nailpolishpsychosis

This house is condemned.

2010-03-22T18:38:00.001+11:00

The story continues here.

Sorry, but you are looking for something that isn't here.

2010-01-06T21:20:00.005+11:00

I am a world champion hater and at the moment I hate so much that it twists my gut and steals my appetite. As proof of a lack of a better me I hate you so much I've been wishing you dead. Harsh. I'm an honest bitch and I shouldn't say these things. Sometimes, however, I have to let it out so as not to destroy myself. Ironically, letting it out undoubtedly destroys me in the eyes of others. Where to go when you're down? You go nowhere, honey, 'cause there's just nowhere to go and then oh one one day you drag yourself up. Or over. Or just plain out.

There's more than one out.

And the day comes when you can't stand the curtains anymore and you throw them away. You change the look and the feel and you fucking well move on.

I can't be here any longer. I can't be the caricatured character of a sliver of my self. I can't be your nicknames for me. I can't be the person I was. I can't even be the person I wasn't who, in the end, simply wasn't good enough. Most important, for the moment, is that I can't be this anymore.

Once I could have cut you in an uncomplicated mental ritual. Obliterated you from my life and purged the memories. To tell truth I've done some of that but I can't bring myself back to the drama of the past. I can't do it anymore. Let it fade away; it will soon enough. Let it fade and me with it.

As I've heard so many times - I'll see you on the flipside.

Enough.

2009-12-19T20:42:00.001+11:00

I've been thinking, four and a half years is more than enough of this.

2009-12-13T20:27:00.002+11:00

Dear Internet,

It's not me, it's you.

I find that I cannot be around you any more. I do not want to see you. In fact, you bring me down in rather a massive way and I think it best that we avoid each other for a while. Obviously, we'll be friends again someday - such is your ever present way. For now though, I need to get away from you.

I need space and time to redraw my imaginative boundaries. I need to take my mind out and away and wash it down. I need to take a scalpel and remove the rot and there sure is a lot of rot. I need to cauterise the wounds. Words, you know, more wounding than other people's happiness.

Maybe I'll come back cleaned out and painted up. Maybe I'll come back better. Maybe I'll come back to a different you. By then, I suppose, you will be different after all. Ever-changing happy to my stagnant un. Maybe that'll change too.

I'd like not to come back at all. To make a break and make it final. I find it easier and often better to burn bridges. If nothing else they make a lovely blaze. I think, however, I shall be back. My judgement is out on this one. Out of the room, out of the state, out of my mind.

Again, I have left on a melancholy note. I'm good at that. That and making a problem of myself. I am a problem, aren't I? Best not to let me forget that.

Never-lovin' yours,

Nails

So...

2009-12-12T20:50:00.001+11:00

...what is it you're looking for?

Stupid.Stupid.Stupid.

2009-12-10T00:27:00.005+11:00

I don't know why I keep a box filled with notes and ideas and page upon page of writing when I'm not a fucking writer. When I'm talentless. What's the point? Why bother?

The empty can.

2009-12-09T22:31:00.003+11:00

I would love to rip the line and comment on how I’d always relied on the kindness of strangers but lately I’ve been thinking that what I thought was kindness was actually pity. There is nothing so embarrassing as other people’s pity the moment you realise it exists. It’s quite shattering. Still, these days everything is shattering and there is the irony of writing this in public space. Nothing cries ‘pity me’ more than tearing yourself apart in public. I’m no longer sure why I do it. It can’t be anything with good motive. I could pretend that I’m being true to myself and this vomitous self-loathing pile of stupid mental distress but I fear that I am far too low-brow for this. Maybe I want the pity because I just want something. Something is always better than nothing, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

I hang myself out. I’ve got to tear this out. I’ve got to get it away from me. I’ve got to scream and shout. I just cannot take any more. I’ve got to beat it out of myself and kill it. I need it gone. I want the bile gone. I want the jealousy and the hatred to find a new home. Something worthy perhaps. Not so much me. I’m pushing it away, all of it away, I can’t take another moment. Oh, but I will though. I really will. There is no choice in that at all. You just go on and on.

And the people are going too and I can’t blame them at all.

It sounds like this backwards.

2009-12-08T22:46:00.002+11:00

I am trying to persuade myself that my present desire for bush weed and Led Zeppelin is not merely hugely clichéd but not a very good idea.

I am not really having much luck with this.

Progress report

2009-12-06T23:30:00.000+11:00

I feel pretty much shit all the time now. Ill, lacking appetite (this could be a good thing so I’m not knocking it except the only food I find really appetising is cheese, go figure), tired, randomly sore in spine and muscles and joints and innards, psychotically emotional, tender in the glands, headachy and yet remaining upright, non-feverish and not sufficiently ill to jettison normal life and take to the couch. I’m also monumentally sooky. I had a massive sook on Friday night – I can’t even remember why – and another last night and I very much feel like doing so again. I loathe crying, you’ve no idea how cranky it makes me to cry even once in a month. Twice in two days makes me feel like a nervous breakdown has crooked its little finger and all my sense has deserted me as the pointless boring tears follow an order that came from elsewhere. This is not me. Oh no, sir, not me. And just to shit me off that little bit further the pesky ankle that I hurt earlier in the year is refusing to heal. Well, it heals fine but it doesn’t seem to be getting better.

There is a sliver lining however. Feeling like hell and feeling like I look like shit is, apparently, the opposite of how I actually look. I’ve received a number of unexpected compliments entirely based on my looks. Admittedly, one of them has left an awful tension residue between the comlimenter and me but I’m sure we’ll stop being embarrassed about it eventually. Given that we work together I’d really rather prefer sooner. (And thank you, Mitzi, for being so sweet today. I didn’t quite manage to work it into conversation but, by gods, you have an awesome rack.) Life is quite funny, isn’t it?

Otherwise, I have been making long and short term plans and wondering how in hell I can possibly get a decent haircut for my present budget (that would be for free). I have got plans and a direction but, alas, before I can really start my plans I need to get better – healthwise – and I need to axe some debt. A year should make a massive difference but it is such a bloody long time and I am, in a rather exhausted fashion, champing at the bit. I suspect that the new year is going to be all about poverty and naps. Also, I really need to focus on eating something that isn’t cheese. That last one should definitely be a resolution.

Oh, and while I’m talking about years, has anyone actually had a good 2009? Everyone I speak with seems to have had a shit year. I’ve had a really shit year. Work has sucked and I haven’t managed to get a new job which sucks even harder and I’ve been unwell since April. I have figured out a new plan for my life though which has got to be good. And if a certain someone could get his shit together then, you know, the fun could begin. Well, so long as it didn’t cost anything and contributed to my overall health and wellbeing…

Ugh.

2009-11-18T22:05:00.002+11:00

I really really REALLY don't like the ominous noises that my tummy is making. I'm not very keen on the nauseous feeling either. When I filled in the form and licked the back of the stamp for 'New Improved Time Off Work (The Illness Edition)' this was not what I had in mind. I was after laryngitis, pharyngitis, or perhaps a nicely debilitating properly sprained ankle. Hell, I'd even have taken the varicella zoster edition and donated twenty tubes of blood for a reasonable cause.

Maybe licking the stamp was the mistake. I feel that anything crossing my lips might be a mistake right now. Oh my.

Paranoia Overdrive

2009-11-18T00:02:00.000+11:00

I sometimes forget, when I’m writing, and I’m sure people sometimes forget, when they’re reading, that this space is, to all intents and purposes, my diary.* It’s not a particularly good diary. It certainly isn’t all inclusive. In fact, I keep rather a lot of secrets from my diary. I keep secrets and fail to name names and point fingers because I do realise that I am writing to and publishing on the internet. Things can get hellishly awkward when too many people read your diary. Well, I presume they could. It doesn’t really seem to be a problem for me.

Here’s the thing about diaries, and I’ve read a few – both real and fictional, and they’re really always fictional – they are temporary possible realities distorted through a diarist’s emotional state, psychosis, neurosis, bender status, tiredness level, and, oh, about a million other petty little irritations of life. They flex reality to such a degree that they make history look stable and that, my friends, takes some doing. Or, at least, it does to me. I tend to perceive the world and shattered and oddly bound. I’m not even sure it was shattered. Perhaps it was fragmented to begin with and we just keep tying bits together to create a sort of cohesion that we’ve noticed is lacking and that makes us feel very uncomfortable. Ah, whatever. I was talking about diaries.

How seriously, I wonder, can you take a diary? I can and I do, I can’t and I don’t. The answer is as simple as that. How seriously do I take this diary? Sometimes very and sometimes not. I write when my mind is full, I write to get things out, I write when I need to do or say something even if I don’t actually know what. Sometimes I just write. Sometimes things wriggle out and wiggle away when I think I’m writing about something else, when I’m talking about the other and not this. In the end, it’s what makes sense to me, what I get out of it that is the point. All else is bagatelle. In fact, sometimes so am I.

It’s strange how this has devolved over the years and become a world of self-obsession. I suppose it reflects my outlook and my reality. Not so much a kitchen sink drama as a kitchen table one. I am embarrassed that my world has shrunk and that I am so dull and insular. It is ironic that my mind and body are in sync – both have crap that shouldn’t be there and that needs scraping out. Both leave me feeling weak and exhausted and somehow removed. No ever fixed marks here, apparently. Mind you, I was never comfortable with eternity anyway. Not nearly transient enough for my small mind.

* Yes, I did just try to see if I could write a sentence with lots of commas that made sense. I think I sort of succeeded.**

** What, you thought this note would be something about a diary and not some sort of commentary on my sentence making skills? Silly, very silly.

My father always said I had champagne tastes...

2009-11-11T22:59:00.002+11:00

There I go acting like a rich person again.

I cook the salmon. I take it from the oven. I attempt to transfer it to a plate. I drop the nicely cooked tasty looking salmon on my very dirty kitchen floor. I take two minutes to decide that it really can't be salvaged. In case you're wondering, hot freshly cooked salmon kind of splatters when it hits the floor. Splatters and flakes and just generally falls apart. All the better to get maximum dirt and minimum chance of being rescued and eaten.

I should be writing poetry to poverty and the lost salmon.

It's hard to get by just on a smile, girl.

2009-11-08T17:51:00.002+11:00

A long time ago we used to be friends.

At least, I thought we were. These days I’m not so sure. There are a lot of things I’m not so sure about anymore.

I want to throw blame around – because that’s my way. I’ve been cast aside for the beautiful people, the clever people, the far more interesting people. And maybe I have. Most likely, however, my appalling behaviour, my random extreme hatred, my angry hurtling of words, my constant verbal tantrums have once more ruined something I valued. For a studier of history I am awfully bad at learning from the past.

I continue to stab at people and situations with my words. Pretending obscurity, pretending that you’ll never know what I’m thinking, you’ll never understand what I mean. Not really. No really. How I hate this game playing girl. Walking the edge and wounding with words. How can I continue to claim that I both mean and don’t mean? Can I really be so fragmented?

And I was talking about you and got back to writing about me. Maybe I have to be so self obsessed. Maybe I’ll be the only person who is ever that interested in me. That’s not a problem you’ll be having. I’m not even jealous. At least, not in the obvious way.

I’m sure I’ve written extensively on my jealousy; that charming constant of my nature and hurdle to interaction. Hurdle to action, if truth be told. Lately it’s lodged chokingly in my throat. It remains there now while I swallow hard and try to be a better person. Better but new, I think. I don’t know that one can go back and I seem to have moved on. No, at the moment I don’t like this new person either. She frightens me too. She’s fiercer and more practical and full of righteous anger. I think she’ll get things done and make things happen like I used to be able to do.

But I was talking about you. Talking about me wanting to be the person you seemed to like – quite some time ago now. Thinking about you and things I’ll not quite have the courage to say and the handful that I will. I miss the ease, the camaraderie, and the jokes. Things that I thought were there, shared, mutually enjoyed.

I start to think that I’m wrong from start to end. That I misread every word of every phrase. That I’ve misunderstood everything every time. This is me, you know, and it’s quite possible that I have. It is equally possible that I have not and that this is the tragedy I imagine.

