This is the year I stopped expecting.

I stopped expecting life to be a rainbow rollercoaster one day after another. I stopped expecting people to notice how much I care about them. I stopped expecting myself to be everything to everyone.

This is a good thing. Without expectations, there can be no disappointments.

This is the year I stopped forgiving inadequacy. This is the year I stopped giving so much of myself. This is the year I grew.

I lost friends, good ones. I worked too much. I laughed too little.

I was not happy. But this year I was true to myself. This year was shin-aches. Remember those? 

What was 2011 for you?

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?

I worked through Christmas. IT SUCKS.
I was tempted to wear fur. Bad vegetarian! Even if it was just rabbit.
I let myself be negative and bitter.
I ate lunch on a cruise boat.
I bought tangerine stilettos.
I wore brown.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Last year I planned to:
“submit my novel”- FAIL
“move out”- FAIL
“heal my scar tissue”- SEMI-SUCCESS
“get a motherfucking tan”- SUCCESS!

I’m not making New Year’s Resolutions this year. I’m too busy making Life Resolutions.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes, darling little Keanu and Perseus! And more to come next year!

Man, that makes me feel old.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No but I went to two funerals. They were sad. I cried.

5. What countries did you visit?

None.

NONE? WTF?

6. What would you like to have had in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

I would have liked to have had more time. I feel like I’ve been working 24/7 since July. I can’t cut time from the gym or sleeping so my social life has suffered. THIS IS TRAGIC. On a side note, I have realised that I am far too fragile for things like work; I have too much thinking/making myself happy to do.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory and why?

This is a difficult question because the year was so long for me. Asking for an answer to this question is like giving me a box of buttons and saying, “You must tell me which buttons are your favourite without sifting through.”

Off the top of my head: the night I overused the word fabulous, the August days on the island of Chios, the picnic at Tatoi when we talked about The Universe and listened to bagpipes, cooking with Mathilde…
Christmas Eve was memorable if only because I got so stoned and then tried to socialise.

Yesterday was memorable too. Early in the morning I was moving things around at work. It was quiet which enabled me to get into a rhythm. When a couple asked me for help, I was a bit distracted, trying not to lose momentum. I noticed the husband because he had a very endearing smile. I showed them a few things and left them to their own devices. I had just gotten back into the groove when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man approaching me. He stood right in front of me and took my hand. I understood that I was about to experience something poignant so I calmed my face and focuses my eyes on his eyes. They were the colour of the ocean in winter. He didn’t skip a beat. He held me close and said, “I hope that you always hold on to that sweet, wonderful smile.”
And then he left. And I smiled for a moment. But then I cried. I cried because it was intense. I cried because I have already failed at smiling so many times. I cried because I realised why I noticed that man: we knew each other; my soul knew his soul. What I saw in his eyes, was love. And how could a stanger love me? I wonder about the life I had when I knew him.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Not giving a shit. I think I lost my naivete this year. My tongue is more blunt and my heart is a little bit sharper. I have less faith. My hope is rusty. This pains me of course but it is necessary to stifle sensitivity if one to go through life without hurting every day. I care less and hence I am less likeable and this is okay.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Ironically, becoming less sensitive. I lost my zest this year. I was too tired to be a giver. I didn’t wince every time I saw a beggar. I don’t offer to go the extra mile any more.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

No but I was tempted to try get sick just so I could stay in bed and do nothing for a day!

11. What was the best thing you bought?

It has to be my hand-made head-lace. What is head-lace, you ask? Why it’s a three-way chain you wear on your head of course!

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

Eleni for putting up with my tantrums, my drama and my freak-outs. All of which there were numerous!

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?

Every single man I’m close to. Or tried to get close to. Without exception.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Depressingly enough, taxis. And gin probably.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Uhm… my holidays. But we know how they went. Right now I’m very excited about Australia!

16. What song will always remind of you 2011?

I discovered so many songs this year!

The ones I had on repeat were:
Crave You by Flight Facilities featuring Giselle
Skinny Love by Bon Iver
Mystify by INXS
Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits
Superwoman by Shontelle (fucking random)
Vintage Treat by J. Melik
Blue Jeans by Lana Del Rey
I Love You So by Cassius
Home by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros
Fuck You Lucy by Atmosphere
Fast Car by Tracy Chapman
And, of course, I Follow Rivers by Lykke Li (Magician Remix)

Wow that’s a lot of songs that I remembered there…

17. Compared to this time last year, are:

a)happier or sadder?

b)thinner or fatter?

c) richer or poorer?

Sadder (but stronger).
Thinner (but musclier).
Richer (but broke ‘cos I’m saving).

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Laughing.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Work. Whining.

20. Did you fall in love in 2010?

No.

21. What was your favourite TV program?

Modern Family. Why did it take me so long?!

22. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

No, I don’t hate anyone. Sometimes that gets in the way of punching air at the gym!

23. What was the best book you read?

I discovered Granta which is a magazine cum book. It’s true quality writing and it makes me want to be a serious writer.

24. What was your greatest musical discovery?

See above.

25. What did you want and get?

I wanted… I don’t even know.

26. What did you want and not get?

I wanted 2011 to be better than 2010. I suppose it was better in the sense that it wasn’t shitty in the on-fire, heartbreak, diagnosed-with-an-emotional-disorder kind of way.

27. What was your favourite film of this year?

Get Him to the Greek. I think that’s the only new film I watched this year.

28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

On my 26th birthday, I went to hospital for the first attempt at scar removal surgery. They allocated two treatments to two of my scars in order to figure out the path to maximum success. The one on my side was subjected to medicine that was supposed to shrink the scar gradually. The medicine is delivered by injections that pierce the scar all the way through. They injected my scar a dozen times. I tried not to but I couldn’t help weeping. I was embarrassed to do so as there were three members of staff in the room, but I couldn’t stop. It took me a few minutes to compose myself and allow them to perform treatment on my other scar.

My other scar is special. It is on my right-hand collar bone just above my breast, and so I call it my Second Heart. This scar was subjected to a freezing treatment. Have you ever had anything removed by this process? I had the tiniest blemish removed while at university and it was excruciating. That doctor commended me for not crying out. This doctor was nothing like him.

The moment the frozen air hit my scar I yelled and pushed her away. I braced myself for Take Two but I just couldn’t go through with it. Another doctor walked in, saw me in distress, asked what was happening, was informed, and then asked the doctor why she hadn’t used any anesthetic. Good point, dude.  FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE. Later, when I found out they could only book me for treatments every few months (what, and take over a year to heal?) and kicked up a fuss, the same bitch talked over me and said to my father, “But obviously the girl can’t hack it.” ASSHOLE.

I spent the rest of the day feeling faint  and trying not to cry on Eleni’s couch. I was so worn out I actually fell asleep. We tried to make rainbow cake. We were not successful! Hey, let’s try again!

29. How you would describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

I’m definitely growing into my fashion skin, so to speak. I would describe my style as classic, dramatic and quirky, all at the same time. I favour androgynous cuts but always wear feminine, over the top details.

30. What kept you sane?

The idea that I’m just paying dues. That, in the same that I am not a morning person, I am not a youth person; I will grow into myself; I will get better with age.

And, of course, Eleni.

31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

You know it’s got to be Ryan Gosling! In my defense, I have always hearted him.

32. Who did you miss?

Most people I love.

33. Who was the best new person you met?

Stefani- when we were introduced, our mutual instinct was to hug each other. Kindred spirits!
Ole-ivia ‘cos she is fucking insane and she makes me laugh and she makes my life more interesting.

34. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.

That it doesn’t matter how shit things get, they get better again. More importantly, it does’t matter how great things get, they’ll get shitty again. The latter disheartens me. I’ve noticed that it’s changed the shape of my blues.

Are you reading this in an Eeyore voice?

35. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

Uhm… Can I get back to you on this one? And by that I mean: I am going to ignore this question like I did the other years: 2009 and 2010.

via the glorious Zsuzsa

HAPPY NEW YEAR, WORLD! I WISH FOR YOU MORE MAGIC, MORE GOOD BOOKS, MORE SMILES, MORE TRAVELS, MORE KITTENS, MORE MOONS, MORE MEMORY PERFUME, MORE HOLDING HANDS, MORE WALKS ON THE BEACH, MORE DRUNKEN PHILOSOPHICAL CONVERSATIONS, MORE LINGERING LOOKS.

I WISH YOU MORE STRENGTH. YOU CAN DO THIS. YOU ARE GOING TO BE OKAY. I LOVE YOU.

“Yesterday it snowed and I felt as though my heart was filled with little stars. The snowflakes looked like stars too; little ghost stars. When I woke up, all the rooftops were white, and the trees were sprinkled with white, and the sun shone, strong and gold, and the world seemed like a very okay place to live in.”

“You know you’ve had a slutty summer when you check out a cute guy and then realise you’ve already hooked up with him.”

“It’s one of those weird days when the sky can’t make up its mind.”

“You know you’ve got an unfortunate face when a stranger thinks -even for a moment- that you’ve got Down’s Syndrome. 

Speaking of strangers, one just smiled at me. For no reason. Or maybe because it’s St Patrick’s Day. Or maybe because he thought I was cute.”

“I kept thinking of Sylvia Plath and Wuthering Heights and all the ‘transatlantic elation’ that Hughes wrote about so witheringly. I am sure that when I am in the throes of energy and history and emotion, others suspect I am a mere sentimental imbecile.

But Cathrine gets it. She too almost cried. She too got visions of splendour. We want to stay here, to write, to feed on the peace.”

APRIL

“I was compared to λουκουμάδες (loukoumades). I drank a spicy cocktail out of  jar.”

“I made the acquaintance of I— and I crushed immediately but I doubt any relations will transpire between us because I do not enjoy writing capital ‘i’s’. Also, he is dating someone else.”

MAY

“They raise us to believe we’re so special and then we spend our lives terrified the world’s going to prove them wrong.”

“Oh, you’ve got glitter on your turban!”

“Why doesn’t water have any calories?”

SEPTEMPBER

“And I dream about the ocean,
of its silence,
the quiet descent into peace.

Because sometimes I hate feeling so much. It’s draining. Because I am so sensitive and I must always have eggshell relationships. Because without nets, I shatter. Without patience and understanding, I deflate. Sullen skin, and bones with a parallel universe of turmoil inside. Blank eyes and a way in my heart. I am a writer that cannot express the tornadoes that spring up inside me without warning. I wish I was a mermaid, so I wouldn’t be afraid of water, so I could escape into the silence.”

