2013 – The Reflection

I set myself a few goals for 2013 and now it’s over, I feel like I should go back and evaluate whether or not I’ve managed it. Why not?

Happy New Year’s Eve!!! was the original post back in December 31st, 2012. I talk whether or not I’d managed to achieve the resolution for the year before that and I feel it’s only right to see what I managed to pull out of the last 12 months.

I want to give up smoking. Again.

Well, consider I just put a cigarette out, I reckon I’ve failed there. I’m still using my e-cigarettes but I’m having the odd cigarette. Maybe around 3 per day? I’ll make that another resolution I’ll roll through to 2014…

I want to progress within my job.

I think at the time I meant my day job but seeing as I’ve come a fucking long way in my writing career, I’m gonna say I achieved that. I started a couple of websites with the work colleague I discuss in Dipping your Pen in the Office Ink?, and they are making me money. My freelancing career is taking off too. So yes – I progressed within my other job. That still counts, right?

I want to see where things go with One Ball and hope not to get a broken heart at the end of it.

Well… I didn’t get my heart broken. I broke his heart. I’m pretty sure that’s worse because even now I still feel shitty about it from time to time. I guess I failed at that one too.

I want to find a new home to call my own rather than living with family.

OK so it’s a month or so late but I am moving out very soon! I’m gonna class that one as a pass.

I want to go to a country I’ve never been before.

Fucked that one up too – I didn’t go anywhere! Work took over and then writing took over the time I had left after that. Then you throw a social life into the mix. And a relationship. My life is chaos all the damn time. Complete chaos. I’m always late. I definitely don’t get enough sleep. I love it though. I’d be bored if life were easy. Another epic fail.

I want to go back to the other side of the world to see the people I left behind.

Didn’t leave this side of the world. Self-explanatory. Fail.

I want to get completely, truly, definitely over Big Love.

Well I don’t know if I’m 100% over him. I don’t know if I ever will be. But I’m over him enough to get on with a band new relationship where I am completely in love and for one, I believe it is truly reciprocated. So half-pass, what d’ya think?

I want to make mistakes and cry some tears, make new happy memories and travel around my home country that I feel has been somewhat overlooked. I want to get drunk, occasionally take some drugs and have some good nights out. I want to get to my goal weight of 145 pounds. When all is said and done, I just want to be happy. 

Well that’s what i said right at the end of 2012 leading into 2013 and I’d say I managed that. I DID get to my goal weight and am now even heading south of that. I AM happy – in my relationship and with life in general. Yes there are some things that I still desperately need to change, such as my finances, but let’s face it; who doesn’t?

I’ve pretty much quit drinking and aside from smoking pot, I haven’t done any drugs. All in all I would say that 2013 was a fucking great year for me. I’ve found love, found happiness, made a few changes, progressed in my career/hobby, made a lot of money, spent a lot of money, created two new websites that are actually making me money, walked on fire to raise money for kids with cancer, had some good times with my family and friends, visited new places in my home country that I’d never seen before, eaten out in lush restaurants, worn clothes I would never have worn before and much more. And even better than that – I made 2013 the year I found myself again. I went back to my quirky sense of style and my witty humour. I was just me.

I’d say 2013 was great for me. It had some up’s and it sure had some down’s but all in all, I’d say it was mostly a lot of laughs. And I met you guys too… What more could a gal want?

Emotional Hoarding: The Hubby’s Letter

In a previous post (The Nation of (Emotional) Hoarders), I talk about the little things that we have kept from past lovers. All those love letters and mementos of the romantic and adorable times you had together? I mention a letter than the Hubby had given me, apologising for punching me in the face. I have decided to publish that letter. Brave? Or stupid?

I kept the letter for all this time in case the divorce got messy. The divorce we still haven’t got started on yet. Rolls eyes. 

Anyway, this is the letter he gave me:

“Once a man admits he is sorry, he is completely forgiven for all the wrong-doings.”

I don’t think that cuts it here. In fact, I don’t think any dumb movie quote will pull me out of this shit smelling anything nearly like roses. 

