Silent Thoughts (Note To Self) (C) 2008 All Rights Reserved.

Flaming bloody typical. Just when you feel like you’ve got a handle on this game somebody jokingly called Life and, feel like you’ve finally regained an iota of control. Traded in the Lada, (read: parked up. Nobody wants a Lada circa 1990 that’s before they got trendy. Note to self; join E-bay. I’d settle for £2.20, enough for a small glass of Rose at the Square Peg in Wednesday’s happy hour) for the midnight blue cabriolet with the hot pink trimmings, set aside the kitty for the personalised number plates, monochrome interior and co-ordinating driving gloves, shoes and jumpsuit, why?
Why, as soon as you’ve thrown down the Embassy….No.1’s and chucked DL (that’s Disposable Lighter. I left my gold-plated one, engraved with italic SH, and embellished with hot pink Swarovski crystals in yesterday’s bag, as yesterdays bag didn’t match today’s outfit). Note to Self: Must purchase some sort of tin or pouch. I’d never forget it then. Still, if I don/t have a lighter I can’t smoke, making this six hundred and ninety….thousand time lucky. Breathe in “I am a non-smoker. I have no need for you. You are beneath me.” Breathe out.) Sorry. You’ll get used to me – honest.
Anyway, why? As you chuck DL out the window and glimpse yourself in the rear view like “Damn girl! You F.I.N.E, drop the top to feel the humidity on your freshly bonded weave”, that then, the very second you allow yourself to succumb to that “This is my moment” moment, that the heavens open? Torrential. Six weeks rain in exactly 145 seconds. Precise? I know. That’s how long it took for the roof to go up. One quarter of the way.
So now I’m sat here looking like a drowned cat with false eyelashes stuck to my cheeks, globs of bonding glue stuck to my forehead, matted extensions sliding down my neck, product stinging my eyes, and a two inch frizzy afro. On top of all this the car’s electrics have gone crazy; the roof’s trying to close itself but keeps getting stuck halfway, as do the windows, the wipers are scraping across the windscreen, fast, and the alarm and horn are sounding continuously –“Move BEEP get out the way, get out the way BEEP, get out the way!” It’s not funny!
Note to self; never get inebriated and buy a car from a boy racer who pimped his own ride at Primark. Sold as seen. Or waterproof mascara. They’re lying.
Why, after trying to get the damn door open for fifteen minutes, do I step out alongside a waterfall carpet, and recognise that laugh anywhere? Go-go Gadget, Invisibility! If only.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to catch him unawares. He’d be walking, preferably looking decrepit; I’d pull up, (looking Beyonce- Crazy in love video, short shorts and stilettos- HOT) and stride purposely into the shop amid wolf whistles, Excuse me Miss’s and Hey Sexy!, unaware or so it would appear, that they were directed at me. Alluringly mysterious.
Instead he’s standing here pissing himself. And, he’s just stepped out of the most gorgeous Mercedes C-class convertible. Fool! I don’t know what I ever saw in him. He’s still thinking the sun shine’s off of his ¼ inch cubic zirconias. (Can’t believe he’s still wearing them, they’re rusty.)
This idiot still thinks he’s ‘The One’. He’d been on my case for years and I was never interested. Until I was unceremoniously dumped by an ex for someone, (who I now fondly refer to respectively as DH1 and expletive, expletive) sacked and evicted, the day after my birthday, (yes, I’ve had an eventful life; this is 1 story out of millions) it’s just, what this jokers failed to realise to this very day is that it was less to do with his game (which quite frankly is weaker than that old school game Operation and over twice as quickly) and more to do with him being convenient. Like the crappy corner shop with out-of-date stock. That’s the only reason he got any play.
Dickhead number two (as I like to call him) liked to feel like a man. Always had to be in control, he’d do anything to make himself feel better. Like knocking me into a wall, or pushing me down the stairs. Or thinking I meant yes even though I was saying no. I just thought it was karma because my reasons for entering the relationship were hardly wholesome. It was my fault. I deserved it. He loved telling me that.
Note to self; 1) stop faking. What’s the point when every town centre now has an Anne Summers or a Simply Pleasure? Less hassle more action. 2) Get glasses checked.
Not one constructive thing has come out of his mouth- nothing’s changed there then- in between his laughing and gloating. I am not Krusty the clown! Where’s Ashton (Punked) Kutcher when you need him and, more to the point, where the hell was Rhianna? Ay? Ay? Ay? Ay?
Sh… Someone’s coming out the car. This better not be a female. And she better not look hotter than me. So what if it’s impossible not to look hotter than me right now, it’s beside the point.
It’s not Ashton (DOH!), but it’s not a female (Woo-hoo!), It’s a man and he’s HOT! Damn Sexy! This is mortifying. I can’t bring myself to look at him, I’m not worthy! Standing here looking like Olive Oil on crack with no money for the next fix!
Why me Lord? Why?
I have entered a parallel universe! DS (as in Damn Sexy, the friend) has just called me beautiful, taken his jacket off, put it around my shoulders and is ushering me to the car as we speak!!! I’m sitting in the passenger side with the heat at full blast and he said something about me not worrying my pretty little head. Pinch me.
