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Date: Tuesday, 30 11.2021 Location: Manchester, UK Age: 41 Weight: 66.0 Kilos Marital Status: Still divorcing… Dear Diary, I’m bored. Very bored. Not in a ‘I don’t have anything to do today’ kind of way, more in a ‘my soul craves excitement’ kinda way. Excitement that I am struggling to find here in good old Blighty as a single forty something, wannabe socialite. Not even Tinder is holding my attention these days, but I will get to that later. For now, let me off load some shite that has been laying heavy for the past few weeks. Or could that be months? Ha - possibly even years…! What could possibly have happened to get this version of Lei that you are presented with today? Well, let me explain… So, when we first moved back, I didn’t think I would end up being a lone parent, I mean who the hell plans for that? Not me, no - I wanted someone to do stuff with. That’s the whole point of marriage, isn’t it? That you always have said person to hang out with, to go somewhere with, even if it’s just for a walk. Alas, my soon to be ex-husbando, even when we were together in Turkey, would rather sleep, game or smoke weed than do anything at all with his family. So since being back, it’s been me and Lennie taking on the world, and that’s all well and good when you have the motivation to do so, but somehow in the last 10 months or so, I seem to have found myself in a rut of never-ending boredom. The mundane that I once ran away from has landed right on my brand-new doorstep. You could say I’m falling asleep at the wheel, that I’m drowning in despair. Is despair even the right word? Probably not but I can’t think of a better one to describe the ordinary routine that is my life right now. Surely to God you’d think that I’d have completed my fair share of shitty times by now, wouldn’t you? Apparently not, because it seems I have not learnt my lesson yet, hence the repeating pattern of monotony. My problem is that I have literally no adult company to do things with other than my olds, and God knows if I spend enough time with them World War 3 breaks out in a heartbeat. Ah well, that’s what friends are for, right? Not in this country apparently. No one wants to do anything. Ever. I mean, I have the occasional visit to Cost-Co with Hannah, which sadly happens to be the highlight of my month. I also have the odd kitchen party that every so often involves people other than just myself, but even that has dwindled down to once every second month. So, like a good old alki, I drink alone in the hopes that the alcohol will bring with it some new inspiration. All it leaves me with is the booze blues and the terrible reoccurring thought that is this all there is? I mean really, is this all there is? I’d like to think that we were not put on this planet simply to eat, sleep, work, repeat. Or have I missed something and the rat race is what its all about? I hope that not to be true, because if this is it, then stick a fork in me cos I’m fucking done. I’m done with boredom, other people’s shit, married men looking for someone to spice up their lives, and my ex-husbando’s narcistic ways. Where the hits keep coming by the way. You would think that now it’s been over a year since splitting up that he would have got his shit together. He hasn’t. He is an emotional grim reaper feeding off his own sad existence, and I’m at the point now where I no longer care what happens to him. Making a statement such as that simply isn’t me. I’m not that person. In fact, I carry other people’s feelings a tad too deeply being somewhat of an empath, but come the fuck on - are you really blaming me for owing a grand in rent and having a drug problem? Really!?! Isn’t it time that you fucked back off to your homeland and went bullshitting to your own Mother and not mine? No? I must be confused then. I know what I sound like; a bitter, vengeful, soon to be divorcee - and that, dear diary, makes me sick. I’m not normally a miserable person, but UK life seems to have knocked the spark right out of me. Or could that have been the ex-husbando? Either way… I’m usually the life and soul of the party, but somehow, my flicker of hope has gone out. The internal flame that usually keeps my head above water has all but died in the bleakness of my new life. If I had a tiny violin, Id get that fucker out and write myself a masterpiece. Who knows, I could go on to become the Beethoven of the blues. Wouldn’t that be something? Finding fame in the face of forlornness… I often find myself wondering if I should really have come back to the UK after all. