Rant(ish). A Little History Repeating.

September 9, 2008

Good lord, readers, I am on one today!

 

Because the part of my brain that deals with memory is essentially useless, I tend to write things down over the course of the day on a post-it note, so that I remember to blog about them the next day. I make really small notes, just to remind myself of something, because (a) my job puts me in a near-comatose state, and (b) there’s only so much you can put up your nose before your brain starts to fizzle.

 

I actually have a full piece of paper with notes for today’s blog, but I want to start with something I haven’t written down, which has got me going even more than that spitty little man from Reed who you may have read about a couple of entries back – he of the horrendous and despicable employment presentation thing that Dom liked so much.

 

And that is about history.

 

Your history. My history. Whatever.

 

I am 28 (nearly 29) years old. I have a chequered past, and I most certainly have a history. Guess what – if you asked me how many women I have slept with, I genuinely don’t know the answer; not because I am some sort of man-slut, but because in the years 1998-2001, I spent the vast majority of my life in a chemically-induced haze. My memories of this time go something like this: directing a film, buying a Ribena, and singing on a street corner near Piccadilly Circus. And that’s it. Does it make me a bad person? Fuck no. Does it make me unfortunate? Possibly. But if you judge me on this, then more fool you, and I honestly don’t give a flying fuck.

 

These days I practice self love, and, as corny as it sounds, I have forgiven myself for the indiscretions of my past, and will continue to do so should any new ones arise.

 

So, Sunday night, I go out with someone, and we have a lovely time. She knows the address of my blog, being that she is a fellow Hoffmonian (a new word I just invented) and has read what I have written on a number of occasions, even praising me for my honesty. (I should point out that she was NOT a member of my particular group)

 

It just so happens that she read yesterday’s entry after going out with me on Sunday – the entry where, in my usual state of ‘pre-process liar, post-process truth to a fault’, I admitted that I had gone out on Friday night, got caught in a pattern, and slept with someone. I wrote that I really beat myself up for it – to the point where I wrote a blog entry of such extreme self-criticism that the next morning, upon reading it, I had to take it down for fear it made it sound as if I was about to throw myself off a bridge.

 

And so, last night, we’re talking, and having read that, she’s done. She’s decided that because I made a mistake, and was honest enough to admit it – knowing she’d probably see – before we’d even met, that she was no longer interested in seeing me in any sort of social context, romantic or otherwise.

 

And this has pissed me off like you can’t believe. Or maybe you can. Maybe you can see it in the tone of my… erm… typing voice.

 

I can understand why it might be off-putting, unsettling, or even threatening, but people have histories, and there is very little you can do about it; and that includes recent histories. I realise I am somewhat biased, being that mine is more chequered than most, but as far as I am concerned, the time you spend with someone begins on the day you meet, agree to date, whatever. You don’t ask them where they were the 2 days before, and then, if you find out something you don’t like, go ‘oh… actually, no thanks.’

 

As I have learnt, that’s not about me, that’s about you. Or maybe it is about me. Either way, it pissed me off something severe, but now I’m over it.

 

But I really expected a little more from a fellow Hoffman graduate. Or maybe I’m wrong. Feel free to tell me.

 

*goes back to note paper*

 

And breathe.

 

Hello group! I realised last night that I didn’t say hello to the people from my group that read this blog even nearly enough, so wherever you are – be it Jersey, Cheshire, or down the road, I sincerely hope you’re all ok.

 

I am pleased to announce that I am now a student! Yesterday, I finally paid for my two courses, and on the 1st October, I start a mini-course at Birkbeck University entitled ‘Biological Basis of Behaviour’, and on the 2nd, one called ‘Foundations of Modern Psychology’. These days, our wonderful British education system is built around a points tally, so I am having to do two courses (and another two before the year is out) in the place in order to leapfrog the first year of the degree course next year. It’s all very confusing.

 

I hate television. It is one of the worst inventions ever to cast its stain upon our collective psyches. Not only is the vast majority of programming an affront to anyone with even half an intelligent brain, but you have to suffer the indignity of being bombarded with adverts subliminally selling you crap every ten minutes or so.

 

As far as I am concerned, television should have absolutely no adverts, and be comprised entirely of ‘Masterchef’, so I can learn how to cook more, ‘South Park’, because it is the most consistently funny show of all time, ‘Entourage’, just because it is a completely accidental pastiche of modern celebrity and in Jeremy Piven’s Ari Gold, one of the great comedic creations EVER, and, a show I finally caught up with again yesterday, David Duchovny’s (the ex-X Files guy) ‘Californication’, a funnier show you will not see unless you’re watching the aforementioned South Park. Throw in some ‘Spongebob Squarepants’ for the kiddies, some ‘Sex and the City’ for ‘er indoors – despite it being a most risible show of the highest order – and outlaw adverts, and then you have something I might actually want to watch.

