I'm not doing too well so far, and its only the fourth day of the month. But last night was a one off - I went to a gig and had to have a beer or 5.
Why February?
Because I believe my body needs a break from the constant partying I inflict on it.
Because I cant do Dry July - my birthday is in July.
Because I overspent the fun budget in January and need to build up the coffers again for Mad March.
Because its the shortest month of the year.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey xx
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Boogie Monster.
I wish I could bottle the smell of Friday afternoons. It would be a heady mix of relief and anticipation, coupled with hints of drama, passion and fun. Oh, and we mustn't forget, liberal doses of alcohol.
I'm really looking forward to this weekend. Manic diarising has meant i am attending two barbecues, a night out on the town and then the lovely anticipation of 'whatever goes". But first, there is work to attend to.
A massive generalisation that is probably true - the minutes seem to tick over more slowly when you can't wait to get out of there. I'm doing all of my little tricks - refusing to look at the time until I think 5 minutes has passed, holding my breath for two minutes, taking a sip of water every 30 seconds. How did the time go from 5.29 to 5.28?
Finally, as I stare at the time in the bottom corner of my computer screen, in slow motion the digits change from 5.59 to 6.00. "I'm done", I say as I stand up, log off my computer, grab my handbag and push my chair in, all in one easy motion.
Barbecue # 1 is a casual affair, simply a few drinks between workmates over the wafting scent of sausages. Its a chance to toil down over the working week, bitching about issues to people who actually can relate to them, and understand the jargon and acronyms. Its always better to moan and gripe here, rather than be that messy one who bitches later on at people who barely move to emit bodily gas, let alone have a full time job. A few quick drinks here and then a slightly wobbly dash hailing a cab, and I'm off to the next one.
Sydney has an amazing harbour, and this barbecue has been plonked perfectly on the shores of our idyllic harbour. Add to that a dusky evening where the mosquitos have not yet begun to bite and I feel more and more relaxed as the hours while away. This is one situation where I would be happy for the minutes to go backwards.
But no rest for the wicked. After a few hours of becoming one with a picnic blanket and some bottles of wine, its time for the night to turn the bass up...I am going dancing.
Preparations are slightly messy, to say the least. Downing tumblers full of wine (we gave up on the wine glasses way back when we discovered they didn't hold enough) there is lots of singing, jostling for mirror space, frequent cigarette breaks and I do believe there was even a dance rendition to the Spice Girls song "Stop". Perhaps we should have taken heed from the words of the song - a neighbour politely knocked on the door and asked us to turn it down a smidgen.
Into a cab we pile, a merry duo off to meet like minded party goers. We meet up with my friends, some of whom I was having beers with only that afternoon, and immediately hit the bar for vodka doubles.
Don't judge me - it saves time lining up later on.
The place is trading as an R&B funk joint tonight, so there is plenty of bounce bounce baby bounce factor. Lots of gorgeous men too, I muse, roving an expert eye over the talent out tonight. But plenty of time for that later - I'm here to shake a tail feather. So dance, we do. We drop it like its hot. We raise the roof. We like big butts and we cannot lie. We ain't no Hollaback Girl. We never knew a love like, love like this before. You get the idea.
I duck outside for some fresh air (read : my eighteen millionth cigarette for the night) and in my drunken state manage to smash a glass all over some poor girls exposed foot. I apologise profusely, and the apology is taken with poor grace. Never mind. She had ugly shoes on anyway.
Eventually we tire of dancing and decide to get a meal from one of the late night chinese establishments. Into the place we tumble, our shiny eye makeup and high heels at odds with the lino flooring and chinese warbling coming from the karaoke on the screens. Meals are ordered, drinks are ordered and finally a little bit of order is in place.
Easy conversation is flung from table side to table side, but I am restless. I feel there is still so much to the night and pray the others are of a similar frame of mind. No such luck, to my disappointment. So I cast my nets wider and the following phone conversation ensues.
"Hello darlings, what are you up to tonight?"
"OMG, come out! We are at a foam party and completely off our faces."
"Lovely, I shall see you in a bit. Meet me out the front."
"Its a lesbian foam party!!"
"A lesbian foam party?"
"Yah, and there are hot lesbians everywhere. I slipped in the foam and fell off the stage!!"
"Hmm, ok. I will see you soon."
