Lady sing the blues so well as if she mean it

I had no music this week. Actually made me work faster. You have no idea how dreadfully dull it is cleaning. I'm a little odd. I mean most of you probably already think I'm weird but when it comes to cleaning I'm decidedly odd. My floor is a catastrophe. A sea of paper and clothes. Literature begun and abandoned, outfits discarded because the weather changed. Every so often I find a bra or a sock due to my terrible habit of half undressing when I stay up too late writing. Yet my shelves are in perfect order. Not any order that you could work out or I could describe here but if anything is moved I know and it bothers me. So when I'm in that office I itch to tidy everything up. Sort out the papers and shelve all their books. I can file like no woman. I'd be a kickass secretary, let me tell you. Sadly I'm not the secretary, I'm the cleaning lady. I can't touch their paper (doesn't stop me stealing it, and the pens, and anything edible they got lying around, like some sort of mouse who writes) but I can gag on the fruit they leave in their bins to ferment and worry about what that dried on splodge is on the floor of the toilet (was silicon sealer and not spunk as I feared). I was going mad half way through and battled with the radio. It's some fancy digital thing, took me 10 minutes to work out how to tune to a different station and I hit a jazz station instead of well anything else. I've got nothing against jazz, I quite like it in fact, but when you're stuck on your knees, throwing out your shoulder trying to clean the fingerprints off the door you don't want 12 minutes of a band getting carried away with themselves even if it is awesome. Some such song came floating through the walls and I debated whether to get up and change it or not. Honestly the amount of time I spend on my knees I'd be as well changing careers. I could make more money as a hooker and I bet the smells are equally bad. The song finished by the time I made up my mind not to care and the woman blathered on about names I didn't recognise before cheering me up: But before (some long description about some guy from Engerland) we have a very pretty song by the lovely Ella Fitzgerald.

Best freaking timing. I got to have the littlest of dances before I got back to scrubbing and feeling generally miserable. February is a miserable month. Even Boris Pasternak thought so but I've lost my little piece of paper with the poem on it so you'll just have to trust me on that one. I stared in the florist's window on the way home though. I am not one for Valentine's Day, not in a bitter angry femme way or whatever, it just bores me. I'm usually single by February; typically my relationships began in Autumn and lasted until about November with the exception of my last one. We had two valentines together and both times he would ask me if I wanted to celebrate and both times I'd tell him no. I don't see the point in celebrating it, especially if it's not spontaneous and unexpected but then I'm a sucker for surprises. All of this doesn't stop me from ogling the roses. I don't care about clichés when it comes to them and every year I stare at them and think about buying some but in the end I keep my money and dream about romantics instead.

There were roses in our garden when I was small. I acted out Sleeping Beauty with them, thorns taking the place of a spinning wheel until I pricked my finger too hard and bled out petals onto the concrete. The cat slept under them and put up with me placing flowers on her head like a crown. I made potions with the girl down the road, mixing toothpaste and shampoo and roses and anything else we could find. When my sixteenth birthday was approaching I talked endlessly about roses and received a lightsaber. My seventeenth: The Rescuers on DVD. But then, as I constantly remind myself whenever I'm feeling down about the whole thing David was nothing but a little boy that needed mothering more than anything else.

A girl I can't fucking stand called me a snob the other day because I didn't want to date her friend because he was thick. I shoot so many guys down because quite frankly I'm smarter than them. They can be as attractive and funny and sweet as you like but I treat them like shit if I can't hold a decent debate with them. I keep thinking maybe I shouldn't but then I remember the hugs one guy used to give me to shut me up whenever I corrected him or having to explain that scantily clad wasn't like when David wore his tophat but more like when I wore it. I lost 2 friends on separate occasions for being 'too smart' when all that meant was I refused to dumb myself down and fuck it, I need a guy I can argue with and lose for reasons other than being right. I'm so bored of meeting the same old people over and over again. I wanna pack my things and bugger off someplace else, find someone new, have an adventure but it's all the same no matter where you go. Same old shit, same stock characters. I think I'm going insane.