 

And not ‘Dragon’s Den’, a show I watched for the first time in my life yesterday, and will never watch again. Essentially, it’s a show about fat, balding twenty-somethings, who have business ideas. They present them, and then 4 relatively successful people act like they’re judges on Pop Idol or X Factor or some shit, and then agree to either invest in the idea or not. It’s sort of like prostitution in business suits. Anyway, it’s a horrible show.

 

Before all this, and I am adding this entry for two reasons – to add in some pictures, and to tell you all I that I have decided to serialise this blog in order to produce an account of my first 35 days after the process – I met, once again, with my daring, wonderful friend Rachel for some tea after work. And I’m not just saying that because I told her to read today’s entry. A kinder, sweeter soul you will not meet. As long as she has a hairdryer near her at all times, apparently.

 

Anyway, here’s Rachel reading the first draft of the introduction to my book:

 

My friend Rachel

My friend Rachel

 

Tonight, I am to tackle the only area of my life, friend-wise that his really pissed me off since I left the process. Tonight, I see my supposed best-friend Daniel.

 

Now Dan and I go way back – about 18 years at last count. When I first moved to North West London, I went to a Church of England School called Christ Church, and Daniel (he was the year above me) and I were the only Jewish kids in the school. We became fast friends, and have been ever since. We’ve had our ups and downs – as two single 18/19/20 year olds (see above, I told you my memory is patchy) on a raucous holiday in Spain, or the time I nearly broke up his 7 year relationship with my drunken behaviour, and he didn’t speak to me for 6 months.

 

Dan is, I am pleased to say, married to a lovely girl called Melissa, and has a baby called Ariella, who is nearly one year old. Suffice to say, I love them both with every inch of me, but having a family has (understandably) held back much of Daniel’s social life. That said, when he does go out, he tends to socialise with other couples, which, again, is totally understandable.

 

So this means I don’t see my friend as much as I used to, which, as I said, I can totally understand, to a degree. What has pissed me off, however, is how much he is ‘ok’ with this – like the occasional talking to me on the phone for 2 minutes will cover all the bases. But you know, I accept it for what it is, and get on with the rest of my life. These days, I know its not about me.

 

But the other day, Dan pissed me off even more than the girl last night, and certainly more than the stupid pencil-dicked Reed man from the Manchester conference. Talking to him on the phone, I (for the millionth time) suggested that I hadn’t seen him in an age, and we should organise something, figuring that if I smacked my head against a wall enough, at some point, I’d make a dent.

 

So, in reply, Dan referred me to his wife. And that, friends, is out of fucking order. You do not tell someone you have known for 18 years to call his wife and see if you can squeeze someone into your calendar. I love Melissa to bits, but it is not Melissa who is my friend, and, even though I am out with Dan tonight, and am deliberately going early just to say hello to her, it is not Mel I am going to see.

 

So anyway, yeah, that pissed me off something chronic. So I will be letting him know this evening. Stay tuned for the fallout – or, conversely, again, let me know if you think I’m wrong.

 

Right, that’s enough for today. Yesterday, in meeting my friend Rachel in Trafalgar Square, I noticed how beautiful the sky was – it looked as if someone has painted this dreamy concoction of greys and whites, and, the more I looked at the picture, the more it looked as though the buildings and the sky were totally different and separate entities – as though someone had taken a picture and laid it on a painted canvas. The more I looked at it, the more I began to think that even when skies are cloudy, there is real beauty in the world, and I think that’s a lovely thought to bear in mind on a shitty English autumn day.

 

Love to you all,

Closed Box

 

The sky at Trafalgar Square

The sky at Trafalgar Square

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2 Responses to “Rant(ish). A Little History Repeating.”

  1. longredcape Says:

    You’re right, I do like your blog!

    That bitch? The one that quit talking to you? Sucks. You’re better off without her. Trust.

    You start your Biological Basis of Behavior class on my birthday. Neat! While you’re up to your eyeballs in books, I’ll be knee deep in a pitcher of beer!

    AND FINALLY, totally wrong of your friend to ask you to clear his social calendar with his wife. She’s his WIFE, not his mother. Even if she WERE his mother, HE would still be the one to have to ask her.

  2. Mike Says:

    I quite like Dragon’s Den. If I’m asking someone for £100,000 I think five minutes of sweating in front of them on camera isn’t too bad a deal.


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