I don’t know how, why or when, but I seem to be destined, pre-programmed or however you want to put it, to mess up or fuck up every time I get something good going.I’ve always done it with everything for as long as I can remember, and now you know it as well. 

Maybe I’m not the sort of person you should have married. Maybe I’m not the sort of person anyone should. 

I’m a dick. We all know that. No matter what, maybe I’m never gonna get rid of that cunt that I used to be. Still am. In fact, probably more of. 

I wanna be happy, have my own family and grow old with someone at my side. The bottom line is, no matter what, I want it to be with you. 

I’ve always said that if I could change the past, I wouldn’t because it would change me and everything else. Now I’m not so sure. I wish I could take back all the lying and cheating and beating and make everything as perfect as I could between us. But then maybe we wouldn’t be together and something else would have driven us apart. 

I really want this to work but maybe there’s something really wrong with me. I can’t be fully faithful. I don’t think I can sleep with just one person for the rest of my life. I really want to but I don’t think I can help myself. The little voice keeps telling me I can’t. As I’ve already said, I don’t think I can ever fully get rid of THAT guy. 

“I love you. Always have, always will”

I can promise anything you want like:

  • Sell the car
  • Get you a new cat
  • Get you a new pet
  • Not go out
  • Not have a life
  • Not drink
  • Do everything you say, when you say it
  • Play by your rules from now on
  • Never lie to you about anything no matter how small

But none of that really matters. What does matter is I will love you til death do us part. I will treat you as you deserve; like a princess. I will try and be they man and husband you deserve. I’ll TRY and be 100% faithful. I’ll TRY and never lie to you again. I will NEVER hit you again. 

Writing this down has been really hard. Same as trying to talk to you about it. You know you need an excavation team to try and get my feelings and emotions out. 

I know this is short compared to what you probably want but I can’t put down anything else at the minute. Except I love you, I want to be with you, I want us to work and most importantly, I don’t want you to leave me. You are my rock and you keep my feet on the ground. 

It was much harder writing that down than I thought it would be. As I read it, tears filled my eyes and as much as I refused to let them roll down my cheek, those words still effect me. I remember him giving me that letter with a big bunch of roses and a big teddy bear. He walked in the house (for the first time since he had punched me in the face) and took a step back when he saw my face. I don’t think he realised how hard he had hit me at the time but the bruises, split lip, stitches and swelling sure reminded him of his own strength. He broke down there and then in front of me. I walked out of the room. I didn’t want to talk about it. 

I should have left him right there and then after he gave me that letter. He doesn’t think he can sleep with just one person for the rest of his life? Are you kidding me? Fuck off. I’m worth so much more than that. You CAN sleep with just me for the rest of your life. I’m fucking awesome in bed AND I would have given you everything you never wanted. You absolute cunt. 

I will never, ever forgive this guy for what he put me through. This guy almost destroyed me with a torrent of physical and mental abuse. And one day, I hope karma bites him in the ass and gives him all the shit he gave me right back. He deserves everything he gets. 

Hi, I’m a self-harmer.

*This post will contain stuff you might not like to read… Just warning you.

I watched a TV program this morning that we have on this side of the world and on it, they were talking about self harm. This is something I’ve not really spoken about much in the blog, mostly because I still find it a rather difficult subject to discuss. It’s something I’m totally ashamed of. It’s something I try to hide as much as possible. I haven’t done it in a couple of years. In fact, I don’t think I’ve done it since I left Big Love and the other side of the world.

Self harming isn’t cool and this is something I wish I’d have realised when I first started doing it. I was 13 when it started. So young…

035f52bb326d4db88ca0e6df3e283872When you cut yourself, it doesn’t matter what you use, how you do it, how careful you are, etc, there are still going to be times where you scare yourself. Even now, 15 years after I first started doing it and 2 years since I last took a blade to my skin, I can still see my scars. I look down at my legs and I can see that huge split. That one scared me. I was in the bathroom of my house on the other side of the world, crying on the floor. We’d had another fight I’m sure (Big Love and I), although I can’t remember what it was about. I pulled apart one of my razors, like I normally do, grabbed one of the blades and pushed it down onto the skin of my leg. As I dragged it along, the skin split like a sausage, cooking and sizzling on a BBQ.

