warmlove's Diaryland Diary

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Get-up Stand-up

#you're all/ I need /to get by#

My Stand-up for Stand-up...Day...Lunch at school Tues 19th March...
I am sort-of a kinda of a...deeply unhappy person..ish. I am not bright or sexy or cute, nor flirtatious nor up-beat. I know where the men in this room put me on the desirability pyramid and that's okay. I am not Chloe Proctor or Amy Shepherd. If Chloe is Cheryl Cole that probably makes me Rose West". The Myra Hindley to Amy�s Jennifer Aniston am I.

I don't have the well-conditioned-corkscrew curls or toned body to be that gorgeous, bi-racial, bi-sexual girl' on Hollyoaks. Under all the fucking kimonos and scarfs and jumpsuits you will unearth thighs that look like a set of Vietnamese Siamese twins. You know the kind you�d see on a Channel 5 documentary - '2 Girls, One heart: My twin that killed me.� Not to put myself down. I'm alright. I'm a solid 6 and a half out of 10. And that's okay.

So, how do I tackle my inner unhappiness? Drink. I drink wine, maybe a nice Lambrusco?'Oh, Lambrusco, you heal my pain/ You're everything that I've been hoping for/ pink and bubbly, everything I long to be.
Secondly, ''Making-love'' can help of course. I have been told that the men of Wigan are only attracted to Anglo-Saxon women who have, thanks to San Tropez, the skin-tone of Bangladeshi women. So I can only reminisce of time when I lived in East London, I managed to meet men and enjoyed some cold, anonymous sex. If infamous Victorian murders of east-end prostitutes were unsatisfying sexual encounters then I was The Jack the Ripper of one-night stands. There weren�t that many. I actually looked it up on 'Bing', my favourite search engine, and The Ripper probably only had about 15-20 victims. I suppose I feel a bit surprised when a 8 out of 10 man would want to take me to a basement bar in Hackney for a few drinks and then make sweet, awkward-the condoms too small-love to me. But when that happens I have to use the improvisational skills Andrew Blake endowed me with and say "Yes...and...." Thankyou Andy. Thank. you.

The summer of 2008 was a good one... several 8 out of 10 Irish guys who looked like they had stepped out of Magners adverts were inexplicably pulled in by the gravitational force of Jing-Mai and Jing Sui. One, named Conor, was very sexy, high-status and neurotic..he was in a band that made 'sun-soaked, 60's inspired irish indie pop' and had a few moment of success circa 2005 but had been now dropped by their label. He somehow got the idea that I was a wild, spontaneous Alexa Chung-ish London party-girl. I don't know where he got that idea and inevitably, the real-me, leaked-out and the 'romance' was not to be.

Then, there was a giant, named Aonghus - a 6'7" guy from Dublin, he was an actor, unfortunately, but not a very successful one. I'm good at seducing tall, stubbly men at a point in their lives when they are broken and down on their luck. One day I decided to join him, uninvited, on his 56 night bus home. We get to his Buffallo Bill-esque flat, sadly he had no Lambrusco in, old man Irish music �hey-diddle-dee�-ing in the background. Then he moved slowly towards me and said: "Put the fucking lotion in the basket".. No, no, I jest I jest... he said, smiling, in his sexy Irish accent, but also as if he were a waiter at Pizza Hut: "How would ye feel about a ... tongue on your vagina?" I realised that that was the most sweet, direct if not strangely-worded offer I had EVER received and I said..�Yes, and��And I was finally happy� for about 6 and a half minutes.

12:25 a.m. - 2013-03-20

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