JustClingingOn💗[Part 2]
Slice of Life - Queen of The Night - Confessional🍷🎧🤍
If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout
Dear Chasers💗
This is not your usual newsletter from me where I try to write something interesting about a particular topic. This is the second part to my previous newsletter so it's not exactly a standalone newsletter but can be read without having to know what's been said before.
If this page looks familiar to you in any way then maybe you have read the first instalment of this little series where I travel deep into my psyche going over past and present experiences and write about my thoughts, feelings, memories - if that’s even possible - we are talking about a women who left the house today wearing her headphones forgetting to take her phone for the music!
I do have terrible long term memories problems too. It’s not just age and a brief history of substance use that causes my memory loss. It’s a possible disassociate identity disorder symptom also. I mean, between you, me and the door knob - I wake up feeling like I own precisely four timelines of memories.
For an entire four decades of living ridiculously the memories I have are minimal except when writing them out. Things I could have said in one word I would write a drabble (exactly 100 words) instead. I know I am very long-winded, and yes, it does wind me up too even as much, or more than, it might irritate my readers too.
I’m just living in hope that other people may have more focus than I do. Enough to concentrate on the information / story without thinking , the same as I do, “Fuck this…”. Big apologies in advance. I also would like to slip in here a little
*Disclaimer* this is not a tale with an ending, conclusion, purpose or meaning.
It is me unravelling my brain and tapping into one of four timelines:
Before & After My First Love.
Hedonism, Hysteria & Career.
The Dark Days -Suicide & Schizophrenia; and finally
The Boring Present - Middle-aged Chase! (who doesn’t know her arse from her elbow when it comes to remembering anything).
The Origin of JustClingingOn💗 is going to be a regular feature and will give me a chance to try and rediscover who I used to be, where I came from, how far I have come, who I am now and what the fuck I want to be when I eventually decide to grow up!
I have no idea what I will talk to you about in this second session writing sprint but if you’ve read this far then why not stick around with me a while and read on.
This isn’t a planned piece of writing of work. It has little structure and might sound elementary level (USA opinion) and ‘fucking shite’ (UK opinion) both would be an accurate analysis.
It’s alright to say those things, I just appreciate you taking the time to listen to be talking. I’m far from educated and reading my written stuff can be a bit of a slog. I am so thankful for you being here with me and it is sooooo nice to know that at I, not sure about you, I am in good company! Thank you so much xoxox
This is ME looking so peaceful and content in my own demonically sweet little way! I think its a great cover for a horror story. Only this isn’t one of those. This is part self-exploration, part memoir and mostly a confessional work of non-fiction. True Story.
The Origin of JustClingingOn💗 started out as an eBook which I have decided to continue writing as a regular topic on this newsletter.
F.A.U.L: “Do You Dabble In The Darkside of House?”
I remember sitting at my new computer in the 1990’s it wasn’t a mac or anything like that. It had a huge monitor like a portable TV with a wide ass back on it. I swear you could stand a large potted plant on top of it (of course I didn’t do that it would be quite reckless if water were to get inside).
I didn’t own any plant life and besides I almost learnt the hard way when a friend tried to balance a pint of beer on top one day. He was there looking over my shoulder, asking what I was typing or who it was that was typing back to me. I was a regular in the Yahoo chatrooms and now finding my feet on MSN messenger too. Proudly, I began to tell my friend all about the man behind the screen. My secret lover to be!
I knew this instantly the message popped up on screen, “Do you dabble in the darkside of house Chasey?” I knew he meant drugs. I knew I had just fallen in love. He was a DJ with long SPIKEY hair. After what I’d been through - this was my idea of perfection. This was the First Love and falls into the timeline between Before & After. I guess if I am remotely interested in recounting my life in a linear construct then the right place to start would be here.
In the BEFORE section I wont always do it in order.
