Last night was absolutely perfect. Death Cab were stunning. I was blown away by how good they sounded live, and the atmosphere inside Brixton Academy was brilliant. To be surrounded by so many people with the same taste in music was surreal considering almost everyone I have spoken to since have never even heard of Death Cab for Cutie. They literally took my breath away and it was by far the best gig I have ever been to.
Today was spent trying to keep my head up at work and trying to find someone else who knew who Death Cab were. It's 1900hrs and I still need to eat, but I have every intention of getting to bed by 2000hrs. I am exhausted. But just physically at the moment. Mentally, I feel good; I don't feel stressed or angsty (is that even a word?!) and I am relaxed. Probably the Beta Blockers, that. Tomorrow I'm up at stupid o'clock for 8 more hours of double-rate overtime and then a session in the gym. No rest for the wicked.
Annie brought up an interesting point last night. She mentioned the engagement ring I bought her, which she still has in her safe. I have always said to her I don't want it back, I wanted her to keep it. You know, think of me in five or ten years time when her life is miserable and lonely and remember how good she had it. Yesterday, she said she was thinking of asking me if she could sell it, and split the cash 50/50 to put in our respective savings (she is leaving for Australia in December). It's a difficult situation. The ring itself is worth around £1200 retail value. I'm not sure how much we would get selling it, but I can't decide if I'm comfortable with selling it. A ring isn't just an expensive piece of jewellery; it's a memento in the same way a photo or a family heirloom is. I'm not sure you can put a price on that.
Or is it? Maybe it is just an expensive piece of jewellery. Why keep it when Annie and I have very little emotional attachment? Perhaps it's just an unnecessary reminder of the past and how much has changed.
On Saturday night I met a lovely girl named Vicky. She is tall, glamorous, she's a surfer (which is really hot) and she seems very keen. One year ago, I would have already sent countless texts and organised a date (Hello Emma / Steph / Richaine!). But now, I can categorically say I have absolutely no interest in her, or anyone for that matter. She's a lovely girl, but I find that every other text I send her is in some way related to travelling.
"Oh I don't drive, I can't afford to run a car, pay the rent AND save for travelling at the same time."
"Saturday I'll be working overtime, you know, to pay for travelling."
"I'm not sure what I want to be. I just want to go travelling and hope I find my way during that."
"Oh I'm just eating meatballs and pasta. Your steak sounds lovely. I wish I could afford steak, but I'm saving to go travelling."
Granted, I should tell this poor girl I'm really not looking for anything serious right now. I should probably do that soon. I guess sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind and I need to let her know where I stand as soon as possible.
Plus she is freakishly tall. I'm maybe 6'2", and she is at least the same height as me. I could never date someone taller than me. I like a girl I can throw around abit in the bedroom, usually someone quite short and spritey.
I think if my friends and family knew some of the things I did with regards to saving, they would send me to a shrink. Here's a snippet. I have a budget of £1.50 for every evening meal I have. However, I like to keep this to around £1 a meal in case something unexpected comes up. I walk around Tesco working out in my head how much I have left to spend. I take a trip to Sainsbury's once a week just to pick up digestive biscuits because the pack is around 20% bigger than the equivalent packet in Tesco. Up until last week they cost 28p, but now they are 30p. I know that Tesco Value Baked Beans are fine, as long as you drain abit of the juice and add a blob of ketchup and mix it in. The Tesco Corned Beef Hash (5 for £4) is actually considerably nicer than the more expensive version, and I consider myself to be somewhat of a corned beef hash connoisseur. You cannot economise on toothpaste or hair products.
I also can't have the volume on the TV as an odd number. Unless it's a multiple of 5. Just saying.
