Pregnancies and trips.

Things have happened! I might as well start with the biggest and most recent: Marsha is pregnant. I’d been having a smoke yesterday with Hans, and had returned home to enjoy lying on my bed half stoned and listen to music for the rest of the night when I got a short and to the point text from her telling me she had a bun in the oven. To be honest I thought it was a joke at first, but no, it was official. A few minutes later it was Facebook official, so I knew for sure that some fornication had indeed occurred. Given that I had no idea what to do in that situation and my mind was still rather frazzled, I decided that meeting up to give her a “muthafuckin’ hug” sounded just about appropriate. So I zoomed down the road, stopping briefly to pick up some non-alcoholic wine and water to cure me of my severe cottonmouth, then went to her flat. I gave her a hug, happy that she was happy, shook her boyfriend’s hand (who is now working in the same place as me, only in customer service rather than tech) and tried to gauge the likelihood of him running a mile.

We went a drive and everything was nice, I was on a level where I could enjoy everyone being happy and kept my mouth shut about any other shit, namely the practicalities of the whole thing, but I knew she’d think of all that herself. Besides, what kind of dick would I be if I said that on the day she told everyone? Not my job to be the party pooper. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her and I’m sure she’d make a great mum, and her boyfriend is one of the soundest guys I know, but fuck me it could’ve probably happened at a better time. They’ve been going out less than a year, not living together, she’s working every hour possible just to afford the flat she’s in just now, and he makes less than me, and I make fuck all. Mostly though I’m worried about two things: that he may decide Marsha isn’t the girl he wants to spend the rest of his days with, leaving her to bring up a kid as a single mum, or that things don’t even get far enough for that. Last year she miscarried, and was months along before it happened and before she told anyone. Now she’s only a month into the whole thing, and she’s announcing it to everyone. If it happens again it’ll break her heart. This seems to be “the” baby rather than “a” baby. I hate being such a fucking pessimist, but I won’t be able to breathe a sigh of relief until the kid’s twelve and I can be sure everything went alright.

Also last night I heard that another girl from college was pregnant as well, this one is being kept on the down low though. I’m paranoid because these sorts of things come in threes. I’m now trying to figure out how fate is categorising who to pick. Is it girls I know? Only girls I went to college with? Girls with names within a certain range in the alphabet? Girls I’ve had sex dreams about in that semi-conscious way before I wake up properly in the morning then felt a wee bit guilty about? I’m mainly thinking this because I haven’t been a very safety conscious dude in the past few weeks, and I’m nowhere near as keen on a wee bairn as others are.

In other lady-related news, 28F made a brief return to things, adding me on Facebook and inviting me to her 21st party. Decided to decline both, the clouds parting before me, filling me with the revelation that birthday parties were suddenly, and without doubt, infantile gobshite I’d do well to avoid. Left it as a “maybe”, knowing I couldn’t give a valid excuse as to why I wouldn’t be available on a specific weekend months in advance. The real reason is that we had absolutely nothing in common beyond being in the same room together for a few hours each week, that she pissed me off more as time went on, then topped the whole thing off with a flurry of cuntishness towards the end that made even little old me want to have nothing to do with her. And that’s about that.

Work is going well, I’m near the top of the class with little effort and a far more laid back attitude than the other members of the dream team. Our manager is a nice woman. 30, two (or three?) kids, really fat and with the kind of biting humour your only get in mothers of boys and women who didn’t get the hotties in school. Easiest calls are the angry ones, I love people getting indignant and wanting free shit, knowing there isn’t an actual problem I need to think about solving and I just need to let them moan for a little bit before transferring them to the department who can actually help them. Normally cancellations. Now here’s the bit I need to tip-toe around, in the off-chance there’s a guilty white person reading that’ll do their damnedest to track me down and put an end to my horrid right-wing ways: the worst calls are from Asians. But Asia is a massive place, so we’ll narrow it down to Middle-Easterners. Now, it’s not the people themselves, or their accents, but their fucking phones. When I see that the call is coming from Birmingham or Bradford I cry a little. I can’t decide if they’re all a bit insular down there and the same shitty handsets sell like hotcakes to anyone who has someone called Mohammed in their family tree, or if it’s the actual infrastructure in the cities themselves. In either case, they sound like they’re phoning from the bottom of the ocean, while their submarine is made from rustley tinfoil. I can’t figure out what the fuck they’re saying. The thing is though, if the call is from a Dr Farouk who probably lives in a nice little suburb, the line is fine, it could be as if he’s standing right next to me. Jamal though? He’s fucked. He’s not getting his internet on that day, but after twenty minutes on the phone I’ll be booking a technician to go out and see him, because I’m not spending an hour trying to guide him through checking if his browser settings are correct. Or I might just send him replacement equipment for free, cos I’m lovely like that.

