The sun is shining.
Fuck everything else the sun is shining. I wake up at eight to a text that makes me crack up laughing and I pull my window open and listen. Birds are nesting above my room, in a couple of months I'll see the constant darting back and forth of swallows. The traffic is a distant grumble. There was a moment the night before when the cars and the shouting and the clack of my heels melded with the quiet buzz in my mind into something tangible. I've been incredibly pissed off lately. Missed messages and hypocrisy prevails once more and my chin juts out in defiance. I had more right to be upset, more right to be messed up. What do you have? Picking a problem and working your feelings like plasticine to fit your new point of view. Oh for goodness sake, grow up. Deal with it. I want to shake you up. Shake the phony right out of you. I think I outgrew you, and it saddens me but I'll keep my smile pasted wide. You'll never know and that's the way it should be.
But today the sun is shining and the world is sleeping and you fade away for a moment. You and everyone else that pesters and annoys. So ridiculous. So melodramatic. I left high school a long time ago I wish you'd let it be. And I'm striding out with my head held high. I have been stupid, I have been weak but it will not happen again. And though I complain and sigh and pout I am happy alone, my own self. No one person consumes my thoughts and I'm growing proud in my tastes. Proud in my work. I've gathered all my scraps, the hurried thoughts I had to get out on various modes of transport. It's not all entirely legible but I remember the sentiments. Ideas, oh god the ideas, they dance in my head and I giggle in the morning sunshine because I am good. My french fairy tale is blooming into something I love though it's still too french. But I want to advance so once I'm far enough on I'll backtrack and take out all the extraneous linguistics.
There's a woman on tv with fire hair. I don't know how she did it. But the curls and the varying colour combined to make fire. It's little mermaid hair. I am entranced.
After I take me mam to ikea for my belated mother's day tomorrow I'm going to tidy my room and throw myself into notebooks. I've stolen enough pens to last me a few weeks and I'm determined to complete something.
The sun is shining and burns away this evil month. This dreaded time of year that twists and stabs and worries and I ignore until nullity washes away the weeks. This year I'm going for something brighter, something more than neutrality. And whether I find it in a dark cinema theatre or on a pounding dancefloor or in the bottom of a bottle is irrelevant just so long as I get by.
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Could we have the freedom with less arse flashing please
History we moved on from gender to race. And nobody had much to say and I tried not to rant too much about German nationalism in the nineteenth century but I did write it so damn much in 6th year. Only productive thing I did that year. And then one guy with the smuggest, shit-eating grin pipes up about nationalism being a load of crap and Alex Sammond being an "idiot who pandered to those who wanted England to lose and loved Braveheart" and I kind of lost it. I mean ok, independence is not that big of a deal these days and we're not being oppressed or anything but I'd call myself a nationalist and I couldn't give a shit if England won the world cup and I think our national anthem is a disgrace. I admit I voted SNP for a laugh, to shake things up. I want a revolution. Politics are getting stale. But he argued that nationalist was a movement away from a democratic government which is a fucking joke unless he voted in Gordon Brown because I certainly didn't nor did the rest of this dozy country. And the absolute best bit? He was wearing a Scotland rugby top and apologised in that awful way guys do when it comes to sport to the English guy next to him cause I dunno they lost? I don't watch rugby. I kind of lost it and just laughed at him.
Despite just ranting angrily and amusedly at the smug bastard and mouthy girl with badly dyed ginger hair I got murmurs of approval when I argued that it wasn't about England, it was about being Scottish and separate from Britain since, despite what mouthy told me, I have never called myself British. And these murmurs came from the quiet gothy girl with dreadlocks who would be quirkily gorgeous if her mouth wasn't quite so big and awkward looking and from the guy who isn't very subtle with the reading of my breasts (which is my own fault for wearing tshirts with writing on them and I made a point of stretching out when I caught his eye making him look rather uncomfortable).
The result of arguing so much? My tutor knows my name. Apart from the Polish girl's name (Marta, seems every girl I meet from Poland is called Marta) mine is the only one she remembers. It's petty but it's also pretty bloody awesome.
Despite just ranting angrily and amusedly at the smug bastard and mouthy girl with badly dyed ginger hair I got murmurs of approval when I argued that it wasn't about England, it was about being Scottish and separate from Britain since, despite what mouthy told me, I have never called myself British. And these murmurs came from the quiet gothy girl with dreadlocks who would be quirkily gorgeous if her mouth wasn't quite so big and awkward looking and from the guy who isn't very subtle with the reading of my breasts (which is my own fault for wearing tshirts with writing on them and I made a point of stretching out when I caught his eye making him look rather uncomfortable).
The result of arguing so much? My tutor knows my name. Apart from the Polish girl's name (Marta, seems every girl I meet from Poland is called Marta) mine is the only one she remembers. It's petty but it's also pretty bloody awesome.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
One can't help believing gentlemen with Roman noses
"What's geographical survey do you think?" Ignoring the giant holes in her lobes and the mess of plum hair, she's quite attractive really. And she's like me, hugely disappointed that all we ever talk about are hills and what they might contain. I smile and hope I don't look too ragged. I know I do, but it's nice to pretend nobody else can see. So I smile winningly and unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth: "s'like map looking"
Map Looking.
Oh the shame.
My mother gave me two pieces of advice when I started drinking: don't drink vodka with orange and don't drink so much that you make an arse of yourself. And I try to keep it in mind as I stare at the bottom of a bottle. I think I do ok. I talk shit and there's been a couple of silly moments and I always dance like a fool, not alcohol related I just always dance like a fool. I know I'm graceless enough to be so very far from sexy but that's what spirits, dimmed lighting and booming bass lines are for: ignoring obvious flaws.
I'm a mass of bruises. The triangle is gone. This morning in fact I noticed the last hints of yellow geometry had finally faded. I'll miss it, mostly because I couldn't show it off to anyone. Still mystified as to how it got there but I guess I'll never know. The rest of me is dotted with greyish green smudges. It's idle curiosity that consumes me these days. They don't hurt, not really, and they're just results of clumsiness. Doors, walls, tables, people. I don't pay enough attention. I'm too wrapped up inside my own head. I'm also a terrible fidget. And completely distracted by a dozen other things I caught the edge of my lip between my teeth and clamped down until my eyes watered. Sucking the blood away surreptitiously it struck me that this was an incredibly stupid thing to do. I mean seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me. I stayed out all night drinking away my money and grinding away my cares but I woke up the next morning with all the same shit. Same hang-ups, same regrets of things left unsaid and foolish mistakes I'm tired of learning from. And god, I'm bored. I switched off a little. Slumped down and listened rather than participated. I need shaking up but I'm too much of a coward to do it myself.
But it's not as bad as it's been before. There's a cosy casualness settling in my limbs, feeling secure in who I am, even if she's a liar and a fool. And I don't know if it'll last or if I'll end up driving people away again but it's a comfort for the moment. And the bump of angry healing on my bottom lip is another comfort. It's painful and it's annoying but it'll pass and it gives my mouth an occupation while I'm dreaming away time I should be spending doing something productive. It's a question of perspective, and on the whole I'm doing pretty alright.
Map Looking.
Oh the shame.
My mother gave me two pieces of advice when I started drinking: don't drink vodka with orange and don't drink so much that you make an arse of yourself. And I try to keep it in mind as I stare at the bottom of a bottle. I think I do ok. I talk shit and there's been a couple of silly moments and I always dance like a fool, not alcohol related I just always dance like a fool. I know I'm graceless enough to be so very far from sexy but that's what spirits, dimmed lighting and booming bass lines are for: ignoring obvious flaws.
I'm a mass of bruises. The triangle is gone. This morning in fact I noticed the last hints of yellow geometry had finally faded. I'll miss it, mostly because I couldn't show it off to anyone. Still mystified as to how it got there but I guess I'll never know. The rest of me is dotted with greyish green smudges. It's idle curiosity that consumes me these days. They don't hurt, not really, and they're just results of clumsiness. Doors, walls, tables, people. I don't pay enough attention. I'm too wrapped up inside my own head. I'm also a terrible fidget. And completely distracted by a dozen other things I caught the edge of my lip between my teeth and clamped down until my eyes watered. Sucking the blood away surreptitiously it struck me that this was an incredibly stupid thing to do. I mean seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me. I stayed out all night drinking away my money and grinding away my cares but I woke up the next morning with all the same shit. Same hang-ups, same regrets of things left unsaid and foolish mistakes I'm tired of learning from. And god, I'm bored. I switched off a little. Slumped down and listened rather than participated. I need shaking up but I'm too much of a coward to do it myself.
