Bittersweet chocolate revenge

Snow white skin and cherry bomb lips she enticed me
back to her four post bed; a princess on rumpled sheets
a tyrant on my hips
I’m conquered by smoky glances and sultry sighs.
“Trust me,” were her words
murmured through my beltloops,
whispered on my chest,
gasped in my ear,
begged in my mouth.
Implicitly, I complied.

Sunlight rouses me from dreams
of raven hair and alabaster flesh
laughter shakes me from sleep but
cold metal holds me still, exposed
to the man in the chair before me.
Laughing
he makes to leave
wipes the smile from my face
deadens the twist in my stomach
but last minute he turns
holding my dignity on a rusted circle; my jailor
lips curling in a sneer
as he snaps the key in the lock.
First my left, then my right
freedom was never as sweet as her snare.

FUCK
YOU
DAN
lipstick, scarlet hate on my chest.
i’m so sorry scott
black eyeliner apology on my thigh.
He shows me the door, an apparition
by his side blows me a red kiss, smears one on his cheek
and waves a diamond
goodbye.

“You got off lightly,” she drags him by his hair
“Trust me.”
I do.

No, Gandalf I expect you to die...

I slept in and missed the last day of seeing my history lecturer. Mostly because every time I rolled over to check the time I was faced with the shaving foam Julie had left beside my head and I mustered up a "Damn him" before going back to sleep. I did this at least twice before I made the effort to move it out of the way and reveal the disappointment as there was no way I'd make it to the West End in time this morning. Gutted.

I've got an essay to write and I haven't read the books. My god, who could blame me. Good old Cicero. One minute he's talking about all the terrible things that might have happened if Catiline had succeeded. Oh god not the virgins. NOT THE VIRGINS. And then the next he's talking about how amazing he is. Pages and pages of vanity. I'm not the biggest fan of rhetoric, lawyer twaddle really but rhetoric that's really just about how he wants to be remembered for all time? Ugh, it's bad.

However, better than Plautus. Things are funny because they sound like rude words!

Met my archaeology tutor yesterday. American woman studies Vikings. Made us write our names on folded pieces of paper and told us for the next 3 weeks we will be roleplaying. This whole course feels like a farce. Play acting archaeologists with no hope of free fedoras and whips. It's almost enough to make me pack it all in and fall back on English. Sure everyone was a pretentious twat and sure we spent weeks talking about things that actually had no relevance to anything and sure every argument I put forward was marked with a "Not really". Not really? My interpretation didn't match yours is what you mean to say...

Yeah maybe not.

Did I ever tell you how much I love Michel Gondry? Here is a reason why you should too. Be sure to search Youtube when you get there. He makes his own homemade version of his own trailer. ♥

Alas, I am a big gay

"Little red riding cat," My mum smiles at my blanket clad form as she prods at the cheese stuck to the toastie machine. My sandwich had exploded but she wasn't making me clean it since I looked so pathetic. I'm speaking too fast, too much like when I'm drunk or I'm going to cry. I lost track of my point a while back but I keep going and she gives me a look. Then I fell into the chair and pointed at some vague spot before me. "Blurry. Ow." Fuzzy squares encroach on my sight like a TV slowly losing reception. Sorry for the interruption but programming is finishing early tonight due to technical difficulties. Pain settles above my left eye and before I crash I wave a piece of paper in front of my mother.

"I wrote a poem."

It was partly to blame for the brain melting agony that shifted and swung violently with every step. But I made it to bed safe and sound. No, not safe. I writhe and curl up into a ball. I hate these. Most any pain I can handle if I try but headaches break me. I shut my eyes, try not to move and hope that when Julie goes to bed, she does so silently. No light, no noise, no movement. Don't even think too much. Don't shake the beast. My nose itches but the hand that moves to scratch it is gone. Lost all feeling. I panic. Panic moves the pain, I bit my lip to keep from crying out and I realise I can't feel it either. Slowly and yet suddenly the buzzy fuzzy awful spreads to half my face and I'm erased. I throw my head back and the pain is electric; she lives!

This is why I'm not the biggest fan of verse.

Now here's some reasons why I am dreadfully poor:


I bought art! From Perfect Stars if you are wondering, there's a link in my link list I'm sure. Not great pics but I was excited and sleepy and my proper camera broke a while back.

Combat baby

We, daughters of educated men, are between the devil and the deep blue sea. Behind us lies the patriarchal system; the private house, with its nullity, its immortality, its hypocrisy, its servility. Before us lies the public world, the professional system, with its possessiveness, its jealousy, its pugnacity, its greed. The one shuts us up like slaves in a harem; the other forces us to circle like caterpillars head to tail, round and round the mulberry tree, the sacred tree of property. It is a choice of evils. Each is bad. Had we better not plunge off the bridge into the river; give up the game; declare that the whole of human life is a mistake and so end it?

And 3 years later Virginia filled her pockets with rocks and walked into the river.

There's no way out, the only way out is to give in.

I prefer reading the literature of the dead. I read arrogant men and suicidal women. I love them more than I could love you.

I want to be wrong but
No one here wants to fight me like you do

I'm little red riding hood, gotta fight the big bad wolf. I've seen through his disguise. There's two pistols in my basket, I'm gonna shoot his big nose off. I don't need no woodsman to rescue me. Some romantic addition to tradition. His value declined when he offered his name. Round of metal between the eyes and the forest is mine.

Happily ever after ends with the ring on my finger. Commitment lasts too long. Your arm is heavy on my shoulders, holding me down. Lips on my mouth steal my words. You tell me how to dress, how to wear my hair, who I should see, what I should like. My body slumps in your bed. I'm your toy; I won't say no. Have your cake and eat her too. You don't know me. Ain't that funny. You don't know me at all. I curl in the corner with the knife in my hand. I've got to cut you out of my flesh. Spit on the floor, I want rid of your taste. Too dark for you? Come back, you can't leave me. I'm waiting for my moment. Blame it all on me. It's ok baby, I understand. It can all be my fault. I should have loved you more. But stay a little longer, until I work this out. I'm nearly there. Almost perfected this art of the living dead. Don't you dare ruin it.

We all got our problems. By the time I'm through I will make you cry. I'll make you question everything you believed in. Silly little boy, you just want everybody to love you. Stupid girl, one day you will learn that none of this actually matters. It isn't real, it's a game we lost before it began. Prey off those who play to win, they'll carry you far. Look for the cheaters, they're the way, the truth and the light. You're a fake, a fraud, a phony if you want to get all Caulfield about it. We'll get drunk, get high. Turn it up louder, hit me again. Let go, sweetheart. Stop pretending. Let's have a night of something real.

And then I'll make it easy for you to leave me.

All your lives unled, reading in bed

There's a cold on the horizon. I'm hoping with enough willpower I can stave it off like last time. Let's all hope so since next week begins the oh crap get essay done time.

You know that restless way when you can't do anything else until you get something down on paper. It's a nightmare, one that wakes me up and consumes my thoughts and the worst part of it is that I am simply not good enough yet to realise all that I can imagine. I'm vain. Incredibly so, although I try not to show it and when I do I use sarcasm to protect myself from contradictions. Because, like all vain people, I'm a mass of insecurities. I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen, although it was not my first attempt. There was that one I started when I was nine about orphaned twins, very melodramatic and ridiculous. But this was my first completed novel. I typed it all up in chapters and let anybody who asked read it. That was the great thing about our high school, few people read let alone wrote their own stories so I was smothered in praise. Of course it was absolute rubbish. Then came the Elfwood period. Considering how picky I am when it comes to clichés my little page on that site is a veritable mess of overused plot holes. Again, it was the perfect place for quick and easy praise. It's why I've never bothered posting anywhere else, except for blogs of course but that's a different matter.

Nobody has ever told me I could write. Nobody ever really encouraged me to write either. I never entered competitions and so I never won anything. I just remember being in the front seat of my dad's car, driving to the BBC building and passing the university. He pointed the imposing building out to me and said that's where I might be when I grew up. I told him it would be pointless because I was going to be a writer.

I didn't quite imagine I'd be stuffy nosed and thumbing through my worn French dictionary to find out how to spell the sentences that play out in my head. I handed the first page to my mother who merely told me that clack would be a better onomatopoeia than tack for a typewriter and ignored all french like phrases. I fear it's become one of those pieces that nobody else will want to read. But one must persevere, if only because I'd fidget myself to a broken finger otherwise.

Julie provided a brief summary of what I've written so far and if it became a published work I'd love it to be the blurb:

I AM WALKING DOWN THE STREET
THERE A STRANGE MAN I DO MEET
I TOUCH HIM INAPPROPRIATELY
AND THEN I PRANCE AWAY WITH GLEE

Now have a picture of the best part of La Dolce Vita. Because it makes me happy.

