Right, well seeing as I could be in the running for the Most Useless Blogger, Like, Ever award I thought I’d just post an update. It’s a little different to my usual updates… although this could be partly because I’m in one of the weirdest moods ever.
I always have fantastic intentions when it comes to this blog. I’m always convinced that I’m going to change the whole world with my blog posts… And then stuff like that little wedding that happened and ten billion movie reviews and that new movie about sparkly vampires comes along. Oh, okay, and mostly lots of rereading old Hyperbole and a Halfs and Hurricane Vanessa’s blog. But mostly work. I promise. And a lot of Facebook. And New Scientist and… well, you get the picture.
But mostly it’s being sad, having no energy and in general just losing my joie de vivre. Break-ups have this horrible way of infiltrating every.single.aspect.of.your.bloody.life until you start feeling like some tragic heroine in a cheap paperback novel. Or at least, that’s how I feel.
[You can duck out now if you’d rather wait for something fun and relevant to the entertainment world. Like my planned piece on the Lady Gaga video which is dropping this Thursday night.]
The Geologist and I hadn’t been dating for very long – only a few months – but we had known each other for years and years. (It all started with a drunken New Year’s Eve party, a pretty wild fling and a good three-and-a-half-years of miscommunication and general stupidity on my part). And so when I finally sorted my shit out and we started dating (and it was more wonderful than I could possibly even have imagined) I was done.
And then, Life happened. And geology honours happened. And everything was fine – that I could see – until it wasn’t. We were happy, silly, giggly, making-out-at-a-restaurant, sneaking-kisses-in-terribly-depressing-movies… All of the cutesy relationship things that generally make me want to hurl in a bucket. And then: *poof*. He was gone. Sucked into the vortex of his studies. [I’ll spare the heart-wrenching conversation and keep the reasons why I’m not angry, but probably should be, to myself. Better luck next time, guys].
And yes, as pathetic as it sounds and as much as I loathe feeling like a weepy teenage girl, that’s where I’m at. I’m at the point where rocks make me sad, Liverpool Football Club makes me sad, House (one of my favourite TV shows of all time) makes me sad, my favourite jersey makes me sad and strawberries make me sad. So with all this sadness and the current spate of massive insomnia, I’m struggling to tap my inner Awesome – and in the interests of damage control, this blog has to suffer a little.
I’m getting better though. I’ve joined a library. I go to crazy-intense vinyasa yoga classes in 38 degree rooms (that’s 100 degrees Fahrenheit for the lazy ones). I actually acknowledge the being sad rather than try to hide it. Progress, I feel.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to burst into tears every time I see a bloody rock.
I would like to close with something cutesy so that you don’t throw yourself off the next bridge you find.
I would like someone to bring me a flower.