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want to still be tied to the ball and chain – absolutely not, but my social life was a lot more sociable when I lived back in the bubble of Marmaris. Days out, nights out, weekends away – all were on tap in good ole Turkey. That’s because I had friends a plenty that were available to do shit with on a moment’s notice back there. Over here, not so much. I have friends of course. I’m not a billy no mates - although it certainly feels like that 95% of the time. My friends here don’t have kids Lennie’s age. Hannah (41) has 2 kids both above the age of 12. I see her probably about once a month, and it is always when the kids are at school so that we can actually chat. Sometimes it would be nice to see her when we have the kids all together and go out and actually do something. At least then I would feel less guilty about not doing so much with Lennie after school and on the weekend, but Hannah has many friends that she needs to get around, and I need to remember that it’s me that needs to fit in with other people seeing as I’m the one that fucked off for 22 years. Diana (47) is kid and care free. I absolutely envy her life. She made a conscious decision not to have kids, so can basically do whatever she wants, when she wants. She can have sex on the kitchen floor without worrying about the kids walking in. She can take off on holiday on a moments notice, without having to plan it around school holidays. Not that she does either of those things, but the fact of the matter is, she could. If I didn’t have Lennie, what would I be doing right now? Living it large in Vegas no doubt, tearing up the strip, living my best life. I can still do that one day I suppose. One day when my looks have left me and I resemble Hugh Heffner’s same age wife, not the dolly bird he was married to when he died. Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice! Anyway, back to Diana. She also lived overseas for 12 years. That’s why we get on so well as we are the only people in each other’s lives in close proximity that understand how hard it is to fit back in when one has been out for quite some time. She gets my boredom. Or is it loneliness? Either way, she gets me. Our kitchen parties are epic. They consist of food, enough booze to keep 10 people partying for 36 hours, banging tunes courtesy of Alexa and my excellent taste in music, and laughs that you don’t find in ‘normal’ people. Those kitchen parties were the only thing to get me through the week. Yup, the thought of our Saturday shenanigans literally stopped me from diving into depression head first. But now she is seeing someone, so that’s put paid to that… Mind you, she’s still not having sex on the kitchen floor, even though she has herself a fella. What’s wrong with this picture? Working from home doesn’t help of course. You meet no one when working from your kitchen table, but I have run my company for the last 12 years and I don’t plan on stopping any time soon. I did think of taking on a little part time job to get me out of the house during school hours, but school hour jobs simply don’t exist, as much as my Dad tries to convince me otherwise. I’ve looked at supermarkets to restaurants, but nothing coincides with those bastard school hours, well, not in my town anyway. Life is just different. I suppose you could say that I’ve found it hard to re-integrate into normal society. I find the whole Monday to Friday schedule absolute bollocks. I managed to avoid it for a long time, yet now I find myself slap bang in the middle of it. That’s what happens when your kids are of school age. Mind you, I wouldn’t be without my 6 hours of freedom daily, I just hate being locked in to a routine of sorts. Monday morning comes and its up at 7am to get Lennie ready for the school run. I then come home to work, veg out on the sofa in between answering emails, then back on the school run at 3pm, home for bath time, dinner, bed time, etc – then wait for a suitable time before I call it a night. That suitable time used to be gone 11pm, and is now 9pm as I have nothing to stay up for – quite literally nothing to keep me downstairs and in the land of the living. Then I get up on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday and do the exact same all over again. Hooray for cheap Aldi red wine on a school night! Although sometimes, once the bottle of red runs out, I go on the hunt for whatever shit I have in the booze cupboard, usually resulting in shots of pink fucking gin. Gin is so 2020 that I can’t even bring myself to drink it normally, like in a balloon glass with slimline tonic! Malta, August 2020, ruined that for me. Saturdays and Sundays are the worst as I need to entertain Lennie for the full day, and she takes some entertaining, let me tell you. Have you ever been to a soft play on the weekend? Fuck me, you really have to be desperate to find yourself in the clutches of that madness. But, desperate times call for desperate measures, so soft play on a Saturday is occasionally our thing, and not a sodding cheap thing at that. 6 quid to get in – not bad right? Not when you add on the food and drinks required to keep a 4-year-old from a massive meltdown that you just know is going to happen if you don’t give in to the demands of cake, popcorn, chips and diet coke, adding up to usually over 20 quid a hit. And don’t get me started on the mass of screaming brats terrorising their parents, other people’s parents, and the staff in there. I can all but stand my own kid being a little cunt, but when you have over 50 of the fuckers, all ganging up together, taking sweet revenge for not letting them wear a T-shirt in minus fucking 3 weather conditions – it might be time to look yourself in the mirror and seriously question your previous life choices… Then we have Sunday. Quite possibly the most boring day of the week. I usually wake with Lennie eyeballing me, demanding to watch my phone, plus a hangover from my kitchen party for one. And why oh why do kids insist that 6am on