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one inch whine

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Inevitable? Feb. 10th, 2010 @ 11:14 am
So I'll be locking most entries from now on. I'm terrible with keeping this journal updated and part of that is because I'm aware of my audience, or my real life audience to be specific. I've locked past entries and from now onwards anything I post publicly will be done with the knowledge that people I don't want reading will be spying.

All this could have been avoided if certain people had just reigned in their curiosity but we're all human, I guess.

i blame facebook for my absence (in life and on livejournal) Feb. 9th, 2010 @ 11:00 pm
when we were small children my sister and i received our pocket money every saturday. flush with the newfound wealth of pocket money, coins seemingly dropped from the sky by the benevolent gods of corner store lollies, i would glory in the casual visit to the deli down the road- always a chance to indulge in refined sugar and slick plastic that crinkled and crunched when i tore it open. it was such a treat for a kid raised second-hand and not-like-the-other-kids, these things that i could own and consume, all to myself. i've read since of the correlation between abuse and food hoarding, the never sated need for more and the protective desire for fat and sugar. it probably makes sense but who wants to be quantified like that?

during the week, while we were browsing the confectionery section of our local deli, my sister would sometimes tell me that she had lost her pocket money or spent it all already and i would happily share the remainder of mine with her. of course, she hadn't spent it or lost it but saved it in a metal money box shaped like the first commonwealth bank of australia. no matter how many times my mum told me she'd lied i could never resist buying her a 50c bag of cobbers when she asked for it.

my parents always laugh at the way i felt i had to take care of her even though she's the elder sister. she's always been a lot more fragile than me (though i wonder how i would be if i didn't have to be stronger than her.) sometimes i think it's bred a kind of contempt for her and that makes me ache. i'm certain that things would be better if i was harder with her but then i think of her face when she cries, red blotches under the freckles that make her look younger than she is, and i just can't resist pressing half my coins into her outstretched hand.

Livejournal holiday Nov. 12th, 2008 @ 09:50 pm
I don't think I'll be posting to lj for a while, not that I post that often anyway. I'll still try and read your posts because I like hearing about your lives but I don't feel like I have that much to say at the moment. Or maybe I just don't know how to say what I need to.

I'm struggling a lot with my mental illness and it's consuming most of my life. Every day that I keep myself alive feels like a small victory but it takes most of my energy and I spend most of my time trying to distract myself from self-hatred. One of the major issues I have is not wanting to seem weak or needful so I have trouble talking or writing about this. I've always hated pity and as my life is both pitiful and pathetic at the moment, it's difficult for me to talk about. Plus I have this sneaking suspicion that nobody really needs to hear it; everyone has their own pain and difficulties and to complain about my own makes me feel self-important and presumptive.

So I won't be posting for a while unless it's drunken maudlin ramblings, of course. But then, that's mostly what my journal has always contained so you probably won't be able to tell the difference. :D

Turmeric makes me tingly. Sep. 5th, 2008 @ 09:16 pm
I just made the hottest, tastiest lamb curry. Eating it made my the top of my head sweat and I was feeling slightly woozy by the end of the bowl. It was awesome! I feel like going for a run and shouting at people! Huff huff huff spicy goodness.

Also: I just singed my hair with my cigarette! Smoking is bad for me, is this the lesson? I took this picture a while ago and made it my desktop background to try to disgust myself into quitting but so far it's not working.


I've been smoking since I was fourteen which sounds bad but out of all the unhealthy things I did when I was a teenager it's probably the most benign. The idea of quitting has been flirting with me for about a year now, the slut, but I remain faithful to my smelly, toxic love. I've tried nicotine patches before but they just gave me awesome acid dreams and a constant need to chew pens. I'd try willpower but that doesn't come packaged in snazzy boxes with slogans on the front and instructions on the back. I mean, what if I did it wrong and ended up quitting checking the mailbox as I walk past it or forbidding myself from popping bubble wrap?

What to do, what to do?

In less tobacco and curry filled news, I have quit my newest job and only have the hateful one left. I'm not really that great at making it past my front door at the moment so it was inevitable. Ah well- I shall rise above and mope around my house for a bit then possibly complain about being poor. Onwards, my friends, to bigger and better debts!

Completing the mope post trifecta! Aug. 30th, 2008 @ 08:53 pm
Lately, I've been trying to answer people honestly when they ask how I am. It's difficult but it feels important to let people have some small part of me.

Maybe I'm worried that I won't be able to say these things in the future- that this madness will eat my voice. It seems silly, right? Because you know, you have to have realised, that I keep my silence so strictly. They always say there must be so much noise in me, Brianna, don't the shouts volley from your gut to your tongue before you swallow them back down? And all, all we can hear is echoes, girl, echoes of the clamour.

Inside me is a silence.

They want to make me speak it, describe it and pin it spreadeagled for their curious scalpels. Give me noise, give me light on my black gut.

There are shadows in the doughy dimples of you but we can see the mass, find the edges well enough to cut it out. Here! it stretches to your fingers, gives them a mind to work against you. Here! it covers your mouth. Ah- we can see it's tendrils staining your cunt and wrapping softly around your nape.

And in the end, what? What will fill the hole it left? What use is a girl with a hole inside her? What use is a girl who's never learnt to speak? This tongue stiff and cramped, sliding useless in an open mouth.

