I think of him.

I think of you.

It’s snowing and I think of you
I examine my bruised lips with the tip of my tongue
and I think of you
My nipples are pink and sore
and I think of you
The loneliness I find myself surrounded without you
is palpable.

Boyfriend.

A girl said to me, after spending an evening in my pleasant company: “You could be my ideal, perfect, soulmate boyfriend, such a shame you are a girl!”

Compliments.

List of my favourite compliments: 1. You are funny. 2. You have a perfect nose, XX century plastic surgeons’ favourite shape. 3. You talk sooo much nonsense.

I think I am in love.

I think I am in love. I want to masturbate when I think of him. And I think of him constantly today. I haven't been in love forever, and, God, it's so intense! I can't stop smiling when I think of him, how he looked at me, the comments he made, how our eyes would meet across the table, how he asked for my BlackBerry PIN, how we sent messages while still at the dinner, how he sent me the message after the dinner was over and we were all gone, and how I was thinking exactly the same thing, I was hoping he would ask me to go for drinks after our work do, but he "wasn't sure it was okay to ask". And how he messaged late in the evening, and then early in the morning, and then at lunch time. I am constantly on his mind, and he is on mine. I haven't felt this kind of animal pure attraction for anybody yet. Or is it always like this, like it's the first time?
All I could think of was kissing him, yesterday, while I was having my dessert. Was he hard throughout the dinner? I want him to touch me.

That thing about the guys waiting for a couple of days before texting a girl it's bullshit. When the guy likes the girl, he texts straight away.

Contacts.

I can now confirm. It is possible to cry at work, in the toilet, lenses or no lenses. And then go back to work and then work. And nobody cares. Nobody notices. Or, actually, everybody is scared to notice.

Nose.

Funny how I was teased so much at school about the shape of my (then so-called "piggy") nose. Man, I suffered through that. I was thinking cosmetic surgery, and pegs, and stretching your nose down with your hands etc. Nothing helped... And now, I love it. And I get complimented on it all the time and I was told that it was a no. 1 nose shape requested by cosmetic surgery clients, the most desirous shape a nose job could take. Of the XX century. No statistics for the XXI century as yet. So who is a loser now?

The Bible.

Decided to read, once again. And that's what was on offer.

Saturday.

IPO and LSE and everything else abbreviated gives me nightmares. Oh wait, no nightmares as I don’t sleep as I am at work 24/7!!!! I wish I were an investment banker. I would be able to cope brilliantly.

Facebook. Story 1.

It bothers you when somebody you thought was your friend suddenly deletes you on facebook, withour explanation. It bothers you when somebody blocks you. The fact that Ric blocked me bothers me to no end. I really thought we got along well, especially after he confirmed it: “I don’t like her [my friend Poppie], but you are good.” And then, nearly three weeks after my trip to Portugal, I am blocked from his 400+ friend list. Quite obviously, he had some sort of revelation.
I feel bothered not only because of that, but also because I tried to contact him a couple of times. He never spoke to me after that time on the suburban station stop in Portugal. People amaze me. In a bad way.

Reassessment.

Recently, I have read about the so called mid-twenties crisis in Grazia. I thought it was just another pop-psychology, but then yesterday happened…
I went to my favourite club, Heaven as a +1 of my friend Susie, a Pilates instructor (one of her clients is no other than the manager of The Wombats). We did not enjoy the gig. The Wombats are too simple, in my opinion, and my ears, trained on Radiohead and the Foals, did not quite appreciate their Liverpudlian chants. The afterparty was held in Mahiki and as we were on all and every possible guestlist that night, we thought we’d give it a chance. Besides, I like Mahiki. Sam was not there, but I should not have worried as drinks were free and music as pathetic as always. But hey, you don’t go to Mahiki to dance to DeadMau5 now, do you? Another barman, thankfully, remembered me from the past summer and I was served Diet Cokes instead of rum-filled cocktails. Here you go, I did not want to drink. Mid-twenties crisis, anyone?
I was not enjoying myself. I felt tense and bothered and weary and a little bit tired. There I was, in the middle of a party of a successful band, after the sold-out show, rubbing shoulders with their Norwegian bass player… And I did not want any of that. Mid-twenties crisis, anyone?

I got up and went home. Is this the infamous autumn depression? Is this really a mid-twenties crisis? Is this because of lack of surfing, anti-clubbing moods I’ve been in, suddenly ageing a few years, the newly ignited passion for America and still burning passion for Portugal? Am I in the process of reassessing my values? Is my youth going?

Man, how I don’t want to grow old and bored!!!

E-mails that are never sent.

Darling, I so wanted to speak to you last night. I was in a hotel being an assistant photographer in a photo-shoot, taking photos of a photographer taking photos of two unemployed models, playing with a kiss scene – the kiss that never happens, but everybody is excited just looking at the love scene opening up before their eyes. And it suddenly hit me what this whole scene reminded me of. It was like a dream I had sometime last July, the dream where you and I were in a hotel (I know, right?) and it was all great fun and then we went to the balcony and we were about to kiss and I woke up. I just could not take the tension the unemployed models deal with so gracefully every time a photographer tells them to perform a near-kiss.

I delete the whole message. Instead I type: Darling, time difference is a bitch. Will you not shave so next time I can see you with a beard? And a hairy chest?

Up, up and away.

All day wasted on taking photos of photographer taking photos of two unemployed models (well, they are employed, but the nature of their employment has nothing to do with so desired modelling world) in Marriott, Marble Arch. It was a sad affair… But I was doing it strictly for my CV.

The sky was beautiful. And mind-blowing from the 11th floor of Marriott. It made me think, all my life I have been inhibiting 1st floors – and have been missing so much! Therefore I decided that the next apartment I am going to buy will be a top floor apartment – with breath-taking views. This is my next step up the property ladder. In all senses.

On this high note (what an allegory! I feel quite poetic today), I am finishing this post.

LIfe after God.

Kurt Cobain is getting married. And I am not the bride.

My friend Dan says she is probably some crack whore anyway, but I know she is not. She is a French girl who does not wear make-up and who rolls her own cigarettes and then smokes them, without a filter.

I was prepared to travel across the world for him. She was French and had Paris, the city which he declared to be his favourite. He took his ex-girlfriend to Paris, I saw the pictures taken on the Eurostar. I haven't been to Paris. Should I say yet?
I was enjoying lengthy conversations with him, about God, and death, and absence of religion, and the way sometimes we both felt Holy spirit descending upon us and how amazing the world felt when this happened, and how you would feel your eyes swell with tears of happiness because suddenly you would feel alive, and able, and full of potential. Because God believed in you and chose you.

She was French and chose not to believe in God. And he, who I loved, chose her. I chose not to love him, tough choice. And I was wondering if I'd be able to stick to it. But do I have a choice?

I remember he told me she claimed to be scared to let God in her life. Scared to believe. I guess she finally got enough courage. Or he finally chose life without God.
Today, it's nearly full moon.

Golden Gate Bridge.

The question I came across today was the following: If you were to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, would you do it facing the city or facing the ocean? I had an answer to this question straight away, waiting to be thought of consciously. Of course I would not care. I do not care. I would just jump to my death. And then the psychology of human being gave me its answer: "true suicides" don't care which side of the bridge they jump from. If one gets up there and starts considering the benefits of looking at muggy views of the city versus eternal calamity of the Pacific, then it is quite obvious that the suicide attempt is not a hundred percent genuine. Somebody is a fake.

But what about me? Long gone are the days when I was thinking of going to San Francisco especially to contemplate the possibilities offered by the Suicide Bridge of this planet. I no longer think about this. But the decision is forever imprinted on my psyche. I am true to something I refuse to acknowledge.

Neurons.