I’m a struggling mood writer. I can only type what I’m feeling and if I try to type something else. It turns out worse than this. Plus, I like to enjoy a small part of the writing process. Many of us like to say we enjoy writing, but some of us, me included don’t always enjoy the process as much as the ‘having written’ part. There is a women writer who said such a thing and I heard the quote which resounded within me.
Then my magical memory once again erased all necessary and important information like; the quote itself and who fucking said it! The other thing is that I live in a sometimes volatile environment with a partner who can be a bit of handful (that’s what she said wink wink) at various levels of annoyance on the days or evening when he is binge drinking.
I am lucky enough that this doesn’t happen so often as before our Carnivore Diet started. Now, he rarely drinks alcohol but tonight whilst I am writing all of this out, he is twatting my head with bellowing noise and distractions, building up my stress levels because I am 100 percent sober so him talking a load of BS is irritating and saddening.
It makes me feel like I am so old, so boring. Don’t put me in the position of party pooper (especially as he refuses to allow me to join in the drinking or anything!) Please don’t make me be THAT girl who has to complain about his behaviour or try and calm down the situations that he is creating.
For fucks sake dude. All I want to happen is you do you and enjoy yourself, I love you. Just please don’t get all upset when I do me. When I want to write. When I have not written anything since early this morning. When you have had my attention all day and now I am losing patience with you because I am worried about my writing deadlines, and I haven’t been relaxing or doing the one thing that zones me out into a comfortable state of mind sometimes. Most of the time. All I want to do is to write. I am going to have to cut this one shorter than I expected but I will continue the memory from where I left off here, in my next instalment.
I love writing in a darkened room lit solely by glittery lava lamps anyone who is lucky enough to be invited into my home come in from broad daylight and think they’ve walked into a dungeon they’re probably wondering what the hell is going on it looks so orange and red in here I might be developing photographs or running a brothel
Bus Stop Wanker & The Sex Cafe
I can’t do it to you! The title has a partial relevance to this story but is no way near as exciting as it sounds. I think the title rocks but I cannot live up to it. So it is a bit clickbaity.
I had recently come out of a situationship (at the time I called it ‘making my bed now I must lie in it’). I thought I was being accountable in scraping together a relationship that started as a drunken shag with the guy my BEST FRIEND wanted to get into. I was 16 years old when me and my best friend Jessica went prowling the town on a night out for the first time.
I wore a strangling tight boob tube around my flat chest which did nothing for the look I was actually going for. I looked like a pigeon chested lolly-pop serial killing vampire. I blamed the cloak. I chose it instead of a coat. Fur-trimmed flimsy waste of time as I was fucking freezing. The pants I wore (to make me look classy) instead made me look like a pipe-cleaner, that doubled with my height. I must have cut for a sore sight. I felt dashingly perfect at the time!
We went dancing in all the clubs we could get into. By the end of the night I was tired and bored and I hadn’t pulled (no surprise!) so we gave in and went to sit at the bus stop opting for the night bus over a taxi. The queue for the taxis was so long and I guess we were hoping for a last minute hook up, so our chances were enhanced with the bus option as some fit lad could be on there.
It all happened too quickly. I was sitting minding my business. I see this harry potter looking older man wearing Wrangler jeans and looked excitedly keen to lean in and chat to my mouth. I pulled my head away and without a second thought I’d rejected what might have been my only one chance to pull. Thinking that might be the case, in my lack of self respect and desperate need for a shag, I turned back around to give him a chance - but he was gone!
The seat was empty again. I Scanned around for my friend. Jess was up on the side of the bus stop being swallowed and almost rugby tackled into a grope and a kiss by some short arse guy. I felt happy for her. Also, gutted for me but then I seen it. It was only the same guy who had come over to me. Great. Anyway, I wasn’t bothered. I just wanted to go home or somewhere warm. Jessica comes running over.
We’re all going to the late night cafe on Piccadilly approach. It was a good walk away from Piccadilly Gardens. All the way over near the train station. I was about to tag along as a third wheel. I could always buy a bag of chips and wait in the cafe part while the HP dude took Jess downstairs into the labyrinth underneath the cafe that housed toilets and a bathroom in the basement big enough to be Man United’s changing room.
