Questions from an inquisitive youth who's Grandma tells her that her favourite question to ask is 'Why.'

Hello,

I'm not exactly sure how to begin. I almost feel that I should be writing this with a quill and on parchment paper. I don't know you and you don't know me. I have paid your credit card in the bank once but you wouldn't have known that until now. This is going to sound more like an interview than a message to a person who participated in my creation but how do you even begin to write to a person like you whom I have so many questions for but I know that you are not looking for me. You know where I am. You are not curious and you must even have memories of my existence. So here, man with curly hair who I thank for that feature, are my questions. You don't have to reply. I'm not looking for a relationship. You knew where I was if you wanted one and I understand your situation was complicated so don't feel like this is going to set off some terrible spiral of events because these, these are just questions. Questions from an inquisitive youth who's Grandma tells her that her favourite question to ask is 'Why.'

1) Am I in any way foreign, relatives from way back when? I'm bored of being questioned about my origin and not being able to answer.

2) Do I have grandparents? Did they ever want to see me? Would they ever want to meet me... I do like grandparents.

3) Do you read?

4) I would kinda like a brief explanation of why you went, why you left. You don't have to feel like you need to cushion this for me, I'd really rather have the bare facts and reasons if you would.

5) Do you do crosswords?

6) What is your favourite colour?

I think for now that is all, thankyou for my bed when I was 11.

I'm watching Long Lost Families and I suppose my situation is somewhat a bit similar apart from the not being lost part. And that you didn't have to walk over the border into England... That's just happened in the episode i've just watched.

Thanks,

N.

The break up.

Everybody talks about them, people write songs about them, you can even watch them happen at the pictures. However, nobody can really understand the emotional torment of one until they actually endure one. Commence a long mental thought commentary of my curly existence post breakup.

So,
Everyone is all excited about getting together. There's excitement, you make nicknames about them to your friends like 'red jumper boy' or 'Harley' if he owns a motorbike. Harly was mine. Soon shortened to Harlz and that name stuck. That name stuck for a whole year of my life.

It's weird, the break up. At first there is the thought process when you're still together, the constant arguments, the ways of the other person that you don't agree with. So then you decide the only thing to do is break up. You've broken up once. You then got back together. Even went on a boat trip in the lakes with them and still, it's just not working. So then you have to explain to the other person your thoughts on the situation. 'What are you thinking?' - the dreaded question. But I find that everyone takes pity on the one who has been broken up with. Maybe Adele deserved to be dumped. Maybe she was a winger, a jealous type, a 'are you really going to wear that?' kind of human. But you feel sorry for her, well what about the breaker-up-ers? It's still god damn hard for us too. Yes it was our choice. Yes we wanted this to come to an end but, returning to a cold flat, a cold bed, the mental torture of 'did I do the right thing?' is horrific.

Now you have to endure the whole 'well you have my stuff so I need to come over and get it back'. So you have to see them. You have to see the person whose heart you broke. Who's future plans you destroyed and who's going to be there, looking as lovely as ever. And so the mental torture continues. But you know that this is the right decision, for you both, in the long run. Even though it sucks big time now. We have to persevere because otherwise, you will end up in an on going game of indecision and regret.

It's 6 days after we broke up. I've been flitting between listening to Destiny's child, Adele and Taylor swift.
Today is the 6th day and I've gone for Jay-z. Just to mix it up a bit. '99 problem but a bitch aint one.' etc

Good luck to all you break-er-uppers. It's shit.

Found the really morbid break up piece!

I'm going to publish it because I'm nice like that. So you can all mock my existence and feel better about yourself if you are infact a breakerupper. We all feel the same until they manage to thoroughly piss us off once more.

February.

So, just to get us up to speed. Myself and the blonde bomb shell split up. I did attempt to write a reaaaaaaally depressing, poetic and self deprecating post about in on here just the other week but my laptop wouldn't allow it. Probably for the best as I would literally be dying from the amount of shuddering I would have to do due to the words I managed to type in my warped state.
So, we broke up. I finished him and now the Adele songs don't get my sympathy. Maybe she deserved to be broken up with? Maybe she was needy and crazy and an angry drunk who wouldn't meet your friends? And there we go sympathising with Adele because she's all crying and singing about it. What about him? What if he is a perfectly great guy who deserves better than being moaned about over 'rumours having it' and god knows what else?
I saw him at a club the other night as he had invited me there (he probably told his friends later on that I was an intruder and refused all knowledge of the whole thing) we argued immediately because I bumped into his friend and he escorted me to the x-files. This was apparently a problem. So, I left within 8 minutes of being in the club. We paid £6 to get in...
The next day I returned home to find a picture of myself that he had kindly returned to me. 'It's best you have this' was written on the back. Don't worry, it wasn't anything x-rated just a recent modelling photo he wanted and now doesn't want.
At least it's over right? No more arguing, dreading phone calls, worrying if he is going to bollock me over something or nothing. We did have some good times but they are now tainted with frost.