I terrified myself that day. Even though I had been doing it for a few years, I’d never seen the skin split like that. It bled for a really long time as well. I’m used to the bleeding now. In fact, I think that’s part of the reason I used to do it; that was a lot of blood though. It took a lot of damp-tissue-dabbing to stem that flow.

Of course, when I went to bed last night, all the tossing and turning that I apparently do in my sleep caused the cuts to bleed. I was wearing pyjama pants but still blood pooled on the brand new white bed sheets. Big Love saw it. Let the fight commence.

The Big Love was rather weird about my self harming. At first he was sympathetic, trying to do anything to stop me from doing it. Later on in the relationship, he admitted that there was something about it that turned him on. He knew that knives turned me on. He knew that I was a bit weird like that. When he was in the War Zone, he cut himself (just a little bit) on the hip, showing me via video chat. It was foreplay. But it didn’t stop there.

There were a couple of nights that we were coked up and knife-play had come into our foreplay regime. He had a knife against my throat as I was lying on the living room floor while the other hand explored all around my naked body. Then there was the time he was fucking me on the couch and as he was pounding away, he tugged a serrated kitchen knife across my upper thigh.

There was a very dangerous point during our relationship that he basically gave me the go-ahead to cut myself. It became the norm after every fight we had, regardless of how big or small. It became part of our sex life. It was during this time that the “sausage-split” happened.

At the end of our relationship, he grew to be very spiteful about my self-harming. During a fight he once said to me: “Why don’t you just go cut yourself now and save us both the hassle of a fight?

That cut me deeper than any knife could ever have done. He had known what the Hubby had said to me and how it still stuck in my mind – “Why don’t you go find your best friend; the razor blade? Do it properly this time, will you?

c225850fe256cfcec44ce905a9ef5c2eMy battle with self harm has been exactly that; a battle. It’s still a battle now. I can’t remember the last time I wore a bikini or a swimsuit. I just can’t get my legs out in public. The scars have faded to a point where most people probably wouldn’t see them without looking closer, but I can see them. I don’t even wear shorts or skirts that could potentially show them. I freak out whenever someone touches my leg, something Jock has recently discovered. It just makes me really uncomfortable.

Self harming is an addiction, I believe. I also believe that I replaced my self harming addiction with an addiction to piercings and tattoos. The periods in my life that I HAVEN’T self harmed have been the same periods of time that I’ve had the most body modding. If I’m not getting a new piercing or a tattoo, I’m changing my hair colour. That’s the way I roll. Some people consider getting a piercing self-harm. Is there a difference?

I used to get the same rush from cutting myself as I did from getting a new piercing. Slightly shaking with adrenaline, heart pumping, ouch. The pain offered me a release. It’s like releasing a valve and letting the pressure out. I didn’t like the pain much. It really hurts. Watching the cuts slowly fill with blood was the bit I used to enjoy. That long deep breath out. That’s always when I felt better.

Afterwards I used to hate myself with a passion. The cuts would bleed on and off for a while, usually on my bed sheets or clothes. As they started to heal, they’d get really itchy. If I scratched them, the cuts would open again and they’d bleed some more. It’s a pain in the ass cycle, but a cycle I couldn’t find myself breaking.

I did stop the self harming from time to time. I’d go for months and in some cases, years without doing it. Then something would happen and I couldn’t stop myself. It’s an addiction. It’s dangerous too.

I don’t know what compels me to harm myself in this way. I know it’s wrong. I’m ashamed of it. I hate people seeing the scars on my legs. You know when you get such rage and you can’t stop yourself from lashing out and smacking someone? That’s how it feels for me but it’s more calculated than that. I know it’s wrong when I pull apart a razor blade. I know it’s wrong when I pull my jeans down. I know it’s wrong when I do it. When I get in that frame of mind though, I don’t know why but I just can’t stop myself.

