Hi, Miguel

Please stop calling me. If you persist, I will not be held responsible for what I will do. That will entail stringing you along for the next two or three months, using you as a substitute for Victor.

You don’t want it. Hell, I don’t want it. So stop now. Please understand that when I say I am in love with someone, I really mean it. Saturday’s lunch was great. Thank you. You should’ve let me paid my bit. And good god, you should stop being so very homophobic. It isn’t endearing.

The outfit told me you tried too hard to impress. A more liberal way of thinking would’ve impressed me.

Do you want to know why I always sound miffed when you phone me? Because it’s you, not Victor who’s calling me. That’s why. Yes, it’s a terrible excuse, but I want to be honest with you.

See, I just can’t see myself with you. It’s not your lack of a job (though it certainly does not count in your favour); it’s about your attitude towards some things. The homosexual sex thing just clinched the deal for me. Surely two consenting adults are allowed to do whatever they want to? As long as it does not involve small children or animals, I’m quite happy for them to explore their sexuality.

Oh, and the reading thing. If you want to get into my pants, you’d have to learn to do better than tell me you find reading boring.

You’re a very attractive guy. I’ll admit that. And you’re rather smart, or else I would not enjoy talking to you as much as I did. But that’s about it. Oh, and you’re a great dancer. lol.

But yeah. You’re too needy. Which is funny, because I’m like that with Victor. You should’ve seen me on Friday night. 😉 It wasn’t a pretty sight. Funny, yes, certainly. Pretty? Nope.

So, anyway. This is it. No more. I have made a pledge to myself that I will not indulge in gratuitous sex any longer. And that’s all you will really be. A pretty boy with nice lips.

Two weeks. 26th March 2008. It’s a fucking struggle.

Look what I got!

12/03/2008

My first LV

Well, it isn’t the LV I was coveting, but it’s a pretty good replacement. I used it for the first time to take out small change for the taxi – R4.50, and felt trés rich. And then I had coffee at the deli down the road.

Valerie Solanas got it all wrong. Men aren’t S.C.U.M. LOL

I think this is my new baby, and she’s going to sleep next to me tonight. He he he he

22/09.2007

To my fine German friend:

Fine… I’m only happy because of all the material goodness in my life. The rest is a hollow shell. I feel hollow cause I am hollow.

I have hardly any good friends left. The few remaining ones I get to see perhaps only once a month if I’m lucky. More often I don’t get to see them for months on end.

Toby and I …. eish. still not happy. it’s not working. i’ve tried to break it off so many times but it just didn’t work.

he cheated on me.. many times. i forgive him constantly. why?? cause i’m afraid of being single. cause we have build a semi-decent life together (with my money).

i want to run away from myself. can one do that?

i constantly dream of being killed, or of dying. the last dream i had like that was where i hear a noise from the front door. i open it and it’s a thief who then stabs me in the neck.

it hurt briefly but then it was bliss; i’m dead with no more responsibilities or tasks waiting on me. no more sadness. that sounds divine.

sorry.i just had to write to you. i know you’ll understand. or, i hope you’ll understand.

me

I don’t think I can do “dating” again. I’ve been on so many dates, most of which were awful. A big number of them turned out to be non-dates.

Take Young Jewish Guy for example. We met on JDate. Yeah, I’m a wanna be Jew. He made it quite clear that he’s a student. I was fine with that. I made it quite clear that I’m not exactly white, and that I’m not exactly Kosher. He was fine with that.

I didn’t, however, realise that Cape Town is a fucking fishing village, and that he’d probably know Toby. Fuck number one. Half an hour before our coffee date, I spoke to Toby (this was in 2006, btw) and told him I’m going to meet Young Jewish Guy. Toby snickered and told me Young Jewish Guy is a prick.

I didn’t believe him. Young Jewish Guy phoned me ten minutes before we were supposed to meet, telling me some of his friends had decided to see a movie, and would I like to join them? I was really keen to meet him, so said “Yeah, sure” and skipped to the movie house. It was around the corner from where I was waiting. Working, sorry.

I got there and saw that Young Jewish Guy is balding, short and fat. I can do two of the three; I can’t do a menage a trois. In fact, I have done two of the three before, and it didn’t bother me too much. But all three? Eeeew.

