A 21 year old's view of the 21st Century

Went out for a drink tonight with two friends, M and C.

We talked briefly about celibacy. I said it had been too long, that I should have shagged Mr Saturday as I was drunk enough and felt his hard-on.

M said 'I've come to the conclusion that I am asexual. Worse than celibate.'

I responded. 'There is only one level below being an asexual... Being a blogger,'

M and C just nodded.

'... which I... now... am' was all that I could utter; a pathetic confession.

Having never really shown anyone the poetry I write, I thought now would be a good time. Why not? I love writing... not because there is any kind of virtuosic raw talent here. Just because words are lovely and I like putting myself into them and seeing what comes out. It'd be nice if others (strangers) could let me know what they think. If not, well, at least I faced my fear of having them read by others. Sort of like letting pigeons out of a cage. They are just winged rats, afterall, but it's nice to see them free.

These are a few that are most recent. They are my copywright, but I don't think anyone would steal them, copywrighting is so bloody conceited!

‘Below, below.’

The heady baptism, heady birth,
neither ceremonious nor godly. Finding
me, chin-bruised Ugly, kneading the
worry; thirsty and shiver soaked. The
clenched teeth tremors. A virtuosic

spill of unease. Pacing the oak-dust-filth,
the passageways in the farmhouse, a
wooden foot tread, rasping floor. And
clearness in the sky, unlocked door.
Surveying faraway heavens and bed-soft,

green turf. Brightly, brightly, rebirth.
A warm foetus swigging back Nature
and on her feet, towards doors and
lightnesses and Suns like grins and life, life,
life. Downwards, now, into stream-paths

with river-trails. The thoroughfare’s
salvation, cushion feathers, goose-down,
so gently. The man’s hands, a mug in which
I’m held. His lines and bramble-scratches,
I remember the gristly skin and light

breath. The Heady Baptism I gobbled up,
with words and ritual, the mouth beneath
water, the pushing down, my body. And
awaking into a new waking. Watery lip-kiss
welcome-home, a voice lost to divinity.

‘Swamp’

Unitive, lithic urge, a powerless
surge, an all-over-everywhere busy thing in
the fens and mire. Torrents’ downpour,

a grim Lush of squashed sludge; wet, flaked moss.

And the perfume of wildflower grasses
swooping beneath his
nostrils, yes, the fingertips of a lover across his lip,
the lightness of space, of nature’s air

and memory.

I've been single for 14 months. I have not had sex in any of those months. Not even the tiniest bit of willy. Is that too much to confess on a blog? Does anyone actually admit to it being that long without nookie? It seems I am the only one. Except my ex. It has been the same amount of time for him. He's not even snogged anyone after me! But then, that isn't much to brag about. He is a prick, afterall, and quite unattractive by anyone's standards. And he is not publishing his celebacy.

I have pulled several young men in the last year or so. But I've never invited them back to mine or kissed them more than once. I have my reasons... my breakup with the ex (we'll call him Sexless - even he didn't succumb to my charms all that often when we were a couple!) it left me really devastated. I dieted like mad, I obsessed over him and thought we'd actually get back together. When it became painfully clear that wouldn't happen - and thank god it didn't! - I packed my bags and went off for a month in france. I flew to Paris on my own and spent 3 weeks backpacking and camping solo. I sorted my head out. Then a friend flew out to the south and met me, and we had banter in the south of france, getting tanned and hanging out with boys on beaches. But no sex.

Then a month in Edinburgh at the Fringe with a bunch of friends. Amazing month. No sex. In September I worked as a waitress in a restaurant in Chester. I lived with my brother, his wife, my sister and their other housemate. It was nice. Not even a sex-dream.

Then in October, my world came crashing down around me. My beloved step-mum of 8 years, Liz, was diagnosed with Cancer. Again. This time, it was terminal and would be a matter of weeks. Fortunately I live nearby and could spend precious time with Liz and my dad as she got sicker. The whole thing is a painful blur, one that I am still coming to terms with. So obviously, my priorities changed considerably and men have not been all that important.

Nevertheless, there were so many times during that horrible period when I wanted the support of a partner, my siblings all had that but once again, I am the single one. Maybe that is too selfish of me. I think it is. But I also believe it is natural.

Now however the mist is starting to clear... at least in the sense that life is more normal again. I go out every week, get involved with plays, I even have a job now and manage to get my uni work done in time. But there is something deep inside that is really not letting me be! I want to be in love with someone!

I want to have butterflies and nervousness and shagging. But it just isn't coming my way. I kiss and run away... I don't want to meet a boyfriend in a club because it seems so shallow - I hate kissing someone that I have no idea about - he could be anyone. But, I always do kiss in clubs and then freak out and run away. Or, they run away. Boys that kiss in clubs are not looking for girlfriends. Why do this to myself?

The answer is, as much as I hate to admit it (even worse than admitting how long i've been celibate for!) I like the bad boys, the unattainables... the ones that I fantasise about converting. I want to make a bachelor fall for me... even though he won't fall for the others! But this doesn't happen. Just wasted dreams.

So, what are my options? Internet dating? I'm only 21... it seems a bit drastic at this stage. No one else my age at uni has to resort to singles clubs. I could just shag around and hope that one guy wants to stick it out with me. I could work on my self esteem - sorry, that is what a magazine would say! It's bollocks. Lots of girls with low self esteem get boyfriends.

So the answer, right now for me: get thin and tanned.

I have burnt two saucepans in the last twenty-four hours. The first was last night; I made popcorn in a hurry. I thought I was being clever when I added the sugar and (vegan) butter before the corn started to pop. I wasn't clever, and the popcorn was black. The second poor pot was just this very afternoon. I am experimenting with lentils. Today is the day of the yellow split pea dahl. Very authentic. I eat lentils a lot, all the bloody time. Mostly, I favour the red split lentil for its mushy consistency and user-friendly recipes. The yellow split pea requires 12 hours of soaking and 30 - 40 minutes of cooking. I forgot that water evaporates when on a hob. Oh dear, what a disaster.

Well, reader, if I haven't lost your interest now, I have either done very well in my witty recount of singed kitchenware, or you are a bit dull, or you are a bored lentil-lover.

Whichever one you are, welcome aboard to the Good Ship Cats-and-Things (which is what my username is, mainly because I couldn't think of a nice, witty or ironic postmodern name for myself, so the only thing that sprung to mind were cats, and things).

On Christmas Day 2006, after all the boozing and gorging had finished, a small collective of the pissed-up under 55's and over 15's gathered together in the living room at around midnight. I have an aunt Debbie who has a boyfriend Brian and he is American. He has lots of crazy ideas about 'individualism' and 'letting people hear your voice'. Bless his little democratic soul. In his drunkeness he advised me to tell the world my story... via the web. I should blog, he told me, it'd be fascinating, he promised. I told him he was wrong but he shook his little Conneticut head and convinced me. Three months later and look at this, I'm doing it, I'm blogging!

I maintain that this is only because I haven't had sex in a long, long time. And I have finished lectures forever now, with only the next 2 months ahead of me to write essays and revise for my Finals. And everyone I know, bar about 3 people, has left this tiny university town. Or, they will have left by Wednesday and that will leave me alone in this flat, well, it will leave me and my housemate Juliana alone in this flat. Maybe we will go mental in this cosy little basement flat?

I have 12000 words to write in a month and nothing else but the brief intermission of Easter to keep me going. And I have recently turned vegan, so no easter eggs to keep me sane. But I shouldn't moan, not when I have yellow split pea dahl on the hob and enough clean knickers in my draw to last me until April.