Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset

When I tell people my birthday is on Hogmanay everybody's so apologetic. I'm not sure why really. Yeah, it's inconvenient but I never want a big party anyway. I usually crash other peoples. This year I got a lot of yes, no, maybes and it ended up pretty much how I expected with me and Emma talking shit all night long and eating oreos. And ok so I didn't get drunk at New Year and I wasn't at some huge do surrounded by friends but sitting on my couch, watching stupid shows and eating junk with my favourite girl was the only way I wanted 2007 to end and waking up next to her to share more tales ensured a satisfactory start to the next year. She's like a girlfriend without the complicated sex life.

The beer settled comfortably in my stomach and gave me the courage to open up. Confess my sins and share all my daft mistakes I hadn't got round to telling her yet. She told me in return of the crazy 'friend' situation she finds herself in. And we laughed at men. We laughed at their desire to protect us from themselves. She sighed at crossed wires and I rolled my eyes at would-be Byronic heroes.

I woke up a couple of days ago and saw that I'd lost weight. Kinda the same way I woke up months ago and saw that I'd gained it. I can fit in my black jeans again and I stalk through the sales with just the faintest twitch of an ass wiggle. I dunno what's changed really but my head feels better. Talking to Emma helped. Made me straighten things out. Let me see what I've got and feel lucky. I still crave a life of my own. A flat, a job, a partner and a kitten. I'm nineteen years old and feel like I've achieved nothing but I've still got time, none of that stuff is going anywhere. So I want 2008 to be a casual year. Leave all the crap behind me once and for all. Stop thinking so damn much. These aren't great resolutions when you look at them but fuck it I've got no addictions I want to give up or habits I want to break. All I want to read more, write more, flirt a little less and kiss a little more.

I've been reading Bukowski. I found his first novel in Waterstones and read the ending which is how I pick new authors. Post Office ends with: "In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought. And then I did." and so I chose him. He's like a million guys I've read online. Deadpan relation of a shitty job and meaningless women. He writes like I wish I could write but I'm not male and I can't use men like they can use women. But I reach something close to it in my gender confused dreams with my girlfriend who bores me but she's too pretty to give up. And I wonder is this some kind of bi-sexual greed? Then I laugh because I know I'm just flirting with labels again.