I read today that the human brain produces around 10 million new brain cells every single day. But for the lack of utilisation, they die sometime later. Some estimate, that we lose 70 million neurons a year, neurons that are gone, disappeared completely replaced by the new cells that are clean and fresh and contain no data, ready to be utilised, to be filled with new information, experiences, memories. But what happens to the neurons containing the memories that could never be restored once uncontrollable power of our own body decides that the cell is no longer needed (and the memories locked in it are forever gone).
There is no Undeleter programme to restore the memories from the dead neurons. Once they are gone, they are gone. With them gone are the memories that you will never grieve about. Because since there is nothing you remember, maybe there was nothing to remember, maybe there was nothing.

The Social Network.

David Fincher does not disappoint. Neither does Jesse Eisenberg. I want both of them to be my friends. Or more preferably, I want Jessy to be my lover, and Mr Fincher to be my friend. Or, even more preferably, I want Jessy to be my boyfriend, and Mr Fincher my dad. Okay, since David Fincher cannot be my dad and I would like this all to be real, I would be fine with Mr Fincher being my step-dad.
Such a weird feeling. Day after day at work I see their names (Napster, Facebook, diluted shares etc.) and it feels real, because it is real. And then I am sitting in the cinema watching a film about these people. Are they no longer real? When did it happen?

The soundtrack is good. I have to finally burn the CD (the OST has been sitting inside my work computer for more than a week now).

My first attempt in baking cupcakes today. Okay, it was not from the scratch (I bought a mix), but really, I mixed the mix with eggs and water and oil. And I prepared the icing (again, from a mix). A mix, a mix, a mix...

Quite tasty.



(Hard to type as I have bitten my nails. A little bit more than a half is left on my right thumb.)

Pills that make me better.

I don’t know how is it possible to go to bed healthy and wake up completely ruined. My throat is swollen and hurts like hell and there is nothing more I want right now then to be in bed, with hot water bottle. But the day is just beginning. And it’s Taxation tutorial at Uni today. God help me.



Today not only it's the birthday of a former president of Russian Federation, but Thom Yorke, my beloved, is turning 42. I remember when Bono was turning 40.

Fear No Ocean. Memory 7.

Please stay, he said, a hundredth time. I said, no. I wanted to go back to London, to civilization, to nightclubs, to Brixton academy, The Shakespeare’s Head, to suffocating tube, to Berkeley Square, to public libraries, to Caffe Nero, to Boots, to aimless wondering through Selfridge’s, to independence. I did not ask him to come. Truth be told, I did not want him to go with me. I loved my freedom and cherished it, and these couple of day in his company have already put a strain on me, I started to be aware of his presence in a bad way. I did not want to be with him unless it was absolutely necessary, like in the water, when he taught me to surf, or late at night on the beach, where he would drive his old fiat for us to stroll down the sandy line of the ocean, or when the salty wind made me sleepy, and I would fall asleep on his lap. But then he said something that made all those silly things like John Lewis household department and Hotel Chocolate testing club seem inadequate and pathetic, he said: “There is no ocean there.” And I thought, how right, there is no ocean there. And suddenly the ocean was the only important thing, and it was missing in my life, the enormous part of my life, and that’s why I could never get enough of it, and that’s why he would never swap it for anything in the world. He had the bigger, better, purer part of the world, why would he change it for anything else? The ocean will always have all the answers, there will be no questions. The thing that matters, the ocean that loved us and bathed us and gave us days and days of never-ending fun.

“Respect the ocean,” he would say. And I would just laugh, the ocean breeze throwing my hair around my head with joyful naughtiness.

Touch.

Another sweet dream. As usual, I found myself right in the middle of it, sitting at the table somewhere outside with my favourite Indian boy on my left, and he was so close, so close, touching me, touching my arms, my neck, my shoulders, my hair. It was unbearably sweet - a torture. How I would have loved to imprint myself on his body.

I am living fully in my dreams.

U2 forevaaaaaah!

One of the most exciting shows I have ever seen: U2 under the rain, in Moscow. God, I have no words to describe this miracle, these huge drops of water, this unity of people singing in the rain.

Fuck Buttons? I kept listening to them for two weeks, excellent album, except track 2. Well, nothing is perfect, is it?



But as of now, everything is covered in the huge wave named U2 tsunami. I cannot listen to anything esle. I do not want to listen to anything else.

Another dream.

Another dream. DB was telling me, that he had a dream about me. I said, how strange, I had a dream about you, too. I saw your passport in my dream. So strange, he said, I saw YOUR passport in my dream.

Passports. Will I travel soon?

Dream.

I had a dream last night that I was kissing Mark [in the shower!!]
It felt passionate yet surprisingly comfortable, like coming home.

I woke up regretting that that was just a dream.

Snow.

Another Nytol. I had a dream that it was snowing. And when I looked out of the window, the Earth was covered in dirty snow.

Sleep.

I could hardly open my eyes today after a sleeping pill yesteray. They recommend at least 8 hours of sleep, what a joke, I hardly get 7 hours a night, hardly ever. So getting myself out of the lull was enormously difficult. But the sleep was fantastic. So black and uneventful and dreamless. A sleep to die for.

P.S. My favourite activity would still be sleeping, if you ask.

Blue Hawaii.

I would have loved… to get my hands on this very cocktail right now.

Oh how I love Americans (especially from Chicago!)

Second day shopping in Banana Republic – they have some amazing sale items, especially in the jewellery department! Unfortunately, the dresses are still too expensive for the sales items.
Anyway, with the lovely sleek BR bag full of sale goodies, I was standing in a queue in Caffe Nero, which is opposite the BR shop on Regent Street. I ordered frappe latte, and that’s when I heard this North American drawl which always makes my knees week. I turned my head slightly – and yes, there he was, blond, blue-eyed American. Oh I don’t know, he asked me which tart he should buy and whether I had tried any of those, I asked him if he was allergic to nuts, he asked me what I was having, I asked him where he was from (Chicago!), he asked me where I was from and offered to pay for my drink. He was having an espresso. And pecan tart, recommended by me. Strange, but true.

And I got the Caffe Nero extra loyalty stamp as well.

He was cute and nice and a bit shy – just the way I like them American guys!

Memory 6.

It was that night, 12 February to 13 of February, when he and I were sitting outside the tent on the beach, and the sky was dark blue and covered in purple clouds, and then the clouds were gone for a few moments are milliards of stars were scattered above our sinful heads. And for the first time in my life I saw, like drawn in a school book, a Sagittarius constellation, the arrow and the bow, and he saw it too, and it was perfect. We were just sitting there, staring at the sky, in awe.

Longest night.

It's the longest night of the year next week. Who are you spending it with?

Make sure you have spare underwear handy!

I’ve become quite addicted to writing reviews for books and films recently, and sharing myself with my fellow amazon.co.uk customers. And I simply couldn’t resist writing a review for a fantastic book by Chelsea Handler, “Are you there vodka? It’s me, Chelsea”.

I've never heard of Chelsea Handler before, but after reading her book in literally every spare moment past weekend and finishing it at 2AM last night, I cannot stop recommending it to my female work colleagues and girlfriends, sending texts and emails in my work time praising Ms Handler! This has never happened before. Chelsea's humour is amazing. There are hilarious observations on almost every page of this gem of a book, and each chapter (which is also a separate story) has at least two remarks that made me laugh out loud, on tube, in the post office queue, at home, while stirring minced meat in the frying pan (yes, very rarely I try to cook and read at the same time - that's another proof that Chelsea's writing is addictive!)
Once you get past her Jewish remarks and her steady companionship with her vibrator (rather than a real man), you are left with pure enjoyment of beautifully composed and side-splitting stories!

A must have - for a beach holiday, for a morning tube commute to work, for a hangover cure.

Anaïs.

Went to Paul Sandby RA exhibition at Royal Academy, since I am a full time, £80 per annum member, I took Elena. Paul Sandby gave Elena headache and made the two of us extremely hungry. Went to Itsu. Went to Irving Penn exhibition at my favourite National Portrait Gallery. God, I love that Gallery. Surprisingly, did not buy anything at the Gallery shop. Elena treated me to a cup of hot chocolate (the real one) and chocolate éclair (very fattening one, note like the ones I buy at Tesco’s) at the La Maison Du Chocolat. Very cultural day. It's been ages since I had this kind of day.



