The Ex Chronicles

Dear Diary

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October 20th 2016

Dear Diary, 

Do I have the energy to do this today? The answer is always no. I was happily dreaming about Zac Efron shirtless coming to my doorstep and proclaiming his love for me, very sweaty I may add when I was woken up by the insistent banging on my door, it was Albert, our eighty year old mailman who persistently claims that he has a man lined up from his poker games all ready for me and the four other 'hooligans' I live with, however we must overlook the odd hip replacement. Although the thought of being the companion of an old man, sounded unappealing the first time Albert enjoyed a whole packet of digestives and cold tea in our run down kitchen the thought was growing on me, it was either buy viagra or live alone with ten cats, it came increasingly clear to me that this was not a good place to be in. I think its safe to say you've reached rockbottom when your looking at cat adoptions every Friday night on the RSPCA website and researching the average lifespan of an old man with a heart condition, contemplating if five years of love is better than none. As you can see diary I am embracing single life fully.

 Diary before you feel sad for me, I would like to establish that this writing activity is not a new found hobby at eighteen but clearly an early mid life crisis, and you are in actuality a prescription by a top therapist that my jewish mother ran me to after I had a panic attack in the tampon section in Tesco. Let me explain, I was happily  watching cat videos on facebook in my pjs, skidding down the next door Tesco, picking up milk for daisy who insists on drinking eight cups a day when I was drawn away from the tabby singing Sia songs and saw that my first love Micheal changed his relationship status to being in a relationship with George, my science lab partner and clearly part of the male species. As I held the overly expensive box of tampax pearl I began to think, could I be this clueless that the boy I chased around the playground, firing off all kinds of hormones at, is gay!  In that moment I looked down at the pads and tampons and before I could stop my hands I began to throw them across the aisle into the bread section, I watched as the various boxes and packages flew down the horrible sick coloured Tesco floor, as customers began to dodge the flying women's health products, the game of dodge ball began  throwing all I could hold at the shoppers, then before i knew it I woke up in the back of my mothers range rover.  

To say that my mother is different would be untrue and an understatement, to you she may as well be an alien, she's overly caring, however dismissive of any political and social injustice I was passionate about and spent her time shopping or complaining that my step dad was eyeing the cleaner. I'm making her sound all bad, she use to be cool, back when she dated photographers, lived at  Oasis concerts and had a pink bob, now her long blond blowout was the only thing I could see whilst we rampaged down the quite suburban streets. I began to lift my small body up on the white leather custom seat when I felt an agonising banging, from the centre of my head, I lifted my half bitten acrylic fingers to my tempels running in circles to dull down the sharp pain. 

'You fell' My mothers sharp tone ran through my ears, to my brain, sending the clear message that she was not happy with my period related tantrum. The last time she used the famous 'mother tone' (a name founded by my older brother after he had a house party with over 200 people) was when I refused to be set up on a blind date with a twenty year old jewish law student, who's middle name was Moses and thought that skateboarding should be made illegal because it encourages the 'thugs'. 

'Well Eva, are you going to tell me what you were thinking' - I hate that word, Eva. My mum chose the name because Eve was too biblical and she wanted a cultural name, because adding an a at the end of a word always makes it cultural mother.