one inch whine

Livejournal holiday

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 11:55:40 GMT

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
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Turmeric makes me tingly.

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 12:34:01 GMT

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!
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Completing the mope post trifecta!

Sat, 30 Aug 2008 11:36:34 GMT

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.
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Woah, my nose is really long (and awesome)

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 07:51:30 GMT

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.
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Fri, 15 Aug 2008 14:59:20 GMT

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.
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Okay!

Tue, 08 Jul 2008 11:52:26 GMT

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.
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But I can't read German.

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 09:00:02 GMT

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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My ouchie.

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 09:06:55 GMT

Look what I did at work today. I stabbed myself with a really sharp knife! Sure, it looks like a tiny little scratch but it bled so much that I got lightheaded (although this could be because I'm a wimp) and necessitated a trip to the doctor with bonus tetanus shot. While I was waiting for a first-aider to come and help, I got bitched out by a customer for not serving her! I held up my swaddled hand, blood still running down my arm, and told her "Sure, I'll just slap a band aid on this and be right with you." She complained but I win because I'm the boss and I deal with complaints. Haha, promotion suddenly looking more awesome.

It really fucking hurts. I'm not allowed to use (or wash, gross) my hand for a week.

I think I'm going to start posting more photos. It's easier to write if I have something to write around, who knew? So expect more crappy photos from my monotonous days. I have no photographic skill so I'm not promising they'll be pretty but they will be there.
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I am an upstanding member of the livejournal community.

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 13:44:06 GMT

You know what I don't get? Animated porn. And the prevalence of huge globs of jet-powered baby batter shooting every which way found within it.

...In no way should this be taken to mean that I have just spent an hour watching bizarre, occasionally amusing but always disturbing, hentai. Because I haven't. At all.

Moving on...
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They are eating koala poo!

This furry shit-machine turned up in my parent's backyard a couple of days ago and has since been lodging up the gumtree, occasionally yawning and raining down a disproportionate amount of eucalypt-scented poo. Apparently it's not uncommon for city people to find koalas in their backyards; there are urban koalas roaming from gum to gum all over the city. Marsupial vagrants! We were worried about it's safety if it tried to move during the night as the dogs love killing any wildlife they can get their teeth into but the RSPCA said they've never had a report of a koala being killed by dogs. Maybe if an encounter does happen, the dogs are smart enough to stay away- koalas have sharp claws (and teeth!) and are actually pretty fucking scary.

In other news, I got a "promotion" at work. I now manage a understaffed and unprofitable deli in a soul-destroying and unprofitable supermarket chain. Go me. I knew someday all my talent and hard work would pay off and I'd be given the thankless, monotonous job I so richly deserve.

Fuck it, I just needed the money. Hopefully I can start paying off the debts I amassed in my six months of sickness. While I wasn't working I was getting Sickness Benefit from the government (thank you, welfare state) which was just enough to cover my mortgage. Everything else was borrowed. Holy crap, do I have debt.
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All my friends seem to have paired up recently. It makes things slightly uncomfortable for me, being one of the few singles in social situations and the only one not actively looking to be a half. Not enough to make me miss being in a relationship but enough to make me feel self-conscious, like I'm doing something wrong by not pursuing one. I think I'll just have to find a way to deal with it though because I'm pretty sure I want to be a spinster with lots of buddies, a satisfying creative outlet and a kickass sex life. And lots of moola. And a pony.

Wow, I just realised I almost never write real-life things in this journal. I wonder why that is? Because my life's relatively boring and I'm lazy? More research needed.
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Bastard.

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 14:34:33 GMT

There is a middle-aged karaoke party going on not 20 foot from my pillow. I have to be at work at 5am, 3 hours and 57 minutes away. Three fucking Grease medleys in the last 45 minutes. Every break in the music fills me with the hope that it is the end and not just a pause while they blearily choose another classic soft rock song to shout along to. All of them, all together, yelling California dreeeeeeaminggg.

I just lodged a noise complaint.

D:

DDDD:

I am so ooooold.

Oh no blame it on the boogie send help

old

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 05:18:48 GMT

the newest love
wide, wide black of false happiness
and fire-mad moth thoughts, the gleam
of us in chemical love.

when i was younger than now
i lived in a house with a bottomless well,
full of water like a glassy black
hole. there were fish inside or
maybe eels slick and fast
or monsters with hard skin.
maybe there were brick walls slimy
all the way down and algae under
my fingernails as i sank
all the way down.

when i was younger than now
i knew how to read souls, i knew
what people were and where
all their tiny dark parts
were to be found but that was lost
in this wide, wide black.
*

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 09:09:30 GMT

Hey, guess what happens when you have a $700 internet bill and you don't pay it for six weeks. That's right, your internet service provider sends you a box of chocolates and a little card in the mail to say thanks.