I share a taxi with one of my mates as we are going the same way, and I can kind of sense he wants to come too, he just needs some very strong arm twisting. I'm not sure how long I'll stay though so I leave it for this time, leaving a mental memo for another day.
My friend meets me at the door with a flaming great big kiss. I suspect this is due to the door bitches at the club turning away a lot of men, due to it being, as you know, a lesbian affair. I have no troubles getting in (hmmmm...) and once past the velvet rope I stop in shock for a second.
There is foam everywhere.
I can barely see some peoples faces, they are covered from head to toe in bubbles. Immediately I regret coming in open toed heels and a satin dress. I am absurdly over dressed for such an event, however I am feeling slightly mollified by the appreciative looks being thrown my way by the women in the area.
I traipse downstairs to the lower dance floor, where the foam abates slightly and order drinks at the bar. Double vodkas again, yes. In for a penny, in for a pound, I say.
After some very tentative dancing (the floor is slippery) we manage to get outside to the smoking area, where I am immediately abandoned by my companion with promises to return in one second.
I'm not too fussed and lean against the wall, drink in hand. After a few minutes, I'm approached by two good looking males and small chit chat is made. While this occurs, I spot a gorgeous specimen of an man leaning on the opposite wall, casting a glance in my direction every now and again. What would I do here? I've started talking to these two other guys, it would be unfeasibly rude to turn away and start a conversation with another?
I head back inside and the night, as they tend to do, passes in a blur. Nothing much of note happens, except I have a great time, which is something in itself, I suppose. As I leave the club I notice I don't have any more cash in my wallet and so a call to the ATM is necessary. I walk down the street, in the midst of drunks, junkies, police, rowdy boys, slutty girls - if you live in Sydney you will know I'm referring to Oxford St ...
Before I reach the cashpoint though, I hear someone behind me trying to get my attention. I turn around and I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather - it was the boy from the alleyway. He saw me leave and had left his friends to come and speak to me. Now, I would never let an effort like that be for nothing so I went and had some drinks with me in the nearest pub.
He was lovely to speak to and spend time with, opening doors, pulling out my chair (??) and I enjoyed a nice easy banter with him. Until he spoke about his ex girlfriend. I asked him when they had broken up, as it seemed to me it must have been recent. He said a few hours ago. I thanked him for the drinks and then left.
Did I overreact? I think not. I would have just rather been on my way home then spending time with someone who obviously was out for a revenge/spite shag. In another world, maybe.
On my way home, I drink dial. I ring my Go To Guy, the boy down the road. He was thankfully awake and so instead of going straight home I get dropped off at the boys house. I'll not divulge too many details, but lets just say itches got scratched, cuddles were given, and a few hours later with the sun high up in the sky I got dropped at my front door, high heels in my hand.
What an utterly fabulous night.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey xx
I'm really looking forward to this weekend. Manic diarising has meant i am attending two barbecues, a night out on the town and then the lovely anticipation of 'whatever goes". But first, there is work to attend to.
A massive generalisation that is probably true - the minutes seem to tick over more slowly when you can't wait to get out of there. I'm doing all of my little tricks - refusing to look at the time until I think 5 minutes has passed, holding my breath for two minutes, taking a sip of water every 30 seconds. How did the time go from 5.29 to 5.28?
Finally, as I stare at the time in the bottom corner of my computer screen, in slow motion the digits change from 5.59 to 6.00. "I'm done", I say as I stand up, log off my computer, grab my handbag and push my chair in, all in one easy motion.
Barbecue # 1 is a casual affair, simply a few drinks between workmates over the wafting scent of sausages. Its a chance to toil down over the working week, bitching about issues to people who actually can relate to them, and understand the jargon and acronyms. Its always better to moan and gripe here, rather than be that messy one who bitches later on at people who barely move to emit bodily gas, let alone have a full time job. A few quick drinks here and then a slightly wobbly dash hailing a cab, and I'm off to the next one.
Sydney has an amazing harbour, and this barbecue has been plonked perfectly on the shores of our idyllic harbour. Add to that a dusky evening where the mosquitos have not yet begun to bite and I feel more and more relaxed as the hours while away. This is one situation where I would be happy for the minutes to go backwards.
But no rest for the wicked. After a few hours of becoming one with a picnic blanket and some bottles of wine, its time for the night to turn the bass up...I am going dancing.