But it's not as bad as it's been before. There's a cosy casualness settling in my limbs, feeling secure in who I am, even if she's a liar and a fool. And I don't know if it'll last or if I'll end up driving people away again but it's a comfort for the moment. And the bump of angry healing on my bottom lip is another comfort. It's painful and it's annoying but it'll pass and it gives my mouth an occupation while I'm dreaming away time I should be spending doing something productive. It's a question of perspective, and on the whole I'm doing pretty alright.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
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'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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Written in Dejection, near Naples
The two Beechams have just kicked it and I have a rare burst of energy! I am awake, to the extent that the blurriness is gone and I don't fall when I stand anymore. I have managed to colour in my nail. I don't know how. And now that I've looked I see I've written 3 pages of a story subconsciously, unconsciously? I guess that will be fun to read. Where did all the time go? It was ten o'clock just a minute ago. Oh, yes I went to the bakery and bought a doughnut. I don't care about the size of my ass, I only lose weight when I'm not paying attention anyway. My mum popped in to tell me I looked awful before leaving again.
God, I do look awful. Like some sort of zombie. Rwarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
There's orange juice in the freezer. Orange juice is good for colds. But I don't want a carton lolly. All I can think about is Dylan Moran and his red wine lolly. God, I love him. I want a scruffy Irish man. But I dunno if I can afford the year out to Ireland. Gallway is hella pretty though, it could be worth the debt. Love: potentially worth bankruptcy.
My hair is a bird's nest of disaster. Maybe I should just grow it. Be a girl. Smile demurely and act modestly. Or get it cut and stick a hat on?
Holy crap my right hand is inktastic. This is new ink too because I totally washed this morning. Stupid pen. Why can't you be more like that pen I got in Rome. Best fucking pen. And I wasted it on Bismarck. Nobody cares about Bismarck. Man I miss that class. I never got to pull Agnew up for making up a pirate just to win the argument. Nobody tells me I must have gotten my facts from Johnny Depp and dismisses me like some lovesick little girl.
I was reading Shelley. Well, more like browsing Shelley, too tired for actual reading. Then I came across the heading Stanzas written in dejection, near Naples and spent ages thinking dejection doesn't sound very Italian. You'd think I would have cottoned on when just a few poems before there was "Invocation to Misery". Miserable lot these poets were. Oh, how I love them. Except Wordsworth. Later for him. Full of lies. All these lines composed at such and such a place at such and such a time, only he got them wrong. And I wandered lonely as a cloud? With your sister who was also there.
Man, how good is it to be able to breathe? I had the worst sleep ever. Did I already say that? I forget what I've blogged already and what I just thought about. That's the problem I have with internet journals. Too much like talking to myself and I do that far, far too much already.
Oh, ok, the buzz from my pills is fading into a soft woomph now. Either that or I'm just way too tired. But! with any luck I'll be fine by tomorrow morning. I've psyched myself up for seeing people and I'll be damned if I have to postpone it. Girls are so much work to be around. They turn on you like that. I figure I'll take my rum, trundle up the road and if I lack the energy even fuelled by alcohol then I'll just go to sleep. She has like the most comfy bed ever. Or close to the most comfy bed, because it's a bit on the small side.
I think I might watch The Melancholy of Suzumiya Haruhi again on youtube. It's like the most ridiculous anime I've ever seen and I've seen Tokyo Mew Mew or Mew Mew Power or whatever the hell it is. Creepy, that's what it is. Anyway Haruhi. It makes no sense and it takes the piss out of so many other shows and they dress up as bunny girls for no reason. Look at her judge you. Juuuuuuuudge.
God, I do look awful. Like some sort of zombie. Rwarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
There's orange juice in the freezer. Orange juice is good for colds. But I don't want a carton lolly. All I can think about is Dylan Moran and his red wine lolly. God, I love him. I want a scruffy Irish man. But I dunno if I can afford the year out to Ireland. Gallway is hella pretty though, it could be worth the debt. Love: potentially worth bankruptcy.
My hair is a bird's nest of disaster. Maybe I should just grow it. Be a girl. Smile demurely and act modestly. Or get it cut and stick a hat on?
Holy crap my right hand is inktastic. This is new ink too because I totally washed this morning. Stupid pen. Why can't you be more like that pen I got in Rome. Best fucking pen. And I wasted it on Bismarck. Nobody cares about Bismarck. Man I miss that class. I never got to pull Agnew up for making up a pirate just to win the argument. Nobody tells me I must have gotten my facts from Johnny Depp and dismisses me like some lovesick little girl.
I was reading Shelley. Well, more like browsing Shelley, too tired for actual reading. Then I came across the heading Stanzas written in dejection, near Naples and spent ages thinking dejection doesn't sound very Italian. You'd think I would have cottoned on when just a few poems before there was "Invocation to Misery". Miserable lot these poets were. Oh, how I love them. Except Wordsworth. Later for him. Full of lies. All these lines composed at such and such a place at such and such a time, only he got them wrong. And I wandered lonely as a cloud? With your sister who was also there.
Man, how good is it to be able to breathe? I had the worst sleep ever. Did I already say that? I forget what I've blogged already and what I just thought about. That's the problem I have with internet journals. Too much like talking to myself and I do that far, far too much already.
Oh, ok, the buzz from my pills is fading into a soft woomph now. Either that or I'm just way too tired. But! with any luck I'll be fine by tomorrow morning. I've psyched myself up for seeing people and I'll be damned if I have to postpone it. Girls are so much work to be around. They turn on you like that. I figure I'll take my rum, trundle up the road and if I lack the energy even fuelled by alcohol then I'll just go to sleep. She has like the most comfy bed ever. Or close to the most comfy bed, because it's a bit on the small side.
I think I might watch The Melancholy of Suzumiya Haruhi again on youtube. It's like the most ridiculous anime I've ever seen and I've seen Tokyo Mew Mew or Mew Mew Power or whatever the hell it is. Creepy, that's what it is. Anyway Haruhi. It makes no sense and it takes the piss out of so many other shows and they dress up as bunny girls for no reason. Look at her judge you. Juuuuuuuudge.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
When you are away my heart comes undone
The cold that threatened to ruin yesterday hit me hard this morning. I was spending my pennies on comfort food and tissues. I contemplate heading to Boots and doing the "please help me, little boxes of pills" that I seem to do every other month. But it's raining. That's why my hat is tucked awkwardly in my bag. It's why I'm shivering, huddled outside the Union trying to decide where to go to kill my time. Lovely Lass is away home by now, our timetables don't match quite so well this semester. I have a page of a story that I'd planned to finish yesterday but I wrote about the sleeping boy instead and doodled strawberries so I'll have nothing to present at the Writer's Group but that's ok. I haven't written much lately. I've got a fair few things rolling around my head but no drive to write them. I've been reading instead. Devouring pages of text. There's so many books waiting to be read and I don't have enough time or money to get through them all.
My head has been in the clouds lately. I've not been thinking anything through. I like life that way. I like trundling along and hoping for a surprise. I don't want to make the first move, don't want to make any decision. I care, don't get me wrong. I always care. It's been a long, long time since I gave up caring and I like to think I've grown up a little. I can deal with things better. I'm still floored when people see through me. When they say something, usually offhand, and it niggles away and makes me think far too much. I'm happy to an extent. I know what I'm lacking. I want somebody to curl up sleepy and cosy with. When two bodies fit just right beside each other and you can talk about anything and it doesn't matter. I want to fall asleep in somebody's arms and feel safe for once. There's only been a handful of times when I could make that claim.