At the Irving Penn’s exhibition I saw a photograph of that French journalist I haven’t heard of before. Anaïs Nin. Anaïs is such a lovely name. Suggested the name to Nona. She loved it. I think. Fingers crossed.

Dan Sartain.

My friend Annie got us passes to the Dan Sartain show last night at the Relentless Garage. Man, was I blown away. Dan is an amazing performer, his music is raw and sincere and full of feelings. It’s been ages since I saw anything like him. How come he is not dead famous? How come his is not number 1 in the rock charts all over this planet? I guess, he is not into all this, in his Spartans baseball coat.

Anyway, Annie got passes from a facebook friend of hers (oh yeah, there is now a new type of friendship – facebook friendship), whom she met sometime ago at the Black Lips afterparty I invited her to. She was chatting to this American guy and within minutes he was her facebook friend. She is amazing like that. So they saw each other for, like, 10 minutes, but next time he was in London we got free tickets? Exactly.

His name is John and he is from Georgia. May 1981 boy. Boy, was I impressed. I mean, after all, he was a bass player for Mr Dan Sartain. Anyway, beer, water, even bananas in Annie’s case and “backstage” were provided.

We went to the nearby pub after the show, where Annie was refused entry. She went home, we went in. Within twenty minutes of hanging out I found out that last time we met, after saying hi I ran away, and it was Annie who became John’s friend on facebook – why, he wondered. Problem was easily solved there and then.

And then, man, that was sweet. He walked me to the station and we chatted and it was so… I don’t know, lovely. He is back in London in September. I might be in Georgia in October, since I now have “a place to crash” in Atlanta, where he flew this midday.

We all escaped.

I had such a gorgeous dream - it was full of my favourite people, Micah, KJ, Mark etc. - they were all there and we were swimming in the ocean, and then there was a whale (KJ noticed it, and I think I caught a glimpse of it) and it jumped in the water, and there were gigantic waves (huge - the whale and the waves), and all of us swam towards the shore (West Shore of you know where) and I tried to follow the surf rules, when the huge wave is behind you, you just have to swim straight. We all escaped.

IKEA beds

Last night I broke my [IKEA] bed. Noticed only today, when I was blow drying my hair for the Holy Fuck event in Heaven tonight.

Memory 5.

And it reminded me of that night, so many years ago, when Lincoln and I used to fight on his [IKEA] bed, in the huge rented house in East London, and the frame broke completely, at that very point, when he caught me on top of him, and we were laughing hysterically. We continued to laugh, though the night. And at that point, we hadn't even kissed.
Those were the days of my crazy youth.

Lincoln is now married. And he changed his name to Tyler.

A note on pain.

There is nothing more painful
Than hearing him say
"You are beautiful"
To the other girl.
When you are the one
Who prays for him

Every night.

i love ocean.

Overhead, originally uploaded by konaboy.

i love ocean
more than sex with you.

eternity in the waves
seems not so bad an option
compared to unsatisfactory sex
with you.

((Just a little piece of poetry to get me through the night..))

someone he really likes

You fall in love with a boy. When you look at him - nothing else exist. Nothing else exists when you are not with him, just sluggish time, minutes, hours, days of waiting to see him.

Then you see him, somewhere in Berlin, it's a warm spring night and you end up smoking cigarette after cigarette in an uncomfortable silence, and then he says that he actually had met someone he really liked. And he asks if he could hug you. And you say, no worries, it was fun. He walks you to the taxi. The taxi drives you away from him, further and further away. And you never speak to him again. On the phone, yes, but never in person.

He has been going out with the girl for a couple of years now. You know, the one he really likes.

Then the album comes out, and you know exactly where to look to see her name among the names of people unknown to you they are thanking. He included her name. He thanked her.

And it still hurts like hell. Like hell.

I ♥ ♥ ♥ COURTNEY LOVE. Forever.

And ever and ever.

She is amazing and gorgeous and talented and funny and loving and full of jokes and kind and she so clearly has one big heart.

With all the negative comments I kept getting about going to see Hole, I was completely blown away by the sheer god-likeness of Courtney. And her talent. And her voice.

LOVE.

((I think I need to go and lie down, otherwise I will definitely get cradiac arrest. Or something. At my tender age.))

Pranks.

Inna is staying with me until Tuesday. She is supposed to be staying with me but she parties really hard this time so I barely see her. Maybe she is still in shock after she was sexually assaulted (yes really, we even called the police) in front of my building at 2AM at night on Thursday (her first day in London!) She was quite shaken but I guess we decided to forget about it after the glorious London police informed us that they were dropping the case since she lived in Germany and was not interested in coming to be a witness in court, if they would ever catch the bastard. But they took all the clothes she was wearing that night to look for DNA evidence.

Anyway. We’ve been entertaining ourselves making prank calls to all the boys we know. Mainly in the States. Hours of endless fun.

Anyway. It’s Deadmau5 tonight. It’s about time we hit the dance floor properly!

Another 5.

In April those were:

1. "Sleepwalking" by Julie Myerson - why??
2. "Anthropology" by Dan Rhodes - my anti-book!
3. "New Moon" by Stephenie Meyer - I am somewhat of an addict
4. "The Rain Before It Falls" by Jonathan Coe - enjoyable
5. "Eclipse" by Stephenie Meyer - I am officially an addict.

Twlight Saga does it for me nowadays. I don't want to know anything else at the moment. May will be hard with all the exams and all. I will do my best to read the next five, promise!

4 o'clock in the morning.

I love going to sleep to the sound of early morning birds.

I don't like going to the club (this time it was Mahiki), kissing [for ages] the most handsome guy in there, and then going home in a taxi without his number and/or even his name.

P.S. I wouldn't want his number, anyway. It's somewhat sad that he did not ask for mine.

London rush.

I was rushing home from work on Thursday evening, around 5:30PM, when I was crossing the road from Fitzmaurice Place to Berkeley Square, I saw that guy. Curly dark hair, glasses, cobalt blue eyes, which met with mine and lingered on my face for a few significant moments.
As I say, I was rushing home.

"The Phantom".

The first time I saw “The Phantom of The Opera” was in September 2007. It was Saturday, my first full day in New York City, and I was exhausted from my flight the previous day, and from all day on foot, in the company of the guy I suddenly found I did not fancy at all (apart from his gorgeous dark lashes, incredibly thick and curly). We were sitting very close to the stage, and I was excited to see a live elephant, as my friend, who saw the musical in San Francisco, never stopped talking about the real animal on stage of the Californian theatre.
There was no elephant in NYC. My dress was uncomfortable (I never wore it again and sold it on ebay sometime ago). My eyelids were heavy and my eyes bloodshot. I think I fell asleep for a few minutes. That was my “The Phantom of The Opera” on Broadway.

I saw it again today. Good show. But I will still prefer “Les Miserables” any time of the day. That’s the difference between him and I – “The Phantom” was his favourite musical of all time.

And has nobody noticed that the music is essentially quite similar in these two shows?

Game.

Memory 4.

That flat in West Berlin. While he was cooking, we used to play this game, where he would say name of any American state, and I had to remember the capital, like:

California - Sacramento
Washington – Olympia
Alaska – Juneau
Arizona – Phoenix
Nebraska – Lincoln

Hours of fun. I still have to learn all of the states’ capitals.

Blue jeans and white t-shirts [and checked shirts].

back at ya, originally uploaded by rappensuncle.

This is such an amazing photo. With clear blue skies and warm sunshine outside, and “Blue Jeans and White T-shirts”.

This is how I feel today. Pretty nostalgic. And I keep thinking about

Memory 3.