I’ll finish on a solemn note. Kids, don’t do drugs. And if you do do drugs, don’t do too much, especially not in the one sitting. I’d bought an eighth a week or so back from a (yet another, as yet unmentioned in this post) girl I went to college with. I had a joint at hers when I went to buy it, and it was strong stuff, much more than I was expecting. Over the next few days I’d sneaked a little puff mixed with tobacco here and there and everything was lovely. But I did a silly thing the night before last. Because I was off today and yesterday, and because I couldn’t drive (some fucker kicked off my wing mirror) I decided that I’d roll a couple joints of this stuff pure. Course, I’d forgotten it burns a lot quicker without tobacco in it, so I had one really really quick. That didn’t do much for me, so I had the other one at the same speed, all to myself, all within the time it’d taken me to walk five minutes home. When I got in the house it started hitting me and I knew I couldn’t hide the fact I was completely baked, so I went into my room, shut the door, checked I had something to drink, and vowed to stay there.

I was in a condition. My vision went to shit, and would only keep up with my heartbeat, so when I turned my head, my sight took a while to catch up. I was coming out in a cold sweat, but my face felt as if it was being burned by my hand when I touched it, and all my stubble felt like needles going into my skin. I couldn’t settle properly, my mind totally unable to concentrate on anything without an almost physical feeling of my mind being dragged away to think about something else, which would normally induce a flash of paranoia. I started to think that the hole at the back of my throat that allowed me to breathe through my nose was opened permanently, making it hard to drink. I worried about lying down, but worried about sitting up. I needed to cool myself down, but it felt as though it was only hot air being blown out of my window with nothing cool being blown in. When I lay on my side and closed my eyes I’d see things that I can’t decide were hallucinations or dreams forcing me to wake up.

But you know what? It was actually quite good, and I woke up the next afternoon feeling refreshed and ready to face the day…

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Fines, trips, and a stranger’s love of animal erotica.

Had my first properly awkward call today. A guy had phoned up complaining that his web mail was looking funny and he didn’t like how it appeared now, so my first thought was that his browser had fucked up and it would take two seconds to fix the problem. Having done that, he said the problem was still there. Not knowing what the fuck he was on about I logged remotely into his computer and told him to show me what tragic thing was ruining his day so much. He went into his inbox, where all they had done was change the layout and now not as many emails were shown before you had to scroll down. But what emails they were! I thought at first the guy had taken me into his junk email folder with the amount of mails about Viagra and the like, but then I noticed that peppered throughout them all seemed to be bestiality newsletters and the “nude news.” The worst thing might have been the fact that even after showing this off he still managed to hold such an air of righteous indignation that he wasn’t able to see enough of his porn updates at once, threatening to leave the ISP if they didn’t turn it back just for him. Besides, do people still actually get shit like that sent to them? YouPorn dude, look it up.

Aside from that work hasn’t been particularly eventful. I’ve learned more and more each day, some things that I was told in training but forgot because I had no practical use to remember it, other things are little quirks that everyone just has to pick up as time goes on. My biggest mistake so far has been accidentally crediting an account double what I was supposed to, and only remembering it later on. Didn’t mention it to anyone as it wasn’t exactly in triple figures, and it’ll give me a rough idea of how tightly they are keeping an eye on things if nothing else. If it does come up I’ll shrug it off as the noob making a mistake. I’ve only given two credits so far, so it won’t mean much work for them to see the other one if they do decide to check. Plenty of people have asked for them obviously, but I’ve managed to fob them off and get them to call back in a few weeks. Saves me the hassle of calculating what they’re due and it means they get what they’re owed all at the one time. Everyone’s a winner!

They love their stats in that place as well. They like keeping a track of how much of your break you use, how long you spend on a call, how much “personal time” you decide to take, how long it takes you to type up your notes in between calls… You name it, they’ve got a timer and a percentage rating to measure it. And believe it or not, I’m doing not half badly it seems. There are daily stats and weekly stats which are published showing how everyone is performing against one another. From what I could see I had taken the most calls out of anyone that week, and my handling time is what people on thier third month up on the call floor are meant to be getting. It’s amazing what copy and paste and not wanting to talk to the same person for ages can do. I don’t know what my repeat call level will be yet, but it should be interesting. Now, I’m truly shamed to admit it, but when I saw the stats my first instinct was to take even more calls and do my notes even faster, to get make those stats even better and beat everyone else. Then I remembered that I’m being paid fuck all with no chance of a real reward no matter how hard I try, and it’s not worth busting my balls day in, day out to improve a number on a screen for a company that will sack you in a heartbeat if it’d save them a bit of money. Mildly efficient mediocrity is the aim of the game.

