Top ten

of 2012 1. Swimming in sweet lake with toothless Johnny 2. Finding out about my new job in Cambridge 3. Performing How to Catch a Dog in a Bucket with Joe K. 4. Performing Lola and Stephen with Owen G. at the Hayward 5. Keeping in touch with Andriana, Haris, Owen etc. 6. Performing Pussy Pocket in the lesbian dinner party and having dinner with Amalia 7. Seeing my mother recovering after a long time 8. Moving to Cambridge (with Owen) 9. Visiting my sister in Berlin 10.Meeting G. 11.Being a respondent in PM (G. was there) 12. Falling in love with G.

I squeeze squeeze squeeze your hand as if to say: I am here, I want you and I will stay. And I hope you feel the same. But my hand is cold and my skin is breaking apart. I miss you and I have no words to say this. Just rubbing my broken skin on yours and trying not to look at my watch.

I feel I am doing everything wrong. I woke up too late, I did not call my mum, I waited till my coffee was ready to open your letter. I did not wash my hair, I made a bun instead and I am spending this precious time thinking of all of this. Stop thinking, stop thinking, you stupid bitch, and get back to work.

It is very cold today and I don't have any ear muffs. I wonder what you are doing, with your slender figure against the wind. I had nightmares again last night, about you having an allergic reaction to my duvet. I did wash it, I did wash it a while ago, but I will wash it again. I promise.

I know you don't want a bike. I know you don't want a fucking bike. You just want me not to make love to the train driver. But I won't. I won't make love to the train driver or the bus driver or the captain. I will sit still in the middle of this cold nothingness and wait for you to come back home.

Am I the fucking fat girlfriend who spills her wine all over the place? Am I the fat fucking girlfriend with the woollen skirt who does not break the glass, but manages to spill her wine over? Tell me know.

I so fucking desperately need to make new friends in case you leave me. And I am pushing away all the people that come near me. Like Katrina. Why did I push Katrina away. She had a lovely accent, and two big sunglasses and ear protection. Why did I push her away. What a bitch I am.

What a fuck up

I fucked it up ; there was a loud knock on the door and I got extremely scared. Someone put his hand through the letter box and I shouted. Oh. It is my landlord. With a strange looking woman. And before I have time to think, I say: who is this weird woman? I actually said, in front of her: who is this weird woman? I mean, I think being weird is a compliment. But, people can be different. Then I was panicking and my heart was beating. What a fuck up. (And you are far and silent and I cannot reach you).

I am feeling a bit sick in my stomach today. Wondering whether it is the egg and garlic rise I microwaved or just that I am missing you. You are not that far away, and I am in this little room with two sky windows. I really like them, but sometimes there is too much light on my screen. I am burping and burping the garlic and hoping that you won't smell that through the screen, in these words, on a lonely Sunday afternoon.

I got a door stopper and a bath mat for you. I know you needed them and somehow I know that now you love me more. Especially about the door stopper. Because you are of course someone who appreciates that kind of thing and does not like closed doors. Or hidden things or dark secrets. So, I will make sure I keep my door open for as long as I can, but please do not be late, because I am cold.

I came into your office and you turned my heart into a valley of roses. You told me about your colleague who died and his wife who cleaned the space and all the dark dark thoughts she might have been having at the time.

I am eating curry and I cannot stop thinking of the little poo that got stuck in between my buttocks. Is this very appetising. There are chick peas into my curry. A little tiny poo was hanging from my buttocks, as if from an imaginary thread. What was I supposed to do? I shook my butt from side to side, felt it hitting against my buttock walls but not falling. I shook again and again and finally decided to remove it with my index and middle finger. The imaginary thread came out with it. I washed my hands and had my curry.

Very horny this morning thinking of you cleaning the mould. When I left you last night, the double doors of my building sang Only You to me. Is that a sign? Is that a sign of love? Do my double doors love me to death and very desperately, or do they take the piss out of me falling in love? I want to clean your house. I want to clean your house. I want to hung the curtains, mop your floor, tidy your drawers and books and towels. Tidy your towels, give them a good wash and hope for the best.