On ne peut pas fabriquer la vérité

Marie-Jacques peered round my rain-soaked inexplicably curled mop of hair and once she pursed her lips and spouted nonsensical poetry in broken french I knew she wasn't going to leave me alone. Cicero was lost, I jotted down absolute rubbish about Chalcolithic pottery in the hopes that my writing would be so small they'd just give me the points anyway and I begged her to hold still.

"Why are you here?"

She shrugs bony shoulders. "Pourquoi pas."

"Mais pourquoi maintenant? I was writing last night, you could have come then."

"Il faut commencer 'il était une fois...'"

"You're taking the piss."

"Tais-toi!"

"Tais your own toi."

I scribble notes about the French Revolution from lectures I've missed.

"Et il faut finir 'ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d'enfants'"

"Shh I'm very busy and important."

I started writing about enlightenment. Which was just lists and lists of philosophers and thinkers under various headings. David Hume was one of the Scottish Enlightened ones and with a spasm my hand creeps to the top of the page and writes she's searching for the missing shade of blue.

"Oh come on. You want me to write a philosophical fairy tale in french? Where were you in sixth year when these things were fresh in my mind. I'll be stuck on wikipedia with foreign dictionaries on my lap. You know I'm lazy with the grammar."

"Je t'aime." She knew ideas were planted in my head and need say no more. Needless to say it was difficult to pay attention in class despite such discussions as "But Catherine is a girl" (nice of them to notice) and bluffing my way through things I barely read the night before.

And my little Parisienne tortures me with something too perfect for me to recreate on paper. And I'm left trapped in my own limitations.

I'm a walking cliché when such a creature I sight

I fell in love four times today.

I think it's the result of being so goshdarned jaded and tired of the big bad world, hold on while I break out the red wine (actually I quite fancy some but we only have good stuff in the alcohol cupboard of mostly evaporated drink), that makes the silly romantic side of me to be a little over the top. There's not really a happy medium with me. I'm a cynic until he complains and then I either ditch him or lose myself in fanciful notions.

But when I'm single I fall for just about everybody I meet.

I will say right now that they were all female. I cannot help that.

First off I got up early this morning and turned up to my history lecture for the first time in a month. Why? Because today was Marxism. What I didn't know was the lecture was being taken by a woman who had a fantastic accent (although where she was from I can't say) and she wasn't hugely attractive. Until she spoke. She was one of those lecturers that really cares about what she was talking about and for once it was a subject I was interested in hearing about. She had a black shirt on and hadn't buttoned up the sleeves. Every time she spoke of the Proletariats and the Bourgeoisie, her arms would wave around excitedly, flashing white skin to the half empty lecture hall. I could have listened to her all day. She's teaching for another week. I might just turn up.

I saw the second on the way down ashton lane where I had like the best panini thing ever. It was her hair. Originally brunette she had dyed her hair pink and then blue or purple. The result was a technicolour mess that shouldn't have worked but left me entranced as she rummaged in her bag for something. The way she shook her head made all the colours whirl and I swore it looked like they flashed between them all. I desperately wanted to know what possessed her to that to her head, and if she knew it was going to end up so spectacularly beautiful or if it was a happy accident. But alas, like always, I hesitated too long and she was gone.

The third stalked past me in the library. Tall and self-sure she had short hair in that burgundy colour that everybody seems to be choosing these days and a waistcoat that just looked right. She was gorgeous in a androgynous perfume haze as she pushed everyone else out of her way to get to the desk.

And lastly I noticed a pair of legs propped on the back of the broken seat next to me in archaeology. Her tights had large swirling roses that trailed up to a purple skirt. She talked through the long explanation about geoarchaeology and where the stones of stonehenge came from about some show that was like Battlestar Galactica but like really funny and with that guy from Two Guys and a Girl (Nathan Fillion I interjected and was met with a big smile and isn't Firefly the greatest). She had curly dark hair tucked under a purple beenie and a genuine smile that showed her fat teeth.

And I chose to share this with you rather than keep it to myself because I don't wanna talk about the football. I ranted all afternoon to Helen (who obliged with sympathetic sounds) to the extent that the table of boys next to us felt emasculated and I heard "So um like who do you support?" and 2 Rangers fans half-heartedly attempted to out talk me.

If this is the life why does it feel so good to die today

The leather is 5000 years old. The copper man is Roman. The glove itches my right hand and I want to hit the girl who tosses the glass beads around and asks her friend if the big hunk of slag was ancient shit. I'm reminded of Firefly and the hands of blue as groups of bored girls and curly headed boys prod at stone axes with purple hands. The real Doctor Jones looks, sounds like and is as boring as Tony Hart, the old man who did that art show that you only ever watched to see Morph. There are no girls with Love You scrawled on their eyelids in this class. At least last semester we had a good lecturer who knew when he had to teach the dull stuff and threw in pointless facts to cheer us up. Like the trading town in South America that was permanently stoned.

I nearly missed my stop. I was miles away when I realised I knew the cemetery we were passing. All those lines of grey slabs, most of them slanting if not already on the hard ground. I didn't know anybody lying there. The only people I experienced dying are ashes. The curator of the Hunterian told us that archaeologists would find a pot full of dirt and throw it away. Just like that a man is tossed aside. He's cluttering up the artefact.

Everyday I push past the walking dead. Addled and stumbling, they take up the road and tut at my loud music and short skirts. My Papa was the liveliest man you'd ever meet and I don't know what happened to him when he died. I didn't even want to be at his funeral, I couldn't handle it. Worse I couldn't see him in the hospital. I never got further than the cafe and I think part of me never forgave myself for that. I didn't want to see him weak. I wanted to keep the lively man in my head forever.

There are times when I have problems reacting to the world around me. When I stagger through each day. I smile, I laugh, I eat and drink and sleep but I'm not there. My mind switches off. No sorry it's too difficult. Come back later when I'm awake again. Every so often I'll meet someone new and they'll fascinate me enough that I spend time figuring them out in those quiet moments when the fear tries to creep back in. And it helps observing somebody else for a while, keeps myself distracted so I can stop dissecting every little thing I say and do. But it doesn't stop me thinking. Nothing can stop me thinking. Is that what separates me from the bones in the dirt? Is it the voice in my head that defines me as alive or the traitor in my chest. And when I'm dead and gone will I be forgotten in time or will I have achieved something. I never was concerned with achieving anything when I was younger and I imagined death everywhere but as I get older it becomes ever more pressing. I have few goals and only a couple of them have been consistent throughout my life. I want to write something that moves you. I want to walk past bookshops and know I could look up my name and there I'd be. But my dad is nearing 50 and, aside from the 2 books he was commissioned to write, he still hasn't written the novel he's talked about for years. And the name he's passed on to me is so plain, I feel I must find another man's name to adopt before I'm published. My other goals are flimsy. I want a kitten or two, a library like Belle has in Beauty and the Beast and I want an affair; romantic, foolish and dramatic. I don't have any plans regarding my degree or a job, and I don't want children or a husband, not for a long time. I've never identified myself as anything but a writer.

I lie on my blanket-swaddled couch, glass of Jack within reach next to my printer and a hat on my head. Pens and notebooks litter my floor and elaborate twisting of wires means my music fills my tiny room with ideas. Or if my speaker refuses to cooperate I'll shove a film on. Watch a few of my favourite scenes. Natalie Portman swinging her legs over the landing as she smokes awkwardly, Anita Ekberg stepping through Roman alleys with a kitten on her head, Audrey Tautou skipping stones. Ink smudges over paper and skin and it's never what I wanted it to be.

So I wonder just how alive am I.

This is a mouth that needs religion

I'm gonna be vulgar just a little bit, so unlike me I know, but it's getting ridiculous. Junk emails about sex and penis enlargement are not new and barely even register as I click the empty button anymore (although the Valentine's Day ones were highly amusing) but this past week I have received five separate emails with the same subject: "Can't fill up your girlfriend's mouth during a BJ? Your solution is here?"

First off I'm loving the whole non-committal attitude. Maybe the solution is here? Maybe just click a little? Not a scam, maybe? It's the quiet unassuming email buried underneath the loud horny bored housewives that want me and get a giant dick here proclamations. It's the bookish gawky one that after a few makeover montages just may be the belle of the school disco. But the problem! Is it a real problem? Are their unfortunate souls out there crying over their inadequate levels of spunk? My first thought was that it was some sort of revenge thing. You know for the guys with girlfriends who refuse to swallow. Take a bunch of sperm-increasing pills and BAM she won't know what hit her. I wouldn't put it past the internet. But the second question mark makes it seem too nice for that. Maybe the guy who invented them (or at least the subject) had a really critical girlfriend once. "God, can't even fill up my mouth. Some man you are." Cue insecurities.