It has long term effects that you probably don’t take into account at the time. You don’t remember that you’re going to have these scars for many years. 15 years later and I can still see scars from when I did it right at the beginning. You don’t think about that when you’re doing it.

So there you have it. A bit about me and my self harm. Just thought I’d have my say. You know, coz that’s what I do.

Her.

9fbf6d78bf97febdbc38cf567e0fb226I watched a movie recently called Her. It’s actually a really good movie. Joaquin Phoenix plays a guy that has this “iPhone” type gadget that sits in his ear. It’s the world’s most life-life operating system, with Scarlett Johannsson playing the part of “Siri” (or it’s future day equivalent of). It sounds mental and at parts, (like when they fuck) it really is. It’s a very good film though. You should give it a shot. To be fair, many of us are already completely besotted with our phones… It’s only a matter of time before someone goes ahead and calls Siri his bride. I bet if you Google it, you’d find some mental fuck-nugget that’s gone and done it.

We’re already falling in love with “the internet” or rather; a person sat behind it. How many of us have used internet dating to find their current partners? Ex-partners? I found my Beautiful Tattooed Jock on Plenty of Fish. I know, I know. I’m not proud of it. I met One Ball on there. And the Guy I Couldn’t Get Rid Of. And the fucking asshole – my first date back on this side of the world. What a fucking prick he was.

Everyone cusses down internet dating like it’s something you just don’t do. It’s “desperate” and seedy. Even these days when EVERYONE is doing it, there’s still a reputation surrounding it. Thankfully no-one’s asked me how I met my Beautiful Tattooed Jock. I don’t know if I’d be comfortable admitting he was another one of my POF victims.

Do you admit the internet dating stories behind your love life?

It got me thinking. What if there was someone out there like the “OS” (Operating System) in the movie? Everyone that has one of these OS systems seems to love it – it is the perfect “OS” for them. Once upon a time, we were looking for Prince Charming. What are we looking for now? Are we striving too much for perfection that only something created digitally could provide it? We all want the perfect man, the perfect house, the perfect penis, the perfect car, the perfect children, the perfect relationship, blah, blah, blah. But then again, even they break up; the OS system and him…

Are we really that immune to real human emotions that the only relationships we can have are those behind a computer/phone/iPad screen? My relationship with Jock works as well as it does because I don’t see him that often. I see him once a week and sometimes, it’s not even that often.

I always make an effort for him. I always make sure that my hair and makeup is done, I’m wearing pretty clothes and shoes, I’m shaved/waxed/exfoliated/moisturised to within an inch of my life, etc. We might not even do anything together and I still make an effort for him. I hope that I always do. It makes things special between us. I don’t know how to explain it. We communicate a lot for two people that don’t see each other often. We call each other once a day now. Sometimes more but usually just the once. We WhatsApp as much as we can during the day when we are both working. I have recently introduced him to the world of Skype too. Our relationship is very much a digitally based one. We have amazing chemistry when we do see each other and the sex is outta this world. But would it be as good as it is if we were to see each other more?

Perhaps sometimes technology isn’t as worthy of the pedestal that we are putting it on. Yes it can bring us information at the touch of a button, play any song we could think of right there in our hands or allow us to see the face of a person that is sitting on the other side of the world, but is it destroying our emotions and relationships with REAL human beings as much as it is interfering with our spelling?

U kno wot I mean?

 

Matching Tattoos

In 10 days, Jock and I will have been “officially” together for 7 months. I say officially – that was the first time we fucked. The 26th June, my beautiful Tattooed Jock took me camping and stole my heart. It was beautiful and meaningful and my life changed that day. I knew from day one that he would be special to me – didn’t I say that?

(See The Tale of the 11 Hour Date – I told you I knew he was special!)

I found a picture on Pinterest in the early hours of this morning when I yet again suffered at the brutal hands of insomnia. 3:30am I was still awake AND I had to get up at 6:30am. Getting up this morning was beyond brutal. It was bloody barbaric.