It’s where loads of the clubbers would go to have one night stands. It wasn’t such a bad night after all because Jessica hardly ever pulled (neither did I but I wasn’t as upset about being an un-pullable. It did get Jess down though and tonight she needed a boost in confidence). It was a big thing for her tonight. I knew how much she wanted to do this. I wasn’t certain but I thought she might still be a virgin.
Our friendship had spanned and existed since Nursery School (in the UK back in the 80’s that would have meant ages 6-8 and then Primary School 8-11 years). We separated during high school as it was difficult for us to hang out when she was in different sets to me and I never turned up for school. I used to go down to the reservoirs with some other friends and smoke a lot of weed.
I loved it back then. Has smoked since I had been 9 or 10 years old. The weird thing is - it was, otherwise innocent, Jessica who had taught me how to smoke. First time hiding in the back alleys lighting a cigarette I almost choked. She was a professional smoker at this point because of the frequency she had been doing it with her older sister. At this stage she was buying and smoking even in private and alone. That’s how you know you’re hooked.
I was just starting out. Walking the neighbourhood with Jess and if I saw an older boy who I thought was hot, I would say “pass me that cigarette and pretend with me”. She’d hand over hers over for me to hold up near my mouth and stroll past the lad. I couldn’t take a ‘pretend’ toke on it because every time I had tried that, I’d almost dragged my arsehole up through my throat. Coughing.
Just when I was looking forward to that bag of chips and sitting in the cafe bit of the building on Piccadilly approach. When out of nowhere Vin fucking Diesel’s lookalike struts right up beside me, clasps onto my elbow and leads me forward, too fast but still following behind my friend and her 'ride’ for tonight. Turns out Vin D’ had a little D that wasn’t up for getting up. I sat on his cock reverse cowboy and did my slow grind, hard rub, fast fuck.
Nothing got it up. I couldn’t even blame my face for putting him off. I put it down to him having had too much. Not drink or drugs. He possibly had both. But in my head I’m thinking “well, that’s what you get for taking too many steds!” (steroids). Gym buff that can’t fuck. Well dude, you’ve just missed out on the fuck of your life. All these thoughts going around my mind. I was very confident. Creeping into my mind came that inner critic.
Whispering; “Its your fault. You’ve got no tits”. If it wasn’t for the loud panting and sex noises coming from the other side of the room, I would have gone round and down a rabbit hole of blame.
Jessica had a good time. I didn’t get my bag of chips. I was so pissed off with the muscle man that I suggested he pay for the food. “I wasn’t hungry anyway!” my headstrong teenage girl thoughts rationalised. My confidence hadn’t been knocked enough by the incident. As long I kept up the pretence that I too had a very fantastic time in the loos.
He wasn’t my usual type anyway - not then not now- I’d only gone along with it because he’d swooped me off my feet nearly - literally! grabbing me by the elbow like I was under fucking arrest. Oh! How charming. I wasn’t easy I was only 16 and I can’t spell the word I need so I’ll choose to say I was - fucking stupid! I couldn’t bring myself to say I had been quite envious and self conscious that I had missed out or worse still, nobody like me enough to take me somewhere and fuck me.
That’s all it was that’s all I was after at that age. Never ever had any form or sexual relationship before. Intimate relationship. Any relationship at all. I mean, I hadn’t even been given a starting chance in life really had I? I hadn’t known my mum, my dad was crazy and preoccupied with his real kids. The chosen family. I wasn’t a choice. I was a living breathing mistake. Well, fuck them all. I grew up to be an independent, cold-hearted, dead inside, fitness freaking QUEEN OF THE NIGHT. On the inside, and in my soul, I wasn’t just fucked in the head. I was hurting. I was dysfuntional. I was alone and scared and incomplete. I was missing everything. I refused to look for love or affection. I knew my body could get me attention and sex was the only currency I had.
chaseydelaney7@gmail.com