When fantasy is better than reality

I haven’t left my room in two days, been wearing the same outfit since Saturday, and have taken up smoking again. Welcome to 9^th Week at Oxford when everything is due for the term on Friday.

I have so much nervous energy, fuelled by the ciggs and incessant caffeine abuse. The only thing that has been able to get me through this is my upcoming weekend in London—seeing old friends, and hopefully, a former lover--and popping some valium before bed whilst watching episodes of LA Law off of www.alluc.org

There is a part of me that hopes I run into my former lover. It’s the same part of me that knows emotional closure comes from time, and acknowledging that the only way you could be over him is that you aren’t the same person when you first fell in love with him. It’s closure that can only be ascertained through the great accomplishments that end up changing you as a person. I’m a very different person now then when I last saw him. Much more in control, taking less shit from people, much more confident with my sexuality as a woman—just happier with me.

But I think I scarred him from the last time I saw him about two years ago. If only he knew I’ve moved onto better things such as rich older married men, writers, musicians, and Artists—men who captivate me with both their words and actions. Plus, it’s always much more fun seeing someone since when you’ve lost twenty pounds and are on your way to receiving a degree from one of the world’s leading universities.

I’m not that juvenile to want to rub it in his face, the perpetual American talk show topic of “Look at me Now”—it’s tacky, and unwarranted, and doesn’t address the real reason why things never could work out. The things I’ve accomplished in the last few years are symbolic of just how much I’ve changed as a person, and are more for my benefit than his. Think about it, isn’t it pretty fucking great when you don’t see someone in years and they tell you how well your doing?

You know that is the real reason we facebook and myspace old friends from secondary school and university. I’m just saying.

It’s an acknowledgment of how far we’ve come from the awkwardness that characterizes the difficult times in our lives.

So, it’s times like this when I am bored of the work that I’m doing where I retreat into the haven from reality that is my mind. Thinking of schemes, envisioning a fantasy built with aspects of my reality—it’s why it can taste so vivid to me at times, where I end up believing most of my half-wit schemes.

Because writing a 4000 word paper on survey methods addressing such interesting dilemmas like “What to do when a respondent doesn’t answer the door?” or “If I stray from the interview questions, will I lose the integrity of the data collected?” It’s moments like this that make me wonder why I took a year out of my life. But then I think of my old friends/frenemy’s seeing I’m at Oxford on my facebook profile and recall the reason—they don’t realize it’s all smoke and mirrors.

Really metaphorical for other aspects of our own lives, don’t you think?

Men are pussies

The fun of blogging-- an excuse to procrastinate from the real work that should be done.

Just got back from a weekend away where I played the game, “How drunk can I get on someone else’s dime”, where even if you win, the hangover in the morning will remind you just how much you lost—you know, things like brain cells, the will to live, and dignity.

But it reaffirmed for me just what simple creatures men are—hint that you are in the mood for sex, throw in a bit of over-confidence, and you could get anything you want.

As exemplified when I walked up to a guy and told him, “Entertain me.”

He looks at me puzzled.

“Out of all the men in this club, I choose you to entertain me.”

“How should I do that?” He asks

“If you have to ask, then you aren’t worth my time.”

Now, I know it sounds counter-intuitive to be a bitch, but when she is dressed up in a short cocktail dress, stiletto heels, and manicured nails there is something that gets at a guy. Maybe it harkens back to the days when men were expected to be men, and just the mere thought of competition gets the repressed testosterone going—you know, the stuff that has been in hiding since the dawn of feminism and political correctness.

“Entertain me!” I say again. But this time, looking directly into his eyes.

And so he begins to tell me a story.

Like I give a shit about his life as a chav/pike.

“You know, usually men are far more interesting after a girl has a few drinks in her. I can see you never learned proper etiquette when dealing with a girl.”

He buys me a drink. I listen to him talk for about ten minutes, where I was onto my next mark.

Now, I know it sounds juvenile to play, and that is may be a reflection of the fact that I have this habit of basing my self-worth on the interesting (and not-so-interesting-but-very-hot) men that have found their way into my bed, but it’s nights like those that reaffirm the power of my sex. As a woman I am cognizant of the fact that I will never be ‘one of the guys’, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t want to be privy to discussions about music, movies where things blow up, and girlfriend difficulties. So, if I can’t be one of you, I might as well position your perception of me in direct opposition of what it means to be one of you. It’s the newness that makes me seem exotic and different.

And so I exploit.

Free drinks in exchange for a few kisses and a feel up of my breast? When champagne is used as the currency, I really don’t mind.