living in fiascoland
saturday june 18th
I can't believe I am once more on the rack of romance.
And also in the oven of luuurve.
And possibly on my way to the bakery of pain.
And maybe even going to stop along the way to get a little cake at the cakeshop of agony.
Shut up, brain, shut up.
Looking out my window at the stars.
It says in my Meditation for the Very Backward book that it is soothing looking at the universe and stars and everything.
The meditation book is wrong. God, stars are annoying. Winking and blinking like twinkly idiots. Why are they are so cheerful?
9:03 p.m. and a half
I'll tell you why they are so cheerful, because they are not me. They know nothing of the call of the Horn and snogging. Has a Luuurve God ever said to one of them, "I will let you know in a week's time if I want to go out with you or not"? No.
Anyway, what are stars for actually? You can't even read by them. They just hang about. Like dim torches.
Hanging about is not exactly a job, is it?
I am not as such feeling any calmer.
Being in the bakery of pain is vair vair boring. Ten past nine on a Saturday night and I am in my bedroom. Alone. I am in the prime of my -- er -- hornosity and joie de vivre and nothing is going on. Nothing.
It's like the grave in this house I . . .
Oh good. My darling little sister has kicked open my door and flung Angus at me.
"HEGGGGOOO Gingey!!! We is back. Heggo!!! Watch my panties dance. Sex bum sex bum am a sex bum!!!"
Oh dear Gott in Himmel. Angus was livid at being thrown and once he'd stopped doing that cat sneezing and shaking thing, he dug his claws into my ankle. Owwwwwww. Now I'm on the way to the cakeshop of aggers with a gammy leg. Hurray!
Libby put her frock over her head and waggled her botty around like a pole dancer. Where does she see people doing these things?
They've just come back from the lunatic asylum, i.e., Granddad's sheltered housing, so it will be something she has seen there. I've seen the residents in their so-called communal "lounge." They pretend to play dominoes, but secretly they practice being mad. And probably prance around in their incontinence knickers.
Then Mum came mumming in and scooped up Bibbs. "Time for boboland, young lady."
Libby carried on singing and wiggling around in Mum's arms, and then Mum noticed me. Being in my bedroom.
"What are you up to, Georgia? Why are you in here?"
I said, "Not that anyone notices, but this is actually my room. You know, for me to be in. I was in bed, as it happens."
Mum said as she went out, "Oh you must be sooo tired, all that lip gloss and mascara to carry round all day."
Vair vair amusing. Not.
I've been in my bedroom more or less for forty-eight hours, give or take snack and loo breaks. Oh and a quick visit to the shops for essentials. Mascara. And a new nunga-nunga holder. And a copy of Cosmo. It is forty-eight hours since Masimo left me at my door saying he would let me know if he wanted me to be his girlfriend or not. Why did I admit I wanted him to be like my proper boyfriend? Why why?
And also thrice why? Whyitwhyitwhy? Why couldn't I have just been a callous sophisticate? I could for once have just shut up and been all full of casualosity and savoir whatsit.
If I'd played my cards right I could have had loads of boyfriends. All at the same time. Masimo the Italian Stallion for a weekendy boyfriend, with a touch of Dave the Laugh (oo-er) for a rainy weekday. And also maybe even the former Sex God (whose name I'm not going to mention even beyond the grave) as a sort of Kiwi-a-gogo airmail boyfriend. But, oh no, I had to moan on about wanting to be Masimo's one and only.
I was so happy snogging Masimo under the stars on our date. Stars didn't get on my nerves then. Nothing did.
How come I am living in Fiasco land again? One minute he was snogging me under the twinkly twits, and then the next day he is off to Late and Live with Wet Lindsay, stick insect and drip. I am haunted by Old Droopy Drawers. First she enticed you know who, whose name I will never mention even beyond the grave, but as a clue his name starts with R and ends in obbie.
Now she has slimed her way around Masimo. I hate her, I hate her.
But that is life in a nutshell, isn't it? Well, mine, anyway, all fabby and marvy and then all pooey and merde.
What was it Charlie Dickens said in his famous book Oliver Twit? Ah yes, "forsooth and lack a day all ye worlde is-eth a stage and verily we-eth are players in-ith it. Gadzooks." Or was that Billy Shakespeare? Who knows? Who cares? What does it mean, anyway? And why do none of those beardy Elizabethan types know how to speak proper English?
What does anything mean?
Oh I can't bear this. How many hours is it until Masimo tells me his answer? Perhaps I should phone him and tell him that I didn't mean what I said about him being my one and only one. I could say that he can go out with Wet Lindsay as well as long as he likes me.
ten past midnight
But that would mean I might snog him after she had snogged him and that would mean that I had practically snogged her. No one could live with that.