Thursday, 18 December 2008 - 10:19 am


So, maybe I tried to take things a little too fast yesterday.  I should stop making grand plans and learn to take my dad’s advice: “One step at a time, Faithy.”  He said that to me when I fell down the stairs once.  If my wrist hadn’t been broken at the time, I would have smacked him.


I was all set to go out: hair done, face all painted on, boobs squeezed into a pushup bra (a girl’s gotta make the most of her assets).  I even made it to the door with my keys in my hand, and then I realised that I had no idea where I should go.  I didn’t want to see any of my old friends – not after everything that’s happened – so the familiar, pumping places where they like to party were out.  The places I used to party.

I called a couple of other friends (I do have others, contrary to the opinion of the popular), but it was nearly 10pm by then and they were all busy.  I think I woke Simone up, too.  Whoops.

So I decided to head down to the bar down by the water.  On my own.  I was feeling brave (the push-up bra seemed to help with that) and striding long on the way down.


It’s usually such a busy place.  I didn’t know that Wednesday nights were always a bit slow, and more so since their sports screen got smashed in a bar fight.  So there I was, lookin’ good and feelin’ fine.  And there they were: two old crotchety regulars wearing out their usual spot at the corner of the bar; a fella dressed like a pimp trying to weasel up to the bartender, all shark-smile and fingers toying on the countertop; and three older ladies who clearly disapproved of the music and planned to leave as soon as they had finished their drinks.

It’s fair to say that I felt a little bit conspicuous, especially when every single one of them rotated their heads around to look at me.  Perfect.  So I smiled and went up to the bar anyway, halfway between the pimp and the regulars.  The former smiled at me; the latter glanced at their bowl of nuts as if I might encroach on it.  I wouldn’t touch their nuts; I know men don’t wash their hands half as often as they should.  Ew.

I would have felt foolish just walking out, so I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea – my drink of choice when the idea is to get as shitfaced as possible in a short amount of time.  God knows I wasn’t there for the company, and alcohol or no, I certainly wasn’t going home with anyone.  The waitress looked at me like I had grown another head and I gave her a big smile, and she went away. 

What I got was probably a distant cousin to a Long Island Iced Tea, by marriage.  It burned all the way down and clumped in my stomach.  Hate it when that happens.  The pimp with the shark smile was eyeing me in a way that made my flesh want to crawl off my bones and hide under the bar, so I downed the rest of it.


Two drinks later, I felt like I needed a shower, there was so much sleeze oozing over me.  The pimp had slid over to talk to me and, for some reason, I let him.  (He wasn’t an actual pimp; he was just doing a very good impression in a shiny jacket and too much gold jewellery.)  I remembered way too late that I had skipped dinner; by then, I was pleasantly fuzzy all the way through. 

I think it was when he put his hand on my wrist that I decided I’d had enough and announced that I was going home.  I suspect it took longer than it usually did – I’m fairly sure I walked down one street I had never even seen before – but I arrived home alone.  Thank god.

Never going there again.  I remember my laughter sounding entirely too loud between songs.  And forced.  I have no idea why I do that; it just seemed easier to pretend to be happy than mope about some more. 

Today has been less eventful.  Today I have the wisdom of the recently wobbly and a bit of the hair of the dog.  I have no idea why this is supposed to help.  But at least it’s better than sitting here feeling sorry for myself, right?  Right?

Oops, I’m supposed to be at work in an hour.  Where’d all the time go?