With some friends you can have it out. Have a drunken session or some kind of clichéd heart to heart or just flat out say ‘what the hell happened? What went wrong? I miss you.’ That I can’t find any kind of option like that with you suggests to me that it never was. Any friendship was imagined on my side. Have you any idea how good my imagination is? No. I suppose not.

The meme of B.

2009-11-04T23:05:00.005+11:00

Favourite Shakespeare quote. If by favourite you mean most commonly used and abused - mostly the latter - then: Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more... Henry V.

Favourite Simpsons' moment. I have a dreadful memory for moments. Oh wait, Lisa's version - or was it versions? - of Howl. I also very much liked The Raven episode.

Last thing you made a complaint about. The time it took my new mobile phone company to connect the phone and change my number over. They paid for the months it took. And I screamed at several people. I was not amused. Now that it's sorted, however, love my phone plan. So cheap. So much cheeping.

First crush. I don't even remember! I must have been very little. I'm one of those people who's always crushing on someone or someones. It can be a bit hard to keep track, actually. Who'm I meant to be crushing on now? Volunteers?

Woken up by what in the morning. 1) The alarm clock's alarm. 2) The mobile phone's alarm. About 1/2 an hour of alarms going off every few minutes. Yes.

Most hated sound. The ringing telephone.

Favourite sixties track. Ugh, unfair question. I love sixties music. So diverse, so fun, so silly, so doped, and so rocking! You can have a couple of favourites. Happy Together The Turtles, San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair) Scott McKenzie, large chunks of The Kinks and The Animals discographies...oh dear, I could go on half the night. Shall try to stop now.

Favourite eighties track. Probably Bizarre Love Triangle New Order. There are tonnes of songs. So unfair to make me even try to choose.

Favourite naughties track. Oh yikes, um... Can't decide. Not even of favourites. There's been too much music and not enough time to process it.

Worst electric shock. No idea.

Favourite game as a kid. Not so much as game... When I was little and we were living in a unit in Sydney we lived near this awesome cliff. Off to one side of the block of flats there was this rock face that you could climb. Absolutely loved it. We spent huge amounts of time on that rock face. I'm sure I could still find the way up and the secret way that lead to the back of the flats.

Worst retribution sought as a kid. I tried to strangle a friend once. Strangely, we remained friends for a very long time after. I am not joking when I say my temper is fierce, frightening, and sometimes totally beyond my control.

Favourite film ending. Something Almodóvar.

Favourite dip. I don't actually have one. Dips are fascinating but not a major food source and not something I really think about.

Kind of watch. None at all. I use my phone.

Most precious possession that would fit in an envelope. My garnet ring.

Last run-in with a bug. Ah, this was last night. Arrived home, headed in for a pee, damn near peed my pants as there was a gigantic and worried looking cockroach on the bathroom floor. It sat there and stared up at me. Then it bolted into my bedroom. I peed - cautiously (there are some situations where being caught with your pants down is just awful) - and headed off to find the bug spray. Some time later there was a very dead roach on the living room floor.

Weirdest dream. All dreams are weird and I'm a lucid dreamer so that can kind of double the weird on occasion. I think the one I recently blogged about was pretty seriously weird. I didn't tell the whole story of that dream. It ended with the quiverfull guy giving his wife a sad little anniversary fuck whilst surrounded by the whole family including, for reasons I never worked out, me. He was coming on to me while he was fucking his wife. It was pretty weird.

I'm still fantasising about the flat from that dream though. It was absolutely perfect. I want that flat. Not the neighbours though.

Best compliment recently paid you. Someone keeps calling me lovely. It's all bollocks, of course, but it is very sweet.

Most embarrassing teenage moment. Probably vomiting all over my desk at school. Nasty. No, I wasn't drunk.

Most recent earworm. Angela Jarvis Cocker

Favourite soft drink. Coca Cola.

Best comeback. From me? All of mine are divine, darling! You just have to be in the room to realise that my mouth is frequently disconnected from conscious thought and that my unconscious mind is a rude, crude, and sometimes rather witty beast.

Favourite meme question. I like that it's all about my me.

Mitzi's meme

2009-11-02T22:57:00.003+11:00

Where is your cell phone? Table.

Your hair? Wet.

Your mother? Elsewhere.

Your father? Ditto.

Your favorite food? Haigh's.

Your dream last night? Absent.

Your favorite drink? Tea.

Your dream/goal? Equilibrium.

What room are you in? Lounge.

Your hobby? Being.

Your Fear? Marionettes.

Where do you want to be in 6 years? There.

Where were you last night? Here.

Something that you aren’t? Happy.

Muffins? No.

Wish list item? Numerous.

Where did you grow up? Australia.

Last thing you did? Dinner.

What are you wearing? Scruffiness.

Your TV? Skins.

Your pets? Elsewhere.

Your friends? Quiet.

Your life? Sad.

Your mood? Heavy.

Missing someone? No.

Vehicle? Docs.

Something you’re not wearing? Bra.

Your favorite store? Pentimento.

Your favorite color? Red.

When was the last time you laughed? 3.30ish.

Last time you cried? Days.

Your best friend? Ah...

One place that I go to over and over? Work.

Person who emails me regularly? No-one.

Favorite place to eat? Soni's.

BOOK MARK

2009-10-26T23:45:00.003+11:00

I have been - oh so briefly - away. I am back and really rather brown. It's like this, despite my southern pallor I am, in fact, an olive-skinned little brown baby. I'll never be one of your gorgeous white skinned lasses. I spent maybe six hours in a pool - over several days - slathered in SPF 30 and have returned to a more natural and less anaemic hue. Yes, I brag. I need something to cheer me up.

I still feel a little down. I always feel low after leaving my family. I can't bear the thought of moving back there but, ah, it hurts a wee bit to be away. And I miss the cat though she charmingly bit and scratched me as a memento before I left. And I have taken home rather a lot of grey fur - mostly as decoration for my clothes.

Despite my depths-of-despair-ness I think things may be picking up. Slowly, you know, just slowly. I'm trying not to be a bitch about the things I can't change. I'm trying to lose some of the hate and pick up a few threads. I'm trying to stop treading water. Or, at least, I think Iam.

I recognized you by your voice.

2009-10-21T00:58:00.000+11:00

The fates couldn’t be so cruel. And I say it over: the fates couldn’t be so cruel. I remember, sometimes, that I don believe in the fates or predestination or luck – good or bad – or anyone out there paying attention and looking after. It all seems rather silly that anyone or anything would care enough to play such petty games. I don’t believe. I am alone.

For, perhaps, the first time in my life I feel lonely. Really deep down bone lonely. It’s not a feeling I’m used to. I don’t, as a rule, need others. I don’t really need others now. I just need to be wanted and I’m not.

I’m the last one left and not going anywhere. Not wanted by any and sat like a lump in the corner. The lump grows larger, the shell is thicker, the persona falser by the day. Up, up, always up and smooth and measured and never put off. The mask is on and staying.

I’m the fat kid getting picked last. The odd one out. The one keeping score because, really, no-one wants me in the game. I think I’ve gone from treading water to drowning. The things I want so much are taken by others. I’ve started to stop hoping.

My body is messed up and not adjusting well. My head is messed up and not adjusting at all. I need about a year in a mental hospital being shocked in-between bouts of making macramé owls. I need drugs of hideous strength and incapacitation. I’m days from knocking off my father’s meds.

I was recognized only by my voice. It must have said fuck you because that’s as polite as I get to you. I will be the bitch for it because I’ll wear the tag. You’re just another reminder of my failure and I have a lifetime of those.

It's a good thing that I'm the size of three people as I do the work of several.

2009-10-09T23:43:00.002+11:00

1. Holy hell, how did I not know that Gingerbread Liqueur existed? I'm getting tingles of excitement. I must have it! I must! It could be that special something that you were looking to get me for my birthday. Oh yes.

2. I had two nasty dreams this morning. The first was of a couple I don't much like as a couple announcing their engagement in a thoroughly modern and really irritating - to me - way. It made me cranky. The second was rather more involved. I dreamed that I found out that my quiverfull freakshow landlord was sneaking into my rather awesome apartment (it would have to be, right, to put up with quiverfull neighbours) and raping me in my sleep. I sleep pretty damn well so this wasn't as weird as you'd think. I was, however, pretty pissed off when I found out about it. Not traumatised just really grossed out. I can't believe that I dreamed of a religious nut rapist who totally ruined for me the awesome apartment that I also dreamed. My subconscious is a bitch.

3. I'm bruising way more easily than usual. I'm torn between ohmygods it must be leukaemia and smacking myself to make bruises because bruises are pretty wild. I suspect it's from the pill but, ugh, going to a doctor to confirm would be such a pain.

Soundtrack of my days.

2009-10-04T20:27:00.004+11:00

Those of you who have been attending lately will have noticed that there's been some running commentary and a number of small and lame jokes - on my part - on the soundtrack to my life. Turns out the soundtrack was in existence but I hadn't quite gotten round to buying it.

There's this feeling of déjà vu, isn't there? You know what's coming (well, thanks to the lovefest that is Fuctbook some of you probably already do). Turns out the magical mystery being who has, time and again, written the songs of my days has done it again. And I just happened to buy the album a few months too late to realise.

I make an awkward and half-arsed cheerleader and, also, being such a fan my judgement is probably not to be trusted but I really must say that Mr Cocker is a man who is improving with age. And I'd still totally do him - such a pity I'm no longer 23.

Trivia. TriVIA. Trivia. TriVIA. Tr-tr-triviA.

2009-10-03T00:07:00.002+10:00

Trivia 1
During the dust storms I was bitching - as I do endlessly, I am such fun - about it not being worthwhile washing my hair as more dust storms were predicted. One of my colleagues, whose own locks are lusciously black, commented that I was lucky that my hair was already dust coloured and people would never notice that I hadn't washed it. I share this story to illustrate why I dye my hair. I really must dye my hair. Non dust colour.

Trivia 2
In about a year I'll have paid off all my loans and credit card and so forth except for HECS. The HECS will probably take forever. Meh. It will be nice not to have a loan though. And to be able to save money again.

Trivia 3
The money, or lack thereof, thing has really been annoying me. My rent goes up (AGAIN!) in December and electricity now costs $60 more for exactly the same usage as last quarter and my pay has not risen and presently seems unlikely to rise. I'm getting quite sick of pissing away money and not being able to do anything because I'm broke. I am seriously considering going back to the uncertain hell of sharing.* Non-arseholes only need apply.

Trivia 4
This weekend I will be applying for a job whose selection criteria states, and I quote, 'Tertiary qualifications in archives, library studies, history or other relevant disciplines are highly desirable.' (Ahem, italics mine...) This is the first time I have ever seen any part of my degree be a) sought after, b) considered useful, c) described as 'highly desirable'. The latter makes me tingle in weird nerdy ways that you don't even want to think about.

Trivia 5
This is the first time in forever that I will not work - at all - a long weekend. I have a long weekend. This is terribly exciting.

* Note my positive attitude toward this concept.

Caught up in the trivial.

2009-09-30T22:53:00.003+10:00

I have two things on my mind.

1) Finding someone to see Jarvis(swoon)Cocker with me.
Yes, I could go alone. I would, however, prefer to have someone with me. More fun with company, if you will. The only two people who I can think of who might be interested/go along to laugh at my swooning are both overseas. Bitches. I need to find some more friends. Jarv loving friends.

2) Sunscreen.
I need a decent non-greasy olivey-skin-loving sunscreen. One that won't sweat off in a hurry or make my pores feel clogged or make my face feel shiny and greasy. Suggestions would be welcome. It does not need to be tinted - I tint up naturally even with the sunscreen - just good and not icky-skin making.

Shadowflay

2009-09-21T23:43:00.000+10:00

It would be fair to say that I’ve been quite unfair lately. It’s not that I don’t feel entirely entitled to be utterly irrational and share my disordered thinking and over-thought unrealised ideas with the world - such are others, so am I - but, yes, I’ve been unfair.

I’ve been past focused and fevered imagination focused and not at all here and now focused. I’ve been looking in other people’s windows, making stories for them, and imagining they’re real. Maybe they are real. They’re not my real though.