Some time ago I was in an Irish (really?) pub, with my friend who was more than just a friend for a brief moment of one summer a couple of years ago (really? Well, I suppose so if both of our relationship statuses on facebook indicated that we were “in a relationship” with each other) and his male friends. So, Irish pub + beer + shuffle board game + “’59 Sound” as a background music (what a nice surprise – they played the whole album, is it even legal??) His friend and I kept looking at each other. And looking. And looking. And looking. We were playing in the opposite teams, at the opposite sides of the board. Maybe it was for the better, as if he were closer to me, I am sure there would have been some sort of explosion. All was left to do was just look at each other.
And then look some more.

Saskatchewan.

Not only I now know how to pronounce this wonderful word, I know how to spell it, too. And I desperately want to go there. Drive through it. Okay, just maybe fly over it on my way to Vancouver.


What a hot night.

No. 149

There are two trees just outside Exit 2 of the Undeground Station near my place. They are bare except for the bright pink flowers. These flowers are impossibly pink, the pink of the office highlighter. They are perfect.

Memory 2.

The tube did not work and I had to take the bus to work, sometime last June. No need to say that the bus stop was crowded with angry and annoyed people who fought their way to the entry doors of every bus. I was waiting for something impossible – a somewhat empty bus. And then my mobile rang. Unknown +1 number. I picked up – and it was him! I don’t remember why he called – was it the text I sent him the previous evening, or the email? The thing was, he called. He was concerned and I could hear that concern even though the actual words were more or less illegible, mixed with the morning traffic noises and shouts of the angry passengers. We talked and talked and talked. I got on no. 149 bus and we talked some more. And I was happy.

Shadow.

Not much has happened recently, I’ve been hanging out with my law books in the kitchen drinking buckets of tea all weekend. I wished I had a dog. He would be a black lab and his name would be Ferdinand. Or Tequila, if it would be a golden girl.

We are still covered by the giant cloud of ash. Actually, Shadow is a pretty cool name for a dog.

No flights for 5 days and the last time this happened it took two years for the atmosphere to clean itself (of course, it happened about two hundred years ago and nobody cared much).



Kentucky. That's where blue-eyed boys come from.

The smell of summer.

I was walking from Bond Street to Green Park station this afternoon. Saturday. The area was deadly quiet. Deserted. New asphalt was being put on the road near Berkeley Square. It was hot and it smelled hot. If I didn't see it being smeared there and then, I could have easily imagined it being a hot summer midday, and the smell being of the asphalt heated by the burning sun. And it would be the essence of the smell of summer in the city.

Sandals.

Ash clouds.

Sister Ray. 7 inch sold out. Why do I even want a 7 inch??

Sorta happy.

I have these shreds of memories. Millions of them.

Memory 1.

We were driving through twilight Berlin without car documents (which means a lot of trouble if you get stopped by German police), listening to radio and not speaking much. Streets were wide and empty. I love this about continental Europe. I was sorta happy.

Mission: possible

Hahaha, the power of thinking! The power of this Universe! You know how I had three tasks for my Berlin trip: 1. Meet Brazilian Alex – tick. Jule, Inna and I met him at the private party in one of the Berlin clubs. Actually the party was in the basement of the club, there were too many people none of us (even Alex) knew, so we took some pictures with Alex and quickly escaped to Felix. 2. Did not I meet German Alex? The Magician? I should have been more specific! It was German Alex KRAUSE I wanted to see! Jule spoke to him on the phone and invited him out but he was “busy”. Actually, I would be, too, if some unknown girl would be pestering me on the phone. And then Inna, and then myself. All three of us. So I met German Alex – tick. 3. I got the stamps in my passport. Tick.

Mission accomplished.

God bless.

Jule swears too much. She swears in English with strong (yet cute) German accent. This is addictive. Then she says things like: “God bless, we didn’t go to the afterparty. God bless, or you would have missed your flight!”
She is hilarious. After spending nearly 5 days with her, I find it hard to overcome the urge to use the f-word all the f-ing time.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

Foals’ gig last night. There is no other band I enjoy more than Foals. Listen to them, get their CD, go to their gig, and dance and dance and dance… Man, Jimmy is so skinny.

I woke up at 4AM today. Flew to London. Went to work. I am in a bubble. The world around is warm and sunny compared to Berlin but I want to go back. Want to go back to the times when I could go backstage and chat with Jimmy, when I would get reply emails from him, when I could come to Berlin any weekend I wanted and Mark would meet me in the airport, when we would eat dozens of wursts during the weekend, when Dresden would be just a car ride away.

Some things are in the past. Some things will come. One day.

Yesterday it was Orange answer-phone. And what was I planning to say, anyway?

Ignorance.

Jule and I watched “Inglorious Basterds” last night. I enjoyed it enormously but then I thought, I bet half of America are thinking that that is how the WWII ended, with Hitler being blown up at the Paris cinema.

Maybe more than a half.

Jule’s friend Melanie told us the most hilarious story: one of her friends went to America for a year to work as a babysitter. It was Mid-West or Mid-South, where people are not so aware. Don’t get me wrong, I love people from the Middle America. So the birthday of the German girl was approaching and her host family wanted to throw a party, with balloons, confetti and cake with candles. And so they did. It was when the lights were dimmed and the cake appeared in the room, lit up by candles, that the German girl nearly threw up – the patter on her birthday cake was swastika crosses. Black crosses on the snow white icing. And candles, which she silently blew out.

Do I need to say more?

Brian Cross - my choice of a DJ!

Surprisingly excellent night at Felix. God, I love Berlin clubs. The best clubs on planet Earth. At least that is what I am thinking now, still drunk from champagne and all the good music I danced to. The DJ, Brian Cross, gave me cd AND his number, and said it was “very nice” to meet me.
I danced and danced and danced and the men were handsome and they kept approaching me and complementing me on my choice of t-shirt (Nabokov’s “Lolita”).

Jule was sulking in the corner. So we left early (about 5AM).

The Magician.

Berlin… 1st shocking thing: it’s freezing here! My first day, Jule and I went to Warschauer Straße, longingly started at the Universal headquarters, and walked along the newly-painted Berlin Wall. The Wall somehow lost its authenticity while it gained the brightness and freshness of new Germany. 20 years since the Berlin Wall fell. German government thought it was high-time to freshen it up last year.

Finally, finally I got my passport stamped with 4 different stamps (bargain deal – 4 stamps for Euro 2: East Berlin, West Berlin, People’s police and cute tiny stamp that neither I nor Jule could identify).

It was cold. It was pouring down. It was hailing. The wind was blowing hard. I was crying cold silent tears. We were strolling along the Wall and decided to go to McDonald’s (where else?) at Ostbahnhof to dry our wet-through clothes and shoes and bags.

Ostbahnhof is full of Asian restaurants – so cheap! Jule and I ended up having soup and some pasta at one of those and that’s where we met a magician… The guy (not surprisingly called Alex) came up to me and started to talk in German (I always found German incredibly sexy, and I felt all sexed-up when from his whole monologue I caught one word – sexy!) So, even without Jule’s aid I got it that the guy came up to me to tell me that I was sexy. Danke.

The three of us chatted for 5 minutes: he thought I was sexy, he wanted my email, I gave him my facebook and lied that I was in Berlin for a weekend only. As my friend S. says, I looked as if I were eating men for breakfast and did not need another Alex in my life. And then he pulled a pack of notes from his pocket (old newspaper cut into about 20 pieces shaped like banknotes). Jule looked at me, I looked at out bags, we both thought “weird” and my hands squeezed around my wallet. Alex kept talking and moving hands and then suddenly the cut newspaper pieces turned into Euro 20 banknotes! It was magic! And so Alex left, proud of himself that he had enough courage to come and talk to me. Don’t you just love German guys for this [courage]?

I ♥ Berlin.

John Lewis tights – No. 1 tights for ladders (5 different pairs from 5 to 30 den, all of them developed ladders and holes WITHIN MINUTES of wearing. And not because of toenails/nails/me not being cautious). Waste of money.

