house where I actually lived, he had knocked once and my Korean house-mate had opened the door right up. At five in the morning!

“I’m DM’s friend.”

Korea had sent him straight to my room. No questions asked. For fuck sake. That’s just not right. I thought I had him warned on the dangers of sending drunk strange men to my room in the middle of the night!

My alarm buzzed at 9.30am. I mumbled to MF to pass me my phone. I propped myself up on my elbows.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Both of my breasts had escaped the boundaries of my night-dress and were now exposed for all to see. If there is a god, he won’t have seen that and if he did, he’ll still be drunk enough not to remember it.

I fell back asleep and awoke minutes later to MF jumping out of the bed.

“Are you going?”

“I pissed the bed. Sorry.” His sense of humour is so stupid sometimes.

“You’re not funny. Seriously, what are you doing?”

“No I did. Look.”

I wear a very strong prescription. I couldn’t see anything.

“Seriously. Seriously?! Did you actually piss in my bed?”

“Yes.”

He went to the bathroom and I crawled out through the end of the bed. True to his word, he had indeed left a urinary deposit on my sheet.

“I’m really sorry DM. I was just marking my territory you know. It’s a show of love really.”

This is why I like him, even when he breaks in to my house in the middle of the night and pisses in my bed, while I’m in it, he still jokes. He wasn’t even embarrassed. Had this been reversed, I would be in his bathroom looking for a jugular with a tweezers.

We took the sheets off and he turned the mattress. I went to the bathroom and put in my contact lenses.

“Why are you up so early?“

“Umm… Do you remember that time you came to my house and pissed on my bed? Yea, well I was asleep in that bed so I kinda had to get up.”

He grinned.

“When my mother’s will pays out, I’ll buy you a new bed. I’m really sorry. You can sleep in my bed until then. You can piss in it if you want.”

For fuck sake.

“I’m going to take these off now. So you can stay or you can leave.”

“As in your jeans… and your pants?”

He nodded.

“But it’s my room!”

At that moment, his jeans fell to the floor and I made my exit. Thank god, three of the five house-mates were absent. I slept like a baby in The Little Red Hen’s bed, pushing the fact that she and her boyfriend had shared it the night before, out of my mind.

When I returned to my room to have a shower, MF was cocooned in my sheet-less duvet, on my sheet-less bed. If I hadn’t witnessed what I had witnessed, and the stench of booze, fags and piss wasn’t so pungent, he would have looked so peaceful and handsome.

I did however, and he looked fucking wrecked.

I won’t lie. I was one sad mama on Wednesday when I walked home from his house. And Thursday. We had both been eagerly anticipating Fade Street that evening. We were going to watch it together. He text me and asked my plans for the big premier. I was going to watch it in my friend’s fancy IKEA flat. He text me throughout, making hilarious comments about the hilarious characters. My fancy flat friend decided to throw a small soiree the following night. Friday. This could be the opportunity MF and I needed to cement our friendship. For good.

There was no way around it, I had to put “as friends” on the bottom of the invitation.

Can open. Worms everywhere.

He was quite shocked and offended. A looooong DMC (Deep Meaningful Conversation-Duh!) ensued. He apologised for the way he had acted on the night of his mother’s funeral. He denied using me to get over his ex-girlfriend. He said he did like me, long before he had liked her. He had just been confused and he shouldn’t have treated me the way he did.

We spoke about grief and the things I had experienced after Matthew died. He told me what had happened with his ex-girlfriend and why he had gotten so angry with her and spent the whole night texting her and the whole next day regretting the things he had said.

I went to bed quite content. I’d still give him one but it was starting to fade.

I spent Saturday nursing a hangover. She needed constant care and attention. She was very prone to small bursts of energy and then long hours of exhaustion. MF asked me to come over and watch a movie. Ugh… I was in the zone of  blogging and applying for jobs and watching Seven Days… but yea I s’pose I did need to get out of the house. A movie night would be good. There were people coming over later for drinks. Ugh…I’m too tired. Nah, I’ll leave it.

