I spend all my time trying to convince myself I'm better, that I've conquered my demons, but Tix's death is proof that sometimes people don't recover. There are so many things I miss about Tix I can't hold them all in my head at once.
I miss being the only person who could touch her, I miss our middle-of-the-night chats, I miss coming up with fictional scenarios in which hot and/or famous men are forced to confess their undying love for us. When Kester told me the bad news one of the first things I did was imagine my own funeral. A funeral in which:
- Finn would make a very public and emotionally devastating vow of chastity because sex with anyone else would be "against nature".
- There'd be a floral shrine so large that the borders of Stamford and eventually Lincolnshire have to be redrawn.
- News of my demise would reach Damon Albarn who, catatonic with grief, composes a song simply called "Why?"
For a moment I felt pleased that I'd stumbled across THE ULTIMATE FICTIONAL SCENARIO for tortured declarations from popstars, but then I remembered that the only person who'd appreciate my discovery was the one person who couldn't: Tixie.
Dear Future Sibling,
Mum says your brain is now the size of a small Maltesar, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to fill it up with some sisterly advice: NEVER DATE SOMEONE MORE ATTRACTIVE THAN YOU. Yes, he might have exactly the same taste in music, he might own the greatest arse in the history of arses and his fingers might do things to your lady-clam that you didn't think were possible but if you're a "four" and he's a "ten" then it's never going to work. If you're wondering why I'm crushing all your hope before you're even born it's because 1) the world is a cruel place and 2) I'm already annoyed at you for ruining my future lie-ins, interrupting my future meal-times and stinking out the future house.
Some more bad things for you to not look forward to:
- Your second name will be Bouchtat.
- There's no way you're not going to have a problem with food. You don't even have genitals and already your mother is comparing your head to confectionary.
- Britpop will be over by the time you're sixteen. This gives you nothing to live for.
On second thoughts, perhaps you'd be better off staying in your amniotic sac. At least you can't meet, fall in love with, fail to have sex with and then DUMP the most heart-achingly perfect boy since Jason Donavan from in there.
There have been many times in my life where I've said something I knew I was going to regret. I knew I was going to regret telling mum she looked fat in a swimsuit the day before we went on holiday in 1989, I knew I was going to regret telling Chop I could "definitely" drink twenty-five Snakebites in a row but what I didn't think I was going to regret was telling Lois that Archie likes boys.
In fact, I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that thought Archie might fall to his knees in relief, kissing my feet like they do in the Bible and films and stuff. I thought I was going to be a hero. Instead he made a face like a sad puppy and hasn't talked to me in days.
Telling Lois the truth was supposed to prove what I've learnt from my days of hell with Stacey and her fem-bots, but now I'm starting to think that the only good thing about this week is that I'm now an expert in girl-speak:
What Stacey Says
What Stacey Means
|Is that a new tracky top?
||You actually paid for that?!
|I wish I didn't need moisturiser.
||You could dress salad with the oil from your face.
|Why haven't we met your boyfriend?
||As if you have a boyfriend!
I wish we always heard what people mean instead of what they say. Perhaps then Archie could see I didn't mean to hurt him. Perhaps then he wouldn't be angry at me.
If you'd have told me two weeks ago that my lady lumps would soon be the cause of someone else's relationship break-up I'd have spewed up my lunch in shock. When you're sixteen stone so much of your time is spent wondering if ANYONE, ANYWHERE will EVER want to kiss you that you don't imagine that someone (Liam) might risk death at the hands of a proven psychopath (Amy) to do it. So why don't I feel good at my unexpected promotion from college joke to Overlord of Horn?
Perhaps it's because the "alpha female" section of my brain has shrivelled and died through lack of use. Perhaps it's because, by telling Amy about me and Liam, I've become every girl I ever hated who walked off hand-in-hand into the sunset with someone I fancied. Or perhaps it's because my best and oldest mate got bitchslapped standing up for a kinder, nicer version of me who doesn't exist. I suppose it's ironic that I spent so much of my childhood fantasising about hurting Chloe, only to feel like utter arse-juice when it actually happened. Or maybe that's karma. I don't know. Either way, I just want Chloe to forgive me so that we can go back to pretending that she's the bitch and I'm the nice one, instead of the other way round.
