Tired and Emotional

10:30pm - Arrive at front door and fumble in cavernous bag for keys.

10:32pm - Fingers eventually touch keys in bottom of bag. Get arm caught in bag strap during attempt to extract said keys. Drop keys back into bag. Pause to indulge in heavy, shuddering sigh.

10:34pm - Manage to relocate keys and remove them from bag slowly but successfully.

10:35pm - Attempt to focus on keyhole.

10:37pm - Success! Keyhole is now singular, rather than plural. Poke key in general direction of hole.

10:39pm - Get key in hole. Turn key whilst congratulating self for remembering to push door at the same time. Say 'Motor skills are great!' out loud in the street.

10:40pm - Shut and lock door. Stagger purposefully towards the stairs leading to inner front door. Briefly consider removing man-traps disguised as shoes from feet but conclude that as feet are now mere bloody stumps after a day encased in the instruments of torture, a few stairs aren't going to make much more difference.

10:42pm - Trip up the stairs, land on one knee and fling handbag high and long, carpet-bombing the landing with the contents.

10:43pm - Remove shoes and hurl them up onto the landing in a fit of pique. Switch light on to prevent further accidents.

10:44pm - Scrabble about on hands and knees gathering up the scatter-gunned contents of handbag. Do final bleary-eyed check of carpet. Hope I haven't left a tampon lying sweetly in front of neighbour's door.

10:45pm - Enter flat being really, really quiet.

10:46pm - Flatmate is still awake so need for quiet is negated. Hurrah! Happily slam door and fling down bag and shoes, calling a cheery greeting to flatmate.

10:48pm - Flatmate joins me in the kitchen and observes me gazing unseeingly into the depths of our fridge whilst using the open door to prop self up. Flatmate proffers the suggestion that I may be a tad inebriated. I cannot deny this. Mainly because I can't speak properly.

10:50pm - Flatmate gently eases me out of the fridge, extracts a can of Coke and leaves me to fend for self.

10:52pm - Extreme excitment! Have found a bag of microwaveable egg fried rice! Yumorama! Rip top off (of bag not self) and slam microwave door with a flourish. Slamming doors is fun.

10:53pm - Rice is taking far too long to cook and am starving so root about in the fridge again. Find cheddar.

10:54pm - Due to my inability to wrap food properly, the outside of the cheese has the texture of heel-skin. Find knife and risk life by hacking away at the manky bits to reveal the glossy yellow cow-joy underneath.

10:55pm - Microwave pings. Remove bag of rice, probably burning hand on steam but will worry about that tomorrow when can actually feel it. Bag apparently needs to stand to cool. Emit derisive snort at Uncle Ben's ludicrous and extreme health and safety procedures. Shovel cheddar into mouth to appease the beast which appears to have taken up residence in stomach. A thought swims lazily through the bath of wine in my cranium and presents itself for inspection. It is this: Hmmm, cheese before bedtime. I wonder if I'll have a nightmare.

10:57pm - Empty rice into bowl. It looks dry. Cover rice in dark soy sauce. It looks brown.

10:59pm - Eat rice while attempting conversation with flatmate. Make a profound statement regarding piece of political news on the telly. Flatmate nods and smiles at me, I can tell she's impressed. Can't remember what statement was though.

11:05pm - Flatmate goes to bed. I dump bowl and associated equipment into the sink. I don't remember why I needed the round pizza slice-roller thingy but it's covered in cheddar so was clearly useful.

11:06pm - Quickly pop to bathroom to remove make up and clean teeth.

11:12pm - Realize have been staring at self in mirror for over 5 minutes.

11:13pm - Make up has turned to scrambled egg on face. Scrape it off using tea-tree infused wipe. Get tea-tree infusion in eyes and pause to stamp foot in pain. Finish removing make up whist squinting, and clean teeth.

11:15pm - Remove clothing and leave scattered across bedroom floor. Climb into bed.

11:16pm - Oblivion

05:10am - Eyes fly open. Horror noises/visions immediately cease and realise have been in the grip of terrifyingly chilling nightmare.

05:12am - Finally get up the courage to sneak an arm out from under the duvet and switch on light.

05:13am - Am so spooked I can't actually move. As am contemplating whether crazed humanoid beings with red eyes and gigantic mouths protruding shining white pointed teeth, riding quad bikes round a cul-de-sac in the dark might actually exist, my hangover kicks in.

05:14am - Ow.

05:15am - Reach bravely for glass and drink water. Paracetamol are on dressing table but cannot possibly leave protective cover of bed in order to retrieve them. Big-toothed-suburban-quad-bikers might be hiding under bed.

05:16am - Resolve to lie awake with light on until time to get up. Ponder the situation I find myself in. Did I have a nightmare because I ate cheese before bedtime, or did I have a nightmare because I told myself I probably would have a nightmare because I ate cheese before bedtime? Were the old wives right or am I in possesion of a brain that is ridiculously open to suggestion? Decide never to attend end-of-the-pier type hypnotism show in case end up shouting 'Testicles' every time someone says hello to me for the rest of my life.