He’s standing by my water-logged Cabriolet, mobile glued to his ear. Can’t hear or lip-read what he’s saying, worst luck, he’s probably arranging them crusher things to destroy it in front of me, like some sort of sick joke. DH2 probably set up the entire situation, sale, rain, everything, just so he can laugh at my expense, revenge of the ex. I mean how is it that the only person to witness the single most humiliating thing ever to happen to me (and God knows there’s millions- period), is him? And DS (Damn he’s so sexy) which makes the whole thing infinity times worse.
The smarmy git opens the door and throws my soggy Embassy, defunct Motorola Raza (V3 Pink. Crap phone, worse now) and waterlogged Company magazine onto my lap. The only thing stopping me from going Glenn Close bunny all over his smug, stupid, face right now is:
1) I’m paralysed. All I can think as he’s laughing (still) and spraying me with spittle, chicken nuggets and chips is ’Yo brother! When last did you brush your teeth? Your breath smells like 1842 and your great, great, great, great, great, grand mothers’ mother wasn’t even thought off then. Nasty!’
2) Unless I can get This Morning, Twitter and Facebook re-routed to jail, murder’s out the question, and
3) Damn Sexy! Who’s just pulled him out the car, slamming the door?
They’re having words. DH2 looks as though he’s telling DS all about me, in un-glorious detail. DS gets in the driving seat and offers me a fag. What is this? Good cop bad cop? He says his mate owns a breakdown/recovery business and will tow my car to the garage and. as the owner owes him a favour, repair costs will be minimal. Plus he’s instructed them to call him when it’s ready, which means he has to take my number!?!?!!
I’m not having any of it! DS must be a flaming nutter with a penchant for frizzy, panda-eyed poodles (me) or he’s conspiring with DH2 against me. Either way, he is not flirting with, coming onto or interested in, me. Why would he be? Anyways, he’s gone to get Justin from the boot of my Crap-o-liet.
No! Justin is not a child, pet or the decomposing bodies of DH1 and expletive-expletive. He’s all I need and more. The only one who can save me right now, he has all the tools required to take me from a Hot Mess to a Sexy Honey once more….hairdryer, GHD’s (pink), gel, hairspray, 2Yaki draw stringed, double combed ponytails (Atlanta Girl and Brooklyn Chick), facial wipes, moisturiser (face and body), make-up, tinted moisturiser, comb, brush, toothbrush, toothpaste, towel, bonding glue remover, hair bobbles….Oh and 3 outfits Conservative, Sexy and Sexy Smart Casual, with matching underwear, footwear and perfumes, silk pyjamas, satin headscarf, lingerie….Justin is my lifesaver and I don’t go anywhere without him. Just In Case.
N.T.S; Remember to reiterate this in the 3way call with my BFF’s (Best Friends Forever)…’Ha! In your face Bitches! I was right!’ They can stop teasing me now; there is a method to my madness.
DS just asked if “this suitcase is Justin?” he’s gone to put him in the boot. I’ve just realised the only word I’ve uttered to him is Justin. The rest of the time I’ve just nodded/shaken my head. I bet he thinks I’m stupid. A stupid hot mess. ‘Hot’ meaning bad in this instance.
Here comes the…recovery truck? OK. Maybe they’re just going to tow it to the crushing place and bring me back a cube of metal. Why am I crying? Why won’t it stop?
I’m still sobbing my heart out and DS’s sitting in the driver’s seat. He keeps calling me beautiful and even though I still think this a set-up, when he says it I feel funny inside. Not weird funny. More butterflies, heart-skip-a-beat funny. Whoa!
DH2’s in the back with a face like thunder! I feel sorry for whoever he’s going home to; I’m so glad it’s not me. Still, I’m anxious for DS. How can he be driving DH2’s Mercedes, talking about ‘driving to the crib’ (which I presume is also DH2’s) so ‘beautiful can make herself even more beautiful,’ DH said “that”(meaning me) “doesn’t look beautiful right now” and something pertaining to the girls he gets! Prick. DS said “Get but can’t keep. Some of the nicest looking people are the ugliest inside, and some people are diamonds dressed as dirt!” I know!!! Word for word that was! I mean eff the dirt bit; I’m being equated to a diamond here!! Still, DH’s sulking like a little child. I don’t want to cause an argument, it’s like he’s baiting him. Doesn’t he know what he’s capable of? Or is it that he does ‘only have hand for woman’? (Only women meet his fists).
We’re parking in the underground car park of them gorgeous city centre apartments, I’ve always wanted to see inside. We’re going up to the penthouse. DS is carrying Justin and has just told DH2 to pass him his keys. Pass His. Keys! (You’re not pinching hard enough!)
The en-suite’s gorge! I knew I could smell ‘The One’, it’s on the bathroom shelf–there aren’t any female products, (YES!) – And, the view from the bedroom is amazing. You can see the whole of Birmingham- BT Tower, Bullring, Rotunda, Mailbox- everything.
N.T.S; forget 3-way calling the BFF’s; this is champagne and chocolates at mine!
43mins later (I went as fast I could, ok?) and I’ve opted for Sexy-Smart-Casual, tinted moisturiser with smoky eyes-no falsies-and, more significantly, no weave or chicken fillets!
I’m feeling funny again, same as before but stronger. DS is staring at me, transfixed. I think he’s gone off me. Knew it was too good to be true.
Wrong again! We’re going out for a bite to eat, dropping DH to his hostel en-route.
DS says I should leave Justin at his! Just In Case.

Note to self; I think I’ve finally come to my senses—to be continued!