Um. BYE.

On Quitting London

 

If you didn’t know, London is the only existing european megacity, and if you don’t know what that is, it’s by definition every urban sprawl that exceeds the 10 million headcount in its metropolitan area. My city, London, has 13 million inhabitants and I have been one of them for a little over a year and a half now. We had our ups and downs, this city and I, when we weren’t at each others throats we were best friends, but I never came even close to adoring it as much as I did when I first came here at the age of 15, and thought that I will never love a city as much as I loved London. Here’s a fun fact for those of you who never migrated to a foreign country: the grass is greener only as long as it’s on the other side and upon getting closer to the lawn, you tend to find out it’s brown because it was over-exposed to the sun and there’s dog poop everywhere.

K9 feces or not, I never really considered quitting London. Even when I fell of my MTV high horse to working behind a bar in a smelly little pub, I didn’t think about quitting. Even when I kind of dated a guy who then informed me he’s not on the market but in fact living with his girlfriend for 2 years, it didn’t cross my mind. Even when it happened again, I grinned and bared it. When I ate porridge for a month because I couldn’t afford real food and when I walked to work because I couldn’t afford the tube, I told myself this will make a fantastic chapter in my autobiography (and it will!), but the thought of packing up my things and leaving was never even an option. Quitting anything in life is bad form, and although I am prone to giving up on hobbies, people and diets, I didn’t want to give up on London. Not yet, I told myself, not just yet, and commanded the whiney Lucy to do like Mariah and shake it off and keep on dancing. Because after every lost job opportunity and cheating man and every day that is just utter shit start to finish, London gives you something to cheer you up and usually that something cheers you up good.

The sinusoid of emotions here is equivalent to a bipolar disorder, at the very least. If you are not on top of the world, you are in the gutter, if your heart is not bursting with joy, you are very likely on the verge of tears and if you are not at peace, you are probably not sleeping very well, or possibly, at all. There is no in-between, there are no calm waters, it’s either “I’m so happy I could die!” or “I’m so depressed I’m gonna go and fucking throw myself of the Shard right now.” You get no middle ground, nobody does. London is like the boyfriend who you love until he beats you up and brakes your jaw. While you’re on the floor and taking punches, you tell yourself you hate him and you’re leaving the second you will be able to peel yourself of the pavement, but then just as you are out of the door, he does something that stops you cold and holds you back. Somehow you can’t leave anymore, because you love him after all.

So yeah, it’s still kind of weird that I’m considering getting out of this very abusive relationship, as things are going somewhat ok, but still not as good as I hoped or planned on them going by now. But here I am, possibly looking at a new start, somewhere else. True to form, I made a pro & con list in my head. On that list, there are many reasons why London is wrong for me: the list says this monster of a city is dirty and malicious, the weather is all shades of horrible, the people are unfriendly, the public transport system is a nightmare and everybody here gets the pleasure of working like an animal just so we can afford to pay rent. Plus if living here only for a year and a half has left me feeling like a deflated lung, well, maybe it’s time to call it like it is and face the fact I am quite possibly not exactly made for London. Or London isn’t tailored exactly to my fitting. Either/or, we are certainly far away from being a match made in heaven.

In the other column of the list, the pro London pep squad column, it says there is something magical about this place, which is true, because when it’s good, it’s not just good, but it’s the best thing ever. You can also never know when you’ll stumble into a free gig, free beer on the street, or bump in to your next crush. There’s always the city beat, the rush of the London street. Here, everybody moves and shakes all the time, and I move and shake with them. I like moving, it keeps me fit and I like shaking because it’s fun to do (Wadap, Mariah?). I have to give credit where credit is due, and for that reason it’s only fair to admit I had the best days of my life in this city, met some truly fantastic people, kissed the sweetest lips and did the craziest things.

Color me confused right now if you will, but I gather that as in case of any dysfunctional relationship, at some point you have to man up and ask yourself, when does courage turn into stupidity and come to terms with the possibility you might never end up forcing the square peg through the round hole, no matter how much you huff and puff.

And then I think, it’s OK if you quit. You gave it a shot.

I Wrote This For You

 

I kissed you even though I saw you were sick. Even though I knew you were going to make me sick.

That day still remains the worst I ever felt. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was somewhere else and it was bright.

I miss you and I hope things will always be good. I am so unimpressed with all the men I meet: they are not very nice people, you know, not a single one of them. They are not like you, they don’t care for me, or they care for me because of silly reasons like the sent and feel of my hair. There’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but it usually gets very boring sometime around the third dinner date.

We didn’t even need food to keep each other entertained. We didn’t need much of anything really.

With a little luck, I might even see you sometime soon.

Otherwise I will keep on seeing you whenever I close my eyes. You are a secret I refuse to give up.

I Get Tired

 

Sometimes things are easier than they should be and sometimes, you know, they’re not. Life really is beautiful, isn’t it? It is. Sometimes. Apart from those days when it would be really nice to be somebody else. Or stay in bed for hours and hours and not move or think or type or speak, just sleep.

No, but it really is.

Beautiful, I mean.

Life, that is. It really is.

Sometimes it really is. It could always be better though.

If I had a little more money. If I was skinnier. Had my own flat. A nice and caring boyfriend. A job that would make me a little more fullfiled. A dog would be nice too. Or you know, more time to sleep.

If I could do it all over again, I think I really would go to med school.

 

Relatively Unforgettable

I felt it all in that one tiny second. If I could stay in that room forever, I would, but at the same time I was always prepared for the day I wouldn’t be coming back.

He tried to keep me close but not too close, I kept counting the days, the phone-calls, the hook -ups and then fucked him just because I could.

Then I kept meeting people.

Friendly chats, late night walks, stolen kisses in the brief moments we were left alone, morning headaches that made me want to die. He could kiss the pain away, but didn’t really know what to do with me. It annoyed him so badly.  It was cute. Like his nose.

But I hated the thought of anyone getting to know me better and I didn’t sleep a wink on that last night. The bed, his arms around me, the music in the background, the sounds of the street outside the window: it was all too tangible and I was worried there was no getting away this time. So I had to say goodbye to that room and go.

He knew I would do it.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. I’m not interested.” I said and tried hard not to look away.
“How can you say that?”
“I don’t know. I just can. I just did.”
“You should really stope being scared of me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Uh-huh.”

What a cock. Like he knows how it is to be unexpectedly taken out with the trash after you’ve just made yourself comfortable on the couch. I lost interest for late night whispers and other such sweet nothings a long long time ago.

“See you later then?”
“Sure.

I briefly kissed him and started listening to the sound my footsteps walking away from his house. I missed him already but I knew I wouldn’t be back.

How can you miss somebody you don’t know anyway? You can’t. You can miss the illusion, but that disappears if you get too close and spend an extra night sleeping next to him.

In the cold light of the morning I became real again and the feeling of the night had already slowly started to slip away from me. I took a deep breath to make sure I’m still there and then decided not to go straight home.

After all, it all means so little to me.

Why Does One Minus a Plus One Feel Like it Adds Up to Nothing?

Look I told you all this before.

I kept the photographs.

We got excited and thought we were finally going to find a home.

We were still akward and bored and trying to light a cigarette with a lighter that’s running out of fuel. Taking some pills to make the world pretty again, looking at birds. But you don’t feel much of anything anymore, you go to the movies alone every once in a while.

For all the people you fucked, you just want to lay down in bed with someone who has known you for years.