Determined to be pleasant, I sauntered up to the little group, noticed that he’s drinking white wine out of a plastic (or foam, I can’t really remember which) cup, and introduced myself to him. Oh, I forget, Glen was with me. He spotted Young Jewish Guy in the crowd. Glen decided he’s not going to waste a lovely Friday night protecting me from whatever imaginary evils are lurking there, so he left. I stood next to Young Jewish Guy and his friends, we chatted for a bit until Young Jewish Guy casually asked me if I would mind paying my own ticket.

I gritted my teeth, gave him my best voice-dripping-with-sarcasm, opened my wallet, and darted to the booth to pay for my ticket when I realised I shouldn’t have to pay for anything on the first date.

He shouldn’t fucking expect me to 1) pay anything, 2) have to mingle with his dorky friends, 3) watch him drink wine out of a plastic (or foam, I can’t remember which) cup and 4) date a short, fat, bald guy.

So I told him that actually, I have a slight headache and could I take a rain cheque, please? He looked absolutely dejected. I nearly felt bad, but another look at the plastic (or foam) cup, and I steeled myself. I bid them a pleasant evening, and ran to catch up with Glen, who was already way ahead of me.

I’m sure there are great men out there. But they’re married. Or gay. Or emotionally unavailable. Or all three. So for now, I’ll just remain as comfortably numb as I am and worry about where I’ll sleep tonight.

I got what I wanted, I guess. Right now, I’ve got “lights, camera, action!”

On Thursday, I did something I’m not very proud of: I bunked work. Ai tog. I fucking finally made it past my probation period (18 January 2008) and I do something stupid like that.

So, of course, I got a warning. It’s only a First Written Warning Letter, but it’s there nonetheless. Stalin looked downright uncomfortable, probably expecting me to put up a fight over receiving the warning. I didn’t. Shame, poor oke. I felt worse than he did. I don’t know why I thought he was a meanie. Anyway.

It’s the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

This is from Crash. I guess what happened here, was the feeling of not being communicated to. So I bunked, and someone spoke to me. Finally. My logic is fucked up sometimes, so help me out.

Do I feel bad for bunking on Thursday? Yes, of course I do. It was Warren’s last day yesterday, so I will never see him again. Had I at least showed up for work on Thursday, I would have seen 8 hours more of him.

Oh well, we’ll always have facebook.

I need a life

25/02/2008

I need a life. I’m stalking Natasha again on Facebook. Browsing her photos. Wondering where Toby went wrong, wondering where I went wrong, wondering where everything went wrong. Iamastalker.

It’s still difficult to believe how he could fall for someone who’s probably double my size, but then again, I guess it’s not all about the outer appearances. I hope she’s making him happy. Really, I do. I didn’t make him happy.

I just couldn’t respect him. I out earned him, I thought I was smarter than him, I detested his weed smoking, I was always grumpy, he just couldn’t make me happy, no matter how hard he tried. There was always something wrong. Yes, you guessed right: I blame myself.

Only during the last couple of months did I finally realize he’ll always earn less than me and I’ll be the breadwinner. And, eventually, I started to make peace with that. But it was too late by then.

So, I doubt we’ll ever be friends, but … argh. Fuck her! (Not quite sure where that came from, promise)

I’m gonna fucking vomit in my mouth right fucking now. It’s such a pity she isn’t even skinny, otherwise I could call her The Stick Figure With No Soul. Let’s just call her Natasha, we might as fucking well.

She and Toby are boyfriend and girlfriend. Have been since early January already, which was when Victor and I were still conducting a long distance thingy…

She kept her profile hidden from public view for a loooooong time. See, I’m a crazy stalker woman. She needed to keep her personal life hidden from me when I found out he is cheating on me with her. I went as far as to log into Toby’s Gmail account and read their gchats live. I was also able to log into (or is it onto?) his Facebook account. This is how I got her telephone number. So one day, I was at work (the one that fired me, or, rather, forced me to resign) and was having fun reading their inane little gchat convo. Well, it was fun reading it until she promised she’ll call him from work. So I did what any self-respecting girlfriend would do: I phoned her and screamed at her to fucking stop calling him. LOL.