Preparations are slightly messy, to say the least. Downing tumblers full of wine (we gave up on the wine glasses way back when we discovered they didn't hold enough) there is lots of singing, jostling for mirror space, frequent cigarette breaks and I do believe there was even a dance rendition to the Spice Girls song "Stop". Perhaps we should have taken heed from the words of the song - a neighbour politely knocked on the door and asked us to turn it down a smidgen.
Into a cab we pile, a merry duo off to meet like minded party goers. We meet up with my friends, some of whom I was having beers with only that afternoon, and immediately hit the bar for vodka doubles.
Don't judge me - it saves time lining up later on.
The place is trading as an R&B funk joint tonight, so there is plenty of bounce bounce baby bounce factor. Lots of gorgeous men too, I muse, roving an expert eye over the talent out tonight. But plenty of time for that later - I'm here to shake a tail feather. So dance, we do. We drop it like its hot. We raise the roof. We like big butts and we cannot lie. We ain't no Hollaback Girl. We never knew a love like, love like this before. You get the idea.
I duck outside for some fresh air (read : my eighteen millionth cigarette for the night) and in my drunken state manage to smash a glass all over some poor girls exposed foot. I apologise profusely, and the apology is taken with poor grace. Never mind. She had ugly shoes on anyway.
Eventually we tire of dancing and decide to get a meal from one of the late night chinese establishments. Into the place we tumble, our shiny eye makeup and high heels at odds with the lino flooring and chinese warbling coming from the karaoke on the screens. Meals are ordered, drinks are ordered and finally a little bit of order is in place.
Easy conversation is flung from table side to table side, but I am restless. I feel there is still so much to the night and pray the others are of a similar frame of mind. No such luck, to my disappointment. So I cast my nets wider and the following phone conversation ensues.
"Hello darlings, what are you up to tonight?"
"OMG, come out! We are at a foam party and completely off our faces."
"Lovely, I shall see you in a bit. Meet me out the front."
"Its a lesbian foam party!!"
"A lesbian foam party?"
"Yah, and there are hot lesbians everywhere. I slipped in the foam and fell off the stage!!"
"Hmm, ok. I will see you soon."
I share a taxi with one of my mates as we are going the same way, and I can kind of sense he wants to come too, he just needs some very strong arm twisting. I'm not sure how long I'll stay though so I leave it for this time, leaving a mental memo for another day.
My friend meets me at the door with a flaming great big kiss. I suspect this is due to the door bitches at the club turning away a lot of men, due to it being, as you know, a lesbian affair. I have no troubles getting in (hmmmm...) and once past the velvet rope I stop in shock for a second.
There is foam everywhere.
I can barely see some peoples faces, they are covered from head to toe in bubbles. Immediately I regret coming in open toed heels and a satin dress. I am absurdly over dressed for such an event, however I am feeling slightly mollified by the appreciative looks being thrown my way by the women in the area.
I traipse downstairs to the lower dance floor, where the foam abates slightly and order drinks at the bar. Double vodkas again, yes. In for a penny, in for a pound, I say.
After some very tentative dancing (the floor is slippery) we manage to get outside to the smoking area, where I am immediately abandoned by my companion with promises to return in one second.
I'm not too fussed and lean against the wall, drink in hand. After a few minutes, I'm approached by two good looking males and small chit chat is made. While this occurs, I spot a gorgeous specimen of an man leaning on the opposite wall, casting a glance in my direction every now and again. What would I do here? I've started talking to these two other guys, it would be unfeasibly rude to turn away and start a conversation with another?
I head back inside and the night, as they tend to do, passes in a blur. Nothing much of note happens, except I have a great time, which is something in itself, I suppose. As I leave the club I notice I don't have any more cash in my wallet and so a call to the ATM is necessary. I walk down the street, in the midst of drunks, junkies, police, rowdy boys, slutty girls - if you live in Sydney you will know I'm referring to Oxford St ...
Before I reach the cashpoint though, I hear someone behind me trying to get my attention. I turn around and I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather - it was the boy from the alleyway. He saw me leave and had left his friends to come and speak to me. Now, I would never let an effort like that be for nothing so I went and had some drinks with me in the nearest pub.
He was lovely to speak to and spend time with, opening doors, pulling out my chair (??) and I enjoyed a nice easy banter with him. Until he spoke about his ex girlfriend. I asked him when they had broken up, as it seemed to me it must have been recent. He said a few hours ago. I thanked him for the drinks and then left.