OCTOBER

“As I fall asleep, my mind is a kaleidoscope of his soft hands threading themselves around my oaktree palms. His hands spreading around my neck like starsfish, feeling my heartbeat in my throat. His lips kissing my rings. His lips silencing my answers.”

“I shouldn’t have called him when I was drunk. I sounded weird and I bothered him when he was with his friends. And at the cafe, I almost cried, and I talked about not being superwoman, and I asked him why he likes me (who does that?) and I am too intense.

This is all me, and I like me, but me is complicated, and he is simple, and I just don’t know if he’s the kind of simple that can handle my complicated.

NOVEMBER

“Desperate times call for receipt scribbles. The lights remind me of diamonds and gold, and sometimes of peacocks, but that is the extent of inspiration. I used to be free. I used to be able to tell the difference between the darkness and the light. If I couldn’t get out of bed, life was living death. If clouds made me smile, I was swimming through stars. Now I must function no matter how I feel, and so the lines of functionality are blurred. Duties cloud my Bipolar judgement. Or maybe I am in denial. Maybe this is what they call Functional Depression. No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anyone but yourself. I haven’t sparkled in a while. Sometimes I catch the twinkles for a few hours. When I’m drunk maybe. More often than not I am paper-flat, empty of wit, barren of laughter, filled with a sad envy as I watch the world slide by so carefree. I have forgotten how to glow.”

DECEMBER

“I wore a faux-fur coat and called everybody darling while blowing bubble-gum bubbles. I smiled sweetly and told strangers to fuck off. His hands grabbed my hands. His eyes grabbed my eyes. He said, ‘MADONNA IS A RELIGION.’ I gesticulated wildly. I confessed I often feel like a gay man trapped in a woman’s body.

We danced -slowly, happily, drunkenly- to the blues. I twirled. I laughed out of happiness. I lost my pastel pink lighter. I glittered. I ordered shots with honey in them. I stole the shot glasses. We tumbled out. I think we lost someone. I said, ‘I left without saying goodbye to Apollo. I’m sure he’ll be devastated!’ 

And then, ‘Oh, Apollo! There you are!’

By the time I got home I had added an ashtray and a glass to my stolen paraphernalia.”

I don’t understand what kind of year I’ve had. 

But then, inevitably, the darkness creeps in. And time in her world is not like time here; there are no clocks, only the tick-tock of her heart. Sometimes her heart twinkles but then it always rusts. The sun shines when it can but it is no match for the darkness. It has many cunning ways of sneaking in. Sometimes it starts as a stain in the corner, melting in until from just one blink to another, her world becomes white noise. Sometimes it takes the shape of an evil thunderstorm. A breeze snakes itself around her neck and she gets goosebumps and she knows that she should run, run, run even though there is no point.

With the darkness comes the rain, little slips from fortune cookies; paper cuts to remind her that she should not try to escape her destiny. Run, run, run, but by the time she slams the door behind her, the castle has already changed. Instead of sparkling walls, billowing brown curtains tangle her, trip her up. Stupid, graceless girl. Her eyes become flat granite. Her mouth, pale and thin. The ground groans as she walked. She pinches her cheeks and scratches her arms, constantly convinced that they were not hers.

Time rolls, things happen. Maybe she had been blooming but the darkness likes to stunt her flow. Before, she was butterflies and champagne, and now she is an ocean of air, a grey ghost suspended in the middle of her castle, watching holograms of the world to which she felt so connected to a moment ago. Maybe she thought she was blooming but when the world makes her stand still for a moment she sees that she has not moved at all. All that smiling and running and falling and she has not moved at all

The thunderstorm rages but in here it’s very quiet. Her hummingbirds go into hibernation. Her friends, her strangers, fade away.  She looks at her kisses laying in scraps on the floor. She is not the party; she is the morning after. What a waste of expensive lipstick, she thinks. And then she feels stupid because this is not the first time. She is always wasting her expensive lips on the world. She is an ocean of air. Endless. But ultimately nothing. Her intangibility unnerves her. She swims through the holograms and she tries to reach them but she can’t. She has a tantrum because she is rootless. She cries because it doesn’t matter how many kisses or cupcakes or smiles she gives. It doesn’t matter how much her skin glows or how many love-letters she gets or drunken bonding moments she has. She will always, always have to come back to this brown room where no one can see her and so no one remembers her.

All that glitters is not gold. When her heart twinkles, she pretends that it will always twinkle. Sometimes, she believes it. But when the darkness comes, and the guests leave, the truths align: they don’t think she twinkles, and neither does the darkness. Maybe sometimes she glitters, but she is not gold.

I am shot back a dozen years. I am a scrawny, awkward precocious adolescent with unripened rebellious ideas. At home I am a princess. At school I am pathetic. My best friend is already remarkable. She is a straight A student (a future Head Girl, a future lawyer), a ballerina (a future dancer), an accomplished pianist… She is not ‘cool’ but she is adored by everyone. She has that One of Those Smiles.

“They smile and the room lights up,” my mother says. “Don’t let go of people with smiles like that.”

Polaroids click through my mind. The time we jammed the champagne with sugar because we hated the taste. The time we played Semi-Charmed Life all afternoon. The time I walked into a wall and gave my forehead a massive egg-shaped bump that turned all colours of the rainbow. The time I told her parents I was a vegetarian (the disgrace!).

I grew up with this family. This girl is my sister. When I had my accident, we hadn’t spoken in two years. We’re so busy. Life, you know. Then one morning, I looked up from my hospital bed and there she was there with watery eyes and that gorgeous smile.
“If you’re just gong to cry, come back later.”
She laughed out of relief. She kicked my mother out. I’m here. Rest. I’ll take care of her. She was the only other person I felt safe with. I spent those days slipping in and out of consciousness (damn drugs) and she sat there with her book, smiling like sunshine every time I opened my eyes. She fed me. She took me to the bathroom. She made fun of me. She made me laugh.

Then we didn’t speak for another year. We’re so busy. Life, you know.

And then I got the call.
I said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

After the funeral, dozens of us gathered at her house. We ate and we talked and we laughed. There was so much love here.

We talked about how there was not enough space in the church.
“Isn’t that the definition of success? Isn’t that all you really want when you go?”

Her siblings have that smile. It runs in the family. They are tired and sad and smiling and running on adrenaline. I love these kids. Their courage humbles me. The way they keep their light shining floors me. Their sheer perseverance inspires me to keep going. Just imagine- not one, not two, but three souls, on one of the most difficult day of their lives, inspiring me to keep my own light shining.

She said, “Your words give me strength.”
I thought, Oh yeah? Well YOUR FACE gives me strength. So there.

Never give up. Recognise what is happening, confront the truth of the situation, but keep fighting for yourself. Learn when to push, when to pull, and when to do nothing. Keep your spirits high and your eyes on the future. Change can be your friend. 

FATE INDEED CASTS A LONG SHADOW, BUT KEEP YOUR OWN LIGHT SHINING.

My longest relationship was with my first boyfriend. Sad, I know. This is where my great taste in men started! With a boy that smoked a lot of pot and often told me that I didn’t deserve to complain because my life was ‘perfect’. We fell in/out of love for almost a year before I dumped him most underwhelmingly but it took me years to rectify the damage he’d done. Poor little me suffered from Depression for years, all the while thinking: how dare I feel like this? How dare I stay home alone on a Friday night crying because I am fat and ugly and worthless? Good going, asshole.

My second boyfriend was hilarious and cruel and scrawny and needy. I tried to dump him several times but he wouldn’t let me. Awkward. He lived across the quad but would wait for me in my room while I hung out with my friends in the dorm kitchen. Hey there, little clingy koala, you. Fuck off. He would play pranks on me like pretend to dump me only to laugh in my face a couple of hours later. Psycho. Eventually, I dumped him. On holiday. At my parents’ house in Greece. With two weeks to go before his return flight. Timing is everything.

My most recent boyfriend was three years later and three years ago. He is my favourite ex. It helps that he has decided he’s not totally straight. We were together for seven months. We co-habited the entire time. For most of it we were also travelling and working together in a foreign country. I was going through another depressive episode (yawn) and he was manic. No, I don’t care that he hasn’t been diagnosed with Bipolar. Takes one to know one, betch. We had an exhilirating and painful and intense relationship. I heart you, A.

Number of times I’ve been in love: 3

I have said I love you more times than that. But I have been in love thrice: with boyfriends #1 and #3, and also with The Neanderthal. Note to self: don’t fall in love while hypomanic. Especially with a player.

Number of people that have been in love with me: 9

And a few others that confessed jokingly which I don’t really count.
Huh, that seems like a lot.

Number of short-term relationships: 

Four? Five? Six! I think. MAYBE seven.

Number of casual relationships: 

Tsk, what’s a casual relationship anyway?! Oh. You mean a fuck buddy? One. He was my buddy first. It was ideal: chemistry in the backseat. None in public. He never made me feel like a hussy.

I don’t do casual relationships anymore. Not of any kind. There’s no point in pretending that I’m that kind of girl. I am not a casual woman. In any way. For better or for worse.

Number of times I’ve been dumped: 3

Technically, three times. And they’re the last three guys I’ve dated!

Anything prior to 2010, I dumped. Anything after 2010 dumped me. Uhm… WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE? I thought I was getting hotter. Then again, I am also more in tune with my crazy. COINCIDENCE?

Being dumped used to be my idea of hell but now that it’s happened three times (seriously, WHAT?) I think my ego’s healthier for it. I mean, what kind of person is proud of their clean streak on un-dumped-dom? I mean, really, Alexia, WHAT KIND OF PERSON?

Number of times I’ve done the dumping: 6

Ahem.

Wait, does think mean long- and short-term relationships or anyone ever? Let’s assume it’s the former.

I think it’s six. Seven? Are we counting boys I fooled around with for a bit but refused to let be my boyfriend? If so, my number might be a bit higher.

Number of first kisses: Uhm…

I used to count a couple of times a year. I have stopped counting. I think it’s just under thirty. From what I remember, most of them were pretty dreamy.

Before you judge me, know this: that thirty  kisses work out to about 3 a year since I started kissing. That’s not that much! Now also know that for two of those ten years I was hypomanic which increases ones libido. And let us not forget that I love my drink and, you know, it gets messy. And we all know that kissing is a lady-lady’s slutty! Enough said.

Number of first dates: 17

This is a rough estimate. We don’t really date in Greece. We just kind of hang out until we’re dating. At least, that’s the way it used to be. I think the game changes as you get older. You can’t rely on hanging out anymore. Grown-ups are so serious.