So anyway, I'm going to try and not drink for the rest of July. I've drunk far too much over the last month and I have 83 days to get into 'naked butler' shape for Ella. I have Death Cab tomorrow which I can't wait for, although I worry Annie could completely ruin the whole experience with her incessant sulking and whining. We shall see. I'm hoping I wake up tomorrow morning with my 'optimistic' head on. And I'll wear my lucky boxers too. My shamrock boxers, seeing as I am Northern Irish. Primark. £1 in the sale. I'm classy like that.
I lied when I said I wasn't interested in anyone earlier. The cute foreign girl who works in the bakery stall in the Pentagon. I see her maybe once a week. She's a short funny little thing, maybe Polish, or Slovakian or something. Sean doesn't really see the appeal, but I think she's adorable. I imagine her name is Sara or Petra or something cute. Today Sean wasn't walking in with me (he was in Newcastle for a work meeting) so I was all alone, walking through the Pentagon. And there she is. Nobody around. And I bloody froze. You know in movies when there's that awkward nerdy guy that can't pluck up the courage to ask the girl out and everyone is thinking "Awww!!"... well this was NOTHING like that. It was savage and I am a sad, pathetic excuse for a man. I must have forgotten to put on my 'Barney Stinson' head this morning. It was the perfect opportunity to say hello, spark up a conversation, break the ice, but I just froze. Smooth.
A girl that can bake me Belgian Buns every morning, well, that's a keeper.
So I leave this post with a song. I think this is probably my favourite ever live performance, and love him or hate him, I urge you to watch this. Watch the video as well as listen to the song, because this is the song that nearly brought a fully-grown alpha male to tears. Nearly.
I work to live, I don't live to work. If I had a dollar for every time somebody told me I was working too hard, I would have enough dollars to pay for a fancy seafood dinner at the Barking Crab every night in Boston when I go there in September.
People have always said to me "Luke, it's not about the quantity, it's about the quality". So why is it so wrong that I am fully prepared to wish away the next 10 months in order to have the most amazing year of my life? Why are so many people completely content on having two mediocre years as opposed to having one dull year and one breathtaking year? Or is it all about instant gratification? Do ordinary people just live for the moment? Enjoy each day? Maybe I have it wrong.
I was speaking to my parents yesterday and I mentioned what I would do if I came back. That word. "If". I think my Mum was slightly shocked to hear me use that. I'm not sure she realises that when I leave for travelling, I do not plan on coming back to Kent. I might not come back at all. Who's to say that I won't fall in love with Australia and never want to return? Granted, odds are that I'll come back to the UK. I love my family dearly, and I know leaving them for travelling will be the hardest part.
Speaking to Martin in the Barbers, I didn't realise he had similar thoughts flying around in his head. He wants to be a Miami Muscle-head. Sure, I don't think he's looked into it in as much detail as I have, but the idea is there. Which reminds me, I must keep up-to-date re the Green Card Lottery. I'm going to be all over that like a cheap suit. I love being born in Northern Ireland.
So I'll be putting in another 8-hour shift this Saturday, which means my 16 hours for July are done. It's likely I'll end the month on around 30, as I just can't bring myself to only doing 16. See, I have worked out this fantastic method of motivating myself: One hour of work on a Saturday pays for one day in Thailand. So effectively, for every overtime hour I work this year, there's another 24 hours I don't need to work next year. If my office knew I was jetting off, I would so have that on a Post-It on one of my monitors.
Death Cab on Thursday. If they don't play 'I Will Follow You Into The Dark' I think I will cry. I am well and truly buzzing.
Apparently they have loads and loads of flavours of Pop-Tarts in the US. We have Chocolate and Strawberry over here and they cost around £2 a box, which is fucking extortionate. If any of my lovely American followers can confirm or deny this rumour, I would really appreciate it. If the number of flavours reaches double figures, I'm going to cancel my return flight home from Boston. Or I'm going to order extra luggage allowance.
I found my identical hair twin. Finally. Novak Djokovic. When my hair hasn't been flattened with a beanie, gelled, or mutilated by a turkish man, it looks like Djoko's hair. Congrats to the man, he won Wimbledon AND he became my identical hair twin, all in the same week. I'm not sure what honour is more prestigious.
