I've just watched The Beach (horrible, horrible film, full of perma-tanned arseholes) and now I want to go to Thailand and have sex in a coral reef and dance like a loon. I'd go if it were not for the following things:

* I've spent the past three months adjusting to a world without anti-depressants, and I am not at all comfortable with reality
* I hate flying
* I have a morbid fear of malaria, cockroaches, drug barons and all the other things which make Asia such a magical place

I'm at that horrible stage between feeling better and wanting to do things, but not really having the confidence to do them. I've decided to take another year out from uni. The last one didn't really go as planned, I spent six months on tablets thinking I was the king of the world and could do anything, and the last four realising that this was all lies, and in fact the wrong type of weather can send me off on a major panic attack.

This is what I want to do over then next year:
* Get on a plane. Go somewhere exotic. Eat. Drink. Sleep with French man. Bore people with stories for forseeable future
* Go out to classy establishments, not the pound a pint, ten to twoer, playing Steps without a hint of irony places I had been frequenting until it all went wrong and I became the hobbit hermit woman of Wales. In fact, going out at all would be good.
* Get interesting job in the field of social work. Cope with it
* Join some sort of hippy community and spend my days making mittens out of yaks wool which I will dye horrible colours and bully tourists into buying
* Become stable human being

So it was the 'gig of they year' this weekend. Seriously, that's what it said on the invitation. Mr Unsuitable got married. It didn't say that on the invitation. I was surprisingly self-controlled, wished them both well, made polite conversation, didn't make one single bitchy comment about the size of the bride's arse. By the time we got there everybody was hammered, but I didn't feel obliged to join in, and danced stone cold sober for possibly the first time in my puny life. With no shoes on!

My friend John started explaining the more intricate details of fantasy role play just as The Cure came on. My eyes were watering with the strain of not abandoning him mid-sentence and bouncing onto the dancefloor. I was going to request 'Love Will Tear Us Apart', but the DJ looked like a bit of a sociopath, and wasn't going to risk messing up his playlist. Plus it would just be sour grapes really, would it not? Unless everybody had decided it was ironic? Damn it, I should have asked for 'That Don't Impress Me Much' by Shania Twain.

Who was it that decided being hairy in unfeminine anyway? We are allowed to have copious amounts on our heads, but everythwere else must be waxed into submission. I spent so much time battling hair re-growth, and for what? The more I shave it, the more it seems determined to grow back thicker and blacker than ever. It's a government conspiracy.

After six months of being single, and it not living up to my expectations AT ALL (I really can't see the point of one nights stands. I normally only find it exciting to sleep with somebody if I've got to know them first and had a bit of a build up to the actual event. Bumping knees under the table and analysing text messages for secret 'he fancies me' signs is usually enough of a thrill for me in the first couple of weeks). Anyway, I met a really lovely man. I say met, I spotted him across the bar, got very drunk, and got my friend to ask for his phone number. I then pestered him into a date, and we slept together within three hours of meeting. I did say 'normally', not 'always'.

He is so pretty. I ca't believe he fancies me. And he's not my normal type, I think he last cut his hair for a school photo, and he smokes roll-ups, and all his t-shirts have holes in.

But while it's all going swimmingly, and we're skipping through daisy fields and snogging on buses, I'm also nursing an infatuation with a desperately unsuitable man. He is desperately unsuitable for the following reasons:

* He is getting married next week. I am attending.

Actually, that alone is a good reason, but I'm also pretty sure he has deep-rooted personal problems and is something of a fuckwit. This is definetely the reason I am attracted to him. In an effort to torture myself further, we're going to a gig in October, (I did invite his wife-to-be, but he declined the offer. I offered, HE declined) and am now entertaining fanstasies of doing unspeakable things with him in a dark, beer-splattered corner. Perhaps I will spike both our drinks, that way, I'll get to have my wicked way, and neither of us will remember? That does seem like a lot of effort though.

If this was MY dog and we crashed, and I was lying unconscious in the front seat, she would:

* Have a little nap
* Snuffle around in the back of the car for any discarded food
* Consume discarded food
* Throw up, probably into my lap
* Have another little nap
* When rescue arrives, bark ferociously, throw herself at car windows and
then hump a fireman's leg

Literally, anything this bloke finds, he puts up for sale. I had a friend whose dad found a dead goose on the side of the road, brought it home and made roadkill pie, and I thought nothing would ever beat that story. But then I heard that Huw had found an old shoe at the side of the road and it's now for sale in the window of his 'shop'.

I feel inspired to write my first ever blog due to a recent discovery which has given me my first ever epiphany. See how it's all coming together?

Whilst trawling a website which shall remane unnamed (it concerns an Australian soap popular with housewives, students and dole scum), I made a discovery which has rocked my world.

http://www.alanfletcher.net/waitingroom/index.html

I don't normally get the kind of hangovers where bright clours are painful (I don't even know if they exist, or people just make that up because they want to seem a little more hardcore than your average drinker. These people also normally tell long boring stories about traffic cones).