Number of years I’ve been single since I first started dating: 8

Out of ten years. Uhm, yeah, that doesn’t say much about me. But I can tell you what a pixie said about me!

“I know you will find a great guy that will love you for you and how extraordinary you are. As you are so special, The Universe is just taking longer to find someone who is as special for you. As you can’t be with someone ordinary; they have to be fantastic.”

Paying it forward to all my single ladies out there. Hollaaa! Represent.

Number of times I’ve cheated in a relationship: 0

WE WERE ON A BREAK!

Hey, don’t judge me. It was just a kiss. I was seventeen.

Number of times I’ve been cheated on in a relationship: 0

AS FAR AS I KNOW.

Number of single best friends left: ALL OF THEM!

Number of friends in relationships: half of them.

Number of married friends: None.

The number you’d except to be included in a numbers post about my love life: ?

Ha! As if. Besides, there’s a bit of debate amongst my friends and I concerning what counts. They keep insisting that my number is one higher than I admit. I keep insisting that they are trying to make a ho of me. And I won’t stand for it!

So there you have it: my love-life in numbers inspired by the wonderful Eleni. Are there any numbers you think should be included on this list? What are your numbers? Do you dare spill the beans?!

That’s the thing about the Mean Reds. They’re sneaky. They fuck with time and make you forget that there are other colours in between. You did the math the other day. You figured out that you’ve spent 55% of the past dozen years hand in hand with the Mean Reds. You have spent 20% of that time soaring the Champagne Skies. You have spent 25% of that time in a Rainbow Reality. That means that you have spent a quarter of half your life feeling normal. And now you’re here again, naked in bed with this familiar stranger tapping on your door, thinking, no, no, no, knowing that you don’t even have the strength to get up and lock them out. Your light’s out. Your eyes don’t sparkle. You realise you can’t remember the last time you laughed. You’re crying, which should be a good thing because at least you’re emoting, but each tear contains letters forming the same sentence: I don’t want to do this again.

Don’t be this person.

Yet, I am this person. I am this sensitive. My ego is gossamery. I am remarkably receptive of rejection. I need so much. “The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!”* And I am painfully cognizant of the pros and cons.  This weekend, being this person, worked against me.

Sometimes I don’t sparkle unless someone looks at me. And it’s easy to be matte when you’re a single surrounded by doubles. I was one of the three ones this weekend but no triad was formed except to make luke-warm private jokes. I did not make a dent in the dynamics. My role was soluble. I floated, flockless. I made beige impressions. And so I was not surprised when no one fought for my face on the ride home. But I felt the flat jab of rejection all the same: my absence would not have made a difference.

Don’t be this person.

Yet, I am this person. I am not the fragile, faux-furious flower I was a few years ago, but I am still this person. My sense of self is a fairly self-sufficient these days. My core is more complete.  But it still makes me sad to realise that, when it comes to this weekend, no one will say, “I’m so glad Lex was there.”

This is my fourth time away this year and I have felt like this -hollow, left-out- every single time. This means that I am either:
(a) unlucky
(b) too sensitive (deja vu)
(c) surprisingly replaceable

It’s a shame that after working so hard on my self-esteem, after burning myself into believing that I am loved, I am still that scrawny, silly, sensitive girl that sits in the corner of the group photo with an awkward smile. I am still that person.

I don’t know what the punchline is to the knock-knock of his feet. I smoke a cigarette, nonchalant in my too big black blazer, imagining the dramatic silhouette of my profile, wondering if the next knock-knock footstep is going to stop right behind me and sweep me off my feet. I smoke more than I want and then I rise, my own feet sighing because he’s not coming tonight and now today was like any other day.

When I get back, she asks me about him. I tell her we’re very different. I tell her that’s why I like him. He’s not crazy but he doesn’t blink when I tell him of my crazy. He has no idea how crazy my crazy is. Not yet. I tell her that we are not the result of an explosion of destiny. I like that; every firework love of the past has been a disaster for my heart. This time, we are not fireworks. We are candles in the dark. From afar, war, glowing lights, but, up close, smoldering heat.

I do not know how he fights or how he drinks his coffee but I like the way he smiles when my neuroses surface, and the fragility o his double-edged ego, and the way his hand always finds me.

We talk about teaching and I keep cutting him off. He talks about Batman and Superman fighting together.
I didn’t know that.
See, maybe I can teach you something too.
Yes, that’s true. Everyone teaches you something.
Oh.

That’s not what I meant.

I learn a little every day. I grow, I change,  I evolve. You do too. Sometimes I see the picture in just the right size. Usually, there are too many megapixels or I’m looking at a photobooth photo of an experience’s face or I’m looking at every page in the damn book at the same time. But sometimes, like a skeptical Goldilocks, I get it just right. Life seems big enough to be important, and small enough not to take too seriously.

All I can think about it Sunday and cooking lunch for darling friends, and wine, and kisses and hope. Homemade ice-cream, and lazy laughs, and  love.

Fuck Monday. In the nicest possible way (Eleni). Sometimes, thinking about tomorrow is enough.

today my soul felt moth-eaten for the first time in a while. a little crash for a little high. i knew i was thinking too fast yesterday. tomorrow i will be okay (i am okay now too), i am just a bit taken aback because i actually forgot what this feels like.

we were talking about how to differentiate between having a shitty day and unravelling at the seams. i said, ‘you know, most of the time, a shitty day is just the blues, but i think we get terrified because the blues, and the mean reds, they feel the same, it’s just that the mean reds don’t go away with the new day; they put their feet up on your coffee table and eat all your fucking cereal. the blues though, they evaporate when you spend the day in bed eating chocolate or you have a good laugh with a friend. most of the time, a shitty day is just the blues but we panic because we don’t know there’s a difference.’
she nodded.
i said, ‘it makes me feel sad for myself. i can handles the blues, sure, sometimes i even enjoy them, but think about it like this: the mean reds are so painful, that even the blues terrify us. what do you think of that? doesn’t it make you really sad? it’s like depression has it’s own version of ptsd.’

my name is alexia and i’m a melancholic. it’s been countless days since my last binge and there is no threat of one in the future. i just thought it would be a good idea to pop into a meeting.

it’s raining in athens. thick, white rain that blinds us. everyone is on strike. the garbage men haven’t collected anything in days. when it rained yesterday, the swollen bins and their rejects scattered across the streets. now everywhere you go there is trash. the air smells. this country is rotting.

He is chivalrous to the point of insult. I tell him that I can open my own car door, that I can pay for my own coffee, for his too, but he won’t let me. He doesn’t filter. He tells me he likes me. He interrupts me to tell me I’m beautiful. His hands roam me appropriately even though he is frustrated with all the front seat French kissing.

He is lovely.

Aww.

And then I feel that tell-tale tug at the throat.

Every time I think my subscription to Commitment=Constriction & Co. has run out, I get another fat edition in my post-box-heart. I thought that since I’ve finally paid off all those heart-break-bills I wracked up last year, the bank of my psyche would automatically reevaluate itself. Surely this tell-tale tug should be classified as junk mail.

It’s not. Instead it’s here, on the doorstep of my mind, on the morning of this relationship thing, just in time for me to read while I digest my second thoughts. I scan the cover for clues:

If He Doesn’t Finger Books, Don’t Let Him Finger Anything Else!

How His Ignorance of Polar Bears* Can Make You Want to Hibernate.

The Universe vs God: A Moon Nymph and a Christian-  Can it Work?

More doubts and deal-breakers on Page 33…

And I searched for the quiz, the one that would tell me whether I should stay single until I find my match or whether I should date different people and learn and experience and maybe hurt and definitely be insatiated, but apparently life’s more complicated than a multiple choice questionnaire. I know what you’re thinking…. Say what now?! It’s true. Apparently you can’t find the answers to life in magazines your crazy mind makes up Cosmo quizzes. Shocker.

That’s okay though because I have you. So tell me:

Can Amelie date a Transformer?

And I still think of sunsets when I see the dead light behind the orange pane on the ceiling at work, and I still believe that sometimes the radio plays songs just for me. I still believe in tutu skirts and white rose wreaths, and I still believe that sometimes I’m beautiful.

I paint in my nails in colours I’ve never imagined and bleach the darkness out of my hair. Summer is peeling and I am finally ready to shed this skin.

I forget to think about him and don’t even realise that I’ve forgotten to think about him. He was the best fuck I ever had and he still wasn’t worth it.  At the gym they tell me to punch air and it’s hard to put myself into it because I’m not angry anymore. I roam my brain for exes I hate and come up with nothing but indifference. My punches fail, flaccid little lines where my brokenness used to be. No more tramp stamps for me. My heart is a clean slate. And yet, it is not waiting.

Big changes are coming. Whirlpools of beginnings, and rivers of determination. This is my time. I know it is because it feels foolish to write it. Big changes are coming. And I’m really fucking excited.

I haven’t written a poem since fucking May. I wish that May had more syllables so I could put the word ‘fucking’ between them -De-fucking-cember. M-fucking-ay doesn’t sound as good. It is autumn but not yet. It is a not-yet-Autumn Friday. Make it a memorable one.

I stand on the deck. I smoke because there’s nothing else to do. The sky glows gold until it bleeds into blue. The seagulls swoop in origami lines as they chase us, their wings bending like sideways apostrophes, quoting a language I dream about. I am not scared of flying. Not touching the ground does not scare me. Gravity does. I imagine the ocean dragging me down, my fragile limbs flailing, failing to beat its unbeatable weight. I used to think it was the magnitude of the sea that scared me but you cannot fight the infinity of the sky and the infinity of it is what makes me feel free.

Why am I willing to soar and crash but not to swim and drown? Do I live by dreaming? Is the ocean a sign of my aversion to reality?

A seagull flies so close I can almost read his eyes. His mean beak pierces the air but he is no match for our speed. He is the last-standing warrior. I follow him until he stops following us. Soon I will have to go inside where  the world tilts. My heartbeat crashes in my ears; I am my own conch shell. I go inside even though I don’t want to because I don’t want to start this weekend with panic. Because I have Sudoku, and there is safety in numbers. Because I don’t smoke so much anymore, and the role of the lonely traveller is getting boring.

It’s hard to put a ship out of sight, out of mind. I think of The Little Mermaid, she would never let me drown. I should eat, but I don’t.

Later, I smoke again -for the hell of it- and I see the sky is orange, spilling over the mountains, oppressed by purple, darkening into denim blue. My sky.

