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Monday, 5 September 2011


My stalker did not materialise. So no closure on that score. He must've hitched a lift to his planet of origin. I am free to loiter on my own corner waiting for my own taxi which I will pay for with my own money.

The weekend was delightful. Lots of rest, punctuated only by midnight panic attacks mostly related to unfiled documents, undumped wannabe faithful boyfriends, tax returns and the return of the crazy, uncommitted (as opposed to non-commital) Hugo. He hovers around wafting of illegal crumpets or pancakes: sweet, syrupy, saccharine poison that fills my everything with absolutely nothing. Not completely convinced of the logic therein, but in my defence, most people get away with being just a little under the sanity radar with books of feel-good therapies that are enriching and lining some pockets and fixing nothing in particular. Red wine, and re-runs of old movies complete the scene. I am now au fait with the soundtracks, scripts and credits of all of them ... Who wants to be a millionaire? I could answer most questions about even the gaffers and the stunt doubles ...

Anyhoo, about Hugo ...
I want him to sign his own commitment sheet, to put on his own back-to-front pyjamas and take his own meds and sit quietly in self-imposed solitary confinement. No resistance. Just an acknowledgement of his unbridled craziness. He cannot be allowed to pretend to be OK, with that sweet smile and those cute words (the easier SMS's he does respond to) and the absent words (all the hard texts that require direct, honest, mature answers which never materialise). He has no airtime / signal? So what are those antennae for? No-one can be such a blue-eyed something of the selective everything gods. He selectively accesses reality and then waxes - all over in fact, but - lyrical about how he needs time to "fix himself up". My God, TIME is not the issue! It's all the other chemical, psychiatric and power-tool resources that we need to call upon. And of all the other roadworthy alter-egos he could chose, he clicks on Victim!!!???  Auto-programmed and dysfunctional, and believes in the way of the criminally uncommitted, that things are fine between us, and that upon fixing of self (other personalities nothwithstanding) things will go back to how they are supposed to be. Now that RED FLARE that so closely matches my pashmina, is my warning sign right there. How are things supposed to be when the foundation is pure unadulterated LIES and we are going to build on it? There's an intensely painful physical picture for me: me, blindfolded in crimson pashmina and whip jumping landmine-style over the cracks.  I'm thinking it's TIME for ME to keep it real for ME. There is always the danger for contracting some of these altered state bugs, and soon I'll be down with a nasty case of the NUTS and ROSES, and believe me, it sounds way better than it is.

This morning however, I was ready to take my power back, telling my alarm clock promptly that I would NOT be beckoned and managed by something so miniscule as to be absent on my bedside table. What with all the novels and the tabbed and colour-coded To Do Lists from the 1990's. The nerve or battery or whatever ...
So I swopped my oats for some marshmallows and winked at the Chardonnay displaying exasperatingly powerful come-hither behaviour as I found the milk carton, and quit playing  peekaboo with my Intray.

And as I started doing something to ease the pain somewhere, the day became lighter. The universe afforded me numerous opportunities to assertively yet lovingly send certain forces to the runway. I will be here when they return, but none of it is automatic or even mandatory. And upon their return, they should be ready and trained to deal with someone a little different.  I can no longer be the ATM, dispensary, shoulder, pillar, wheel-barrow, punching bag or dart-board. I cannot be Every Idiot's Fan Club and rescuer of Post-Traumatic Anything. I have my own stuff, and I can be strong when I've taken care of 'my things' (ironically one of Hugo' favourite references to me!!??) The metallic aftertaste of that irony! And as for the recurrence of unresolved issues, I have a karmic mission to complete. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE ANOTHER HUGO, PIERRE, TREY, PETER, JOHN DOE in another shape or form. Whether he has a butler or can be one, whether he can mix cocktails, sew buttons or harvest healthy crops of  mange tout, he must immediately to another be assigned. I will it so.

I declare the rest of 2011 stress- and stalker-free. By order!

And if signing on the dotted line is misread as earthspeak Morse code for the inter-planetary social network, to each his own. May they find their own (milky) way with strong teeth and all manner of Bones ...

There are many rivers to cross ... and I'm feeling very Cleopatra in a memorable sunset chardonnay on a gondola ... Cheers!

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