The here and now is balancing being liked for myself – which is, apparently, possible – and being the annoying fat girl who gets in the way when you’re trying to talk to the pretty girl. Sure, she was pretty but you didn’t need to score points off me.

This would go on but apologies are not my thing and, besides, I’ve run out of things to say. I think I might sit around and drink hot chocolate and remember that even the crazy can be adorable if you’re disposed to like. Be disposed. It’s an order.

Fuck you, yeah?

2009-09-16T22:22:00.000+10:00

This day doesn’t have a song it doesn’t have a theme. It’s tired and worn and warning my brain to take more care of my heart. It’s a day of telling myself I’m stupid, of reflecting angrily but knowing better. It would be a day of apology but I never do.

My chest feels shattered, kicked outward, all wounds are self inflicted. My wounds usually are. I don’t let people close. It’s a fractured hole but it’s pointless pain. A wound of healing rather than harming.

I am enraged over seemingly easy lives and naturally resistant psyches. It’s easy to be easy when it’s been easy. Easy, adored, never proving because you’re just so fucking fine. This battle is all within but you are the face of the enemy.

Spoiled - bad fruit maybe, dangerous ideas, getting above and all outside of place. I should have been born different. I should have been born with the right spoon, the knack of fitting in, the ability to tolerate bullshit. Something tore, long ago. Something cracked.

I can’t do it, you know. I can’t be what I want. I can’t be you. You’re the enemy I envy for what I am not. I know, though, that I’ll never be. And never being I’ll never be wanted. I’ll never get what you have. I’ll never be like you. I’ll never be ordered or calm or patronisingly kind.

My brain will always say but and question if I sound like an arse. Right now I do but you won’t see. I see all sides, all lines, all ways. I see it. I’m tearing shreds but it’s from me and it’s very hard to care. I don’t know if you understand what it is about me.

Don’t you (forget about me).

2009-09-15T23:21:00.000+10:00

The song of this hour is jealous screaming. Of wanting what I can’t have. Of not being able to give up. Of being sidelined and saddened. Pathetic and maddened. It is every negative emotion. It is jealously by the jug. I am mad with it as I chug it down.

It is the sound of me hating you for my inadequacies. I’ve mentioned them before, a thousand times, a million, more. It is my jealousy of your beauty or your brains or both. My hatred of your personality because you are so fucking nice. You probably fuck nice too.

It is my jealousy of lips and teeth and shadowplay. More of wanting what isn’t mine and won’t be mine and what I can’t have. Envy, sweet, delectable friend of my days, biting into skin and baring soul. The screams that don’t happen. Or maybe they do. But not for me.

The jealousy turns like and envy to fantastic hatred of the pointless type. It is a hatred that I have mastered. I declare war and wave flags and am left unheard like the best of losers with their anger and their lined pages.

Reading this you will be wrong. Leave my lines. Cast off and go away. Take my toys and the stupid joy of my imagination. Make it what you will. This hateful jealousy should wither in open air but it will not.

Song of the our is All Apologies

2009-09-13T23:20:00.001+10:00

Reading a broken heart several years old was probably not a good idea. The blush remains upon my cheeks and I still feel the shame of my bad behaviour. And I am left with the knowledge that I will always be silly and neurotic and full of clumsy excess in my address. Always I will write reams about my paltry life and – rather than sensibly diarize in a world of hidden paper - write to an audience. Apparently I need the audience, one way or another.

I have to wonder what is wrong with me that I not only would but have torn out my own heart and thrown it across screens, across the internet, across a world of indifference for others to mock, or trample, or ignore. The ignoring hurt the most, oh but don’t you know? Once upon a lovely decade I threw my words all over email. Haemorrhaged words across someone else’s inbox where, doubtless, they were deleted in haste while I repented in leisurely new emails. Letting go is not my forte.

I have spent a lot of time reading my old words rather than throwing together new ones. Regret, curiosity, shall we declare it the need for perspective? These are to blame or not. Perhaps I’m basking in former inglory or merely wasting time. It’s hard to say and I’m not sure that I care enough to bother. The horror of words past is knowing that they have left me unchanged. I am still the same. I am still explaining myself.

I wrote, somewhere, something about my self obsession being an attempt to understand the world through the only prism I know. Myself. Oh but don’t you see? I wonder if I’m just trying to explain and apologise to all those I know and don’t know for my erratic behaviour. I would behave sensibly but I’m a fool – can’t you recall how many times I’ve told you, how many times I’ve shown you? It bites its tail.

Forgive me, how often I’ve cried, I know what I am but I cannot stop myself. Cannot. Will not. In the end it doesn’t matter because I do not.

In which my subconscious jumps on the bandwagon.

2009-08-17T12:22:00.002+10:00

At four this morning I woke up.

I woke up because in my dream I was about to be killed by a man with a gun. That man and his fellows had been told to shoot all the people in the bus I was on because we disagreed with their ideology. I was filming the whole thing with my iphone and sending it to a particular person as they'd quite recently told me that for the sake of ideology they would happily kill me. They had then proceeded to show me that injuring me caused them no grief.

I could not believe that someone I loved would harm me so readily and would allow me to die for disagreeing with them. On the bus, as I sat and thought about this, men with guns surrounded me. And I filmed it in a last vindictive act having prefaced the call with, 'I love you and they are about to kill me.'

The dream was still on my mind when I got up again at midday. I feel a little crushed by it.

And another thing.

2009-08-15T23:51:00.004+10:00

Another thing wrong with my job is that I spend far to much time talking to men who are either just about to masturbate or are planning when they're next going to masturbate. Or their attempts to get laid sans prophylactic.

I mean, I don't just talk to men and assume that they're thinking about these things, they phone me up and discuss such things with me. Especially on Saturdays.

I'm really starting to hate working Saturdays.

A thousand ways to say ow.

2009-08-14T22:15:00.002+10:00

Dear Universe,
This year sucks for me. I get it. This week has been pretty monstrous. I get that. The painkillers I've been swallowing relentlessly are inadequate. I get that.
Twisting my ankle in the back streets of Newtown? That was just bitchy. Go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
etc etc

You'll always be safe from harm.

2009-08-11T23:35:00.002+10:00

I feel utterly defeated. I'm tired. I rattle from all the painkillers. I'm fed up. And the episode of Torchwood I just watched scared the shit out of me even though I'm nearly thirty-one years old and don't actually believe in fairies.

And I'm sitting here crying because I feel so defeated. Like a child. Sobbing into my hands.

I look like hell. I feel like hell. I wonder if I'll ever feel human again.

And despite my best intentions this reads like a suicide note.

Dear you, fuck me, I'm off to die or cry or something so lame it can't be mentioned in polite society. Fuck this life, no, really, fuck it.

I feel like I've been kicked in the gut. I only have a few painkillers left.

And I'm so fucking pathetic that I'm posting this on my blog.

Status update brought to you by the drugs don’t work.

2009-08-10T00:51:00.003+10:00

Take my advice and leave a short comment of general support in the section kindly provided by blogger just for this purpose but don’t actually read the following. I double this if you are a boy and/or at all squeamish. Actually, this seems to be turning into the much threatened and long non-awaited menstruation post so I completely understand if everyone runs away now. Seriously, I’d be in another room right now if it wasn’t for the fact that one cannot yet divorce body from mind no matter how great the provocation.

I’ve considered skirting the topic but I’ve decided to be out and out militant and aggressive and shit because I’m in a terrible amount of pain and I’m grumpy and I have a nasty vicious little intention of sharing every last moment with you. Go cry in a corner if it works for you. It doesn’t work for me but, hey, who the hell am I? To start at the beginning (though it’s now somewhere in the middle), I have my period. This has never been a particularly fun state of being for me and in twenty years it’s not an experience that I’ve ever gotten used to. Even as a child reading a horrible and tedious amount of Judy Blume I cannot say I was one of those girls who looked forward to the Glory of Puberty and the joys of Becoming a Woman. Personally, no matter how you try to package the concept nothing makes bleeding from the vagina sound like fun. It never sounded anything other than frankly revolting and a tiny bit disturbing. I can quite understand how an entire chunk of a fairly major religion has built up on the concept of this as a punishment. It certainly feels like a curse. Perhaps you could argue that my view of this as something other than a positive experience has lead to this being an incredibly negative experience in my life. Perhaps I’ve reached the stage in my life where all kinds of magical thinking make me want to tear your head off and shove it up your arse. I don’t believe this, obviously. And the tearing your head off/shoving it up your arse thing is only partly the fault of PMS.

There is a part of me that is embarrassed by this topic. Embarrassed by experiencing it and embarrassed that I should discuss it and in mixed company. Cover your ears boys, hide your eyes, this is women’s business and we all know how they exaggerate. Embarrassed for experiencing what my body is supposed to do. Embarrassed for doing it so poorly, for not being secretive enough, for not floating through and running along the beach and holding hands with other girls and riding horses. Isn’t that how one is supposed to experience menstruation – men oblivious and women joyous? Perhaps I am embarrassed by my body’s failure to do and have done. For it to be quiet and normal and natural. For minor inconvenience and some slight emotional silliness of the kind that embarrasses women but that men understand. Oh great mystery, of course she’s being silly, she not tough like us menfolk. Oh fuck off. Fuck off. Any man who’d experienced and anticipated the pain I’ve had lately – and simply had to endure to its end – would have ended up in emergency. It is sheer bloody pointlessness that stops me wailing for help to the world at large. What can be done is being done and nothing can make it go faster.

And I’m making a hero of myself. I’m not a hero, far from it. I simply accepted as normal that which was not and have taken my time in resolving the situation. I remember childhood and those stupid puberty sessions and the absolute overload of non-informative information in leaflets and cutesy little brochures and a number of weird things on normal and not. I remember the first time I got my period. I remember being embarrassed and mortified rather than pleased at all. I remember wanting my parents not to embarrass me or to tease me as they picked me up from school. I remember the pain and illness both before and after a kind cousin put me on to naprogesic. I don’t remember the leaflets or anyone else saying that there was an upper limit on the pain. A point where there is a serious problem and that put up and shut up should not be engaged in. Women, perhaps, don’t talk about these things as they should. Some of us less than others. I suppose that it’s not strange that I should demur from discussions about things that cause pain. And, of course, the eternal one-up-ness that always leaves one feeling like a whinger. You don’t know pain, I know pain, mine’s worse than yours, I’m better than you for not whinging, for just putting up. And, as was so derisively said to me recently when I admitted that I’d taken rather a lot of painkillers for cramps, ‘you mean period pain..?’ You know, it may be no big deal to you but I can’t unbend. My legs shake like the elderly when I stand. My face is so white people keep asking me what’s wrong. And it turns out that after twenty years of putting the fuck up with it (with a recent dramatic increase in the pain stakes) that the pain was abnormal. And that there is a reason for the abnormality. And now I am so fucking angry at the contempt and the patronising that I want to repeatedly punch people in the stomach and ask them how it fucking feels. Oh you’re screaming and crying now? LET ME KICK YOU WITH A STEEL CAPPED BOOT. Fucking weakling.

I am, as usual, mostly angry with myself. In me this is recurrent – I get angry with myself when I misunderstand or just don’t get it, and angrier still when the light flicks on and I suddenly do. Oh, how stupid I’ve been is my constant refrain. It’s not just the bad stuff that I get upset about in such terms. I remember getting irritated when a friend – ironic new use of the word – kept harping on about my good skin. You know what, I neither knew nor cared but her neuroticism made it my problem. Genetics are a bitch but you have to get over that, right? Well, eventually, I suppose. This is all about genetics, really, as I discovered yesterday. Women talk about a lot of stuff but mostly you don’t share when you’re on the rag or embarrassing untimely bleeds or just how much pain you’re in. Even very close friends skim rather than go into detail. Family likewise - though this could be just me. Maybe everyone else is all yay-bleeding-from-the-vag-happytime share share share. It could just be me who’s all fuck off I feel ill and psychotic and GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME but leave the chocolate, back the fuck off but leave the damned chocolate. So anyway, it turns out that my particular issues, the progressively worse and now almost constant pain stem from the revoltingly gag-making endometriosis – or as both my mother and aunt describe it ‘that E thing that I can’t say’. Sometimes it’s frightfully easy to see that they’re sisters. It also turns out that I’m the third diagnosed case from a generation of four girls. My sister – and I’m sure we all hate her for this – may have missed out thus far by a combination of good luck and/or getting knocked up at the right time.