a weekend is a suitable time to get up and start the day when I have to drag the wee shite out of bed during the week? What sort of cuntery is this? And then, the routine starts all over again. Until school holidays that is, but that’s a totally different story that I simply am in no mood to get into now. It may push me over the edge considering we have the Christmas holidays coming up. Just fuck off life. My olds help out and have Lennie every second weekend to give me a break, but only for the Saturday night. What do I do with said free evening I hear you ask? Get pissed of course. Usually in a kitchen party for one, that ends in me texting various male suitors in the hopes that one of them may bring some much-needed thrills to the table. They usually don’t even bring the vodka…! Dating apps have been a distraction from the boredom. In fact, Tinder has been a good friend to me. Or a bad friend – I can’t decide which. The dates I’ve had so far have been interesting to say the least. They have ranged from me back dooring it after 15 minutes, to dating a dude for 4 weeks, all the while ignoring every red flag along the way just because he ‘seemed’ to be on my wavelength. That was until I saw him from what he actually was – a master manipulator. No thanks magic fingers, you are not for me. Although could you leave said magic fingers at the door on the way out? Yup, I’ve met some characters in the last year of being officially single. None that have held my interest for usually longer than the initial first date though. I often wonder, is it them or is it me? Am I so difficult to please now I’m in my forties? Or do I simply now know exactly what I want and I won’t settle for anything less? And what is it I want? Well, the banter, lightening, fireworks – the lot! I certainly don’t want a friend with benefits, nope – I want the real deal, and this time it has gotta be for keeps. Yet all I ever find myself with is one big hangover and a total regret for having the date in the first place. And sometimes, thrush. WTF Tinder, why can’t you put a nice-looking chap with something about him in my periphery? Why all the no hopers that still live with their Mum and work at KFC? I’ve nothing against KFC by the way, I simply don’t want to date a dude in his forties that works there...! And what is it with men with filters? I mean, eww gross! No pal, I’m not going to swipe right if you have dog ears, just like I hope that you wouldn’t if I had them! Fucking hell, what happened to the single people of the world in my age range? I used to think that British blokes were the creme de la creme of having their shit together, but boy was I ever wrong. Or is it simply me after all? I supposed the grass is not always greener, but then again, neither was the Turkish mud. I’m not one to stay in a dead relationship if its making all involved unhappy just for the fact that I’ve got someone. Hell no, that shit was not, nor ever will be, for me. Some people try to reason staying because of the kids – clearly, I’m not one of those people, nor do I understand them. I mean, why bring up a child in unhappy surroundings when both parents would be happier apart, therefore making the upbringing of the child a better one? Albeit, I am talking about if the other parent, you know, the ex-husbando for example, would take an active part in the kids’ life. Ruefully, he doesn’t. If he did and we had shared parental responsibility, I could take myself off to groups / clubs / get togethers with like-minded people. Spiritual folk, fellow tin hat wearers, people that question the Cabal. You know the sort. Or am I simply talking out of my arse as per usual? Anyway, one thing that I have found is that I don’t like small talk - dating apps have taught me that. Let’s get straight to the good stuff like what do you think about before falling asleep at night, are you having the Covid shot or not, and what happens when you die. This type of convo is a dying art with the millennials of today. Unsolicited dick pics, however, are not… Mind you, a good-looking throbbing dick pic would not go a miss once in a while, but where the hell are all the attractive scholngs these days? This one time, probably about a year ago when I first dipped my toe into the online dating world, I got sent a dick pic like no other. It looked like the dude had some sort of STD, maybe gonorrhoea, that resulted in him having a deformed penis. Why! Why send that fucking ugly weener to anyone other than a medical professional in the fucking clap clinic? Didn’t he know it simply was not a normal member? Had no girl ever told him that if that thing was to go anywhere near anyone, one would become sick for centuries? I mean, come the fuck on Sean, that dirty dick pic is the last thing that would get any gal wanting to suck on it! As fucking if! And with that, it’s time to finish my brandy and call it a night. After all, its 9.20pm and I’ve nothing left to hang around downstairs for on this odd evening. Not even a minging dick pic. So for now I shall bid you adieu and hopefully wake up tomorrow with a different outlook on life. One can hope… Love Always, Lei xx ***New to my blog? Wanna know where it all began? Catch up right here with my first book 'The Final Summer of Vodka'***
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