Tag Archives: drinking


A few days ago Recovering Love Addict 24 wrote the following:

Something happened yesterday evening which really frustrated me. My bottom lines include not being able to flirt with girls, not asking girls for their numbers etc. But yesterday the first day of my bottom lines and my first day of sobriety I was waiting for a tube to last night’s meeting and a girl approached me on the platform. She was absolutely stunning; tall, slim, dark hair, totally my type. You couldn’t write this as never in my whole time in London has such an attractive girl approached me. She asked if she could stand with me and she tried to make conversation however I remained true to the promises I had made and I told her I was unavailable. Immediately after and for quite a while I was so angry with myself for turning down such an opportunity. A week before I would have jumped on it and totally flirted with her, got her number and pursued her until we had sex. But yesterday I stopped myself. I found myself clouded. First with resentment for god, I was screaming out in my head, “Why are you doing this to me.” Second I was resentful towards myself for not acting out and flirting etc. telling myself I had missed such an amazing opportunity. But then I realised I did the right thing for me. I am not ready for girls. I am not ready for a relationship. I have so much work to do on myself first and I need to concentrate on that.

The interesting thing is that Recovering Love Addict 24’s encounter with this girl might not be as random as you might think. According to the Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous “big book”, there is a “diabolic accuracy” to such “coincidental” meetings which “tended to occur when we were most vulnerable to them” (p110). The book urges SLAA members to accept “the possibility that psychic occurrences can happen, in order to make sense of some of these situations which seemed so uncanny”. (ibid.). On p111, we are told that “perhaps the most important principal here was not to deny to ourselves that we were, indeed, being severely tested”.

I would agree with all of the above based on a random encounter I had on Monday at work with the Arab. You might be thinking “C’mon, girl! You work with the guy. You were bound to bump into him at some point!” Well, this is true, but my company is huge, and we work in entirely separate buildings and, in four months of chatting with him online, I’ve never once seen him – until last week when I was out running, and then this week. Last week’s encounter triggered a new obsession about him, and this week’s sorely tested the resolve I had found over the weekend to ignore him.

I was walking into the main building to grab some lunch in the café when he came out, looking, I might add, every inch my ideal man – tall, dark, handsome and athletic.  This was the first time I’d ever seen him up close, and he really is just so incredibly handsome. I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve found that attractive over all my thirty-odd years on this planet. It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak, too, and his voice was everything I thought it would be – deep, raspy and sexy. He wasn’t exactly in a rush to stop and talk, and I haven’t heard from him at all this week. I haven’t contacted him because, well, princesses don’t beg, goddammit! (although they are apparently allowed to obsess non-stop about douchebags).

It’s for the best he hasn’t been in touch, as every fibre of my being tells me that he’s trouble. I can’t begin to fathom why a man would chase and chase and chase me, and then – poof! – blow me off when I finally agree to go out with him. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t get involved with him, it hurts like hell to feel rejected. Logically, I know the issue is that he’s weird, but I still find myself thinking “What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t he want me? Why hasn’t he contacted me?”

I also feel that I have made myself incredibly vulnerable to this man. I opened up too quickly, and told him far too much personal information – most of it unsolicited (I still haven’t worked out what boundaries are!), but on one memorable occasion he asked me whether I had ever cheated on MM when I knew the marriage was on the rocks. Since the dude barely asked me any questions at all, it was very strange that he asked this one. I was kinda put on the spot, and my idiotic brain actually thought: “Oh my God, the poor dear! He’s probably been cheated on before, and wants to know that I wouldn’t do that! Oh, how he must have suffered!”. My response was half-truth/half-lie, as I mentioned my dalliance with Rebound Guy which began one week before MM and I broke up. I, of course, did not tell him the full extent of what happened. I said it was just “kissing”.

I went round to a colleague’s after work, who happens to be gay, and you can always trust a gay man’s opinion about your love life. When I told him about the Arab’s weird question, he said: “Girl, he just wanted to find out if you were easy. If you’d fucked somebody while married, chances are you’d fuck him even more quickly given that you’re now single”. It depressed the hell out of me to think that all I am to this dude (and all I’ve ever been to a lot of men) is a piece of ass. And the two beers I had drunk at my friend’s house certainly didn’t help my mood. I was incredibly sad by the time I finally left. And, oh, did I mention that I’ve also gone cold-turkey on Zoloft?

I went to the ATM afterwards to pay in some of my ill-gotten gains where, out of the corner of my eye, I could see this skinny, icky, middle-aged white dude. I barely looked at him, but I knew (just knew!) that he was this awful guy I had once fucked when I was still an escort. He is for sure on the list of “Shameful, painful sexual experiences I will never talk about to anybody”. He was putting an envelope into the night deposit, and then he walked to his car, and was about to leave when I pointed at him, and yelled “Hey, you! I know you. Your name’s John!”. I knew I should have let him leave, but the alcohol took away all common sense.

