Making Ties.

making ties and breaking ties.

It's 10:04, it's Friday, it's 30th May (YES, WHAT? Where did May go?) and I'm screwed in every kinda sense. As I lie on my bed, seemingly the only neutral safe-house in my colossally-messy room. It's like a bomb hit twenty years ago, and the inhabitants just didn't clean up, ever. Holiday clothes are thrown around my four walls with reckless abandon, as if in a desperate attempt of artistic license, rather than the reality; that I'm being a slob.

So, where's my destination? The White Isle, of course. Cue the horrendous attempts to sing along to Vengaboys with alcoholic beverages in our clutches. Ibiza. Take two. It's funny. Last year was my first 'proper' girls holiday, and it's really weird to look back and realise the changes that have occurred. I've never really noticed, but, as I look back, a mere maybe 10 months, the changes appear crystal. My wide-eyed look comes to notice that said changes have crawled sneakily out of the woodwork of my life, and nestled themselves comfortably beside me.

This time last year, I probably could count my ties on one hand. As I was planning a holiday, everything went chaotic, and the strain was too much for some friendships to handle. While some ties were severed, others were made and celebrated. In that sense, I mean, the people I was really close to. The special people in my life. The ones I'd hold onto, not with entwined fingers, but clutched fists. The people I'd walk over broken glass for, run into a burning building to save, ultimately, the ones I was unprepared, and unwilling, to live without. Ten-(ish) months later, my ties are cemented in a truly different pattern. My friends are a different group of people. My close group of friends has expanded, and been truly tested through some bad times, as well as good. My ties seem to be barb-wired, rather than haphazardly flung together with frayed pieces of string.

I also have a really special tie. If it were a real, physical tie, in a suit-and-jacket-kinda-garment, it would be the brightest ever. The jazzy, jokey one. With some crazy pattern all over it, but not verging on garish. It would be the one you'd want to wear all the time, but it was expensive, so you sometimes think it should be kept in a fancy box in which it came. It's silk. It's gorgeous. It's the best fucking tie you've ever owned, and as you run the material through your fingers, the texture excites you in a way that nothing ever has before. It withstands all weathers, it doesn't fray or break. It's a constant. A feature you always want to show off. A tie everyone likes. And moreover, you love it. You love this tie more than anything. You trust this tie. With your life. Your family. Your hopes and dreams. Your tie knows more about you than you know about yourself. Your tie is wrapped in gold and you wear it around your neck with pride. With absolutely everything. Even if it doesn't go with that dress, obviously. It's sewn together with passion you can't even comprehend. But y'know the best thing about this tie? It's all yours.

Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Private Practise.

Okay, I never really do this, but today, right now, I am. Evidently. Sorry, that was deadly obvious. Literally, seconds ago, I watched the last ever aired episode of Private Practise. It's kind of broke my heart, and left my chest with a gaping grief-ridden chasm where all my favourite characters used to be. For anyone who doesn't know, Private Practise is a US medical drama, originally marketed as a spin-off from Shonda Rhimes' very successful Grey's Anatomy. I first started watching Grey's by accident, but then, I fell into the trap. Someone mentioned Private Practise and I just became obsessed. More intimate than its counterpart based in Seattle, Private Practise is set in sunny, dreamy LA, where the sun always shines, and there's a constant backlog of patients for the doctors involved.

I won't give anything really away, because I hate it when people do that. With a PASSION. There's nothing worse than someone who is very adamant that they need to spoil your favourite television programme for you. I could stab those people in the eyes with very sharp pencils, and they still wouldn't get their just deserts. All I'll say is this, it's more than worth a watch. It will draw you in almost immediately. The storylines are brilliantly written, the characters are unbelievably well thought out, and honestly, I've seen every single episode, and each one leaves me with a different feeling, and yet, a more familiar one; every time the shot fades, the camera pans and the credits roll, there's something I always think:

'I wish I'd written that.'

 

 

With every ounce of my being, I love this programme. It's like my baby, my happy place and the thing I go to when all I need is comfort and to shed a few too many tears. Admittedly, it will make you cry, it will make you laugh, and more than likely, it'll make you go through a 'I want to be a doctor' phase, (but then again, I went through all that in my Grey's addiction.) So, it's brilliant. And my one true talent in life seems to be gushing about things I love (hey, could be worse, couldn't it?) As you can guess, I'm feeling a bit lost now. The final credits began to roll and I wanted to shout out and scream a negation of sorts, something to stop the end, cling onto the characters and envisage a new, perhaps more fitting, more satisfying ending for me. I can't remember the last time I was so attached to a programme, or so invested in it's characters. Private Practise has at times, been my salvation, and other times, my suffering. Lots of snacks, black coffee and tears later, through six whole seasons, two name changes, thousands of confessions, tense moments and happy celebrations. Here we are. The end is nigh. I'm blank, numb, empty. This is how all the best shows should leave you feeling; if they don't leave a bitter taste of nostalgia in your mouth, they haven't been worth the time.