Where I stand now is crampy, frustrated, and well over having women’s hands and other fascinating medical paraphernalia up my vagina. Waiting for the fabulous take-all-the-time Pill to kick in and the hormones to normalise before I accidentally kill someone who says hello to me (I do not think prison would be conducive to avoiding the combination of other women and my vagina) and waiting on an official list designed just for the purpose for someone to inflate my gut and hoover out the nasties. And, of course, continuing to daydream about menopause or the day I’m old enough to have a hysterectomy. I gather that the latter removes the part of your brain that causes hysteria. I greatly look forward to it. In the meantime, there is pondering my dissolute life to be done and trying to decide once and for all the question of children – and I don’t mean other people’s. It seems that I will forever be on hormones and that anything involving my uterus will be a rather fraught experience. Still, why should the future be any different from the past?

candycandycandy

2009-07-23T23:02:00.001+10:00

A colleague keeps telling me that I smell sweet and nice, like sherbet. I can't help wondering where it comes from and what I smell like to other people.

It's only time.

2009-06-29T20:00:00.000+10:00

I can't determine whether I'm quite old or quite young.

She's only five weeks late but I haven't had a date for ever...

2009-06-29T12:35:00.004+10:00

I am hugely entertained by going to the doctor. I made an appointment and managed to get in to see the doctor in under a week. This never happens as she's a popular lady. When I made the appointment I was told to phone about half an hour before I was due to see the doctor to see if she was running on time. So I did. The receptionist was absolutely hilarious. 'No, SHE isn't on TIME. SHE'S running about 45 minutes LATE.' I get the impression that her day is just one long session of telling people that their appointments are pointless and watching irritated people who failed to phone in sigh in the waiting room.

Update: Two hours after said appointment I saw the doctor. And in a couple of weeks I'll have to do it all over again. 'm all for trading this body in for a new one.

hey hey...meh, fuck it.

2009-06-28T16:12:00.003+10:00

I was going to write a post about how I woke up melancholy at one in the afternoon and have proceeded to do nothing much with my day other than lie on the couch and read Anne books and eat toast with blackberry and raspberry jam and drink tea and feel sorry for myself for no good reason but it turns out that I'm too tired and writing a very boring one sentence mini-monologue is pretty much all I can manage.

The woman is going to drive me mad.

2009-06-20T22:33:00.002+10:00

My mother phoned me to tell me to watch a movie about a woman who seriously fucks up her daughter by being neurotic about food and weight.

The same woman who told me I'd be pretty if I lost weight now seems to have gone all fat acceptance on her heifer daughter. Oh no, she doesn't want me to be fat but she wants me to accept myself and to do something about it for myself. And by 'do it for yourself' she means do it so that I can be proud of you. Do it so that I don't have to be ashamed of my child. Fat daughters must be too stupid to get the subtext.

And she wants me to watch a movie about a fucked up, totally neurotic woman torturing her child - both physically and mentally - because it's interesting.

Yeah, fascinating. Can't think what it reminds me of.

Hey hey

2009-06-20T22:00:00.002+10:00

I thought that if I put on a bra I would be productive today. I did but I wasn't. Maybe underwear isn't essential.

I wrote a thing.

2009-06-18T19:53:00.000+10:00

It is here.

Does this happen to anyone else?

2009-06-18T17:24:00.000+10:00

I was rather consciously minding my own business on the way to the shops, trying to remember the specifics of something I planned to cook. A man loitered, he approached, he asked me if this was Marrickville. Yes. Was I sure, this doesn’t really look like Marrickville. California bungalows, numerous black-clad ancient Greek and Italian women, a plane with landing gear down and moving fast, and the entrance to Marrickville Metro about a hundred metres away. It certainly looked like Marrickville to me. So yes, yes, I was sure. And where’s Newtown. That way, I pointed, I paused and moved on. The weather’s really funny today, isn’t it? Intermittent rain, cold, a little windy; a winter’s day reminiscent of childhood winters. This is how winter in Sydney is supposed to be, don’t let climate change fool you, don’t let the years of perverse weather fool you, this is how it’s meant to be. It’s…okay. Non-committal, he’ll go away now. Walk on. So what have you been doing today? Not much. Walk on. Day off? Something like that. Walk on. So what do you do for a living? Fed up now and trying to shake the oddity. Does it really matter? Walk off. I’m going in here now. Walk to the shops and don’t look back. And the voice following in a whine: I was only trying to make conversation…

These things always bother me a little. Is this really how people interact? Am I so odd in not wanting to get involved? First you start talking to a random stranger who clearly just wants to get on with their shopping. Then you start asking quite personal questions and get offended when they have no desire to tell you. Perhaps I could be more polite but I really have no idea what to do, other than walk away, when strangers persist despite my scowly face and curt responses.

Who knew?

2009-06-17T22:42:00.003+10:00

This has been going on for four years as of the 11th of this month. I am rather surprised.

A feather duster to the brain.

2009-06-17T16:00:00.004+10:00

At six months I was a genius. A walking talking wonder of the infant world. At one my puny hand grasped a pen and my tight scrawl wrote poetry and treatises on the troubles of a childish world. At two came music, previously background noise, and notes tripped from my chubby fingers and formed themselves blackly on acres of white page. Insofar as my tiny hands could manage I was virtuoso on all that I touched. At three, my legs sturdy and my heart brave, I raced around my world. My grip was stronger and surer and art poured from my fingers. In the years between three and five I perfected all my skills and read all the books my little hands could find. At six I was the star of my class and at seven eight and nine. At ten I burned out. Genius only lasts so long. After resting my genius fro several years I entered the curious twilight of the teenaged. I rested my genius some more and then some more. I medicated it. Fed it snippets of conversation and all the books my large hands could now hold. I rested some more. I sat back and let brilliance subside. I embraced the drab and the flat out ugly of my own nature. I lived to the grey. I got older and I carried on in set pattern. Habits are hard to kill and hard to make. I allowed the pointlessness to create me. And I created it. First love, as they say, somehow stays with you. And it lingered through dimensions, it followed me around. It clouded all judgement and cast a film of dinge over my eyes; all around me the shabby, the dingy, the death of expectation. I drowned under a thousand kinds of dust that crept into tiny corners of the mind and held court in the heart.

If I were a fairytale a charger carrying a prince would arrive. I am not and I am too lazy to be a princess. Besides, where is the value of a gift? A trinket is a lovely thing, it means what you would like, but the easier it comes, the easier it seems to go. As easy as it came I feel nothing as it walks away leaving an irritation of dust and disorder and hopeless, helpless, pointless aging. I feel the cold and the stupidity and the joy of sunshine. I feel contradiction and contempt. I want it all to go faster for me to ride faster and move faster and create and make and leave the tedium behind. And I am anchored – to my frustration – by a level of banality. I shake the dust off and it settles on my shoulders. I shake again and it clings to my feet. I dance and run and jump until I collapse into the piles of dust that lie everywhere. That act as sinkholes in the path. That would draw me in if I wished to be drawn. I have no wish to be drawn. I am perpetually six months delayed and a lifetime of confused. I am begging and giving up before the wind changes. I am sitting and thinking myself beautiful even when I’m not. I am giving up on the question of clever and merely following my interest. I am tying my hair back and washing the dishes. I am a kitchen sink drama though I aspired to more. I aspire to more. I am sweeping and dusting and sneezing and wondering why always why. I am sitting down and I am typing. I am plucking at my face and demanding beauty. It’s not your beauty, it’s mine. It’s not your cleverness, it’s mine. It’s not your point, it’s mine. I will be far more selfish than I have ever been because I am so sick of selling myself cheaply. I am fed up with the competition. I am fed up with you thinking that I want to be you. I am fed up with you thinking that I want to be like you. I am fed up with you thinking that I want to be liked by you.

Underdogs with good intentions.

2009-06-16T20:31:00.003+10:00

There is a blank page in front of me and a whole bunch of little letters at my fingers. I can hit them, bash at them as much as I want and they never run out. This is wonderful. It is a wonder. I can bash them out, reverse over them, and make them vanish. I have the power of several minor gods and am indebted to Visa and the beauty of bills that pay themselves.

I’m looking for my voice in a sea of others. I can feel yours burning in my throat. Yours I cannot take, cannot emulate, there are things about you I like too little and, alas, they are so great that they cancel out the good. Yours I will not take either. I do not fawn. It is not in my nature. Nor do I want it to be there. I need the humour. I need to laugh in the darkness, the fundamental pointlessness, the dark purity of nothing. I need the nothing. I need to laugh at it.

I read and steal and for five seconds I have it. By the time I find a pen it is too late. The computer is slow. It’s never enough. It’s never fast enough. I’m not sure I know enough words, have enough meanings, have read enough. I don’t know the people, I’m not connected, I have a strange aversion to acting the drama I attract. Attraction and repulsion are funny things. I can find both in a few dozen words. I can do both in a few dozen words. Or less. Much less.

This then, is power? Have I wielded it correctly? Am I thinking too much about what it is and is not? I am. I know it. Being self-aware is a curse, truly. We can be unconscious. I believe we can. Eyes open, brain disengaged. Too busy being clever and à la mode to think. Beyond thinking. Wrapped up in a smug blanket of better-than-you. So very sophisticated in half-arsed sophistry. There is a way, I can see it, I just cannot see the way in.

It’s easy, isn’t it? So very easy. Move all the boundaries to places you like. Make your likes the norm. Make the norm necessary and all other behaviours are abhorrent. And you are good and you are liberal and all your attitudes are in the right place. They’re so right, you’re right, you’ve listened to the people in one little elite and you know how right you are. You cannot be challenged. You are right. So right and you know it. A world unmuddled by love you for what I am not. A simple case of like attracts. And like must like. It is right.

There is white bread. It’s hard not to like white bread. Bland but satisfying. Made better by topping. Quite a lot of things are made better by topping. It’s clean and pretty and unrelated to anything. What was I speaking of? The joy of the bland. The clichéd girl on the bus. The hair just so, the clothes just that right mixture, the technologies as they should be, the very model of a modern girl generalised. There’s no dirt, no flies, no danger, and no lies. The imagination is lacking. The vocabulary is ordinarily orderly. Words flung about to make new worlds are allowable only if sanctioned by publishers. You can fall in love through words. You can fall into people and places and ways of being. They require no sanction. They require nothing but themselves and a will.

You can fall through the cracks with words. In words. Words alone can make you fall and fail and fail to see the light and cry out to the gods of your making. Oh god, gods, make me. And when you cry out into the night and in the darkness, when you cry out so quietly, so desperately, when you cry out in a little girl voice do you think they hear you? Do you think they care? Do you think they’ll do what you want, what you need, or what you have asked for? And you think, with all your cleverness, that what you’ve said is what you mean. And you think that no-one else sees the meanings arcing out like multiple worlds of words. I have been in that place. I have seen those worlds and been paralysed – through indecision, not fear. I stood on the footpath and walked a tight square of indecision as all the possibilities lay before me. I did nothing. I do nothing. I stand here laughing up my sleeve at your need and am perplexed by my own. In the end I disengage. I find nothing of value. I am oddly troubled by that.

13 degrees

2009-06-14T13:03:00.003+10:00

There are two things to make me leave the house today. A tea shortage and the lure of fire at the Duke.
I wish that I could go back to bed but it somehow seems wrong after showing and losing all one's warmth.

Update: it just started raining. If I wanted a cold shower I could just go back into my cold bathroom and once more attack the inadequate hot water tank.

My fingers are cold. Fuck it, the heater goes on now.

Unnamed, unknown, not wondered at.

2009-06-02T22:23:00.001+10:00

It’s been a long time since I wrote anything that wasn’t a complaint – as dictated by someone else – or the odd pathetic and largely ignored comment. I’ve had nothing to say. A lot of thoughts but to actually write about? No, haven’t the energy, haven’t the time, have completely lost my ability to deal with bullshit. To deal with all shit, actually.

