Does History Repeat Itself?

‘The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results’.

That quote has been attributed to Einstein more times than I can count, but nobody really knows if it was him who said it. Maybe someone just thought it up one day and decided no bugger would listen to it unless they claimed it came out of the mouth of someone notably intelligent. Whoever said it, they’re right. It is insanity.

I think I must be insane. I’ve made a very conscious effort of late to not repeat dating and relationship mistakes of the past. I no longer swoon over the tattooed musicians…ok, I swoon, but I don’t let myself get carried away…I’ve turned down every toy boy who has been brave enough to proposition me and I’m focusing on the mature, thinking man instead of the waster party boy. I feel better for it. I feel a sense of self worth and validation that, although I by no means rely on or need, puts a little bit of a spring in my step each morning. I am given a confidence boost in knowing that there are men out there who have shunned the slender, youthful 18 year old and who seem to be quite taken with this old, set in her ways battle axe. I feel attractive. Desired. Feminine.

Then I remember the last time I felt like this. The last time a man came into my life and offered me all the things I didn’t even know I wanted. The last time I contemplated anything more than a casual affair fueled by lust and misadventure. The last time I put faith in the words of a man.

Captain Cunt.

His presence hurts me no longer and his words faded from my memory shortly after that, but I am haunted by my own naivety in that situation. I gave in to the happy, lovely feelings of acceptance and belonging. I let myself believe that I was enough for a man to love, to plan a future with. I allowed myself a glimpse into the dream of happily ever after. It was all a sham. A great big, vicious lie that knocked me off kilter and permitted the harsh world access to all my vulnerabilities. He broke me, Captain Cunt. For a while.

So why am I now finding myself lifted, once again, by the words of a man? Why has he come along, as if out of nowhere, and shown me that there are good and true and honest people wanting to be in my life, to love me as I am, as someone who is good enough? Why am I finding myself believing him? I have tried so hard to be stronger, more resilient, less feeble minded and less trusting when it comes to the empty promises of man because it is so much safer for my heart to be that way. I am protected. There was a time where I believed that if a man betrayed me just once more, it would kill me. The pain would be too much. Not so much the pain of heartbreak, for I self taught the tricks to surviving that somewhere around my teens, but definitely the pain of not being able to trust my own judgement. The pain of being a failure.

I asked him if he was in a relationship. I asked him outright, with clarity. I assured him that if we were going to continue seeing each other and talking in the way that we have been, I needed to know I was not treading on another woman’s toes. More than that, I needed to know I was his priority and not just a back up plan. For my life to continue the way it has been, for my own personal growth and well being, I need to be special to someone. He told me how important loyalty was to him and that, having been hurt in the past, he was not the kind to play games. He said he would have pursued only a friendship with me and nothing more had he another woman in his life already. I come second only to his daughter, a position I am more than willing to accept. I believed every word spoken. Something inside me knew he wasn’t lying.

Then I remembered that I’d believed every word spoken of Captain Cunt too. And The One That Got Away. And The Tattooed One, The Junkie, My Father. I’d believed every word of every man I’d ever put any faith in and, as is the definition of insanity, I’d always expected a different result.

So I can learn from my past, from history, as it attempts to repeat itself. I can believe and I can be broken. I could also run for the hills and allow life to sweep me up without ever having to hear another word from the lips of this man who has turned my head. Indeed, I need never believe the words of any man ever uttered, ever again, but surely in doing that I am closing myself off to the possibility than one day one of these men may actually be telling me the truth? He, may be telling me the truth. Am I foolishly repeating past mistakes or does that genuine connection between two people, that feeling that you are walking on air just because they believe in you, really exist? Are some things worth the risk? And if so, is he one of them?

Update #78


This week the shamed dancing man had a fabulous party with lots of celebrity friends, Ireland became the first country to vote in favour of gay marriage and the kind hearted Sikh gentleman who removed his turban to aid an injured child was rewarded by his generous local community. There have been beautiful smatterings of love and goodness all around the world over the last few days proving that people aren’t always shit.

Sadly, I didn’t get the memo. Instead, I’ve been the girl your mother warned you about.

