Cuervo

So today is an “out with the old and in with new” kind of day, this is the kind of day that inspired Britney Spears to shave her head bald (that and Kevin Federline), the kind of day that chanelled Angelina Jolie’s inner whore and made her steal Brad Pitt from Jennifer Aniston, yep, its that kind of day.

Out with semi-emo posts about lost love, heartbreak and stupid girls, and in with the frivolous and nonsensical.  What’s todays post about then? Tequilla. My 8 favourite letters after make-up sex. Ok, that’s not eight letters but I had to sneak it in there somehow!

So in the spirit of this “Anything goes” kind of day I broke up with Tequilla. And no, that’s not some pseudo-name for another worthless dipshit , I broke up with Jose Cuervo. Like all good girls, I like bad boys. I like them big, and rough and generally quick- nothing says stupid like actually dating a bad boy.

So you can see why Tequilla was my drink of choice- Its like a leather clad bad boy in a shot, it was love at first sight. Tequilla helped me stagger my way through high school but alas, now it was threatening to help me crawl my way through varsity. #unprofessional.

So like any good girl who’s clearly out of her depth, I ran. By ran, I mean I lay in my bed till three in the afternoon trying to piece my night together! So its over.

Gone are the days of drunken table dancing, falling behind the DJ booth and forgetting who I hooked up with the previous night. Gone are the days of half-spoken, half-slurred conversations and embarrassing drunk dials.

Now you’re probably thinking “Bitch get a diary”, Its just Tequilla? But Tequilla is an important part of my life. Yes, I sound like an alcoholic. Sue me. Or better yet, pass me my Lemon and my Cuervo.

Talk is cheap..

We say: “he broke my heart”, “he’s an asshole”, “how could he do this to me”.. But never once in our rant do we ever think to portion some blame to the pathetic, sad excuse of a person that was running around lapping up every half-baked lie and excuse that was thrown her way. We never think to portion blame for the person that blatantly refused to listen to every person, sign and experience that told her it wasn’t real.

I’m starting to think that maybe there is some inherent part in a girls psyche that breeds stupidity and blind trust, something that seems to outweigh intelligence and his three, five, nine girlfriends something that says its ok to be treated badly as long as he sometimes smiles at you or kisses you or pretends to love you. Its sad really, to look around and see girl after girl do the same thing in some derivative of the same relationship with some derivative of the same dipshit.

And I know I’m starting to sound like that aloof person who knows better and is merely tutting at all the naïve little people screwing around with their emotions but I’m not. Mostly because I’m a girl and maybe a little bit because we all want to believe that people can change, that if we are witty enough and our weave is straight enough and we can find that perfect little black dress to go with our killer smile somehow it will all work out.

But it wont.

So no, I’m not aloof, I don’t know better but I’ve been battered and bruised and I’ve come out even better dressed on the other side, I can only hope that next time *Strohrum comes around with his charm and his smile and his humour ill walk away, and if that’s not enough that ill run to a place where I can finally tut at the naïve little people still listening intently to the big fibs told by little men.

Fake it till you make it

No one wants to be that sniveling, pathetic girl in the movies who throws herself into a relationship only to be thrown out and end up parked on a tattered couch watching re-runs of friends as she shovels down truckloads of ice cream and damns the male species.  But the truth is the real alternative is worse, because in the real world of Statistics re-writes and friends who don’t really have the time or patience to understand, all you’re allowed is one lunch date, facebook inbox or skype conversation after which you’re unceremoniously expelled from the world of the broken hearted and expected to man up and get over it already.

The fact is the real world has no time for sob stories or tedious pity parties so what we do, what we have to do, is just be okay, or at the very least pretend to be, until we are. So we busy ourselves with this or that though all the while silently and quietly shovelling down ice cream and friends re-runs behind our smiles.

So there i was, 3 weeks post-break up and i was still smiling, still grieving, still shoveling metaphoric ice cream when my “real world” mentality kicked in, could I just man up and get over it already??  Because the truth is we’re more like our friends than we realise, we too have neither the time nor the patience to truly understand what we’re going through, so perhaps its not the big, bad world that sets these standards but the naïve little girls we are inside, too young and foolish to cope with the harsh realities of love and of life.