The stupid idiot got out of his car, looking all sheepish and pleased, and came back to the ATM to talk to me. “Yes, that is my name! You look familiar. Do I know you?”. I smiled seductively, and cooed “Yes, you do. Now give me your glasses”. I don’t know what the hell he thought I was doing, but he did actually let me take the glasses, and I walked with them into the parking lot, with him feebly protesting that he was blind without them. I set the timer on my iPhone, and said “You have 60 seconds to remember my name or I’ll smash your glasses”.

He failed the test.

I stomped on his glasses.

And, if this was Hollywood, they would have broken into pieces, and I would have driven off into the sunset to start a new life, and find true love.

But it’s not Hollywood, and they didn’t fucking break. I think I only succeeded in bending them badly.

For someone whose glasses had just been nearly demolished by a deranged, drunk woman in a parking lot, I must say that his reaction was somewhat muted. He said words to the effect of “Well, that wasn’t very nice!”.

“It wasn’t very nice what you did to me either!”, I screamed back, and got into my car and drove off.

I’m sober now, and I actually think this story is kinda humorous, but at the time I felt so depressed, angry and out-of-control. Two guys in one day for whom I’m just a piece of ass. Some forgettable vagina.

I came home, and I just wanted somebody to hug me. But there was nobody. All I got were some text messages from MM, which said that I’m “a demon”, “a fucking monster”, “barely human”.

Some people drink to forget, but when I drink I seem to remember all the bad, nasty, abusive stuff that has happened to me, and I feel like a little girl again – so vulnerable, so in pain. Before meeting the guy at the ATM, I was driving home on the highway and the urge for self-destruction was pretty acute. I was doing 80, and I thought momentarily about just crashing the car on purpose.

Where does all that pain go when I’m not drunk? I feel fine now. I’m sad and lonely but I don’t want to harm myself or other people. Is the pain not real, then? Does the alcohol just create something that’s not really there?


The Hangover

Ugh. I have the hangover to end all hangovers. Two glasses of wine; three martinis; and a half-bottle of Cava.

Last night I went out with an Italian friend to see Werner Herzog’s “Bad Lieutenant – Port of Call New Orleans. It was pretty disappointing (although I wasn’t really expecting much from it anyway, to be honest) but Nicolas Cage does put in a good performance from time to time. I’m getting rather tired of seeing films in which haggard, middle-aged men have stunningly gorgeous girlfriends, though. I mean, come on – would someone who looks as good as Eva Mendes ever consider dating Nicolas Cage’s character in real life?!

When will there ever be a film in which a frumpy, doughy middle-aged woman has a handsome, young boyfriend?!

Despite the film’s failings, it was good to hang out with this friend. In general, I’m very fond of Italians. This guy will be forty-six next month and, yet, he still has a very youthful, playful quality to him. I’ve found that many Italians are like that. They never seem to lose their joie-de-vivre no matter how old they get.

I also miss having male friends. I learned long ago that there’s just no point in trying to befriend American men. Platonic friendship just does not seem to be something Americans understand. In my first year in the US, I had a lot of male friends (I’ve always had more male friends than female ones – although my best friends are always female – because they’re so much more straight-forward than women), and, one by one, they dropped me like a hot potato as soon as they realized that nothing sexual was going to happen between us.

It was great to hang out with a European guy again because, generally, European men do seem to be able to relate to women as something other than potential sexual conquests. It’s just as well that “MM” decided to stop driving and get a hotel somewhere in Arkansas, though, because I got so drunk that I ended up falling asleep on the Italian’s sofa, and woke up at 9:00 a.m. this morning. Platonic friendship though it may be, I don’t think that “MM” would have been very pleased to have arrived home after a two-day car drive to find my bed empty because I was in another man’s house!

Her smile


I wish I had taken a better picture of the girl in the chequed shirt. If I had, you’d see what an absolutely stunning smile she has. She’s not really my type, but there’s just a certain depth and sweetness to her you don’t normally see in people in bars. The only word I can think of to describe her is “natural”…pretty pathetic really. I’ve always hated that word… when are guys ever described as “natural”?

After looking at her, I surveyed the bar, and most people looked so shallow and crass. I wonder what people think when they see me across a crowded bar? I wonder if I seem interesting…maybe I come off as a total dullard.

To quote my most famous countryman…”Oh wad some power the giftie gie us tae see oorselves as ithers see us” (or, um, something like that).

Composed on my iPhone, so please excuse any typos!

No, I haven’t given up …


… I just got bored of the sound of my own voice. Plus, I’ve been pretty sick with allergies, so much so that I wake up every night not being able to breathe.

Not that this stops me. I’m out drinking in one of my favourite bars.

I guess I’ll come back tomorrow.

Composed on my iPhone, so please excuse any typos!