At a more acceptable hour I sent it to him. The picture, just in case you are wondering, is this:

IMG-20140116-WA0000

“I’m not suggesting anything. But I think I’m gonna get the “Q” and the love heart tattooed on my pinkie finger. That is super cool!” 

It wasn’t a lie – I wasn’t suggesting anything but, to my surprise, he came back with the cutest rebuttal:

“Might join you… entwining our feelings”

Awwwww! I asked him if he was being serious. He was.

I told the Pregnant Colleague (who has since had the baby and might possibly die – this is something I’m gonna need to talk about later) and she told me that his gesture of our joint matching tattoos was basically a proposal. I reminded her that we weren’t having it done on our ring fingers; we were having it on our pinkie fingers. Still, she’s adamant it’s a proposal. This is the girl that thinks he’s going to be the one to change my mind about having babies…

Have we been together long enough to get matching tattoos? We’re not having each other’s names permanently inked onto our bodies; it’s just a little symbol. The tiniest symbol. It’ll be the smallest tattoo either of us had ever had. It’s funny how something so small could mean something so big.

Seven months tho… It does seem a bit rushed. It’s all a bit “Jeremy Kyle” to me but somehow, I’m going along with it. Somehow something says it’s a good idea. Am I blinkered like I was with all those other guys before him? Am I so blinded by my feelings for him that I can’t see the bad points about him yet? Or is this the real deal?

I don’t remember feeling like this with the Big Love or the Hubby. I must have felt something like this for them though otherwise I wouldn’t have married one and gone to the other side of the world with the other. Am I doing the same thing again? Am I getting carried away with myself or is this the real thing?

I can’t have these conversations with the Bestie. I know he doesn’t mean to but he makes it kinda hard because I know he’s secretly watching for Jock to fuck up. I know he’s just looking out for me and I love him for it, but at the same time, he doesn’t make it easy to just chat about my relationship. I can see myself getting blindly lead down Cupid’s garden path by this guy… I don’t know if it’s too fast?

The worst thing about it all is that I don’t really want things to slow down. As we’ve already established, I’m already mentally engaged to the guy (mental being the right word here too!) and would probably skip down the aisle to be his lawfully wedding wife. Or whatever the vow is. He’s special. He’s perfect for me. Maybe not for everyone else, but he’s just right for me.

So fuck it. Matching tattoos it is.

I’ll post pics once the deed had been done!

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The Nation of (Emotional) Hoarders.

I’m moving soon. In preparation for the move, I’m going through a whole bunch of stuff. I’m going through it all and getting rid of the stuff that I no longer have use for. That’s the plan only it doesn’t appear to be working that way.

I keep finding stuff that I wish I hadn’t found. I found the pink dildo that I once shoved up the Big Love’s ass in my drawer that I hardly ever go into. Clearly it has been cleaned now but that night; that night the worst thing ever happened. As he came to an almighty climax, he forced the dildo out of his ass alongside with a little something else.

*Whispers* There was a lump of poo on the end of my dildo.

It has been clearly cleaned, washed, sterilised, you name it since then but I don’t think I’ve ever used it again. I’m not entirely sure why I just didn’t throw it away at the time.

This keeps happening to me – I keep going through my stuff and finding old bits and pieces that I had completely erased from my memory. The letter from the Hubby where he apologised for cheating and punching me in the face and admitted that he didn’t think he would ever be able sleep with just one person for the rest of his life. Maybe one day I’ll publish that particular piece of work. In fact, maybe I actually will. Why not show you the other side of the story. All you ever hear is mine, right?

Anyway, I found that along with my wedding certificate. I should probably make 2014 the year I finally get divorced from the scumbag husband that still makes my skin crawl. Whatever I thought I felt for this guy, I definitely don’t feel anymore. I just look at him in contempt. He’s disgusting. Everything about his is disgusting. He’ll never change and I’m well rid.