And for something completely unrelated: I cannot stop laughing at the last panel.

Drops of Jupiter

Guess what! It's Monday and I'm poor again.

The problem with Sunday being payday is that I'm forced into a quiet weekend and then I splurge on my day off and by the time it's time to socialise I'm skint again. This week it's worse as, after much batting of my eyes, my father had paid me in advance so I could jaunt off to the cinema with a behatted Joe.

Mum and I went to Ikea. We love Ikea. We can spend hours in there looking at potential rooms, seeing how far I can propel myself in the swivel chairs and stuffing every pocket with those tiny pencils that are no good to anyone. I was doing well before we even got on the bus because Fopp was open and still proclaiming that all French dvds were £6. Guess which one was not. The only freakin one I wanted to buy. I won't whine since it was there, albeit hidden in the complete wrong place and 3 times the price it should be, but it was there and now it is here, safe on my shelves soon to be viewed. And then I bought Casablanca and Breakfast at Tiffany's because they were a fiver each. And The Little Prince because it was a pound and I only have a giant fancy hardback version. Not always practical.

Onto Ikea. We caved in and started with coffee and the best strawberry tarts ever. The bonding was slightly marred by Joe insisting I go see a film about vagina dentata but the strawberries made everything pretty again. They obviously influenced me greatly as I've come home with rather a lot of red.

To start with I'm wrapped in a new gorgeously warm bright red blanket which you won't get to see because I couldn't be arsed trying to take a picture of myself and otherwise it just looked like a pile of fleece. Which it is. Then I bought a red nightlight. Not because I'm afraid of the dark. In fact I can't sleep unless it's really dark. But because we'd already bought the other ones and we had to complete the set! Like pokemon only less numerous and exciting. Lookit them glow!


Lastly on my way out I found daisies. I dare you to be unhappy in the face of these cuties. They're my absolute favourites and I grinned like a fool all the way home.



Also my mum bought these to hang up socks on the line. She didn't even realise they were designed to look like octopuses (octopi?) until I pointed out the eyes. And the disembodied legs in the background are the Blues Brothers in case you were wondering. No we don't know why we have them either but everytime my mum tries to move them my dad huffs.

Used to be one of the rotten ones and I liked you for that

The coffee burns my lip as I gulp it down too fast and hope it reaches my frozen nose. It wasn't as cold today at Parkhead but sitting so high up as we do there's a chill that permeates my bones.

The sun burned orange low in the sky giving the grey skyline a post-apocalyptic glow. I watched a man nearly die today. The crowd roared as the teams came out for the second half but my dad and I stayed silent. Just didn't seem right to cheer when we could see the paramedic start compressions. They must have stabilised him in the ambulance because 10 minutes or so after they shut the doors, it sped off, blue lights flashing. I wanted him to live, selfishly I wished he would live. This morning I had already read a tribute to Heath Ledger in Total Film and Melissa Auf Der Maur's blog where she'd posted about having to put her cat down. It was a bit of a glum start to the day. But he lived and we won and we were home soon enough to coffee that still hasn't reached my nose. Stupid biology fails me again.

I watched A Bout de Souffle last night. I've been meaning to educate myself on New Wave since I had to watch Hiroshima Mon Amour for French last year. It's that dreamy, jumpy beauty that just works even though I'm always left a little baffled until my mind adjusts. And having to block out my brain attempting to translate and compare the French to the subtitles is always a struggle. I actually bought A Bout de Souffle on a whim. I was trying to buy Bande à Part but it is impossible to find and last time I gave up on trying to buy it I bought the Dreamers since they referenced it. It missed the cool that's so appealing in old French cinema and ended up pretentious instead. I was buoyed with hope as I passed Fopp on Thursday and the window proudly proclaimed that all French films were cheap. And lo! it actually had a space for the film. But that's all. I scanned the shelves in vain and even though I was on my way out the door I found myself at the till listening to the happy guy raving about my choice. I'm a compulsive shopper. But he was right, it is fantastic. Jean-Paul Belmondo pretends to be Humphrey Bogart and Jean Seberg's New Yorker French is adorable and I understood her! I always like understanding foreign films. Makes me feel cultured. And the soundtrack! All jazzy and gorgeous. It was damn near perfect.


On the subject of films, there was an interview with Rian Johnson about his new film that I've been excited about even before I got round to watching Brick (because I'm slightly in love with Rachel Weisz) so I thought hey, maybe the website has something other than we've finished filming, yay. And yes, indeed he had updated. Go here to see and if you do be sure to highlight everything for a message that made me smile. Other exciting film things: (apart from the Indy 4 trailer, omg everyone's so old, it's such a bad idea, I'm still gonna see it) Park Chan-Wook, vengeance man, has a new film coming out about "an affair between a woman who thinks she's a cyborg and a kleptomaniac". Fuck yeah. Also the Film Festival started on Thursday. Go see a film you guys!

I'm sick, you're tired, let's dance

I don't get people who don't care about music. The vague lesbian has pretty good taste I have to say ignoring that time she paid money for System of a Down and My Chemical Romance (and yes I did go to their concert but that was ironically, although that poor little girl was terrified when I told Gerard Way to get his dick out but in my defence the way his speech was going I thought it was appropriate) but she cares not a whit about music and never knows the names of anything. The loveliest girl is always willing to listen to new things but views anything she doesn't hear on the radio as 'alternative' and 'something maybe Catherine would know'. My best girl loves the Germans and the Viking Epics which I can listen too but I lose interest rapidly. I've never minded that most of my friends don't know the bands I like nor do I only listen to obscure bands in a tragically hipper than thou manner. It does mean I miss a lot of concerts since I'd only go to one alone if I was desperate to see them but I suppose in my financial situation it's for the best.

There's pretty much no time when I'm not listening to music. I write to it, I study to it, it's the only thing that keeps me sane on the endless bus journeys. The day I woke up from my pretty little teenage bubble and formed my own tastes my dad rejoiced and sat me down and gave me a history of guitar noises. Sadly a very annoying bitch of a girl snapped me up and tried to mold me in her gothic image. That didn't last long when I pointed out that all Marilyn Manson songs were the same and Nirvana got rather boring after a while and would she please shut Rape Me up. It wasn't shocking anybody. Every guy I've been out with, no matter how short the time, has pushed his music onto me. I'm pretty open. I'll listen to most things of any genre as long as it's good. I'll even listen to crap music if I can enjoy it without taking it seriously (see the emo wail of MCR above) but I drew the line at watching AC/DC concerts and I'll never forgive one of them for making me sit through some awful film the Ramones did about high school or whathaveyou. I will admit that the only mix cd that someone made for me I gave back when I ditched him 2 weeks later because it was full of music I'd already told him I hated. Half of it was just bad screeching and others were pathetic singles from bands such as the Rasmus. Broke his heart so his annoying little friend likes to remind me.

Point is, music can make or break a moment. And let me set this straight, asking 'what kind of music are you into?' is the most annoying question and nearly always degenerates into a listing of bands until you both find one you like or feel like talking about, which is fine if it happens quickly but when you're shouting a list of names that mean nothing to the other person that's not conversation and make outs are not happening any faster.

Whew that was a bit of a rant there. You know what's the best though? Rediscovering a band you forgot you loved. Even better: rediscovering a band, looking up their back catalogue and finding new related bands. This happened to me today. I asked my little silver rectangle who I was going to fall in love with today and it offered Metric who are freakin awesome and you should listen if you have never done so before. From there I looked up their 2 previous albums and found out Emily Haines had done solo stuff and sang in a band called Broken Social Scene and since I recognised the name I looked them up too. They were one of those bands I'd heard a lot about but never actively listened to, much like Modest Mouse and Arcade Fire when they first came out, and like both of them I really should have because they rock.

One last thing, I know I'm a day late but I didn't look at it yesterday. Sometimes I read a little comic called Pictures For Sad Children, maybe you've seen it? It's pretty rad. For Valentine's Day the creator made a thing.
This is the thing:

♥

It wouldn't be make believe if you believed in me

Blogging in the library
Blogging in the library cause I'm so bored
Blogging in the library and the girl next to me is dressed entirely in pink and is freaking me out.
Helen had no labs today so she'd gone home by the time my mind-numbingly boring lecture finished. Honest to God I don't know what was going on and I wrote down nothing. My notes are some observations about the girl's hair in front of me. Wandered around to kill some time before trapping myself in the library and also to eat my lunch of a Bounty (because the vending machine decided that all chunkier and cheaper chocolate bars did not exist even though I could see them and totally typed in the number perfectly). Wandered into the wee arcade down the road. Fell in love with a notebook. I would have married this notebook. It was tall, thin, wrapped in stripey material with a cameo on the front. No price and a pitiful number of pages. It was impractical and although I have 3 pages of my diary left and no suitable replacement (I have started writing already in all of my remaining notebooks and none of them are as sturdy as my little paperblank) I could not bring myself to buy this one. But I can't stop thinking about it. So goddamn beautiful I could cry.