I'm so horribly irresponsible with money. The only thing I've ever been conscientious about is my mortgage and that's only because my grandmother indoctrinated me with the belief that property is the only thing worth owning. To her mind, as long as you owned property you would be ok. Having been in situations where I had no idea where I'd be sleeping from one day to the next, I guess I believe that too. Owning a home means there is always somewhere where I will be safe, a place in which I can control my experience. That's important to me.

I've always needed a lot of time away from other people and a very clear delineation of my space. Living with other people, even the period where I lived with a very good friend, was incredibly difficult for me because I have trouble compromising my desires for others. For any reason, really, which would also be why I'm so appalling bad with money. I think this is also why I don't see myself ever being in a long term relationship.

Maybe it's not a good thing, being alone for my whole life, I don't know. I don't feel sad at the thought of it, nor do I have any great desire to "find love". I've always just wanted to be happy in myself because I've known a lot of people who aren't, people who look to something else to make themselves happy, and it just seems like such a futile and pathetic endeavor. So, if I was happy with myself I could think of the possibility of sharing my life with someone but until then I would only be able to see myself as trying to plug a leak with another's body.

I don't think all love is false and self-serving, only that in my case it would be. And, honestly, I'm hugely fickle and have a tendency to start disliking people if I spend too much time with them, blaming them for the boredom that comes with knowing someone well enough to predict their actions.

Gosh, this all sounds judgmental and cynical, doesn't it? Ah, well, one more reason to be alone, so as not to inflict myself on another. :D
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I took this a month or so ago at my parent's house. The light is craptastic but it was at the end of the day and when I went back the next day it was gone. According to my stepfather, it had been there for just over a day but ants are amazingly efficient little terrors and in the middle of a heatwave (40° days and 30° nights) this would have been swarming.
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Accidentally deleted and re-written and I wonder if it was worth it.

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 11:03:43 GMT

I'm listening to No Woman No Cry and as Bob leads the chant of "everything's gonna be alright" I am struck by the desire to punch Bobby's patronising ghost right in the fucking mouth. It's not that I don't believe everything will be alright (in one way or another) or rather I believe that at least we have the capacity to adapt and cope with whatever situation we end up in. I just don't want to be placated by some dirty, stoned Rastafarian. (I will also refuse to listen to anything Bob Marley ever said because he believed in immortality and look where that got the ever-hopeful pseudo hippie.)

Lately, I have been overcome by rage, experiencing not only simple anger but these impotent, causeless flash-floods of extreme rage. My sister's disagreement with my suggestion of having sushi as part of Xmas dinner caused an almost uncontrollable urge to physically grab her and tell her all the ways in which she has ruined my life. I could picture clenching my hands on her shoulders, digging my fingernails into her skin and shouting my complaints into her shocked face. I imagined my vengeful spit hitting her cheeks along with my words. The only thing I couldn't imagine was what I could possibly be saying. I had nothing, drew a blank because the truth is she hasn't ruined my life and I can't blame her. And really, who the bloody hell wants to eat sushi for Xmas?

As much as I think it would make my life easier, I am also as always unable to blame my mother for all the things in my life which make me unhappy. As I go down the list of people to rage at, I'm left with the ever increasing knowledge that in the end I will have no-one to blame but myself.

But maybe I'll try my grandmother next, just in case it was actually her that ruined my life. After all, she's dead and the dead are a lot easier to kick around than the living.
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My brief Bob Marley hate and the approach of Xmas made me wonder- as children, when do we learn that people lie to us and what does it do to us?

At my brother's sixth birthday party a friend of my step-father showed him a simple magic trick after impressing upon my brother that it was really real magic and he was able to do it because he had this mystical knowledge. After the trick and my brother's absolute amazement, another adult innocently pointed out to everyone how the trick was done, a simple sleight of hand. My brother was crushed and looked at all the adults surrounding him with absolute betrayal, saw them all as conspirators in the deception he had been the victim of.