But whether I want a relationship is debatable. I love being somebody's girl. I love that thrill when you tell somebody you're off to meet your boyfriend. I love the butterflies in my stomach when I walk down the road to meet him and I wonder what the day will be like. But I've been my own girl for close on 2 years now (which was mostly self-inflicted so I can't complain too much) and sometimes I wonder if I could give myself up to somebody else again. I need control. Maybe I'm just tired of men declaring love. I mean at nineteen years old what is love exactly? When you can't stop thinking about him, and he intrudes on all your thoughts and you just have to be near him? When you lie awake at nights and wonder what he's doing and if he's thinking of you and is it too late to call him? I don't think I've ever fallen in love. Not with anybody I could have a relationship with. My relationships are defined by boys who showed an interest in me and I'd say yes because I figured why not. I'm still unsure about David Number 2, considering he was a boring psycho and a good friend of mine at the time was madly in love with him. Suddenly he was telling me he was in love and people were going on about how we were in love and I realised I was incredibly bored and left him for somebody new. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? The men who consume me are always the ones I can't have and I try not to dwell on them but they fascinate me more than the boys who throw themselves at me.
I feel awful. It's not the alcohol because God knows I didn't drink enough of that even if I was less than steady on my feet. My face aches from the cold that I hope goes away soon. My feet buzz from walking too far around the campus today. Luckily the teeny little cut on my hand is mostly healed so long as I don't stretch it or write too fast. I'm rambling again. Honestly I'm surprised anybody bothers reading this. I know I don't after I get it out. This is merely an extension of my mind and sometimes I forget this is public and people who know me read it. And when they mention things I've written later on I get freaked. It's so intimate reading somebody else's thoughts. I wrote in my journal the other day that imagining you reading what I'd written there was like imagining you watching me slip my dress over my head. I concluded that my blog on the other hand was a mere flash of my tits, so quick you barely notice. I remember feeling I'd written something profound and insightful but then I always think that until I look at it a week later and laugh at my pretentiousness.
I'm so bored. It's like my mind switched off weeks ago and nobody wants to wake me up. Is this less abstract enough for you? I barely even rambled on about the past that I dwell in far too much. This is my present. And fuck me am I ever sick of it.
Nevermind. No doubt time will catch up me unawares and deadlines will scream in my ears and I'll be too flustered to give a damn about anything real.
My head has been in the clouds lately. I've not been thinking anything through. I like life that way. I like trundling along and hoping for a surprise. I don't want to make the first move, don't want to make any decision. I care, don't get me wrong. I always care. It's been a long, long time since I gave up caring and I like to think I've grown up a little. I can deal with things better. I'm still floored when people see through me. When they say something, usually offhand, and it niggles away and makes me think far too much. I'm happy to an extent. I know what I'm lacking. I want somebody to curl up sleepy and cosy with. When two bodies fit just right beside each other and you can talk about anything and it doesn't matter. I want to fall asleep in somebody's arms and feel safe for once. There's only been a handful of times when I could make that claim.
But whether I want a relationship is debatable. I love being somebody's girl. I love that thrill when you tell somebody you're off to meet your boyfriend. I love the butterflies in my stomach when I walk down the road to meet him and I wonder what the day will be like. But I've been my own girl for close on 2 years now (which was mostly self-inflicted so I can't complain too much) and sometimes I wonder if I could give myself up to somebody else again. I need control. Maybe I'm just tired of men declaring love. I mean at nineteen years old what is love exactly? When you can't stop thinking about him, and he intrudes on all your thoughts and you just have to be near him? When you lie awake at nights and wonder what he's doing and if he's thinking of you and is it too late to call him? I don't think I've ever fallen in love. Not with anybody I could have a relationship with. My relationships are defined by boys who showed an interest in me and I'd say yes because I figured why not. I'm still unsure about David Number 2, considering he was a boring psycho and a good friend of mine at the time was madly in love with him. Suddenly he was telling me he was in love and people were going on about how we were in love and I realised I was incredibly bored and left him for somebody new. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? The men who consume me are always the ones I can't have and I try not to dwell on them but they fascinate me more than the boys who throw themselves at me.
I feel awful. It's not the alcohol because God knows I didn't drink enough of that even if I was less than steady on my feet. My face aches from the cold that I hope goes away soon. My feet buzz from walking too far around the campus today. Luckily the teeny little cut on my hand is mostly healed so long as I don't stretch it or write too fast. I'm rambling again. Honestly I'm surprised anybody bothers reading this. I know I don't after I get it out. This is merely an extension of my mind and sometimes I forget this is public and people who know me read it. And when they mention things I've written later on I get freaked. It's so intimate reading somebody else's thoughts. I wrote in my journal the other day that imagining you reading what I'd written there was like imagining you watching me slip my dress over my head. I concluded that my blog on the other hand was a mere flash of my tits, so quick you barely notice. I remember feeling I'd written something profound and insightful but then I always think that until I look at it a week later and laugh at my pretentiousness.
I'm so bored. It's like my mind switched off weeks ago and nobody wants to wake me up. Is this less abstract enough for you? I barely even rambled on about the past that I dwell in far too much. This is my present. And fuck me am I ever sick of it.
Nevermind. No doubt time will catch up me unawares and deadlines will scream in my ears and I'll be too flustered to give a damn about anything real.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
"Uhh," said the man to the lady
The screech of feedback distorts the conversations that had threatened to engulf me. I turn the volume up higher and higher until I can feel the squeals of the guitar vibrating my nose. The pause between songs brings the sea of voices washing in. "E's a fat bastard. A fat speccy bastard." "Aye, aye I get that, but what's he doing there?" A child shrieks and I shut my eyes and wait.
There must be a devil between us
Or whores in my head
Whores at the door
Whore in my bed
But hey, where have you been?
If you go I will surely die...
The leather of my jacket is soft against my cheek as I slouch down further in the bus seat. I had my legs tucked up comfortably for half of the journey but this angry woman in front of me ruined things. She's eating salt and vinegar crisps and the smell takes me back to school. Thoughts of the skinny girl who always took charge. She organised the games, in which I was nearly always the evil witch although I also got to be Belle and Jasmine and Mildred Hubble when we attempted to recreate rather than invent our own. She would sit next to me eating salt and vinegar crisps and press two pence coins into my legs in preparation of my big death scene. I had to wear long socks that week. She'd ask me for advice. I was the go-to girl for solving all of life's mysteries. I was more than a little in love with her. We would giggle under cardigans and rub noses like eskimos. We'd link arms and gossip about boys. She had a bay window in her bedroom with a sofa. We sat in the porch of her old friend while we waited for her to get dressed and her little brothers ran out naked and pressed themselves against the glass door. We hid each others eyes and agreed that boys were icky.
The woman in front has finished eating by now and memories of the skinny girl float away. The blue of my plaster peeks from my sleeve and I wince just a little as I stretch my hand out. Only I could cut myself with a mop. The pen in my pocket rubs along the inside of my hip reminding me I have so much to write. Of course, it would be my right hand the mop attacked. There's a man in his bedroom spying on his neighbour.
The sirens sang so sweet
And watched the sailors going down
You talk to me in siren song
Yeah, anyone would drown
There's a child delirious in her bed. Things moving in the dull light. Ever had a poster that looked like the faces were moving at night? There's a girl. She's mostly me. She keeps walking down this road, tripping over tree roots and she gets to the bridge on Kelvin Way and she puts on her favourite song and looks down into the grey water and
The music stops. I'm out of battery. Which is bullshit because I just charged it but my ipod is pretty old now. Everybody is talking too fast and too loud and the woman's hood has that stupid fur around it and my eyes are heavy and the bus is too warm. My head spins and I'm losing track of my thoughts. I miss my stop and I have to trudge along East Kilbride Road but it isn't raining so I don't mind too much. My jaw is clicking again. I clack it down my road and don't care how obscene I look.
And then I shut the door on my Sunday. I hope yours was more entertaining.
There must be a devil between us
Or whores in my head
Whores at the door
Whore in my bed
But hey, where have you been?
If you go I will surely die...
