Skype: Not For Drunk People

Herein lies the confessions of a late night skypeoholic and very public apology to those who happen to have had the misfortune of crossing her path.
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Herein lies the confessions of a late night skypeoholic and very public apology to those who happen to have had the misfortune of crossing her path.

My Skype obsession started some 4 months ago when, after a lengthy session of chatroulette, I found myself embroiled in regular online banter with a rather cute American boy. Charmed by the fact he hadn’t got his cock out within the first 5 minutes of us ‘meeting’, our worldwide (web) pseudo relationship began. Here, we’d spend hours gazing into each others’ eyes, fantasising over the ‘what if’ prospects of him coming here for passionate unadulterated sex and possibly marriage. This was all fine until he started to talk flights. Needless to say we don’t Skype anymore.

But, with his departure (or should I say deletion) I was left with a massive Skype shaped hole in my life. I was addicted, everything in Skype world is perfect, you can preen yourself to within an inch of your life, and then sit there cheeks and stomach sucked in, feeling like you’ve entered your own little reality television show. I was having withdrawal symptoms and I found myself scrawling through my contacts when I saw him. Let’s call ‘him’ Mr.X. Mr.X and I had a brief fling some 4 months ago, I say brief fling, we’ve met once, for less than 24 hours.  He lives in LA and I live in London, the reason I like to tote for our ‘romance’ not having gone any further; it definitely has nothing to do with the fact that I am a crazy psycho bitch who only seems to contact him after consuming enough alcohol to sink a ship.

My first attempt at skypeing him was disastrous. I rolled in at 4 in the morning and sent him a message which simply read “Sykpe? x”, I was so drunk that I then proceed to throw up out of my bedroom window passing out shortly afterwards like something out of a Brits on tour documentary, forgetting all about the message. But that’s the problem with Facebook it stores evidence, unlike some of the other crap that came out of my mouth that evening there it was in the morning, in black and white. His reply “Tipsy? X” sent me into meltdown. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck you can laugh this off just make a joke out of it, it’s fine, so I did and it was (aside from my battered ego), until last night.

Unfortunately, I’ve already taken off my going out clothes and am wearing my pyjamas, the top of which seems to on back to front.

It was 6 in the morning and I’d just got in when I decided to send him another message; “x” it read. Just like his name. I send this simply because I am far too sloshed to think of anything more coherent and needed to eliminate the possibility for a second set of spelling errors. He replies “I’m on skype”. Well blow me down and call me Charlie this is exciting.

I can barely contain myself. “This is it” I think “Be sexy”, I grab my laptop and stumble through to the living room. Unfortunately, I’ve already taken off my going out clothes and am wearing my pyjamas, the top of which seems to on back to front. I’ve also taken off the false eyelashes that, earlier that evening, I had so carefully fixed to my eyelids so I have to do a quick patch up job with some liquid eyeliner, red lipstick too, seems, through the vodka haze to be a monumentally good idea. The result leaves me looking something akin to The Joker from Batman. On a normal day I wouldn’t even let my closest friends see me looking like this let alone some guy whose bones I might potentially want to jump.

As I pop up online X opens the conversation with “Ha ha You crazy”, could this all be ok? Could he be drunk too? I mean no one says you crazy right? Wrong. They do and he isn’t. He video calls me, and there I am in all my pissed up glory on camera for the world (him) to see. My hair is so erratic I consider telling him I accidentally stuck my fingers in the plug socket, I don’t. Instead I spend the conversation flicking it around like a bloody horse. The aforementioned badly chosen, and applied, lipstick seems to clash with the aforementioned badly chosen Pyjamas. I wrap myself in the only thing I can find; the leopard print throw which usually adorns my faux leather sofas, I look like Pat Butcher on heat.

Any normal self respecting human being would just go to bed. But I don’t. I change tack.

I start talking but I seem to be missing words. I know, I think, I’ll just make jokes by insulting him, so I call him a “cunt”, he doesn’t look impressed. I’m flailing. He starts smoking. I study myself hard, attempting to be cute but I look more bunny boiler than bunny. I think I’ll smoke too, it takes three attempts to make a cigarette as every time I go to roll I flick the tobacco over the top of the Rizla and into my handbag. I forget my ashtray and nearly set fire to my polyester covering. All is not going well. I think he’s laughing at me so I try to play it cool, blowing my smoke at the screen, in my head I look like a 40’s silver screen goddess, in reality I look like the bag lady who pushes her dogs around Clapham Common in a push chair singing to herself.

An hour passes, I cover every topic of conversation I shouldn’t from a blow by blow critique of our last encounter, to who I’ve been dating since we met, I’m about as attractive as Kerry Katona after a six hour coke binge. And then it happens “I’ll call you back in a minute” and he’s gone. Stay calm Olivia, ten minutes passes, then 20 then 30. I’m left with three choices; 1. Go to bed, 2. Call him back, 3. Write him some melodramatic whiney crap in the hope of getting some reaction. So, I started with some melancholy bullshit, you know the self-deprecating rubbish you start spewing when you know you’ve just pushed it that little bit too far. No response. I get panicked. Any normal self respecting human being would just go to bed. But I don’t. I change tack. I ask him if he’s getting naked. That’s right. I ask him if he’s getting naked. What the fuck do I want him to be naked for? So I can look at him, sit there showering myself in tobacco as he bashes one off. He doesn’t reply.

Then he’s gone. The cold light of day is shining through my window, ok it’s May, it’s pretty warm but the image needs to be bleak. I think I might be sick, no, not because of him, but because of the 3 slices of bread I decide to consume in my post-conversation gloom. Now I’m fat and drunk. I convince myself he’ll come back, I turn the volume up on my computer ready to jump back to instantious fabulousness at the sound of a message. It doesn’t happen. What actually happens is rather more atrocious; I go to my options, I look for blocked users and I re-add the American. Waking up the next day I have a terrible feeling, I want to say it’s guilt but it’s not it’s excitement. The thrill of the addiction (I’m also still a bit drunk). As I half walk half crawl down the stairs to my housemates bedroom I know it’s time to admit defeat; announcing as if I was in the technological version of AA “Guys, I have a confession to make, my name is Olivia Foster and I think I have a Skype problem.”