Wandered into Fopp instead to see what French films they had cheap. Walked straight into Rochester who is decidedly less attractive now that he got a hair cut but the side burns are still pretty good. I suspect, but his bag was in the way and I could not ascertain the truth, but I suspect that he is lacking in the ass department. Which is a problem as I don't trust assless men. Maybe it was just the food and sleep deprivation but he definitely looked skinnier than usual. Anyway he was on the phone and gave me a smile but I got bored and bought a dvd I can't afford and chatted with the very excitable salesman who praised my choice in film and raved about New Wave. Too tired so I just smiled.

Most adorable man was struggling to get on his bike with an enormous bouquet of flowers and I couldn't stop laughing at his attempts. He gave me this big sheepish grin as he passed and I just about melted with the cuteness.

I picked up the wrong book so I can't even waste time doing my Classics work. Bleh. 5 hours to kill tomorrow. What can one do in 5 hours? I could sleep, or go to the cinema but that's depressingly lonely, I could take the bus back and forth until I got ill, I could try and fix my novel that is dying on me, I could write cover letters for magazine submissions, I could charge up my gameboy and finish all the games I haven't finished, I could read the war between the science and arts faculties that's going on in the library toilet walls, I could finish all the novels I started to read over the holidays (I'm currently trying to read 6 books at once), I could phone up absolutely everybody I know in the hopes that they're free or I could go home and make a skirt out of a NYPD tshirt and abandon all intention of attending that lecture at 3.

Tough call.

In the beginning

Either I got too tired, had a lecture to go to or I just wasn't wearing the right hat and so these never developed. Abstract modern literature or a chance to organise my thoughts. These may never be anything so I thought I'd give some of them a little hope by putting them up here.

Holly had everything; smarts, beauty, a fair degree of independence and a comfortable home shared with a wonderful man. But she had two problems. First while she was passionately in love with her roommate, he had a girlfriend and second she was a cat. Despite these hindrances Holly felt she had a pretty good chance.

George figured himself a romantic, a real Byronic hero. Take Michelle for instance. She was young, inexperienced, more than a little naive. Almost too perfect a candidate really. He noticed her in History first. She was regularly late and sat alone by the window. The morning sun shone through her bedhead scruff and glittered along the blackrimmed squares that hung snugly on her nose.

The dirty plates pile upon the floor marking the breaks in the day. She hadn't moved in weeks, not since Luke left. She was in mourning for a living man.

It's raining. The red sandstone houses fade to mud. My ceiling fades to yellow. And the sky glows twilight. Tired and worn, my eyes blur. I'm sick of this world of greys.

Everyone agreed his work was beautiful. Nobody painted portraits quite like he could but his bold use of colours split the critics. It was garish, borderline obscene but some believed it made sweeping statements about the rigidity of the modern art scene. Others found it fascinating in an LSD laced interpretation. Whatever they believed, his latest technicolour piece rocketed Percy to stardom.
People asked him over the years which followed what his secret was. He would smile enigmatically and mutter nonsensically about the Muses.
He couldn't tell them the truth.
He couldn't tell his adoring fans that he had ruined his masterpiece by mixing up his paints.
He couldn't give his detractors the satisfaction of being right. He was nothing but a hack.
For Perceval T Jones was terribly colour blind.

Rick winced as he gingerly lifted the glass to his swollen lips. A swirl of rust red tinted the clear liquid. He spat out a molar with a clink in the sink. It hadn't been his day.

I'm a slut without the sex. A flirt, a tease, a whore but it's not deliberate, I just want your attention. I want to captivate you. I want you to sit by yourself and wonder what I'm doing. I want you to fall for me and fall hard and ungainly. Do I interrupt your self-conscious? Do you lie awake and think of me? Do you want me because, for the love of God I don't care one whit about your reasons, just take me if you do. I wish you gave a damn. Fuck your indifference.

Cassandra wore her favourite pink pants the day she disappeared. They were her dance when no one is watching pants and her snuggle up on the couch with her girlfriend pants. Jack remembered how cute she looked standing in his tiny kitchen making tea in her underwear. He remembered watching from the door wishing every morning could start this way. Her hips swayed to the distant tune from the crackling radio as the kettle boiled and though he dearly wanted to, Jack restrained himself from dancing with her. The kettle clicked, Cassandra sashayed to the fridge for milk and Jack went back to bed and waited like she had told him to the night before.
"Happy Birthday!" Cassandra chirped close to Jack's face as he woke up startled. "Morning, sleepyhead. I almost didn't wake you but I already made you tea twice and you didn't even stir so you're enjoying breakfast now. Oh and your milk was off so I borrowed from next-door. You should pay more attention to these things."
"Or find myself a girl to pay attention for me. She could make me breakfast and wash my socks too. Oh wait," he smirked and Cassandra flicked his nose.
"Well it won't become a habit. I'm not your mother. I just couldn't stand the stench." She ducked his hand and stole a piece of his birthday toast, dropping crumbs all over her big blue jumper. Her favourite pink pants were hidden but he knew they were there, soft and unpretentious.
"Way to miss your mouth, dumbass." Cassandra stuck her tongue out at him and brushed the crumbs into his bed."Enjoy. Your party is at six, don't be late. I gotta go do some stuff so you do whatever you want until tonight." She kissed Jack on his unshaven cheek and had she left like she'd intended Jack might have seen her that night and every day after but instead his hand was on her waist and he was imploring her to stay.

Promiscuous makes an entrance, her mouth is full of questions

Bear with me, I'm going philosophical.

tl;dr version: gender is a funny thing, not to mention love, friendships, relationships and all those ships

In 5th year at school I took Religious, Moral and Philosophical Studies (or Rumpus) which consisted of eating Fair Trade Chocolate and learning passages of the Bible. It also involved getting into heated debates with the one guy who was not gay taking the course as he tried to argue that girls just didn't like football. That we were only talking about it because it there had been a big game on that weekend and did any of us by any chance catch the Dunfermline game the other night? I soon shot him down. He also tried to claim that no girls actually cared about what magazines said. Silly boy, he was one of those guys who think that these days there is no real problem of equality and thus feminism is no longer relevant. I wrote so many essays on gender in the media, I sometimes spout the same arguments in other subjects. I did my French exam on the media and I found myself running through my points in History only to have my tutor (whose speciality is gender and has written several books on it) finishing off my last one, using the same terms, same ideas and I felt so bored. There were no debates in this class. I haven't had a good debate since Archaeology when I pretended to believe aliens might have made the pyramids and greatly upset Deceptively Old Girl's scientific sensibilities. I don't think people expect an argument out of me. Either I'm too quiet otherwise (which I am doing my best not to be) or I have a look of agreeability but I always get the strangest looks when I start to talk. Yes, I was talking Genesis but it was in the background reading and yes I did snort rather loudly when one guy tried to say that marriage today was an equal symbiotic relationship but I wasn't saying anything shocking. There isn't much else to say once you've covered basic gender roles and been annoyed that everyone moved on before you could point out that people today still think women need and want a man to protect and provide for them. I have never wanted another father but then I've never wanted a husband. There is no desire in me for a man to fight my battles and protect my honour. The closest I've ever felt was a longing for that safe feeling when you're curled up next to someone who loves you. I laughed in the face of a friend of mine who suggested I needed a protector but he's dreadfully conservative in his philosophies.

I am looking forward to the next tutorial. I'm looking at the feminisation of men and the victory of women in the 20th century. It's familiar territory. Suffragettes, the wars, women fighting for something half of my friends couldn't be arsed doing. I voted and I stayed in university even though I was completely overwhelmed with everything else because I'd be damned if I threw it all away. There's a huge desire in me to be strong and independent even though I'm pretty hopeless and the one time I became weak was when I lost control and let other people determine what I was supposed to be.

