Christmastime musings

I know I am supposed to write Part II of Prague, but be on the look out for that tomorrow—the spirit is moving me in a completely different direction today. Christmas in England is a pretty big deal, with almost everyone, except for a few Chinese students, going home for the holidays. Most left last week, with the last stragglers leaving yesterday or this afternoon. Suffice to say, I am a bit lonely right now sitting in my room, waiting for my mastercleanse salt water wash to take effect and clean my bowels, because nothing makes you want to wake up each morning than knowing you are going to piss out of your asshole for a few hours each day.

I seem to be up to my same bag of tricks much like when I was living in NYC. Whenever I was lonely, or bored, or just downright depressive, I try to find my entertainment at the expense of others, i.e. craigslist. And what a glorious distraction craigslist has been for the last few lonely days! I’ve noticed several key trends: in London their casual encounters section is not as graphic as the NYC section. In New York, it seems that posting for liaisons with big dicked black men and average sized white men and thick Latino men-- well dicked men in general, have increased as the holiday approaches, while in London posting has significantly decreased over the holiday season. Yes, ladies and gentleman, this is what I am putting my Oxford degree towards—sociological analysis of online personal bulletin boards.

Craigslist is my boredom safety net because it is constantly updated, and people write some pretty fucked up things—and remember on craigslist, someone is always more fucked up than you. Which makes me feel a lot better about sitting in my room for about fourteen hours a day dreaming about food. For maximum time wasting, I tend to read most of the ads, but trying my best to skip over the one lined dick pics that say, “I want to cum” because if I wanted to see a penis, I would have downloaded porn and, it doesn’t make me feel better seeing somone’s member and knowing I haven’t had sex in a very long time. I am looking for the depths of humanity here! Not masturbatory aids in the form of digitally retouched photographs. So I look for the odd poor soul whose ad entertains me with his desperation of trying to find someone to love him, as I pass my time in Oxford like a prisoner waiting for his release date. But I have a confession, there is one ad that I am sickly intrigued by and sometimes am curious to respond to, the sugar daddy/older married man for a mutually beneficial arrangement. Now, I know that part of the reason why I am attracted to them is because of my Pretty Woman/Disney fantasies that a hot, older, dominant, man will take care of me, and financially and emotionally fund my eccentricities.

However, with my impending twenty-fifth birthday, I’m realizing a very fucked up observation—no longer am I sugar baby material! Most of these men want women who are below twenty-five, as if the mid-twenties isn’t young and sexy enough anymore. It seems once a woman hits twenty-five its assumed that if she is single she must have a lot of baggage, much like the jaded thirty something women who are still on the scene looking for their Mr. I’ll-settle-for-this-one-right-now. I wasted my early twenties being drunk and not taking advantage of the sugar daddy arrangement, and there is no way I can make up for lost time, unless I begin to lie about my age.

So, readers, I am celebrating my twenty-fourth birthday. Again! And if there are any sugar daddies reading this in the UK, I can assure you that I have the emotional maturity of a fourteen year old gal. Play your cards right, I can even look like one ‘down there’.

But perhaps I really am feeling this impending twenty-five. Since its been so cold here in the UK, I spend my days inside, perpetually cold, sipping herbal tea and trying to get some novel writing accomplished. Last night was Friday night, and instead I stayed in with my newly purchased hot water bottle and watched the Constant Gardener with the few remaining international kids before they left for their Christmas holiday. All I need are fucking knitting needles, and a pack of Parliaments and I will be my grandmother—except my slippers are much cuter, they are cashmere.

So, I am not that happy about my course. It’s not that intellectually demanding, the teaching is very different than found at an American university, and to be perfectly honest, all I am going to get out of it is another useless degree and the name ‘Oxford’ to drop at cocktail parties. As we know, dear friends—and loyal long time readers, I consider you the dearest friends of all—I get a bit self-destructive when I am unhappy. It’s enjoyable to make people squirm who are responsible for your unhappiness.

I have to do an ethnography for my qualitative methods class. Now, I know the safe answer could be to examine different religious groups (i.e what students have done in the past) or, I can be creative. To be perfectly honest, religious rituals, unless there are snakes, child sacrifices, or mutilating babies’ genitalia (thanks Jews!), are quite boring. Trust me, I’ve been members of distinctly different religious groups. So, I decided that I want to write an ethnography on something that I am very passionate and interested about—sex work. I would like to interview either a prostitute or a professional dominatrix (and if I could find a dom, then maybe I could also incorporate my own experiences and make the person reading it completely uncomfortable). Could you imagine, an old Oxford professor reading about penises being tied up and an ethnographer relaying her own personal experience what it felt like being paid to electrocute some naked man?! Genius I tell you.

So, in a fit of procrastinating the stats assignment that I still have yet to do, and the test that I still have yet to study for, I’ve been looking up Oxford escorts and BDSM dungeons (plus, maybe I could moonlight here as a dominatrix—I mean, the pound is nearly at 2:1). And you know how google has that lovely function that saves your past searches, so when you type in ‘Oxford’ for example, it will populate it with your last query—mine was escorts and BDSM. A dormmate of mine came over the other night, and was using my computer to look up Oxford movie theaters. Well, guess what came up?

Everyone thinks I am weird here anyway. Which is very true. Does someone normal allow strangers a glimpse into her fucked up mind and life?

And finally the part that I am sure you all have been waiting for—my progress on the master cleanse. First of all, I have not cheated and have lost a bit of weight. Getting over the pissing out of your ass and cravings for real food, it really isn’t that bad. Granted I am smoking like a pack a day, and read menupages.com as I am drinking my lemonade mixture, hoping that I can trick my mind that I am having the food I am looking at on the computer screen instead of the crap lemon water that I have been drinking for five straight days, but it really isn’t that bad. Plus, I am nearly into my sister’s fat jeans aka my skinny jeans. And may I say, seriously, I am looking fucking hot. I am thinking a strip club on my birthday night out.

But what I am most excited about heading home for is indulging in the things that I have not been able to do here such as champagne, dirty old men, fine food (Gramercy Tavern for my bday lunch) and partying with my gals when I am home. And when I walk off that plane, touch down onto American soil I think I may kiss the ground, thankful that I am home, of course wearing my Burberry scarf with impunity.