If you are having trouble adding the new address to your Google Reader some have found that this works.

Copy/Paste the URL from the RSS button on the new site into the subscription tab in Google Reader. This should then, hopefully, reveal the new site.

Thanks for your patience and let me know if you’re still having problems!

If the links are not working for you, delete your temporary files and then it should be fine.

If you’re having any problems getting through, please email me hopedlast [at] gmail [dot] com and I will try sort it out.

Thanks muchly,

Hope

x

January’s man was a mistake but for all the right reasons.  He was interesting, so funny and sensitive. We were friends, we got along famously and are still friends now. From the very beginning, I could sense (but never quite put into words) that the major reason he wanted me was because I was there . At the end, I realized that the reason I let him into me was for the same exact  reason. Loneliness, I have found, is a force that can override all our real wants, our most wishful desires. We can convince ourselves that this will do because the alternative–long, unforgiving nights–is terrifying.

To continue reading this post head over to http://hope.gr

And subscribe, bookmark, tell your friends.

It’s fiction.

I really hope you like it.

P.S If you’re reading this here, please remember I have now moved to www.hope.gr

Its been such a battle. Between the design studio that did not fulfill its obligations and my own arrogance that I could do it myself, its taken a full year to make my dream a reality. And finally its here.

www.hope.gr

The delightful and hugely talented –Ms Cina–is the illustrator of the gorgeous header and footer. Thank you so much, Cin! But I couldn’t have done this without my brother. Early on in my DIY process, I recognized that while I love technology, my brain could not compute HTML and CSS. My brother–who is not a web designer or developer–stepped in. For eight months he listened to what I wanted and quickly and quietly learned to do it. T, you are my hero.

I’ll be double posting for awhile until I sort out all the kinks. So, update your readers and bookmarks and stuff. And then I demand that you head on over there, de-lurk and let us know what you think.

But wait! There’s more!

As if this is not exciting enough, today is also the launch of a new collaborative STOG. Five Bloggers. Five Photographers. Five Stories. Peter (and Jen) start off the festivities with this piece.

Now skedaddle.

You can find me over at Indie Ink today, pseudonym-less  and all.

…it is highly unlikely that I would go through with a one night stand, every night before leaving for drinks I tidy up my flat; in case the unpredictable happens.

…the light is green, I check both ways before crossing.

…I hardly cook for other people, I invest time in finding the right recipe for the right person. I invest money in serving bowls and gorgeous plates. All in case I became a regular on the dinner party circuit.

…I want to tell my ex-affair-er all the reasons that I don’t respect him anymore,  I don’t. In case, we get back together. And then I would just look like an asshole. (To myself).

…I live alone, my flat has enough seating for thirteen people.

…I don’t get naked  and horizontal very often, I have a strict wax appointment. You never know, right?

…there is no rational reason I would get a text from a certain someone, each time my phone beeps late at night I wait ten minutes before checking it. So as not to seem desperate. In case, The Universe keeps tabs on the level of desperation emanating from a single woman and then purposefully does not give her what she wants.

…I have no use for beer in my fridge, I keep it in there.

…I really don’t like pointy witch heels anymore, I still keep them in my shoe closet.

…I am starting to think that all those men who let me go, lost more than I ever did. But I still don’t want to know it in case the mere admittance that I have abhorrent taste in men may bring another one into my life.

What are your ‘just in case something happens’ quirks?

It was all said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone; I did not want The Universe to hear me and then reward me with my very own self-fulfilling prophecy. There are times when all I want is to be is right. And then there are times when I want to be as wrong as torture. This was one of those times. I jumped from my rented seat at their table and turned to face his enigmatic smile. Was this the mischievous grin of a player? Was it the uncomfortable smirk of a nice guy in an awkward spot? I don’t know.

(I don’t even know the reason I am analyzing a smile.Oh wait I do. Because I can.)

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Back to my table so that you can sit.’ [Singular. I refused to acknowledge the tall, leggy, blond, red lipped warm blooded woman standing directly next to him.]

I returned to my side of the bar and quickly decided that my only mission for the next hour would be to not look in his direction. I was successful for exactly one minute and 34 seconds. My self-control is NOT what legends are made of. I dropped a paper cut thin glance at him. At the exact same moment, he dropped an even more casual, sideways glance at me.

Hook

Line

Sinker.

To say that his split second acknowledgment of me meant nothing would be a big, fat lie. Emboldened and uncharacteristically confident, I returned to his table ten minutes later. I conversed happily with our mutual acquaintance. I bantered with him–as we did during our entire affair. A pair of rams butting heads. Knowing that his attention was now reserved for another woman,  our past and present clashes felt playful not pathological. Up close his shiny lady-friend was less attractive than I had initially thought. To say that made me feel better would also be a big, fat lie. It didn’t. She is a woman; I am a girl. She has him; I don’t.

Without much fanfare, it dawned on me. All this time I have been avoiding, fighting, denying. I’m certain that you all probably know where I am going with this. This is how blind-spots work. Everyone else sees clearly except for the driver.

I fell in love with this man.

That night in bed I cried; a short drizzle but a cry nonetheless. It wasn’t a cry spurred on by pain, or jealousy, or unrequited want. They weren’t tears of self-pity or of desperation; of unfairness or frustration.

These were, at long last, farewell tears. A final nail in the coffin of not meant to be.

And with that I was free.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–like twenty–I would meet a boy, fall in love and live happily ever after. Then my father was killed and overnight I learned that love wasn’t straightforward at all. I learned that love lasts and even transcends life but love also hurts when the object of love is no longer there. For several years, my assumed life story altered slightly to include this fatalistic addition. Meet a boy, fall in love, live happily, he dies, I still love.

When I was in my early twenties I assumed that love would eventually come.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–twenty-five–I would meet a man, fall in love and (timing willing) have a long-term relationship. Then my boyfriend dumped me and I learned that I knew nothing about love. Love was a word to use in a moment. It was so meaningful that it became meaningless. Two years ago, my re-assessed life story was that I was not likely to meet my great love. (This was a relief because there was no chance of him dying on me.)

Now in my late twenties, l have no assumptions about love. I’ve made an ass of myself so many times that I’ve lost count.  I have no knowledge on love. I’m plain clueless.

All I know is that as a kid I thought it would be easy. I never expected that the road to love–or to like even–would be this complicated. I didn’t expect that there would be this many false starts. I didn’t expect that intentions could be shrouded in so much mystery that the process of finding love, once as exciting to me as the art of creation, would become a mathematical equation of mythical proportions. One that is frustrating and exhausting. The sheer number of variables in the theory of love are limitless.

And I’m no scientist.

I’m only a woman wishing that it could be a little simpler.

For everyone.

I received a phone call from a blocked number the other day. I thought it was you. For no other reason than if this was four months ago it would have been you. Two missed calls– blocked–one after the other. I racked my brain to think of an alternative. Who else would call me a little before 9 p.m? My bank–who also hides their number–don’t call that late to harass me.

It must have been you, I hoped. Or maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know.

Days later it occurred to me that it could have been Zara. Earlier that day I had asked for a pair of black boots. They told me they would call to confirm if they had them in my size.

Now a pair of black, flat boots that are not too pointy and not too round are hard to find and so naturally I was confused.

Did I want that blocked number to have been you? Or my boots?

There was simply no choice.

I wanted the boots.  I chose shoes over you.

I think we can now safely assume that in leaving me, you left me beautifully unbroken.

E