He spent a good hour begging me, but it was so cold outside and I’d have to shower and I wasn’t a big fan of the knob heads that were coming over to booze. And I didn’t want to drink so it would be really dull watching them get pissed. Then he tried to cold-shoulder me over to his house. Which I hate. And I will never relent to. And then I started to feel really lonely. And needy. And pine-y (?). And I fell asleep with a terrible pain in my soul.

It was so much fun. MF’s friend is a laugh and half and he used his connections with the law to get us a lift into town. While we were dancing the shit out of it, MF walks in the door. YAY!

He saunters over to us. Says nothing. I try to talk to him and he ignores me. Right…

I turn to talk to a guy I used to know. (An ex of one of the Fade Street ladies ). MF stomps off in a huff.

He spends the whole evening texting. Refusing to look or speak to anyone. Rude. Bastard.

It’s after two and I’m so sick of this. I tell John I’m leaving. He makes us promise we’re going to stay until he finds MF who has yet again disappeared. He cuts through the dance-floor like a frisky gazelle. Eventually the two return and John is trying his best to pacify the situation and keep the fab four together. I have a pain in my tummy from all the pints. (FIVE).

Wife and John, oh so subtly, step outside and give us a moment alone.

“Come back. Come on.”

He hugs me. Tight.

“Come on, we’ll have a drink. I want you to come back.”

This is a bad decision.

“Alright.”

All four of us walk the short distance to MF’s house. I feel very… over indulged and it’s taking all my efforts not to puke my ring up all over the street. I’m so tired and I can’t concentrate on what everyone’s saying. My eyes keep flickering and eventually I just let it win and fall into a light sleep on MF’s sofa.

Everyone keeps trying to wake me up. Most notably wife, gentle as ever,

“DM! Wake the fuck up!”

MF keeps licking his finger and rubbing my cheek. Vile.

“Will I put you on my bed?”

I’m sooo tired. It’s like a disease. I go to MF’s bed and he follows me. I snooze while he spends forty minutes speaking to the cat.

“Hey.. hey. Come on now.”

and

“Get down. That’ s bad. Go to sleep now.”

Eventually it dawned on him that the cat didn’t give a fuck what he said and was going to tear around the room, throwing things off shelves whether he liked it or not.

He got in beside me and pulled me close, doing that usual peppering my face with kisses thing. I could barely reciprocate. I barely wanted to. It was clear how things were with us.

I fell asleep in his arms and woke up periodically. The strange surroundings. The single bed. The impending hangover. The cat nudging it’s way up my body. The clack of the buttons of MF’s phone as he texted all night long.

Yes.

He’s very bad.

I’m very stupid.

I had to leave, but this was turning out to be one mother of a hangover. I was trying to stay as still as possible. If I moved the contents of my stomach, bladder and bowel were likely to spill all over MF and his bed.

Wife and John came in around eleven to say they were leaving. I couldn’t. I just shivered and cocooned myself in the duvet. Wife left and John sat on the bed and spoke some words to MF.

I heard MF’s ex-girlfriend’s name and then I felt him move towards me.

“Sorry DM.”

I opened my eyes and I saw John look away awkwardly.

Oh my god. I’m in your bed. With you. Currently. Stop talking about and thinking about and texting your ex-girlfriend.

I had to leave.

I’m too sick. I can’t move.

I fell back asleep for an hour. I woke to MF running out to the kitchen. I gingerly sat up. Can’t be too careful with these things. I put on my clothes and my coat. Gave the barnet an ol’ shake up.

MF walked back in and got back in to bed and then made a little space for me to lie.

“No. I’m going.”

He walked me to the door. Usually he would kiss and hug me goodbye. I don’t know if he didn’t want to or could sense how much I didn’t want him to. But he didn’t. I could scarcely meet his eye.

I walked down the steps and pulled open the door. Another single gal in Dublin…