Took my homeopathic remedy, sucked really hard on it and feeling better today. I also held hands, shared affection and broke plates. I feel an instant attraction towards people in pain. The more the pain, the stronger the attraction. If someone's finger gets caught in between double doors or under the piano lid, I am attracted to them. If they fall in a paddle of water and break their wrist or shoulder, I am very attracted to them. If they are in any kind of physical pain, caused by a long-term condition or just accident, I melt for them. But most of all, it is emotional pain I am interested in. Breaking up with a long-term partner, losing one's job, losing a loved one. I die of burning desire thinking of all these hits of faith; and deep down I want to love all of these people deep and hard, because I think my love has a healing quality.

Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me, or I will shoot myself. Please, shoot me. Don't you see? Don't you see someone needs to shoot me? I am DELUDED. I am so fucking deluded. Don't you see? I decided to be a bitch, a real bitch, and not so long ago. I decided to be a real, truthful, trustworthy BITCH. And look where I've ended up. Look how silly I am. I am here again. In the beginning. Exactly where I started years ago. And I've learnt nothing.

I can never tell which is worse. To be loved fully and completely and to be utterly terrified of losing that love, or never ever experiencing it in the first place. I struggle with this; if you text me, then I will text you and then wait for your text. And if you text me back I do not want you to wait for my text, but if you do not text me in response, then I will wait for your text. If you do text me again, because you are nice, then I will contemplate not texting you, so that I do not suffer from waiting. But I do not want you to suffer either, so I end up texting and waiting and suffering from waiting for your text.

Once in a while I wake up feeling shitty. Really really shitty. Today is one of those days, like Dan would say. Not Dan Shelton, the other one. I feel so empty and fucking lost and I forgot to take my homeopathic remedy and my friend is abroad. I will never love and be loved, cause I have a fucking hole instead of a heart, which is dripping. It can remember nothing, nor the love, nor the kisses. Maybe I should eat something. Maybe that would help. And some coffee. One day I love this place, the next I hate it. What the fuck is wrong with me? Now, tell me, Dan Shelton, or the other one.

I am dripping in my pants. You are hot and I want you now. Your tie always does the trick. If you come, on a Friday evening, I will wear high hills and will smell of nutmeg and vanilla. I will ask my students to do some kind of task, so that I can think of you. You will be lost in the maze of this place, but will eventually find it. You have a compass in your heart. It will be dusk, the right kind of dusk and you will smile and turn the other way, perhaps a contour of shyness. I know, that is not the right word, you always find the right words, but it's ok. I am not shy, or jealous, or competitive. In your ruins I find shelter (that is also stolen). But it made me think of you. So, make up your mind and come and see me. And I will dump my students and writing and come and meet you in the threshold of my loneliness (blah).

You are back. With your glasses instead of hair. You put your big ass on the small blue chair and you pout or smile slightly. What are you thinking I am thinking. Oh god. You start humming. You start HUMMING. Emmmmmmmmmmm. To the cheesy music of this cafe, which is actually far less disturbing than I imagined it to be. Just don't talk to me. Please do not address. me. You hold now your lips together, as if you have heard me. Please don't talk to me, just keep humming. Emmmmmmmmmm. I know what you've done. You have taken your coffee and moved downstairs. Where it is very dark and very warm. I think you expect me to follow you. You expect me to follow you, sit next to you and keep typing, while you slip your hand in between my thighs while sucking your thumb at the same time. Now I cannot even go to the toilet; that was the whole point, to have an americano and go to the toilet. You bitch.

You have no hair whatsoever just a few blonde hair sticking up on top of your eyebrows; and you wear sunglasses instead of hair. What a fucking weirdo you are, looking at me so intensely from such a close distance. This is a public space after all. And I already have someone I love.