Of course, I’ll have to make sure I do stay in a job for the meantime, as I’ve got a fine to pay off after the police stopped my car. I’d been on a little road trip with Marsha and her boyfriend (don’t ask, it was meant to be a squad of us going but then everyone’s work got in the way, but it wasn’t too awkward I guess) during the day. We’d just dossed around the coast for a while, realised it was January and that we were fucking freezing before coming back home again. I’d only just dropped them off when I was driving back the few miles to my house when a police car in front of me signalled for me to pull over. I thought I may have gotten off with a warning as it was just the rear brake light that was out, but it seems one of the front headlights had went and died as well. Add to the fact that my MOT was overdue by about a month and that was me in the shitter. So I ended up in the back of the police car getting all my details taken, rather enjoying sitting in a car with leather seats and a heater that worked properly. Maximum fine is £1000, was told I can expect one at around £2oo, and a well-known lawyer has just gotten off with the same offence and a £60 fine. Here’s hoping that I’m made to pay what the richest in society get, rather than the plebs. In the next few months I’m going to get a letter in from the magistrates telling me what a naughty boy I’ve been. Cunts. To make matters worse my car predictably failed it’s MOT today, the garage phoning me up and saying it would take £300 to get it in shape. Two tires are fucked, those lights were out, and new brakes are needed along with a handful of other shit. Now I’m starting to think about saving up for a new car, along with all the other shit that I was wanting to do. I’d given myself a two year deadline to make sure I don’t get trapped in that job. It’s £26,000 I’ll earn over that time, and everything seems to be eating into that. God damn. Still, if I save around about three grand, and my uncle is willing to help me spy out another car at cost price from his garage then I could get myself a better one than I had before. Golfs keep their value well too, so that’s a plus when selling it on.

The only reason I waited at all to get the MOT is because I wanted to make sure I could afford to get the car in a fit enough shape to drive for a fairly long distance reliably. Plus I was still on the dole and had no many to get it done. Since I got my first wage in I’d really been wanting to go a proper road trip, right up to John O’Groats.

As far north as you can go before you run out of Scotland.

There’s nothing up there I guess, and at this time of year it’s liable to be ice cold and rainy. In a way that makes it even better I think. Right now my entire plan revolves around getting there. I’d stock up on some essential supplies, a sleeping bag or whatever and just drive up there. Don’t know what I’d do when I arrived, I’d probably sleep in the car, but at least I’d have went somewhere new. Plus the route suggested by google maps (I’ve don’t have a GPS) takes me by the like of Loch Ness and the sort of places that people come from all over the world to visit but those who live here never bother going to see. And the road doesn’t seem particularly complicated either. It’s basically the same named road for a couple of hundred miles until you hit the Highlands proper, by which point you don’t have a great deal of choice in where you can go, as it’s single lane roads for the next few hundred miles after that. The money that’s now going to go on a fine would’ve paid for the entire trip quite comfortably. I’ve learned my lesson though, never drive behind the polis, and if you do, fuck off in the opposite direction at the first possible opportunity.

I had mentioned to Marsha about my little planned excursion, she said it was an awesome idea and that we should all go up one weekend, when in all honesty I didn’t intend it to be taken as a group invitation. I feel quite bad for it but right there and then I realised that it was something I really wanted to do myself without any company. Much as I love her, I know that her and her boyfriend would be the only ones who would go through with it, for everyone else it’d be work, college, or lack of interest that’d stop them from going. And aye there’s the fact that with the two of them I’d be the spare prick, and a larger group would be a much more tolerable prospect. For now though, for the first trip up at least, I want to keep it as a solitary thing.

Now for the traditional end of post message about my mishaps with the fairer sex: First up is that girl that I said it was over with, at the weekend there I kind of slipped and fell naked into her bed for a few hours before I found my way back out. She was a bit calmer sober, but we still had a good time. She told me again that I was the only guy to ever make her come, which is flattering, but after she mentioned before that she never comes from sex I’m not taking it particularly seriously. Am I being overly cynical by thinking a large part of it was just to boost my ego to keep me around? Remember that girl I fooled around with a few months ago, and then her boyfriend started working right next to me? Now she’s in training for the exact same job, so she’ll be hovering around as well. This world is just too fucking small!