The leather of my jacket is soft against my cheek as I slouch down further in the bus seat. I had my legs tucked up comfortably for half of the journey but this angry woman in front of me ruined things. She's eating salt and vinegar crisps and the smell takes me back to school. Thoughts of the skinny girl who always took charge. She organised the games, in which I was nearly always the evil witch although I also got to be Belle and Jasmine and Mildred Hubble when we attempted to recreate rather than invent our own. She would sit next to me eating salt and vinegar crisps and press two pence coins into my legs in preparation of my big death scene. I had to wear long socks that week. She'd ask me for advice. I was the go-to girl for solving all of life's mysteries. I was more than a little in love with her. We would giggle under cardigans and rub noses like eskimos. We'd link arms and gossip about boys. She had a bay window in her bedroom with a sofa. We sat in the porch of her old friend while we waited for her to get dressed and her little brothers ran out naked and pressed themselves against the glass door. We hid each others eyes and agreed that boys were icky.
The woman in front has finished eating by now and memories of the skinny girl float away. The blue of my plaster peeks from my sleeve and I wince just a little as I stretch my hand out. Only I could cut myself with a mop. The pen in my pocket rubs along the inside of my hip reminding me I have so much to write. Of course, it would be my right hand the mop attacked. There's a man in his bedroom spying on his neighbour.
The sirens sang so sweet
And watched the sailors going down
You talk to me in siren song
Yeah, anyone would drown
There's a child delirious in her bed. Things moving in the dull light. Ever had a poster that looked like the faces were moving at night? There's a girl. She's mostly me. She keeps walking down this road, tripping over tree roots and she gets to the bridge on Kelvin Way and she puts on her favourite song and looks down into the grey water and
The music stops. I'm out of battery. Which is bullshit because I just charged it but my ipod is pretty old now. Everybody is talking too fast and too loud and the woman's hood has that stupid fur around it and my eyes are heavy and the bus is too warm. My head spins and I'm losing track of my thoughts. I miss my stop and I have to trudge along East Kilbride Road but it isn't raining so I don't mind too much. My jaw is clicking again. I clack it down my road and don't care how obscene I look.
And then I shut the door on my Sunday. I hope yours was more entertaining.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Una historia sin tiempo
"Cath, you know it's like half past nine?"
"No, no s'ok mum. I don't have History today, it's Monday."
I then went back to having a conversation with someone who was in the bed beside me and it was deep stuff. I unburdened myself upon them and they did not judge me. I bared my soul, unloaded all of those pesky little secrets that usually want to pour forth at 3 in the morning when I've been awake too long again but there's nobody around. I like to talk as I fall asleep. I have no idea what I'm saying but it needs to be said. David Number Three used to let me yammer on while he turned round and fell asleep surreptitiously. If I was conscious enough to be annoyed I'd start telling him crazy things in the hope he'd at least freak out, give me a reaction. All I ever got was snoring. It was an unfulfilling relationship to say the least.
"Cath, you know it's like quarter past nine? You awake?"
I opened my eyes and may have grunted something because my mum shrugged and walked off. 2 days into the second semester and I've missed my first History class that wasn't enrollment. I didn't even stay out late last night to avoid this, despite enjoying spending time with Rob because we make the best noises that turn into pirates half the time. I went home after having an epiphany on the train, losing it when I walked in the door and settling for the bowl of strawberries that nobody else had claimed already. To be honest they might have explained the dreams.
I'm really trying to fight my laziness. I mean I did my first day back so dress up because it's easier to fake it in a skirt than jeans and I spoke to like 3 new people. I was a little disappointed that the cute ginger girl didn't carry on Classics but I think I already knew that and hung out with the girl who is actually kinda old. I only point that out because we were talking about graduation and she was all "omg I'll be thirty" and that was scary. I mean thirty is older than I can imagine being. I'll be 22, 23 maybe if I take that year out in Ireland or Iceland or Greece. Unfortunately annoying 'lets make out in class' couple and fat guy who steals your desk were all still in my class and Mouse Face is too and still determined to sit almost next to me but say nothing even when I smiled hello. He did his 'maybe I'll say something' face and then turned away. Cannot be bothered with more of that. And my Classics class is in the Engineering building. First off it's a horrible looking tacked on modern building next to the Gothic main one, 2nd to get to it I have to clamber over the road torn up by trees and climb oddly spaced out stairs and 3rd? Well it's full of engineering students. These are people who know maths, that wouldn't spend ages agonising over percentages in shops and triple checking addition before heading to the cash desk. they intimidate me something fierce.
But my point was the laziness. Maybe I should at least try and adhere to my sex. Just a little. Spend more than 2 minutes throwing on whatever doesn't smell bad or look crumpled. But even when I make a little effort it never takes more than 10 minutes unless I'm looking for something in particular which means it's at the bottom of a pile in a room nobody goes into. And half the time I'm only making myself look good for myself. I don't really like attracting attention, just makes me think there's something wrong with me, and I'm still a little wary since the time the crazed junkie wouldn't leave me alone but that's really another thing altogether.
Plus like 3 people on separate occasions have remarked "that was quick!" when I've come back from the toilet in this past week. Like they expected me to be ages. What I'm supposed to be doing in there I'm not sure but clearly I'm not doing it for long enough? Is there some sort of set time for girls that I don't know about, because I don't have make up to check and I know my hair looks awful without looking and maybe I should have just worn a hat?
God, I'm starving. I think it's time for make toast and pour all the leftover syrups and honey on top to make a gooey meal!
"No, no s'ok mum. I don't have History today, it's Monday."
I then went back to having a conversation with someone who was in the bed beside me and it was deep stuff. I unburdened myself upon them and they did not judge me. I bared my soul, unloaded all of those pesky little secrets that usually want to pour forth at 3 in the morning when I've been awake too long again but there's nobody around. I like to talk as I fall asleep. I have no idea what I'm saying but it needs to be said. David Number Three used to let me yammer on while he turned round and fell asleep surreptitiously. If I was conscious enough to be annoyed I'd start telling him crazy things in the hope he'd at least freak out, give me a reaction. All I ever got was snoring. It was an unfulfilling relationship to say the least.
"Cath, you know it's like quarter past nine? You awake?"
I opened my eyes and may have grunted something because my mum shrugged and walked off. 2 days into the second semester and I've missed my first History class that wasn't enrollment. I didn't even stay out late last night to avoid this, despite enjoying spending time with Rob because we make the best noises that turn into pirates half the time. I went home after having an epiphany on the train, losing it when I walked in the door and settling for the bowl of strawberries that nobody else had claimed already. To be honest they might have explained the dreams.
I'm really trying to fight my laziness. I mean I did my first day back so dress up because it's easier to fake it in a skirt than jeans and I spoke to like 3 new people. I was a little disappointed that the cute ginger girl didn't carry on Classics but I think I already knew that and hung out with the girl who is actually kinda old. I only point that out because we were talking about graduation and she was all "omg I'll be thirty" and that was scary. I mean thirty is older than I can imagine being. I'll be 22, 23 maybe if I take that year out in Ireland or Iceland or Greece. Unfortunately annoying 'lets make out in class' couple and fat guy who steals your desk were all still in my class and Mouse Face is too and still determined to sit almost next to me but say nothing even when I smiled hello. He did his 'maybe I'll say something' face and then turned away. Cannot be bothered with more of that. And my Classics class is in the Engineering building. First off it's a horrible looking tacked on modern building next to the Gothic main one, 2nd to get to it I have to clamber over the road torn up by trees and climb oddly spaced out stairs and 3rd? Well it's full of engineering students. These are people who know maths, that wouldn't spend ages agonising over percentages in shops and triple checking addition before heading to the cash desk. they intimidate me something fierce.
But my point was the laziness. Maybe I should at least try and adhere to my sex. Just a little. Spend more than 2 minutes throwing on whatever doesn't smell bad or look crumpled. But even when I make a little effort it never takes more than 10 minutes unless I'm looking for something in particular which means it's at the bottom of a pile in a room nobody goes into. And half the time I'm only making myself look good for myself. I don't really like attracting attention, just makes me think there's something wrong with me, and I'm still a little wary since the time the crazed junkie wouldn't leave me alone but that's really another thing altogether.
Plus like 3 people on separate occasions have remarked "that was quick!" when I've come back from the toilet in this past week. Like they expected me to be ages. What I'm supposed to be doing in there I'm not sure but clearly I'm not doing it for long enough? Is there some sort of set time for girls that I don't know about, because I don't have make up to check and I know my hair looks awful without looking and maybe I should have just worn a hat?