Saying all that, I have a hideous level of contempt for a great many girls and though nobody could fault me for thinking so I have never adhered to the "I hate men" stance. All men are bastards, but most are no more a bastard than I am. I can figure most guys, they confuse me at times but generally that confusion stems from my own projected insecurities. Girls I get, being one and suffering so many of them. What I will never get is the way they fail to communicate with each other. How they can't see when they shouldn't push it or when they should say something. I find myself flinching when I watch her say too much and shake my head when he takes it the wrong way. We interpret things differently, I guess. Not that I'm claiming I'm some sort of insightful wonder woman. I get it wrong quite frequently but by now I can see where I got it wrong. It's the benefit of being quiet. I spent too long sitting in the corner and watching. Most of you won't have noticed me and never will. I spent too much energy trying to fix things and gave up on most people. I've watched groups split and divide, occasionally over my own presence, and no amount of negotiating had pulled them together. I cared back when who had fallen out with who was playground news. I grew weary of juggling my social plans. I've got juggling to do now. Got to keep straight who likes who, smile sympathetically at each new take on the argument. Only these days instead of one big group I had three with very slight overlapping between them. And in the past 2 weeks I've had to listen as two of them splintered away and they look to me to take sides when I'm still not sure of the argument.

But one thing hasn't changed since Rousseau praised the guile of women; I am very good at lying.

You broke the set now there's only singles

I have a perfectly triangular bruise under my hip. Sort of under where my pants stop and the pocket of my jeans would be. I've been in pain for days but I didn't know why until yesterday afternoon. Buttoning up the pencil skirt in a changing room, I glanced in the mirror to see if the colour looked alright on me and started at what peeked out from the undone material. Blues and yellows and greens. Stark against my pale skin. It's a fat isosceles and I have no idea how it got there. I run through the weekend. Yes I was drunk on friday and yes I did walk straight into my bin knocking novel attempts everywhere. But that was it. I always remember what I walk into and although sometimes I'm surprised it left a mark (like this one time I came back from Rob's covered in bruises but the end of the bed was disguised with some sort of cover and I was very tired) and I did not walk into anything at that height. I look like someone attacked me with a very odd shaped hammer.

Most peculiar.

On the plus side the skirt is wicked hot in a sort of librarian way. Pencil skirts usually make me look even shorter than usual. If there's one thing I don't need it's less height. But this one doesn't and now I am dreadfully poor. Paid for a beer with twenty pences and my lunch with fives.

I wish it was in a better place so I could share the sheer perfectness of my triangle. Branded by geometry. But alas, you'll just have to believe me.

Also: no clue what my hair is doing but it is hilarious. I have decided to ignore it until it's long enough to tie up. Otherwise I might get too sad.

Oh and one last thing. Julie went to a friend's house to play Assassin's Creed today and was telling me of her exploits. Namely: "I was supposed to blend in with some monks and instead I pulled out a huge sword and cut them all up" and "I was walking past this woman and I was all REEEEERH and she died"

Girlie so groovy

I'm sure I've talked about how I pick my literature before. I look at the first and last lines. Usually it works pretty well. I had £10 worth of vouchers left for Waterstones and I thought I'd see if they had more of the same notebook I've been using as a journal. They did not. I wandered around in the poetry section instead. Wanted to buy Don Juan but the cover was ripped. Rubbish! It's like when you find that book you've been searching for and somebody has broken the spine. Bastards!

Anyway I was about to give up and go home when I remember about Joyce. And lo! They had Finnegans Wake. I already knew I wanted it. I'd wanted it ever since I realised Sylvia Plath wasn't just being mad and she was quoting real literature. Problem is I'm finding it impossible to read it without reading aloud. And yes, I do read it in an Irish accent.

So first line: riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howlth Castle and Environs.

Last line: A way a lone a last a loved a long the

Best thing is it's the same line!

I'm in love you guys.

Also Julie made me this a while ago. I forget why but I found it yesterday and giggled.

God Save Strawberry Jam

I'm aware I just updated and having more posts than there are days in the month is quite frankly embarrassing but fuck it all, I'm proving I'm not a miserable git.

This is Kate Rusby and I just found her 5 minutes ago. She does a cover of a song called The Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks, who are freakin awesome and you should agree with this because it is fact. She is lovely. I want to hug her.

Ok bedtime now.

Lady sing the blues so well as if she mean it

I had no music this week. Actually made me work faster. You have no idea how dreadfully dull it is cleaning. I'm a little odd. I mean most of you probably already think I'm weird but when it comes to cleaning I'm decidedly odd. My floor is a catastrophe. A sea of paper and clothes. Literature begun and abandoned, outfits discarded because the weather changed. Every so often I find a bra or a sock due to my terrible habit of half undressing when I stay up too late writing. Yet my shelves are in perfect order. Not any order that you could work out or I could describe here but if anything is moved I know and it bothers me. So when I'm in that office I itch to tidy everything up. Sort out the papers and shelve all their books. I can file like no woman. I'd be a kickass secretary, let me tell you. Sadly I'm not the secretary, I'm the cleaning lady. I can't touch their paper (doesn't stop me stealing it, and the pens, and anything edible they got lying around, like some sort of mouse who writes) but I can gag on the fruit they leave in their bins to ferment and worry about what that dried on splodge is on the floor of the toilet (was silicon sealer and not spunk as I feared). I was going mad half way through and battled with the radio. It's some fancy digital thing, took me 10 minutes to work out how to tune to a different station and I hit a jazz station instead of well anything else. I've got nothing against jazz, I quite like it in fact, but when you're stuck on your knees, throwing out your shoulder trying to clean the fingerprints off the door you don't want 12 minutes of a band getting carried away with themselves even if it is awesome. Some such song came floating through the walls and I debated whether to get up and change it or not. Honestly the amount of time I spend on my knees I'd be as well changing careers. I could make more money as a hooker and I bet the smells are equally bad. The song finished by the time I made up my mind not to care and the woman blathered on about names I didn't recognise before cheering me up: But before (some long description about some guy from Engerland) we have a very pretty song by the lovely Ella Fitzgerald.

Best freaking timing. I got to have the littlest of dances before I got back to scrubbing and feeling generally miserable. February is a miserable month. Even Boris Pasternak thought so but I've lost my little piece of paper with the poem on it so you'll just have to trust me on that one. I stared in the florist's window on the way home though. I am not one for Valentine's Day, not in a bitter angry femme way or whatever, it just bores me. I'm usually single by February; typically my relationships began in Autumn and lasted until about November with the exception of my last one. We had two valentines together and both times he would ask me if I wanted to celebrate and both times I'd tell him no. I don't see the point in celebrating it, especially if it's not spontaneous and unexpected but then I'm a sucker for surprises. All of this doesn't stop me from ogling the roses. I don't care about clichés when it comes to them and every year I stare at them and think about buying some but in the end I keep my money and dream about romantics instead.

There were roses in our garden when I was small. I acted out Sleeping Beauty with them, thorns taking the place of a spinning wheel until I pricked my finger too hard and bled out petals onto the concrete. The cat slept under them and put up with me placing flowers on her head like a crown. I made potions with the girl down the road, mixing toothpaste and shampoo and roses and anything else we could find. When my sixteenth birthday was approaching I talked endlessly about roses and received a lightsaber. My seventeenth: The Rescuers on DVD. But then, as I constantly remind myself whenever I'm feeling down about the whole thing David was nothing but a little boy that needed mothering more than anything else.

A girl I can't fucking stand called me a snob the other day because I didn't want to date her friend because he was thick. I shoot so many guys down because quite frankly I'm smarter than them. They can be as attractive and funny and sweet as you like but I treat them like shit if I can't hold a decent debate with them. I keep thinking maybe I shouldn't but then I remember the hugs one guy used to give me to shut me up whenever I corrected him or having to explain that scantily clad wasn't like when David wore his tophat but more like when I wore it. I lost 2 friends on separate occasions for being 'too smart' when all that meant was I refused to dumb myself down and fuck it, I need a guy I can argue with and lose for reasons other than being right. I'm so bored of meeting the same old people over and over again. I wanna pack my things and bugger off someplace else, find someone new, have an adventure but it's all the same no matter where you go. Same old shit, same stock characters. I think I'm going insane.

You can keep that kind of flim-flammery for your spaceport floozies

Sometime after I danced on the table with the guy who asked if we were bi (which I found hilarious because neither of us had given any indication of being straight and clearly he was being hopeful) and the guy on the other side of the couch went home after flirting with me, casually mentioning he had a girlfriend of five years and spending the next half hour looking at me while I ignored him, we decided it was time to go home. My dad was still up when I stumbled in the door but he left me alone and I'm dimly aware of dragging my covers to my couch so as not to wake Julie and replying to a bunch of texts but not a lot else. I got teased this morning, everybody all "haha drunk" but I shushed them and ate cake. All in all it was a good night, the first half at least was great (despite being approached by a girl in the toilets and the female bartender winking at me). She fell out with her usual drinking crowd (melodrama strikes again) and was complaining that she's been bored so we had a gossip and a giggle. Talked relationships and bra sizes and general geekery. And although I drank far too much Jack, too fast I escaped a hangover and all I have is the big scratch over my knee where the zip of my boots caught my tights and ripped skin and nylon and caused me to swear a ridiculous amount over.