A lighthouse blinks in the corner. I am a sailer of the heart, coasting oceans of emotion, trying to decipher lighthouse morse code. Sometimes I get close, but I haven’t let down anchor in years. I used to think I was a pirate, but actually, I am the patient mariner.

I smoke because there’s nothing else to do. Because that’s what lonely travellers are supposed to do. The ash falls into the light; silver flakes that disappear in foam. The lighthouse beeps in the distance but I’m already facing a different horizon.

I don’t drown.

I am not Superwoman.

I will not learn a dance in one day that everyone else has been studying for one year. I do not need to write something brilliant every time my pen touches the paper. Not every single guy I meet will become infatuated with me. I do not need to be stoic and silent and strong when something traumatic happens to me.

Oh.

Now, since I am not godly, I will assume that I am human. Now, since I am human, that doesn’t necessarily mean I believe in a god, let alone a Christian one. Now, since I do not believe in a god, let alone a Christian one, that means I am free to create my own commandments.

I like the number 11 because it is a multiple of 33.

1. Thou shalt not drink to get drunk.

2. Thou shalt stop making volcanos out of scientific experiments.

3. Thou shalt accept that thou are good/pretty/clever/etc enough.

4. Thou shalt not bite thine nails.

5. Thou shalt not let one boy’s rejection be that killer Jenga block.

6. Thou shalt stop giving people 19278346876th chances.

7. Thou shalt shut the fuck up and be a better listener.

8. Thou shalt read more and ThouTube less.

9. Thou shalt stop acting like a spaz when thou likes a dude.

10. Thou shalt act upon’s thine instinct, not just listen to it.

11. Thou shalt heed Frankie’s advice and relax!

If I could live my life like this, I think I’d be much happier. Maybe I should start my own religion or something. Would you follow me? Before you answer, know that I’d let you make up your own commandments!

“Daddy!”

No answer.

“Daddy, how the hell do you cut up a watermelon?”

No answer. And then, a snore. And then another.

Hm, it seemed like I was going to have to be an independent watermelon warrior. I grabbed a knife and stuck it into the belly. I felt like I was gutting something. It was oddly exciting. I went all the way around and ended up with this.

Then I thought it would be funny if I did this:

By this time, I couldn’t be bothered to get up for a fork so I started eating with my fingers and it looked real ugly.

So I did this!

Happy August 1st!

You are not a slut. You do not sleep around. You are a whore. You spread your legs for premature promises. You are a whore because you are so desperate for the afterglow that you press the fast-forward button on your skin and ignore the alarm in your mind flashing yellow: Slow down, bitch. His words are balloons and they will burst when he comes. You say ssh! it’s not like that. He knows me, he knows I’m not a tramp. And the alarm flashes again: Honey, your heart is covered in the tramp stamps of guys that didn’t realise how fragile you are or knew and didn’t care. You say, Yes, yes, you’re right, and you makes promises to yourself that get lost when the lights go off.

You are a whore because you are clever. Because if you choose inappropriate men, and if you sleep with them, and then they don’t call you, you have every right to fear commitment. You id is clever bitch. You felt dirty last time too, remember? The next morning, with tights torn and thighs sore, you swore you would stop settling for temporary intimacy. You are wildly wily. You are terrified that they won’t want you if you make them wait. You act like you are not a quality woman. You let them have you today because they might not want you tomorrow.

You have become the type of woman that lets him kiss you because it’s easier that admitting you like him. If you like him, he won’t want you anymore. You have tried not to believe it but you have been knocked down from your pedestal too many times by now. Besides, isn’t that your forte? You are a glorified whore pretending she doesn’t want something more. The confession is already hard, so work on him instead.

You are a whore. Rarely, yes. By accident, yes. But a whore nonetheless. And you’re really screwed, because you don’t look like Julia Roberts, and you don’t find Richard Gere attractive.

This doesn’t feel right. He is grabbing me as if I’m faceless and I don’t like it. I pull away and roll over.

“Good night.”

He reaches for me, murmurs into my ear and hope makes me cave in. Our mouths meet again but it’s still faceless, faceless. My mind yells, “CUT!” and the action stops.

Don’t be that girl. Don’t be dramatic. Snap out of it, you stupid girl. Don’t be a cocktease. I panic. I don’t know what I want, but I know it’s not this. I don’t want cold, fleeting kisses or fumbling hands.

“Whats’ wrong?”

I don’t know what to say. Our conversation is discombobulated. Him alternating between cold and confusion. Me, angry and nonsensical. I don’t make sense. I know this. I’m afraid I seem desperate. And then I am, because I know I want something so simple  that it’s impossible to express. I am a mess. Here, in the midnight hour, my usual breezy bravado eludes me. There is a silent reel running through my head: flashbacks of fire and heartbreak and diagnoses. I can’t speak. I don’t want to say anything, I just want him to understand.

“What’s wrong?”

I had a rough year and I’m still dealing with the aftershocks. Post Traumatic Stress, Round II (shh, don’t tell). Am I really in control of my emotions? Maybe I should be back to therapy. 

“I had a rough year.”
“You’re not the only one.”

He’s right but that’s not what I meant.

Hope Dies Last said, “I want intimacy in CAPS LOCK (not in parentheses).”

Even if it’s for one night.

I am desperately misunderstood. I don’t know how to ask for what I want without coming off as too intense. Do you sense the irony?

He says, “Should we just sleep?”
“Are those my options? Fucking or sleeping?”

That’s not what he means.

I burst. I grab my shit and I walk out. I am already on the stairs when he comes after me. He says, “That’s not what I meant.”

I stop.

“Where will you go? The cabs are on strike.”

Shit.

I want to go back inside because he’s right, because I’m tired, because I’m hoping to salvage the evening. I want to go back inside but I say, “No. If I do that then I’ll feel stupid.”

He says my name once, a coaxing command, “Lex.”

I go back inside and climb into bed, silent, withdrawn, awkward.

We lie apart, separated by tension and conflicting desires.

And then he is sweet. I am satisfied. But I am not satiated.

In the morning, I call her immediately and we discuss my dysfunctions.

I say, “Why am I so fucking intense? Why can’t I be mild and normal like everybody else?”
“Because you’re not like everybody else. You try. You seem cool and detached and unfazed, but the moment you feel vulnerable…”
“All hells breaks loose.”
“Yes, you explode. If you weren’t so damn macho, you wouldn’t be so vulnerable at moments like that.”
“Shit, I’m that girl. I’m the psycho guys talk about.”
“Yep. Women are crazy.”

I think, That smile would have made me melt out of hope and anticipation before, but actually it just makes my heart beat all sad-sweet like broken lollipops. He is smiling now and my tattered hands are beautiful to him now, and it all screeches to a halt just before it breaks through my rib cage. I love the Now, I do, but I want more: I want the Tomorrow.

I turn my head and look out the window. I think, I haven’t done this in a very long time, just sit in a car and talk and kiss for hours. He is not my type, but I like the way he surprises me, how he doesn’t quite fit into the pigeonhole in which I placed him. I am enjoying this Now with little regard to the Tomorrow because I have finally learnt that words are not as important to everyone else as they are to me.

I light a cigarette and I think, That street-lamps looks like my buddy, the moon. Those lights look like flames. No, don’t go there. My skin feels hot. I don’t want to think about it. Be here, be now. Don’t be a burning, screaming lamb. How do I be a Now Girl? This is too much for me, and I know it will be too much for him. As it was for all of them.

He strokes my arm, up and down relentlessly, my arms, my hands, my shoulders. One of my dress straps has fallen and he pulls it up before he continues touching me. I think, Here I am with this nice boy dishing out affection and I am looking up at the pseudo-moon, smoking and thinking about retro traumas. I am so broken that I can’t even bring myself to give his arm a little rub in return. I am sad for myself, but I am relieved because I know that I am safe l like this. And then I am sad again because he doesn’t know about the hole inside me and it’s likely he never will. I cannot turn to him and confess of my broken-ness. He is not that kind of boy. And that is okay because he is a Now-Boy. 

I think, Am I over-thinking?

He says, ‘What are you thinking about?’

I smile and say, ‘Nothing special.’

The lovely Jennifer found my blog somehow (the exact trail eludes her) and wanted to do me the honour of featuring It Depends on When He Sees Me for the First Time. Go. Read. Comment. Follow. The whole shindig.

Je t’adore! Bisous!

PS: I’m dumb because I wrote  post specifically to shed some light on my most recently published piece.

PS2: I watched one episode of 90210 and now I’m obsessed. Don’t judge me.

You make lists of boys you would kiss. You know that real people do not make Kiss Lists; you are all words and no action. Someone yells Action! and they karate kiss. You stop and say, ‘Karate kiss. K-A-R-A-T-E  K-I-S-S. Karate kiss.’ They applaud you, but your lips still go home limp and unused. Lips should be used. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how. 

There is a breeze in the summer air and you are home alone. The cat rolls around on the marble floor. You are catty and feline. You are sultry and lazy and arrogant and proud; you are such a cat. But if you were really so dazzlingly independent, you wouldn’t be sitting at home spilling secret posts onto your very public blog. If you’re so funny, then why are you on your own tonight ? And if you’re so clever, then why are you on your own tonight ? If you’re so very entertaining, then why are you on your own tonight ? If you’re so very good-looking, why do you sleep alone tonight ? I know … ’Cause tonight is just like any other night. That’s why you’re on your own tonight.

Your posts read like a broken record; you are a cliche. This is okay. You wonder what would happen if all your readers appeared suddenly on this Athenian balcony. You would call you father and ask him which wines not to touch. You would whip up some meze (or order it; same difference). You would all talk and laugh and feel very present. You would go to sleep smiling. You would wake up the next day and write.

You would write another post just like this because, ironically, not being kissed just makes you want to write about kissing all the time.

Here’s the thing… I’m not really perdida these days. I am (dare I say it?) happy. I am busy and exhausted and happy.
My super career as a part-time sales assistant has me working with lovely people. I pull out agendas to pencil in this friend and that for a catch-up. I am making mini maps for the next year of my life sans anxiété. I nourish my body with spinach and blueberries and tofu. I tone and strengthen and streeetch my body.

Life’s good. Life’s fucking good. And not manic good. I was not euphoric when I saw the lunar eclipse; I saw it, I appreciated it, and I went to sleep smiling. I do not get wasted and crazy; I have a few drinks and mingle. (Though I still get home after sunrise). I am not manic. I am just okay. You know, okay is not so bad after all. In fact, okay is actually pretty awesome.

