broody zac

f


I wanted, above all things, to be off my head.

 

Staring at the walls, at the floor, at the covers on the bed, the room was stifling. Every surface I saw smeared with dirt. The urge to get up and shift some of it, to move some of the clutter, to clean out my brain, became strong and unbearable: I couldn’t move. The piles of laundry assaulted me, until my vision pixilated and I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. The power of the mundane itched and pressed down on me.

 

When I moved it was to slam through the house, urgently ferreting through drawers, bags, cupboards; anywhere there might be a stray pain killer.

 

There weren’t any.

 

I drank some of my sister’s bourbon. It burned, but it wasn’t enough. I was warmer, slightly sicker, but no calmer.

 

‘Fuck it.’ I thought, and pushed on into her room.

 

It was no better than my own. Covered in crap, clothes thrown on the floor, bottles of perfume, deodorant and hand cream strewn across the top of the dresser, bills and receipts on the bedside table. I went through her drawers. She must have hidden them; there was no other explanation for the dearth of strong pain killers on the premises.

 

I found them in the top drawer of her dresser and immediately swallowed two. But it wouldn’t be enough. I was determined that it wouldn’t. So I took a sheet with me, rationalizing that she’d never know how many she had. If she did, so what? She could get more. Or I would replace them. I didn’t care.

 

For ten more minutes I sat outside, smoking, waiting for them to kick in. I made myself read, to take my mind off the wait. After ten minutes, I cracked two more from the packet and went to swallow them, but I didn’t want to waste them, so I made myself wait another five minutes.

 

A soft, creamy haze alighted on my shoulders and neck first, smoothing down my body. My blood was warm and tingled in my feet. My head contracted and then relaxed and I could breathe…

 

Mmm. It was a blanket of comfort. I didn’t feel happier, but I was okay being sad. It was kind of nice. I stretched like a cat and relaxed back into my chair. I lit another cigarette; without ferociousness, without fear. I inhaled slowly and closed my eyes for a moment. It was about to get better.

 

 

 

broody zac

f


What he said was, “Don’t you trust me?”

 

And I snapped.

 

This is not, I have to point out, because of any great transgression on his part. No, it’s that phrase. The guilt saturated, much toted out, knee-jerk defense of the world’s cheating spouses. Centuries of irate, suspicious women have been presented with that little gem - a nice deflating little confrontational gambit – and cowed by it back into submissive silence, only to realize years later that their husband has been riding rings around them for years.

 

There are those arguing that if you love someone you should trust them. This is a lovely thought, but precious little comfort for the ones left behind.

 

“Yes, he dipped his wick into everything in sight, but at least I didn’t suspect. At least I really loved him.”

 

If my partner wants to be loved and trusted they need to earn it; starting with being up front about suspicious assignations with ex-girlfriends, attractive co-workers, and shopping trips to pick out birthday presents for a friend with said friend’s wife. That old catch-22 “don’t you trust me” is not a get out of jail free card in my house. The innocent have nothing to fear. The guilty should give up whilst still the proud owner of a matching pair of testicles.

broody zac

f

 

I longed to be one of those women oblivious to mounting demand notices from the credit card company, blithely spending money of a Saturday morning on beautiful jackets, bags, shoes and that fourth must have regenerative hair serum. Unfortunately, I was afflicted with chronic buyer’s remorse which actually assaulted me before I’d even picked an item off the shelf.

 

I put this down to two things. First, every time I looked at a price tag, the amount of hours I’d spent wishing I was dead rather than at work in order to afford it came crashing into my mind. Second, my father’s voice rang strongly in my head.

 

When I was a child, perhaps seven or eight, I was watching TV with my father and saw an ad for a coveted new car.

 

“See that, Dad,” I said with childish ignorance, “It’s on sale. If you buy that car you’ll save seven thousand dollars.”

 

To which he replied, “If I don’t buy it, I’ll save forty seven thousand.”

 

To this day, while sales are sending other women into adrenalin-fueled buying frenzies, I find myself lifting my lip scornfully and thinking, “Yes, but if I don’t buy it I’ll save eighty dollars.”

