Oh hell, a couple of centuries have passed since I was last here. But since it's the Halloween night and I'm the unarguably the most boring person on the planet, and instead of going out or doing something I have elected on staying in my pyjamas doing mostly nothing but consuming excessive amounts of peanut butter as per normal, I might also produce a little bit of rambling over here.
I have not been up to anything special since I moved to London. However, after four months I've reached the conclusion that working for seven days a week is not an ideal scenario - especially when you only get paid for four days' work, and when that work is spectacularly unmotivating and unchallenging. After careful consideration I now have decided to take one day off every week.
I've experienced so many different levels of tiredness that the whole concept of being tired has lost its meaning to me. Oh, so you're tired? How tired? You feel like crying? Or fainting? Like your limbs are made out of clay? Like your brain is so hazy that it feels like you're still dreaming?
Trust me, there are too many different variations of exhaustion, and I'm regularly discovering new ones.
Regardless of my persevering state of half-asleep, I up and went to a house-warming party last weekend figuring that a sufficient amount of alcohol would kill the social aspect of my anxiety as well as help me ignore the fact that I was exhausted. Against my expectations the night turned out to be a relaxed and entertaining one with some goofy humour and most importantly, a game of Truth or Dare, which I hadn't played since the age of 12. Consequently, the last time I'd kissed a boy had also been 11 years ago, probably in the same game, and of course someone dressed up as a hot dog (the dress code was movie characters and he represented every hot dog in every film ever; needless to mention that I was Black Widow) was dared to kiss the most attractive person in the room and he picked me. Luckily for me, it was only a peck and not a full-on smooch since my attraction to the opposite sex is pretty much zero when it comes to physical contact. Not to say that I wasn't flattered. Sadly though, I didn't get to make out with any of the girls either - probably because our game was on the more tame end of the spectrum.
Speaking of unwanted male attention (with all due respect), I work in a coffee shop and most of our clientele consists of regulars who work and/or live nearby, and most of whom also happen to be guys of different ethnic origins, and who seemingly have no second thoughts of overtly flirting with our all-female staff. And let's face it, I'm a flirt - especially with men because it doesn't mean anything to me and they could be dogs for all I care. So I flirt back. And then, very recently one of our regular customers asked me out. To which I just thought something like, holy mother of all I really want to work somewhere else and this is only the tip of the iceberg. So far, this particular guy has been nice about my immediate rejection but we'll see whether I'll have to draw the lesbian card or invent myself a girlfriend at some point to get rid of him. I just find it puzzling that you would ask out someone you know absolutely nothing about and with whom you only ever interact over the coffee shop counter a couple of times a week. And honestly, stuff like this makes me frustrated at my job even more than I already am because I'm reminded how absolutely brainless and dull the work is, and how much more I'd have to give somewhere else. Somewhere that people who want to get to know me, are actually interested in something beyond my appearance. I'm not particularly dazzling by any means and hence I'm definitely not used to getting compliments on my looks. I'd be a hypocrite if I claimed that I detest being told that I'm pretty, but I'd still much rather be noticed for my mind, my ideas and stuff that I do than what I look like.
I'm not used to being objectified, and now I fully understand what some much more attractive friends of mine have been complaining about for years and years.
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