So, it turns out that my housemate's are all out for the night. Not a big problem one would imagine.... However, combine this with the reality that I've just completed "Angry Birds" on my newly acquired iPad (on which I'm writing this so apologies for the grammar and typo's) and the fact that over 20 women moved into my office today, and you'll soon realise why I'm spending a perfectly good Wednesday evening tapping away this quite terrible account of the past fortnight rather than enjoying some company, or out sampling the delights the best city in the world has to offer.
I don't mean to, but I'm probably going to offend people, I might upset people as well, for which I'm genuinely sorry - it's not what I had in mind. If it makes up for it, I am most certainly going to embarrass myself.
I've not been someone that prides themselves on their social decorum this year and it dawned on me recently (after some unwarranted questioning) that things should change. This whole mess started not long ago when I was possibly, in fact probably, falling in love. For the first time in a long time I genuinely thought I could be happy. Needless to say (and probably due to my own insecurities) it didn't happen, and as such I've come to this.
Do read on though this is no sort of sob story... Although it might just turn into one in a month's time.
Once I realised the inevitable (I'm just not as nice as I once thought and as such relationships just don't quite work for me) I came home and did what every man would do; watch "I spit on your grave" on DVD.
It didn't take long for me to realise it's terrifying, and disgusting. There was only one thing I could do and as such I plumped for an old favourite, something to put my mind at rest and send me to sleep...... 'Josh Hartnett.' Now there's a cheeky grin that could send the straightest of men into hibernation without a sign of a nightmare.
It turns out that one does dream after viewing his encounters with the beautiful Shannyn Sossaman, however it doesn't go well from there... In brief, I woke up deciding that "40 days and 40 nights" seemingly did him well, and as such can't do me badly. I'm wrong. Mr Hartnett might be able to send Charles Bronson to sleep with those eyes and that smile, the same doesn't quite ring true for an ageing chap that apparently looks like "Will Young with mumps", and has spent the past year and a half being nothing short of a sex pest.
For those of you that aren't aware of, or haven't seen the film, Josh Hartnett plays a sexual predator of the highest order (not that it's something to be proud of) He decides that Jesus went through 40 days and 40 nights of temptation and as such he's going to do the same. 40 long days, 40 long nights of no sex, and to make things worse.... No masturbation. There's literally no sexual contact towards the committed party allowed for the allotted time. It already sounds hard, and it's definitely proving to be so (I'm struggling to even use the word hard)
So this is it. Today is day 8. I wasn't going to share this with anyone. It's something I'm doing for my own wellbeing and you don't need to hear about it. That said, and referring back to my opening paragraph.... over 20 women moved into my office today, I've finished "Angry Birds" and I don't know where my housemate's are. Any normal night I would turn the lights down, light some candles, flick on "9 Songs" and..... that's quite enough.... As it stands, 'Celebrity Masterchef' isn't quite cutting it (although Colin "I'm going out for a quick Colin" Jackson is looking delightful) I'm going slowly out of my tiny little mind.
I must keep myself, and more importantly my wandering hands, busy.
So far the plus points seem to be minimal. I'm getting more sleep, albeit drug induced. I'm more proactive at work. I've got into 'Celebrity Masterchef' in quite a big way.
The negatives are outweighing the positives. I'm smoking more (I smoke too much already.) I'm drinking more (I drink too much already.) I'm not overly friendly nor a nice person to be around (if I was before.) I barely have any finger nails left (I didn't have that many to start with.) and the news of Fernando Torres committing himself to Liverpool did things to me that only Halle Berry would be able to replicate.
It's suddenly dawned on me whilst writing this, somewhere between my 5th and 9th cigarette, that the aforementioned Miss Sossaman won't be waiting for me on day 40.
32 days to go.
I'm sure tomorrow will be plain sailing.