 

The combination of these two things sends me into paroxysms of guilt at the mere thought of indulging in an unnecessary purchase, to the point that I can’t buy a DVD if it’s not under $15 and I haven’t wanted it for at least the last five years. (The desire having therefore stood the test of time and justifying the purchase.)

 

I don’t want you to think that this makes me good with money. I have none. Nor (due to the Great Shopping Dilemma) do I have many possessions (which I’m told are counted as assets and are almost as good as having money).

 

No, I waste my money. I buy food, can’t be bother cooking it, and proceed to buy dinner out. I smoke – this eats up enough money to feed several small children for a week. I buy drinks from vending machines instead of bringing a water bottle to work (this is due to my massive lack of forethought). Throughout the week, I waste a small fortune on consumables I don’t need (by any stretch of the imagination) without ever making a purchase over $15.

 

It’d have you sickened, it really would.

broody zac

f


One such night he arrived at three-thirty in the morning after a brief call from down the street, climbed into bed with me and we both fell asleep. In the morning I was horrified. How could we? With not even the attempt at sex.

 

Of course, we tried to make up for it by doing it in three rooms of the apartment that morning, but what was done was done and I was still vaguely dismayed by the loveliness of waking up next to him.

 

A couple of weeks later we went away for a weekend of good old fashioned nudity and having sex in the car, in the bush, in the chalet… etc, etc. A great plan. But in the car on the way down, I suddenly found myself watching him with a deep inner glow of contentment and a cockamamie smile on my face. Gak! I tried to get him to have sex in a lay-by to get things back on track, but he was having none of it. (Being under the impish impression that holding out would make me desperate for it later.) (He was correct, but however…)

 

On the journey home, I cracked and faced the truth. I was thinking about him too much. I was singing Jewel songs. I was radiant with adoration. I had a decent sized crush.

 

Honor-bound by our agreement (and the suspicion that I would go slightly twisted if I found out he’d started seeing someone else) I confessed my sins and requested absolution in the form of an amiable parting. Thanks for the memories, sayonara, and so forth.

 

He begged me to consider that I was a lovely friend and he didn’t want to lose me. (This line is popular with boys who are not in the driving seat.)

 

I said, “That is true, but I will be a loopy friend if you don’t give me some space to nurse my wounded pride.”

 

He said he was sorry and he didn’t mean to hurt me.

 

I said, “That is all very well, but I am hurt, and I must take some time to deal with it.”

 

He suggested that I could meet him at the pub, perhaps it would be easier in public. (Less temptation to rip off clothes?)

 

I said, “Probably not. If you show up with a new girlfriend, I might disable her.”

 

He reasoned that he was slightly mentally ill and in no condition for a relationship.

 

I agreed.

 

Finally, with an air of the defeated, he asked me out.

 

There was a lot of discussion about whether he meant it, did he want to take it back, and was he definitely sure, but the long and short of it is that I said yes, and we became ‘official’. (To which many people said, “About bloody time.”)

 

However, it was a pretty short glory period of about three months, after which I became unbearable, he became unable to bear me, and I became disgusted at his inability to put up with me. From there it was only about two months until I was so depressed I could hardly breathe and I broke up with him because there was no point taking him down with me.

 

There is a lesson in here. It’s not a very profound one, but a lesson just the same.

 

Sometimes, it’s just great sex.

broody zac

observation... contemplation...? (d or f, pick one)


Do not understand teenage girls’ fascination with Zac Efron shirt-off. Is very beautiful, no doubt. But prefer quirky turn of lips and eyebrow raising, which is delicious, to buff body which can be seen on most Hollywood anybodies. Perhaps they have not seen enough male nipples in lifetime to make it passé? Cannot remember having such squealy fascination with male body at any age. Much more interested in intelligent aspect and distinct mannerisms.

 

Although… have massive penchant for male hands. Bad hands on beautiful man complete turn off. Unforgivable. Must be type of gorgeous hands which look good holding breasts, and conjure up thoughts of lovely, artistic, intelligent personality. Is very strange.

broody zac

Starts (d)

Writer's block is killing me. Am writing too much random rubbish, need a place to collate it. I'm pretty sure it's not going to turn out to be anything amazing, but I have no perspective on this. This may turn into a collection of random pieces, rants, ramblings...
  • Current Music
    birds