Did I overreact? I think not. I would have just rather been on my way home then spending time with someone who obviously was out for a revenge/spite shag. In another world, maybe.
On my way home, I drink dial. I ring my Go To Guy, the boy down the road. He was thankfully awake and so instead of going straight home I get dropped off at the boys house. I'll not divulge too many details, but lets just say itches got scratched, cuddles were given, and a few hours later with the sun high up in the sky I got dropped at my front door, high heels in my hand.
What an utterly fabulous night.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey xx
Out Of The Mouth Of Babes...
My 5 year old cousin told me today that she has a boyfriend.
I didnt know whether to laugh or cry.
I didnt know whether to laugh or cry.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
My Big Day Out
The sun comes creeping over the city skyline. Its the early hours of the morning but already I can feel the force of the heat. Sure enough, I check the weather forecast for today and its expected to be in the 40s. This is great news to me as I have nothing for my day planned except for my attendence at the most highly anticipated music festival so far this year.
The Temper Trap. Muse. Dizzee Rascal. Passion Pit. Ladyhawke. Calvin Harris. Powderfinger. Girl Talk. Am I listing the days line up or scrolling through my Ipod? All I know is that I cannot wait for the day to begin.
I've got to finish work first. Foolishly I decided to cover the overnight shift and then go straight to the festival from there. Adrenaline will fuel me, I assured myself. Maybe that, and a little chemical assistance. Does that shock you? It needn't.
Yes, I am an occasional drug taker. I indulge every now and again, to make a situation more fun, to make people seem more interesting, to make myself a little wilder. As long as I never cross that line where I NEED to escape from reality, I think it harms no one. Altering reality is fine.
So begins my day of fun. It helps I have two willing partners in crime who match me in action, from lines to outfits and spritzing of perfume. We dont often hang out, but when situations like this arise, we fit together like a perfectly molded jigsaw. Sometimes the picture aint so pretty though.
By now its late morning and the heat is drilling onto us with a ferocity that is only just bearable. Im glad its this rather than raining though - Glastonbury it is not.
My heart is racing all day though, and its not just from the drugs or the millions of drug dogs and police around. The male outfit of choice seems to be checked shorts, a white singlet and a fedora of some type. This is exactly what my ex chose to wear almost every day. So all around me I see him. Lining up at the bar. Walking towards a stall. Throwing his head back with laughter. Dancing along to a song i know he loves.
Of course I know its not him. The hair colour is wrong. The shoulders are not wide enough. The smile, although sometimes welcoming and daring, is never his. But for a tiny second, I see him in everyone that walks past.
Then of course, it happens. Dancing away to the maestro that is Calvin Harris, I see the back of a head. I would recognise those shoulders, that dance move, that uninhibited smile anywhere. It IS him. And I feel like I need to throw up.
I stand stock still for what seems like forever. Then realising my friends are looking at me in a concerned manner, I tell them I'll be right back and disappear a little ways into the crowd. From this vantage point I'm free to stare at him and take it all in. It takes every fibre of my being to not run towards him and bury my face into his neck and cry. It really does. I want to touch him so badly I can feel a physical pain in my chest.
Luckily there is pain. Something stopped me from running over to him. The memory of the pain he has caused me, I have caused him. And so in the midst of thousands of gleeful dancers under pulsating lights and writhing bodies - somewhere deep down inside me, I take my first baby step towards letting him go.
Thats not to say when i returned to my friends it still wasnt burning in my mind. So I danced with forced gusto, I laughed a little hysterically when something was shouted towards my ear, I cast covert glances towards him, only a few desperate feet away. It would have been so easy to walk down that path.
But this is the path he has chosen to take, and so I must walk down another.
Scratch that - i refuse to walk. No one ever said I wasnt allowed to dance my way down that path. So dance I did. And shall continue to do.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey xx
The Temper Trap. Muse. Dizzee Rascal. Passion Pit. Ladyhawke. Calvin Harris. Powderfinger. Girl Talk. Am I listing the days line up or scrolling through my Ipod? All I know is that I cannot wait for the day to begin.
I've got to finish work first. Foolishly I decided to cover the overnight shift and then go straight to the festival from there. Adrenaline will fuel me, I assured myself. Maybe that, and a little chemical assistance. Does that shock you? It needn't.
Yes, I am an occasional drug taker. I indulge every now and again, to make a situation more fun, to make people seem more interesting, to make myself a little wilder. As long as I never cross that line where I NEED to escape from reality, I think it harms no one. Altering reality is fine.
