Nevertheless, Fanny...

The large coffee I purchased today at Burwood has had an extraordinary effect on my Sunday night organisation. I have washed, hung, washed, put away, tidied, thrown out, cleaned, prepped, and cooked. I am about to sit down to watch Love in a Cold Climate on DVD. I think I am about to explode from sheer bloody joy. The only way this experience could be better for me would be if Nancy Mitford were sitting on my couch critiquing as we watched. As it is I may never leave the flat again.

I make the same mistakes every single day.

I drink too much milk and too much tea.

I buy stupid things over the internet when I don't have very much money. I don't care about them when they arrive. Or don't arrive.

I constantly type don;t rather than don't. I think my hands are are retarded as my feet.

I worry, incessantly, about stupid things.

I imagine constantly and fail to notice reality.

I have bruises on my wrists. I have bruises on my wrists.

Jesusfuckingchrist, I have bruises on my wrists. Again.

I oscillate between housewife-of-the-year and living in absolute squalor.

My sheets have been left unwashed so long that they stink of me. It's kind of comforting.

The floor is a litter of cockroaches and old newspapers.

I don't know what any of the words mean anymore.

Other days.

I try to fit myself to other people’s patterns. I bulge out the sides or over the top. I am drab in the background waiting for attention. I want to cut myself down to size, to make it happen, to be something recognizable though not necessarily myself.

I am annoyed that I have lost all the certainty of youth and am now in the long preparation for dull, spinsterish, middle age. I can no longer make up my mind. I do not know what the issue is or what the issues are and I certainly haven’t the energy to find out.

I am annoyed with those who do not love me enough and yet am contemptuous of those who do. Surely no-one could care for this small time human catastrophe in the making with possiblity that may never to be fully realised..?

I haven’t the strength to be the centre of my universe but I’m not letting anyone else in either. That throne can sit empty while I sink into the couch and let the outside sounds of life wash over me.

I will be contemptuous of you though I could never be you or be like you. I simply haven’t the courage. I hide my life away under the sofa cushions and in the thousands of boxes. The boxes are my lives. They are occasional scribblings and things half tried.

Every full moon, or perhaps even more, I am fed up with myself. My bones scream for change and I promise, oh I promise. And it takes five minutes of knowing me to know that I never deliver.

Inside my head I'm screaming at you for making me feel so stupid so constantly.

We shall

I feel very calm. Quite relaxed as the world goes on and I do not participate. I have been busily domestic, taking care of myself for the winter, squirreling. I have been avoiding things that I know I must do. I wonder how many years I can string out in avoidance. Surely there’s a limit somewhere. I am thoughtful after speaking with my parents. They’re both worried and being oddly self-like and a whole new world of neurotic. They’re both afraid that my father has cancer and I am stoically convinced that he has not. Strange, optimism is not usually my thing. It’s strange to see how their anxiety manifests. My mother, all displacement, worried about photos and my soon-to-be short and blissful work-free week. My father telling me that he loves me. Oh, he doesn’t normally say that. We do not go in for that usually. Perhaps I ought to send a card and maybe a chocolate frog or two.

They both want me to tell them that it’ll be all right. I thought we’d gotten out of the weird role reversal of my youth but no, they are in crisis and want my reassurance. I am trying to be up-beat. It’ll be nothing and even if it’s not, well, even the doctor said that this is the best type of the worst thing to have. He’ll be fine, really, fine. The waiting, though, what’s what’ll get them. And they’ll be so afraid, the poor, poor darlings. Really, they already are. I cannot imagine, no, I can but I refuse to. It will be all right, their silliness has infected me temporarily but we all be fine.

Yes, doctor, those sultanas were my ovaries.

Every time a breeder updates their facebook status with something about their children my uterus shrivels a little more.

Sky rockets in flight, atheists delight.

Missionaries just came to my door. Missionaries just came to my door. Missionaries just came to my door.

I said, ‘No, thank you. I’m not interested.’ And I closed the door.

Brain function: about 25% really, thanks for asking

I go straight from making inane comments on blog posts where I clearly don’t understand half the words or get the joke at all and therefore deserve to be patronised to spraying Exit Mould on an item of clothing in the mistaken belief that it was stain remover. Yes, Exit Mould.

Miserable Monday

It seems stupid coming from me but I can’t bear it when you mock me. I know I’m quite dim compared to your clever friends but you don’t have to use me quite like that. When you patronise me I die a little. I can’t respond anymore, I just don’t know what to say.

I do not reply to your texts because they’re all always capitalised. I dislike being shouted at as a means of communication and your inability to use your mobile correctly is pathetic and, I feel, deliberately obtuse. You are only my age and will not admit that it’s laziness that makes you do it.

I am foolish and I know it but I don’t understand why everyone has to make it so obvious that they think I’m a fool. What is gained from this? Does it really make you feel better?

I really need something to keep the anxiety at bay today. I think it’s a combination of this ridiculous constant tiredness that starts to make me paranoid and a bit too much alcohol last night. I feel lonely today and that’s something I almost never do. And there’s no-one to hug me and pet me and tell me that it’ll be okay. That’s my fault too, I’m sure.

Can I go to Neverland now?

I leave a half read book and a half drunk cup of tea to wander the cold and windy streets.

Memory Lane

The past, sure, is another country, is a place that you cannot, really, visit, and is a place that you can never adequately describe. I’ve been thinking of the past and it flashed through the airwaves and into my life and my brain. So here, while memory lane is oh-so-close, is a list of things that I fucking adored and, right now, this very minute, miss.
Helen and Mikey
Mikey when he was fat and still funny
Denton
The Late Show

I'm quite sure that there's plenty I've forgotten. Damn, eh?

Decisions, decisions...

Buy [cheap] books or save money and put on credit card later?

Am soon to go out and have beer. Beer is not negotiable.

Must buy milk, also. Milk is similarly not negotiable if much, much cheaper.

Dear me.

My writing is broken. I think my mind is too. My head is filled with cutlass carrying rats pushing microscopes off sinking ships. Or was that gutless scurrying rats and something about stinking shits..? No matter.