I've been left alone tonight as the family are off to a party up the road. Not sure what to do with myself. So far I've eaten a pile of potato waffles, watched Monty Python and Treasure Planet. The latter is not bad. I was iffy about watching it what with Treasure Island being one of my favourite books when I was younger and I've not had much luck with film adaptations of books I've loved as a child, see Golden Compass and Narnia. Although Peter Pan and Sweeney Todd turned out pretty good so I guess it ain't all bad. Anyway it was alright, lost its momentum when Silver the cyborg appeared. But I loved it up til then, maybe because Jim was Joseph Gordon-Levitt and the captain was a cat. I had to wikipedia his name, I never remember it and I figured me going 'Jim was that guy, you know he was in 10 things I hate about you and Brick and one time on Numbers and I was like why am I watching this?' but while I was wikipediaing I found this and it amused me so I'm repeating it: Also, the novel portrays Long John Silver as rather more sinister and less of a father figure than does the Disney film.

I'm good for inspiration aren't I

I didn't get much sleep last night. I was pretty excited because I'd written something I was proud of and then I got the loveliest comment from Carol about it (made me grin so wide in the library, worried a couple of people) and then my mother approved. She's put up with a lot of my terrible scribbles but here was one she actually enjoyed. I might even let my Dad read it and he hasn't read anything I wrote since primary school. It's not perfect, I found at least three clunky sentences just this morning when I attacked myself with my leaky pen but I can look at it and think fuck yeah I can write. And then just to counter all of that and so my ego didn't dare show its face for too long (its an ugly thing, leads to brazenness and bragging) I found the princess story I think I mentioned earlier. I feel you should see what happens when my mind switches off. I tried to work it into something I dunno acceptable for the world but it got to the point where I just couldn't be bothered and I watched Firefly instead. Julie does not appreciate me singing he's the hero of canton the man they call...me! in her face but she will just have to learn to deal. Also my speakers are broken again and no amount of sellotape will fix them. So very pissed off.

Princess Katy sat in her tower and dropped sugared almonds into her pink, greedy mouth. From outside came the faint sounds of her hero battling through the maze to her window. She winced a little as he caught his leg on a thick root and the dragon snapped at his heels. A pastel pink sweet hung above her lips as she watched him fall and flounder for his sword. Her heart skipped as the beast roared and went for the kill. His blade pierced through the roof of its mouth and dulled its great eyes. Katy grinned and snapped up the almond. It had been a while since one had made it so far. Fired by the adrenaline of his kill her hero hacked through the remaining thorns that barred his way. Triumphant he marched to the great stone walls and tried to hide his limp. The princess watched with curiosity. She forgot how exciting this part was. She just hoped he could survive this last test. He stalked closer and she could make out his features: the yellow of his hair, the red of his cloak, the broadness of his shoulders. Her hero threw down his weapon and with outstretched arms spoke thusly:

"Oh, virtuous princess. From the mountains to the sea they speak of your beauty and I have swam the great moat of leeches and answered the riddles of the doors. I have solved the puzzle of the labyrinth and defeated the monstrous reptile that has plagued your sight for many years. Now I stand humbly before you, my love and offer you the freedom you deserve." His voice boomed with a rehearsed cadence. He swept his cloak over his shoulder with a flourish and sank to one knee.

"Captive Princess Katia of Scotia, I set thee free." The princess and her hero spoke in unison. She lay back in the window and propped her feet up as she rummaged in the bowl for more pink coloured almonds. A black kitten leapt onto her lap and watched her fingers chase the sweets around the bowl. Katy sighed and the cat perked up its ears of the sound. Her hero knelt awkward and anxious below her. She hesitated for a moment before snatching up an almond and nodding to the animal.

"He's all yours, Sophie," she muttered. The creature launched itself out of the window, changing as it did so from cat to bird to girl as she was close enough to twist the hero's neck and change back to bird before he could slump lifeless to the ground. She landed back on Katy's knees as the last gasp wracked the unfortunate man's limp body. Katy buried her fingers in the kitten's soft fur and marked a cross in her journal against the date. She didn't know where these men were coming from but someone was telling them to say that same speech. The first one had spoken so softly she couldn't make out half of the words. She'd asked him to speak up and he hadn't taken it well, complaining that he had just battled a dragon and she could make some allowances. Sophie had clawed his eyes out.

She wrote a summary of the hero's short adventure and watched the scene outside. The dragon shook itself like a wet dog and lazily flew back to the centre of the maze. The maze itself formed new roots and the hedges twisted and turned into new shapes. It took a matter of minutes for her prison to right itself for a new contender and soon the only sounds were the steady crunch of the almonds between her teeth and the purring from her final protector. With one last glance at the never-changing world outside, Katy went to bed and hoped for a more exciting morning.

I was born two weeks too late, is that why I hesitate?

Thursdays are good. It's archaeology day and every lecture begins with the Indiana Jones theme (in my head only). Mouse Face makes a reappearance sitting next to me and doing his "oh I'm going to speak oh crap she smiled at me I'll just look down quickly" and I'm too sleepy to be bothered. I do my best to look I dunno approachable or something but he scurries away. He tries again later after Classics but again the minute I smile he scurries. Poor boy, I wish he'd stop doing this.

Anyway, Thursdays mean lunchtime with lovely, lovely Helen although today they forgot to make my toastie and I had to point it out to them. By the time it was ready both the cafes were full and Helen got a bit worried when I suggested sitting in the bar. I pointed out that everybody sat in Jim's bar with food smuggled from elsewhere and if anybody complained (which they wouldn't) I'd sacrifice my liver for a table. We sat in there too long and I scurried across the road with her as she panicked that she'd get into trouble for forgetting her goggles. That science faculty is way too high strung. I keep telling her she should have picked an Arts degree. They just assume you're not doing any work.

Helen leaves me with an hour to kill in the library so I read some more Rousseau. He's pretty spot on with some of his observations about women despite writing some 300 years ago. Have some quotes because I wrote down like 3 pages and I have no real use for any of this stuff:

A man of feeling would rather be singled out for ill-treatment than be caressed with the crowd, and the worst that can happen to him is to be treated like everyone else.

If you want to see a man in a quandary [what a great word!], place him between two women with each of whom he has a secret understanding, and see what a fool he looks. But put a woman in similar circumstances between two men, and the results will be even more remarkable. You will be astonished at the skill with which she cheats them both and makes them laugh at each other...If she treated them alike, would she not show that they both had the same claims upon her? Oh, she is far too clever for that! So far from treating them just alike, she makes a marked difference between them and she does it so skillfully that the man she flatters thinks it is affection, and the man she ill uses think it is spite. So that each of them believes she is thinking of him, when she is thinking of no one but herself.

The lips always say "No," and rightly so; but the tone is not always the same, and that cannot lie. Has not a woman the same needs as a man, but without the same right to make them known?

With the facility women have of arousing men's senses and of awakening in the depths of their hearts feelings that were thought to have died, if there were some unlucky country where philosophy had introduced this custom [of women being the bold sex] the men would be tyrannized over by the women. They would eventually become their victims and would find themselves dragged to their death without ever being able to defend themselves...Samson the Strong was never as strong as Delilah.

The more women resemble men, the less influence they will have over them, and then the men will truly be the masters.

[on female friendships] it is certain that they kiss each other more affectionately and caress each other more gracefully in the presence of men, for they are proud to be able to arouse their envy without danger to themselves by the sight of favours which they know will arouse that envy.


Goddamn I miss philosophy. Gives me the most delicious thrills...

I don't mean to hurt her feelings but she's a crazy fucked up bitch

"You're home early, kid. Have you been partaking in the fifth most dangerous drug?"
"Popcorn?"
"What?"
"Where's the pancakes?"
"There are none! Go tell your mother that she's failed."
"But you're the Catholic. Get up and make us some Jesus cakes." I got a look. The look that says stop adding Jesus in front of everything to make it religiousy. "You know, I always thought Pancake Tuesday was just a gimmick to make us appreciate pancakes and then the pancake corporation would reap the tasty rewards."
"Like Christmas. Everyone's like Christ who?"
"Yeah Dad but he stole it from Santa."
"Pffft. I got an email about your birthday present. Maybe it'll mean something to you, cause I don't know what's going on."