One margarita, two cabernets…so much for the change of lifestyle

Well, so much for my Ayurvedic-inspired lifestyle change. It’s after 11:00 p.m. and here I am slightly pissed.

I can’t say I feel particularly guilty about it, though. I attended my first ever trail running class today, and it was fun! I’m used to road running, and have run three marathons, but nothing can beat trail running. Midwestern Man and I ran a 10K trail race this summer, and it was interesting how different a reaction we had to it. He found it boring and almost frightening because you have to watch out constantly that you don’t fall over rocks or trip on tree roots. This is exactly what I loved about it, though! I’ve very rarely experienced the so-called runner’s high by running on the road but I totally get into a zone when running on the trail. It’s precisely the risk factor which appeals – there’s no time to “ponder life’s complexities” (sorry, couldn’t resist a Morrissey quote) when you’re taking care not to break your ankle or are admiring the scenery.

Also, even though I know it’s not good for me, I do like the fact that the trail running group goes out for drinks afterwards. I joined a really hardcore running group this January, but I dropped out almost immediately because I just couldn’t deal with the anal retentiveness of the runners involved. All they did was sleep, eat, work and run. I tried to talk to them but every single conversation revolved around running. It didn’t seem healthy to me. This isn’t me. Despite all suggestions to the contrary on this blog, I love meeting people, and I get sad if I don’t. Trail runners have a reputation for endurance and socializing, so this suits me to the tee.

I found out tonight that one of the members of the “hard core” group ran a sub-3-hour marathon recently. This is very impressive for an amateur but, well, it’s still an amateur time, and he had given up his entire life for that! It just doesn’t seem worth making so many sacrifices for a sport which is essentially a hobby. I guess if it makes him happy, I shouldn’t judge but, still, it seems like an empty life to me. A self-indulgent, self-absorbed life, too, because, let’s face it, running is a very individualistic, solitary sport. I have met single-minded, obsessive people before but they’ve usually been artists or writers, and at least they’ve grown intellectually by focusing on their chosen field. Running, though? All you seem to be focusing on is your body.

On the other hand, it did occur to me that I reacted so strongly to this guy because, quite simply, I’m jealous of him. I’m not jealous of his speed because, well, if I trained hard enough I could be really fucking fast. I’m a natural runner, and if I really put my mind to it I could be great. But that’s just the problem, though…I don’t put my mind to it at all. And that’s why I’m jealous of him, because he does try hard and persevere. When I first met this guy, he really wasn’t a spectacular runner at all but now he’s fantastic. Sure, he must have some natural talent, but, ultimately, he succeeded because of sheer willpower, determination and hard work.

There are several things in my life which I could easily put more effort into because I’m good at them – singing, writing and running are the most obvious. And, on top of these main interests there are a zillion other less important things which interest me. There are people out there who are good at multi-tasking or who work at, and succeed in, several fields at once. I don’t succeed in anything! My focus is splintered off into too many areas all at once. I don’t really persevere in anything.

I do still think Mr Sub-3-hour-marathon is an empty shell of a person because running consumes him 24/7. But! But! But! I feel guilty for thinking badly of him because, ultimately, he can do what I can’t: stick at something and excel.

My main talent seems to be sitting on the sidelines to pooh-pooh the efforts of others, and telling myself that I could easily do better if I put my mind to it…without ever getting off my fat arse to try.

Red, red wine

No time to post tonight.

I’ve been drinking red wine with a client all night, and now we need to go have our session.

How dutiful am I, though? Even though I’m tipsy and still have to work, I still don’t forget about you, dear readers.

Comment, for fuck’s sake!

I came home this evening from a volunteer training session and immediately checked my email in the hope that I’d find at least one wee comment on yesterday’s post. But no! Not a single comment – and that despite the fact that poor Petrichor here nearly left the realm of mortals yesterday because of a careless driver!

Come on, people! Comment, goddamn you! I’m not just writing this blog for the good of my health, you know…well, OK, so actually I am….but still! Show me some love!

Yesterday I finished the NaBloPoMo September challenge (i.e. blogging every day for a month), and yet not a tiny word of congratulations from anybody? No? Sigh. Oh, what an underappreciaed, unloved blogger I am.

I do worry sometimes about having lost a bit of my mojo over at this blog. I worry that getting married, and no longer having quite the same need to seek solace in the blogosphere, has made me a bad writer. I also worry that writing every day with a time constraint (I try to take no longer than one hour for each post) has made my writing duller, too. Oh, but what if it has?! I can’t go through life being miserable, depressed and single just so more people comment on my blog. I really like what Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, has to say about the romantic myth of suffering for your art:

“Art isn’t really born from pain – rather it’s just that the pain focuses our attention on the details”

I will leave you with that thought while I go off to drown the sorrow of your terrible neglect in red wine and an episode of my beloved “Deadwood”. Goodnight, you miserable non-commenting bastards.