848b2e4bbe077d05f506bd2597f8be84I also found the box where I’d kept all the cute little bits and pieces from The Lapdog. The compilation CD he made me with all of “our songs” on it. The portrait of me that he drew of his favourite photo of me. Movie stubs, concert tickets, art gallery programs… It would seem that I found a box of all the little reminders from past relationships. I’ve got One Ball’s lapel pin. I’ve got letters from the Big Love from when he was in the War Zone and I was back on my side of the world. It’s funny the things I’ve kept. What’s ever funnier is the fact that I still can’t throw these things away. All the letters and the memories and the cute little moments we shared; I don’t want to get rid of them. As bad as times got with each of these men, I had some pretty good times too. I don’t want to forget all of that.

It made me realise that I am an emotional hoarder. I keep the most random of things; letters from the worst periods of my life. ID cards from places that expired many years ago. Receipts from when we bought gas driving from one side of The Other Side of the World to the other. What’s the point in keeping them all?

Is it because of the little smile that sneaks on my face when I remember us driving along with my feet on the dashboard, singing to Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” at the top of my voice, laughing and giggling, excited for the adventure ahead of us. I remember feeling so lucky at that moment. Those gas receipts that I’ve kept; I’ve kept those for a reason.

The portrait that The Lapdog drew – that has meaning too for me. It’s the “replacement” portrait he drew for me because the original one, many years back, held meaning for us both. I was half naked on his bed. I’m pretty sure we were both drunk or under the influence of something. It was about ten years ago. He was sketching me because he’s a bit of an artist. He didn’t get very far before I dragged him onto the bed and we started making out. That picture was a brilliant picture, not only because I made him get through half of it before finally succumbing to his begging and allowing him to actually touch me. It was playful and it makes me smile. I lost that drawing he gave me. That’s why he drew me another one. It doesn’t have the same meaning but it still makes me smile.

I guess that’s why I emotionally hoard utter crap – for the little smiles that I get whenever I find them. It can’t just be me that collects this shit, can it? Do you keep little remnants of relationships passed to smile at when you are alone to yourself?

Fuck the ex.

Well I’m pissed off. I just got home. It’s Tuesday afternoon at 3pm. I spent a deliriously beautiful two nights at his and then his ex called. Fuck the ex.

So it’s a bit of a long story. The Redneck (the guy whose trailer Jock is renting) had stored the ex’s car in his yard. They were friends and that’s how Jock knows him. Apparently The Redneck dated the ex a while back. I need to come up with a name for her. I think we might call her the Tattoo Artist Ex. Tattoo Ex for short.

03ed48263784b2670a7e512b680ece7cAnyway, The Redneck had Tattoo Ex’s car in his yard. She hasn’t paid storage like I guess she said she would do and he’s pissed off that it has been left at his for so long when it was only meant to have been there for a short time. From what I can make out, and I could be wrong, he said something to her about coming to get the car, she replied with this Friday being the best time for her before her “hospital appointment”. You know; just in case we had forgotten that she had been given the “all-clear” almost two years ago, after a year-long fight with breast cancer. Anyway, that isn’t a good time as both The Redneck and Jock will be working and not available to let her in and grab the car. She’s sticking to her time. Let the battle commence. It’s ridiculous really – playground stuff.

She messaged Jock this morning about the car. Jock is trying not to get involved apparently; he wants nothing to do with it. It has nothing to do with him. He messaged her asking if he could get her daughter (his step-daughter) from school still. She sent him a Facebook message asking him to call her. I guess she has no credit on her pikey pay as you go phone. He calls her. She talks to him about the car. Once again, he replies that he doesn’t want to get involved.

Now, ladies and gentlemen; it’s not what he said, it’s how he said it. The guy on the phone to her was not the same guy that I’m dating. This guy was meek and timid; it seemed to me that he’d never said “no” to her before. It clearly wasn’t comfortable for him telling her that he didn’t want to get involved. To be fair, it was the first time he’d ever spoken on the phone to her before in front of me so maybe he was just trying to play it cool? Either way, it startled me.

