Slowly, Slowly Catchy Monkey...

Today's blog is brought to you by the number 42 - admittedly, like any self respecting Douglas Adam's fan, I'm waiting for the answer to Life, The Universe and Everything but would quite honestly settle for a resolution to 'What did I do to deserve this?'

My first mistake was probably going drinking at 7pm.

The second was going drinking at Banshee Labyrinth on a Saturday, actually not just any Saturday but the one Saturday a month where everybody who dropped me like a hot rock when I stopped being a Cyber Kid congregates in a claustrophobic, sweaty, fairly smelly mass of goth-snobbery and awful hair extensions.

Third; attempting to do this bald, in a pink leopard print dress, drag queen heels and still get my oontz on because, difficult as it may be to believe, a change of fashion does not dictate a altering in musical taste.

Final and most fatal mistake - ignorance. Remaining blissfully unaware (until it was too late) that everybody in Edinburgh I have ever slept with, short of the boys I live with, was going to be at the same club.

Altogether a fairly toxic combination of unfortunate circumstances and too much Jack Daniels.

But what of it?

In most similar situations I would have simply had more to drink, pulled the punk rock pout, sent a two-fingered salute the direction of anybody silly enough to piss me off and got on with it but something about last night caused me to throw one hell of a wobbly.

This dubious honour is gifted to The Exes - who all insisted on being so incredibly...nice in a drastically obnoxious way.

"You know I still care about you right?"

"Once I got past the jealousy and heartbreak."

"I'm crap at it...but I do care."

"That attention span of yours is getting worse"

"I never stopped caring."

"So I never called you back but I met that friend of yours, she's amazing."

"I care, right?"

"You love it really..."

For the record, you cheated on me. I mean, fuck, one of you had a secret life in a different sodding country.

By the way, I want my underwear back.

I don't 'love it' when you grab the arse of the archetypal, anorexic goth tart next to you and tell my I look awful to bolster up some delusional sense of machismo.

Yeah, you never called me and that friend of mine...good luck with that trip to the clinic nine months down the line.

You called me, you even took me on a date but wouldn't tell your friends we were going out.

Yet, despite all this - I'm the bastard?

The cold-hearted, ice queen, attention whore?

Fuck off.

I'm sick of feeling guilty for wanting to be happy; my real problem stems from my heart being too big (I have an excess of love to give), it's not being an 'ice-queen' it's trying to create a little mystery and since when did wanting to engage in the art of conversation, go out on dates or receive the occasional complement warrant being labelled an 'attention whore'?

I think I was merely born out of my time, an anachronism, an anarchist, a shameless fucking optimist - the rest of the world is off kilter, not me.

I'm in this for the long game...slowly, slowly catchy monkey.

Annie.

<3