So begins my day of fun. It helps I have two willing partners in crime who match me in action, from lines to outfits and spritzing of perfume. We dont often hang out, but when situations like this arise, we fit together like a perfectly molded jigsaw. Sometimes the picture aint so pretty though.
By now its late morning and the heat is drilling onto us with a ferocity that is only just bearable. Im glad its this rather than raining though - Glastonbury it is not.
My heart is racing all day though, and its not just from the drugs or the millions of drug dogs and police around. The male outfit of choice seems to be checked shorts, a white singlet and a fedora of some type. This is exactly what my ex chose to wear almost every day. So all around me I see him. Lining up at the bar. Walking towards a stall. Throwing his head back with laughter. Dancing along to a song i know he loves.
Of course I know its not him. The hair colour is wrong. The shoulders are not wide enough. The smile, although sometimes welcoming and daring, is never his. But for a tiny second, I see him in everyone that walks past.
Then of course, it happens. Dancing away to the maestro that is Calvin Harris, I see the back of a head. I would recognise those shoulders, that dance move, that uninhibited smile anywhere. It IS him. And I feel like I need to throw up.
I stand stock still for what seems like forever. Then realising my friends are looking at me in a concerned manner, I tell them I'll be right back and disappear a little ways into the crowd. From this vantage point I'm free to stare at him and take it all in. It takes every fibre of my being to not run towards him and bury my face into his neck and cry. It really does. I want to touch him so badly I can feel a physical pain in my chest.
Luckily there is pain. Something stopped me from running over to him. The memory of the pain he has caused me, I have caused him. And so in the midst of thousands of gleeful dancers under pulsating lights and writhing bodies - somewhere deep down inside me, I take my first baby step towards letting him go.
Thats not to say when i returned to my friends it still wasnt burning in my mind. So I danced with forced gusto, I laughed a little hysterically when something was shouted towards my ear, I cast covert glances towards him, only a few desperate feet away. It would have been so easy to walk down that path.
But this is the path he has chosen to take, and so I must walk down another.
Scratch that - i refuse to walk. No one ever said I wasnt allowed to dance my way down that path. So dance I did. And shall continue to do.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey xx
Shaking a Tail Feather
So its been a while since Ive had a chance to update this. Quite a lot has happened since then, so I hope to do all of the events justice by recalling them to their full potential.
The last time I wrote was just after that mind blowing concert I went to. Happiness and fun has been fleeting of late, so it was refreshing for me to have such a great time. There was a true lack of pretension and worry on the night due to me doing something I enjoyed, being with good friends and listening to a kick ass band.
After the concert, I convinced my girlfriend to go out for a few drinks with me. Off we went to the seediest part of town, but any die hard party girl worth her stilettos will tell you thats where all the action happens. Fast forward to a grungy hip little bar and we are downing shots poured from a teapot. Lethal, so but yummy.
Left by myself for a rare moment, a guy comes over to me and introduces himself. I look up and clock unbelievably blue eyes so I agree to him buying me a drink and have a little chat with him. He's a lovely person and we share quite a lot in common so we swap numbers and organise to have drinks another night.
After this, the bar is getting quite crowded and so some extraordinarily cute boys sit at the end of our table. Immediately glances are shot under lowered lashes, coy smiles are exchanged and I may have even been guilty of some hair flicking. As if out of a line up, i pick my favourite boy and luckily he is the one sat next to me. So when an arm lightly brushes against mine, I dont move away. When a thigh is pressed up against mine under the table I press back.
Conversation takes a back seat to the real communication thats being made between us. In fact, I dont recall a word he said to me that night, just how his eyes glint of mischief.
Sadly, as they have a wont to do, all good nights draw to a close. Farewells are called for and so i lean over to kiss him on a cheek. My aim is somewhat misdirected and I end up with a lingering kiss full of heat and passion and promise. I take his number and small chit chat is made to call.
Two numbers in one night. Quite a change from the self imposed celibacy Ive been in for the last few years. (There is an exception to this rule, but we neednt talk about that at this time.)
A small realisation though. I'll spoil the story by saying that although we did try, nothing lasting eventuated from either of those guys. However what I truly believe the big step that I've made is that I got out there and I flirted and had fun and had a random snog and took numbers and flicked my hair and added a little swing to my walk and thought about somebody other than HIM.