So many bad things have happened this week I can't even process them, let alone write them all down on the same page. Normally when I feel this low Kester gets me to write a list of all the good things in my life, but if the last few days have proved anything it's that Kester cares more about getting his end away with his new woman than he does about helping his patients. So, just to spite him, I'm going to write a new kind of list, detailing all the ways my life would've been better if I'd been brought up by a different family. If I'd been brought up by my dad, for example:
- I'd be able to drink red wine without looking like a twat.
- I'd be able to smoke pot without fear of curfews.
- I'd be able to drive a vehicle with more than two wheels.
- I'd be able to stop Finn leaving.
- I wouldn't get locked in bathrooms with strange men.
- Chloe wouldn't call me frigid.
- Izzy wouldn't cheat on Chop.
- Liam wouldn't ask me to keep my top on.
- Mum wouldn't hate me.
I'm going to stop now, Diary. This new kind of list hasn't made me feel happier at all. Let's not tell Kester, okay?
Any bog-standard therapist will tell you that the basis of all good human relationships is trust. You can have all the other things but if you don't have trust the relationship will crumble and, Diary, I don't trust you anymore. True, we've had our ups and downs. I liked you/me when you/me said I was funny or had great taste in bands and disliked you/me when you/me said I was fat or repulsive to men, but now I see I wasn't hating you/me enough. I'm not just fat and repulsive, I'm a terrible friend as well. If you go to the library in Stamford and head for the aisle by the toilets you'll find a whole load of books about "self-loathing" and how to "vanquish it".
People with name like Barbara or Tony tell you to embrace your "authentic being" and stop hating yourself, but what if some people deserve to be hated? You wouldn't tell a serial killer to forgive himself, or the guy that invented the atom bomb. So why should someone who left her best friend in the hands of a coked-up twenty-four year old called Ian forgive herself? Seeing myself through Chloe's eyes has made me question the whole point of this diary. Don't hate me if I don't come back. I'll probably have moved into novels. At least they'll have more truth in them.
Sorry if my handwriting's gone a bit off-piste but last night I experienced a sex-quake so powerful I'm still feeling the tremors today. I've wasted five pages of this notebook experimenting with every possible combination of the words "FINN", "ME", "SHAGGED" and "AND" and I still can't believe it happened. Yes, Diary, our bodies were united for a whole seven minutes of amorous congress and nothing terrible occurred. I'm so relieved I want to shout it from the rooftops or hire one of those banners you attach to planes. Who'd have thought a girl who couldn't look at herself in the mirror six months ago would now know what those women's magazines mean when they talk about a "considerate lover".
If Finn had paid any more attention to the needs of my pleasure garden it would have fallen off. In a way, I wish Liam had been there. Not in a creepy dogging kind of way, but in an uplifting inspirational kind of way. For my shagfest with Finn is definitive proof that people can change and things get better. Happiness isn't defined by the way you look, it doesn't just happen to people who are under nine stone, it isn't reserved for the pert-boobed and the great-haired, there's someone for everyone. Even if you're sixteen stone. Even if you're mad. There's a Finn out there for you. All I need now is for Karim to take a third job and buy me a car. Then, diary, I could say I was truly content.
You may think that I still look 100% fat and at least 90% mad but LOADS of good things have happened over the last few weeks. No one burnt me at the stake when I told them about the psych ward, the weather's finally turned hot and I may finally have a love interest who's not gay! If it wasn't for college looming on the horizon, life would be the best it's ever been...
Sadly for me, Chloe's perfect good looks and sexual magnetism have not magically disappeared over the summer which means I'll be entering college in my usual role of “the fat one”. If we hadn't been best friends for longer than 90210's been on telly, I'd have killed her out of jealousy by now.
The most mouth-watering sex god in the whole of southern Lincolnshire with a face so delicious it makes my lady-parts well up just thinking about it. Have been living in a state of agonised lust ever since he suggested he liked me (!!!) by writing THAT THING on my back...
Former object of my all-consuming but tragically unrequited love, he has now stepped in to the new but no-less-important role of “Secretly Gay Best Friend”. A musical genius, he can turn a hip-hop classic into an acoustic explosion of pant-wetting coolness like no one who's ever existed.
