18 February 2004

Well, well. 6 days and no blog entry. So much for my intention to write every day. What can I say other than drawing attention to my excellent procrastinating skills. If procrastination was a Paralympic event, I could be 4 times gold medalist and world record holder. In fact, with a combination of my natural talent and years of hard training I might even be able to overcome my impairment and procrastinate in the Olympics. And the press would love me for it. After all, we're not supposed to settle for the Paralympics if we can excel beyond cripple status, are we?

Was Valentines Days as traumatic as I foresaw? No, actually. Unlike last year, I didn't even consider killing myself for one moment which is always a sign of a good Valentines Day, even if the only post that landed on my doormat was from work. "You've got another rainforest" my flatmate's girlfriend pointed out. She is, of course, correct. I also didn't have someone off the telly give me a shower of hot ash this year. Which is probably a bonus, but that depends what turns you on.

I did wake on Valentines morning in Essex, which would usually constitute the opening of a bleak day. My mother was born at 23:59 on February 13th (and in recognition was imaginatively titled "Valerie"), so Friday night was spent having dinner with my parents in a 'restaurant' in Clacton On Sea. Oh the high class of my life. On Saturday I made a speedy return to within the confines of the M25, excited about the possibilities of what Mr Postman might of brought me. A rainforest as it turns out.

I turned on my computer to find the entire internet littered with red roses and sloppy, coupley mush. Historically the internet was a safe solace for geeks like me, where we could virtually meet other geeks and be self-deprecating together whilst on opposing sides of the Atlantic. The internet should be run by single people. Couples should be having sex as far away from their computer as possible, and not be polluting the internet with their romantic poison. The fact that now even all the other geeks are loved up reminds me just how spectacularly tragic my life is. I didn't even get an e-card from anyone pledging me their undying love, or even offering me a cyber-shag. If anyone comments pointing out that I might just be too cool to be geeky, I may have to give them a virtual smack in the mouth.

I spent the evening with a friend. In fact, I spent the evening with the only person to of sent me a Valentines card within the last decade. Twas not this year though, and we spent the evening as friends watching Dogville and then going for a drink. Still, I finally found someone to laugh at the irony of my remark "Self-deprecation is the only thing I've ever been any good at". I always find saying that hilarious, but most people just tend to glare at me, peer over the top of their glasses if they wear them and say "Now, you shouldn't talk like that." The other day someone misheard me, and thought I was boasting that my only skill in life is shitting myself. How very wrong.

I had an entertaining journey home. Firstly, I got stopped in the street by a random woman in Belsize Park who gave me a red rose. It's interesting how upon a first glance someone who has never met me before can appreciate both my outer and inner beauty and present me with such a gift of her love and appreciation. That, or, she couldn't be bothered to carry the rose home and took pity on the girl who was clearly going home alone on Valentines night. Hmmm.

In almost every gay magazine you read, you will find an article about coming out. "Why should you come out? When is the best time to come out? How should you come out? What is the best way to tell your parents? [when you're not actually in the room in my opinion] Should you be out at work?" etc... One of the topics they never cover is "At what point in the conversation is it appropriate to come out to the bloke chatting you up at the bus stop who is trying to lure you back to Hendon to cook you dinner?" which was a dilemma I had for about 30 minutes on Saturday night. For future reference (because, of course, getting chatted up is something that happens to me on a regular basis), if anyone has any advice on the conundrum, do please let me know.

My breasts have been quite a recurring theme of the weekend. I had several tit based conversations, along lines of conversations that have not been had for some time (I'm not even 25 yet and my tits are rapidly reducing in quality and noteworthiness). Over brunch on Sunday I was told the following:

"How are we going to get you famous? You have to be famous. Of all the people I know, you're the one most likely to be famous. And I've never said that you anyone before. You can't waste your life not being famous. You........................... I'm sorry... I just noticed your tits." [about two minutes of silence and her staring] "Have they got bigger?"

Which actually made my day. When you're so horrific looking that mirrors spontaneously smash as you pass, being objectified is actually quite flattering.

And I shall leave you with mental images of my breasts in your mind. Though that sentence would appear to be slightly grammatically incorrect. I've long since forgotten all the theories about "the mind" that I learnt in A'level Philosophy, but re-reading that sentence gave me visions of someone thinking about a work of art in which breasts were taking over someones brain. I'm gibbering so I should perhaps sleep now.

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