Big Man busted up my heart. It hit me unexpectedly hard. I knew on some level it was coming, so I prepared myself for the pain. Except that I truly didn’t. The first day, I simply could not function. I kept a consistent Valium buzz going and watched thirty episodes of Archer back to back. [...]
I’m scared. I am learning to love again. That sounds really icky and cliché. It’s probably a cliché for a reason. It’s actually terrifying to throw your hands in the air and say ‘fuck it’, here’s my heart’. It’s a fragile little ball of crystal glass and I’m just ever so gingerly going to place [...]
I’m sick. And I don’t just mean that in a ‘I’m a sicko pervert’ kinda way. I have this illness which permeates my mind and rules my life. I am insecure. Terrifyingly so. It’s like I woke up one morning and decided that I was just going to be embarrassingly insecure from now on. It [...]
You’ve heard me mention The Boyf, right? (AKA: The Big Man. Well, cos… he’s tall? Kidding. He’s hung like a fucking ox. The man is so huge it makes me weep sweet, sweet pleasure filled tears.) The dear, patient, loving thing. He’s great. We’re great. I’m mental. Usual story. Well…
He comes with a bonus prize. A sparkling little angel of a thing that makes up dances with me, teaches me the language of “silly” and reminds me to laugh. Constantly. At everything. And thus I’m in a “Unit” with not one but two people (actually, there’s many more in our relationship but hang about and I’ll blog it out). I’ve somehow managed to fall in love with not one but two people.
I am a new being. My priorities have rearranged themselves into a messy jigsaw puzzle that I once thought I had under my command. Now, I am no longer the hot chick that people accidentally step out in front of a car because perving. I am no longer the person that hangs from a ceiling in a leopard print onesy, dry humping all the gay men (that was seriously like a year ago). I am the person that puts aside a whole weekend to go rollerskating, visit playgrounds and find the ultimate babycino. I know what squeezy yoghurts are and the cost of tickets to Disney on Ice. What next? A fucking Thermomix and a “Mummy Blog”?
She adds a certain magical element and depth to my life but it takes a certain kind of onerous strength to not get carried away and emotionally attached (too late). Because she is nothing more than my boyfriend’s daughter. Perhaps, my very good friend at best. I have no attachment, other than a deeply, entrenched emotional one, to this being. So she can be snatched from my life at any moment. If The Big Man and I break up, I just simply never see her again. A fact that I have been hyper aware of since before our first date.
The thing is when she’s not around, I miss her. I miss her like buggery. Like Dolly Parton misses seeing her toes. Like a Jewish guy misses his foreskin. She dances through my mind a lot. So many things remind me of her and I swear I hear people calling her name in crowded places. But until now, I’ve kept this on the downlow. I mean, how selfish and insensitive would I be to mention to her father that I miss her? Imagine how he must feel. Surprisingly, since I am the most insensitive and selfish person I know, the words are pushed to the back of my throat where they stay. How can I say to a man that I miss his offspring when whatever I feel severely pales in comparison to what he must go through for days on end? She makes his world turn. I fall significantly second (there’s another blog post). So I feel these things – in private – and pop them in a box labelled “unresolved feelings to deal with later but instead I’ll just eat crumbed foods”.
With bittersweet clarity, I realise I have been gifted a doubled edged sword** – by gaining so much more in my life, I now have a lot to lose.
**Did you know? This is an Arabic idiom originating from 15th Century? The things you learn on a smutty blog, eh?
I’ve met someone. You could probably tell, couldn’t you? The silence, the preeminent “letting go” disguised as giving up, the que sera sera attitude since I last posted.
I knew we would meet before we did. I sensed it; an all encompassing feeling of respite. A knowing that everything was going to be fine and that I didn’t need to paddle in circles in the deep end anymore. I felt like I was in a relationship before I was in one. The delicious safety and security, the searing thrill everytime a compliment was offered or skin touched. Magical, magical moments. It was… perfect. And normal, simultaneously.
Our first date was great. The maitre de asked if we were in love and gave us free champagne.
Our second date was terrific. It lasted seven hours. He told me I was beautiful. And I knew he meant it.
Our third date was ludicrous. It lasted six days. And we only parted because I had already arranged to leave the city.
Three weeks later, one grainy morning, I lay face down into his pillow and he swiped my hair off my cheek and told me he loved me.
I pretended I was asleep, natch.
And thus* began the epicness that is the Ruby relationship. Otherwise known as ‘the Unit’. Yes, we’re proud of that name.
He’s not the person I thought I’d “end up” with. I thought I’d be with someone all shadowy and super moody, not someone who is a real grown up and Steve Buscemi’s doppelganger (self proclaimed). I am restraining myself from getting colossally gushy about him as it’s easy to do. I adore him beyond lists and lists of adjectives. As I repeatedly tell him, he was worth the wait and all the shit that came before him. But I needn’t make you all vommy.
Oh did you think that because I’m in a relationship that I’d have nothing to dissect in my cyber bubble and the purgative diatribe would cease? Quite the opposite. Being in a relationship (what a resolute word) unlocks a whole new level of neuroses.
