Friday, June 22, 2012

Excerpt 2: New York, baby!

Here we go - three years later, my attempt at writing the world's worst chick-lit novel runs on (not exactly) apace.

The first part is here.

To be quite honest, I don't know if they even call it chick-lit anymore. They did in 2009. I comfort myself in the fact that these things go in cycles.

This one goes out to 5X, who emailed me last night wanting to know what the fuck happened to Bryan? Well, I don't know the answer to that question yet, but my guess is that he's currently on his way to work, balancing a frappé and an Android. I'll get to him later.


Roisín gets the bill. She had left me waiting there, like a spanner on my own, but I know she wants to leave an extra large tip for Ramon, or a phone number, or both. Leave her off. She's loaded anyway.

So much to do, so much to plan, so much to think about. Is this the right thing to do, to just up and leave and say 'screw you' to that bastard, Bryan?

"He's such a dirtbag." I love him. "He'll break your heart!" I love him. "You so need closure, to get away, to blow off the cobwebs, forget about that prick." But I love him I love him I love him.

But enough. If he wants to screw around, let him screw around, two can play at that game, mister.

I hear from Maddy. She's in. "Fuck yeah!" she screams down the phone. Time off is never a problem for Maddy, she never seems to have 'time on' anyway.

So much to do, so much to plan, but we're going. I'm in charge of flights and I pick out the best deal I can find. Morning flights, ugh, but it'll be so worth it. Just means an early night and the girls will stay with me - we're not banging down Roisín's door at 5 in the morning, that bitch could sleep through a hurricane.

He's in there though, still needling away at my brain, with the goofy side that I'm sure he only shows to me. Sure he can be cold, and dismissive, and he can't keep his lad in his jeans for more than five minutes, but there's a reason to everything...

I check my phone, no missed calls. I think about ringing him to tell him to go fuck himself, or to call over, and I want to tell him what I really think of him but there's only one problem. I know what I think of him, and it isn't going to do me any good.

No, enough.

New York. New places, new people, just me and the girls and a sea of men who know how to show a group of three Irish girls a good time.

I may not even bring my phone.


Holemaster said...

You know I wish these types of Irish women spoke another language instead of English. They'd sound attractive and mysterious then.

Radge said...

I don't actually know if these women exist outside of my imagination.