I am holding my breath. One two three. Seriously. I am holding my breath while typing. I am holding my breath to see how long it will take you to reach me. I am trying to reach you. I am trying to reach you. I am holding my breath. I make drafts of unnecessary chapters and trying to reach you. An old man with a blazer passes next to me, he smells of moth bolls. Doesn't he know these things are toxic. I am trying to reach you. He just needs the toilet. He says it out loud. I just need the toilet. Now I do too. Cause I am trying to reach you. And I can't stand moth balls. You know. I could do many things, but I am still holding my breath.

So you broke up over sauce hollandaise and raspberries. These things can be important. Sometimes I do not have time for any of it and others I keep thinking. I am in a foul mood and you read your newspaper next to the window.

I have to try to get out of bed as soon as I can and go and have a dump. How disgusting and how dare you talk like that. I will wash my hair, perhaps, and pretend I am ten kilos less and have a kiwi for lunch. My garden is a sunny one with two red chairs. You have never seen it and you might never do. But if you come one day, I will make something special. Venison or something.

Now this might be a long one. Because I have lots to say and nothing at all. Because you say I should remain the same and then you don't like your dinger in my ass your tits next to mine. You don't want to walk all the way to the train, or make an omelette without help. You sit on your carpet and tell me how we are incompatible. And then you tell me keep loving it. I will keep loving it now from a distance and I will eat sweet and savoury and listen to the radio and think of you.

I dreamt that you were fucking me and I was throwing up milk on your expensive sheets like a six months old baby. Then you took me to bed and I was trying to cover the mess.

Don't you see? I want you to jump ahead. I want you to think of staying over at mine, waking up in the morning and drinking coffee, making hand made cous cous with coconut oil and nuts. But if you jump, please take care of your dodgy ankle. I don't want you to hurt or anything like that.

You dress smart, come down the stairs, empty the rubbish bin and eat your croissant with knife and fork. Seriously? Knife and fork? Which sane person would eat a croissant with knife and form? I am just asking.

I dreamt that you told me to turn around and take my underwear off; there was a man next to me doing the same. So I did. We were both on our fronts with no underwear on, his ass was hairy. And then I realised that you wanted to lick both of our asses at the same time and stick your finger in them. And so I protested: But that is not hygienic! How are you going to do that, first the one then the other, all the germs will transfer from one ass to the other. And then Jack, from BBC, who was masturbating nearby, said: Oh, I know! I have the solution. And produced from his pocket a little plastic blue brush with black bristles, usually used to clean the keys from old type writers.

I see you from my window. You are in your garden. You are smoking and spitting. Smoking and spitting. Taking the smoke in, exhaling from your nostrils and then spitting. Why the hell are you smoking and spitting.

I am over the moon. You are coming to see me. I will place the dog bone I kept for you in a brown paper, fold it over and keep it under my pillow tonight. I will give it to you when the time comes. I will try not to show my enthusiasm out of fear you might run away. Please, do not run away, just bark softly and eat your bone.

I wake up my mouth is dry my tummy is dry my pupu is dry and there is a tropical storm outside my window.

I am walking towards the grass and the swings and you follow me. I hold a dog bone in my hand. I show you the way and call your name. Something something the swings and the grass, something something, your name.

I am helpless tonight. Under my dotted duvet I wait for nothing. I am looking for nothing. Only for someone idiotic enough to want to skype with me about nothing.

This has become a habit of mine. To love you and love you and hurt. My tummy hurts again tonight. And I know it is not the urinary infection. It is because you write to me and then you stop writing. And I do not know whether I should wait and wait, call or just call. I moved house today. I lifted fifty three big packages and a small one. I carried your toothbrush in my purse, next to the lorry driver. I did not want it to get dusty from the mattress. The lorry driver, who has the name of a Shakespearean hero, listened carefully to my five year plan and the list of potential grooms I have made in my mind. I laughed, made some pleasantries and waited for the ride to finish. But you had still not written to me and my tummy aches.