God, I'm starving. I think it's time for make toast and pour all the leftover syrups and honey on top to make a gooey meal!
Monday, January 21, 2008
She died like she lived: in vain.
Julie came home sick this morning, disrupting my very lovely dream and forcing me out of bed at the ungodly hour of half past ten. I couldn't get pissed though because an hour later she was freaking out, Mum was freaking out and then I had to phone my dad so he could freak out too. I was told nothing as they drove down to the doctor and I comforted myself with the thought that at least her adrenalin was still with me so she wasn't like dying or anything. She came home, thought about throwing up some more and then danced down the stairs singing "Shake your booty" louder than I would have liked. She's watching Happy Feet now as I type happy but for the fact that she's not allowed online to talk to her Devart fans.
While she was tucked up safe in bed I dragged down my sewing bag from the attic and found a couple of dresses I haven't worn in years. Unfortunately I could only get them on if I lost my bust. Pictures may follow later of my new skirt, made primarily of a giant vest top I got for a pound in one of the many charity shops down on Main Street. Seriously there's more down there than is needed for one road.
In other news I have two new freckles! This may not seem like news but when I was wee all I wanted was freckles. Everybody I was friends with had them and wished they didn't and I had none. On the one hand I was instead crazy pale and when people asked if I was ill I would lie and pout and get sent home. I never intentionally lied you understand I just knew how to take advantage of a good situation. On the other hand, well all the pretty girls had freckles and boyfriends, such as they were in primary school at least. I was pale as death and had a boy who told me one day that I was his girlfriend if this other girl decided they weren't going out anymore. Seriously. And this was like primary one. Is there something about me that screams 'hey she'd be great if I weren't already with this better girl' because it's hilariously depressing.
Picture time since I finished faster than I though, mostly because I couldn't be bothered reinforcing the pocket. It's not a great pic cause my camera broke ages ago and all I have is my mobile but hey you get the general idea, right. The pocket's a tee of my dad's recycled and I have no idea what the cyrillic says so lets hope it ain't offensive.
While she was tucked up safe in bed I dragged down my sewing bag from the attic and found a couple of dresses I haven't worn in years. Unfortunately I could only get them on if I lost my bust. Pictures may follow later of my new skirt, made primarily of a giant vest top I got for a pound in one of the many charity shops down on Main Street. Seriously there's more down there than is needed for one road.
In other news I have two new freckles! This may not seem like news but when I was wee all I wanted was freckles. Everybody I was friends with had them and wished they didn't and I had none. On the one hand I was instead crazy pale and when people asked if I was ill I would lie and pout and get sent home. I never intentionally lied you understand I just knew how to take advantage of a good situation. On the other hand, well all the pretty girls had freckles and boyfriends, such as they were in primary school at least. I was pale as death and had a boy who told me one day that I was his girlfriend if this other girl decided they weren't going out anymore. Seriously. And this was like primary one. Is there something about me that screams 'hey she'd be great if I weren't already with this better girl' because it's hilariously depressing.
Picture time since I finished faster than I though, mostly because I couldn't be bothered reinforcing the pocket. It's not a great pic cause my camera broke ages ago and all I have is my mobile but hey you get the general idea, right. The pocket's a tee of my dad's recycled and I have no idea what the cyrillic says so lets hope it ain't offensive.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Wouldn't it be great to be Dorian Gray, just for a day
I bought the soundtrack to Pan's Labyrinth the other day. Fucking gorgeous it is too. That haunting lullaby winding its way throughout every track. But it was the two tracks at the end that I had to pay £2 extra for, that made me fall in love. They're like Pan's Labyrinth reimagined as film noir with that same lullaby played on sultry brass and conjuring up some Spanish entanglement. It makes me want to dance.
I stood before my large mirror, my hair wild from the shower and my cheeks burning from my perfume and the rum. My dress that had been discarded for over a year fitted me snugly and swished seductively with every little movement. I slid in stocking feet and felt faintly French. I debated over whether to wear a bra or not, I wasn't sure how much leeway the top had and I played with my eyeliner while I made up my mind. I felt like being a girl and my friend giggled at me when I showed up since I've worn a skirt the last three times she's seen me after five years of jeans.
My hair dried straight with little encouragement, a good sign. I wound the blue material around my fingers and pretended I can dance in the mirror. I'm a vain little thing but I can imagine I'm somebody else while the gold frames my twirling body. I needed a cigarette and a tragedy to complete my fantasy. A cynic of a man who loves me violently. But I was running late and I ran out the door, wrapped in my long coat and regretting my outfit as the skirt billows out behind me. A man shouts something at me from his van and I acknowledge him with a flick of my finger and skip up the stairs to my train.
The further away I move from my mirror the more the girl slips away from me. By the end of the night I'm drinking beer, making crude jokes and odd noises down the phone to Rob. But when I walk home sweeping through the dark under the stars, I get all romantic and let my mind wander far away. I felt like dancing or running or doing anything else that wasn't walking home alone down this street of geriatrics to my bed but alas, my night was over. Soon I was curled up with Oscar Wilde in an old tshirt and the romance was gone; tucked away for another night out.
I stood before my large mirror, my hair wild from the shower and my cheeks burning from my perfume and the rum. My dress that had been discarded for over a year fitted me snugly and swished seductively with every little movement. I slid in stocking feet and felt faintly French. I debated over whether to wear a bra or not, I wasn't sure how much leeway the top had and I played with my eyeliner while I made up my mind. I felt like being a girl and my friend giggled at me when I showed up since I've worn a skirt the last three times she's seen me after five years of jeans.
My hair dried straight with little encouragement, a good sign. I wound the blue material around my fingers and pretended I can dance in the mirror. I'm a vain little thing but I can imagine I'm somebody else while the gold frames my twirling body. I needed a cigarette and a tragedy to complete my fantasy. A cynic of a man who loves me violently. But I was running late and I ran out the door, wrapped in my long coat and regretting my outfit as the skirt billows out behind me. A man shouts something at me from his van and I acknowledge him with a flick of my finger and skip up the stairs to my train.
The further away I move from my mirror the more the girl slips away from me. By the end of the night I'm drinking beer, making crude jokes and odd noises down the phone to Rob. But when I walk home sweeping through the dark under the stars, I get all romantic and let my mind wander far away. I felt like dancing or running or doing anything else that wasn't walking home alone down this street of geriatrics to my bed but alas, my night was over. Soon I was curled up with Oscar Wilde in an old tshirt and the romance was gone; tucked away for another night out.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Nobody even takes American Express these days, why would I want one?
"Mail for you!" The letter flopped onto my stomach and I stared at it with unseeing eyes. "It's a credit card!" My mother told me several other things that I'm sure were important at the time but they were lost as I curled into my pillow. Today was study day. Or study day number one. I almost told Emma no to drinking tonight but I told myself I could study and have fun together. I did it all last semester, hardly be different now. I tumbled out of bed around 11. Not a good start. I made it to the bus stop around half 1, worse middle. It was on the overly heated bus that I read my letter. By read I mean I scanned the majority of it, snorted and threw it in the first bin I came to at Uni. There was an overly complicated scenario involving a red coat that wasn't the right red and what to do if the shop wouldn't give you a refund. What exactly it was trying to say I have no idea, but this story went on for at least two pages. I've always wanted to do that. Write something, anything really, and select addresses to mail them to. I'd love to wake up one morning and find something like that hiding amongst my bank statements and junk.
I was going to write back to AmEx with something witty scrawled across my application for the card they'd never send an unemployed student with no income. Give the confused woman with the undesirable red coat some motivation. Maybe she was going through a rough patch with her husband and instead of realising she was in a doomed relationship she focussed on the coat instead. It was the wrong red! Anyone could see that!
But I threw all my ideas out with the letter. I'm just wittier in my mind, I guess.
I'm tired of living with my mind. She's too fast when I want peace and too slow when I want anything else. I'm sitting here staring at the work I have to do tomorrow if I can face it and the stories I'm itching to write with the taste of another man's beer in my mouth. A man with too big teeth and who took an age to say nothing. I let his hand rest on my hip and his eyes leer down my top and I didn't want him. I couldn't want him even when I tried. I'm oblivious to those who genuinely like me and throw myself at men I can't have. Women only love men they don't know.