Except for one little detail: writing.

Here’s the thing:
I am so used to feeling so much, to emoting to the point of torture, that writing when I am -for lack of a better word- stable, is a struggle. Bi-polar has made me a lazy writer. The constant ups and downs, the hi-los, though exhausting, are also a constant source of inspiration. So what happens when you are okay?

This is the real challenge. To write as deeply without going so deep.
I don’t quite know what is going on with Say Another Lexi these days, and I’d rather not bomb you with bullshit, but I do think about this and you all the time. I think I’m a little bit closer to finding some direction but I have a long way to go.

And this is where you come in…

Where would you like me to go? My oldies, my newbies, all of you such darlings, what words bring you readers to my yard?  What quote totes floats your boat? What sentences tickle your fancy? What metaphor gets you off?

Please be awesome and post a comment below. I promise to take every bit of advice into consideration.

Also welcome are Inspirations Ignitions. What inspires you? What are your writing habits? Help a brother out and share them with me! And all the other readers!

Also, because I’m an asshole, I forgot to mention that I was chosen to be published on a groovy site called Schmutzie (how cute)! In fact, I’m so absent-minded that it’s very possible I never wrote back to them. Like I said, I’m a dickhead. No, wait, before I said asshole. Shit, I’m both. I’m a dick and an ass. Not even, only the head and the hole. Good job, Mom and Dad. You produced a sailor-swearing, writer’s-blocked, Bipolar hussy that crawls in at 7am on any given Sunday. Good job.

Filed under: Being Funny and Shit, Hope and Other Friends, Notes to Future Self, Polar Bear, Sometimes I Don't Write About What Hurts ]]> http://sayanotherlexi.wordpress.com/2011/06/19/what-words-bring-you-readers-to-my-yard/feed/ 26 Alexia http://sayanotherlexi.wordpress.com/2011/06/12/summer-2/ http://sayanotherlexi.wordpress.com/2011/06/12/summer-2/#comments Sun, 12 Jun 2011 10:33:07 +0000 Alexia http://sayanotherlexi.wordpress.com/?p=2835 Keep reading →]]> 1. From your childhood, what do you miss most about summer vacation?

When I was a kid, we spent every summer in my dad’s village which is near Kalamata (you know, like the olives) in the Peloponese. At least two of my fathers’ siblings and their respective families would be there at the same time. That’s a whole lot of cousins.

We wake up around nine, eat breakfast, grab our bikes and ride around with the other kids until lunchtime. We cycle to Ai Georgi, whose stream takes root from the mountain. We have competitions to see who could stay in the longest (maybe one minute). The water comes up to our ankles. That’s how cold it is. We climb into the small cave and wonder about the gap in the back. My father claims he has gone through it; apparently, it doesn’t lead anywhere special. On the tree outside, we can read all the names carved into the tree: our fathers, our grandfathers…. We cycle to the cemetery, past the waterfall, past the flowers, past the mosquitos. We find graves with our surname and wonder how we’re related.

At lunchtime we zoom home, up and down hills, legs flailing. We shovel a few bites in and then insist it’s time to go… until someone mentions ice-cream, and then suddenly we are patient again. After lunch, it’s siesta time. We grab our bikes again but we aren’t allowed to shout until we’re not in earshot of the village. We go to the local kafeneio. Tsitsani has one video game. We play Mortal Combat. I always lose. Across the street, we buy tiny tubs of Merenda that come with tiny spoons. In the afternoon, we beg random relative, no matter how distant, to buy us more ice-cream.

Around 9pm we go home for dinner. Everyone laughs and talks and drinks wine. They let us have some or we have Ribena and pretend. Tomorrow we are going to the beach. Maybe Golden Coast, hopefully Voidokilia which is a secret paradise. We want to pretend to surf and see the Caretta Caretta turtles and hike up to the cave. Just before midnight, we go back into our old stone house. We clamber up the stairs, never forgetting the story of the Italian that was killed there by Nazis, wondering where the blood that scared our aunts and uncles had dried. We are not tall enough to duck under the beam. We sleep in a large room next to our parents’ wrought iron four-poster bed. We vow that this year, we will write on the old door in the back too. We want to join the Nazis’, our parents’ and our cousins’ stamp on the legendary door.

We don’t. Someone gets rid of it before we are old enough. We don’t go to the village anymore.

Voidokilia: Acapulcolopoulos, Koh Phi Phi-kos, Hawaiianos, Bondi Beachaki etc...

2. Are you going anywhere on vacation this summer?

In a few weeks, I am going to Naoussa, Paros. It’s one of my favourite towns, white and quaint and sweet. Paros is far superiour to Mykonos. I am going with my mother for a wedding and I’m very excited! Paros has the best fucking loukoumia on the planet. YOu can have it with melted chocolate, with ice-cream, with honey…

Bo, Zari, me Michelle, Evan, Steph and Nick. And whole lot of loukoumia!

My darling Bo!

Prancing home after a night out.

In August, I am going to Kardamyla, Chios. A lot of my friends are from that village. It will be packed. It will be awesome. Last time I went was just after I got back from Asia in 2008. Sunshine, Pixie, Zari (my three best friends) and I were still catching up. I fell off a fort (as you do) and hobbled for the rest of the holiday. My friends laughed and took photos.

Friendship: one hand helping you up, the other taking a photo of you patheticness.

We stayed in the photographer's decrepit family home. We woke up with ceiling plaster on us. We were cold so we slept with towels. It was awesome. Me, Zari and Pixie.

In September, I am going camping in Elafonissos. I have never been but I’ve heard it’s spectacular. It should be quieter by autumn. I’m looking forward to drinking wine on the beach and chilling the fuck out.

3. What foods do you like to barbecue?

Anything but meat. No, I will not eat the mushrooms you barbecued on the meat grill. Carcass juice, yo. Gross.

4. How do you celebrate the fourth of July?

I grew up in Greece so, needless to say, 4th of July doesn’t mean much to us. Once though, when I was a kid, the Athenian Golf Club (of which my father is a member) held one such celebration. THERE WAS FREE ICE-CREAM, PEOPLE. Apparently, I went around collecting all the balloons and tried to sell them to guests. Genius. What went wrong?

5. What’s your favorite beverage to drink in the summertime?

I haven’t decided what my Summer ’11 is going to be yet. Last year it was vodka martini (potent and messy and awesome) but I’m a good girl now so I’m looking for something a little less wild. It’s possible it will be vodka with a dash of lime.

Oh. I just realised beverage does not equate to alcohol. My bad.

Back in ‘Nam, my favourite drink was nuoc mia (sugar water) which is made with sugar cane juice. It is divine. Similarly, I adored tamarind flavoured water in Thailand. I overdose on water in the summer. Greek summers are scorching. At the beach I favour Corona.

Let’s face it, I’m a whore for alcohol no matter the season. I’m an alcowhore, if you will. 

6. What movie are you looking forward to seeing this summer?

Whatevs.

7. In the car: windows down or AC?

I try to have windows open as long as possible but that isn’t long at all. It’s not worth arriving at your destination all sticky. NoteL I do no sweat. I am a lady.

8. Have you ever had a summer fling?

I think so. It’s never as dramatic and romantic as it is on screen though, is it? I’ve never hooked up with a tourist or anything. Hmm, first challenge of Summer ’11?

9. Do you wear sunscreen?
Nah. I should because of my scars and whatnot but I always forget. Usually I wear light sunscreen for the first few days at the beach and then it’s oils. Don’t lecture me. I’m getting older and I”m starting to think of my skin. Having been out of the sun for almost two years though, I am determined to tan recklessly at least one more time.

10. Do you have any favorite summertime activities?

You wake up at noon, maybe later. One by one you gather on the balcony. You eat fruit and yoghurt. You make your first frappe of the day. Within a couple of hours of waking you are at the beach. You melt on the sun-loungers. You oil up. You play backgammon. A lot. You eat cheese-pies. You drink beer. In the late afternoon, you take your salted self home. You take turns to shower. Someone starts cooking. Someone sets the table. Someone cracks open a bottle of wine. You sit at the table with your family and whatever strays are visiting this summer. You tell jokes, you laugh, you debate, you yell. A little before the day ends, you and the rest of the kids start getting ready. You wear skyscraper heels and mini dresses. Someone picks you up around one in the morning. You go to clubs that are on cliffs: banging tunes, beautiful people. You’re shown to your table and agree on a bottle. Within an hour your hips are swaying. Within two hours, everyone’s arrived, everyone’s hugging, everyone’s smiling. Within three hours, you’re up dancing on the tables. Around six am, you figure out the finances and bounce. Maybe you stop at a beach on the way home. Maybe you strip and go swimming. You get home. You pass out. The next morning you do it all over again.

Zari and I at Island. Legendary night.

We went to a party in a tunnel in the middle of nowhere. Walking to the car to go home at 8am. Me and the boys.

What do your summers look like?

Questions via Chelsea!

I’m not my biggest fan these days because I’m an angry motherfucker. I am angry all the time. I think maybe I am just tired. I have been smiling too much. At some point smiling will wear you out.

When I was younger, I craved challenges. I saw them as opportunities to prove my strength. On a very basic level, I believed I only deserved to be happy once I had overcome great obstacles.

In high-school I started cutting myself. Nothing is wrong; I’m just too weak to deal with every day life.

No obstacle there.

Then I started dating a local pot-dealer that put me down constantly in order to feel better about himself. This is not an abusive relationship; it’s my fault- sometimes I’m a bitch.

Then I went to university and fell into a dark depression for years. I don’t have Depression. Everyone knows Psychology students are always self-diagnosing. I’m just being dramatic.

Since I was fifteen, I have struggled with food: starving and bingeing and back to the beginning. I don’t have an eating disorder; I am not thin enough.

I set myself on fire. This isn’t a severe accident, I only burnt nine percent of my body.

A couple of months later I got my heart shattered. I can’t complain; it’s karma. All these years, haven’t I been the one leaving?

I pieced it back together with gin. I do not abuse alcohol, I just like to party!

Then I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Oh but it’s only Bipolar Type I.

I sound like a fucking idiot. 

If this was someone else’s life, I would have been like: wooah! Not because I have been through anything particularly traumatic (there I go again), but because surely I’ve been through enough for me to realise that the problem isn’t finding obstacles to overcome; the problem is that -so far, someway, somehow- I have managed to leap over them.

You see, at the root of all this: I won’t let myself believe that I have succeeded.