*I said ‘thus’. I must be in love.
Recently, I’ve been contemplating the conclusion of this blog. I’ve always felt it important to let it go at some point for personal growth and as I develop my writing skills. I had just assumed it would have a natural and obvious conclusion that coincided with my life events – perhaps I would meet the love of my life and the driving narrative of this story would come to a tidy resolve. I could fabricate one. I am, after all, a creative writer. But I made a silent pact to retain the truth in this blog or at least the truth cloaked in exaggeration and the truth I will retain.
But I forgot that I was dealing with real life and there’s not tidy resolves in real life, there’s just an endless set of questions and the more you ask, the more you find. And like real life, there’s pain, there’s unrequited love of epic proportions, that I’ve dragged over from lifetimes before and parallel to me. It seems too obvious to dwell upon, so I won’t. There’s uncertainty, there’s hopelessness coupled with hopefulness, there’s acceptance of reality and the clarity that brings. I guess that’s why I’m obsessed by fiction and my fantasies – there’s always a resolve, even if there’s a twist.
And my unresolved resolve is so predictably obvious to the point of embarrassment and ironically unexpected, inconclusive and wavering. It took many, many years for my heart to catch up with what my head was saying, or was it vice versa? Undoubtedly both. (Sigh. No my little starlings, I am not a lesbian nor do I have daddy issues.)
I have no strategy. I cannot see the road any further than my dim, broken headlights. I can look behind me at the road I’ve travelled and I can tell you what I’ve learnt, particularly through this blog:
- Sometimes, a frog doesn’t turn into a prince. Sometimes, the frog doesn’t even let you kiss it.
- People are people. An undoubtedly can relate to what you’re feeling.
- You are never, ever alone.
- People respect you when you are at your most vulnerable.
- Displaying your pain for the whole internet to see isn’t always the best way to deal with it.
- People will always prefer the real you over the glam characterised version that you’ve created.
- You can never know what another person is thinking and it’s futile to assume.
- No matter how many times you rehearse a scenario in your head, there’s NOTHING that is comparable to the way it occurs in real life.
- There’s always a hidden path.
And like life, I will leave this blog open because you can never tell what is hiding around the corner and I cannot be sure that that part of me that I call Ruby Wildflower will not surface on occasion.
One of my goals this year was to have an article published for The Hoopla.
Within three weeks of deciding on that goal, it came true. And here it is:
Next up… Jezebel.
When it was my birthday recently, I received a package in the mail – something I had ordered online had arrived.
My mum saw it and jokingly said, ‘awww the internet sent you a birthday present’. She’s quasi funny for such a little lady. That snowballed my thoughts from ‘the internet is an entity’ to ‘the internet is God’! Seamless connection, obviously.
What if the internet was my Universe? And not just in the sense that it’s my Universe because I spend every flipping second on it. But what if it was my Divine? You may like to choose to call it God. You might also like to choose to call it cybery goodness.
Reverting back to my Western Philosophy classes (man, how I love-hated them) if we use Liebniz’s Law we can arrive at the conclusion, that the Internet, is in fact, God.
What’s this Liebniz shit, you say?
It’s a metaphysical principle that states if something has all the properties of something then it must be something. Clear as mud, right? See now why I had to sleep with most of my uni lecturers?
So if an object has all the same properties of an apple (it’s green, it’s juicy, it has an apple taste etc) then it must be an apple.
Similarly, if the internet has all the properties of a monotheistic God then it must be a monotheistic God. YOU HEARD.
Properties of God vs internet:
Omniscience (check) that internet shit is fucking EVERYWHERE. It’s in your phone, your workplace, your dreams and with at least 9.5 billion webpages indexed on Google alone that bitch is ALL OVER shit.
Omnipresent (check) the internet never stops working, it’s ALWAYS THERE. Now that WiFi is a thing, it can pretty much be accessed from every acre of the earth. Except mid afternoon in my office apparently.
Omnipotent (check) it has incredible power. Remember recently when Charlotte Dawson copped it from every corner of the internet? Remember when Anonymous started hacking the life out of everything:
Also, internet dating. If that’s not powerful, I don’t know what is. Amirite?
I know of two couples recently who have met online and are in all kinds of besottedness. And I swear, you couldn’t even make this shit up but each set of lovers discovered they live on the same street. I’ve been door knocking up and down my street ever since I’ve heard.
Omnibenevolent (check okay uncheck no, wait check)
We can see from Charlotte’s experience that it’s not infinitely good. But we’ve already discovered via the problem of evil that no such omnibenevolent God exists. I would like to think that the internet, like God, doesn’t label things with good nor bad nor ‘going viral worthy’ or ‘Facebook Like’ worthy and thus the internet is God. Follow me? No. Don’t worry about it, just Google it or some shit. Although ironically, Google’s company policy states you can ‘make money without doing evil’ http://www.google.com/about/company/philosophy/ (see point six)
You can pray to her:
NB: So I thought I would test this out in the nature of research. I submitted my prayer and BAMM they asked me for money so that God would grant me my prayer. The fuck? They have been consistently spamming me with emails ever since demanding that I don’t ‘let Satan into my home.’ Quite freaked out now, so praps don’t try this at home kids.
