Monday, April 11, 2011

Only Myself to Blame

I feel rubbish this morning. It's like all the brilliant, sunny happiness of the weekend has been punched out of the planet like a belly bounce from a fat chav in a skin tight velour track suit. It's all my own fault. The new phone arrived and was excitedly plugged in and things began synching and whirring. Technology was happening right beneath my fingers.

Unfortunately, technology happened that went well beyond my meagre grasp and suddenly my message inbox was inundated with forgotten messages that have been living in my sim card for the past 3 years. Messages I'd forgotten about, ones I'd thought deleted a long time ago - skulking like sewer animals just below my radar.

Messages from a boy.

Genuinely lovely messages from a boy I genuinely used to love - and, as is abundantly clear from the messages - he used to love me too.

This is the sort of thing that sends me into a tailspin - I wasn't expecting to see them. I thought they'd been deleted a long time ago. I didn't really need to see them again - I didn't want to see them again. But there they were - sitting, looking at me like a dog who's just farted and is waiting to see if you'll usher him out the door.

I don't like surprises - anyone who knows me particularly well understands that I like organisation and planning. Things being sprung on me are more likely to have me stuttering like Forest Gump on a bad day than excitedly chattering about spontaneity. I like careful time planning... I like being ready for things... I do not like things that sneak into my sphere of being without having their papers carefully scrutinised at security. This dislike of surprises permeates everything - suprise parties, surprise items in a dish ordered from a menu, pregnancies... I'm just not a fan.

What is it about a broken heart (excuse the almost Chemical Romance Nature of this upcoming phrase) that refuses to be permanently sorted out? Is it me? Am I just utterly rubbish at sorting myself out over this one? Every time I think I'm sorted and fine, I get a smack in the face like this and I'm a dumbass Bridget Jones wannabe staring oddly at the wall and wondering what I did wrong. I'm pretty sure my heart's got it's fingers crossed every time it says we're fine and then chooses opportunities like this to wiggle it's tongue at me and say "nur nur ne nur nur - just kidding. You're still a fuck up."


I deleted the messages. Again. Turns out it's just as hard the second time - especially now you're not entirely sure whether they're deleted or just waiting for the next time you opt for the free upgrade - now with extra teenage angst. Truth be told though, it's not feeling great down here in my little world. Feels a lot like I'm not as strong as I thought I was - which is one of my least favourite feelings. I've worked pretty damn hard to move on - the boy has even become one of my favourite stand up sets just to try and prove to myself I have zero affection left.

Stupid messages. I think I'm going to move back to the Dark Ages - how dare some stupid long forgotten messages be able to pop up like this and put me in a foul mood. From now on, any love notes I'm likely to want to cherish will have to come carved into a tablet of stone so that I can smash them up good and proper when I'm done and then I'll know that short of an afternoon with some super glue - there's no going back.

I don't want to go back - not to him. We're done. But my stupid, stupid brain has now wandered off down a little cul de sac of memories where I was connected to someone - and my stupid, stupid brain is pointing out the blindingly obvious like a tourist in London.

"Hey look - it's the London Eye!" - Really you giant sack of shit? What gave it away for you - the fact that it's fucking massive, the fact that it's in London or the fact that everyone else with a bumbag and sun glasses has said exactly the same thing? Go home.

"Hey Laura, it was really nice when you had a boyfriend." Brilliant, thanks brain - any other titbits you've got in there for me today? Like how about, "You wouldn't be that great on Mastermind?" or "Breathe out comes after breathe in?" These are all things I'm fully fucking aware of and don't need you to say to me on a regular basis. We're aware of them. Now shut up and continue ticking and whirring so that everyone else in the office thinks we're busy.

Perhaps I could hire a boyfriend just to send me text messages that I can be furious about later? That way, I don't actually need to make time to see him or have feelings for him, but I can occasionally look through some nice words that make me feel brilliant? Or maybe I should just suck it up and stop being a dick. I feel the second option might be slightly more feasible...


  1. You're not a dick. You are a wondefully expressive writer who makes me laugh and moves me in a blog - a blog! They're usually reserved for me thinking about kittens or politics and yet you've squeezed humour and emotion into my lunch hour

  2. That's just unlucky cucumber.