I lied. I knew he'd come round on valentine's day. The casually keen text sent late on sunday evening from the Ex-Boyfriend. The one I loved, the one I felt so safe in his arms, the one who finally silenced the hatred and let me finally get undressed without shuddering and numbing myself with alcohol first. So I dumped him. It's only now I can see the cruelty. My casual invitation to drop round (only after my legs were shaved and my silkiest lace was on), followed by the banal chat at 1am. The casual suggestion he stay the night as it was so late and he seemed so tired. Oh where are my pajamas? Oh well nothing you haven't seen before...

I miss you, he says, forlornly. I kiss him.

And then we have the best sex of my entire life. The sort of sex they write about in cosmo with the bland promise that if only you communicate with your partner and buy the right lingerie you too will have mind-blowing simultaneous orgasms. Lies. All you need is one emotionally raw dumpee and a lover with voracious desire to prove you're still alive, desperate for bruised bones and you have an unbeatable recipe for the sort of sex that leaves your body shuddering in waves of ectasy and exhaustion, heightened by a sense of emotional betrayal and the imminent danger of heart-break. Oh well... I think he enjoyed it too.

Happy Valentines Day! What a load of commercial, saccharine shit. I absolutely despise the fact that we feel need to designate some day of the year to celebrate the fact we've found love and can express it in a tacky card or by making ourselves fat gorging on sickly, cheap heart-shaped hearts. I'm probably just bitter because I'm single and there is very little chance of me getting laid tonight. So tonight, I've decided to go on an anti-date with The Real Deal (my best friend from uni. Seriously, never had anyone like her before - an honest friendship) and we're going to get drunk on sake and eat deep friend noodles and not give a fuck. Then I'll go home and attempt to write an essay and then sleep and then tomorrow - I won't have any need to feel inadequate being alone...

End of rant.

Who else waits for the click? When you're so drunk, the edges blur and in the haze, there's silence. Or when you're so hungry, all you can imagine is the creamy centre of an eclair, and there's no pain: just that one image. Or, as I've been exploring so thoroughly, the click as you lie under someone and suddenly, as your bodies are as intimately entangled as you will ever be, unity and silence. How cliched. This is how pretencious people justify casual sex. I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with silence. I write, I think, I think until I scream and then I write some more. I want to write a novel. I want this to become something a little more permanent, tangible. I'm sick of destroying things, the irony of wanting to make something based on self-destruction. That would surely make it worth it? On a lot of people of blogs they have their history of mental illness (because, dearest, most thinspirational ladies, we're on the fine line between sanity and intolerable craziness.) perhaps that could go somewhere? What do you think? - Honestly, bluntly, brutally.