To keep this blog about relationships and travel and the occasional random outburst, I have created another blog full of random daily ramblings on all my other opinions so that my political pieces don’t end up in here.
The Not So Romantic Life of This Backpacker is where you will find most of my neurotic insanities and ramblings. Happy reading!
Last night we celebrated George’s birthday (which is actually today). And because no birthday is complete without the champers, I took it upon myself to pick up a bottle of bubbly to mark the occasion. Now, in the past, I have never been a fan of the fizzy alcoholic beverage but in recent months it’s actually beginning to grow on me. Just a little. George and myself polished off about three quarters of the bottle and his new roomie helped us with the last bit. This is where I can safely say that Darwin should kick my ass harder for my actions.
You see, I didn’t realize until *after* I began drinking that I really hadn’t eaten. Unless you count the two caramel chocolate rice cakes. So to compensate, I decided that the few remaining crackers I had left there would do the trick. Even then, most normal people who have to work at nine the next morning would probably stop drinking and maybe even take their ass to bed. But not me. That would be the smart thing to do.
Instead, George, his roomie, his roomies friend and myself thought it would be best to continue drinking at a pub we go to. Live music, decently priced drinks, you can’t go too wrong there. So we arrive and I have drink one, two, three, a shot at midnight, and I think I might have hit drink four before helping George drink his beer so I could go home to bed.
In my inebriated state, I drifted in and out of sleep whilst hugging the garbage can just in case. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be sick but there is something so comforting about wrapping your arms around a bin, bowl, anything you can puke into really. Before George finally took pity on me by shutting off the TV, turning off the lights and leaving me alone to die, he thanking me for his gifts (I just kick that much ass) and saying nice things. I don’t remember much though. (I felt like I was dying-conversation was not a top priority).
As I was passing in and out, George came in, stole my bucket, held me and began whispering things into my ear. Sadly, I can’t remember much of what he said, nor could I even hear what he said for the most part. The only thing I managed to catch was “You’re an amazing girl”.
It made me smile inside. But I’m not putting stock into anything he says when he’s been drinking. That’s how I ended up here, like I am, in the first place.
The Hammock Chronicles of Lust, Love and Loss.
I think it has a nice ring to it, don’t you?
I’ve decided that this year of travelling has given me tremendous opportunity. So I’m writing it all down, in book format, for myself. Now if it rocks, of course I’ll shop it around. Who doesn’t like making a quick buck?
It will be full of travels, exploration, butterflies (the stomach kind), and all the other crazy things that have gone on the past year. I feel as though my writing in journals and here just aren’t sufficient enough for me. Did I mention it would talk about sex? That crazy sex as described in earlier entries? Just to keep it interesting of course. And when I’m old, married, a grandmother, I can look back on my book I wrote for myself and say ‘Damn! I used to have some pretty kick ass times, in the sack and out of it!’ Cause that’s just the type of girl I am.
Absolutely mind blowing, world changing, earth shattering, bed rocking, wall knocking, screaming, moaning sex.
The reason why I can’t let him go. The reason he can’t let me go.
I was always told sex complicates things…
Apparently I don’t have to bring it up. I went to try and kiss him and he told me to back off a little.
I hate this mixed message bullshit.