I fill my head with bastards. Brontës, Bukowski, Byron, Hughes, Lermontov, and Plath. I devour their portraits of arrogance. I don't hate men, though I tease them shamelessly. I get my kicks from them until I'm bored and tell them they've failed but thanks for playing. I envy men. Sure they can be bastards, but they fascinate me so. Which brings me back to where I'm sitting with my regret and that awful taste in my mouth (I don't want to know why he tasted so bad) and truly I want my own bastard. I want someone to curl up beside me at night and murmur nonsense into the back of my neck. I don't need romance, I own enough novels. I want the kind of lust that clings to you until you shake it off with the sleep the next day. Where it leaves you light unless you tell someone and they make it pointlessly complicated in your head and drag you down with worries and regrets.
Really I'm just suffering from withdrawal. I've been going a little mad ever since my dad quit smoking. I don't know what to do. I can't start and I don't know enough smokers who'd appreciate me following them around for the smell. In fact I don't think anybody wants me doing that.
In the end the coat was just too red. Why won't you take it back?
I was going to write back to AmEx with something witty scrawled across my application for the card they'd never send an unemployed student with no income. Give the confused woman with the undesirable red coat some motivation. Maybe she was going through a rough patch with her husband and instead of realising she was in a doomed relationship she focussed on the coat instead. It was the wrong red! Anyone could see that!
But I threw all my ideas out with the letter. I'm just wittier in my mind, I guess.
I'm tired of living with my mind. She's too fast when I want peace and too slow when I want anything else. I'm sitting here staring at the work I have to do tomorrow if I can face it and the stories I'm itching to write with the taste of another man's beer in my mouth. A man with too big teeth and who took an age to say nothing. I let his hand rest on my hip and his eyes leer down my top and I didn't want him. I couldn't want him even when I tried. I'm oblivious to those who genuinely like me and throw myself at men I can't have. Women only love men they don't know.
I fill my head with bastards. Brontës, Bukowski, Byron, Hughes, Lermontov, and Plath. I devour their portraits of arrogance. I don't hate men, though I tease them shamelessly. I get my kicks from them until I'm bored and tell them they've failed but thanks for playing. I envy men. Sure they can be bastards, but they fascinate me so. Which brings me back to where I'm sitting with my regret and that awful taste in my mouth (I don't want to know why he tasted so bad) and truly I want my own bastard. I want someone to curl up beside me at night and murmur nonsense into the back of my neck. I don't need romance, I own enough novels. I want the kind of lust that clings to you until you shake it off with the sleep the next day. Where it leaves you light unless you tell someone and they make it pointlessly complicated in your head and drag you down with worries and regrets.
Really I'm just suffering from withdrawal. I've been going a little mad ever since my dad quit smoking. I don't know what to do. I can't start and I don't know enough smokers who'd appreciate me following them around for the smell. In fact I don't think anybody wants me doing that.
In the end the coat was just too red. Why won't you take it back?
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Trust your instincts and let me in
It's three in the afternoon. I'm not dressed. I've moved from my bed to my couch but not much further in all the hours I've been up. I am on holiday and man am I ever fucking bored. I'm sick of this dull existence. I'm tired of floating along. I want more. I tried so hard this year to make things go well and in a way I succeeded. I haven't failed anything like I did the first year I tried Uni. But after my first week of smiling at everybody I met and doing the whole rigmarole of where I'm from, what I'm studying and acting as Glasgow guide as best I could to these new people I gave up. With the exception of the girls I already knew either from school or Italian last year I met maybe 2 other people I didn't hate instantly. It is my own fault. I am appallingly bad at small talk. And I am starved of affection. I mean the bus driver gave me a wink yesterday and it made me grin instead of triggering my usual femme rage. I am fast approaching nineteen and I still think like a fifteen year old half the time, all muddled up and confused. I tell myself I do not need anybody. I've got friends I adore and family who support me. I need no romance. And still the first person to even indicate they might be interested (and I'm not talking bus driver winking here) and I obsess for a week just until I'm half in love with my ideas and thoroughly depressed that nothing is happening and then I come to the conclusion that no sane person would want me. It doesn't help that I do attract a right load of freaks and men who want to use me but I will admit I can be a right pathetic little girl at times. Ack we all got our issues and my insecurities are nothing ground-breaking so I'm going to try and hush up about them. The internet is angst-ridden enough as it is.
I was having a bit of an online tidy-up. Deleted my wordpress because I never used it and wordpress is a bit rubbish really. Lotta spambots and creeps. And Julie. I also deleted my very first online journal from when I was around fourteen or fifteen and I'd just got my laptop and discovered the internet. It was on this Lord of the Rings site and I used it mostly to upload my novel that I was writing at the time (which I will never ever show you if you haven't seen it already but you can find parts of it if you know where to look) because it dealt with elves and I had a fair wee following of fans. It was the first piece of writing I ever followed through to some kind of ending though. I can't tell you how many words it was, only that my first draft had some thirty chapters and my redraft that I never completed stops at chapter 24 and was 2/3rds of the way through. It was therapeutic writing. I attempted to get all my ideas about suicide, self-destruction and elves down but I avoided tackling them head on and I wrote about such depressingly lofty ideals to avoid the real issues I was faced with; namely the death of two of my grandparents a year after each other, and my first boyfriend who, after giving me my first kiss at fourteen, tried to give me a lot more than I was willing to accept.
I had a laugh though rereading all my posts since there was no button to delete them all. I had such a sweet lil internet persona. None of it was real. Some of the events I related were true, I can remember them clear enough, but so many details were blatant lies. I was safe behind a fake name, I could say what I wanted, pretend to be whoever I liked and nobody could pull me up for doing so. I was reluctant to start another blog. I had a blogger account a year ago and I deleted it after a month. I have a tendency to either share far too much when I should remember that people are actually reading this or I lie in the hopes that you will read this and be wonderfully fascinated with the person I could be. It's a funny old place this internet.
The real issue is having gone six hours without getting dressed should I do so now or give up on the day and stay wrapped up in my Mario shirt. Tough call.
I was having a bit of an online tidy-up. Deleted my wordpress because I never used it and wordpress is a bit rubbish really. Lotta spambots and creeps. And Julie. I also deleted my very first online journal from when I was around fourteen or fifteen and I'd just got my laptop and discovered the internet. It was on this Lord of the Rings site and I used it mostly to upload my novel that I was writing at the time (which I will never ever show you if you haven't seen it already but you can find parts of it if you know where to look) because it dealt with elves and I had a fair wee following of fans. It was the first piece of writing I ever followed through to some kind of ending though. I can't tell you how many words it was, only that my first draft had some thirty chapters and my redraft that I never completed stops at chapter 24 and was 2/3rds of the way through. It was therapeutic writing. I attempted to get all my ideas about suicide, self-destruction and elves down but I avoided tackling them head on and I wrote about such depressingly lofty ideals to avoid the real issues I was faced with; namely the death of two of my grandparents a year after each other, and my first boyfriend who, after giving me my first kiss at fourteen, tried to give me a lot more than I was willing to accept.
I had a laugh though rereading all my posts since there was no button to delete them all. I had such a sweet lil internet persona. None of it was real. Some of the events I related were true, I can remember them clear enough, but so many details were blatant lies. I was safe behind a fake name, I could say what I wanted, pretend to be whoever I liked and nobody could pull me up for doing so. I was reluctant to start another blog. I had a blogger account a year ago and I deleted it after a month. I have a tendency to either share far too much when I should remember that people are actually reading this or I lie in the hopes that you will read this and be wonderfully fascinated with the person I could be. It's a funny old place this internet.
The real issue is having gone six hours without getting dressed should I do so now or give up on the day and stay wrapped up in my Mario shirt. Tough call.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I'll never be the shine in your spit
The French musical about threesomes that I wanted to see? Yeah it's out now. Know where it's showing? Edinburgh. And France I guess. Sucks! I wanted to hear French people sing their feelings about sex. It's a sad day for multicultural porn.