Universe, give me obstacles!

Boom!

Shitty boyfriends, self-abuse, disorders, accidents… Oh come on, Universe, I mean real obstacles. 

The sad thing is, I am sure that I am not the only one who has such dysfunctional thoughts. There are always those that complain about their lives to the point of callousness but for the rest of us, the sensitive ones: how much do we have to suffer in order to consider ourselves strong? 

I have smiled and accepted a lot of -for lack of a better word- hardships over the years. Some were unavoidable, some weren’t. These days, everything is okay, there is no drama distracting me, and so I have time to reflect: maybe I am angry because it’s all catching up to me.

The accident changed my life for the better but now, in June, when everyone is excited about bikinis, I resent my scars.
Mental illness used to seem so glamorous and dramatic but now, having a better understanding of the extra challenges I face on an everyday basis, I resent my moods.

To scratch beneath the surface though, I think what angers me, and what tires us in general, is the cycle. What goes up must come down and vice versa. Usually, we think about the cycle just after we’ve endured some hardship. We feel relieved, it feels so good to feel good again! 

But isn’t it the same shit on the other side of the spectrum? Every time I feel depressed, every time something fucks up, I think again? Haven’t we just been through this? Frankly, it’s exhausting trying to stay afloat.

However! I know that one day (soon!) I will not be angry anymore. The cycle will swing in my favour. My batteries will be recharged and I’ll be ready to take any new obstacles The Universe throws at me… because you know she never gets bored of that! And this is what keeps me going. That change is the only constant. And while it’s tiring to try to keep up with life, we don’t really have a choice, do we?

In the mean-time, I burnt my cupcakes.

*You know I bought those M&Ms anyway, right?

darkness conceals

‘See that yellow glow coming through? That’s moonshine,’ I say. ‘And the wine glasses rocking round the bar are clouds.’

He laughs. He says, ‘You writers.’

I smile. I take this as a compliment.

When in doubt, be flattered. This is our new motto.

Tonight, this bar is my sky. The tenders are satellites. I say, ‘The cocktails are aeroplanes, and we are destinations.’

Who is flying to us right now? In the respective universes of our lives, who is anyone? what is everything?

Because I know that sometimes I orbit reality, watching the world through ozone spectacles. And sometimes I’m wild. Thought-population: 6,920,428,878, all rushing through emotional rivers, sizzling in obsessive deserts, Volcanic revolutions and photosynthesising epiphanies.
I know that sometimes I am the opposite of a snowflake; I sparkle from far and burn up close. Perhaps my accident was my birth. Perhaps I am stardust masquerading as a human because I swear sometimes I still feel like I’m burning.

But somehow something always casts a shadow over everything (ironically so): I am always the sun.
Yes, I am always the sun: hot and warm. Making people smile and sweat. Making people warm and making people weak.

When it comes to my ego and my self-doubt I say, ‘This universe ain’t big enough for the two of you.’

I am floating between them these days. Like that tennis ball in The Witches of Eastwick. I really loved that movie as a child.

I am a constant eclipse.

the moon hangs fat, my very own dandelion seed
as i shower -clean clean clean- to the beat
of my own judgement. i run lines of compliments
down my back, between my breasts, relishing
strawberry words, so very sweet.
i need so much.
so little trust in male promises.
so many letters unmailed.
so many hands unheld.

she smiles and i love her and i wonder
how many people love my smile.
she said, ‘if you don’t like your smile,
you’re not doing it right.’

i’m not doing it right.

they say i am a snowflake
and it’s true because
i am cold but
i melt so easily.

i throw my arms in the air
and i’m alive
and I want to chase this.
i am alive.

but i don’t.

i come home
and write a poem instead.

Except she didn’t say that last bit.

*

I wrote a poem. And then I filmed it. I filmed my mouth. But, for some reason, I cannot upload it. But I did it, Ace. I filmed a poem for you.

My poem. My mouth. Coming soon.

*

Have y’all been on Facebook?

Yes? You darlings!

No? Go here now. Please: INSERT LINK.

*

It’s almost 2am GMT+2. I am wearing a pink and burgundy blouse covered in butterflies. My floor is scattered with clothes. I am filled with gin. It is my bed-time. I hope you are smiling.

That sounded dirty but that seems to be my permanent state of mind these days. I watch the boys play baseball. I love the way their arms flex as balls soar through the sky. I don’t care about their faces, just the way they grip their bats and slide across the dirt. I love the little leg lift-up; it reminds me of a dance. I want someone to hit me out of the ball park.

He turns his head to see if I’m watching. I am. Unapologetically so. Later I see his face is old and hard and not so pretty. I don’t care. He has those arms and that arrogance. He’ll do.

I want to have affairs, crazy love affairs. I don’t want flimsy flings or ugly one-night stands. I want innuendo and indulgence and respect and flesh. I have spent so much of my life being single and celibate and perhaps it’s a shame. I am wasting my body. I am young and free and I want fantasies.

He stands up a little straighter when I’m around but he doesn’t pay me much attention. I always said we had bad timing but maybe he just never liked me all that much. He looks at me sometimes; he holds my eyes with his  but it doesn’t mean anything anymore. Eye-locks and compliments are nothing, not even promises.

We sat in the sunshine and drank beer. I covered up my scars with bandaids. When I looked in the mirror, I tried to imagine what my body looked like without scars. It might sound silly but I just realised that I will never be unscarred again. That sounds simple but it’s strange to think that I am changed forever. I don’t think I have ever enjoyed my body for a decent amount of time. Sometimes I think I’ve been cheated of my youth. All those years of striving to achieve perfection, and for what? I am twenty-six, forever scarred; all that perfect skin wasted. But then I realise that there’s no point because that was then, and this is now, and I will never, ever be unscarred.

I know that we think scars and imperfections are beautiful, but it’s hard to feel that way every day. There is no freedom in this; I have no option except to be scarred.

The word scarred is the word scared with a little extra rrrr. 

story of my life.

everyone else
got nothing for something.
as if
i
usurped their good luck.

and then They rose from the underground
on magic stairs,
hungover on routine.
his alien eyes were
blank.
and mine were broken glass.

his hands were handcuffed
and it chafed my heart.

she dropped her fat red rose on the dirty road.
it was my fault.
was it my fault?

everywhere, women are thinner than me.

not even the baby sunshine can ease this ache.
not even the promises of a glorious history.

i’m fading,
right here by the
graffiti flowers
and earthquake pavement.

i wonder if the marbles will mourn me.

I have to get up for work in five hours and twenty-nine minutes so obviously this is an excellent time to write a new post.

I am twenty-six. For the first time in years, I feel young. I am a baby. Life is only beginning. So far it has only been growing pains.

Harbouring pain makes you a pain.

My favourite moment of the Royal wedding (the little I caught of it), was the moment when they had just been married and the world was singing to them. Kate’s (or should I say ‘Catherine’s'?) face was calm and dignified but, if you look closely, you can see her chest rising and falling; the telltale sign of an anxious heartbeat. I loved that. I warmed to the humanity of her nervousness.

Tonight my eyes slid around the room watching people be. I felt detached. Metaphysically speaking, I was slightly raised. I watched people but I think that, even if I’d reached out and touched them -literally touched them- I wouldn’t have connected. Sometimes reality is intangible, and truth and logic, and all those  other practical concepts we need to feel alive, blur into some alternate reality.

It’s quite possible that I had an out-of-body experience the other day. I didn’t realise until I felt what can only be described as my soul slamming itself back into my body. It lasted mere seconds; it shook me.

For me, peace is not about being happy. Peace is not being scared of life, not feeling a weight pushing me down, not feeling anxious about whether or not someone thought my words were slightly abrupt. I don’t need to be happy, I just need to be.. I just need to be able to hope.

I am learning to be human. I am learning how to be in a bad mood, and how it’s okay to be average sometimes. My mother said, ‘You look fine,’ and I stormed out, yelling, ‘You might as well tell me I’m average!’

I don’t do fine. I don’t do average.

But there’s that niggling fear… what if I am? What if I am just an imposter?

Sleep is relief.

You know, I want to be somebody.

Remember the boy that writes me letters? Well, guess what? He wrote me another one. It ends with these sentences.

Instead he smiles passionately to himself, at the vision of a girl he’s never met. But one who inspires his dreams nonetheless.

I rewarded him by not writing back for weeks. Because, as we all know, that’s the kind of asshole I am. But not tonight. Tonight I am not an asshole. Tonight I am… the opposite of an asshole*. Tonight, I am writing back.

Dear Sean,

Is it Easter where you are as well? Here we have different names for it. My friend Neptune calls it a Chocolate Festival. We are currently making our way through the menu at our favourite cupcake shop. We’re mature like that.

Specifically, today is the day Christ rose from the dead. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. My friend Sparrow calls it Res-erection Day. We’re a filthy-minded bunch of people.

Easter is not really my thing. For starters, it involves the Church. I love churches per se. I love the stained glass windows, the carved wood, the murals, the peaceful energy; I love them even though I don’t believe. But the Church? That misogynistic, anti-sex, anti-homo, anti-abortion crap? No thanks. Plus, they make you give up stuff you love out of respect for Jesus. Uhm, I don’t think he died on the Christ for sobriety. Right? Do I hear an Amen? And everyone makes such a big deal out of not eating meat. Whatevs, Greek world, I do it all year round. AND YOU GIVE ME SO MUCH SHIT FOR IT. Tomorrow, the air will fill with the smell of roasting lamb carcasses. I AM SUPER EXCITED ABOUT THAT. On TWO levels. How many people can claim that they know what the lamb must feel like? That’s strike three for Easter, but I’ll add in an extra one for a bonus: fire.

Allow me to explain.

Tonight is the night that Jesus’ imitation coffin gets carried through the streets. Hundreds of people scuffle behind it. It’s quite beautiful, really, all those flowers decorating the epitafio and the people flowing through the streets in unity. The fact that everyone is carrying a candle makes it more beautiful. It also makes it the last place I want to be.

So, to recap. Easter=religion+sobriety+meat+fire.

Where does that leave us? Easter means fuck all to me.

That’s not what you want to hear in a letter though, is it? You want poetry and little moments and big thoughts. It has been over five weeks since your last letter, and they have been difficult ones. I went through a very sharp depression for a couple of weeks. My energy was toxic. I wanted to stay home because I was worried of infecting people. Instead, I went out and got drunk. A lot. I’m starting to think that maybe alcohol isn’t my friend. I could write a poem about it. I would call it: The Bourbon Betrayal. I would have to start drinking Bourbon for this to work.