08:30am - Wonder whether actually am on the tube or whether in fact this is just one long, elaborate, lucid dream. Bump hand with rice-steam burn against some bloke's record bag and realise that I am very much awake. I have mixed feelings about this.

Right click

"I think I'm going to change my Myspace status," he murmurs into my right ear.

"To what?" I ask sleepily, as I move my butt further back into his crotch.

"To 'In a relationship'."

It's not possible to tell with the lights off, but I freeze. Did he just say that or has my fuckwit-addled brain finally blown a fuse and affected my hearing? I must consider my response carefully so as not to freak him out. His man-brain has obviously decided this was worth going to the trouble of actually forming words for but any slight overreaction on my part could quite easily cause them to be retracted. I consider the best path to take and make my move.

"Really?" I ask airily as I coincidentally move his hand up to cup my breast.

"Well I don't really want anyone else contacting me for dating on there right now. I only want to be seeing you. I want people to know I've got a girlfriend."

Good God, a double whammy of unexpected committment-speak. Relationship? Girlfriend? Have I mistaken a particularly butch lesbian for a bloke? I shuffle my bum back even further and feel proof that no, I definitely haven't.

"I like that idea," I say, sounding on the verge of sleep but feeling a thousand miles away from it. "I think I'll do that too then."

"Cool," he mutters, kissing my neck and causing shocks of lust to fire through my body. I turn my face towards him and we kiss.

The next day I log onto Myspace a little after 9am. Sure enough, his status reads 'In a Relationship.' It makes me smile.
I remember when asking someone to be your boyfriend/girlfriend involved a frustratingly vast amount of mixed messages, hints, subtext and confusion. Now you can simply select an item from a drop-down menu and everyone knows you're together. Welcome to the digital age.

Clean slate

I got the all clear, one day shy of a full week of torture. I had spent the previous evening, curled foetus-like on my bed sobbing my heart out, convinced I had some terrible illness. I had held it together for days but the worry finally broke me and I gave into a sleepless night of panic. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more of it, my phone beeped and there was the text message I'd been waiting for for what seemed like weeks.
I count myself very, very lucky. It is a cliché but it feels like I've been given a second chance. My life, pathetic and shallow though it might be, is precious and I'm the only one who can protect it. Next stop: quitting the fags!

Things between R and I have continued apace and I think I might actually have a proper boyfriend. Not someone I'm 'seeing' or playing games with or just fucking but a proper, bona fide, lovely boyfriend. We seem utterly besotted with each other. This morning I got an email that simply quoted the following Nick Drake lyrics at me:

I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my handOr felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you're here
Brighten my northern sky.

I need this man in my life.

Waiting to exhale

After months of procrastination, self-delusion and general ostrich-like behaviour I finally took the plunge. Yesterday, I had an HIV test.

Well, not just HIV; also syphillis, gonorrhea and chlamydia. My friend R (she of holiday jollity) had the tests recently and was negative. She and I have a similar, occasionally lax attitude to casual sexual protocol and her being OK gave me hope. Stupid, naive, idiotic hope founded in nothing more than desperation, but hope nonetheless.
I don't set out to be careless, I really don't, however there are times when I've been too drunk or just too damn horny to care (mainly the former). This is inexcusable, immature and very dangerous. We are all told from the second we reach sexual maturity to take precautions otherwise things ooze and occasionally drop off or in rare cases, you drop dead. Quite why I have been playing fast and loose with my own health of late is unclear. Therapy could very well be an option. Anyway, I now have to wait up to 10 days to receive the results. This is Day 1 and I'm already in hell. I'm convinced I am riddled with disease and have already made mental plans regarding my palliative care. Extreme possibly, but it's my macabre way of preparing myself. I am hoping for a reprieve, another chance to stop being so irresponsible and save my own life. I'm currently making a lot of deals with God.

In other news, I have met someone lovely (I know, I know - they always are). R is an indie guy with superlative taste in everything retro, primarily the 60's. He is Scottish with a soft, lilting accent and astonishingly blue eyes. We have so far only had two dates but they have been fun, romantic and exciting. This morning I received a text from him that said:

'I've just woken up and the first thing I thought of was you.'

This is a delightful contrast to N who was practically bipolar and M who ignored me for 6 weeks then rang me drunkenly at 1:15am last Saturday morning to ask whether he could come over. I took great delight in refusing then ignoring his calls for the next two days. The fact of the matter is, as I explained to my friend F when she went off on a tangent regarding the horrors of dating, I see it as a numbers game. Dating is excrutiating and often a total waste of time but then so is sitting at home night after night watching Celebrity X Factor on Ice and fighting a losing battle with a tub of Ben & Jerry's. The pizza delivery guy is never going to ask you out, no matter how wistfully he might eye your chocolate-stained pyjamas when you open the door. I might be getting clobbered but at some point all this effort has to pay off...doesn't it?