So, last day of term for me and I turned up to all my classes. Few made it to Archaeology which is a shame, the lecturer is lovely and the actual lecture was pretty good since it was about digging instead of politics. Mouse Face was there and I sat next to him unintentionally. Not right next to him but near enough. Everytime the lecturer made a joke and we laughed MF turned to me like we were sharing something. He walked down the stairs right next to me afterwards and I thought he'd say something but he just looked at me and didn't follow me out the door. Classics was dull, dull, dull like always and the place was full of people I've never seen before. MF was there too (I sat a couple of rows behind him) and he turned round a good few times, caught my eye and said nothing. Missed your last chance Mouse Face! All that creepy looking for nothing. Silly boy.
One of the girls I hung out with for the first month of Classics turned up today after many months of not being around. She's great and we had a giggle at RobeMan's complete utter bafflement when faced with technology. Her friend Jo wasn't there though. Jo was the first (and only) person I met at Glasgow who had heard of where I live since she lives like up the hill and went to the rival school in the area. We had laughs about how we should be stabbing each other up. Good times.
And so I trundled home in the bus with a screaming redhead in my ears and blood in my mouth and as we turned into Renfield Street I recalled a mild argument Julie had with me last night about something I did (or rather didn't do) three years ago. It wasn't the argument on my mind though it was the time. Three years ago I was fifteen years old and I spent nights like this shivering on dark streets in my black miniskirt and stripy tights with a boy enthralled. It would be another month before love reared its ugly head and I was just learning what power my hips held. If I had just held on to that naive sexuality maybe I would have had a better time but sadly it didn't last. But for those two months I had the confidence to wear that skirt in winter and I found out what it was to flirt and tease and have a guy around who was more into me than I was into him. Three years. Seems an age and nothing.
So, last day of term for me and I turned up to all my classes. Few made it to Archaeology which is a shame, the lecturer is lovely and the actual lecture was pretty good since it was about digging instead of politics. Mouse Face was there and I sat next to him unintentionally. Not right next to him but near enough. Everytime the lecturer made a joke and we laughed MF turned to me like we were sharing something. He walked down the stairs right next to me afterwards and I thought he'd say something but he just looked at me and didn't follow me out the door. Classics was dull, dull, dull like always and the place was full of people I've never seen before. MF was there too (I sat a couple of rows behind him) and he turned round a good few times, caught my eye and said nothing. Missed your last chance Mouse Face! All that creepy looking for nothing. Silly boy.
One of the girls I hung out with for the first month of Classics turned up today after many months of not being around. She's great and we had a giggle at RobeMan's complete utter bafflement when faced with technology. Her friend Jo wasn't there though. Jo was the first (and only) person I met at Glasgow who had heard of where I live since she lives like up the hill and went to the rival school in the area. We had laughs about how we should be stabbing each other up. Good times.
And so I trundled home in the bus with a screaming redhead in my ears and blood in my mouth and as we turned into Renfield Street I recalled a mild argument Julie had with me last night about something I did (or rather didn't do) three years ago. It wasn't the argument on my mind though it was the time. Three years ago I was fifteen years old and I spent nights like this shivering on dark streets in my black miniskirt and stripy tights with a boy enthralled. It would be another month before love reared its ugly head and I was just learning what power my hips held. If I had just held on to that naive sexuality maybe I would have had a better time but sadly it didn't last. But for those two months I had the confidence to wear that skirt in winter and I found out what it was to flirt and tease and have a guy around who was more into me than I was into him. Three years. Seems an age and nothing.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
When Cary Grant fails to hold my attention it's a sign that nothing will get done today
Oh love is fun, care to dance? My biggest accomplishment of the day has been putting a pair of jeans on since my ass got cold round about 12ish. It's not through lack of trying. I've got a pile of stuff to do and I attempted to do them all at some point. I tidied my couch so you can actually sit on it now, I typed up a story, I got distracted when I found my Auf der Maur CD under a lot of junk and I fell in love with her again.You love me more than you love yourself I mean how could I not, she's a red headed bassist who sings the dirtiest things to great music. But falling in love with another woman is hardly an achievement, or something I should be sharing since it makes the 'honest I like men' argument fall through slightly. You're finished with your woman because she is not me
I also found all my notes that I scribbled down a couple of weeks ago in a possibly drunken state. There's about six or seven ideas but God knows what they mean. If I could be arsed I'd scan them in so you can see them but I can't so I'll just tell you. In a series of boxes I have the following key words: "BABY" "boob check!" "silly girl, you're no dancer" "hoovering aorund you, delirious, why is she cleaning now?" "museum of lovers" "bed is the enemy" "I DROWN IN HER" "speaks in riddles, my Snow White, my Cherry Red, my Goddess" "the good times are killing me" "rigid with disgust more like" and my favourite "Pixie Syphilis" which I know was because Julie was watching a Bratz thing to piss me off but I don't remember how that lead to STDs. Suffice to say I didn't get much writing done today.
I did find an intro which I'm also gonna share cause I decided to plan it out as well whilst half asleep and it amuses me:
Mary's feet were buzzing. Each step sent a fresh wave of pain searing up her legs. She poured all the bags into one hand and rubbed her ankle where her shoe had torn the skin away. Aching back slumped against the wall. Three more blocks to go. She toyed with the idea of calling Peter but her phone was too far away. With a grunt Mary heaved herself straight and focused on the road ahead.
Peter didn't hear her come in. He was a little preoccupied. The blonde girl beneath him was new. He'd met her last week in a crowded club. Her name was Lisa or Linda or Lindsey. Whatever it was she had a great ass.
"I'm home! Don't bother getting up. Not like my hands are breaking or anything." Mary threw the shopping down in the hall and kicked off her shoes with a sigh.
"Hide," Peter hissed over his shoulders as he pulled on his jeans and scrambled down to his wife...
And then the girl will like just throw the covers over her head. How fucking dumb is she! Wait do I know any blondes that would huff if I write a bimbo? Not very feminist of me but then I know lots of girls who are stupid. Wife will be totally bored of it like man another slut in my bed, and I'll have to clean up after them SIGH. This stuff writes itself, oh crap need sleep...
I should tidy my room more often. I'll be an published author in no time. Old Jay Kay Rowling has nought on me.
I also found all my notes that I scribbled down a couple of weeks ago in a possibly drunken state. There's about six or seven ideas but God knows what they mean. If I could be arsed I'd scan them in so you can see them but I can't so I'll just tell you. In a series of boxes I have the following key words: "BABY" "boob check!" "silly girl, you're no dancer" "hoovering aorund you, delirious, why is she cleaning now?" "museum of lovers" "bed is the enemy" "I DROWN IN HER" "speaks in riddles, my Snow White, my Cherry Red, my Goddess" "the good times are killing me" "rigid with disgust more like" and my favourite "Pixie Syphilis" which I know was because Julie was watching a Bratz thing to piss me off but I don't remember how that lead to STDs. Suffice to say I didn't get much writing done today.
I did find an intro which I'm also gonna share cause I decided to plan it out as well whilst half asleep and it amuses me:
Mary's feet were buzzing. Each step sent a fresh wave of pain searing up her legs. She poured all the bags into one hand and rubbed her ankle where her shoe had torn the skin away. Aching back slumped against the wall. Three more blocks to go. She toyed with the idea of calling Peter but her phone was too far away. With a grunt Mary heaved herself straight and focused on the road ahead.
Peter didn't hear her come in. He was a little preoccupied. The blonde girl beneath him was new. He'd met her last week in a crowded club. Her name was Lisa or Linda or Lindsey. Whatever it was she had a great ass.
"I'm home! Don't bother getting up. Not like my hands are breaking or anything." Mary threw the shopping down in the hall and kicked off her shoes with a sigh.
"Hide," Peter hissed over his shoulders as he pulled on his jeans and scrambled down to his wife...
And then the girl will like just throw the covers over her head. How fucking dumb is she! Wait do I know any blondes that would huff if I write a bimbo? Not very feminist of me but then I know lots of girls who are stupid. Wife will be totally bored of it like man another slut in my bed, and I'll have to clean up after them SIGH. This stuff writes itself, oh crap need sleep...