I’m in a pretty dark place. It’s probably because I’m tired and run down and from this feel unloved and like a bad person – I move fast when I get all self-reflective, so help me. I probably am a bad person. I’m not much of a friend as evidenced by why seems to be an almost total lack of friends at the moment. People want to hang with everyone but me. I do understand. I wonder if it happens to other people – you’re good enough, as a friend when there’s no-one else around but… Oh yeah, with our buts we make the world.

Today was the first day of a three week break. I needed a break before I broke. I may still break. We’ll see. I needed the break from work where things continue to go to shit. I also needed a break to recuperate from that particularly nasty, non-pertussis virus that left me so very tired and weak. I still feel weak. That’s a frightening thing. I also needed a break from a month of on/off parental visiting. I’m a bad child, they wear me out. I need to stop justifying myself.

Worse than my parents is my sister’s major birth control failure which has both her and my mother needing psychiatric help. Do you think either of them will seek it? No. Better to break down slowly and take me with you. It’s more fun this way, don’t you see? Don’t you see? Actually, I don’t see.

This is sounding oddly like a series of complaints but maybe its better that I get it all out of my system. Get it out now and reflect later. Make a list and cross things off. Make time to go for a walk or hit my head against the wall. I have time so I’ll probably do both.

My head is tangled. My life is pretty straightforward but tedious. This will pass. I will make it pass. I will make it pass.

Class 1AAA+++ hysteric

2009-04-20T16:33:00.000+10:00

I went back to the doctor today regarding the persistent and downright irritating cough that I developed a bit over a week ago. I have been crying ever since. We talked very little of the cough –since I cough quite often he had plenty of time to hear it – and for a while of all manner of other things. I started crying as soon as he asked about work which, I suppose, is not the reaction of a happy person. And working, as I do, in an industry not unknown to doctors he must have been just as aware as I am of the talk of my most esteemed employers. I nearly choked – with laughter – when he asked if I got a lot of – and here I can’t remember the word – aggression, hostility..? something like but not quite. And I answered yes, all the time. Because all the time I am abused and insulted and blamed for things that either have nothing to do with me or are totally beyond my control. Beyond my control yet always, always, I am given the blame and never, never is anything I do good enough. Of course, I’m not happy. Of course, I’m unwell. I know it. And he knew I knew it. I think what surprised me most is being treated like I might be an okay person, that a stranger might think me intelligent before they think me stupid. He even told me that I was a good person who deserved better. This is the opposite of what I hear dozens of times a day, it s the opposite of how I am treated by clients and by my managers.
He talked to me, this doctor of fifty years and unusual perspicacity, of his own life – doctoring was his second career – and that of his daughter who followed his footsteps in a roundabout away. He asked me my qualifications, not if I had any but what they were, and within moments had a career planned for me as the next Simon Winchester. He understood the absolute bind of having no money. It’s hard to change things when you are barely holding on to what you have and when there’s rent to pay – especially these days when rent is disproportionately large. You can know what you need to do, you can even know, to a certain extent how to do it, but there are so many things that are inescapable and they can complicate matters so that you lose sight of what could be. If only. And instead of things going your way, ever, they always seem to work against you. Nothing gets easier. And your brain starts to work against you. And then one day you’re at the doctors with a cough and you’re crying about your cough and your life and all you get is a pathology request form a handful of cortisol, and the reality of the obviousness of your misery. And the refrain echoing in your head that life is too short, too short by far, as declared by an eighty-something year old man. And you cough and cry all the way home.

I goes on and on and on.

2009-04-16T23:33:00.001+10:00

I am going to lose my fucking mind if I don't stop coughing soon. It's annoying and it stops me from sleeping properly. That's all a bit too frustrating, you know?

I wanted to share but facebook seems to be broken.

2009-03-26T22:29:00.002+11:00

I am quite, quite stupid.

I just needed to share that with someone.

I am a trifle embarrassed about being so mind-bogglingly stupid.

I am more embarrassed about being so shallow that I need to share this in order to get some kind of validation.

So, so stupid.

The unamused muse

2009-03-20T21:35:00.001+11:00

Ever had the sneaking suspicion that if you were a Bennet your name would be Mary?

Now I wanna sniff some glue

2009-03-16T13:07:00.002+11:00

I must finally be feeling better, less pained, less sorrowful (and yet, oddly, more), and altogether more able. I still walk and stand and move like I've been crippled but today, thus far, I've been without the painkillers. Today I plucked my eyebrows and if that doesn't scream 'recovery', well, I just don't know what would. In the process I spent several minutes admiring how clear and green my eyes were looking. Clearly, lying about and taking painkillers suits me. I have often considered that lying around might, in fact, be the stuff of my life. I am obviously a decorative item. An item to quietly decorate hidden rooms. I still have the need to nap though I've done little all day and little else all week. Perhaps a cup of tea will fix that or, at least, hold it off a little way. I shouldn't like to miss the whole day, something exciting may happen.

Cross my palm with silver

2009-03-15T22:21:00.000+11:00

I’m thinking of self-fulfilling a self-fulfilling prophecy. At this stage, I do admit, I have yet to formulate a prophecy that I can be bothered fulfilling. I doubt it will involve nemesis killing though; it’s not that easy to find nemeses in these tough modern times. I’m looking into tall, dark, and handsome possibilities but the formula is awry and the most handsome dark that I saw recently was a cat who was not tall at all. It occurs to me that I should take the tall where I can get it and abduct the dark and handsome cat. I wonder why I would assume that my prophecy should come wrapped in a neat (if largish) package and all wrapped up in a bow. I suspect that I would be lucky with random mismatched articles tied up with bits of used string and labelled according to my function rather than their actual form.
I have a hopeful buzz that seems to be related almost entirely to painkillers and not at all a pleasant reflection of my life. It came on very suddenly and no doubt will flee momentarily. Flutter in on itty bitty bat wings and get snaffled by the giant huntsman who has a kitchen only treaty. It’s nice to flutter in and flutter by and watch your mind flit away. Maybe that’s my prophecy. The one I’ve been speaking for decades. The day will come o the day will come o the day will come when my mind’s away. I think I feel it ebbing away. It would, of course, be tedious to fulfil that prophecy. Another one, however, has yet to present itself and I have limited imagination. Maybe I should stick with what I know and prophesise eternal sameness. I believe I could further fulfil that with limited effort.

Drivin’ on 9

2009-03-09T22:19:00.001+11:00

I’m nose into the arse end of the first week of March and totally unable to say how I got there. I am, however, stuck fast and unsure of how to get out. I’m thinking of backing up slowly but I suspect that time will not kindly follow me and if it did we’d just be repeating the same patterns, the same boredoms, and the same tedious conversations. I’ve quite had enough of conversation. I’m not sure if it’s a peculiarity of mine or it is endemic to the interaction but mine are never straightforward. If there is a tangent I will pursue it. If a bird flies into my head I will mention it. Heaven forbid if you have a point.
I wonder if the wandering point and possible pointlessness of my conversation owes something to my own intrinsic pointlessness. Or, perhaps, if the habit – developed at school, I swear – of trying to be the weirdest and most interesting person in the room is the problem. I somehow rewired my brain to throw out and throw up oddities. This has the painful, slapping, ring of truth to it. There is a part of me that is partly sick of this part of myself. And then I engage in conversations that are so banal that I can speak both sides after the first sentence and I applaud myself for generally refraining from being so extremely dull. Better to be peculiar than predictable or predictably peculiar than demonically dull.
I am, of course, and as ever, finding myself oddly fascinating in comparison with, oh, everyone else. Well, I’d need to, wouldn’t I? How else would I function? How else could I magnify my neuroticism and tedious tales into the magnificent text you see before you? How, indeed. There is also, of course, the need to satisfy my public. Those folk who, bizarre as it seems, seem to have missed this semi-apocalyptic train-wreck during my unintended hiatus. You’re really a bunch of cute kids. I must have you all buy me alcohol units at some stage. No really, I insist.

Love and light. Love. And. Light.

2008-12-30T22:47:00.002+11:00

Yesterday, in all seriousness, I asked my boss to please consider me for a redundancy. They're going round, you see, and I want one. It surprised me to realise that the last time I wanted anything so much was the summer I spent waiting to find out if would get into university in Sydney. I wanted it so - mostly as an excuse, a prompt, a forced action forcing me to act. I got what I wanted then. I even took a degree, eventually. I have the same kind of want now. It's the boot up the arse that I need to move on because at the moment I am well and truly stuck. I know I've been saying for years, so long now that even I can't bear to think, how much I hate my job, how awful it is, how it couldn't get worse. Ha. Well, never say never, I suppose. The last year, the last six months especially, have been repeated slaps to a well beaten face.
It surprises me, as so much seems to these days, how hard a worker I am. Give me a hobby or housecleaning or study and I will procrastinate until the stars fall from the sky. Add money to the equation and I behave very differently. I thought, really, that everyone had the same work/money mental contract as me. The years have disillusioned. Whatever. I don't suppose it's relevant now or ever will be. I'm not even sure why I mention it. A single virtue in a sea of dishonour (not mine, I assure you). A virtue whose timing is wrong. One that ceases to be a virtue as it is a barrier to my achieving my objective. I am sure its time will come again, oh one day, one day. I do work hard though. I thought I word as hard as I possibly could but every week, every day, I've worked that bit harder. I've worked harder for the same money and the same money as those who barely work. I've worked harder knowing that the people I work for hold me and my colleagues in contempt and blame their workers for the disintegration of their integration. I have worked so hard for men who cannot take responsibility - either publicly or privately (if it was private then it was very private indeed) - for their failures. I have worked until it felt like my mind was dissolving and my throat was bleeding and my chest was bursting with the tension of being professional under the pressure of blame - under the you you you accusative. I've worked hard for these not-men men and I have had enough. Were it that this was enough. Would that my will would crumble and I could ignore the work and just plod along doing not nearly enough. Doubtless I would achieve my objective then.
I climb down from my self made pedestal. I put (some of) my colleagues up there instead. They have worked so hard for so little. A small amount of money and endless criticism. They have put in hours that would make a god and every unionist in the world cry. They have worked hard to maintain and build and send profit into the pockets of the already and undeservedly wealthy. They have made men who belittle them look good, or if not good, far better than they are. Some of them will, no doubt, lose their jobs for this. At this stage none of us really mind. I do see the awfulness of this and the inherent unfairness. I see it on the faces of my colleagues and I hear it in their voices. I also see the humour that after working so hard at and for our jobs we would be more than willing to give them up for a few week's grace. All of us, really, would like to quit on our own terms but few can give up the reality for the ideal. The reality is that working like this is exhausting. It is draining on every level. To work like this is the end of a decent life outside - and there isn't even a pot of gold at the end of it. (It reminds me of a Russian woman I heard voicing her world view on the bus. The rich, apparently, all deserve all their money because they work so hard for it. People are poor because they do not work hard enough. They, in a sense, deserve their poverty. So clean, so clear, so easy, so very wrong. Her stupidity annoyed me so much but I digress.) They, and I, work so hard that we go home exhausted. The pursuit of new pastures is rendered impossible in cries of later, later, maybe tomorrow. And the next day is the same, and the next. And slowly it's gotten so bad that all of life is dragging from one day to the next and trying to hold it together. All for money and recognition for someone else.
I am exhausted now. I want my pay out. I want to go. You're getting rid of people, perfectly good, hard-working people, just make me one of them. I want to go. I won't scream. I may cry at leaving so many friends behind but I won't ever cry about the end of my slavery. Let me go. Give me the money and let me go.

It’s impossible to carry water in a basket.