She could be my twin sister. We look similar; I’m just prettier, of course. And skinnier. And cleverer. Although not as much as I used to be. And it pisses me off – Toby always used to complain about my weight and about my curly hair… And now she is possibly 20 kilos heavier than me (fucking massive arms…OMG) and she’s got curly kroesies. Someone pass me a bucket, please?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

So. I think what pisses me off the most is that they went to Kirstenbosch some weeks back (or is it ago?). He never wanted to go with me… And he already introduced her to his brother and cousin. That’s a fucking big deal to him. Good grief! Her status updates are enough to make one puke, especially me. She’s the fucking reason Toby called it quits. Fine, she’s the reason I called it quits. The fucking cow has 1700-odd wall messages.

Argh. The weirdest thing is that I’d love to be friends with her… I know, I’m fucked up. Totally and completely and utterly and whatnotnot. In fact, I’ve got a slight crush going on… argh. It’s a thin line between love and hate, right? Corny but true.

I’ll have to brace myself for the inevitable: seeing them together some day, holding hands and being all fucking lovey-dovey. It’s gonna happen.

Let’s hope my crush has worn off by then so that I can give her a good old klap when I meet/see her.

I want this to work. Really. I wouldn’t spend so much time and fucking energy fretting about it if I didn’t. He’s busy, I need to deal with it. C’est tout. Finish en klaar. But I also don’t want to feel neglected. Tricky. But I do not have energy for too much D.R.A.M.A

I thought of taking up a part time job. I actually applied somewhere. A bookstore, obviously. I could really do with some extra money; my rent is astronomical. I’m also working on some shitty articles for a popular Afrikaans daily. It’ll do me good. Remember I spoke to the Editor about writing something for his newspaper? I need to use Malcolm‘s Press Card for free movies on a Thursday – I’ve only been twice. Hell, I could even ask him if I could write a review on the movies and then he can publish it… I’m even thinking of doing volunteer work. But all these are not to become busier, so as to keep up with Victor. No, I have been contemplating doing all of these for months. I’ve been meaning to join Toastmasters for years. Well, for one and a half years only.

Although it is very satisfying to come home and not to have anything to do: no art exhibition opening to attend, no book launch to mingle at and no Christian birthday partay to suffer through.

In other news

It’s V’s day. Argh. At least he sent me an email. He promised last night that he’ll try to be more communicative. I guess it’s a step in the right direction.

Tonight was supposed to be a girlie evening with my spessal fwend – Susan. But I don’t really feel like trekking all the way to her anymore. Instead, I’ll spend tonight at home. Lalita might pop in for an hour or so. If not, then it’s still cool. I’ll have myself some Pongraz then.

And then I’ll spend a couple of hours with Victor this weekend. But first I need to spend some quality time with my pwetty lady!

It is almost 8pm on Wednesday night, February 13. Two minutes to go. If I do not hear from Victor by 9pm tonight to let me know what the plans are for tomorrow, I’m going to lose it.

Last I heard from him was the email about him needing to think long – and very hard – about accepting my FB relationship request. Argh.

He calls himself a workaholic and is married to his career. Is anyone else’s SO (significant other) like this? I’m not so sure if I can handle it. Only seeing him once a week for a couple of hours is bad enough, though I can handle it; him not staying in touch is quite another.

He’s a bit of an intellectual snob. And has working class aspirations. Nothing wrong with that, but I’d rather aspire towards a nice home and a comfortable retirement. Not to work until I expire. I see myself as the quirky granny who has a Cosmopolitan for breakfast, you know?

So anyway. I have proceeded to barrage my heart against the inevitable: heartbreak. I gave my Datingbuzz profile a makeover, I posted an ad on Gumtree and I have not been in contact with him since yesterday. Well, fine, I am too used to sending him links to cool stuff I find on the interwebs. I should stop.

Yes, I know I might be overreacting, but I do believe I deserve better. We’re just too different. I don’t think he is ready for a relationship. And perhaps I’m also not.

Tomorrow is V’s day. That means I’ll share it with a spessal friend. Who is a girl, if you were wondering. Remember, Victor’s got until 9pm tonight to contact me to arrange something for tomorrow? 35 minutes to go… 33 minutes to go…