The email run thusly:

From: TopatoCo
Organization: TopatoCo
Reply-To:
Date: Mon, 04 Feb 2008 11:40:28 -0500
Subject: Someone's Webcomic Item is Being Shipped by TopatoCo

And that someone is MISS KITTY ! MISS KITTY is about to get a
package in the mail from TopatoCo, former washing machine repair shop
turned world famous webcomic merchandise distributor!

If you're in the USA, expect your package in 3-4 days. If you're in
Canada, about two weeks. If you are from a magical land far, far away it
can take up to four weeks depending on what Customs is doing. Tracking
is not available for most international destinations because it's wicked
expensive!

If you need more information, please reply to this email or visit the
creator's website. Thanks for supporting independent artists on the
Inter-Tubes of CyberSpace!

Thanks!
Jeffrey Rowland
TopatoCo President
"TopatoCo. Thinking of the Children So You Don't Have To."

Which means my tshirt is on its way. My tshirt that glows in the dark. Life is good.

Have some more Dad talk.
"Fiona called me to say she'll be late since she's going to Mass. Have to move that meeting."
Mum appeared: "Why aren't you at Mass then?"
"Pfft, cause I'm not devout." I added in a Duh and got a look.
"Do you want me to rub some dirt on your forehead?" He batted my mum's hand away from his face.
"No I don't." Then he put a sad face on and pressed on his forehead hard and moaned about how he always had to go when he was wee.
"It's to mark you as a Catholic. There's no need for it at all, it's so you can't pretend you aren't religious. And you'll only mingle with other marked children and all the little atheists will be all sad and jealous. Like how we can't cross ourselves or have pretty rosaries." I used to cross myself all the time when I was very small. I thought it was cool.
"Everybody was a Catholic, kiddo. We didn't need marked out."
"But you're ruining my conspiracy theory that the Pope wants to make everyone jealous of his hat."
"Have you been drinking?"
"Mum threw out my beer."
"You left it lying out."
"To be drunk later."
"Disgusting."
"So's your face."

And then we went to bed.

I've got time to kill and a story playing on my mind and I should wash my hair so it's less doll like and bleh but I think I might go slide in the kitchen. These socks may have been expensive and I've only worn them under my jeans and in bed but goddamn do they make dancing in the kitchen a helluva lot more fun. I've got my bowler and my shorts on. I can bung my ipod in the back pocket and slide my way to happiness.

When all else fails I turn to webcomics

You know when you're just feeling really lousy for whatever reason and your mum gives you feminist rants instead of hugs and you don't have the heart to tell your dad because FEELINGS and Julie has her own insane issues since she's in high school. You think well I have friends, durr hey, but you're out of money and you hate calling people. Love getting phone calls but hate having to talk on the phone. You decide to type up stories instead since you can't write, the pen hurts the new cut on your finger, and watch America's Next Top Model even though you hate all the girls already and you sorta want them all to die. You're not sure why you keep watching since all you got from it was mild interest when you realised you knew who Elyse Sewell was and it made the fact her boyfriend/keyboardist of the Shins beat her up slightly more upsetting.

You curl up in bed with Travis in your ears because you haven't listened to them in years and you kept remembering lyrics. It's hard listening to Writing to Reach You because you learned half of it for an exam before it was changed to Oasis for no reason. (Which is ironic considering the Wonderwall thing) and you got this album when you first claimed your little room for yourself. The walls quickly covered with old wallpaper and scribbled over by everybody who visited. The first Big Brother aired that year because your two best friends had an argument over who they wanted to win without ever meeting each other. You had one of those big orange inflatable chairs that were pointless and annoying and a giant desk that took up most of the room. You wrote your first novel there.

You wake up and miss your first lecture, you'll miss your second one if you don't hurry up and get dressed. But check the internet first in case stuff is cancelled. That's not the uni website, that's a webcomic.

And that dear reader is how I stopped feeling like absolute shit: a dinosaur talking about Casablanca.

What's a wonderwall anyway?

I find myself wondering if how I do things is the normal way. Like does everyone do the I'm waiting for the microwave to ping dance or the sugar stir wiggle into their coffee. I like knowing that I'm not the only one who sings along with the computer as it turns on or employs the shoogle method in times of desperation (and actually use that term, which is odd since I thought I'd made it up). I flounder a little when I don't know if I'm reacting appropriately to something. When you've spent as long as I have being told you're weird, mad and crazy it kinda screws your head up. I'm not very consistent. I was flattered when a guy offered me a VIP ticket to T in the Park free of charge if I slept with him in the tent we'd be camping in but I was creeped out when another guy claimed he'd always been attracted to me. Somehow that seems round the wrong way.

I got up out of bed this morning as Julie was doing her hair and gave her a fright as I loudly declared that I had to pee. I was still quite asleep, I know because I walked into the wall and woke myself up. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember lying in bed being tired and then I walked into the wall and it was morning. I've never slept like that. There's always the agonizing replaying of everything and thoughts bouncing off my closed eyes. It doesn't matter how exhausted physically or mentally I am, I can never get to sleep. I remember being small, I musta been under four because it was in our old house and Julie wasn't there, and wandering around late at night until my dad would tuck me back in and tell me to think of nothing. I crawled back into bed and thought maybe I finally learnt to sleep. No dreams, no pesky thoughts just rest. Not like the night before when the kittens took me to a new bar and we drank tequila and somebody beside me was smoking French cigarettes. I woke up tasting that dark smoke.

Or the night before that when I had the most ridiculous dream about a princess and woke up the next morning to find I'd written it all down. An almighty scrawl of nonsense. I've typed most of it up since part of me obviously felt the need to share it. Once it makes sense in English you can read it and have a laugh at my subconscious writer.

I was happy this morning. Nothing new to mull except hairstyles. But a song plays in my head and I sway as I make my coffee and my mouth opens quite on its own and belts out: Everyday I wake up alone because I'm not like all the other boys. Ever since I was young I had no choice but it's ok to lead me on. I must admit it's not much fun to be led on by such a one as you are. And then I remember the dream about the man but I can't recall his words to me, only my actions. I crack my jaw and pour in more sugar with a wiggle. He was going to change my life. And all I can think is well at least he wasn't made of kittens.

I can't find my diary where I usually keep late night Julie quotes

I just love that the Spanish spell their laughter with a J. I spent so long wondering why everyone was writing Ja Ja Ja and then I realised.

Best epiphany of life.

♥ Julie

Sunday Shuffle

It's a risk setting your ipod on shuffle. You don't want to have to keep flicking through the songs you forgot were on it but you're too asleep to even know what music you want to listen to. Choosing an album by yourself is almost as daunting as the task at hand (there's a face print on the glass door. I mean come on, that's not how to open a door!) Press the button, take the glass cleaner and away you go.

1) On the Other Side - The Strokes Fan-freaking-tastic, we start with something I can growl to like the New Yorker drunk I'd like to be. I hate myself for hating them. I'll drink some more, I'll love them all. I'll drink even more, I'll hate them more than I did before Mr Casablancas is a god and I worshipped him after throwing my boyfriend off my back. There was dancing to do, and I didn't need his hands acting as a bra. I pushed and shoved my way to the front, ignoring the screams of the uncomfortable made up little dolls who were already whining that they were getting crushed. At a concert of all places, how unseemly! I want them to hurry up and come back. I don't care if I have to go myself, I wanna see them again. That's this side of the door clean. Next side, next song.

2) L'amour ne dure pas toujours - Feist My face sets itself into my French pout. The one that I last used yacking on about the negative influence of media on les jeunes until the very bored young guy interrupted with: "euh, in France nobody would say that". I felt like staring him down and telling him I wasn't in France and I didn't speak French and couldn't we just skip all this crap since I didn't even need the grade. Not like he would have cared anyway, he looked half asleep. Apparently he spent most nights in clubs with his 2nd year class. When I finally muddled through, he smiled and pronounced my name perfectly. Take that stupid Olivier! It is too possible to say my name properly with a French accent. Called me Catrine all year and I never answered to it. The song itself is pretty but the pronunciation is funny. Like 'je pensuh' and 'silencuh'. There are no uhs!

3) NYC - Snow Patrol Ahh I love this. I toddle down stairs to get a bucket of water to wipe down the desks (always coffee everywhere) and just beam when this comes on. There's not enough love for old Snow Patrol, as in before everybody played them on the radio until I flinched every time that bing bong of Chasing Cars started. This song has four lines: Is this on? I am so too. I could take you there but I don't know how to get there. I could take you there but I don't know where to go. Some girl sings along too, I dunno who she is. All I know is I can shut my eyes, shout along as I weave in and out of the desks, knocking computers out of idleness and brushing papers to the ground and I'm happy.