Chop's new relationship with Izzy doesn't seem to have mellowed him, which is good because it means I still have someone to drink thirty gallons of Snakebite with, but is bad because we still have to listen to jokes about his penis 24 hours a day.
Never the brightest bulb in the chandelier, Izzy's brain seems to have been further pickled by the sickly-sweet juice of her and Chop's love. It's a good job we're friends with her for her unstoppable loveliness rather than her ability to count upwards in threes.
The leader of a terrifying group of girl-bots who roam around college exterminating anyone who shows the slightest sign of weakness. Queen of the put-down, captain of the hockey team, owner of the most pert arse in history, she is obviously my natural born nemesis.
Still confined to the psychiatric ward, Danny's obsession with headwear shows no sign of slowing. I don't see him as much since I left, but I guess that's the inevitable consequence of getting better. Maybe some friendships are confined to the ward too.
New recruit to Kester's band of fuck-ups and misfits, he somehow manages to make being mental look cool. Hates college with a passion and loves to eat multiple packs of sausage rolls in one sitting which, let's face it, makes him the male version of me.
My therapist continues to veer between being the most irritating person ever and the best thing that's happened to me. I read somewhere that only truly mental people become therapists, but I'd much rather divulge my innermost secrets to someone I've literally had to pick up off the floor than someone who has never cried alone in their pants.
Mum has finally entered full-on midlife crisis mode by marrying her illegal immigrant boyfriend and crying whenever a mistreated animal comes on the telly. I don't know what this means for me, but I'm going to put all the chocolate in the house in a safe place in case the menopause causes her to lose it completely and eat it all.
Only days out of the mad house and already I'm being plagued by feverish Archie-related dreams. One of them involved me jumping his bones so hard he turned into ACTUAL SEX DUST. Worryingly, all of the rest featured me kidnapping him in a variety of ways and forcing him to be my sex-slave. Diary, you can never accuse me of under-sharing. Climb into my mind and be glad you don't have eyes, for the heat of my lust would undoubtedly melt your retinas.
1) I'm lurking high up in a tree with an Archie-sized net. Just as he comes into range my branch emits an ominous creak and all 25 stone of us comes crashing down onto Archie's head. He dies, horribly.
2) By way of a trap I have ordered a life-size cut-out of Pamela Anderson and am hiding behind it in the leisure centre car park, waiting for Archie to come out. One look at her boobs and he comes running over, only to be taken out by a speeding van. He dies, messily.
3) I am inexplicably dressed as a panda, the least sexually vivacious animal on Earth. Archie stops to ask me why I'm dressed as panda when, out of nowhere, a real bear comes charging down Stamford high street and mauls him. He dies, painfully and more than a little confused.
I'm not great at interpreting dreams but it seems that any attempt to take Archie out by force will only result in his untimely destruction. Perhaps I should stick to more legal methods of seduction.
I've been masturbating for a full nine-and-a-half hours now and no sign of stopping. Think I've got that repetitive strain thing in my wrist and my fingers are wrinkled like prunes. It's BRILLIANT. I feel on top of the world. I feel like I could do anything.
I feel like Noel Gallagher must've felt when he finally decked Liam with that cricket bat. Okay, there was one hairy moment when Karim came downstairs for a glass of water at 3am (WHY?) and saw me watching a VHS of "The Lovers Guide" but I told him it was a type of traditional British dance and he seemed to accept it.
God knows what they get up to in Tunisia. Feel much better about Archie since I've passed through the orgasm gateway. All the BEST WOMEN have had their tongue inside a gay man. Accidentally flicked on to some dodgy satellite channel at one point and saw a bloke sticking a cucumber up another bloke's anus.
Have made a mental note to tell Archie when the time feels right. Might even tell him about my voyage down the river of feminine discovery. There's nothing to be ashamed of; I am proud to be one of those women who KNOWS HER OWN BODY. If anyone reads this, however, I will KILL MYSELF out of embarrassment. For real this time.