I’m going to update more frequently, these monster posts are a pain. A little and often from now on!

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The Talk, and now things are done.

So, that’s that over and done with. I’ll give a quick bit of background around my previous post first though. I had been spending a bit more time with that girl I’ve been seeing for the past couple of months, she’d not long moved into her new flat and I was up there every couple of days and we were a pair of happy little shaggers. On saturday night she invited me up for a few drinks and I merrily went, a few of her friends were there and we all ended up playing a drinking game, which was a bad idea to start with but it moved at such a slow pace that I actually ended up drinking less than I usually do. She on the other hand, got completely and utterly melted. Some time after midnight her friends left in a taxi and things quickly ended up in the bedroom.

Now, I realise that it sounded as though I was complaining about a night full of dirty, dirty sex, and I was. Because as fun as it undoubtedly was, she became a real pain in the arse, metaphorically and before long literally too. Basically she annoyed the hell out of me constantly, and not in a cute way. When she started asking me to slap her in the face and pull her hair I had no bother with it, but when she hit out with wanting me to make her feel like she didn’t want it, I thought back to Ex, and though I carried on for then, it was a real mood killer for me. I’ve probably developed a whole mental complex around that sort of thing, whether that makes me fucked in the head or not I’m not sure. I don’t mind being dominant, and I don’t mind the… actions I suppose you could say. If you really want slapped in the face, sure I’ll do it, but when I’m being given a role in your head that I really don’t fucking want to be in, then I’m not likely to be around for very much longer.

Which is exactly what has happened. In the wee hours of the morning, when the drink was wearing off, the emotional downer rolled on in for her, and she slurred that she didn’t know what was going on with us, where we were going, and randomly asked me if I hated her. I’m putting that last bit down to stupid drunken thoughts rather than anything else, as we got on great and didn’t have a single argument, there’s no way that she could think I thought that badly of her. I knew right there and then though that it was over, or at least would be within the day. It’d obviously been on her mind, and now it was said, as well as it being the last thing she mentioned before she fell asleep. Sure enough, after I’d listened to her snore long enough to download the WordPress android app, figure out how to work it, write an entire post with a predictive text function that naturally didn’t know any fucking swear words, and make my shameful getaway from her flat she texted me about half past seven in the morning saying that their were some things that we should talk about.

There it was, that clear indication that we were going to have The Talk very soon and I might not see that girl again for a long time afterwards.  During the day we texted and it was all light-hearted, I filled her in on a few of the things she couldn’t remember, asked her if she was alright after getting a bit too enthusiastic about wanting certain things put in certain places. Thankfully she said she was, I would’ve felt quite bad if I left a girl feeling rejected and with a sore arse to match.

In the evening I went over to hers, not really feeling any sense of foreboding, I guess because I knew from the start that this day was coming, and had convinced myself of the whole “one moment in one day in an entire life” side of things to make it seem like it wasn’t much of a big deal, so there was no point in me getting all het up about it. She answered the door and things were normal, it wasn’t as if it was a formal meeting, but The Talk was definitely hanging overhead. We went through to her living room and sat down on the floor, she had a couch but it was tiny and slanted for some reason, plus the carpet was new and comfortable, and people don’t spend enough time enjoying their floors… Anyway, we laughed and joked, at first because it felt natural, but as time went on those clouds got darker, and I think we both knew our giggles were mainly to avoid having to deal with anything remotely serious. I decided that I would take the plunge, looking around to enjoy this flat that I had suddenly started to think I hadn’t spent nearly enough time in.

I asked her what it was that she wanted to talk about, knowing full well the answer but not wanting to seem presumptuous, and partly because if I brought it up it would make me seem somehow worse, the instigator and cause of any pain she felt. Getting the ball rolling was enough, pushing it faster was up to her.

She asked me what I thought was going on, I said that I wasn’t sure, what was it she was looking for, all that shit. We danced around it for a bit, but eventually I had to come clean and say that I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend right now. I wrapped up the old “it’s not you, it’s me” cliché in what I hope was shiny new packaging, but I don’t know if she bought it. The ironic thing is that I was telling the truth, it really feels like a “me” thing. Thinking about it, I can’t fault her for anything. Fuck, the girl’s even got a fucking TARDIS model on her kitchen windowsill, where in fuck’s name am I meant to find another girl like that?