4) Might - Modest Mouse Tidying up the mess Snow Patrol left behind I amuse my mum with my singing as she pops in looking for her screwdriver. I might, and you might. But neither of us will though. "Ok, then" she says before disappearing to the studio to finish the soundproofing. There's a little sneer that crops up when Isaac Brock lisps and shouts in my ears countered by the giggle when I think of Joe complaining that he doesn't like Johnny Marr.

5) First It Giveth - Queens of the Stone Age Lip throbs as it reminds me I got kicked in the face seeing them the first time. Boob throbs as it reminds me a guy tried to use it as some sort of boost to jump higher the second time I saw them. I get a shock when I change the bags in the wire mesh bin. Seriously you gotta be strong to listen to Josh Homme.

6) GODDAMN THE STROKES? THAT AINT MUCH OF A SHUFFLE. Lotsa wriggling in my jeans to hit the button and skip. I like variety when I'm cleaning, thank you very much apple. I even pressed the 'lets make it really random and not play 3 songs in a row by the same artist' button last time I changed settings.

6) Black Tongue - Yeah Yeah Yeahs Not a song to sing when people are around. Uh. Uh. Oww. Boy you just a stupid bitch and girl you just a no good dick First concert I went to by myself, first time I went out after David left me for a smaller woman. I wormed my way through the crowd, danced like a fool and screamed every orgasmic scream right along with Karen O while some random girl held on to my arm and laughed. I moan away, safe in the knowledge that the gate is locked and should any of these messy fuckers arrive I'd know.

7) Miserlou - Dick Dale and his Del-tones Pulp fiction! Danny in the cupboard playing something crazy and claiming it was this. Standing on the tables at lunch and dancing. I steal Licorice Allsorts from Licorice Media and stuff my face fulla the little bobbly round ones. A little stale but it's free, whadda I care. It makes crawling on the floor picking up elastic bands a lot more fun. I pocket a couple more for later.

8) Ex-Girlfriend - No Doubt Ah Gwen. Her voice rushes over the sound of the hoover. Why did she have to have a solo career that really was rubbish when she could have made more No Doubt records and me and the Lovely Lass wouldn't be waiting impatiently for them to tour again. I'm another ex-girlfriend on your list but I should have thought of that before we kissed. Man, kissing is the best. Hell with relationships, lets just all kiss each other kay? It will be fun. Except not you. Yeah you kinda smell, go way.

9) Here's Where the Story Ends - Tin Tin Out and Shelly Nelson Aww I got this from a Top of the Pops CD my dad got free from the BBC years ago. In fact the album name tells me it was 1998. It's a pretty song. Everyone I've ever played it too has always said so and thus it must be true. I never should have said the books that you read were all I loved you for It's too pretty to mop to, I wait a little and drink some water from a rather expensive looking bottle but it was all there was in the fridge.

10) Sister Ray (film edit) - The Velvet Underground "Edit? You can't edit Sister Ray. It's a duel between John Cale and Lou Reed. A battle of organ and guitar. Edit. What's the point?" "Dad, calm down. It just plays over the credits of a film you'd probably really like actually, we should watch it sometime. And I don't have the room on my ipod for a song that's 17 minutes long. Duel or no." "Pfffft"

And then my ipod died just as the Dandy Warhols bragged that they 'had known love like a whore' and I was left in silence scrubbing Buckfast off the front steps. Another week completed.

I tried too many times to get truth out of a lie

Everything is so soft in her house. From her mother wrapped in a dressing gown telling us to raid the cupboards if we get hungry to her brother and his girlfriend making eggs to the shivering blanketed mass that is her boyfriend who appeared at 3am very drunk and collapsed in her bed after staring at me and muttering "Is she sleeping with us?" There's a different mindset required to stay there. Conversations run with ooing and ahhhing. Isn't it shiny and pretty and lovely. The minute the boyfriend stumbles in something inside me snaps back and I'm sarky again. He can't handle my rum, tells me it's awful and far too dark and won't I be hungover. I smile sweetly and tell him a hangover for me is waking up at 5 in the morning and going OW. Then I tell him he isn't a real man if rum makes him gag. I was sitting there slagging him off and all the things Joe said to me earlier float in my head but I ignore him. This boy deserves to suffer my sarcasm. He still has a video of me and his girlfriend on his phone that I foolishly thought might have been lost. Plus he's skinny. I do not trust a man with no ass.

She switches to maternal mode and leads him upstairs after he fell into my breasts and started giggling. She wraps me in cold arms and murmurs "night gorgeous" in my hair and fwump I fall to the bed and dream of losing teeth. A mouthful of rum helps warm me up in the morning and I sit there with a bad taste in my mouth and watch this soft family and I want away. I have nothing to say; other than yes, Firefly is freakin awesome.

The snow is gone and as I trundle down the hill the airiness is left behind. Home Julie shouts MALCEMOO, it's the evil alchemoo (she was watching Full Metal Alchemist) and Mum calls me a wuss and pretends to punch me. Things are solid here, safe and a little crazy. My pretty top litters the floor. I couldn't wear a bra with it for I can't be bothered buying a strapless one so I had to spend all night checking I was still in place. But when I'd walked up the hill last night in the cold air under the stars and the trees that blocked out the traffic and Glasgow twinkled below me in an orangey haze, I was glad of my floaty top and chunky boots. I'm not sure who I was last night but she felt unusually pretty.

Catherine is who is here now, bleary eyed and sober with Amy Acker on her chest, a candy cane in her mouth and football on the telly. There's a letter from my aunt in Kansas. Mum shows me the pictures of my cousins I'll probably never see now. The oldest is getting married to a generic man with boring facial hair and the youngest who is my age is pregnant. The photo shows her pretty face leaning into a far too young looking boy and the letter tells us the baby is due in April and is a boy and they've already named him but I can't make out her writing. I burst into tears as my aunt talks about how happy my cousin is knowing that we still love her. I don't even know who I'm crying for and I'm surprised it's affected me like this. I mean, I'm a sap. I cry at sad books, good books, great films and beautiful songs but not so much real life these days.

When I shake this sadness off I'm going to finish all my half stories and do an edit of my first chapter. I've got too much I want this girl to do for her to lie in that bath forever.

When you're lost I know how to change your mood

Jeans or skirt, jeans or skirt. Jeans mean I can sit any old way I like but I tend to be more judgmental in denim. I'm critical and I'm cynical and while that was appropriate for earlier I'm about to spend an evening with girls, one of which does not take my advice without bursting into tears. Okay so my advice might be "for fucksake get over yourself and grow up" but it was meant kindly. Kinda. Skirt means I'll probably be giggly (also alcohol) and girly which is good when one is socialising with such company. I could wear my knee high socks, she likes them and it means I can justify buying them. Or I could throw on a dress. Sometimes I wish I could just turn up in the clothes I sleep in. So much more comfy and dammit if I don't just love wearing those shorts.

I feel awful but I should wait until I'm just about to leave before I drug myself up again. Surprisingly my body decided to be nice and let me breathe today. Even more surprising was my hair tamed itself into a passable mess. Hurrah.

I decided to kill time by typing up what little I've written of the novel that threatened to be. I'm completely stumped as to where to go from here since my character would be so obtuse and refuse to wake up. I've written more but I haven't found a way to link everything together. With any luck it'll sort itself out. If not it just wasn't meant to be.

Fuck it, I'm gonna throw a dress on. I'm gonna fake it so hard until I'm a drunk and happy girl. I am a master of disguise, the mistress of deception and tonight I shall be captivating and well-adjusted and have a merry time at an old friend's house. I just pray she's in a good mood and nothing awfully dramatic has happened recently so we can just be silly.

Question is what dress?

Ah see now I've made a decision I kinda want to wear a skirt and my pretty blue top with the goddess sleeves. Thankfully, I only ever have this indecision in my head. As soon as I can be bothered going upstairs to my wardrobe I'll be dressed in 5 minutes. So really the question is do I take my bottle of rum or vodka along? The rum will clear my nose, the vodka won't give me a hangover tomorrow. The rum is the smarter choice. The vodka is 20 years old and although it's unopened I don't want to potentially kill anybody. Not tonight anyway. I whine about them tons but I do love my girls, silly though they be.

Why is Justin Timberlake on my TV? He is being incredibly boring. He's just sitting there going "Ummmmmmm"

Yeah, great TV there, mate.

Now it's Maroon 5. I secretly like their first album. Don't tell anybody though it shatters my indie cred. Also the singer gives the impression of being an ass. I don't know why but I violently hate his face. However, I will admit I do enjoy dancing along to Sunday Morning in my underwear when nobody is in my house. That song never fails to make me smile.

Ok, here I go. Time to get dressed, wish me luck.