2003-03-09

Being a grown up is very dull. There is so much political bullshit that goes with playing the grown up game, and sometimes I ache for the simplicity of putting my foot in my mouth in order to say what I really mean.

Feeling a bit rejected cause the naughty friend J has been in town for a whole week and has not called or SMS’d even once. I have sent a few stupid messages but gave up yesterday, figuring that being desperate is not a good way to cultivate a friendship. I really don’t get it though – how hard would it have been just to send me an SMS saying he was busy and couldn’t catch up but maybe some other time? Maybe I am just expected to be this silent, compliant, obedient and eager little friend-slave simply because I am not famous and he is. Maybe he doesn’t give a shit - about the last ten years, about me, about all of the cool stuff we’ve done. It is times like these that I feel like going to the tabloids and blabbing everything; after all, he’s the one who has decided to be a rude prick by not calling, and if he has that little regard for me then perhaps I should show a similar level of disrespect.

And I don’t buy that whole “I’ve been sooo busy/My phone hasn’t been on/I just didn’t have a chance/My wife was looking over my shoulder” bullshit. Because that’s what it is, absolute bullshit. If you want something to happen you will always find a way to make it happen, and all this proves is that he didn’t want ME to happen, at least not with him. And that hurts, no two ways about it. So I am feeling rejected and resentful, but I won’t go to the tabloids until I lose about ten kilos – no point in not looking your best for the cameras!

Speaking of which, the losing weight thing has been going appallingly. I am still a tubby bitch, and if I don’t stop eating Crown Musks then I will never be anything but a tubby bitch. In a daring Bridget Jones-esque revelation I will also admit to having smoked at least ten cigarettes over the past week, but am now back on patches and having to amuse my mouth with something. Rotten things, addictions. Very good at making you feel like an idiot as you search for an excuse to do the very thing you are trying to stop. At times I have been forced to shove my fist in my mouth to stop myself from crying for want of that lovely nicotine. I am sure that I could go to a hypnotist or a shrink or a Tony Robbins seminar and “Quit Smoking Today”, “Lose All The Weight You Want”, and “Be A Better Person For Everyone’s Sake”, however I feel inadequate to the task of being a better person and feel I would kick many more goals being a worse person. Nice girls finish last, screwed and miserable on the cheap hotel sheets, and that has never been my dream.

Have been listening to Morrissey incessantly as he seems to be the only one capable of understanding how bored I am with humanity. I have found him uplifting rather than depressing, however I do occasionally feel an odd desire to grab handfuls of gladioli and fling them about the loungeroom; a minor side-effect I am sure.

Have also been listening to VAST in order to keep a grip on the hard reality of things, and in fits of pique I have resorted to Chopin, whereupon I tend to thrown myself on the couch and sob for an hour at a time. Perhaps I have early menopause? Just my luck, when all I really want is the big rambly house and 12 kids. I am a bit old to have 12 kids now (even if I started this week I would be 42 by the time I had them all, discounting twins), but I guess there is always adoption. Wow, I could have my own scene from Annie – I have always fancied myself a bit as the drunken mistress of a boarding house for orphaned gals! Actually, the more I think about it, the better it would be for me to adopt, especially if I want to have a career and still be in the entertainment industry. Children certainly seem to be no hindrance to the lives of the rich & famous, and in fact only make more photo & headline opportunities for their cause celebre parentals.

Sigh. Actually just feel like having a gin bath and reading Iyanla Vanzant in order to assure myself that I am worth something. The fiance is a nutter, the would-be lover is a non-contactable loser, and I am still selling fabric to rich old bitches. The only thing left for me is impro, and even then I don’t have a gig for another week or two. And writing. Of course writing. To quote Anthony Hopkins in “Shadowlands” – “we read to know we are not alone”. This may also translate as “we write to show how alone we are”. And there is a lot of alone in me at the moment.

bitch - moan