Treat my body like a guitar. [Let people use it parties]
Hello.
Getting kind of heavy. Working past midnight. Grunt.
Happily, was able to intersperse work with a pleasant meal in an unpleasant cafe, a spate of writing off-key messages on the back of an unwitting colleague’s business cards (ex: “I dream in colour”; “Touch me”) and watching a creditable double-whammy of Meg Ryan getting hit by a car and Nicholas Cage giving up eternal life for one poor shag with the aforementioned mop-head.
Who says remakes are entirely rubbish?
Most actual drama recently has been inter familia and can only be referred to obliquely
Not good at being oblique.
Attempt at obliquitude number one:
Years and years ago, I had this girlfriend who had a dad who was more than a little bit psycho.
He:
a) tried to make my girlfriend feel guilty about all the terrible things she would do only to hurt him like, oh, having friends, occasionally laughing, not wanting to travel the 6 hours home from uni every weekend, menstruating, etc.;
b) tried to get me kicked out of university;
c) tried to get my dad fired;
d) would ring up my parents at 4 in the morning and hang up;
e) follow me and his daughter to and from classes in a car with blacked out windows;
f) illicitly obtain my friends’ phone numbers;
g) phone my friends and threaten break their legs unless they disclosed her whereabouts;
h) get his wife to phone my friends pretending to be a friend of his daughter’s and asking them to disclose her whereabouts;
i) etc.
Essentially, it was utterly crap, drove us both a bit loopy and upset an awful lot of people who had phuck all to do with the situation anyway.
The point of mentioning the above is a situation developing in Stamboul that bears some striking similarities to it. It centres upon not I, for once, but rather my sweet and lovely cupboard elf whose ex-nutter is stalking about the place and making a general nuisance of himself.
He rings her constantly (I mean like a dozen times a day at least and not just from his phone, but other people’s too and as well as manipulating others into calling on his behalf) to – among other things – guilt-trip her over her abandoning him while he is grieving for his long-dead dad.
His latest innovation is to try and get her new/my address by asking people he doesn’t know to give it to him so he can send flowers.
Worst of all, I made the STUPID mistake of attempting to engage with him – I was a bit pissed – a few days back and have been rewarded with a threat of violence upon my person and with the honour of having entered his perverted social nomenclature [pronounce it like an American and it sounds less poncey] as “that aggressive guy my ex lives with who is keeping us apart”.
That kind of flip-round, ‘I’m the victim here’ crap sprinkled with manipulating others into doing his dirty work from a base of sheer, pathological persistence is EXACTLY what the ex-girlf’s-nutter-dad would do.
For – I schit you not – years.
Creepiest of all was that when we spoke he had this uber calm way of repeating “what you don’t understand is that [thingy's name] is mine”. Like in TOO sane a voice, you know? The adoption of which does not suggest so much as screams that in his world view there can be only one eventual result and that anything in between is just time-wasting and other people being needlessly and pointlessly obstreperous.
Anyway. Not very oblique.
On a tangential note, one of my current bosses told me in the summer that persistence is the signal characteristic of the male Turk’s approach to wooing.
He went into some detail explaining that the standard modus operandi was to get your number and ring and ring and ring and ring until your only option is to give in or to stop using your phone.
Not that it ends there.
He said their persistence was such that he knew someone who had been living in Istanbul, foolishly gave her number to one of these chaps, reaped the resultant telephonic whirlwind, stopped using the phone, left the country, returned to visit two years later, figured she’d use her old Turkish mobile to save money, switched it on and received a phone call from her old stalker within hours.
They eventually ended up going out.
And therein lies the explanation of this weird-ass stalkerish behaviour: it gets results.
This was heartily and laughingly endorsed by the two females who were present, one Turked-up at the time, the other in remission.
The two then related anecdotes about how they had eventually been swayed by the pure persistence of Turkish guys they had given their numbers to, despite ignoring the calls for in one case weeks and the other months.
I LIKE it when the horn go.
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