Its that kind of realisation that makes me think that its going to be ok in the end.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey
The last time I wrote was just after that mind blowing concert I went to. Happiness and fun has been fleeting of late, so it was refreshing for me to have such a great time. There was a true lack of pretension and worry on the night due to me doing something I enjoyed, being with good friends and listening to a kick ass band.
After the concert, I convinced my girlfriend to go out for a few drinks with me. Off we went to the seediest part of town, but any die hard party girl worth her stilettos will tell you thats where all the action happens. Fast forward to a grungy hip little bar and we are downing shots poured from a teapot. Lethal, so but yummy.
Left by myself for a rare moment, a guy comes over to me and introduces himself. I look up and clock unbelievably blue eyes so I agree to him buying me a drink and have a little chat with him. He's a lovely person and we share quite a lot in common so we swap numbers and organise to have drinks another night.
After this, the bar is getting quite crowded and so some extraordinarily cute boys sit at the end of our table. Immediately glances are shot under lowered lashes, coy smiles are exchanged and I may have even been guilty of some hair flicking. As if out of a line up, i pick my favourite boy and luckily he is the one sat next to me. So when an arm lightly brushes against mine, I dont move away. When a thigh is pressed up against mine under the table I press back.
Conversation takes a back seat to the real communication thats being made between us. In fact, I dont recall a word he said to me that night, just how his eyes glint of mischief.
Sadly, as they have a wont to do, all good nights draw to a close. Farewells are called for and so i lean over to kiss him on a cheek. My aim is somewhat misdirected and I end up with a lingering kiss full of heat and passion and promise. I take his number and small chit chat is made to call.
Two numbers in one night. Quite a change from the self imposed celibacy Ive been in for the last few years. (There is an exception to this rule, but we neednt talk about that at this time.)
A small realisation though. I'll spoil the story by saying that although we did try, nothing lasting eventuated from either of those guys. However what I truly believe the big step that I've made is that I got out there and I flirted and had fun and had a random snog and took numbers and flicked my hair and added a little swing to my walk and thought about somebody other than HIM.
Its that kind of realisation that makes me think that its going to be ok in the end.
Good luck in life and love,
Honey
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Next Stop...My Happy Place.
Regardless of what my blogs say so far, I am a simple creature. I do not require a lot to make me happy. Green frogs. Oreos. A heartfelt cuddle. Cold beer. Eyes meeting across a crowded floor.
A good song.
I am addicted to music. I live and breathe notes and tunes and harmonies and riffs and frets. I inhale lyrics like air and always think they can be adapted to my own situations. I can find it easier to express a sentiment through song than my own bumbling clumsy words. Lyrics speak to me more than a person ever could, being immortalised in song.
I went to a concert tonight. One I have been waiting and waiting for with bated breath. The expectation I had lain on this event was phenomenal. I am glad to say it did not disappoint. From the chord of the first note I smiled until the dying strains of the last note. I danced like nobody was watching. I sung the words with a gusto only reserved for football matches or a fight between lovers.
This is my happy place.
I am riding on a high that no one else seems to understand. Nor do I feel like sharing it with any one else. This is mine. My secret.
And until I find someone who can express this to me without even saying a word, I will keep it close to my heart. Until I can find someone who can express this to me without even saying a word, I will not fall in love.
A good song.
I am addicted to music. I live and breathe notes and tunes and harmonies and riffs and frets. I inhale lyrics like air and always think they can be adapted to my own situations. I can find it easier to express a sentiment through song than my own bumbling clumsy words. Lyrics speak to me more than a person ever could, being immortalised in song.
I went to a concert tonight. One I have been waiting and waiting for with bated breath. The expectation I had lain on this event was phenomenal. I am glad to say it did not disappoint. From the chord of the first note I smiled until the dying strains of the last note. I danced like nobody was watching. I sung the words with a gusto only reserved for football matches or a fight between lovers.
This is my happy place.
I am riding on a high that no one else seems to understand. Nor do I feel like sharing it with any one else. This is mine. My secret.
And until I find someone who can express this to me without even saying a word, I will keep it close to my heart. Until I can find someone who can express this to me without even saying a word, I will not fall in love.
When Is Young Too Young?