To lighten up this post, I did have an indoor water fight yesterday! Literally had buckets of water tipped over my head and thrown into my face. INSIDE. It was incredible.

Ta ta for now, I have one of those lecture things you're supposed to be at university for.

Cyaaaaaaaaaa. Byeeeeeeeee.

Well, I hope you're cosy.

Remember when I was all warm and fuzzy about the thought of university? I wish I had any sense of fucking warmth right now. To type I have to hammer my purple fingers into the keys just to get enough power to type. I can see my own breath and in the morning, I fear that my toothbrush will freeze to my gums and rip out my costly nashers.
Anyway, I'm having a whale of a time, really. 9am tomorrow though. Must dash, I have organs to revive.

My dear huns...

I am now 20. This is not said to you in a jovial or whimsical tone. It is said in a sorrow filled life hating way that makes me have 'November in my soul' - Herman Melville said this and I thought I would borrow it to describe my ageing process.
For one, how the balls did I age this much without even realising? One of my high school friends who is actually a footballer posted today that he had found a grey hair.  A GREY HAIR! You know what's next don't you? Marriage and babies and veracious veins, all of which I link together as a threesome of horror. What a hideous reality.
My birthday was fun, actually. Not as amazing as scuba diving in the great barrier reef but as amazing as trudging through mud at a Manchester festival watching Annie Mac and singing 'I'mma ruin you kunt' - This is from a song not some type of attempt to gain attention from Annie. I did spend my night however sleeping on the dirtiest floor I have ever seen. I even tried to sweep it with a jeweled hand brush but to no avail. It was minging.
On the 11th I returned home and was sat in my bedroom awaiting my boyfriend to come on Skype. There was a knock at my bedroom door; 'What?' I answered in a less than friendly tone. Another knock 'Come in then, Christ.' To my joyous horror there stand my blonde bombshell. 'What the BALLS are you doing here?' Not the most lady like of phrases but it was all I could muster giving the true surprise. We are currently not speaking so, swings and roundabouts.

It appears that I have still not quite mastered the rules of these 'games' men play in their crazy little minds. Yes I said little and no, I am not taking it back.

Sincerely,

Bitter and stuff.

Red wine, pale student carpet

 

It’s 2 o’clock in the morning and I find myself aimlessly wandering around my 2 metre long and 2 metre wide bedroom. I’ve cleaned the dust off a lamp and I’ve read all of the books on my shelf. These books are in no way related to my course but, they’re interesting. Which is more than I can say for the drivel on my reading list.

I’m pyjama’d up, about to give in and go to bed when the worst happens. I must have tripped over thin air in a last attempt of excitement and rebellion against bedtime which causes the only bottle of red wine that I’ve ever owned to fall to the floor from the smallest table in the world and obliterate into a million pieces, throwing it’s dark venom all over my overly priced, rented carpet.

Panic sets in. ‘MY DEPOSIT!’ Is my first thought and Google is my next. I smash the words ‘how to get red wine out of a pale carpet’ into the search box and wait impatiently as I see the stained circle darkening. Whilst my internet has the speed of an over fed slug I bound for help. ‘Jon! Jon! Quick something really bad has happened!’ I hammer on my flatmates door and he comes out sleepy eyed and in his dressing gown. ‘I might have accidentally spilt a whole bottle of red wine on my carpet, please help me!’ Jon seems to be more womanly minded and stays calm, twirls backwards into his dark cave of a bedroom and returns with vanish and a damp cloth. I on the other hand am armed with surf and vinegar.

I’m thrown into a state of hysteria, giggling and yet almost in tears as I drown the carpet in vinegar and then coat it in a sheet of surf. This is what Google suggested and this, this is what I am trusting. Jon’s voice seems to have acquired a higher pitch as he stares at me whilst I stamp on the surf hoping it will help soak up the damage. ‘Is it working?!’ I yell. I get the hoover and suck up the powder which is now a dark shade of purple… This does not look good. The hoover is now clogged and now I not only have a giant stain on my carpet, I have surf all over my room and the entire place smells like alcoholic soapy vinegar.

I scrub with soapy water in hope that cleanlisness will resume and the previously grim patterned carpet will be saved from the giant stain invading its fabric. The night is long. I send Jon to bed after I feel we have done all that we can do to recover the carpet. I toss and turn in my sleep, wishing for a miracle. Not a miracle from God but, a miracle from Vanish, Surf and maybe even Johnsons.

It’s morning. I spring from my bed. There’s a stain. But the stain is no longer red wine, the stain is now from the brown vinegar I used in a state of mindless panic.