Woah, my nose is really long (and awesome) Aug. 19th, 2008 @ 05:06 pm
still awake
I have been awake for 56 hours. Everything's a little bit fuzzy around the edges.

I may be having a breakdown. I'm having panic attacks a lot and my agoraphobia is returning. Work is really difficult and I'm scared that I'm going to lose at least one of my jobs. I can't sleep because I'm desperately afraid of what will happen while I'm unconscious. After talking extensively to my mum, I feel surprisingly ok about it.

It's a great thing, having a family that will allow me to fuck up completely and give me permission to fall apart. I know they'll be there to help me get out of this hole. And gosh darn, do I need all the help I can get.

Aug. 16th, 2008 @ 12:22 am
The thing that you have to understand is: I have an ugliness inside of me that I will never show and only fools fall for my act.

It's my sister's birthday soon, her thirtieth, and she bought me new clothes to wear out, a cheer-up, a hey, you're not that ugly. We fought as I was crying. Later, she said "You are beautiful and cool and strong, kind, caring. You have a fierceness that should terrify people!" and I thought How can I trust someone that believes the lies I tell about myself?

I was already old and set in my ways before I realised that not everyone thought about killing themselves every day. That other people had desires beyond non-existence. Not that I would, not that this is a threat. I've seen families who've had someone take themselves out, too many pills, cuts too deep, hung on a children's swing set for playful kids to find. That one always sticks in my head; the image of those children, dry eyes wide, a playground that will always carry a burden it has no strength for and a family tainted with anger and could have beens. So, I won't, will never.

There is a hole inside of me and I like to blame it on so many things. This is where my father belongs. This is the part all those men took from me. This is where affection from my mother should go. This is what my step-father's rejection took. This is where my first love lived. Or the big one: This is the hole he fucked into me as a child. A while ago I wrote this: maybe i just want to be a girl who didn't learn the weight of a man's cock on her tongue before she had words to describe it.

But, so what? What of all the men I've taken into my mouth since then? Oh. no, those are excused because obviously I am not responsible for myself. I have no power here, forever a victim. It's all bullshit.

Should I act like I am the only one to feel like this, like all the good things in my life have never existed because I have this great pain inside me? C'mon now, it's no fun to hang out with a girl so self-involved.

There is this guy I know who has never pitied me, never said I just want to hold you. I don't want to hurt you like all those other problem solvers, sure that they have the cure for what ails me. He'll pick me up, say Suck my dick. Look at that cunt, so hungry for my cock. You're a slut for me, aren't you, baby? Yes, yes, always yes, with his fingers inside me and his teeth on my neck.

The thing that you have to understand is: I'm drunk and everything is easier when I can't feel my feet.

Okay! Jul. 8th, 2008 @ 08:37 pm
I was house-sitting for the last two weeks in a house much nicer than my cramped, busted up hovel (ie. my parents' house) as my sister was working 24/7 looking after a young girl. It was nice; I playacted at being responsible and together. I cooked and then, by gosh, did the dishes straight afterwards. I actually folded my clothes, surprised that the habit formed so quickly after years of tossing clothes behind me as I undressed. I went to bed at a reasonable hour and was on-time to work three days in a row! My co-workers were shocked at the absolute fabulousity of my (temporary) punctuality. I didn't even care about the lack of internet, content to listen to Japanese boybands and read. I watched tv! and knew the beat-up current affairs stories people were talking about in the lunch room at work. That last thing was a mistake, now that I think about it.

While I was flush with my new-found grasp on the details of my life, I realised, and this may come as a shock to anyone that has read this journal, that I really hate my job. I've always known that but goddamn if I'm not a complacent fucker too lazy to find a job that doesn't make me hate myself. Plus my co-workers are nice!

But last week, there I was: together, mature, getting out of bed before noon even when I didn't have to. So I got another job, quite easily. I'll be working in a call centre for a charity, annoying people for money. Not awesome but it's a change and I won't come home stinking of deli products and manky dishwater. Except for when I will because I'll still do some hours at my old job. Damnit. Damn my love of money and all the wonderful things it buys.

But I can't read German. Jun. 13th, 2008 @ 06:00 pm

Yesterday I picked up a parcel from my mama and step-papa, posted from Germany. They sent me absinthe (with matches and sugar!), Goethe's Faust (in the original German, what), awesome brochures and maps from everywhere they've been, and a sequined, techi-colour shawl. They know me so well.

Unbeknownst to them, Absinthe with Faust is a song by Cradle of Filth. That made me smile.

They are away for three months, traveling to England, Germany, Canada and America to see distant family and chillax for a while. Our family's all English, stepdad's ze German, mum really likes Canada and uh, Vegas and Hawaii are pretty self-explanatory.

It's strange not having them here. I've been out of home since I was fifteen, even lived in New Zealand for two soul-sucking years, but for the past four years I've lived five minutes away from them and gotten so used to them being there if I need them. I need them a lot, mostly for hugs or chats or just as people to whom I can be as honest as I'm able to be, be totally myself, and be loved for it. I miss them but it makes me realise just how bloody lucky I am. That's a good thing.

Also, absinthe that hasn't been made in a bathtub! :D
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