Some may say it started with my vodka induced manipulation and sexual bullying of poor Noel; a situation that has now been resolved thanks to Noel being a much better person than I and the fact that the kiss I forced upon him was actually pretty good. Clearly I didn’t learn my lesson, however, as the following night we ended up in exactly the same clinch outside the pub with only my miniscule remains of self respect preventing me from subjecting my dear friend to the same tongue and tonsils attack. I have resolved to not drink alcohol in Noel’s presence for the foreseeable future and will attempt to keep a metres distance between us at all times, at least until this crush dies down and the man is safe again.

After many, many months of convincing me that he sees me as much more than a fuck buddy I finally agreed to go out on a date with The Mountie. He picked me up and took me to a nice country pub where we chatted non-stop about everything that was going on in our lives and the world in general. The conversation even took a turn for the deeply profound as we discussed friendships, family members and general life troubles. I thoroughly enjoyed his company. He looked and smelled amazing. I ended the evening with a polite kiss on the cheek and thanked him for a lovely time. He looked like I had just kicked his puppy in the head. A couple of drinks and some decent conversation is not enough to re-open the pantaloons of Miss.Lola and the Mountie really should have known better.  At least now he knows he won’t be getting the goodies, he’ll stop barraging me with endless date requests. Why does this make me a nasty bitch monster, I hear you ask? Well the truth is, I know the Mountie. I knew exactly what he was after and I went out with him to prove a point more than anything else. I wasted his time with intention. Ha. No regrets.

I’ve also been shunning the adorably well endowed Weston recently. As far as I am concerned that little friends with benefits arrangement is dead in the water. I saw him the other evening, walking in the street with his ex girlfriend. They have remained friends and she knows all about he and I, but I appreciate that was an awkward situation for him. Still, it’s no excuse to completely ignore me. ‘What’s that Weston? You want to put your cock up my bum, but you’re not prepared to acknowledge my existence in public? Go fuck yourself!’

Then there’s Mr. Surprise. He has a calming affect on me. He says things that sooth my soul and reassure me that I am not a complete waste of space loon. He’s a gentleman, treating me like a lady. He told me I was his epiphany and that he knew within the first twenty minutes of talking to me that he was just going to adore me. He wants to know what date I am available for dinner. I keep avoiding the question. It’s not that I don’t want to go out with him. I really, really do. I just have so much going on in my head and in my life right now that I’m not sure I can handle a potentially mature, healthy, grown up relationship. That’s new territory for me! I’m starting a very intense journalism course this week as well as having to work twice as hard because I promised my son we could spend the summer helping rebuild Nepal, a promise I made even though I can’t afford one flight out there just yet, let alone two. And then there’s Noel. Even though that’s all been put down to drunken revelry, is it really fair of me to go on a date with one man when I keep thinking about kissing another? And as that kiss left me feeling a bit vile and rapey, should I be dating anyone when there’s that kind of beast lurking around inside me? Yes. These are all excuses. I know. I should go on a date with the nice, charming, intelligent, incredibly attractive grown up man and I should allow myself the warmth of his compliments and the pleasure of his safe and erotically charged embrace, but did you miss the bit where I said I am the girl your mother warned you about?!

So, for now, I will not permit vodka to make my decisions for me. I shall not seek validation and solace in the arms of men who are too good for me. I shall throw myself into personal growth and financial gain. I will be a better person. I will.

I Am Jack’s…


After last night, there is only one phrase running through my head. The phrase from Fight Club, uttered by Edward Norton’s character every time he is faced with an unpleasant emotion. ‘I am Jack’s…’

This morning, I am Jack’s raging bile duct. I feel sick. Sick at myself, ashamed, embarrassed. My wild and crazy side is usually a source of great amusement to my friends and I, but this time I took it too far. Or maybe I didn’t, maybe it was exactly how I always am after a skin full of vodka, but this time …

Ok. This isn’t making any sense. I’m emotional, hungover and rambling like a mad woman. Let me start from the beginning…

Noel. I adore the bones of this man and have never hidden that fact. The secret little crush I’ve harboured for him over recent months has remained just that, a secret, because I am more than fully aware how amazing he is and how utterly shit I am. Nobody wants a good, decent man to end up with an emotionally crippled basketcase. He is too good for me. I always knew this and I respected it. Up until last night.

Last night, for some unexplainable, unprovoked reason, I decided to just lay it on the line with poor Noel and find out if he was as interested in me as I was him. I was fun and flirty, but also straight to the point and left nothing open to interpretation. I was blatantly honest and wanted nothing short of the same from him. I thought I got it. I thought he felt the same. I thought the kiss was mutual.