It’s fairly immortal. We couldn’t’ destroy that shit if we tried. Zuckerberg might be able to though.
It’s also source of comfort, information, guidance, inspiration, devotion and a place to share. And if you’re like me you spend more time interacting with it than you do with other people, or even yourself.
Also, you guys, YOU GUYS, the internet has some really cool videos of cats. Not sure if you’ve seen any yet or not.
Generation bashing: another one of my loathed persecutions (alongside denigrating people for their sexual preference, their gender and their weight).
This week I was inactively part of a conversation with a group of people from a different generation to me. One person took it upon themselves to verbally bash Gen Ys about their inconsistencies in their communication – their apparent lack of consonants in speech and in writing etc etc. You’ve heard it all before, Gen Ys can’t write because they text etc bloody etc. Gen Ys don’t put thought into their communication. Gen Ys are borderline illiterate. Snore.
This person openly and passionately said this in front of me. Which could mean a few things:
- she thought I was older than Gen Y (waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh)
- she didn’t care nor think this might be offensive and or incorrect.
Both of which left me staring uncomfortably at the floor as the implicit ageism hung unpleasantly in the air. Sadly, this is common for me to hear this from similar aged people.
I’m bored of hearing this adultocracy. Okay, I concede that it may appear that way because we’re more interested in time saving and perhaps my view is skewed because my predominant peer group are arts focussed but I don’t see this. I’m sure there ARE groups of Gen Ys (and Zs) that ascribe to this theory, as the television show Class of 10 bases some of its premises on (although it’s quick to show that a lot of the students involved having some disadvantages in life which may contribute).
Furthermore, if the reverse were to occur, would that be okay? Can I start openly hating on older generations because they aren’t digital natives or because they aren’t as efficient as we are? Should I lament to anyone who will listen that Baby Boomers prefer to sit around and have five meetings about one small task, whilst we (typically) just get it the fuck done?
In a weird twist of converse societal norms, it seems the loud mouthed, uncouth Gen Ys and Zs are actually the contained and tolerant ones in these circumstances.
I can sympathise. Ephebiphobia must be a terrible challenge to have. It must be scary and foreign to be part of a world that is rapidly changing when you would prefer to hold onto a different time. I’m also supportive of those people who are not interested in embracing technology and the digital “revolution”. Just don’t whinge how you are hard done by and especially don’t gripe about how abhorrent younger generations are.
Because we’re really fucking not. You know how I know? I see greatness occur around me everyday. Take Willow and Blake for example, a couple of young things who are uber cool and running their own copywriting company and just being generally fabulous. Similarly, with The Library Bag. Then there’s Bkclb, run by a couple of guys in their very early twenties and helping to propel literature into the future. There’s this girl, she’s just written a book and signed a million dollar contract for it. Happens. You’ve all seen Danger 5. Made by people much younger than me. And then there’s Wastelander Panda.
This is just a microcosm of the epic things that the newer generations are creating. I think that Zuckerberg guy did something epic as well. And they still use LOL.
When did fat shaming become a thing?
Okay, being overweight is unhealthy. We empirically accept that as a society. From personal experience, I believe there’s a direct correlation between being overweight and being unhappy and not being true to yourself.
But fat shaming? Really? The headless A Current Affair footage of protruding gunts over beige chinos are horrendous enough but to fat shame on the internet or snicker behind healthily lithe hands at the lady who walks with a bit of a waddle? I cannot accept this.
My fat shaming fury was triggered the other day when a Facebook friend posted a photograph of an overweight lady at a restaurant, referring to her as a ‘NASA rocket ship’. I was shocked. I’ve met this person a couple of times and he is genuinely sweet and lovely. With mouth agape, I wrote that I thought his comment was ‘pretty fucking foul’ (refer to image) and then proceeded to unfriend him. A few days have passed and I’m still taken aback.
This person had publicly humiliated someone because of physicality. You know, something that is a small part of what makes up a person? Like say, your sexual preference. The perpetrator of this particular incident defines himself as a homosexual. So surely – SURELY – he would have some infinitesimal amount of empathy as to what it is like to not fit in a hundred per cent of the time and be judged on something that is not entirely of his choosing. And if you fucking think for one second that someone CHOOSES to be fat, you’re delusional.
What’s next? Should we brunette shame? Should we accountant shame? I’m fucking sickened that these people are my peers.
Here’s some more disparaging comments in support of the fat shaming in question:
‘Eagerly studying the menu it seems… perhaps as saliva starts to spool in the corner of her mouth and slowly drips its way off “It’s” chin…’
‘…Oh and any coincidence she chooses the chair facing the icecreams??? Bravo indeed to get between her and that Ice Cream bar…’
‘ Studying the menu?? She ate the menu. GROTESQUE!!!’
‘i thought only Americans looked like that…’
‘I’m sure she’s beautiful on the inside…………., like, fairy floss…. burgers…cheese cake…. did you say steak….chocolate….. We need to start reading the book, not looking at the cover… You may need a tub of flour and some butter before reading this one tho.’