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.