Now, earlier on today, Jock and I had a mini-fight. It wasn’t a real fight. It was a play fight. We have these sometimes. You know what I mean – it’s not serious stuff; it’s playful and it never lasts for very long. Like foreplay, I guess? I knew he had wanted to go and pick his step-daughter up from school at 3pm ish. I had made plans to see The Bestie at 4pm. I had assumed that Jock would take me home before he went to grab his daughter. I assumed wrong clearly as he had other plans. He had intended for me to stay at his while he went out and finish off some writing work I hadn’t gotten around to doing. He would then come home, we would have dinner together and then take me home later on that night.

The phone call took him from basically begging to keep me (kinda), not wanting to take me home at all to getting me out of the trailer – from pi’s and last night’s makeup to fully dressed and walking out to the car in 6 minutes.

He drove the entire way home at 95mph. The usual 45-minute journey (give or take depending on traffic, etc.) took just 20 minutes. We had gotten from his trailer at 13:46 to practically where I lived at 14:05. A few minutes of stalling the car (it was playing up, probable because he’d ragged it the entire way there) and we were at mine where I got out the car, kissed him on the cheek and slammed the door into my house. I was pissed.

Who drives that damn fast? He knows I hate it. He knows I freak out a bit. Why would he drive like that in the car? I know he was rushing to see the kid but even if he had driven at a regular pace, he would have got there on time. He Facebook messaged me just a few minutes ago asking if I hated him and if we were okay. I said I’d talk to him later but we were “fine”.

We are not fine but I don’t want to ruin the time he has with the kid. He only sees her once per week as it is. I’m annoyed for a whole bunch of reasons.

I need to calm down before I give him the speech. Otherwise it’s going to end up in a fight for sure. A part of me is thinking I might be overreacting a tad  but at the same time, why should I settle for anything less than what makes me happy?

The guy on the phone to her is not a guy that would make me happy. It makes me wonder what sort of control she still has over him, and why? I know I’m probably being a tad dramatic about it all but that sorta thing just pisses me off. He goes all silverback gorilla whenever a guy so much as looks in my direction, but the ex springs up while I’m still in my pj’s on a Tuesday lunchtime, and it’s not okay for me to get pissed off about a woman that clicks her fingers and make him go running?

I wonder what she’s going to want to talk to him about? I think she’s getting married to the guy that’s been living with her for a while, but has only just come out to Jock and been honest about it. The daughter has mentioned “mummy getting married” so I think it’s only a matter of time before it happens. I don’t know how Jock will react to this and that scares me a little.

It’s not nice for any girlfriend to have to deal with the “ex-factor” but at the same time, I wouldn’t expect any girl to watch their fabulous new man-friend that has captured her heart, practically “yes ma’am” down the phone to his ex-girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend that just happened to have cancer, be the mother to his step-daughter, and steal his heart for four years before me. Sorry… ex-fiancee.

Oh and this brings me nicely to my next point. He’s not proposing to me for my birthday. (Click the link and read how I thought he was gonna propose… Embarrassing.) He’s told me what’s he’s doing with the other shoe and he’s giving it to me for Valentine’s Day. How romantic. We actually had a marriage-related conversation. We’re NOT getting married. He’s made that perfectly clear. Don’t worry – he didn’t just come out and say it. He suggested it with hints that were about as subtle as a house brick. He’s NEVER going to propose. For the girl that didn’t want to get married again, it wasn’t something she wanted to hear. It just proves my point – WOMEN DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY FUCKING WANT.

It was gutting really. But hey-ho, I’m not with him for the big rock, the expensive wedding and the fancy venue. I’m with him because I love him. Well, most of the time anyway.

Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe I’m being the crazy bitch again. To be honest, I’ve missed this part of the relationship. The part where shit gets thrown around and misconstrued. Tiny little worlds get over-analysed and torn into shreds. You fight so you can make up. Well that’s how it is for me anyway. Do I really think that I have something to worry about with the ex? I didn’t before. I do now. I shall discuss it with him later on tonight and figure it all out. We have one of those really adult conversations where you can actually discuss your problems without the need to scream and shout. It’s pretty cool to be fair – may I suggest you give it a bash?

Maybe I’ll take the grown-up approach and chat to him about it later?