I cut this, because it's mothering long.
I bought a shedload of clothes today. I've never been on a shopping binge before, really. Generally, n my way to the bookshop, I suddenly think 'Oh, I need some new runners/jeans/a jacket' and pick the first one I lay hands on. But today, my mother bunged me a bunch of cash and said, 'Would you go buy a few tops and things for yourself, you have nothing to wear when you go out. And NO BOOKS!' (She must be the only mother in the multiverse who has to say that.)
So I got four tops and two skirts, which are indecent, I swear to gods. Matching g-strings, too! (Hey, if snarkophagus can post about his underwear, so can I...) After eighteen years, I'm finally embracing my inner slut. And, once I have a couple of buckets of fake-tan and/or vodka, I'm sure I'll even wear them. In addition, everything I bought seems to be pink; even the denim skirt, I'm sure, will eventually take on pinkish qualities, possibly through osmosis. Oh, and I bought a book too...of course - 'The Reptile Room'.
All this while I was meant to be looking round galleries with the twats from my college, aka Neville, Shane and the Freakazoid Extraordinaire (Andrew). I truly couldn't have taken Neville and Shane's candoodling - they got off in Paddy the Farmer's last week, but Shane doesn't actually fancy her. The hell? And of course, Andrew has some morbid fascination with yours truly. I say 'morbid', because I will end up killing him if he doesn't stop trying to chat me up and pull me with the whole 'I'm quiet and shy and sweet and wholesome' shite. I DO NOT go for shrinking violets. I mean, Tony (who got suspended for starting a striptease at the school fashion show) was the...er...well, let's just say he was the only boy I ever had eyes for (particularly at that moment in time...). To wit: Andrew=Verence, Tony=Greebo - and me? Nanny Ogg...
Speaking of the Prat of the Century, he's another reason why I didn't want to do the Dublin gallery thing with them - I didn't want to ruin the old memories. The last time I went to visit them was November of fifth year...Tony got us chucked out of the National Gallery for sliding across the floor...he wore Sarah's bakerboy cap ALL DAY, making him look like a cross between a rent boy and a Dickens urchin (really, the only adjective that fits Tony is 'dissipated')...Anita crying on his shoulder because of the po' penguins (don't ask)...Tony demanding to tango through at least two shops...and I fell for him. I can actually trace it back to that exact day, although I didn't admit it for at least a year. I didn't WANT to like him.
He's been on my mind a lot lately - mainly due to the desperate paucity of crushable boys in my life right now. Plus, he's always had this niggling effect on me...
Sharon and Mary were lecturing me the other day, because I said - on being questioned, and because I'm always honest (even if I don't always tell the truth) - things like: the only point I could see in having a relationship was for sex, and that I'd choose money over happiness. They said (in the nicest possible way) that I was due a right kick up the arse, which is no doubt approaching me as we speak. (I'm quite aware that I deserve a good bollocking, by the way.)
Sharon is extremely down-to-earth, and is in a settled, sensible, mature relationship which is at the same time all loving and stuff. She's also romantic without being silly with it - quite the achievement. One of her 'things' is that you know you're in love when you'd give up and do anything for the person, just to make them happy. (My question is whether anyone'd be worth it.) Okay, so, yeah, I've felt that (not that I told her, mind)...for one weekend, then I stopped because it was awfully draining, and, yes, pointless!
Then Mary asked me why I'd liked (like) Tony, as opposed to 'not Andrew', or anyone in general. I'm picky - sue me. This is what I told her: he was original, unpredictable, crazy, cruel as hell and most importantly, he never said or did one boring thing. I guess I have a phobia about being bored.
That's the first time I've categorised it outside my own head. And...I suppose, I miss him. Which is stupid, because after he got all 'popular', he had about ten gazillion girlfriends (whom he treated like dirt and got away with it), and he despised me in any case. He certainly isn't missing me, is what I'm trying to say. It's not a heartachey kind of missing...more like, damn, everything was left so unfinished. I never got to bitch-slap him, or tell him what an utter arse he is, or...er, do anything else I really, really wanted to do.
Of course, that's life, isn't it? It's not cut and dried, like in a film or a book. You drift on, and regret things - not things that should have been better, or different - but things that should have been more cut and dried.
...Because I might've actually loved him, and now I'll never know.