For the first time in as far as I can remember, I went on a date. Like a proper butterflies in the tummy, holding hands, nonchalant brushing arms when walking date. He bought me an icecream, and in true Honey fashion I dropped some of it on my dress. He told me I was absolutely gorgeous. He held my hand as we walked and I could feel he was just as nervous as I was. When the wind blew he tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. When we lay on the grass together he leant over and kissed me on the cheek. On paper this boy seemed perfect.
On plastic, he did not.
By this I refer to his drivers license.
He is 5 years younger than me.
If you knew me at all, you would laugh at this. I have not had any previous qualms about exploring the younger market. In fact, I actively encourage it. I enjoy the thrill of a younger man, i revel in it. The lack of pretenses, the nervousness of the inexperience they have, the gratitude at the experience I can bring, the awe in which they uphold you. It can become quite addictive.
But generally although I prefer the bodies to be lithe and young, there is something I also like. That is maturity. You can sense right away whether a young boy is ready for this kind of experience. I'd rather not have a relationship with a boy when all he can think about is where to set off the next bunger or whether or not he will get Hungry Jacks before the Simpsons Saturday Special begins.
Unfortunately my date falls into the latter category. There are 22 year old men who are mature, and then there are 22 year old men. Period.
So although he walks the walk, and he talks the talk I dont think I will be the one to draw him into my world. I'm a baby maker, not a baby sitter. I'm a cradle snatcher, not a cradle rocker. You get my point.
But what of the energetic sex, the endless reserves of youthful stamina, I hear you cry. And, believe me, this is a point which has been well considered. Dear reader, this is an area which had been explored previously, and one which, although not been found lacking, comes with side dishes upon which I choose not to partake in. Like the salad on the side of a meal in which you poke about your plate and consider eating but in the end gets pushed to the side.
I believe he is at that delicate stage where he could take one of two paths. One is that he finds a girl his own age and has a tumultuous relatioship in which he discovers the world. The other is that he follows me into my world in which I will inevitably use him and then spit him out like a piece of gum chewed for too long. Can I be responsible for the destruction of such innocence? Such naivety?
Robert Frost famously said -
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference."
So for this boy, I will be the road less travelled by. Am I ready for the looks from other passers by, the scrutiny from his friends and family, the self examination in my own conscience? I think not. Never mind that he may make me happy, never mind that I may make him happy. The puppy dog adoration in his eyes, although completely enchanting, is not an avenue I am 100% willing to take.
What does Robert Frost know anyway.
On plastic, he did not.
By this I refer to his drivers license.
He is 5 years younger than me.
If you knew me at all, you would laugh at this. I have not had any previous qualms about exploring the younger market. In fact, I actively encourage it. I enjoy the thrill of a younger man, i revel in it. The lack of pretenses, the nervousness of the inexperience they have, the gratitude at the experience I can bring, the awe in which they uphold you. It can become quite addictive.
But generally although I prefer the bodies to be lithe and young, there is something I also like. That is maturity. You can sense right away whether a young boy is ready for this kind of experience. I'd rather not have a relationship with a boy when all he can think about is where to set off the next bunger or whether or not he will get Hungry Jacks before the Simpsons Saturday Special begins.
Unfortunately my date falls into the latter category. There are 22 year old men who are mature, and then there are 22 year old men. Period.
So although he walks the walk, and he talks the talk I dont think I will be the one to draw him into my world. I'm a baby maker, not a baby sitter. I'm a cradle snatcher, not a cradle rocker. You get my point.
But what of the energetic sex, the endless reserves of youthful stamina, I hear you cry. And, believe me, this is a point which has been well considered. Dear reader, this is an area which had been explored previously, and one which, although not been found lacking, comes with side dishes upon which I choose not to partake in. Like the salad on the side of a meal in which you poke about your plate and consider eating but in the end gets pushed to the side.
I believe he is at that delicate stage where he could take one of two paths. One is that he finds a girl his own age and has a tumultuous relatioship in which he discovers the world. The other is that he follows me into my world in which I will inevitably use him and then spit him out like a piece of gum chewed for too long. Can I be responsible for the destruction of such innocence? Such naivety?
Robert Frost famously said -
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference."
So for this boy, I will be the road less travelled by. Am I ready for the looks from other passers by, the scrutiny from his friends and family, the self examination in my own conscience? I think not. Never mind that he may make me happy, never mind that I may make him happy. The puppy dog adoration in his eyes, although completely enchanting, is not an avenue I am 100% willing to take.
What does Robert Frost know anyway.
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