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Trying to move on…

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Tonight I have a hangover.  Not alcohol-related, but just as annoying, just as ‘poor me’ inducing and just as difficult to shake off. But my hangover is my bastard ex.

The sad thing is, I never really knew him. And so anything he does now is no surprise, because I have absolutely no idea what he is capable. Just as Beatrix Kitto had no idea Bill would shoot her pregnant self in the head (Tarantino’s Kill Bill Vol 1 and 2), I had no idea the man I loved would abandon me at my lowest. But hey that’s the great thing about hindsight.

The British way is strong and silent, secrets hidden in the stiff upper lip. Yet I’m not totally British, and nor am I a fan of bad secrets. So I figure I might as well be open and honest about my pathetic and pitiful love life, because what else can I do other than channel my experiences into something that can either make women laugh, or avoid the mistakes I make, or use it as advice?
The only way is forward. Onwards and upwards.

The realisation that slammed into my brain tonight is, I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to catalogue shop and date and chat boring shit. I want it all – and this is not the way to find it.

I don’t see a long-term monogamous relationship being part of my future. And I’m cool with that. It means I can have the life I choose. Only I can stop myself feeling lonely, and only I can fill my life and time with things that make me happy.  Sure it would be great to be a happily coupled up woman, but then when I look around me, I see the sacrifices so many women have had to make for their men.  And I’m done being Little Miss Compromise.

But f*€k – all this realisation and self-analysis ain’t half painful. Unfortunately sex and hardcore drinking are no longer options for escapism – I’m too old for that. Chocolate pretzels it is then.



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