Retail therapy

So often we bandy around the term ‘friend’, maybe its that girl with the pigtails who used you used to play hide and seek with, or that girl in high school who used to pick your  dresses for the club or now that boy you watch movies with and share your life, or whoever it is we link arms and lives and say we’re best friends.

My best friend is the best parts of fire and ice, she is the person who brought me up and shook me up and turned me into the beautifully damaged person I am. Yet we have spent as much time hating each other as loving each other. But in the greater scheme of things, the good, the amazing and the down right insane outweigh the ugly and the mundane.

Even with my beautiful Gucci bag hanging on my shoulder I still went and bought a good knock off. Yes, its cheaper and still looks good to the untrained eye, but at closer inspection you notice that its not as durable, the stitching is untidy and the finish is just not quite the same. That’s the thing with fake labels, if you look quickly you could think that they look the same, they both have the tag but they aren’t.

So you walk around with your knock off until the colour starts to fade and the straps begin to crack and all of a sudden everyone knows it wasn’t real.

Friendship is exactly like that, we walk around calling every thing even a smidge past acquaintance our friend, we take shots and convince ourselves that that equates to substance but it doesn’t.  And then one fight, one slip up, one drunken phonecall later your “friendship” begins to crack and you know for sure that it wasn’t real.

So perhaps its better to put in the time and the effort into these friends, perhaps its better to hate each other till you don’t, perhaps its better to max out your credit card and buy that painfully expensive Gucci bag lest you look down and realise the stitching is coming undone.

So this is for Speckle, my best friend, this is for all the fake Gucci’s pretending to be the real thing and this is to knowing the difference.

Viva le ridiculously expensive labels.

World Peace

“Its funny because all this while i thought you broke my heart but i know now that you didn’t. The truth is, we were always better on a platonic level than anywhere else. Im glad we did everything though because i don’t think we would have grown as close as friends if we hadn’t. And thats the person that i miss, thats the person i want back, my friend. “

Thats what id say to Jaggermeister if i lived in a world where one could be honest about their feelings without being made to look like some wimp who treated a breakup like it was the third world war, thats what id say if every experience and im sure every self-help book didn’t say that when people break up they need to actually Break. Up.

And i think maybe thats the lesson here. Maybe it is about being totally apart so that you can remember who you were separately, that way you can be friends without that secret, niggling little voice kind of hoping you’ll get back together.

So for now i’ll strap on my freakum dress and my skyscraper heels, work the room, give him a smile and a nod and wait for the Saturday night that i can do that without butterflies attacking my stomach. That’s how you know the war is over, when you can let your guard down: when there are no longer canons and tanks in the streets , America has already taken  all of your oil and you can walk past your ex boyfriend and see other people in the room.

For the love of fashion

Lastnight while unpacking those things which I bought ‘that one time’ but never really wear, or things so horribly out of season that I might join Nicki Minaj as fodder for Joan Rivers I ended up unpacking all that horribly shameful emotional crap cluttering my otherwise well kept closet.

There before me stood my closet, and hanging somewhere between the ex boyfriend im too embarrassed to even admit having dated  and the fear of ever being bigger than a size 34 sat Jaggermeister, reading exactly like every poorly written romance novel: boy meets girl, boy breaks girls heart, girl nurses a broken heart while pining for asshole.

So there I sat sorting out my closet, and Jaggermeister, like that once cherished pair of bootleg jeans seems to insist on hanging there but alas, now is the time for jumpsuits and skinny jeans or in this case a caramel coloured rebound clad in the latter.

I know that sounds a bit like a band-aid solution but, for me, love is a lot like fashion: better fits, better cuts, better quality comes into stock with every season, its just a matter of shopping around until you find that perfect pair of skinny jeans that make even the shortest and plumpest of us feel like Victoria Beckham.

Fast forward a bit and you find yourself sitting on your bedroom floor in that sublime pair of jeans holding up your bootlegs wondering what the hell you were thinking. So I put them firmly on the “wouldn’t be caught dead” pile and hurled Jaggermeister in that direction too, what can I say, fashion is cut throat, love should be too.