Archives for posts with tag: Christina Aguilera

Joe and I would go get dinner (usually steak) and very drunk in the Ear Bar on Spring Street.

Originally called the Bear bar..renamed when the B fell off.  One of the oldest existing taverns in the United States and one of the few existing examples of Federal architecture in New York.

I have wanted to get very drunk these past few nights.  I have wanted to blot out everything in my fucking pea brain with a huge amount of wine and beer.

Marc bought a bottle of Montepulciano to drink with the pheasant.  It smelt divine.

Woke up feeling so sad.

I am in Whitstable until Thursday then I have to get up and make a move.  Must go stately home hopping.   Must see the insides of huge and beautiful homes smelling of nutmeg and fir.  Must sit by roaring fires.  Must flay myself socially once again.

I am so disappointed.  So sad.  even though I know he isn’t sometimes I think I can hear him calling out to me in the night and I wake up and I think I can’t ignore him..he might need me.

Everything is just fine in Los Angeles CA.  Ashley called yesterday after her jaunt with Christina Aguilera’s husband in Miami.   I can’t wait to see her, speak with her properly about everything.

Up and down on this fucking roller coaster.  Up and down.

Day two of having no boy friend, even though he wasn’t actually a boy friend because he told me so.  Not feeling quite as good as I felt yesterday.  Wondering if I was just too eager to say goodbye.  I know, deep down, that it was the right decision but I just miss talking to him.  I see him out there in face book land and I want to say hi but daren’t.   I just don’t want to get sucked into our weird co-dependent, obsessive love affair that has no name.

I had dinner with a friend yesterday evening but I really could not summon the energy to engage.   Almost fell asleep at the table.  Everything he said irritated me.  That night I had more erotic dreams about you-know-who.  I can only imagine having sex with him.   The idea of just taking my clothes off in front of another man fills me with icy horror.

I know that he is probably having group sex with half of Vanity Fair by now.  Joke.    Even if he was I can’t care.  I can’t make it my business.  I am in Malibu so am prone to morbid thinking.

I wandered around Hollywood last night snapping the neon signs with my new iphone app, the project was extraordinarily successful.

Dane came by and massaged my back until I fell asleep.  I like that he blows out the candles, turns out the lights and locks the door when he leaves.

This morning went to Palisades’s men’s meeting-full of monstrous egos and bad hair plugs.  One particularly vile Hollywood agent sitting smugly on his fat ass.   He isn’t really fat; he’s just pudgy really, like a Rubens nude.  Solid fat, not the kind of fat that squidges.  Firm fat but FAT all the same.  Not ‘precious’ fat.  Not morbidly obese either.  Just enough fat, that one thinks ‘I might catch the fat’, like a disease.  Thankfully he kept his mouth shut.

I don’t know what I would do if he were brave enough to get onto an airplane and come to me.  I think I might just forgive him-which is stupid as he obviously has a drug and alcohol problem.   Oh FUCK!!  It’s so damned hard to fall out of love when you don’t have a big bottle of whiskey to wipe the slate clean.

Party tonight, parties all weekend.   Can I really be bothered?  I should be mourning the loss of my non existent boyfriend.