What do you want? Tell me, what the hell do you want? One week thrush, the next urinary tract infection. What is it precisely that you want and why don't you leave me alone. I have other things to do, you know, I have my postgraduate degree to write, my article to finish, also to figure out how not to piss my feet. It is quite late now, please leave me along.

I think I will throw up. The longer it takes for you to answer, the more I want to throw up. What have I eaten today? Chicken cooked with cumin and white wine, bulgur and green leaves. So my vomit is bound to be green and white. I have also drunk some cranberry juice for the urinary infection. I am in the library, so I will probably throw up all over the computer and the books I have borrowed. Then someone will come to help me, I will feel embarrassed, I will try to clean the mess. People will look at me and politely smile. I think I will throw up all over the place.

My tummy hurts and I am all alone in this terrible city. Thank god I am getting out of here. Thank god I will not have to spend all my mornings and afternoons with my tummy hurting not being able to make tea or fruit juice or pasta. I have been here for almost a year. Every time I set foot on this place my tummy aches. Ache ache my tummy. I only eat brioche and almonds in this house. I cannot stand big buys. Because big buys mean long periods of time. And I am hoping of course to go very soon. The big white stone in my heart grows every day. And I have tried to love this city and make it mine. But I leave with no guilt and no pain. I hate this place.

So you have everything in order one and two and three and two I wake up in the middle of the night and I think of you I am sweaty and hungry and I want to lie on your sofa and read newspapers and fart all day long. I wake up and stand next to my bed and think of your radio; the blue and the red; they are kinda the same but they are not. What are the called, they have a name. I wait and wait and sweat again and again and drink cranberry juice and visit friends and think of my vagina and you lying on my sofa. And how my sofa is so dirty that you will never come back to visit. And I can see, clearly now, all the stains in my apartment; the toothpaste stains, and all the hairs stuck on the inside of my bathtub. And I know now for sure that that is the end of our relationship.

last night I dreamt of you. My belly was naturally a killer and we were stealing post it from your work. Then we took the elevator to visit the countryside. We went through all the trees and landscapes. We were the two of us. Two sissies together. And you decided you wanted to keep the purple post it, you didn't care about the green, and we rowed and rowed and loved each other's breaths and blinkings.

Now I am going away. I am leaving the small shitty town I never loved or cared about. I am moving away with such joy. I will pack, again, all my little things and hope you will come and find me in Walthamstow. Did you hear the good news? I am fucking off from this shitty place, from this big whole of poodle, from the worst of the worst of places. I am fucking off and never coming back. Because I love people and places, because I want to wake up brave to face this shitty world, because I want to have someone who will appreciate my red satin kimono. Because there is no way it will take me so long to wear my kimono again. I hand it behind the door for a time of emergency. I I wake up in the night and I want to pee. Or if there is a fire in the building and I want to escape. And sometimes, you wear it too. Did you hear the good news? I am fucking off, you big piece of shit, you nasty little number. Bye bye.

Blue

Now I know. Now I know for sure. My mother is reading my blog, every morning before going to work. Does this change things? Can I still say fuck off and you big piece of shit and hold your prick, baby, until I come back home and wrap it in sugar and eat it? Can I still say how much I love you, although you are never there, how much I think of you in Liverpool? Once or twice, I know now, you think of me. You know that I have never spilled my drink, I have never shat on the brink of the wall. But I do not have blue hair or small lips. I have brown hair. Is that the prerequisite? Is that the prerequisite for your love. My blue hair for you darling.

some filthy folk

I have only found a title for this one. Nothing else comes to mind. Only the fact that my window is not high enough for me to jump.

yeah. Walthamstow

you are so far and I've been waiting. I hate the train, I can't stand the bus, I'd rather walk and come and find you in Walthamstow.

been waiting

I have been waiting for so long. For a change. Now I am not only the girl with the bad hair, I am also the girl who is left behind. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do the sprint. And there were so many others, older than me, that could do it.