I woke up this morning with a deep, intolerable guilt churning in my stomach. In the cold light of day and with better judgment than alcohol had permitted the evening before, I can see that Noel was, is, not interested. What I thought was him saying ‘yes’, was actually him trying to be extremely sweet about saying ‘no’. The fact that ‘No Lola, fuck off’ didn’t come out of his mouth was read by drunken me as ‘yes Lola, game on!’ I keep replaying the evening in  my head, cursing myself for all the signs that I ignored. He told me he was terrified of me. His friend told me he was terrified of me. I should have walked away and stopped being a drunken sexpest but instead I used that fear for my own personal gain. To get what I wanted. I wasn’t aware that that was what I was doing at the time, but that’s no excuse. I took advantage of the fact that Noel was too damn nice to reject me to my face and that makes me sick. I am vile.

I am all the things I hate about drunken, pushy, arrogant men on a Friday night out. I am the letch, the creep, the one who just won’t take no for an answer. I am the one who turns harmless banter into awkwardness and discomfort. I am the one it is safer to regretfully kiss, rather than deny. I am Jack’s raging bile duct, I am Jack’s waste of life.

So here is where I take an honest personal inventory. Here is where I stop drinking (again) and remember why I quit in the first place. Here is where I quit men and dating until I can fully trust myself again. Here is where I apologise to my friend and fully accept, with a heavy heart, his right to ignore it. I must remember how disgusting I feel right now, knowing that I am capable of bullying a man into kissing me, into feigning interest. I am terrifying and I am intimidating and that is not who I want to be. Most importantly, I do not want to use that against my friends. I am scum. I am Jack’s broken heart.

Not Quite Good Enough

I have noticed a shift in my friendship dynamics recently and it has left me with a feeling I usually associate with family members. The feeling that I am not quite good enough.

Firstly, let me explain that this post is not some bitter, jealous rant. I value the freedom to explore life and indulge in whatever I see fit and I do not resent my friends for doing the same. In fact, their independence and ability to make their own choices with confidence is a critical factor in what makes them my friends in the first place. I’m just sad that over the last few weeks I have not been one of those choices.

Robyn is currently in favour and I feel I am watching everything from the side lines. Adele sends humorous messages and snapchats to Robyn, but not me. Noel, Billy and Weston have all taken to contacting Robyn over me.  Even Samson’s brother, a former conquest of mine who tried with great gusto to convince me that an action replay should be on the cards, has now turned his attentions to Robyn. He even went so far as to message me on Facebook and ask my permission to fuck her. For the record, I told them both that it has nothing to do with me.

I understand her appeal. She’s young and beautiful, smart and flirtatious. I’m the old nag put out to pasture, good to keep in touch with because of the memories connected to it, but by no means something you want to embark on new adventures with. I have no mystique, no novelty. But knowing all these things doesn’t stop it from hurting. I’ve mentioned before how badly I cope with rejection, however it presents itself. Right now, I am not coping at all.

I don’t have a family I can rely on to offer support and encouragement. I have always been the black sheep, the one people apologise in advance for at family gatherings, the one people need to ‘explain’. I’ve never done anything to warrant this stigma, but by striving for individuality and not conforming to the social etiquette my family members prefer, I have indeed alienated myself. I feel no remorse for this. You cannot choose family and I feel nothing but slight disappointment that we were destined to be so very different. But I chose my friends. I chose my friends for their acceptance, their lack of judgement, their open mindedness and their understanding. I chose my friends because they make me laugh, know when to check on me and when to leave me alone and because of their tolerance for all my crazy. I chose them because of their loyalty. In return I can offer them very little, except my support, my empathy and my loyalty. I thought this was enough. Lately, I’ve realised it probably isn’t.

I know how silly and petty all of this sounds. I know that in the grand scale of things it shouldn’t be occupying any of my time, but I can’t help it. Eventually, one little jab of ‘not quite good enough’ here, followed by another there, turns into an avalanche of self pity in which I can wallow from and curse the world. It’s better to be alone and miserable by choice, than abandoned and repeatedly kicked with rejection, right?




(nŭm) adj. numb·er, numb·est

1. Deprived of the power to feel or move normally; benumbed: toes numb with cold; too numb with fear to cry out.
2. Emotionally unresponsive; indifferent: numb to yet another appeal.
tr. & intr.v. numbed, numb·ing, numbs

To make or become numb.

