For no reason, a really bad evening. I had M and AY over for dinner along with A my flatmate (who you’ve heard about before) and that was lovely – good food, good conversation, good G&Ts, and a good film – The Mother – which was honestly fantastic and well worth seeing for all kinds of reasons, review possibly at some point to follow – but then I just plummeted. A was wonderful, as ever, insofar as he kept me company and said reassuring things about always being there for me even next year, when we’ll be living miles apart – ‘you know I’m only a phone call away, don’t you, Jenny?’
‘Yes, but you know I’ll never actually call you when I feel like this. You’ll have to just intuit or something.’
He’s promised to be there. No matter what. If he was any less against my plan to send my kids through the state system no matter what, I’d marry the man. He likes cats rather than dogs, is going to have no say in names – I’ve chosen them already – and will keep us together and be the ideal househusband. Actually that said neither of us would actually want to marry each other, which is a shame, we’re the archetypal married couple already. Today we were even dressed the same, in dark blue jeans, hoodies and leather jackets. And no, he is not Someone in particular, he’s just a friend. ‘Just’, huh? A very good friend. Who somehow believes that some day if he needs my friendship I’ll be there like he has been for me, and anyway, ‘that’s not how friendship works’, so what the hell does he get out of this crazy deal?, and even if it isn’t, I’m just not sure that’s possible – for me to give him as much as he has given me. I owe him so much. Millions of cups of tea, months of sympathy, millions of curt commands to just leave me alone, with no possible reward.
Anyway, it wasn’t so bad in the end. An hour of monosyllabic non-communication and a total lack of eye-contact from me, curled up in a corner with his arm around me, reading me poetry, then we got the Pinter-esque, slow, hesitant, I-almost-hope-I-physically-can’t-have-children-because-look-at-me-I-couldn’t-be-anyone’s-mother-even-if-I-wanted-to-so-it’s-better-if-that–choice-is-taken-from-me speech (could I be any more self-pitying?) and now, well, I should be in bed. I feel better than I did. Better enough, anyway, to look back and scorn my pathetic, tedious self of an hour ago.
If I have to make two more entries on a Cloudlifey theme between now and the end of May, I’m opening it back up. You don’t want me drivelling blearily on here about how horrible it is to be alive, not here. Cloudlife is my drivelspace, and every now and again I say something that isn’t all emo and whiny and is a genuinely constructive thing to say about being depressed, which is all well and good, but I want this blog to stay more or less based around my insanely under-informed take on the world, politics, smoking, and the myriad other stupid things that cross my mind. Actually, I don’t know what this blog is for, but I know one thing – I don’t like being an emo, and I’d like to confine that particular side of me to somewhere else so that this here is reasonably reliably non-emo.
Oh, great, now I’m angry with myself. Definitely time for bed.