Tonight, I had a glorious, hot shower. You know, one of those ones that makes you feel really clean. I say this because nudity -even hints of it- keeps the ratings up. NEWSFLASH: I took a shower in the nude. And that’s when I felt a little flower of hope bloom inside me; the one that makes me feel like maybe everything would be alright after all.

There’s this terrible trait that Depression has, an oppressive, hopeless darkness. Whether it lasts for a night or a year, it’s impossible to believe that I will ever feel better. The world becomes a very big place, and I become very small, and nowhere feels safe. Except maybe my bed. But that becomes the most dangerous of all when I stop getting out of it. I think that’s why people kill themselves. Because there is no light to Depression. When someone has a bad day, they perceive it as such: a bad day. When you’re depressed, you’re in the tunnel, in the darkness, with no visible escape. You can’t see past the bad day.

Today is not a bad day. Today I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if it’s just a window. The cat helps. She’s sleeping on my feet.

This letter is scattered and heavy and flimsy all at the same time but I hope it makes sense to you. I also hope I was charming. Can people hope for that? Is that a silly thing to hope for? Do you hate this letter?

I just fell asleep on the keyboard. I’m smooth like that.

Good night, my friend. I hope you are well and warm and maybe a little bit tipsy too. And that you are taking good care of yourself.

Love, Alexia

*Prize (read: respect) for whoever can come up with the best answer to this question: what is the opposite of an asshole?

we add -aversaries to everything;
to celebrate pain is to give it meaning.
today is a whatifaversary,
an itcoudhavebeenaversay.

then he said what they all say
‘you have proven your strength.
you can do anything.’

i play with my gold rings
-promises to myself-
torn thoughts on a loop.

who am i to overcome
the skinny handwriting of my childhood?

yet, today, i did not burst
like the pinata karma tried to make me.

i almost didn’t cry.
and that’s supposed to mean something.

This is not a poem per se. I do not know what this is. My writing has gone stale. Bear with me until I can bare all again.

Dear Uterus,

Fuck you.

Because of you I am swollen and sore and too full of cheese. My clothes are a bit too tight. I’m too hormonal to write.

Fuck you every month.

You know, on the one hand, your perseverance is admirable. Every month you are rendered useless and promptly* expelled, and every month you thicken once more, clinging to me desperately.

On the other hand, doesn’t that strike you as a little bit desperate? I mean, dude, let go already. Make a clean break. Come back at the right time. We both know I’m just not ready for the kind of commitment that you need. It’s not you, it’s me. (I know I’m coming off a little bit Bipolar right now but that’s only because I am Bipolar.) I’m just saying that I don’t understand why you keep pushing for something that’s just not ripe. Get a grip, Uterus because, frankly, I’m tempted to get a temporary restraining order.

Relaaax, I’m joking! I love you really, you know that. It’s just that it hurts so much when you go. Since we have to endure separation every month, you’d think that Mother Nature would have thought of a better, less painful solution by now. But no. As always, you let her get away with murder. I’m just saying that it would be lovely if you (a) arrived with less baggage and (b) departed with minimal torture.

I know you’re practicing for hosting a foetus and all that jazz, but do you have to practice so much? I mean, you’ve had over a decade to practice and guess what- no baby. I mean, jeez, we’re talking about a twenty year commitment that’s going to be rewarded with a drunken mistake. Yes, that’s right, I’m assuming you’ll become useful (re: play a role in conception of a human bean**) due to one of my drunken mistakes. Yes, ‘one of’, as in ‘there are many’. Let’s not forget to whom you belong.

I’m going to conclude this letter now. Did you think it was too long? Well at least I don’t write you one that takes you four days to read. Every month.

Where was I? Oh yes.

Fuck you,

Alexia

*Not promptly enough, if you ask me.
** I know we’re human beings, I just like the word bean.

Yesterday I said, ‘Do you ever have abstract thoughts about simple things? Like weight… what is weight? What is heavy and light? Or pain… when we feel pain, what does that even mean? How can we feel and be controlled by something so intangible?”
And she said, “I know exactly what you mean. I think about that stuff all the time.”
And then I didn’t feel as crazy.

Last week my nerves rattled with anger for no reason. Or maybe they rattled because I lost my phone. Again. Two Blackberries and one iPhone in less than a year. I should get some sort of Irresponsibility Award. The prize can be another phone.

I was irrationally furious at strange things. It is spring in Athens. It is hard not to be happy during springtime. That’s why hope springs eternal makes so much sense as a sentence. But last week I a walking, talking, fleshy machine gun. The sun glowed and I growled. You stupid ball of fire. People think you’re so glorious and warm but I’ve seen what happens when you get real close and personal. Fuck you. That’s right. I got mad at the sun because it’s made of fire. If you’re looping your finger next to your temple, I’m not surprised. I can’t even pretend to insist I’ve got a tight grip on reality.

On the plus side, I am starting a summer project. I am calling it 50 Sun Rays and it was inspired by a post by Gala Darling. Some people say that the key to happiness is to keep doing what you love. If that’s true, and I manage to tick all 50 things off my list, then this should be a pretty good summer. To be honest, I’m making any major plans. This year has been a little rough when I was expecting it to be crazy awesome amazing.
So, 50 Sun Rays. Coming soon. In collage form on a canvas no less!

I don’t know what this post is. I don’t know what to write these days.

20 years ago… I was a precocious bookworm that asked questions like, “So, Miss, if there were no other people on Earth yet, does that mean that Eve did it with one of her sons?”. (I feel like I’ve already told that story.)

15 years ago… I dressed up as Cleopatra for carnival when everybody else went as punks. I started feeling like I didn’t belong. I had handwriting so tiny my teacher couldn’t read it. In hindsight, I realise that this was my first Depression.

10 years ago… I wasn’t eating. I took up smoking. I got drunk for the first time. It wasn’t pretty.

5 years ago… I finished university. I drifted from London to Athens to Sydney and back again. I realised that no one prepares you for real life.

2 years ago… I partied. A lot. That’s basically it. It was awesome.

1 year ago… I induced a hypomanic episode in order to deal with setting myself on fire. I went to Miami to be a nanny, open wounds and all. I was about to meet the boy that broke me.

Yesterday… .I found it very difficult to smile. I sat in the kitchen and laughed with my mother while she cooked. I fell asleep on my cat. I woke up and went clubbing. I did not get drunk.

Today… I’m listening to my father tell us about our family feuds and then interrupt everyone else when they try to talk. I’m drinking iced coffee, frappe, with my fair-haired, warm, progressive, lovely cousins. I’m trying not to eat more chocolate cake.

Tomorrow… I’m going to get my knees checked out. Two years after I realised something was wrong (hey, I’m Greek). I’m going to hang out with one of my favourite people in the world: Eleni. I stole this meme from her. Tomorrow it’s her birthday so go and spread some birthday love!

On a further note, I’m jumping on the BlogLovin’ bandwagon! I don’t know what that means exactly…but I’m doing it!

<a href=”http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/2047326/say-another-lexi?claim=7j5pxu7evs2″>Follow my blog with bloglovin</a>

Posts appreciating the random gestures of the writer in residence.

Then we’ll be catching up with our travel reporter in New Zealand.

Plus, we’ll be gushing about our latest blog crush.

Kalispera, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Alexia Roux. Thank you for joining us on Say Another Lexi!

First up, Cathrine, of The Psi Project fame has written a post entitled Veto,  detailing unexpected affection Lexi. This post was actually written weeks ago, but since this newsreel is not only fake, but Greek, it should come as no surprise to any reader that it is only being mentioned now. According to past statistics, this should in fact only add to the quirky nature of this blog. The post in question deals with a cigarette, a storm and a brief reference to scars. Here’s our lexpert with more information…

Thank you, Lexi. Good evening, folks! Lexpert reporting from The Psi Project. It appears that, as well, as being an extremely talented writer, the blogger in person, a certain Cathrine V, is also a mermaid. I’ve talked to a few of the locals and they say that the reason she writes so passionately and peacefully is due to her unique turquoise aura. I’ve had many a poke around her blog (my apologies, I hope that didn’t sound unprofessional) and it seems that it is almost one size fits all (again, no pun intended). I urge all our readers to head over to The Psi Project as soon as they get a chance, in order to get their minds titillated and their analysis cursors rolling. Back to you in the studio.

Thank you, Lexpert, for that very unbiased report on my real-life friend.

Moving on, Sean, creator and writer of The Anarchist Project writes back to this letter. For the rest of this report (his response), please be patient and follow our source here. Expect to find copious amounts of beer, romance, hope and restlessness.

Witnesses claim that the authors  of these respective letters have never met in the flesh, and yet they still manage to enjoy a long-distance friendship based mainly on a love for being writing cliches, travelling souls, and access to Skype. Please enjoy responsibly.

And finally, what’s hot on SAL? Turning twenty-six (the writer, not the blog) rang some bells. One of our favourite blogs these days is called La Petite Coquine. Cue the death march: it’s a wedding blog. A greater scandal has never befallen the curator of Say Another Lexi, and sources are remaining tight-lipped. Stay tuned for more on how this writer is toning down the commitment-phobia.

Now, on to weather reports…

Monday to Thursday brought sunny minds and warm smiles. However, Friday evening took a turn for the worse, as Say Another Lexi got caught in a vodka storm from 10pm until 6am. She tried to cling to a young man for rescue but he already had a damsel in distress so she found a taxi and saved herself. Saturday was consumed by a grey mist consisting of a lot of bread and television. It refused to lift on Sunday but those who dared, ventured out and discovered that mist can be alleviated by rum and friends. Today the weather is mild, but prone to inconsistencies. Back to you…

And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for tuning in, I’m Alexia Roux, and from all of us here at Say Another Lexi, good morning/good afternoon/good night!

They comment on my long hair. Oh it’s so long. Oh it’s so healthy. And I laugh and I tell them of how long it took to grow it but they don’t realise the work it took. This means nothing to no one. Long hair is a stupid thing to discuss. I don’t know what I want to discuss.

I love the night but I feel like I identify with it too much. The darkness makes sense to me. It is natural for me to feel isolated. Yet, I am not. I am not.

My head is buzzing. One whiskey, two cocktails, two tequila shots and four vodka caramel shots will do that to you. For the second time this week , I was called a party animal. I don’t know who else to be. My friends will be angry when they read this.

There is something I am meant to. I just don’t know what it is.