The events of last night’s ‘date‘ have been infiltrating my mind all day…and not in ways I am familiar with.

I am conditioned to believe that when a man arrives at your home in the early hours of the morning, despite what he may say, it is a booty call. He is expectant. Even if you have plastered the house with banners declaring eternal celibacy and are visibly wearing a chastity belt forged from impenetrable iron, my experience has taught me that he will still attempt to kiss you and cop a feel of your boob. Especially if this man has engaged in text conversations with you about expensive lingerie and your sexual preferences.

He didn’t try to kiss me.

He didn’t stare at my breasts.

He didn’t touch me, apart from several intense and all encompassing hugs when we said goodbye.

He sat next to me on the sofa, one arm outstretched, his hand resting slightly behind my shoulder but not making contact.

There was no obvious flirting and my inappropriate, risqué humour (my go-to method for knocking a man off his guard) was met with good humour but certainly not encouraged.

All I can ascertain from this is that he’d popped round on the off chance that I may still be as physically appealing to him as I was when were school chums but that, upon closer inspection of my middle aged spread and inevitable aging, decided against making any moves and settled for a half decent conversation instead. This I can accept. He has aged considerably better than I, finally growing into his tall stature, his shoulders broader, the arrogant swagger now more of a confident glide. He looks good. Really good. I don’t think I detected a single ‘laughter line’ on his olive skin. I, on the other hand, had greeted him in trackie bottoms with  my hair held off my face with the a clean red G-string (the only suitable elastic I could find during my mad dash to make myself look mildly presentable. I don’t think he noticed and to be honest, at the time I didn’t really care if he did). I’d applied a little eye liner to disguise the late night piggy eyes that had stared back at me from the bathroom mirror, but other than that I was completely make up free. Had he arrived two seconds earlier, I wouldn’t have even been wearing a bra. He had encountered me only one step away from being at my worst, so of course he didn’t find me attractive.

So why did he ask me out to dinner? Why did he call me on his journey home? Why did he tell me I had blown his mind and that he was worried he was going to say something that he probably shouldn’t? What does that even mean?! More importantly, why do I have no indication whatsoever of my own feelings for him? He was incredibly attractive, but I had no urges to rip off his clothes and straddle his face. Our conversation was intellectually stimulating and flowed with ease and he didn’t appear bored or intimidated by my interests in humanitarianism and world politics. An understanding of these issues and compassion for others is something I cannot compromise on when choosing friends and potential partners, so why am I not leaping around with boundless joy at how effortlessly he filled this criteria? Why am I not intrigued? Excited? Aroused?

Why am I just numb?

The Surprise Sunrise Date


He wasn’t a dickhead.

I expected him to be. His text messages and social media had all suggested as much. Even our brief telephone conversations had identified him as an ignorant bigot with a God complex. I only agreed to meet him out of obligation, an askew notion that because we’d spent five years at secondary school together I somehow owed him the opportunity to check in with me and share stories of our missed twenty years. I really thought he was going to be a dickhead. He really wasn’t.

Six months ago a friend request appeared on Facebook. I wasn’t jumping for joy about it but decided to accept, again because of that warped loyalty to people I’d shared my teenaged angst with. The private messages followed thick and fast after that, always with requests to meet up for our own private reunion, as well as rehashing past mistakes of drunken kisses in kitchens at parties. He seemed arrogant, constant in his desire to be told over and over again how attractive he was at school and how much I must still lust after him all these years on. I was polite to start with but then became indignant. He repeatedly attempted to make a date with me, always backing out due to a work or family commitment. I began to think he didn’t want to see me because I’d made it perfectly clear that I was not interested in him physically. I began to think that maybe he had a girlfriend tucked away, some poor unsuspecting soul who sat at home waiting for him while he ran around the countryside arranging rendezvous’ with old school crushes. I was never disappointed by his last minute change of plans. I always felt relief.

Tonight he called me. More promises of taking me out when he finished work. I agreed, knowing full well that he’d be calling again within the hour to cancel. That call never came. This time, he actually showed up.