I am flying to Berlin in couple of hours and have some major plans: 1. Meet Brazilian Alex; 2. Meet German Alex; 3. Get my passport stamped with East and West Berlin stamps… erm… that’s it for now.

I ♥ Berlin.

2 years.

I watched "Scarface" last night for the first time. Something I would never admit to anybody (the first time bit). As I've heard so much about it, I was always able to carry a conversation about it. Old films make me feel young.

The weather is miserable yet again. And it’s the seventh of April. Two years ago it would be today that Mark and I attended the Foals gig in Berlin together. It would be two years and two days ago that I discovered Berlin for myself for the first time. It would be two years since I’d started seeing Mark. Didn’t last until Autumn 2008, but we had soo much fun.

I am thinking about him. Almost every day nowadays for some reason. He was such a good friend. I hope I will win him back. Please, Lord, let Mark and I be friends again.

I am waking up in the middle of the night and cannot go back to sleep for two nights in a row now. There are no thoughts in my head but my body feels hot and bloated and itchy. I turn and turn and turn in my bed and cannot fall back asleep. Is it exam worries (bitten my nails to the base yesterday trying to revise EU Law)? Is it money worries (I am awfully overdrawn)? No Starbucks, no shops and no travel for me at least for a month! Okay, I am going to Berlin on Friday but that was paid for long time ago.

My Hole tickets were delivered yesterday! :)

Made in Downtown L.A.

It was not only Easter weekend last weekend, it was also American Apparel Rummage Sale in London. S. and I went to check it out on Friday morning just to be turned down at the doors. Apparently, the demand for cheap plain t-shirts was so huge, that there was a cat fight and the warehouse had to be closed for a day. I can just picture trashy girls fighting over puke-coloured leggings.

Anyway, S. and I ended up at Starbucks eating rice cakes and talking about relationships. S. told me about her facebook note on relationships she wrote a few weeks ago and urged me to check it out. So I did. It was about the problem of asking men out yourself, rather than waiting for them to ask you. I disagreed. Because even if men are scared to approach you, they will find a way to get to know you - twice, TWICE I was approached by guys' friend/friends first, only later to discover that they started talking/befriending me first, because the men in question were scared to do it themselves. So, they WILL find ways, if they are really interested. Point made.

I actually got to attend the American Apparel sale on Sunday and it was not good. I bought a couple of t-shirts but otherwise it was quite chaotic in there and I did not see anything really exciting. I actually bought t-shirts just to justify my queuing for twenty minutes to get inside the warehouse.

Scary story.

I had a nap today, around 3PM, and as it was really sunny outside, I decided to use the sleeping mask my Mum took from the airplane on her flight from Moscow last December. The second I put the mask on the flat filled with some weird noises and cracks. I panicked and removed the mask - there was nothing. The room was warm and filled with April sunshine. The birds were singing outside and there was this happy noise of children kicking the leather football in the yard. I put the mask back on and within minutes the strange noises filled the flat yet again. The door to the bathroom, which was close, opened! I blame the opened bathroom window. But I can't help the fact that it never happened before. The bathroom window is opened all the time. The bathroom door usually stays closed.

Happy Easter!

Not a peep from DB, but I got a few blasts from the past this weekend, including a 20-minute phone call from Honolulu. Man, that was such a nice surprise! So nice that I even put up a photo of me and the Hawaiian surfer on the fridge.

Actually, I deleted DB's number from my phone. Not as if I would have ever called him again, anyway.

I was at the Easter tea-party today and met a gorgeous 35-year old. The thing is, our parents knew each other for ages and I used to play with his little brother when I was a 13-year old teen. I've never met the guy in question before, until it was decided that we should finally meet up and get to know each other as his wife (yes, wife) has given birth half a year ago, is quite new to London and would enjoy some female company. So we did (meet up that is). And they are both sweet people and I do not think anything will or could be possible with he and I. And I would not want anything to happen. But he is a true home-earner, and handsome, and a loving husband.

I guess I fell for the idea of some man being all three of the above. And being into photography, too. So they do exist. Happy Easter. Amen.

On Americans, Aquarius's and children.

Okay, so I text the Canadian Alex, and in a matter of minutes we were texting backwards and forwards. But what's in there? I suggested lunch, he said he was quite busy with work during the day but would be happy to have a drink or two after 9PM. We'll see.

It was pretty hard to do all the texting as I was walking around London with the American guy I promised to show around. I hope Alex did not take the huge gaps in my reply messages as an invitation to flirt (I hate when people do this and it is my rule not to create artificial gaps while texting).

So this American guy. He is 25 years old and an Aquarius. Well, I was always a bit apprehensive with the Aquarius's because regardless the fact that I should get along really well with them, I always find myself being hurt by the Water-Bearers.

So, a few facts about this particular American: he is from sunny California, lived in Maui and is now based in Florence. He can easily afford all this travel as he is trading securities online and is not tied to any particular place - the only thing that he is concerned about is the opening time of the NYSE, but it is much easier to wake up with it in Florence, around mid-afteroon, then when he lived in Hawaii and had to wake up in the middle of the night to trade. He is doing quite good for himself: buying Gucci suits and not having any set date to return to Florence. He just travels around Europe nowadays.

We walked around Central London, we went to Hammersmith to watch boat race (but it took us much more than 18 minutes to get to the start place, and the boat race was well and truly over by the time we got there). We checked out the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts (it was the second time for me and I loved it again) and we ended up in the Irish pub in Soho. Regardless the fact that he is doing quite well with his trading activities, I was a bit put off with his stinginess. I don't know if I can call it stinginess but really, I find it quite tiring when buying a cider for me, a guy would say, before paying: "Oh, but you'll buy the second round." I mean, I would, anyway, there is no need to say it. It's a common curtsy, right? Unless you want to be a proper gentlemen and treat me to a drink, since I am the one spending Saturday with you, because you asked? Anyway, this is just angriness speaking. Normally, I am so freaked out by a guy that I do not fancy buying me a drink, I end up paying for his lunch.

Anyway, this guy, he reminded me of my first American love, the guy who is married to my distant cousin. They both have blond hair, light blue eyes, light 3-day stubble, straight noses (did I mention I am a sucker for beautiful noses? Yes, I am! I love beautiful straight noses on guys!!) Something in his movements and facial expressions was painfully reminding me of that other guy. It was distracting and disturbing at the same time, like, I would look at him and listen to what he would be saying, only the next second realising that at some stage I stopped listening and started to examine his facial features, memories of the other face awakening in my brain. Although, thankfully, the young American Aquarius was not painfully attractive. He was somewhat funny and tall and blond, but that is not enough, right? Too right. And even his blue tattoo across his wide shoulder blades did not help (oh don't ask how I got to see it...) Another selfish and greedy man is the last thing I need right now. And I thought he is quite selfish after his 2-minute remark on how he hated children. Believe me, 2-minute talk on hating children is long enough to not want to be attracted to a guy, even if you did not want to have his babies in the first place and just wanted to have some fun.

Good night.

Wanted: wise male friend.

Going back to last Friday, when I met two Canadian brothers, and one of them, Alex, took me to his room and explained to me that I should not let people treat me like DB did. So far, I've been good. I did not email DB, and actually the best part is this: I did not feel the need or desire to email him. Okay, truth to be told, he sent me two texts last Sunday and I replied to both of them ("Are you still upset?" No, just angry that you did not work me to the station [feel the sarcasm here??] "I promise I will make it up to you." Promises, promises...)

Anyway, I sent a message via facebook to Alex saying that it was good to meet him and that it would be nice to actually see him in real life sometime, too, rather than be facebook "friends". He replied straight away with his mobile number, urging to call or text him "anytime". My initial reaction was HELL NO, is he kidding? I was about to send him a message with my number saying that if he would really love to meet me again, he should call or text ME. But then I thought, stop. I do not want him to be my boyfriend or to chase me, I just want to meet up with him and have some fun, some laughs, some drinks, without being obsessed on whether he is going to text me after and whether there is going to be a second "date". I just want a male friend. A wise male friend. So I will definitely text him really soon.