2008-12-13T23:01:00.000+11:00

Today I was the girl in the shop and on the bus, grinning to herself widely. I felt an unusual joy in purchase, a happiness in the unplanned, and overflowing joy at owning something I adore. I am a spoiled girl. I do not know how not to be a spoiled girl. I cannot shop for others without a little something here and there for me. It is part spoiling and part neurotic need. I dislike buying presents as I am ever convinced that the recipient will not like the gift. That I have gotten them wrong, so wrong. I have experience in this. Too many boxes and shelves and bin bags have contained the spoils of another who ‘knows’ me. They invariably do not. I am misjudged and I don’t know how to put it right. Worse, I fear doing it to others. I hate to force on people the need excellent manners when inside they’re just a little disturbed. ‘Yes, lovely, lovely, how could you possibly know…?’ I always get me right. Today I am the proud new owner of six more Almodóvar films – at least half of which I’ve not seen before. My goodie basket of Christmas spending joy overflows. My need to learn Spanish increases. I am all Christmas upped and overed and am ready to cocoon myself in my flat for several days or maybe a lifetime.
Aside from the pleasure of receiving or purchasing things that I don’t really need, I could easily sleep through the Christmas/New year period. I don’t believe in god or Christ or Santa (bloody) Clause or that for one magic day everything will be good and wonderful. People will go on lying and fighting and dying just as they do any other day. Families won’t heal like Disney movies just because it’s Christmas. The reindeer will remain without flight. I don’t see why we should make reindeer fly anyway. What will happen is that people will be forced into awkward social situations with people that they would rather not be social with. All our Addams relatives will crawl from under rocks or flake out from the woodwork and we will have to be polite and pretend that we care. We will have to attend hideous work functions where we all must get in the spirit. I am obviously a horrible person as I have so much difficulty getting into the spirit of an occasion that is filled with hypocrisy and the intense tackification of a belief system. Little as I like religion I cannot but be disturbed by people who require such fluffiness in their religious practices. Oh yes, it’s all good fun. And then, you know, someone loses an eye.
There will be work occasions that will make opening a vein seem not only nicely colour co-ordinated but also the most pleasurable thing that can happen right at that moment. No office function can possibly be without the sort of social politics so enjoyed by the mundane minds of middle managers. They will martyr themselves on table setting and immolate themselves on a turkey/ham/pork alter. And we must be appreciative. And be involved. And enjoy the monumentally painful process of speeches and false laughter and enjoyment and the agony of the Kris Kringle. Studies should be undertaken and essays written on the torment that is the Secret Santa. It should be banned as a form of cruel and unusual torture. I would settle for simply banned.

I seem to have missed this room when I was on that cleaning spree...

2008-11-28T19:05:00.002+11:00

I have been here and then there and have come back again. I am altered and the same and somewhere up there. It seems as though nothing much has happened by I'm changing everything by degrees and I do mean everything, well, most things.
I'd had enough, you see, and I'd run out of energy. I'm not sure I have any more energy but I have had rest and a week to let my irritations fester. They are that nasty mess in the corner over there; soon I shall clear them up and throw them out. I may even beat them with a piñata stick. All the little things are being organised and switched over. The big things are being prodded and poked and yelled at by my internal drill sergeant. My dad was in the army, my drill sergeant knows his stuff and pronounces lieutenant correctly, well, Australian army correctly anyway.
Things I have done lately, in no particular order: cut and coloured my hair - I really am a brunette now, flown and wondered how, beaten an alien piñata, worn a tiara for five minutes and removed it because it pained me, raged at the pointlessness of life and the utter cruelty of a random universe, created a purpose as I have been lacking one, made plans for myself - you can come along if you like but don't try to stop me, written down what I want, filed everything, not broken down when confronted with a tax bill I cannot pay, seen a psychic - I only see psychics when someone else pays, thought, messed up my formerly clean house without caring all that much, carried a 13kg microwave from store to bus stop and bus stop to house, bought and bought and bought and mostly not with my own money, created a budget - necessary when on peasant pay, focussed far too much on money, been so organised that I made everyone nervous, and any number of other strange little things that I can't quite recall.
I still need to change my phone plan and sort out new broadband because, well, why not? I also have to decide if I want a Wii because one is offered and I am tempted. Apparently I rather lke toys.
It's been a funny month and I have been very funny indeed.

A meme: simply because I wanted to look all literary and clever too. Be gone you with your jeers of ‘try hard’!

2008-11-02T15:38:00.003+11:00

What was the last book you bought?
Pamela by Samuel Richardson - 18th century bodice ripper. Well, sort of. It’s not the book I was intending to buy while I stood browsing but you how those shelves of Penguin Classics suck you in.

Name a book you have read more than once
The Jane Austen books, Harry Potter…and most of the children’s books I own – rereading The Outsiders was great fun, On Equilibrium – John Ralston Saul, I do a lot of rereading so I guess most of my bookshelf.

Has a book ever fundamentally changed the way you see life?
A doubt a single book has done that. However, I was thinking about this as I read someone else’s answer and I realised that while a single book hasn’t changed my outlook books in general have changed the way I see life. Reading and humour and humorous takes on life give me a lightness that is not necessarily natural to my character. Or maybe that’s just growing up.

How do you choose a book? eg by cover design and summary, recommendations or reviews?
All of those things; though I rarely buy a book unless I’ve read the first page based on the theory that if I find the first page unreadable it’s unlikely I’ll manage the whole book. I also buy books because I think I ought to read certain things – I suspect this makes me both immature and a snob.

Do you prefer fiction or non-fiction?
I read a lot more fiction than non-fiction but I can’t say that I really prefer one to the other. Lately, all I can read is fiction my mind isn’t coping with too much thought all that well.

What's more important in a novel - beautiful writing or a gripping plot?
I often don’t notice the plot if the writing is beautiful and I often don’t notice the writing if the plot is gripping. Each has their own merits.

Most loved/memorable character
Oh dear, I’m bound to be caned for this one. The only character who (characters are who, aren’t they?) I can think of right now is Neville Longbottom. I like a good nerdy little underdog – what can I say?

Which book or books can be found on your nightstand at the moment?
*investigates floor beside bed* The Death of Napoleon Simon Leys and Seven Poor Men of Sydney Christina Stead. They’re awfully dusty too.

What was the last book that you read?
The last book I read that wasn’t a reread was The Quincunx Charles Pallister.

Have you ever given up on a book halfway in?
Constantly. I will forever remain one third of the way through Anna Karenina. Oh well.

'Anything else, Madam?' Apparently I look like a Madam.

2008-10-26T22:05:00.002+11:00

I'm sure it was mentioned in howevermanythingsitwas to do before you're thirty and I've finally done it. Repeatedly, as it happens, over the last week. Epistaxis, goodness, that does make it sound exciting. Can't believe I've not done that before. You can picture me, at some time after 1am, awaking from a doze, coughing fit to burst and then doing so and bleeding all over my sheets. The bed looked like a murder scene after my drippy, fumbling attempts to work it out. I nearly had hysterics but didn't quite have the energy and so burst into rather pitiful tears. That did not last either. I was less surprised when it happened again and then again - though fortunately not all over my sheets. I am adding stain removal to my resume skills. I deserve a big gold star.
I have forgotten how to be alone in public. It makes me nervous, I've lost the knack. Out today I felt every eye upon me, a thousand laughing, pitying glances, a thousand thoughts that would do me no good to hear. Thoughts in that quick way one has when one crowd watches. The service people all treat me like scum. I like to think they do it to everyone. I am having to practice doing things on my own. Things outside routine. New things, old things done over. I need to force myself out and out of this rut.
I am tired, anxious, and depressed. I am so sick of being sick. It hasn't gone away. Will it ever go away? Will I spend the rest of my days obsessing about my wrecked and scabby nose that alternately sprays mucus and blood? And a throat sore but forcing words out at the rate of two hundred calls a day?
I complain too much I am sure. The good people, the better people, never complain at all - they take everything, all the time, they have so much that I do not have and I don't know what it is. They are simply better, I suppose.

I could easily spend $1000 to help the economy. Alas, because of the economy I don't have a spare grand.

2008-10-14T23:21:00.002+11:00

I am sick for the third time in three months. I am sick of being sick. I am sick of fevers and sweating and shivering and my head hurting and wanting to cry out of sheer bloody frustration. The doctor told me that I probably have a virus. I nearly cried all over him. I hate viruses. I think they're a medical cop out. I go to the doctor to be fixed not to be told to do what I had been doing before I hauled my sweaty arse out of bed to see a doctor. See how that wasted several hours good sleeping time?
I completely blame my job for the recurrent illness. If I wasn't being worked like a fucking slave I'd probably be fine. It's not the least bit surprising that the one thing that keeps being a problem is my throat. It's strain. How much, really, can you talk in a day without your throat deciding that it's had enough? Yeah, I reckon I've reached that point. And then some. I still feel weak and like a loser for succumbing to illness.
The doctor shook my hand upon introduction. What the fuck? Is he insane? Does he want to catch something? He also said something about seeing me again to which I rudely replied, 'I hope not.' I mean really, I'm at the doctor because I'm ill it's not a social occasion. I have no reason to see him again unless I'm sick - is he wishing for me to be sick so that I can randomly come back and scam more Medicare money for him? He should have offered me quality drugs - I'd go for daily appointments for that. Instead he offered me nothing but advice I could give myself.
Fever makes me rant. Get over it.

Things that make me chortle.

2008-10-06T22:57:00.000+11:00

Accidental brother-brother incest.

It’s a good thing you’ve got a nice figure.

2008-10-05T21:57:00.002+11:00

I am a difficult conversationalist. I chop and change and go off on tangents and make everyone forget what they were talking about. It is only the most determined who steer the conversation back and make their laboured points - by now lost in pertinence and general interest. I realise that sometimes, in conversation, the moment will pass you by and the thing that you wanted to say will be left unsaid. I know this happens to me and I know that my schizophrenic conversation cuts people off constantly. I know I have many faults and flaws and am often quite rude (sometimes intentionally) but I don’t ever recall asking a direct question – whilst totally sober mind you – and literally turning away halfway through the answer to leave the speaker awkwardly trailing off. I may be a bitch but I usually wait to the end of the answer before making my boredom clear.
Still, your boyfriend had manners and you obviously embarrassed him with your rudeness. Repeatedly.

I have a rash around my neck.

2008-10-05T21:05:00.005+11:00

My eyes are fat and gluggly with mascara and I have glitter all over my hair and hands and face from the man who sprayed glitter hairspray all over me. It was too much effort to clean it up last night ad too much effort again today. I am tired and very slightly thirsty. I have been for hours.
At two, or was it three, this morning I was trapped in suburbia with XXXX Gold in a can and only the prayer of a taxi. I made it home without falling asleep or finishing my beer. I was not allowed to drink in the cab but the driver was amused by my humour. He seemed to like my money too. I fed the beer to a plant and the can to a bin. Even drunk I recycle.
I spent an evening awkward and diffident. I relied too much on alcohol and painkillers to get me through. I don't know why these people affect me like this. I am never easy with them. I always feel the fool. So awkward and strange. A stupid country cousin. A child I barely recognise. They are easily offended by my wit - such as it is - in the way of nice people who say nice things or nothing at all.
I wanted to run down and make holes in the green. I had elaborate plans for traps and golf shoes. I could not give it my all in that crowd. I was lonely. I always am with them. I do not share their stories, their history, except that I do but it does not become me. I find I have nothing to say and I keep saying nothing. In other company I do okay. I wonder if I accidentally exclude in the way they do. It cannot be so, I haven't a clique. I walked out on that thirteen years ago next month and I've never revisited the theme.
It takes too much alcohol to build my courage and too much energy to bite my tongue. After several years of seeing a lot of them I've spent several years away. The awkwardness of acquaintance for those without the gift of easy and constant friendliness. How tiring. How very, very sad.

The Tortoise and The Pretzel

2008-09-28T15:49:00.002+10:00

I sat down, oh about half an hour ago, to write wrathfully about the cult of death and the utter absurdity of elaborately wrapping corpses and then burying them but somewhere between the slowness of start up and the irritating conductor on tv I lost the rage. I don't quite seem able to hold it these days. All I have now are snippets, half forgotten things, half rotten things, and half written things. I wonder if I will ever get back to them.
Last night I spent quality time on the phone with my parents as my mother attempted to explain yoga postures that are supposed to be good for my little nerve problem. Step by step instructions via mobile phone. Now do this, now do that. Woman are you crazy, that's not physically possible. Inside or outside the legs. Put daddy on. Daddy, what's she doing now? Ah. Bloody woman's dyslexic.
I need to sort out the yoga thing. And then the physiotherapist thing. And then maybe a pilates thing. And then maybe a whole entire life thing. Mostly I need to sort out my back. Ouch. Alcohol and painkillers might not be best practice. Fun though.