I have 85 days left to get back into pre-Magaluf shape, which means I'm back up to two large protein shakes a day and 3 large trips to the toilet a day. Great. I refuse to get back on the tuna though. Almost 2 years I had a tin of tuna every day. I am sticking to my Billy Bear sandwiches from now on thank you very much.
Sometimes when I write my Blog, I feel like the comedian Tim Vine. I feel like nothing ever really connects and I'm just reeling off random musings. If only I was as funny as him.
I'm home! Back to my all-too-familiar surroundings. My house, my bed (oh man, I've missed my bed!) and my neighbourhood. I feel absolutely disgusting. I have just returned from a week of solid partying and drinking and I am absolutely completely exhausted. I have a sore throat, a cough, a cold, my body aches, my right nipple has been bitten by a mosquito and swollen up, my skin is dry and my shoulders are peeling from the sunburn. So yeah, basically, I'm a complete mess right now. But boy, that was a fantastic week and exactly what the doctor ordered, although I can see myself having some serious holiday blues over the next week or so. I need to book up my flights to Boston ASAP so I have something to look forward to.
I have Death Cab to look forward to I guess. Although I haven't invited anybody, and I have two tickets. Part of me wants to invite Annie, because, well, it's Annie. Sure, she's a pain in the ass but at least I know it will be just two friends hanging out and I think she would really appreciate it.
So, my holiday was quite literally the most relentlessly fucked-up week I have ever had. From getting in a cab and driving half an hour away with two Dutch girls, to sleeping with a French girl I had only met half an hour earlier, to getting absolutely mortaled on the boat trip, to being dubbed the 'Virgin Slayer', it was one rollercoaster after another. And the 'Captain Cuddles' persona was born. See, there were a couple of girls I met on holiday who I didn't really want to sleep with, so we ended up just having a spooning session and chatting. Of course, the other lads mocked me, hence the moniker was born. 'Captain Cuddles'. Hey, I've had worse nicknames! And I do love a good cuddle.
So I got back today at around 1pm, and since then I have pretty much done nothing. Put a load of washing on, had a power nap and put the photos up on Facebook. I plan on spending as much time as possible this weekend sat on this very sofa. I have gaffer-taped the remaining cigarettes so I won't be tempted, and I'll pop round the rents tomorrow and give them to my Mum. No more smoking, and no more drinking, at least until the end of the month. I don't want to see a San Miguel ever again in my life.
So now Magaluf is all done and dusted, it is all about travelling. Monday I'm back in the office and it's back to working my socks off and saving as much as possible. I need to take it easy with the anxiety and everything, but the way I look at it, it's not so much the amount of time I spend in the office, rather the amount of time I don't spend relaxing or enjoying myself. There's nothing wrong with living hard, but I need to make sure I go out and enjoy myself. Work hard, play hard. May next year I'll be jetting off to Thailand and I'm hoping the time will fly by.
Leigh was absolutely fantastic this week. We are very similar and we got on like a house on fire. I think it could be the start of a great wingman partnership. We both wear our hearts on our sleeves and we both like to talk about everything and anything. He really made a great impression on me, so I think that this new friendship is one of the best things to have come out of the holiday. "ROOMIE!!"
Anyway, emotionally, I'm pretty much void at the moment. I don't really feel like I have anything on my mind, perhaps because physically I am in such a state, I don't have the energy to do anything. It's nice to go to bed and not sit there and ponder the world. I feel like all I want to do right now is sleep, sleep, sleep. I'd say the last week I've averaged around 4 hours a day, split over two sessions. So I probably didn't hit REM sleep at all throughout the holiday. That's seriously unhealthy. It's now 12:25am and I'm about to hit the hay, and I don't plan on getting up anytime before 10am. It is going to be pure bliss.
