Poor little rich boy, you don't love your girlfriend

I managed to misplace my journal a week or so ago and after searching frantically for ages I found it again amongst a hefty pile of notepaper. I've been pouring just about everything that pops in my head these past few days into the thick pages of this journal. While I'm ridiculously glad to have it back I now spend more time writing in it than I do writing out my backlog of bed ideas. But I'm not going to push it. I don't work well under that kind of pressure. I need other deadlines staring me in the face to write productively. So I'm going to share a few of my musings with you, the internet audience.

I'm different, so men feel the urge to tell me. "Cat," they laugh. Or Kitty, Kittycat, Kitten, Cath (never Cathy). Catherine if I'm lucky or they've known me longer than 3 years. "Cat," they shake their heads. "You're mad."

"Oh, I am not," I protest.

Bail out. Salvage what you can. "Nooo you're not mad. I didn't mean that. You're...eccentric?" Weird? Unusual? Curious was a good one. Very Alice. 'Why Catherine, you mean to say you answer the sort of questions that men immediately follow with "of course you don't have to answer that if it makes you uncomfortable" instead of resorting to standard female response C: Blush, hit, 'oh I couldn't possibly tell you that!' Curiouser and curiouser.

One guy and one guy only has backtracked on the "you're not like other girls" as if he disliked using the cliché but I'm not sure what that meant or if he was just too drunk to make sense.

It all ends in the same conclusion: well you're not normal. I'm thinking about getting tshirts done. Catherine: Not Normal.


The water was fading from its initial burn as the last remaining drops of the hot water caressed her aching flesh. Carrie flinched at the sudden blast of cold. She should give up, trudge downstairs and turn on the heating advance. She had nothing else to do today after all but she did not move. Instead she let the stream bore an icy path down her back and wake her up from the dozy dream of denial. Carrie slumped against the blue tiles and let grief shake her body. She didn't hear the phone buzz angrily in the hall or her neighbour bang the wall before letting her visitor in with the spare key. She didn't even know John was there until her face was buried in his shirt and he held her despite the relentless shower which drenched them both.

"I came as soon as I heard."

"She's not coming back is she, John?" He shook his head and ran a large hand through her dark, matted hair. "She's gone."

Carrie pulled him down with her as the full extent of her loss hit home.


Not featured is a long complaint about Tokyo Mew Mew being a catgirl too far and a page devoted to Lord Byron. I love having my journal back. These are the things nobody else really wants to hear.