She seemed a bit hurt, but took it well I guess. It was all rather civil, which in some ways made it worse, as it’s a lot easier to storm off or get thrown out than it is to turn round and walk away. I told her I still wanted us to be friends, which I do, and that in a few weeks or a couple of months after things have settled down a bit we should meet up for a drink and hang out. Again, it sounded like the lame shit that the arsehole of the situation always says to the other poor sod. After a few awkward hugs and kisses I left, wishing that she’d be up and fly for me or something, but she didn’t.

About an hour later I met up with Marsha and went a run with her, her boyfriend, and her flatmate. She seems to have a sixth sense about when to pop her head out and say it’s time for a catch up, one of the things I love about the lassie. I wasn’t in the mood for getting all deep and thoughtful about the entire thing though, so instead made a cunt of myself by acting like a heartless prick that didn’t care in the slightest. Which is easy and a few months ago would’ve been closer to the truth, but that wasn’t how I felt now. I actually quite liked this girl, she wasn’t some one night stand or just a fuck buddy, I felt like shit for laughing it off as me getting my hole and to hell with what she was thinking. Bitches ain’t shit etc etc.

Truth is I do care what she feels, and while I might not have been able to picture us together in a year, the next month or so? I could picture that. I can’t see myself being anyone’s boyfriend though, I couldn’t be there all the time for every problem, I couldn’t see a girl through the really rough patches. I’m not the dates and the family holidays, I’m not meeting the parents and deciding who’s going to have christmas dinner where. I’m not growing old holding anyone’s hand.  I guess I’m good times today, and finishing it soon enough to leave every memory a happy one up until the last day.

After I was done making myself seem like a bitter divorced middle-aged man who hates all women I went back to mine where I got a text from her at around midnight, asking me to keep what we got up to on our last night to myself, and apologising for how she acted. I replied that she had nothing to say sorry for, which she didn’t even if she was a pain to deal with that night. She said that she wished she hadn’t had the talk if it meant we could spend a few more weeks together, and that if she’s know that saturday was going to be our last night she wouldn’t have drank so heavily so that could actually remember it. After that she said that I was a great guy, that she was glad we met again and that she hopes I’ll meet someone soon who’ll make me want to try again at a relationship. I told her that she was awesome, and that she’ll meet someone soon who can give her everything she wants, and that I was sorry it wasn’t me.

And that was the end of that. Haven’t talked or texted since. Looking over the texts it was only 26 hours ago, but it feels so much longer. Don’t really know what else to say about it, I’ve certainly rambled on enough. My previous post seems rather harsh now that I read it, way back in the heady days when I was half cut and everything was nice and casual. I quite miss her if I’m honest, but I’m not heartbroken. I’ve spent a lot of time today thinking about things, but I’m not losing any sleep. I can’t decide whether I was right to keep it short and sweet, or if I should’ve carried things on and seen where they went…

I could go on for days at this rate, none of it making much sense as I’ve gotten steadily more tired as time has went on. For now I’m calling it a day. Goodnight people.

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You’re my daddy, now hear me snore.

Right this very moment, thanks to my new wonderful phone, I’m reporting live from beside a girl who snores worse than my fucking dog does, and who I have had to shake awake on more than one occasion when the snoring ominously stopped and I became paranoid that she may have stopped breathing as well. Her cat meanwhile, no doubt feeling rejected because I wouldn’t let it sit on my head, is now lying on top of my Jeans giving it’s pussy a thorough licking. I’m seriously pondering whether I’m a big enough bastard to simply sneak out and never return. Help!

Eight times I’ve had to fuck this girl tonight, putting up with her clumsy drunken fumbling and razor sharp fucking nails. Not to mention that she’s flipped from screaming daddy as we fucked to asking me if I hated her afterwards. That’s on top of the hair pulling, face slapping, hard spanking and going dry where you shouldn’t. Normally not the sort of thing I’d bring up but as I was asked to I obliged. Then came the “make me feel like I don’t want it” and I got seriously turned off. I’ll do pretty much anything, but if that’s the kind of fantasy behind it you can get yourself to fuck my dear.

Also I’d like to take a moment and mention a little bit of shagging etiquette for those not savvy in these matters: after every even numbered shag, take a fucking break to let the guy recuperate. And don’t go telling him to come then moan when he does, especially on the sixth time in little over an hour and a fucking half. I swear to fuck I was shooting out dust by the last time.  And for the love of God, don’t try to finger him as a surprise!

I’m tired, I’m cranky, I can’t sleep because she sounds like a horse drowning in syrup, I want to go home, I want a shower, I want my own bed and I really really need to fart. I’m giving it another half hour then I’m going to escape, my excuse being I had to get up early to help my uncle with a car boot sale. Failing that I’m just going to swing her cat about by the tail until she politely asks that I leave.

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