Five books a month.

I made a resolution to read at least (AT LEAST!) 5 books a months. For March there were 6:

“A Scattering” by Christopher Reid
“Life After God” by Douglas Coupland (I love Douglas Coupland. I guess it’s my second favourite book by him after “Eleanor Rigby”, which is just fantastic in a sad way, actually, sad in a fantastic way... either way)
“I was told there’d be cake” by Sloane Crosley (amusing collection of essays – recommended to everybody)
“Her Fearful Symmetry” by Audrey Niffenegger
“The Gates” by John Connolly
“All That Glitters” by Pearl Lowe (this is the book of March for me)

April's fool?

Fact no. 1: My friend Pippa works for an established newspaper. She is an international affairs journalist and for sometime now she is moaning how fed-up she is with never-ending arrays of articles about Iraq she has to produce almost daily.
Fact no. 2: The best pyjamas are sold in Gap, the same goes for home bodywear and underwear. Gap were stocking adorable knickers with ice-skates last Christmas and I got a few pairs as a joke for my girlfriends – I attached those to their Christmas cards for merry Crimbo delight.

Anyway, a few minutes ago I received email from Pippa with the following question (it’s this time of the day and I know she is writing about Iraq yet again):

“You know those ice-skating pants you got me? Are they for winter wear only or could I be wearing those in spring, too?”

People make me laugh. I know it’s not the best April’s fool day joke, but it ain’t no joke!

Tests.

I know it’s silly but I just took a few quizzes on facebook, “what’s the first letter of the person you will fall in love with” – and it’s M. M for Matthew! The funny thing is, I was hoping it will be M, and it is!

It’s just the same, I sort of know that the guy I will fall in love with has blue eyes. And he has brother/brothers.

((According to another test, my deadly sin is GREED. Jesus, that is so horrible, I do not consider myself as a greedy person, not at all! And anyway, it’s just stupid facebook quiz. The colour of greed, apparently, is yellow. I like yellow... I am confused and disappointed.))

In no particular order.

I love so many things in this world, like blue sky, and night sky above the Hawaiian Islands, and smell of spring in the middle of March, and rye bread, and cycling, and milk chocolate, and flying on planes, and dancing, and sleeping with an opened window, and Starbucks, and chocolate truffles from Switzerland, and banana milkshakes, and eating in restaurants, and surfing, and black-painted nails, and sushi, and dogs, and horse-riding, and diaries, and postcards, and packing presents, and blackberries (as in gadgets), and blackberries (as in berries), and big professional cameras (although I am a bit scared of those, too), and Liam, and when Matt prays for me, and kissing, and my girlfriends, and fried potatoes (by my Mum), and my Mum, and travelling, and Courtney Love, and sleeping, and Les Misérables, and sharing a bed with a young and attractive man, and shorts, and white shirts, and summer rain, and hot sand, and checked shirts, and guitars, and art galleries, and hugging, and parties, and smoking cigarettes, and laughing, and particularly laughing with Pippa, and driving, and computer games, and writing poems, and earrings, and flat shoes, and black underwear, and Berlin, and Comptoir des Cotonniers, and Van Gogh, and Friday nights, and discussing book for hours, and Saturday mornings, and patent leather shoes, and dresses, and hot baths, and big gent’s watches, and the States, and deserts, and reading, and t-shirts…

Hey, wait here, yesterday, while browsing the net, I found this amazing website (www.outofprintclothing.com) and have already placed an order for two of my favourite books mirrored into t-shirts:


Cannot wait! And it's for a good cause, too. Check it out!

Gay man makes the news.

Ricky Martin today announced on his website that he is gay. This made at least Yahoo! news. This is the man who sang “She is all I ever had”. Was he having a lot of sex with women? Did he just lose his gay virginity? Was he lying all along?
This reminds me of the play “The Little Dog Laughed” which I saw (and thoroughly enjoyed) back in January.

Miserable weather here in London. For the second day in a row I am longing to go back to the Paradise on Earth (aka Hawaii). This longing is so profound that I found myself buying silly t-shirts just like that



(size L for men, but I could sleep in it, right?)

Oh yeah, I started to read Pearl Lowe’s autobiography a few days ago and I literally cannot put the book down! It’s so fast-paced and er… well… addictive (for lack of a better word). She was 25 (a bit old to start a band) and had a toddler daughter when things started happening to her big time. Inspiring. Not that I want to start a band. “All that glitters”? Bring it on!

Amazing bullshit.

Oh what a waste of a weekend! What should have been a glorious weekend ended up such a disappointment. Well, at least I caught up with my DVDs backlog (“Fish Tank” – no, thanks; “Adventureland” – yes, please; “Alice In Wonderland” – watched in a completely sold-out IMAX – hmm okay but worth it just because of gorgeous, gorgeous Johnny Depp!)

Friday night’s dinner in Carluccio’s – always good, but kinda tiring when you end up talking about men, yet again. Dancing in Movida was non-existent and Jess and I left at 1AM. At about 2AM Jess jumped on a bus, which drove her to North London, while I was waiting for a taxi outside Punk. Highly disappointed in the evening at that stage but boy wasn’t I looking forward to the night with DB (who claimed to be “soooo tired” and just sent a taxi to collect me from the club).

Surprise, surprise, DB had a party of his own, of which I knew nothing prior to entering his flat. Champagne, drugs, scantily-clad girls in sky-high heels, you get the picture. By the end of Friday night DB asked two different girls to give him a hand job. I know, what a dickhead. We were then at a house-party hosted by two Canadian brothers (one of them was very cute and the other one extremely helpful – both of them highly compatible with me according to our horoscopes) – that would explain my premonition dream about Canada. Weird, right? So the extremely helpful one took me to his room and asked: “Why do you let him treat you like that?” Why, my point exactly. Apparently, DB claimed that I was his girlfriend (oh yeah, who would have known! But at that stage I was not excited at all about the possibility of being his girlfriend.) He claimed that he could have me anytime and encouraged boys to flirt with me so that I would not get bored while he was pursuing hand jobs. Amazing bullshit.

Anyway, long story short, it was 8AM on Saturday morning when DB and I returned to his flat. I was thinking of collecting my bag and swiftly escaping. He did not let me go; he literally squeezed me in his arms and blamed everything of drugs and alcohol and exhaustion, he was begging me for forgiveness (“You have to forgive me!” – reminded me of Carrie pledging Aiden to forgive her when she confessed she had been cheating on him with Big. I laughed.)

At some point I escaped.

To end this blog on a positive note, I finally received pink American Apparel Legalize gay t-shirt. And this is what I am planning to do tonight: wear it, eat crisps with hot salsa sauce and then green tea with profiteroles and watch “New Moon” and then maybe start on “Sex and The City” Season 3 until I fall asleep, teeth un-brushed.



Okay, kidding. I will brush my teeth.

Some people refuse to settle for anything but butterflies.

I called my very close friend Matt (the first time that we met he suggested we had threesome, but I doubt he remembers this) on Friday night asking for support. He is wise, and he was the one who asked me one autumn evening last year: “Do you want to be with a person because he thrills you, he excites you, you miss being with him, you truly, genuinely love him, or do you want to be with somebody just because you are bored and you are lonely?” I love Matt (so much that I would not have threesome with him). I love him, but I play the game where I am his friend.