I should tidy my room more often. I'll be an published author in no time. Old Jay Kay Rowling has nought on me.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Vote now for your favourite thing and you too could win a thing
Sometimes I think I'm going mad. There's the endless conversations I conduct in my head which, combined with my habit of muttering to myself and my fucking lip that's driving me crazy, I attract a lot of odd looks and nobody ever wants to sit next to me on the bus. Which is fine, I don't want them sitting next to me. But to have three people in one bus journey actually begin to plank their ass on the seat next to me before pulling up and moving on is a bit much. There's also the hair. I have Dylan Moran hair today. I woke up and it was shorter and bigger somehow. It's also thicker, all over the place and has changed shape several times during the course of the day. Honestly I don't know what it's doing. And I still don't have the money or strength of mind to face a hairdresser. I didn't pay to hear about your wacky cousin's wedding or the tattoo of Dad you have on your shoulder. Put it away and cut my hair for the love of all that is good. I never like it when I come out anyway. It grows so fast and then it gets to that awkward stage where it does mad things like recently. I don't know why I got it cut this length anyway. That's an outright lie. I got it cut this length because some creepy junkie started talking to me at the station and sat next to me on the train and kept touching me and telling me I was perfect just the way I was. My outfit was perfect, my hair was the perfect length, I was a lovely girl. Soon as I could I went to the hairdresser and put up with her tales of her friend who used her for her car and gone was my easy-to-deal-with hair. I really should stop doing that. But then everytime I spend time on my appearance and I can look in the mirror and say 'yeah you look pretty alright today' I attract a freak. Actually I attract them anyway. Today, looking like the mad Irishman that I did, a man nearly fell out the open window of his white van as he gave me a dirty look. I don't get it. I'm not that much to look at. I'm awkward and my face does screwy things when I'm thinking and I wasn't even dressed remotely up. I have freak radar. Like a socially inept bat.
I've been trying to write something all day. Something I had to get down. One of those niggling ideas that wake you up in the night because you haven't written it yet but when you sit there, pen in hand, nothing happens. I've spent three days on this and written five drafts, none of which are finished and one of which is in my own wondrous tense of not making sense. I got more than a little pissed off this afternoon. My room looks like a stationary shop exploded.
Gah I'm just fed up. I shouldn't have relaxed. I've fended off the depression for about three months and stupidly thought I could make it through the rest of the year without moping. I need someone to give me a good shake, tell me I'm being daft and then whisk me off on a whirlwind romance where I don't need to pretend I'm in love and I can be as filthy and sarcastic as I wanna be.
For now, I'm gonna go play Star Wars Lego on my Gameboy. It won't cheer me up but I get to shoot things with lego lasers. It is enough.
I've been trying to write something all day. Something I had to get down. One of those niggling ideas that wake you up in the night because you haven't written it yet but when you sit there, pen in hand, nothing happens. I've spent three days on this and written five drafts, none of which are finished and one of which is in my own wondrous tense of not making sense. I got more than a little pissed off this afternoon. My room looks like a stationary shop exploded.
Gah I'm just fed up. I shouldn't have relaxed. I've fended off the depression for about three months and stupidly thought I could make it through the rest of the year without moping. I need someone to give me a good shake, tell me I'm being daft and then whisk me off on a whirlwind romance where I don't need to pretend I'm in love and I can be as filthy and sarcastic as I wanna be.
For now, I'm gonna go play Star Wars Lego on my Gameboy. It won't cheer me up but I get to shoot things with lego lasers. It is enough.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
The Boosh is loose and a little bit raw
I woke up yesterday feeling more than a little crap but it was Emma's party night and it was only 7am so I tried to stay positive. Apart from the aforementioned soul crushing first bus of the day the morning went well. Buses were on time so I was on time for Classics for once. I even managed to blag my way through the class despite neglecting to do any of the work on the Siphnian Treasury. Later for studying, man. Got dolled up and met the loveliest lady. We missed a train, the bus didn't come, we got harassed by a drooling old man and finally made it on another train. We talked girl stuff. The crazy sizing of women's clothing these days, hips, how hard it is to find boots that fit right in all areas. I told her she missed Toady from Neighbours. She got so excited. She's the only person I know that still watches the show. Then it was pizza time and Emma had a cloak and she liked my presents.
I was running on no energy even by the time we got to the union. But smile wide, flash those teeth, wiggle your girl around to songs that aren't Bowie but will do. Make it through the night because it isn't yours. Fake it til it's real and remember at least you're surrounded by people you actually like unlike all those other nights when you felt crap and had to go out. Emma swishes her way through us all, moving from person to person, introductions all round and I don't remember whose name goes with whose face. I get a chance to rest my feet and just when I relax a little there's the tap on the shoulder from the next creep who wants to freak me out. I attract them like flies. He doesn't creep me out, nothing really does anymore. I'm more surprised when a guy is nice to me and then I convince myself that there must be something wrong with them and run away. But it kills the tiny high I'd built up to carry me through the remainder of the night.
So I get out, rant at Joe, my dad manages to be omnipresent and I feel a little better. Emma's drunk and giggly and kinda gay. Lotsa kisses and "you're my favourite". Makes me smile. I love my little witch girl. By the time we leave my feet are dead. Who invented heels and why did I have to fall in love with these boots? I've got an arm to drag me and the promise of bed to encourage me. Emma's still excitable, she tells me off for made up affairs. She's fun to wind up when drunk. Taxi rejects us and my dad rages through text. I tried to crawl to bed as quietly as I can when he appears on the stair. Long interrogations before he storms downstairs to complain to the black cab people. Making his little girl come home in a gasp! private hire taxi instead.
I wake up still bleh this morning. I had a day off from everything but I couldn't face studying, couldn't write anything and didn't feel like watching the football (good thing too since we gave away a penalty in the 93rd minute). I gave up on the day around 3 (although considering I was still in the tshirt I slept in I never gave the day much of a chance) having decided that watching my hair slowly fall down from its sleeping state to its normal position in intervals of 20 mins was not a decent pastime. I retired to my cosy little room, put my fairy lights on and chose the ridiculousness of the Mighty Boosh over the brooding of a certain vampire with a soul. Things always look a little brighter with Noel and Julian <3
I was running on no energy even by the time we got to the union. But smile wide, flash those teeth, wiggle your girl around to songs that aren't Bowie but will do. Make it through the night because it isn't yours. Fake it til it's real and remember at least you're surrounded by people you actually like unlike all those other nights when you felt crap and had to go out. Emma swishes her way through us all, moving from person to person, introductions all round and I don't remember whose name goes with whose face. I get a chance to rest my feet and just when I relax a little there's the tap on the shoulder from the next creep who wants to freak me out. I attract them like flies. He doesn't creep me out, nothing really does anymore. I'm more surprised when a guy is nice to me and then I convince myself that there must be something wrong with them and run away. But it kills the tiny high I'd built up to carry me through the remainder of the night.
So I get out, rant at Joe, my dad manages to be omnipresent and I feel a little better. Emma's drunk and giggly and kinda gay. Lotsa kisses and "you're my favourite". Makes me smile. I love my little witch girl. By the time we leave my feet are dead. Who invented heels and why did I have to fall in love with these boots? I've got an arm to drag me and the promise of bed to encourage me. Emma's still excitable, she tells me off for made up affairs. She's fun to wind up when drunk. Taxi rejects us and my dad rages through text. I tried to crawl to bed as quietly as I can when he appears on the stair. Long interrogations before he storms downstairs to complain to the black cab people. Making his little girl come home in a gasp! private hire taxi instead.
I wake up still bleh this morning. I had a day off from everything but I couldn't face studying, couldn't write anything and didn't feel like watching the football (good thing too since we gave away a penalty in the 93rd minute). I gave up on the day around 3 (although considering I was still in the tshirt I slept in I never gave the day much of a chance) having decided that watching my hair slowly fall down from its sleeping state to its normal position in intervals of 20 mins was not a decent pastime. I retired to my cosy little room, put my fairy lights on and chose the ridiculousness of the Mighty Boosh over the brooding of a certain vampire with a soul. Things always look a little brighter with Noel and Julian <3
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