It's not you it's me. Well, actually, it is you. It's not that I don't remember the good times. You've been there with me through an entire love affair, and really, I can't imagine what I would have done without you. And how you were so stubborn about letting me use labels! Ah, good times.
When it came down to it, it was the good old 'pros and cons' list that did you in. You're so customizable, so easy to post pictures, so user-friendly. But Wordpress. It's just so damn pretty. And yes, I was very happy with us before it turned my head. Truth be told, the layout of all my old posts are bent out of shape about this transfer. But, Blogger, I can write password-protected posts over there. And while it doesn't let me move things around quite so much, it's just... well, sexier.
I'm sorry it's over, I really am. But if you ever need me, you can find me at www.rubysomeday.wordpress.com. It's not too late for us, Blogger. You can still make it up to me. It's been a swell ride, and I'll never forget you.
love, Chica xxx
P.S. I reserve the right to come crawling back if it all goes tits up.
This afternoon, I went into work to exercise one of the perks of my job - free printing (within reason) and binding services. Okay, so it's not up there with the great perks of all time, like bosses who invite you to their summer houses on faraway islands or a company Porsche, but it was really all I asked for from today.
In case you were wondering, the other perk is hot young boys asking for my help.
My dissertation is complete (!) I've already noticed two tiny little flaws since I bound it - but it is too late. I'm going to let them go. And I know it's taken me way too long to write, so maybe I don't have the right to feel this way, but I'm a little proud. I keep picking it up and looking at the contents page. I wrote chapters. Me! With titles! And my abstract rocks! My conclusion is drivel but we'll just ignore that one for now while I bask - oh, let me bask!
Also, why is everyone bailing on Blogger? Why am I suddenly wondering what's so special about Wordpress, and if I am missing out? Why do everyone'sWordpress templates look so fetching? And lastly, why do I feel strangely loyal to Blogger? Blogger is like home, comfy and a little worn around the edges, and Wordpress seems like some exotic island you travel to by boat and then sit drinking pink cocktails with umbrellas in, perhaps wearing sequins. Do I want to get on that boat? After that description I'm thinking hells yeah but meh, I don't know. Blogger makes me feel so safe. Would Wordpress merely use me for some mind-blowing sex and then cast me off, disappearing almost totally from my life, except for the occasional and incredibly awkward work-based accidental meeting? Oh wait, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore...
(FYI I didn't sleep with him, it's just always mind-blowing in my head.)
Yesterday, I finished all the studying I had planned for the day early (proofreading would have been totally redundant because I lost the ability to read actively, and I'm waiting for feedback before I tinker with things) and so I had the night off. I treated myself to Marie Claire and sat in the garden drinking shandy and flipping through the fashion pages! I managed not to let the fact that La Dunst looks effing miserable on this cover spoil my R&R. I've only half-read her interview but am so far moved to say: side of jaded with that, Kiki?
Then I watched Road to Perdition, starring Tom Hanks, Paul Newman, and Jude Law in a sinister and completely unfanciable incarnation. Paul Newman has never really been on my radar before, though I know the man is a legend, but oh my God can he act! You're all reading this thinking "Well, duh...", Oscar nominations galore etc. but I haven't really seen him in anything before and his performance completely blew me away. I really enjoyed the film.
Whilst flipping through Marie Claire I also happened to fall in love.
I'm not even usually a Louis Vuitton girl but I adore this bag and wallet. Shame I haven't got a spare £700 lying around...
The latest from Liverpool (thanks for noting my absence, Nic!) is simply this: I have been buried alive under the weight of draft copies of my dissertation chapters and the tomes of literary theorists, so sorry if I have been a little quiet on the posting and commenting front. I am still checking in with you guys - you provide me with much needed study breaks!
I have to hand my dissertation in on Tuesday, before I head to my job. It's on Representations of Food and the Female Body in Contemporary Texts, and is the final piece of work in my quest to become a Master of the Arts, all 21,000 words of it! I have plenty of work to do still, but at our last meeting my tutor was talking a lot about graduation - surely that's a good sign? It seems to suggest that I might actually be there. Unfortunately, as I near the end of what I have affectionately nicknamed The Dissertation That Will Not Die for the past two and a half years, I seem to be losing my marbles more and more. After battling not to mention ShilpaShetty's appearance on Celebrity Big Brother (I swear it's relevant), and allowing myself but a paragraph on the Size Zero phenomenon, I am now seriously considering using Shakira's album art on the cover of my essay.
Before you guffaw, please cut me some slack, it's after 1 AM as I type and I've been working on the thing all day. Factor in that I never actually dreamed I would get to this stage and you can appreciate my dilemma. I don't even have chapter titles yet. Other interesting images are dotted about this post. I'm debating whether to go with something more traditional like Biblical Eve (versus Shakira Eve, probably the most appropriate choice, but yawn) or something a bit more fun like the other images.
Or I could really freak the bejesus out of my tutor and use this.
But I'm not sure I've got the balls for it. Ho hum. Now have sudden urge to eat a Magnum. Worrying.
This week was Mybug's birthday and he celebrated at HeebieJeebies. Unfortunately, I couldn't make it, and I really wanted to go, I have a new dress to wear and everything. I am so in need of a good night out after all this studying, I cannot tell you. Once this is over, I'm really going to let loose - with anyone who will join me, frankly.
Yesterday I took a night off and invited Dedalus over. We watched The United States of Leland, which was pretty good and featured a solid cast, including the cute little kid from Freaky Friday, Mr. Rachel McAdams, and the rather underrated Don Cheadle. We had a good long chat before we put the movie on too. And I learned how he likes his tea. It was nice, if a little "sparky".