Some people get married because they are bored. I date because I am bored. I date people I am bored with because I think it’s less boring to be with someone, rather than be bored on my own. Don’t get me wrong, I love life and I do exciting things, there are things in this big bright world that still amuse me (and no, it’s not the infamous English weather, although it still does amuse me in a bad way). I date because I am bored yet I know I will never marry these people. Even a thought of marrying or spending your life with someone who I would be with just because I am bored is terrifying! And the thing is, I know so many people who got married (and/or are scared now to get divorced) because they were really bored and/or scared in the first place to be lonely or they were scared that no-one better would come along and as we all know “clocks are ticking away”…

I remember, back in 2007 I had this talk with Drew, we were in NYC back then trying to work things out between us and he said something horrible that made me look at him completely differently. He said, and I quote: “You should not dismiss a person just because you think someone better will come along.” Well, this is just another way of being scared to end up alone and ending up settling for what you have. I would rather be alone than live with someone I don’t necessarily love with all my heart. I’d rather be alone than settle for somebody just because I’m afraid no-one better will come into my life.

Is it bad to not wish to settle for comfort and look for something more?

Some people refuse to settle for anything but butterflies. In a long-term, if I am ever bored, I would rather be bored on my own. Than be with DB, who turned out to be such a dickhead.

the boy

Man, boys can be so incredibly beautiful. You just want to be with them forever and ever. This, this is the way a boy should look for me to fall in love. This is the way I want my sons to look. And all of them will be surfers.

On boys who are no more.

I wasn’t even a teenager when my distant cousin (several years older than me) introduced me to her boyfriend, her first sexual partner, who later would become her first (and only, hopefully) husband. Well, they are still married and they have a kid, and I always thought that they are a very happy couple, but perfect couples might just look perfect, it does not necessarily mean they are genuinely happy... But I hope and pray that this couple are actually happy, and when I was younger I thought there could be nothing better than what they had (Tiffany rings and puppies included).

I was in love with him for more than a decade. Maybe it was some psychological trick – after all, he was boyfriend and then husband of a girl I always admired, so if she loved him, I had to love him, too. Maybe it was thanks to the fact that when I was introduced to him I was still too young and sexual thoughts had not been too popular around my mind, but then I met him, who was so obviously sexually active with my friend. Maybe because I truly found him attractive and sexy (and let me tell you, back then he had one amazing body!) Maybe because he was somebody I couldn’t have and, as one of my male-friends once [wisely] pointed out, I always want boys I can’t have. Here you go, that was the beginning of the pattern.

So last night I had the most amazing dream. We were planning to go to Canada (Canada?? Why?) He cupped my face in his hands. He was sexually interested in me. His wife was somewhere around and in my dream I was panicking – is he interested in me? Is he ready to kiss me regardless of the fact that she is somewhere near? Will we be having sex? Is he mine?

No, he is not. Not in real life. And even though his wife is no longer my best friend and if I’d kiss him (and even have sex with him) it wouldn’t ruin our friendship, I wouldn’t do it anyway. Because the young guy I met more than a decade ago (surely not more than two decades ago??) is no more. He is there, in the late nineties, with me, when I was merely a spotty girl on the verge of a teen-age. He and I of then are no more.

But that dream was sure thing sexy! I woke up regretting that it was just a dream.

It's your call either way...

I’ve just googled St. Patrick’s RC (Roman Catholic) Church, which I’d like to visit sometime. It’s on Soho Square, close to the Punk and that The Edge [gay] bar. Embarrassing, isn’t it? Really, the Catholic church and the gay bar, merely a few feet away from each other.

The Edge, where barmen do not look gay at all. And it’s so very embarrassing when your friends try to give them your business card “my friend over there, yes, that girl with a glass of champagne, yes, she thinks you look really hot, so yeah here’s her number…” “Erm, I am gay.”

Embarrassing, isn’t it?

Chat up lines.

Jess and I are thinking about ways to approach men so that they won’t get the fact that it is actually us who approach them, not the other [proper] way around. As an interesting fact, I always have my camera with me. And I always take pictures. The sad fact is that it is I who always take pictures, and I hardly have any pictures of myself taken on fun nights out. And sooooo…

Hi, do you mind taking a picture of us?.. And another one? Oh it didn’t quite work out, could you take just one more?.. What’s your name, by the way?

Genius.

We are clever, smart, slim, pretty and not trashy. Why do we need to think of chat up lines, anyway?

I’ve just about bought the whole Urban Outfitters. Not good.

Genius.

Is it pathetic to flirt with guys who work at the Genius Bar at Apple? I say no, because they give you links to web-sites with downloadable software they are not supposed to give out to Apple customers. Plus people who they work with are either stuck-up media people, gays, nerdy girls (I swear!) or, very occasionally, shy and sweet young women with broken 160GB iPods. I’ve got my second replacement. Everyone’s a winner.

may i never be complete. may i never be content.

A multimillionaire client who I haven’t seen since last year came to the office and the first thing he asked me: Darling, you are glowing, did you get married since we last saw each other? My reply: HAHAHA

Is he joking? Is the only way to “glow” and be happy is to be married? Is there no other way for a woman to be happy but to be married?

P.S. He just got divorced from his third wife.

Code of conduct: emails.

Why does it always happen that people who you don’t really wait emails from always email you? DB’s best friend, with whom he shares the PH flat, emails me with funny messages, calls me every weekend to see how I am and is generally more interested in my life than DB. Oh yeah, a few quotes from DB:
1. I am not asking questions because I am not interested in your response (doesn’t it explain the lack of emails?)
2. Let’s dim the light: everyone looks better in the dark. What, don’t you agree? (And I do.)
3. I lie a lot. (As someone famous once said, Truth never hurts the teller. From all the famous quotes, this is my favourite.)
As you can see, I am silently obsessing over DB. But I figured it’s better to blog about it than send midnight texts or desperate emails (“Why??????”) to my friends (see my entry of yesterday). As I say, there is a certain code of conduct re emails.

Cutie message, my arse.

I received a text message last night at about 3AM. Thankfully, I was asleep and the message did not wake me up. Man, women are pathetic. A certain Y (one of my girlfriends) did the group text to all of her girlfriends in the early hours of the morning saying that an X guy added her as a friend on facebook and sent her (and I quote) “cutie message”. “What should I do? Help!” she was crying for help. At three o’clock in the morning. Somehow I doubt that any [sane or insane] man would ever do the same thing.

Cutie message, my arse.

The mid-twenties crisis.

I have this thing when I think of everybody as young and still at college and every time I look at the pictures now I see myself (looking still young and as if still in college) surrounded by mid-twenties (at least) men with unshaven faces. I am a sucker for 2-3 days stubble on men. They are grown-ups, they have girlfriend and proper jobs, yet we are at this stage now when we have youth and looks and this is the best times, probably (I just finished watching “Dorian Gray”)! I have established that I am having the mid-twenties crisis.

My friend from Paris, Guillaume, was in town for the weekend and we met up for a night out on Saturday. I do not like French people (although I’ve never been to France and have only met about 3 French people so far, but the legend of their greediness and arrogance lives). But I really like Guillaume. He is funny and I do not find him sexually attractive so this makes me enjoy his company without the unnecessary flirting and eyelash action. Anyway, it was the Lock Tavern where we met (he wanted to do the English thing). Foals were DJ-ing (they are following me everywhere). He was with his French friend and we had buckets of fun (as well as cider as well as Guinness). The night ended after 3AM when the Blues Kitchen closed its doors. And so about the doors. The doors of the Blues Kitchen were held open for me by the guy with whom we’d been doing the staring for at least two hours throughout the night. He was with a group of friends, I was with two Frenchmen (and it was obvious that we were just friends having fun). Okay, so we stared. We stared some more. He held the door for me and waited around while I was waiting for the taxi laughing with Frenchmen. I went home.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? I did my bit of staring and it was his problem to come up to me and just say hi. Or something. Oh, those men who stare.

As a result of my sleepless two nights I spent most of today sleeping. And it was such a perfect day as well. I had some weird dreams on people having sex and hospitals and DB talking to me in the park and maybe even holding my hand. DB text me on Friday enquiring about my plans for the night: “This is the first weekend we are about to skip hanging out I guess”. And it was.