Pointless bitching, nothing to see here, move on, move on.g

2008-09-20T20:07:00.004+10:00

I've reached that point, as everyone does on a weekend when they've got no plans, of just sitting around and occasionally scratching my arse. (Seriously, did something bite me? What, when, and how the fuck?) I've cleaned and washed and organised and made several trips to the bin all as one does when one's flat is quite overdue for cleaning. I've done washing and watched as it dried five minutes after being hung out. I woke quite early, despite my desire for a good sleep in, because the weather, while charming for drying, is unnaturally fucking hot. It was too hot to loll about in bed. I do hate that about summer. And this east facing building (dear building planner - you suck - yours sincerely, etc etc).
Oh yeah, did I just say summer?
Of course, as we all know, this whole global warming thing is a total farce etc etc. It's perfectly normal for a colder than average winter month - the last official winter month at that, yes I know calendars are bollocks, not the point though - to be followed by two or was it three days of springlike weather and then late December weather. Perfectly normal. Loving it. No really, LOVING it. Except for the too-hot-ness. And the almost total absence of spring - a season which I like and appreciate having spent 13 years in a two season climate (wet and dry not hot and cold). I also like autumn - both as word and as season. Wonder if there'll be an autumn next year.
Oh dear, did I just do a weather rant?
So, anyway, I'm bored now but it gets later so I guess I can at least look forward to eating and going to bed. It's so exciting I might burst something. I might even do something really thrilling tomorrow like updating my CV. Oooooooooooh.

And you thought you were feeling old.

2008-09-16T22:04:00.003+10:00

Turns out that a six train, four bus day trip to Newcastle plays havoc with the sciatica. Turns out the hip is fine after all. Turns out that I need to remember to take some pain killers tonight. Turns out that my 'core' needs strengthening. Turns out that I just had a mental image of a giant apple corer. I never understood why my parents owned an apple corer when my dad was pretty good at chopping up apples with just a knife. Still, apple corers make cool toys.
Oh yeah, in the pink of health, the apple obsession seems to be helping. Stupid nerves. Who needs nerves anyway?
I had a very long conversation today about my chocolate obsession. It's really quite unhealthy. I must give it up again. I will strengthen my core and my resolve. I will do both of these at some other point. Right now I'm going to sit down and watch Billie Piper try to act. She has really crap tits - seriously.

The cards throw Judgment, reversed.

2008-09-09T23:36:00.002+10:00

I know I don't need one. I know I shouldn't want one. But I touched one today. I played with one today. And today I really, really want one. I lust after gadgetry.

There is, it seems, a lack of clarity within.

I'm just not that kind of girl.

2008-09-06T12:35:00.002+10:00

Lately, as I whinged merrily about my utter boredom and lack of things to read (something which is always, always a lie - I have stacks of unread books, I just don't fancy reading them) an unusually kind kinsman lent me a number of very chubby little books from the genre space opera. This is going bad places, you can just feel it. At the time I thought, well, that said kinsman was being strangely nice and oddly friendly and when a major skeleton (an unusually large arsed one at that) fell from his closet I suffered shock, horror, and altogether too much by way of understanding. That was all weeks ago and I still have the books. There were quite a lot and it is acceptable. He, after all, still has one of mine from about four years ago and my family (and friends!) are notorious for 'borrowing' my books and never giving them back. I'm looking at you mum. Aside from all the attendant family drama and the Dullest Secret Of All Time (because I am so scary, non?) which are boring digressions I did mean to say something about the books.

I read. A lot. I read very quickly and frequently skim - both intentionally and unintentionally - which means that I can a) read things over and over and still find new things (though personally I think my copy of P & P is bewitched and actually changes between readings), and b) get to the end of quite long and boring things. I make absolutely no apology for skimming the Frodo and Samwise bits of LoTR. I'd have red penned through most of those. Yawn. I also have a fairly low tolerance for really bad writing (unless it happens to belong to something I really enjoy in which case IT'S CHARMING - much like my writing) and my biggest hate of hates is too much detail. Oh gods. Yes, yes, they sleep and eat and piss and shit and fuck and scratch themselves and do any number of boring boring little things that we, those who are alive and reading, all do and don't need in detail (exceptions for some sex, that can be quite a lot of fun in detail though generally awkward..). I do recall the ever wonderful D. Adams saying something along those lines about a certain A. Dent but am far too lazy to locate the passage. The point is that it's unnecessary and just makes for really long and not very interesting books. It's padding. It's often padding for people who have no imagination. A former friend once lent me some dreary book that she'd absolutely adored that went into so much detail it was like reading a 500 page short story. It took ten pages to get the protagonist from bath to breakfast table - without anything actually happening in between- out of sheer bloody overwhelming detail. After one particularly traumatic description of a dress I gave up in disgust and never went back. She couldn't understand why. Mind you, I'd lent her His Dark Materials and she found it too lacking in details to be enjoyable and besides it was for children. Oh my. Some people, once lost, are best gone forever (preferably in an unmarked grave…yes, yes...).

So, the Space Opera. I have now been reading the same book for over two weeks. It’s a fat little book, I’ll grant you, but that’s not the reason that I’ve only made it to page 636 of 1144. Nor is it the fact that I’ve spend the last week in my own weird little fever land of fun. It is because there are just too many characters, too many threads, there is too much detail, nothing much happens for dozens and dozens of pages and this is just the first part of a saga. A SAGA. Oh hell, it seems that he’s lent me the next part of the saga as well. It’s even larger. I’m now not so much concerned with ‘how will it end’ but with ‘will it end at all’. Oh wait, it’s only two books in this saga. Relief.

How I have meandered and said not much at all! However, I think I’m finally learning an important life lesson. It’s quite a simple thing really. Do not, absolutely do not, accept book recommendations from people whose judgement you do not trust.

I've had a lot of time on my hands, alright..? Yeah, yeah.

2008-09-06T01:33:00.003+10:00

I have to make note of this because it makes my face ache with smiling: the miserable sense of failure, soundtracked to the theme song of Punky Brewster and lit by a Gloworm nightlight...

Fucking poetry.

Well, it tickled my fancy.

2008-09-05T16:40:00.002+10:00

That explains that?

I may have to rethink some of my habits.

I have...

2008-09-02T22:12:00.001+10:00

...chocolate ice cream, tonsillitis, and a week off work. I would be enjoying #s 1 and 3 were it not for #2. I might try to though. Starting now. Oh ice cream....

Just do as I say already.

2008-08-31T01:41:00.001+10:00

May now, from time to time, be adding snippets here. Feel free to come along and join up [who muttered that bit about pimping..?], it's lonely here at the top....

This thing called life.

2008-08-30T19:34:00.002+10:00

Just as I'd decided that my life was a mess and that I was utterly Depressed [note the capital 'D'] and I was in need of, in no particular order, tranquillisers and alcohol I regained my joie de vivre. I'm actually a little pissed off about this. I wanted pills. I still want pills. I'm not sure I want pills for the right reasons but I want pills.
I'm still chronically exhausted though, a situation only exacerbated by the fact that my spazzie walking style as turned into spazzie-old-lady-with-arthritic-hip walking style. I am sexy, oh yes, I am. The hip, though, hurts and kills my sleep. I'd just like to mention to those who say that turning thirty isn't so bad that I am an old freakin' lady at twenty-nine. So not cool.
I finally saw a doctor about the latter and she mentioned the dread word 'orthotics'. I have had visions of myself stumping about in shoes with soles of different thicknesses, and very thick indeed, and leg braces like Forrest Gump. I know I'm over-reacting and that bones once grown will not straighten and that I won't require callipers. Still...
My mother and I have a continuing disagreement about my legs - it's one of the two unforgiven things that I will probably always hold against my parents - I think they should have been broken and remoulded when I was a child but my parents chose the she'll-grow-out-of-it-route. I've walked like a spaz for several decades and now it impacts my health [not to mention the remembered torture of all PE classes I ever attended]. I think I win.
Oh and discussion point for the ladies: women's shoes, so totally not made for walking in [except for the granny-aged lesbian librarian subclass] - thoughts?

I am a little teapot. I am, I am!!

2008-08-24T18:55:00.003+10:00

The soundtrack for the weekend, mine, has been Rasputin as performed by Roxy Music - a track that, I believe, exists only in my own confused and slightly hostile brain (let us all sigh with relief).

It sets the tone really.

I've mostly spent the weekend buying things that I don't really need, making agonising gift choices, and freezing my arse off. It is a bad sign when I start to miss 'winter' in the tropics. Had I more energy I would go into a charming old skool rant about buying presents for other people. I find it difficult. It makes me doubt myself and my taste. I have received many, many, many crap gifts that were 'so you' over the years that gift buying is a hideous experience for me. Receiving presents is similarly painful.

Jesus fuck, this is a boring post. Um..so..er...how are you anyway? Yeah? Sorry to hear that. Mmmm...yeah...[Christ are you ever going to shut up?]..uh huh...ye-ah...no, definitely not...right, right...guess so...'k...bye... [Moral of the story: this is what happens when you ask a stupid question.]

So, I bought a tea pot and it came with four little cups. It's all in black - is that a little but whimsical voiced folk-rock-pop non-star or what..?

Is it time for Doctor Who yet...?

Oh what, I missed the kitty litter and got your shoes? So sorry.

2008-08-14T22:05:00.002+10:00

I was watching Q & A and Germaine Greer stated that 'animals do not do revenge'.

I don't think there's a cat owner in the world who would agree with that.

Either terrifying or irrelevant – you decide.

2008-08-13T20:23:00.000+10:00

When you don’t like someone, when you have a shared and unpleasant history, you want to wipe them from your life. You want no ripples. You want it to be as though they were never there. You want to be able to pretend. You want to imagine that you were better and they were worse - but you want to do it secretly. You want to stop believing that you are wrong always wrong wrong wrong and they are right because that’s what they told you.

And what did they tell you…? They told you that you were selfish. They told you that you were mean. They told you that they were so much better than you. They told you that they knew better than you. They told you how to live your life. They told you your decisions were wrong. They told you that you were awful. They told you that you were fat. They told you that you were unattractive. That you were lacking. They told you that you were heartless. They treated you with contempt for knowing what they didn’t, like it was odd, so strange so very strange. That told you that you were so awful so mean, so nasty, so low that you were unlovable. They told you that you’d die alone and lonely and sad, so sad. They told you every negative about every aspect of your mind and soul that they could find. They told you again and again.

And what did you do...? You believed them - every word. You sucked it up and let it poison your mind. You’ve always believed every negative about yourself. You’re quite willing to believe those if nothing else. You took it in, took it all to heart. You didn’t let them see. You thought you didn’t.

You still believe them. You still believe them. You still believe them.

Oh, you fucking fool.

Really? Wha-a-a-t?

2008-08-02T18:53:00.003+10:00

Lee Lin Chin said twenty-oh-five and my brain exploded. It is possible that I just sneezed. It sent my brain into a curious and painful place. The future is all about the twenty. I am heading out of the twenty.

Saffron, self-loathing, and sniffles.

2008-07-30T22:35:00.002+10:00

I think I have a cold. I'm pretty sure that's what all the sniffling and nose-blowing and feeling six kinds of ugh and at least two kinds of ehr are all about. I could be wrong. There might be another reason for the sore red nose and the feeling like shit. I'm going on about this too much aren't I?

I spilled saffron all over the floor this morning. Saffron. Saffron all over the floor because that's what the wealthy do, they carpet the floor with saffron. It was a very dirty floor too.

I'm feeling utterly unloved and unwanted just now. I think it's only partly because of the cold and mourning the saffron. I think it's because I'm unloved and unwanted. Mostly. And madly self pitying and almost ridiculously melodramatic. I'm going mad for someone to hang out with. No-one's interested though and I am boring, so I guess that works. Right? Right.

Fuck my nose hurts.

Oh the horror.

