So. It appears I have a blog now! Hooray!
Hello! I'm Electra. The more cunning of you may have realised that this isn't my real name. I lied. But you're not going to get my real name out of me, so you'll have to make do with this one. I like it - it sounds like I should be able to shoot lightning from my fingertips. Alas, this is not the case.
I've given other people I write about suitably flourishy code names too. Like spies, or secret agents! Woohoo! =D
So, who am I? I'm a pansexual, polyamorous, kinky, cis-gendered girl, and generally have bright, unnatural-coloured hair. I'm slowly collecting piercings, and hopefully will add some tattoos at some point in the future when I've decided what exactly it is I want. I'm a teeeeensy bit indecisive... *coughs*
I graduated in 2011 with a Drama degree, and am now debating what to do with myself. This is my blog. So there! =P
Monday 14 March 2011
A little too much...
I wrote this post over a year ago, and my life has changed so much since then. I keep debating whether or not to keep it here. I'll leave it in for the time being.
The other night Boyfriend (who shall be known as D'Artagnan for the purposes of this blog) and I had some friends round. He's moving house soon, and decided that we should try and finish all of the mostly empty bottles of alcohol so he doesn't have to take them with him. We sat around chatting, watched things on youtube, at one point I spilled rum on myself and decided that the only solution was to take my trousers off. Not change them, or sponge them down. Just take them off. And I sat in my knickers for the rest of the evening. Luckily we have understanding (read crazy) friends, who decided that I shouldn't feel along in this trouserlessness, so took theirs off too. So, we were enjoying a mature night in. Without trousers.
Anyway, much game-playing and youtubing later, the alcohol suddenly hit me. The room decided to spin maliciously to try and stop me getting to the places I wanted to go, and my stomach felt like it was trying to escape out of my throat. I ran to the bedroom and sat on the floor next to the toilet (he has an en suite - there isn't just a toilet in the middle of the bedroom) , for what I'm told was about half an hour (though I swear it was only a few minutes). Boyfriend came in and asked if I was okay. Suddenly I decided that I was definitely not. I was convinced that I would fall asleep, throw up, choke on my own vomit and die. Boyfriend assured me I would be fine - people had been drunk before, he said.
'Yes, b.. but... you'll fall asleep and then I'll throw up and die!' I slurred, while whimpering.
'I won't, I promise. I'll stay awake and make sure you're okay.'
'No, but... you'll stay awake and THEN you'll fall asleep and I'll die! I don't want to die!' I snuffled.
'I don't want you to die either. I'll make sure you don't, ok?'
'But hooow? When you fall asleep I'll die and you won't be able to do anything about it and you'll wake up and I'll be dead!' I cried between snuffles and whimpers.
I don't know how he managed it, but Boyfriend put up with this for about half an hour. I had snot and tears running down my face, and was hanging on to the loo for dear life, all the while accusing him of being about to fall asleep and let me die.
He stood me up and I clung on to him, wobbling away back into the bedroom. He lay me on the bed, put me in the recovery position and lay behind me so I wouldn't roll over onto my back. I didn't notice any of this at the time, instead leaping out of bed every few minutes because I thought I was going to be sick. Every time I'd come back to bed, Boyfriend would do his recovery position thing to keep me from dying, and I'd leap out a few minutes later.
Suddenly it was the morning. I was lying in bed, and wasn't dead. I was so happy! I've never woken up and been so happy to not be dead before! I hadn't even thrown up the night before, and was so grateful to Boyfriend for putting up with me rather than just telling me to shut up and stop being an idiot. My stomach thought I'd been an idiot though, and didn't stop letting my know that all day by carrying on making me feel queasy and ill, but I didn't care. I dragged us all outside for a walk in the park in the sunshine to celebrate being alive and skip accross the grass until I was once again reminded of the queaseyness and stopped for a few minutes, feeling sorry for myself.
I think the exessive happiness vs. moaning about my stomach and queasiness must've irritated my friends, but they were good enough to ignore me and pretend everything was ok.
***
The other night Boyfriend (who shall be known as D'Artagnan for the purposes of this blog) and I had some friends round. He's moving house soon, and decided that we should try and finish all of the mostly empty bottles of alcohol so he doesn't have to take them with him. We sat around chatting, watched things on youtube, at one point I spilled rum on myself and decided that the only solution was to take my trousers off. Not change them, or sponge them down. Just take them off. And I sat in my knickers for the rest of the evening. Luckily we have understanding (read crazy) friends, who decided that I shouldn't feel along in this trouserlessness, so took theirs off too. So, we were enjoying a mature night in. Without trousers.
Anyway, much game-playing and youtubing later, the alcohol suddenly hit me. The room decided to spin maliciously to try and stop me getting to the places I wanted to go, and my stomach felt like it was trying to escape out of my throat. I ran to the bedroom and sat on the floor next to the toilet (he has an en suite - there isn't just a toilet in the middle of the bedroom) , for what I'm told was about half an hour (though I swear it was only a few minutes). Boyfriend came in and asked if I was okay. Suddenly I decided that I was definitely not. I was convinced that I would fall asleep, throw up, choke on my own vomit and die. Boyfriend assured me I would be fine - people had been drunk before, he said.
'Yes, b.. but... you'll fall asleep and then I'll throw up and die!' I slurred, while whimpering.
'I won't, I promise. I'll stay awake and make sure you're okay.'
'No, but... you'll stay awake and THEN you'll fall asleep and I'll die! I don't want to die!' I snuffled.
'I don't want you to die either. I'll make sure you don't, ok?'
'But hooow? When you fall asleep I'll die and you won't be able to do anything about it and you'll wake up and I'll be dead!' I cried between snuffles and whimpers.
I don't know how he managed it, but Boyfriend put up with this for about half an hour. I had snot and tears running down my face, and was hanging on to the loo for dear life, all the while accusing him of being about to fall asleep and let me die.
He stood me up and I clung on to him, wobbling away back into the bedroom. He lay me on the bed, put me in the recovery position and lay behind me so I wouldn't roll over onto my back. I didn't notice any of this at the time, instead leaping out of bed every few minutes because I thought I was going to be sick. Every time I'd come back to bed, Boyfriend would do his recovery position thing to keep me from dying, and I'd leap out a few minutes later.
Suddenly it was the morning. I was lying in bed, and wasn't dead. I was so happy! I've never woken up and been so happy to not be dead before! I hadn't even thrown up the night before, and was so grateful to Boyfriend for putting up with me rather than just telling me to shut up and stop being an idiot. My stomach thought I'd been an idiot though, and didn't stop letting my know that all day by carrying on making me feel queasy and ill, but I didn't care. I dragged us all outside for a walk in the park in the sunshine to celebrate being alive and skip accross the grass until I was once again reminded of the queaseyness and stopped for a few minutes, feeling sorry for myself.
I think the exessive happiness vs. moaning about my stomach and queasiness must've irritated my friends, but they were good enough to ignore me and pretend everything was ok.
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