Killing Kittens

Don’t I have a story to tell! The Alessandro Dell’Acqua dress worked its magic. Instead of just drinks, the Litigation Lawyer (“LL”) and I went for dinner instead (with plenty of drinks) as he was incredibly late (but what lawyer isn’t?) and by the time we met up I was starving. I haven’t seen him for ages and forgot how well we used to get along. The thing about the LL, he is sweet and interesting to talk to and I always regarded him as a proper grown-up, until I found out (later on Friday night) that he is just a year older than me! Anyway, never ever there were any thoughts on my side on fancying him. Never. Although I always thought that he had a soft spot for me, but it was okay, as I always thought that he is several years older and thought of me as a “young thing” that you can friendly flirt with, nothing else.

Anyway, at about 11PM on Friday night, our talk about religion and spirituality (I told you he is interesting to talk to) suddenly and abruptly turned to marriage and cheating and… wait for this…Killing Kittens parties. “Have you seen “Eyes Wide Shut”?” And yes I have and more than scared I was deadly curious about the reality of the swingers’ parties.

Have you heard about Killing Kittens? Google it. Apparently, these are the parties for the “world’s sexual elite”, and everybody is young and gorgeous. Ha. I tell you, they might seem young and gorgeous when they are fully dressed and wearing masks. The second those are gone you see (more often than not) 35+ men (fat and hairy) and women (fat and hairy? Definitely wrinkly) desperate to have some excitement in their sexual lives. They think that this could be achieved by having sex with strangers while other strangers watch. I guess it takes all kinds to make a world and if this works for them – good. It certainly did not work for me. Scenes from “Eyes Wide Shut” were cinematographically beautiful (if somewhat disturbing) and directed by one of the world’s best directors. The scenes before my eyes on Friday night were just disturbing and were lacking any directorship. There were plenty of fake moans though.

The LL and I escaped to the empty room on one of the upper floors of this private mansion on Portland Street. And he started to kiss me. By then I was full of champagne and Jack Daniels and let him do that (actually, no, I tried to stop him reminding him about his wife AND baby daughter). Are all men cheaters? Please say no.

“Have you become a mason now?” – this was Pippa’s text the morning after I text her about my masked-swinger adventures (although I was a mere spectator). I doubt it.

The creation of office gossip.

A bit of office gossip: one of the younger male trainees here came to the room and what was in his hand – my earring! Apparently, I lost it somewhere near the elevator. How, how did that happen? This is my second set of lovely Swarovski earrings (one of the earrings from the first set I had was lost between the pillows in the Sanderson hotel one crazy night last December – and it took a lot of action for that earring to get out of my earlobe!)
Note to myself: take better care of your earrings; after all, they are your favourite accessories!

Three things, really…

1. There are about a dozen of artistically blurred photographs from Wednesday night on my camera. The photographs of bikes. I am an artist even when I am drunk.

2. I am going for drinks with my friend, a litigation lawyer, tonight. Especially for him I am wearing my lovely Alessandro Dell’Acqua dress for the first time. I hope he’ll appreciate the effort.

3. Remember that weekend of lazy sex I talked about? I miss it. I miss the DB guy who I had that weekend with. It’s now Friday and I have not heard properly from him since Monday, when he called (I missed his call) and text (I did not reply). Anyway, I called him back and we had a little chat and that infamous “talk to you later” was with what it ended. He and I were in the middle of our highly-stressful jobs and it was Monday, after all. One email yesterday – he called me “baby”.

I miss him.

Everybody was Irish on March 17th.

Now I would like to be able to write something groundbreaking interesting, but the sad but true fact of life is that most of the world is generally just screwed up, not screwed up AND exciting.

For some unknown reason my girlfriend S. and I decided to see a film before embarking on green beer extravaganza. It was not meant to happen. What was that obsession to see gay film on the day of much-loved catholic saint? Where is the world going? The film on love life of Phillip Morris was sold out everywhere in the centre and thank God we decided not to explore London suburbs. So it was the pub time.

O’Neill’s was completely packed. Jameson & Ginger was not to be as Ginger ale was no longer available. S. ordered a bottle of cider for both of us (what? Some people amaze me.) Obviously, it was gone within 5 minutes. I was more generous and ordered a glass of red for her and a pint of Guinness for myself. The queues were massive and while waiting for our orders, this 28-year old Irish bloke John and I started chatting. “You can call me Sean”, he answered to my comment that John is not necessarily a proper Irish name. And he was not wearing anything green that would establish that he was Irish. “But I am”, he assured me in this perfect Irish drawl which I wouldn’t be able for the life of me to reproduce in typed words. My knees went weak.

John (aka Sean) was with his [Irish] friend with the impossible Irish name. They were fresh from Dublino (where else?) and decided to join our all-girls company. Half of the stuff they said escaped me (thanks to the Irish songs blasting from the nearby speakers, thanks to the banging of shoes of the dancers to the songs and thanks to their beautiful accent). At some stage one of them went to the bar to buy more drinks failing to ask any of us girls if we wanted anything (at that stage S. was mouthing to me that she was waiting for one of them to offer her a drink). The second Irish guy (maybe his name was Cillian? Maybe not) started to abuse his iPhone, texting and phoning somebody, and then suddenly both of them grabbed their coats, excused themselves, but promised to be back with another [Irish] friend of theirs who was at the nearby pub.

And just like that they were gone. No numbers. Not even facebook. The girls and I stayed for that short period of time which was enough to come to the following conclusions (helped by more Guinness and cider and Jameson on rocks): 1. Cillian (let’s leave his name alone) had a son a picture of who was his iPhone screensaver; 2. Both of them, most probably, had jolly Irish gals for girlfriends (or maybe wives – you never know if the absence of the ring on the ring finger is genuine), even though John/Sean, according to S., was really digging me.

And then we went home. To our separate homes. Every one of us still single. Although I was in the company of a Guinness glass that I shamelessly stole as a souvenir. The tube was full of drunk and merry and green scary people (in that order), but all of us were quite excited to be on the same train.

I was calling my friend Pippa a few times throughout last night only to find out that she was enjoying herself at home with a few cans of cider (Swedish, for that matter). I swore to her and she swore to me that with a bit of [Irish] luck this time next year we are going to be highly hangover somewhere in Dublin. Actually, make it Belfast.

Oh and one more thing. As I get older I realize that Guinness is not that bad, actually. Yes. I think I am a fan in the making.

Happy Paddy's and the best of luck to me!

Okay I’ve decided to take it seriously starting from today. 17th March – St. Patrick’s Day (sorry to state the obvious), but it’s Wednesday and one should feel pretty desperate to start new life/quit smoking/start looking for an ideal male-friend on Wednesday… I don’t like Mondays… But I do. Anyway, Wednesday it is, then. I remember reading somewhere that Irish nation, by some dubious cosmic statistics, is the luckiest nation on the globe (maybe that is why the Irish GDP is the highest in Europe… but why am I talking about this?) Paddy, the tastiest beer in the world and a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – sounds good to me. Quite alluring actually, if you are not thinking about the fact that, abstractly speaking, alcoholism, leaving everything to luck and hope to find some ancient gold in the pewter cauldron (which any evil Leprechaun could use to kill, when you think about it) at the end of the rainbow – all of this smells of madness. Desperate times – desperate measures. And I mean, “We met on St. Patrick’s day – and lived happily ever after” – sounds too good to not give it a chance. This sunny (15 degrees above zero!) March day it can’t be that difficult to find a couple of attractive and bravery-in-fuelled (thanks to the alcohol) businessmen. I should hope so. The necessary numbers were dialed and a couple of my girlfriends and I decided to meet in that Irish pub, outside of Liberty’s.

There I said it.

Nothing and everything – busy. I was just thinking that if it continues like this, I am going to wake up tomorrow and boom I am forty-three or something! Anyway can’t believe how uneventful St. Patrick’s is this year, apparently everybody celebrated last weekend and it so low key tomorrow! If only I knew it is going to be like that I would have done something more special than watching numerous episodes of “Entourage” and having lazy sex all weekend. There I said it.