Monday, 23 January 2012

The Year of No BULLSHIT

I think its safe to say, whenever you experience a break up, you learn from it, at least women do.

You extract from the it causation and consequence: the chain of events that led you to, hit, hate, kill, cheat on or get bored of your ex partner in order to better yourself, your future actions and choices. 

This attempt is made by all of us as of a means of achieving 1 of 2 things:

1.    To romantically skim over the stagnant learning plateau that comes hand in hand with a long-term relationship, with the aim of constructing love, happiness and respect for yourself and the next person you fall in love with...aka find the one.

2.    To swerve the bullshit.

I’m sure you can guess by now which of the 2 options is held highest in my esteem.

I genuinely believe I am impervious to the kryptonite that is bullshit. 
Ruthless and as a result, I live every day with the belief that 97.5% of people have an air of c*nt about their person: aiming low in my estimations to avoid disappointment.

I find myself completely unaffected, sporting an endearing smile on my face whenever anybody decides to generously ladle on bullshit like a bowl of Grandma’s infamous scotch broth.

I’m not a needy girl by any stretch of the imagination however, I have no time for nonsense or bullshit: 2 things this city appears to have all the time in the world for.  

Here is a list of some of the things I would toss into room 101 in a heartbeat and the major causes of the overly used gesture of ‘rolling my eyes.’

1.    People who wait a ‘cool’ couple of hours before answering a text for the sake of eliminating keenness and appearing nonchalant, despite the fact the my messages are completely absent of needy ‘chit chat’ and I merely want to know if I left my eye liner on your sink.

2.    People who apply sincerity, severe subtraction and a dash of sensitivity to the amount of people they claim have slept with, believing that I will give a shit if I know the truth and contemplating that I might actually believe them.

3.    Flakiness accompanied with poor excuses. Just tell me ‘You can’t be bothered’, ‘You’re hungover’, ‘You’re knee deep in clunge after a furious bunga bunga party with Dennis Rodman’…I do not care. It’s not like I’m going to go home and self-harm if you can’t take me to Winter Wonderland for fun, frolicking and frostbite.

4.    People who feel the need to let you know they aren’t after a relationship after 5 text messages and the drunken sharing of a lukewarm doner kebab. DO NOT FLATTER YOURSELF…contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t gunning for a joint bank account and matching number plates when I was poaching your jalapenos mate…CHILL OUT.

Control- the power to go against that curse that is hormones/the vagina and no longer be swayed/bothered by testosterone fuelled mouth diarrhea.

To no longer believe ‘he would never do that to me’…’he’s not like the rest of them’…Apologies love but the odds are against you; its highly probable he is.

The sooner you wise up, the sooner, you will be able to not give a shit and not giving a shit is a beautiful thing, it means you are fine depending on you and only you.

It also means there would be a lot fewer days spent in the shithouse/on the sofa by the men of London as we would no longer hold the poor bastards on such high and wobbly pedestals.

I adore men, don’t get me wrong, I have not undergone a metamorphosis into the projection of bitter, dick hating feminism, I merely no longer have a pulse when it comes to bullshit.

No need to cut people off, erupt in anger or floods tears. If you simply don’t care, faults are noted but no drama emerges from the matter.
And if you don’t care, egos are left to shrivel up like the sun-dried tomatoes in a vegetarian special baguette from Pret A Manger.

Be warned people, faking it doesn’t work. That’s just bottling bullshit up and a bullshit overload is extremely bad for the immune system and breath.

Maybe you have to had gone through a break up to no longer care about the opposite sex in a way that gives you that bubbly feeling in your nether regions, I don’t know…

But not giving a shit is awwwwwwww…some.

Friday, 6 January 2012

Poor chat has stopped me dating.

Poor chat has stopped me dating.

I’ve decided to make a strategical U turn and deliberately swerve dating on account of the painful chat that is circulating this city.

You’d think in a place so vast, it wouldn’t be too hard to locate somebody who you didn’t have to endure a minimum of 35 minutes of awkward and inane small talk, following which, dick talk moves in as the hot topic of conversation: either that or the enquiries as to what you’re wearing start to flood in, to which I reply with a confidently declared “FAAAAACCCKKKK OFFF!!!”

In all honesty, I have been known to toy with the ‘what are you wearing?’ message with the assistance of mockery and sarcasm. The last time this happened the responding text message read:

“PVC thigh high boots, currently suspended from the ceiling drenched in candle wax and my flatmate’s urine”

Shock tactics never get a response…the desired effect.

These people don’t even exercise subtlety, no cheeky charm, no witty innuendo’s, simply laying on the sleaze about as blatantly as a feminist at Spearmint Rhino’s.

Furthermore, I seem to be regularly deemed as the type of female who needs a hefty collection of ‘I’m not tensing/topless muscle man’ multimedia messages. You know, the ones that always seem to feature the mobile device that is capturing this treasured moment.

It’s quite sweet really, like when you get a Christmas present you don’t really want but are expected to act as if you love e.g. You get a ‘sexy/fucking cringe’ photo, but you would much prefer a punch in the face.

For example.

I went to a bar the other day with a good friend of mine and was a approached by a man dressed like a homosexual Sherlock Holmes with an irritating air of swagger about him. He clearly believed himself to be the holder of ‘The Ultimate Pimp Game’…like an elixir of life for wankers as I kid you not, these are just 3 of the genius comments that left the lips of this class A pleb;  

1.     Hi ladies, my names Cedric and I made a lot of money today
2.     Let me guess, you’re a nanny and you’re a hairdresser (I was the nanny)
3.     So are you coming back then?...I have champagne.

Even more shockingly, an expression of utter surprise and confusion could be read upon his smug face as upon exit I proclaimed:

“Lovely to meet you darling, now if you’ll excuse us, we need to go and adjust our cervical coils”

To conclude.

To be fair, I don’t actually want to be with anyone. Pretty in love with my double bed in my cosy flat in Catford, the mere thought of sharing it with anything other than Eygptian cotton making me mildly furious if there is such a thing.  However, you can’t help but encounter the occasional douche bag.

I met another guy in the infamous Whisky Mist who due to the fact that he was better than average at meandering a spherical pigskin around a pitch for 90 minutes (he was a footballer) he could waltz around the room like some kind of Messiah. 

His opening line was “Do you know who I am?” so I was pretty sure we weren’t going to end up married with children in a 7 bed mansion in Berkshire.

30 minutes of droning babble regarding champagne cocktails and the offside rule and I was dead inside, finally pushed to the limit by him asking if I knew the monetary value of the diamond encrusted ring he was sporting on his little finger: he looked like he just had mugged the cast of Dynasty.

“Do I look like your accountant?! Because unless your going to give me a bag of chronologically arranged receipts to sift through, I suggest you hold off on the asset breakdown and do one”

He shouldn’t have pushed me.