Failure

Here I am again, curled up in bed, boxsets and coffee on standby.
I am once again loveless, jobless and hapless. My boss has ended my trial period; a one-night-stand I thought I could fall for fucked someone else in my absence; and, as a result of putting myself out there for a guy who is a renowned player, I am now a laughing stock and inspiration for pity.
Really, I just want to tell certain people to stay away and quit invading my privacy, but I'm much too polite for any of these aggressions to be voiced.
But you know what? Yes, I am loveless, jobless and hapless, but I feel more awake than I have done for a long time. My weekends are my own again, and I can revisit past crushes with a new perspective. And it'll teach me not to turn up to go clubbing until 5am when I have work in four hours, and that I should maybe stop falling for one night stands.
I guess I'm broadly perceived as a bit of a failure- there are bigger, better, badder, faster, cooler, prettier girls than me almost everywhere I go. I'm known for being crippled by clumsiness, a caffeine addiction, and constant desire for affection and eyeliner. I never get the guy and my name provokes laughter from complete strangers. But I am what I am- and it's far from perfect but fuck it. I'll live.

Encounters

Judge me if you must, but I am the type of girl who likes to keep a boy in every port.
I like to have one, maybe two on the 'school run' to perk up my mornings and make the prospect of two hours of Advanced Mathematics on a Monday afternoon all the more bearable. A couple in the local shopping district- particularly if they give me discounts. One on each bus route, in case I get stuck long-haul on my lonesome. I like to find one within the first hour of entering a club, so at least I have a chance of being kissed. I also keep a few on the party circuit, so I always have someone to flirt with and/or cosy up to if I get cold at 3 am.
It's not how it sounds, though- with the exception of the clubbing boys, the chances of me ever getting with my marks are slim-to-none. They're just fun to look at- a little thrill to keep me going through the mundanity of college. And I never tell the boys that they're target practice, more than potential dates- the secrecy makes the thrill all the more intense.
And the ones that notice me back? Well, nothing compares to look on their faces when I walk into a room; seeing the redness that tinges their cheeks as I give them the once-over. The way their eyes follow me around the room- the sensation I get when I know their eyes on my back. These little moments of stolen intimacy- the furtive glances, the comments laced with suggestion- are the little secrets we carry with us.
I sometimes wonder what they're thinking- what they're doing at that exact moment in time, who their friends are, how they escape from the world.
Boys, boys, boys- out of all of the little escapes-the films, the music, the art, the writing, the addictive little computer games- boys are easily my favorite.
My friends spend most of their time on the phone, wailing hysterically about their careless, heartless, useless loves. Sitting on the other end of these same old telephone conversations is oh-so much easier when I'm anticipating seeing a certain boy . I do have my favorites- one in particualr who looks at me like he's ever seen anyone quite like me before. He gives me butterflies every single time. I know that getting attached to one boy is bad for business (as it were)- it'll be a while before I'm flouncing back on the sofa, crying about how this boy is making the same old mistakes.
As it stands, such chance encoutners are no-strings-attached fun without the slutty reputation.

Undoing

It seems that this holiday has been the undoing of me.
Admittedly, if your idea of fun is crashing house parties, trampolining in the dark, making out with random guys on someone's sister's bedroom floor, avoiding peeing for 12 hours for fear of tripping over a vomiting teen or getting stampeded by a naked sauna party, catching a group of strangers playing catch with your boxers, eating cornflakes in bed after waking up in last night's eyeliner at 1pm, spending the next night clubbing until 2am in indecently small hotpants, debating whether or not you'll regret kissing jailbait the next morning, eating cheese in someone else's trackies at 3am, dancing for an hour with a group of girls in bunny ears, narrowly avoiding getting puked on by a wasted old flame, stealing people's phones and reading their dirty texts, witnessing your best mate lose their virginity a few feet away from you and ending the week hiding in someone's bedroom with a random group of kid's discussing the weeks bedroom habits, you would've found my half term ticked all of the boxes. Me? I'm bloody exhausted.
Why is it, when I have a day to myself, I always long for this sort of scandal, but when I find myself exhaustedly weaving through heaps of stoned/wasted/naked people, and puddles of vomit/blood/semen, I long for one day off?
Not only have I been out partying and clubbing every night, I've spent my days waitressing. It's been a full house every lunchtime, so I've been up to my eyeballs in cappucinos and overpriced light bites.
By the end of this week, I'm crawling into bed at the pathetic time of 11pm, but still find myself hungry for the next party. I'll never learn...