Today, I saw my friend Sammy on the bus. We had a lengthy conversation about the guys that we're both fanging. And the excuses that they've given us to cover their own arses, ergo avoiding the whole bitch-romance agenda that every girl carries around with them like the latest fashionable handbag.
We discussed their various reasons for not growing a pair, or actually putting their minds to something that doesn't necissarily consist of booze, drugs, cigarettes, food, fapping or anything sexual on a daily basis.
We did not really get to the point of the conversation: are these guys genuinely into us?
Of course, Anxiety Girl has been allowed to run rampant the last few weeks. Drugs, Alcohol, Doctors Appointments and Arguements haven't really aided this.
It's hilarious how both of our situations have been equally the same in the events leading to our On-Bus-Relationship-Discussion.
These are the excuses we collaborated:
(in no particular order)
1) "I'm just not ready for a girlfriend."
Definition: He likes you, but fanging without strings is so much easier;
- you're cute, but you're not his "type";
- "...would I even want to put my dick in that?"
2) "Last time I was in a relationship, I got really hurt."
Definition: See Above;
- Tell him to harden the fuck up and ask at what point will his testes decend?
- He thinks fanging is still good, but just can't be fagged with relationship bullshit
(girls in the room scream: all you have to do is let me call you my boyfriend to put my head at ease, introduce me as "girlfriend" to people, and pleasure me when I ask for it . Also, if you fuck up, we have someone to blame...)*cue pulling hair out*
3) I'm going through serious emotional shit right now.
Definition: Too lazy;
- He's having reservations about you;
- See above;
- He genuinely does have serious emotional shit. This however, must be proven to be believed.
4) I'm still hung up on my exgirlfriend...
Definition: Bail, Bail, Bail.
- See above;
- Bail faster;
- WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE, YOU STUPID WHORE?!
5) "I'm just giving you the warning now...
- Do Drugs;
- Do Drink;
- Do Have Lots of Sex;
- Do Want Lots of Sex;
- Do Not want a girlfriend.
These excuses make me want to do drugs and die in my bathtub whilst listening to Melissa Etheridge on repeat.
Which therefore, brings me to the point of this blog: Rehab for the Soul.
In order to banish Anxiety Girl, back to the deepest circle of Hell, I have decided to take myself on a journey of life rerevalutation (yes, two re's) back to where I used to live, Cabbage Tree Creek.
Do not be fooled by its middle-of-bumfuck-nowhere title, its a delightful town that boasts a music studio/gallery and a general store that's heritage listed.
After all, they do say that Home is Where the Heart is.
And my heart is forever in Cabbage Tree, hidden somewhere amongst its rolling hills and towering gumtrees, frolicking with fauna and picking the flora to put in its hair...
When I was first kicked out of home by my Mum at the tender age of Thirteen, I was shipped off to my Dad's, nestled just off the highway in Cabbage Tree.
In the beginning, Cabbage Tree, to me, was Hell frozen over with some trees and grass.
But when you're at a point in your life (yes, at Thirteen, I was already experiencing a midlife crisis) where nothing is beautiful anymore except when you're so boozed-up on Passion-Pop you think everything is beautiful, Cabbage Tree saves you from your impending doom of early alcoholism.
I spent most afternoons, scouring Kangaroo hop-paths on horseback, trying to find Scrub Cattle, lounging around in ever-green paddocks beneath shady trees, feeding our local goanna's, possums, bats and other critters, or down by the creek, paddling about near the sandbar and boulders - and warning my friends about the resident tiger snakes.
Cabbage Tree is one of those places where its so remote, no fucker will bother you. You're forty-five minutes from the nearest supermarket, fifteen minutes from the nearest surf beach, and completely surrounded by the Snowy Mountains.
I met a woman named Wendy, within the first two weeks of moving to Cabbage Tree Creek. At the time, I had - in no incertain terms - disowned my own mother, and was forced to live with a father who left the hosue at 3.30am and returned home around 8.00pm, expecting his dinner cooked and his house spotless.
Wendy and I hit it off straight away: she owned Scotch Collies.
In the beginning, we started going for walks together. With the dogs.
And our friendship blossomed from then on.
It didn't take long for me to realise that Wendy and I were peas-in-a-pod, although we were an odd match. In my opinion, She was, and always has been, a teenager caught in an adults body.
Would I have survived my time with Dad, before Mum and I patched things up, without Wendy and Kev?
Maybe, but I wouldn't have done such a good job at mending myself without them there to turn a bad day into a brilliant one.
So, I'm off to spend two days at Wendy and Kevin's house, basking in the sun, laying about on her back porch and drinking iced coffees all afternoon, walking our usual paths to shed our iced coffees, and doing some mosaics.
Its an odd way to re-revaluate your life, and rehab the soul, but it works for me.
Just being home.