back up blog

Nothing highlights the best and worst parts of your life to yourself like letting somebody into your home and living your life with you for a week.  Also: nothing highlights the best and worst parts of your life to yourself like letting somebody into your home and living your life with you for like, you know, EVER, but I'm just not that kind of girl. Compromise isn't in my vocabulary because I'm not emotionally mature enough to develop my empathy for others yet. This is the bit where I'm supposed to say sorry. ..... yup. My friend Stephanie arrived this weekend for an intensive writing work-shopping session because UH-HUH. My Heart Beats Only For You (And a Few Dozen Other People) is ready. As I typed that Mama probably died a little inside. I once mentioned that the book is like the blog, only with the rude bits left in. She was all, WHAT OTHER RUDE BITS ARE THERE LEFT TO SAY? and I was all offended because I always thought I was really quite reserved on here, until I

Just before Christmas I Skyped Mama, crying. "What's wrong?" she'd asked me, and I'd replied, "I'm so happy that I'm sad. It's like I've come full-circle or something." Mama said that was a bit weird and maybe I'd want to think about pulling myself together. At the time I thought she was right and so went to buy limone gelato as part of my five-a-day. Related: I spent Sunday walking aimlessly around my apartment in an equal state of tears and laughing hysterically, whilst streaming jazz off of the BBC website to try and lift my spirits. Which is a stupid turn of phrase but also a whole other point and I don't have time to get into that right now, Internet. I want to talk about my feelings. Add it to the list: stupid phrases that don't mean things but we like to say them because it reminds us of our mums. I was like, legit having a bit of a breakdown. Or epiphany. Or crashing demise before brilliance. Or sugar withdrawal becaus

Internet, before I even begin this post I just need to get something off of my chest, and that something is that I write this from Mum and Dad's- for reasons I shall explain in a minute (PATIENCE!)- and all I wanted was a tiny little bit of dark-outside, warm-in-my-heat writing time before everybody got up this morning but GODDAMN IT the second anybody hears you MOVE in The Forge it's all, "Put the kettle on", and "Let the dog out", and "Some hot buttered toast would be lovely" and, "Do you want to talk about your anger towards the world this morning, Laura?". I feel like I've already put in a full shift and it's not even 8 a.m. And now I can't even really concentrate because hell, I really want some hot buttered toast. Yesterday I flew in from Rome because tomorrow I am finally, seven months (and many years tardy) after completing my university degree , having my graduation ceremony. Never let it be said that the University

I think that the thing is, about plans and epiphanies and shit, that when you put stuff out there into the Universe- stuff like, OHMYGOD 2012 IS ALL ABOUT POTENTIAL and I'M GONNA BE SO GOOD THIS YEAR and WOW I TOTALLY WENT ON TWO WHOLE RUNS THIS WEEK- the Universe is a right motherfucker of a bitch and tests you. Friday night is my case in point. I wasn't in the best mental place when I finally rocked home from work 9pm Friday night. In fact, the message to my friend who had invited me out (urm, actually, her invitation was more along the lines of 'You know that gig I was supposed to be singing at? Well I'm not singing anymore. But you are still coming to watch the band, aren't you. Don't argue. It wasn't a question. Good girl. Thanks for being an awesome friend.) was VERBATIM this: I FORGOT THE MAP AT WORK BECAUSE I HAD THE SHITTEST LESSON EVER WITH A GUY WHO NOW WON'T MARRY ME. I HAVE LOST MY PHONE. I HAVE BEEN ASKED TO WORK TOMORROW. ALL THE BAD THI

Last night the universe conspired in the most helpful way to help me with this whole "Potential" thing. Hold on. I shouldn't say "Potential" in inverted commas like that, as if I am patronising myself and the whole sentiment of the word. It's like when somebody says "allegedly" or puts air quotes around words they say out loud. "Yes, he *finger wiggle in the air* ' fixed ' the problem with crabs. But I'm still itching, so we'll see about that." For example. Possibly. I don't have crabs. I mean, not anymore. HA! You know that I'm kidding when I say that though, right? Like, as if if I even had an STD I'd joke about it on the Internet. I wouldn't. It's a double bluff. You get that, don't you? Seriously Internet, I just- MOVE ON LAURA. MOVEONMOVEONMOVEONMOVEON. Sorry. My point is, I don't mean "potential", I mean Potential. No inverted commas. No alleged-ity. No air quotes. Potential. J

The thing about being an expat is that suddenly you are bound to people by extraordinarily bizarre things. Things like the discovery of a store that sells Ribena, or proper Dr Pepper, or Pop Tarts, or chocolate-covered pretzels when it's been four months since you last had a taste and OHMYGOD YOU FOUND BETTY CROCKER FROSTING ? Sometimes it's the passing on of pop-culture references; introducing everyone you work with to your favourite comedy series  so that suddenly the only way to communicate is via catchphrases. Or passing lunch break after lunch break trying to establish why the Americans omit vowels from everything as if they are some kind of Eastern European language tyrant, and let's just settle this now: is it a felt-tip, a marker, or a texter? My favourite is when unexpectedly a conversation with a fellow countryman will hit a note so clear and true you could cry e.g. that somebody just referred to playing with their cat 'on the rug'. ON THE RUG? I squealed

2012 comes with a keyword for me, because everyone says that if you want to achieve things you need goals, and those goals need to be framed by a comprehensive and generally encompassing theme- a sort of bow on the gift of life if you will- and the easiest way to give a theme to your life is with a single word, a mantra, a good luck charm. For 2012 my word is Potential. And possibly, punctuation . I don't mean Potential as in blowing more boys, drinking more Peroni, or consuming more cigarettes, because to be quite frank with you Internet I think I do quite well in my potential as a twentysomething slut. I mean Potential to do stuff. Big stuff. Awesome stuff. The stuff that changes lives. Maybe not your life, but mine. I'm like, waaaaaay self-obsessed that way. Oh, your car is on fire and your collection of invaluable WWII memorabilia, Lady Gaga's stage costumes, and the last can of Dr Pepper in Rome is in there? And only I can help? Sure. No problem. But first, how's m

Firstly, let's address just how Christmas Miracle-y it is that I am writing this post from somewhere other than my parent's sofa. Seriously? The only time I got up from that woven-fabric-ed, overly-stuffed, ARE YOU KIDDING ME I HAVE TO SLEEP HERE TOO BECAUSE YOU MOVED HOUSE AND NOW I DON'T HAVE A BEDROOM MUMANDDAD! couch over Christmas was on New Year's Day when my aunt stormed through the front-door with half of her hand missing and an incredible amount of blood. She was whimpering like a scolded child, and it turned out that in renovating her property next door she'd like, totally lost a limb. That isn't when I got off the couch. I got off the coach when Mama grabbed the car keys to head off to hospital with her, put on her fancy winter coat and then was all, "Laura. Go upstairs and find me the grey scarf I wear with this. Now. If you look behind the door in the office, right beside where we keep the thing..." by which time her sister had legit bled