2008-07-19T18:27:00.002+10:00

This is me cashing in on a) public service announcements, b) pedantry, and c) media bashing.

Here is a word: enormity.

Here's what the word enormity means in the OED: 1 extreme wickedness. 2 an act of extreme wickedness. 3 a serious error. 4 disp. great size; enormousness.

See the disp. next to #4? This requires, in my dictionary, an explanation. Here is that explanation: Usage The use of enormity in sense 4 is often found, e.g. the enormity of the problem, but is regarded as incorrect by many people.

Just in case my dictionary is flawed I googled and came up with this and this and this.

Now, given the first three meanings and the usage problem mentioned in regard to #4 one would think that people would approach this word with caution and, perhaps, use it appropriately - preferably when they want to invoke the word's other meanings. One would think...but then this is a word that one approaches with caution. Not so the media. I've often heard it used inappropriately recently but not to such amusing effect as on the news earlier when newsman spoke of the enormity of some little actors re-enacting a rather boring biblical scene. They were, apparently, overcome with the enormity of their act. The enormousness, apparently, though the case could very well be made for the other.

TootToot

2008-07-13T21:39:00.001+10:00

Being able to sing the whole of Disco 2000 is seriously sexy, right?

It's Friday night, late. Feck.

2008-07-11T23:36:00.002+10:00

Inexplicably have The Final Countdown in my head. It's weird but it reminds me of two of my oldest friends who are both eighties nutters. Sweet.

Someone told me today that I have mellowed. Have I mellowed? Have I lost the rage? Have I? HAVE I?

Lions and tigers and bears.

2008-07-08T21:52:00.000+10:00

I do not know what the world is coming to. The lions are under lock and key and the rail workers’ union won’t even provide us with a decent strike. I wanted to escape the hoards of pilgrims whose importance I find negligible save for their ability to disrupt my city in ways that I could never manage. They won’t love her afterwards either. Pilgrims, I think, well at least they’re not missionaries but they probably are, baby missionaries, missionaries with training wheels, missionaries who start off in urban jungles and move to less savoury ones. I once had missionaries come to the door. It was like having colonialism knock on the door and politely ask if it could tell me about god. I declined. I bolted the door.

I seem to spend a lot of time with the door bolted. I wonder if it means something.

A question. A very important one.

2008-06-29T14:41:00.002+10:00

If I head down the shops wearing only my dressing gown and my purple-with-pink-plush-cats slippers will people think that a) it's international Arthur Dent day and they've just forgotten or b) that I am a crazy cat lady?

Maybe it's time I got dressed.

*sigh*

Oh, hi.

2008-06-28T16:53:00.003+10:00

****
Walks in.
Opens the doors and windows.
Dusts.
Sweeps.
Lights a fire in the grate.
****

Rat poison pills

2008-06-14T22:23:00.000+10:00

I wish I could sing. I can handle the rest of it in my own little way –the neuroticism, the anxiety, the uncontrollable temper, being the person who is always, always being laughed at but I could handle it better if I could sing.

I’ve been so tired lately that I’ve started to fear that there’s something terribly wrong. There’s a something lingering in my chest that could be a worry to me but I think it’s mostly paranoia and too much time spent cold. I am tired though, so tired. Most of my time off is spent sleeping; flaked in genuine exhaustion and too much time in front of screens. My eyes hurt, my brain is mush (it rhymes with rush, fuck youse), oh gods I miss my brain. There’s this thing in my head that alternates between being shrivelled and rattling about in my head to feeling swollen and waterlogged and pushing at the boundaries of my skull. In either case it doesn’t seem to work. I have things to read that might be interesting if my brain hadn’t shut down. They remain on the ironing board in their little plastic protectors. Blogs no longer make sense. The news is a strange concept, a thing I can’t bring myself to care about. I have hidden in children’s stories and yet remain the only person I’ve heard so far to complain of the irritating Disnification of Prince Caspian. Those children went from being saps to being even more annoying than Eustace. I shudder to think of what happens next. I liked them as saps.

This is an inadequate and pathetic piece of writing and I publish it only out of despair and as an attempt to kick start the little blogging girl who sits inside my head and comments on the world when I am without pen or paper or keys to bash upon. She’s sitting somewhere crying, tonight I can’t hear her, I think I might have left her sitting in the gutter somewhere on King Street. Maybe tomorrow she’ll come home, maybe it’ll be days or weeks, or maybe she’s gone forever like my imaginary friend who did not want to move to Queensland and so stayed behind. I wish I had stayed behind.

Ugh and then some argh.

2008-05-20T19:56:00.001+10:00

Meaningless jargon...? I'm your girl.

*Peruses Weasel Words for ideas*

It's all those little things...

2008-05-19T14:51:00.001+10:00

As it turns out, the death of my pepper mill rather affected me. I dreamed of it, you see. Not of the death scene, though I’m sure I’ll always remember it, but of the replacement scene. I dreamed of going out and buying a new pepper mill. I felt disloyal; I felt like a betrayer, I also felt like I could never find just the right one.

Dreams are great prompters, I rely on them hugely, and so once I’d woken and gone through the normal morning procrastination routine (i.e. being slaughtered at scrabulous, drinking too much tea) I ventured to the shops to find me a new one. The result is a pair of shiny mills, one for salt and one for pepper, that look like chess pieces. They are quite enormous and have lovely little round pregnant bellies full of useful condiment. I would be enamoured but they are kitchenware and so I won’t.

Things that annoy me about me: speech wise.

2008-05-16T12:44:00.000+10:00

The habit of saying ‘oh, point’ when I mean good point, you make an interesting point, or why didn’t I think of that. Both pretentious and annoying.

The fact that I am sometimes [often] so ironic that even I’m not sure what I mean. This is quite painful when people question me and I have to make something up on the spot. Saying what I mean sometimes might help.

That when I have a really bad day and then have a conversation with anyone not a client I say ‘fuck’ like every second word. I don’t even mean to, it just slips out.

You’re a star today.

2008-05-15T22:27:00.000+10:00

I’ve decided that my super extra special spend-the-day-in-bed day shall be Saturday. I have bought sheets, laundered sheets, ironed sheets (first and last time), and am busy making a number of little plans for my bed-in. Probably I’m making too much of this. The truth is that I could use and certainly could have used an entire week in bed. I remain utterly exhausted most of the time and still haven’t seen a doctor. I wonder if just being completely fucking knackered is enough to get me an official week in bed. That’d be awesome.

Anyway, the bed-in is an exercise in something other than rest. I am using the time, that is to say I intend to use the time, to contemplate my life and make some plans. Despite my rather firm belief that life is essentially pointless and meaningless I find that I need to add points and meanings to keep myself occupied until such time as I peter out. Also, I want stuff and I gather than the attainment of money is helpful to the attainment of stuff. I have priorities, you know?

This being so, and me making stuff up as I go along, I’ve decided to buy into a couple of concepts. The concepts are Life Listing (which mine is) and the ever present, ever bloggie 101 things in *yawn* 1001 days. These things take thinking about, mostly I’m too tired to think about what I want, when, or how and so just drift. Drifting is getting very dull and now I need to think.

Dear diary, I don’t know why I’m telling you this when I have intention of sharing either with you. I did, however, buy a rather sweet and special book from Pentimento just for the purpose. How I adore Pentimento! I want a whole house that smells like that shop. I want a thousand thousand totally useless odds and ends from that shop. I want a bookcase full of enormous and enormously glossy art and fashion book that smell of Pentimento. I’m going back for more of those sweet and special books; I have Life List plans for them…

Replace

2008-05-12T22:09:00.000+10:00

After many years of faithful service, several moves, and some abuse by arsehole flatmates, my much beloved pepper grinder passed on today. No, passed on seems a bit weak. The poor thing shat itself and died. I tried CPR, I tried holding it together and seeing if superglue would fix it [sadly, no], and I tried to grind one last little half teaspoon of pepper from it but, alas, I was flogging a dead grinder. Curiously, as the thing fell apart in my paws I’d been thinking of what a great little friend it had been and the history of our relationship.

I spent quite a lot of today wandering down memory lane. I had a bit of this and a bit of that to do in King Street and found myself in the vicinity of my old flat, my shoebox. It was coffee that brought me into such proximity, the café on the corner always did do coffee well, and from there I walked a little down the once familiar street and gazed at the old place. It smells the same, even without the Birdman. It looks the same but so different to how I dream it.

I woke up annoyed today after dreaming about M. In part, I suppose, that’s why I chose to visit my old flat. He helped me move in. While I lived there we had some lovely arguments. I didn’t dream about arguing with him though, for once we were friends, well, friendly. On best behaviour, how d’you do, what a pleasure… It wasn’t though. I dreamed that he’d married the ugly dwarf and that they’d had a baby – the family was all in attendance. As was awkwardness. I suppose it always was. He’d be married now, I’m sure of it, even the country must yield some joys in that department. He was always headed that way, and young, so young. I guess it doesn’t do to dwell.

Previously...

2008-05-08T21:29:00.002+10:00

Someone felt the need to tell me the meaning of 'previously' today. Not because I was struggling but because she was an arsehole. I informed her that I did, in fact, know what 'previously' meant. I was almost polite about it too.

In other news, well, not really news, I have a query about youngish man behaviour. I was sitting, with some others today, chatting away as one does and the young man across from me, who is a fairly recent acquaintance, kept a) looking at me, and b) lightly kicking the sole of my foot [he was directly across from me]. I was quite disturbed by the looking as he variously watched me eat, smoke, drink, apply lipgloss, chew gum, and talk. I do not like people watching me eat - it freaks me out. I don't quite know why this has bothered me so much but it was a very weird half hour for me.
He has never previously shown much interest in me. Despite the foot-kicking he didn't seem to have anything to say to me - it was entirely to get my attention as far as I could work out. The long looks didn't go anywhere or do anything and there were between two and six people with us at all times. Some of whom noticed. Ugh. Seriously, what's the point of this when there's an office email system? And why not SAY something? All the bullshit looking did was make me nervous and exceptionally conscious of my mouth. What, in short, was the point of this?

Buying into things because money is cheaper than emotional blackmail.

2008-05-05T13:29:00.002+10:00

In lieu of flowers for Mother's Day my mother gets an iris card and poppy wrapping paper. This combination, and the fact that there was something that required wrapping, makes me a super-fantastic, totally lazy and unoriginal child. She won't care when she's eating the chocolate though.

That’s the thing about entropy…

2008-05-03T00:06:00.000+10:00

I am having a week off work soon. It is solely for the purposes of recouping my self. I have been so fragmented lately, so confused, so quietly distraught. I mistrust everything that relates to me and quite a lot that doesn’t. I can no longer think and I don’t know anything. I am tired. Worse, I am totally fed up.

I feel friendless in a sea of people. I have forgotten how to interact with most people. I think I inadvertently snubbed someone at Newtown station today simply because I didn’t expect her to be there. She was not of my routine and therefore not entirely real and my glassy eyes and vacant expression told her so in a way that I regret.

I desperately need to find a way back into myself, to find a person that I don’t entirely despise, to find a hope for the future before I decay and become one of those sad old women. Oh, I can feel her broken old fingers on my shoulders; she’s so close to claiming me as her own. I am grey, suddenly, all over, and she knows it, she knows it.

In the shower, moments ago, hours ago, monets ago, I decided that on my mini holiday I will spend one entire day in bed. From there I will contemplate my life and formulate plans. I think I will buy new sheets just for the occasion. I may even purchase some cardboard and textas and draw myself a new life.

Nevertheless, Fanny...

2008-04-28T18:41:00.002+10:00

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.

2008-04-28T01:16:00.003+10:00

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.

2008-04-27T01:07:00.001+10:00

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.

2008-04-25T23:13:00.000+10:00

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

We shall

2008-04-21T22:38:00.000+10:00

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.

2008-04-21T19:37:00.001+10:00

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.

2008-04-21T15:57:00.001+10:00

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

2008-04-14T21:15:00.000+10:00

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

2008-04-14T17:32:00.001+10:00

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?

2008-04-14T14:43:00.001+10:00

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

Memory Lane

2008-04-07T23:23:00.003+10:00

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?