The thing with Dedalus though, is that whenever he meets a girl, I know before he even tells me. And I know when he's stopped seeing her too. How do I know this? Purely from the tone of his text messages. Single, he is real eager to meet up and make dates, suggesting movies and places we should go; when there's a girl on the scene, I get lots of vague references to his 'hope' of meeting up 'soon'. I'm sure this is natural and that I would probably be the same if I met someone new, you tend to forget anyone else even exists if there's a new love in your life. But Dedalus has a history here, and it makes me nervous. Well, not nervous. Hesitant. Do I keep my guard up with him, waiting for him to meet his next serious girlfriend and get real busy, or do I let myself relax into the friend thing, and accept him as part of my life again?
I just keep thinking of that old saying: fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice...
I guess it's not that big a deal. Judging on past performance, arm's length is probably the best place to keep him.
Okay, guys. I know I asked for your advice and then went and did whatever the ballyhoo I wanted anyway. But believe me, you are in good company. I completely ignored my sister's considered opinion as well. I decided to go with 'Muffin's short and sweet 'Oh for fucks sake will you text him you're doing my head in already.'
So. I sent a simple Hey, I just heard, you okay? He answered, saying he didn't have a scratch but his car was dead. I replied Ah well at least you're okay, that's the main thing. Alfie rides again. (I actually refer to him as Alfie. It's our little joke.) He sent an amused reply. And then, I left it.
I feel good about it. I was the grown up - as per. And then I moved on.
Well, as far as he knows, anyway!
The thing is, I have reached a final conclusion about Alfie and I. Any attempt to pursue things would only lead to frustration. He is never going to get what he wants from me (sex); I'm never going to get what I want from him (love).
Hate to be such a fucking cliche but there you have it, the central dilemma of our pseudo-affair.
Maybe one day. But not now. For now, I need to put Alfie back on the shelf. Preferably a high shelf I need a kick-stool to reach. Maybe, just maybe, I'll forget he's even up there.
Okay, this is gonna be a slightly hysterical post because I am writing as a knee jerk reaction to some news I just received from the delightful and always informative 'Muffin. Oh my frickin' Lord, Alfie was in a car accident last Sunday, HE IS 100% FINE, without a scratch on him, but must have been pretty shaken up because from the description of the accident he was crazy lucky to walk away. Okay, now that you know that, here's where I get a little me, me, me. Um, hello, you sent an email to people in work and left me out? WTF? Not everyone in work, but a few people he was friends with. And yeah I'm sure he knew 'Muffin would tell me. But come on. Now what do I do, do I send him a message asking if he was okay, or was it a snub? WTF?
I need someone to tell me what to do please. My brain has been scooped out of my head like the innards of a cantaloupe.
Okay, as I've mentioned in passing, Boyf is in France right now. He's working on the house my parents bought at the beginning of last year. The one that needed only cosmetic work. He's ripping out the ceiling because all the beams have to be replaced. They're riddled with woodworm and the upper floors of the house could collapse at, uh, basically any moment.
The past few days, I've had the house to myself. Until I had my bad dream last night and reacted like a total fool, I was loving it. (I'm back to loving it now, I just needed a warm body to press myself into to make the real world seem more solid; it's nice to have somebody you can wake up at 5 am.) Apart from that, I really enjoyed coming home last night to an empty house. My sister picked me up from work, because she's amazing. I walked in, got my things ready for work the next morning, made pizza, put on my pyjamas, and watched some Sex and the City repeats. It felt good. I was alone with my thoughts. Nobody was yammering in my ear. I could listen to music until 1 am. I could text my friends late at night without being complained at. If I'd wanted to, I could have cleaned the house from top to bottom or painted my nails without anybody criticising me for starting things at weird times.
I need my space. I like my own company. I enjoy making my own decisions and doing things on a whim.
Boyf called me in work last night. It was great to hear his voice. I got the stomach flip. He asked me if I minded if he stayed longer, and I told him of course not. Even though he's so far away, I know he's still mine. I have no insecurities about us. I can both miss him and appreciate the time apart. It's good. It's a good place we're in.
The title of this post makes sense if you've been writing about Atwood for four days solid. I know you're out there, compatriots. The following all seems very Lady Oracle to me.
About twenty minutes ago, not long before 5 am, I climbed out of a horrible dream and into an empty house. I actually started crying like a big baby. I put on my phone and text my boyfriend - who is in France. I text Mybug on the off chance he was awake (student lifestyle.) I crept out of bed and locked my bedroom door. Then I thought, there's no way I'm getting back to sleep, I may aswell write it down.
The dream is dissipating now but Freud would have a field day with the parts I remember, I'm sure. I was in work. Someone was incredibly rude to me while I was serving them. So I yelled at them. (You're wondering where the scary part comes in aren't you? There are no werewolves or little green men in this one.) For some reason I had to work really late, so I left the building after eleven and switched on my phone. I had a voicemail off the boyfriend, complaining that he was waiting for me to meet him for drinks and had been for hours. Somehow, in the way of dreams, it was still daylight. I was crossing the road listening to the message and drinking from one of those bottles with the sports caps, and nearly bumped into somebody. I looked at his face, and recognised it. For a second I thought it was rude counter man. Then I realised I'd dreamt about him. He leered at me as if he recognised me too and I squeezed the bottle and sprayed my drink at him, then started hurrying back to my work building. He, following me, said something that struck me as incredibly frightening, but I can only remember a fragment of it. The fragment is "...a knife in your bed..." He caught me. I woke up. I cried. It seemed chillingly portentous.
20-something shopaholic, dreamer, flirt, librarian, and student of literary theory. Currently personifying the reason office romances are frowned upon and determined to make you read about it until your eyes drop out of your head.