By the time he’d finished work the sun had set and was preparing to rise again. The early hours of the morning are a friend to me, the hours where creative inspiration always strikes and my own solitude is a welcomed companion rather than a feared void of self loathing and doubt. He certainly wasn’t interrupting precious sleeping time as he stood on my doorstep at 3am but, if anything, I was a little irked at having this special hour interrupted by someone who was likely to bore me with fabricated stories of greatness while simultaneously dismissing all that I held dear. ‘A quick cup of tea, then he’s out of here,’ I told myself, ‘you owe him nothing’.

He wasn’t a dickhead.

I enjoyed his company.

I was impressed with his compassion, his knowledge of current affairs and eagerness to learn more. I was swept away by his fascination with me, the way he looked at me with such admiration and spoke with the taste of pride on his lips.

‘I’m not what you were expecting am I?’ I grinned, ‘were you expecting me to shove my breasts in your face and giggle in all the right places?’

He seemed offended. Could it be that the high school jock, the self proclaimed class clown and ladies’ man, had actually viewed me as more than another potential conquest?

‘I cannot believe how intelligent you are. How passionate you are, how driven. You amaze me. You’ve given me something to think about’. He gazed out of the window, only catching my eye by mistake as I stared intently at his face trying to figure out whether he was being truthful or was just a very accomplished liar.

He said he wasn’t intimidated by me, that he’d learnt a lot from our conversation and that he was disappointed in himself for not surrounding himself with more people like me. He said he’d always used work as an excuse to avoid people but that meeting up with me was an enlightening and positive experience. It encouraged him to make time for others, for me, if that was what I wanted. He asked if he could take me out for dinner.

He wasn’t a dickhead.

Vagina Appreciation Day

For blog newcomers who may not be familiar with the history of Vagina Appreciation Day, I recommend reading ‘My Cancer Story’, ‘How To Host A Successful Vagina Party’ and ‘Vagina Art’. For everyone else, here is a brief photo story describing the fun and games had at this year’s all girl party…

I was determined to make this year’s celebrations even better than before. After checking all the important ladies in my life would be available for our evening’s shenanigans, I set about the preparations. Some weeks in advance, in fact…


Can you guess what it is yet?! That’s right! It’s a giant papier mache cunt! The purpose of this crafting genius was to create a prize giving centre piece, known as ‘Pussy Pot Luck’. All my guests, upon arriving at the party, were invited to give my gash a good fisting and see if they couldn’t pull out a nice bit of party memorabilia.

‘Pussy Pot Luck’ was filled with lots of goodies, including copies of ‘The Vagina Monologues’ by Eve Ensler, the ‘Knocked Up’ movie starring Seth Rogen and this little lot…


After the initial meets and greets, my guests and I drank copious amounts of pink champagne and exchanged stories about awkward childbirths, micropenis’ and personal sexcapades. Because we’re all a bunch of bitches, there was also a fair amount of gossiping and some damn right hilarious impressions of mutually despised people. I’m not going to pretend we’re a calm, civilised lot with nothing but love in our hearts because we’re not. We’re fucking horrible most of the time. Oh, and we also drank through straws that looked like, you guessed it, ladies’ genitals!


Anyway, the evening progressed and we moved onto the pre-planned arts and crafts activities. Guests from lasts years party engaged in clay modelling, making lovely hanging vagina ornaments (Robyn) and practical ashtrays (Blue).



Others, like my dear pal Jemima, decided to run free with creative license and came up with Vagina Bear…


For the new additions to the Vagina Appreciation Day celebrations, the opportunity to ‘paint your cunt’ couldn’t be missed. Here, we can see that my fellow Franco fan, Amber, really embraced the beauty of her vagina as you would a beautiful butterfly,


Adele, on the other hand, was more abstract in her offering of ‘My Pussy’,


While we waited for the clay and paint to dry on our outstandingly impressive works of art we, unsurprisingly, drank a lot more! Pink shots of strawberries and cream liqueur with lashings of whipped cream were necked at lightening speed, pink pearl balloons were popped during drunken wobbles and energetic play fights, condoms mysteriously found their way into people’s drinks and the loud cackling laughter of eight inebriated women could be heard for miles around as we indulged in round after round of Cards Against Humanity.





By the end of the evening a fabulous time had been had by all and it was clear that we would all be suffering from unexplained bruising and killer hangovers in the morning. Particularly Jemima, who went from this…


…to this…


…in a surprisingly short amount of time!

Same time next year girls!