Sometimes I feel voices marching towards me like an army. I don’t know what they are saying. Maybe it’s the Bipolar talking. But I do feel an energy marching towards me. And sometimes it’s dark, and sometimes it’s light, but usually it’s  strange oppressive combination.

I talk to people who cut me out of their lives but I still love them.
I hate the way I love everybody.
I hate the I am trying to stop that.

This is the most useless post ever.

…I got over it. So.over.it.

…I went shopping with my mommy. I ate a cheese-pie. It was only okay.

…I got stuck in traffic. We sang along with The Blues’ Brothers. I might have actually sung. I don’t even sing in the shower.

…I went out for Sunday lunch and laughed. A lot. Eggplant dip and potato salad and halloumi! Damn it, I’m hungry again.

…I actually had a hangover after Friday’s fiasco. Me. Hangover. Shocking. I drank again on Saturday. I’m a trooper like that. I vowed not to drink at lunch. But then I did. I mean, when the waiter offers a jug of rakomelo on the house, what’s a girl to do?

…I watched a lot of Friends. And I mean a lot.

…I missed the biggest full moon EVAR. Okay, the biggest full moon in 800 years. Okay, I did see it but it was on the way back from the bar so I don’t really remember it so it doesn’t count.

…I dyed my hair this colour:

Of course, it's gone a bit red.

What did you do this weekend?

I’ve gone back to my old ways. The gin. The boys. Forgetting to eat. Forgetting to sleep. Except now I know what’s happening. Now I know it’s not really real. It feels so good right now, and I know it’s going to feel just as bad tomorrow.

So I tap my feet. I drum my fingers. My heart pitter patters like a bug across the wall. Colours are bolder.

‘The lines and the shapes of the world are very defined today.’

Thoughts tumble onto my tongue and out of my mouth and into my audience. My attention span spatters over everything. I keep forgetting what I was saying. I’m confused. I skip and I jump and I run. I throw my head back and laugh. I laugh so hard.

I’m electric. This is what I always say. I’m alive and I zing. I’m high voltage.

It’s a strange emotion to be ecstatic and anxious at the same time. It’s surreal, like sunshine when it snows. I’m anxious because I know this will fade. I know this is just my mind’s little magic trick. I know that tomorrow, next week, next month my mind will pull out other magic tricks and I won’t like them as much. I know this temporary. I know this isn’t real. And I’m anxious because I want this to last. I want to feel like this forever, drunk, punch drunk on life and love and conversations and laughing. I feel so full of energy and love that I can’t breathe. I’m terrified, waiting for the moment that it leaves me.

And it will leave me. Tomorrow, next week, next month I will be incapable of uttering simple sentences. My face won’t look right. A metal mist will fall on me, so thick I won’t be able to see me or my life anymore. And if it’s not tomorrow or next week or next month, if I take my meds and be a good girl, it might be next year.

But I will always be finding the right answers and then forgetting them. And that’s hard to accept.

Everything is too loud. I’m afraid the train’s shaking will break me but today my eyes feel two-dimensional so maybe we are not always real. If I am not real, I cannot break. I almost don’t care what people would think if I lay down on the cool marble. Would our histories merge? I have abstract desires like wanting to steal people shoes to make a patchwork of their colours and use it as a dream blanket. I do not even know what a dream blanket is.

And when people walk by me, I feel their vibrations; atoms of their energy radiates, and I’m a sponge, a towel used to soak it all up, to soak up every breath the world takes. I am a soul towel.

Life sways. Gravity eludes me. I find myself dizzy with weightlessness. I rock from side to side. I almost trip. I almost fall down stairs. I am unaware of space, of objects. Nothing is tangible. I feel like I could fall through anything.

I am in a taxi. The boy in the next care turns around and looks at me. I breathe out. It fogs up the window. Even my breathing keeps them at  distance.

I want…

… To Make a Difference

Whenever someone asks me what I want out of life, I always say the same three things: to be a mother, to be a writer, and to make a difference. I try really hard to be good. I smile as much as possible. I say please and thank you all the time. I recycle. I refuse to litter. I refuse to gossip. I try not to lead boys ons. I try not to say no to favours.

This does not sound like much.

When I was younger, I was a fierce advocate for all kinds of rights. I would yell and wave my arms at just about anyone who dred utter even the slightest injustice: pay for me? pay.for.me? what, you think I can’t pay for my own drinks? (To be fair, men in Greece are quite old-fashioned and are actually insulted by independent women so my reaction was justified.*)

When the situation allows, I still debate. I love it. The other night I got into an Animal versus Human argument. I frowned incessantly. I shouted (let’s blame the gin). I gesticulated wildly. Half-way through, I smiled. I said, I really missed this! It was wonderful because I realised that passion does not wane with youth, it simply chooses its battles. Nowadays, I fight with different tools: I try to live by example.
It’s exhausting. Being the best person you can possibly be all the time is exhausting. I do not know how good my best is, but I know I try. I want to be the kind of person that makes others want to be better people.

And my mother tries to tell me I lack ambition.

… Luxury

Yes. This is really what is following To Make a Difference.

I want luxury. I don’t want every single thing in my life to be fantastically expensive. It don’t need marble baths and Louis Vuitton socks. I would like some options though. I would like a lion-foot bath for example. Preferably antique, obviously. I want a classic, quilted Chanel bag (just one). Maybe a pair of Louboutins. I would like exotic fruit available all the time. I want to be able to throw wild theme parties. I want cashmere blankets and angora cardigans. I want to travel. I really want to travel. And I want luxuries like giving my kids a treehouse, and having a guest bedroom. I want  bar in my house. Who are we kidding? That last one’s going to happen anyway.

Okay, actually, this list is pretty long. Still, appreciating luxury is not something for which I will apologise. First of all, it’s not like I’ve had much of it. Secondly, for me, luxury doesn’t equate to designer labels, but rather, a way of life. Thirdly,  just because I’m not materialistic, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the finer things in life.

I just want enough to feel special. Don’t you?

… Vegetarian Marshmallows/ Gummi Bears/ Cherry Ripes

Alas, in Greece, they are nowhere to be found.

Does the former even exist?

The middle was once consumed by this very writer back in 2006 and did not receive very positive feedback.

The latter, oh the latter… was just about to be eaten when the deal-breaking ingredient was discovered: gelatine. Allow me to explain.. Cherry Ripes are a childhood favourite chocolate. They are very common in Australia, and very uncommon everywhere else. Having lived in Greece since I was six, any packages sent by relatives were savaged for the sweets. It was ugly. Now, it doesn’t make a difference. I am a Cherry Ripe reject; they refuse to be eaten by me. Fuck you, Cherry Ripe. And while we’re on the topic, fuck you too, Minties. You’re mints; why the fuck do you contain pig marrow or whatever the hell gelatine is made of these days?

chocolate+cherry+coconut+forbidden=fuck you

… Toned, Scarless Arms

Yes, yes, we all know I love my scars. I’m hardcore- woohoo! But having been a little bit scarred for almost a decade, and fairly scarred for almost a year, I must admit that anonymous skin is alluring. Last summer, it hit me: is he checking me out, or is he checking out my scars? I want to know that people stare at me because I’m hot, not because my skin blushes and ripples. (Maybe I should also be wanting a more manageable ego.)
Most of my scars don’t bother me, but for some reason, the ones on the underside of my arms really do. I just want to be able to wear a tank-top. Ah, first-world problems. Since I’m wishing for stuff, yeah, I want them to be super toned too. It’s the only part of my body that won’t tone naturally. Damn you, arms. You’re failing me.

… World  Peace

I REALLY DO! Why can’t people just like each other? I don’t understand. And if they can’t do that, why can’t they be indifferent towards each other. And if they can’t do that, why can’t they dislike each other without hurting each other. And if they can’t do that, why can’t they not kill each other. I mean, really, people, how hard is it? No judgement according to race, gender or religion (unless you’re part of some cult; that’s just weird). I just do not understand how inflicting pain comes so easily to come. Once I cried all the way home because I accidentally killed a bee…

Story-time!

Once upon a time, way back in 2009, I discovered a bee had stung my flip-flop. It must have thought it was being attacked. My heart ached for him. Bees are such valiant little creatures; they sting only when they believe their lives are threatened, and once they sting, they die. How fucking noble is that? So I’m standing in the middle of the pavement, holding my flip-flop at eye level, feeling all emotional when I realised the bugger (no pun intended) was still alive. That meant it was suffering. That meant I had to kill it. Fuck.me.

Yes, that is how much I love animals. Please don’t roll your eyes/ despair. I get plenty of that in real life.

In the end, I couldn’t do it. I flicked him off, got into a taxi and cried all the way home. Why? Because of my selfishness. I couldn’t bring myself to kill him so he suffered. I was selfish.

I have no idea what I was talking about before the bee story.

Right, world peace. Want it.

The End.

… PEOPLE TO LEARN HOW TO FUCKING SPELL

Yes, that deserved capitals.
I would write more about this, but someone has already written the perfect post. Read it here. But first read the rest of my post and then comment , mmmkay?

… To Be Quoted
I want my name on Fuck Yeah, Literary quotes.
I want people to use me and my words during an argument, It’s like Alexia Roux once said…
I want people to hear my quotes and say, yes! yes, that is so true! I couldn’t have said it better myself! SHE’S A GENIUS!

Okay, maybe that last part was a little bit excessive. But you get the gist.

… Hair

DON’T LAUGH.

I want more hair. I’ve always had very fine hair and thus it’s always been the bane of my existence. I don’t want my mane (or lack thereof) to be the bane of my existence. Everyone tells me I’m lucky because I’m tangle-free, because it’s soft, because of many other reasons. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I would love to complain about my hair. I would love to need to blow-dry it, to have wild curls, to feel it swish against my back. I would love not to have to cut it every two months (yes, even my hair is that goddamn sensitive). Often I feel like I’m less of a woman because of it. Hair is hot. Not cool, genes. Not cool at all. That’s why I’m crazy jealous of Brigitte Bardot and Laetitia Casta’s sister and even Lindsay Lohan (yes, really). Seriously, that’s the main (no pun intended) reason I envy them.

No point in lusting after lustrous hair though. That’s just not going to happen.

I would like to apologise to my daughters in advance though. Sorry, kids, you got that from me. Unless you’re one of the adopted ones, in which case, blame your biological crackhead/knocked-up cheerleader/ random Asian peasant parents. Love, Future Mommy.

What the fuck, Marie-Ange?

What do YOU want?