In Year 5 Mrs Dent asked us to draw our "perfect friend" on a piece of paper. I drew a fat blob with four sticks for arms and legs, barely visible beneath the blob. Mrs Dent said that was wrong. She said you can't draw your perfect friend because you should like people for what's inside, not outside of them. But she was talking shit.
Because every girl that's ever been mean to me was skinny. Hop aboard the shame train, diary. We're about to travel back in time. First stop, 1989. We're learning about weapons of mass destruction in school. Sinead Peters says in the event of a nuclear disaster she'd hide behind me because not even sub-atomic particles could possibly penetrate my blubber.
Everybody finds this hilarious. Next stop, 1993. It's fancy dress day at school but predictably, I've forgotten. I turn up in my own clothes and in front of all the boys Hannah Matthew asks me if I've come as Robbie Coltrane. It doesn't even matter that nobody watches Cracker, she still gets a laugh. Thanks for that Hannah. Oh look! Finally we've come full circle to our last stop, 1996.
Yesterday. And it's all still happening. I'm still getting tormented by people who weigh less than 9 stone. I wish my shame train could mow them all down. It wouldn't take much, they snap easily.
You have joined me at a momentous time. This time last night I had an ACTUAL piece of boy-flesh in my bed. Okay, so I didn't tell Finn I liked him, and his grandmother had just died so he wasn't feeling horny, but he still ended up LICKING-DISTANCE from my FACE. Finally proof that I'm not wholly repellent to men!
So get ready diary, because you're about to be hit by Rae Earl's top three pieces of seduction information. Prepare to be floored, you're about to descend into a sex-advice coma.
1) Never accept dating advice from Danny Two Hats. The man wears two hats. This should tell you all you need to know.
2) All hugs can be turned into sexy hugs. Even sympathy ones. The person you're hugging doesn't have to know you've turned it into a sexy hug. But you have.
3) Family bereavements, whilst tragic, are the perfect excuse for a sympathy hug. And that's never a bad thing; see above.
My first task as goddess of horn is to KEEP FINN AWAY from Chloe's manicured harpy claws.
Some bad stuff has happened and I don't feel like writing today. So I'm going to let Mandela the Bird do all the talking. Over to you Mandela: Hi there, I'm Mandela the Bird. Please forgive any mistakes; I've never written a diary before because I am a bird. What's going on in my life? Not much because I am a bird. I'm stuck in the dump that is Lincolnshire, but I don't mind because I am a bird and I don't know I'm destined for wider horizons. In fact, I don't mind much at all, being a bird. I wouldn't mind if my mum was getting married to a French-speaking body-building Tunisian she hardy knew because I am a bird. I wouldn't mind if my suck-ass hypocritical therapist expected me to unload all my embarrassing baggage but won't open up himself, because I am a bird.
I wouldn't mind if my infinitely more attractive friend got off with the ONLY boy EVER in the WORLD for me, because I am a fucking bird. I wouldn't mind if I betrayed my only true friend by forgetting my dinner-date with her and making her EVEN MORE sick than she already is because I AM A FUCKING CANARY! A CANARY!!! I'M A CANARY!!
Diary, it's Rae back again. I'm not sure I like Mandela the Bird. He seems full of viciousness and hate. He certainly won't be invited back for another guest slot any time soon. Maybe he should see a bloody therapist.
I've got a bit of a treat in store for you today. This treat comes in the form of a "Big Fuck You" and the "Big Fuck You" is dedicated to the women in the "Before and After" section of Slimming World circa 1995. Let me give you some background. About eighteen months ago Mum went through this bat-shit phase of cutting out all the "Amazing Transformation" parts of her diet mags and plastering them over anything delicious in the house. Looking at those women with their razor hipbones and sparkling new jawlines made it easier for Mum to lose weight. It made me want to sit in a vat of butter and eat fourteen pies. But a lot has changed in the last few months, diary, and now Rae Earl wishes to smack you round the face with her very own "Before and After" section:
|Six Weeks Ago
Yep, well observed. I'm still fat. I'm still mad. But I survived. PLUS I made friends, got drunk, got seduced by a gay man in a swimming pool, went to a rave, got hit by a car and spent 30 seconds in a cupboard with the MOST HEAVENLY MAN ON EARTH.
And that has to count for something. Diary, I think I'm improving.