So, I wonder if it is harmful to children, this casual lying, and it is lying. Telling children that Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny (or a divine presence) are real is lying. Telling children that "everything's gonna be alright" is lying. Perhaps harmful is too simple a word. Does it make us weak, being coddled through our childhood years? I find myself thinking so, though I'm not sure I could argue the point.
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Update on my urine: For those concerned by my reportage of extremely yellow urine a couple of months ago (and I'm sure there are many of you), I'm pleased to report that my pee is now almost colourless, thanks to my consumption of over two litres of water a day. I fucking rule and will prove it by peeing clear, odourless urine. Possibly on you if you refuse to acknowledge my urinary awesomeness.
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:(

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 20:33:05 GMT

there is no start to this no start only pressing shoulder blades to the wall and the grind of muscle and fat against bone tongue thick gagging on each breath.
there is this thing and i can't name it and it has no head for a name to sit on and my tongue gags me. hollow painted easter egg yolk and slime blown out two small holes and all these insides are gone just walls and flesh that won't come off bones but i dig with fingernails the red of captured skin.
there is something inside of me there is something watch the echo of it inside of me there is something.
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nicotine dreams

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 16:55:37 GMT

beautiful like you haven't been since before you learnt to spell the word, a six year old's jerky scrawl misspelling the summer sky on school holidays. perfect like you've never been. love like sweat leaking out of you. mass of naked flesh against yours, no way to tell who's skin is whose it doesn't matter fuck it doesn't matter. they all love you, the knees on your thighs, hands pulling at your hair they love you. and the fingers. her fingers in your wet. wiry pubic hair against your inner elbow as you tongue the stiff flesh of a nipple and the slipslide of sweaty skin on your back. bite to your neck teeth relentless on your softness, bruise bruise it'll bruise. wish you had something thicker than fingers inside you, something you could squeeze pleasure out of. the teeth in your neck and you can feel each individual knuckle as her hand shifts and pushes at you. feel the tips of her fingers as she pushes at the hinges of your jaw, opening you up, mouth like a scream. and this new hard push of his cock on your tongue, this you have answer for. drooling and sucking like an infant, wanting the harsh needful thrusts over your swollen lips, and clawing at the tight muscles of his stomach. the soft press of her breasts against your back as she murmurs her love into your nape, rubs her cunt against your twitching thigh. used in the best way, needed for nothing more than your sliding skin and the grunts that never leave your throat.

tomorrow, i will try to forget everything but the bruises and the raw feeling between my thighs remind me that sometimes good friends will give you exactly what you need (even if they don't understand) because they love you enough mark it on your skin.
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100 words

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 15:17:45 GMT

Pet fish always look so mournful, their downturned mouths slowly opening and closing and eyes blank staring. Visiting my grandmother in the mental hospital, there was always one lady who would sit rocking with her eyes closed, eyebrows drawn together and her mouth slowly opening and closing, gasping silently like a landed fish. Like her mind had frozen her and all she was capable of was the start of a scream before she remembered herself and the pain swallowed her again. A fish in a tank, going round and round and round again and only knowing enough to keep survivng.
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duuuuude

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 17:36:41 GMT

i wish more people understood my love for japanese boybands and mind altering substances.

phone photos

Wed, 17 Oct 2007 08:06:36 GMT

this is a pork chop.

the puppies, pig (top) & plop.

january

hahahaha.
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Ramblings from my paper journal.

Wed, 10 Oct 2007 17:06:09 GMT

I have trouble being open with people, or at least I am not as forthright as some people want so I find it easier to avoid other's hurt and feelings of distance if I allow some friends to read my diary upon request.

if you're sad you're weak and there's nothing more disgusting than weakness.
i wonder where i learned that. if it was from my grandmother who saw us as a burden on my mother's young shoulders. or maybe it was taught to me when i was fucked as a child and told that it would hurt my mother if she knew (if she knew if she knew if she ever found out how defenseless i was and that she could not keep me safe) or from my mother who never lied to us about how hard life is and how having people in your heart can hurt more than anything else because everybody everybody in this world is broken and will take pieces of you to try and make themselves whole.
i am not coping and i try to make excuses but i think it's just because I am not whole. not broken in two, just missing some pieces like the monopoly set we had as children. i've tried to make them up like we made pall mall and fenchurch street station out of business cards stickytaped together, macgyver style, but i am not coping.

It skews the context of my written thoughts and two days later I will go back to them, pages spread, begging them to just read further.

that most hated pity on your face. i'm broken i'm not whole anymore. i have had this hole fucked into baby me. i still laugh i still smile.
and what if i am not broken? what if i am only a little cracked. just hurt a little like everyone's hurt. just just just like everyone else.
and does it make me cold? i am that girl slut she liked it. but maybe i just want to breathe past it. 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.
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Unexpected Theme: Yellow

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 13:56:34 GMT

The paint on my walls is off white and I can't remember if it was this colour when I bought the place or if I've dutched the room so many times that the walls have stained like my nicotine yellow nails.
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My urine has been really yellow for a while now. Despite all the medical problems and spiraling illnesses I have acquired in the last six weeks, this worries me the most consistently and also adds some much needed entertainment to days spent tooling around my dingy flat in my underwear. A little bit of excitement every time I go to the toilet. I've never been someone who checks the bowl before flushing but five minutes ago I looked between my legs as I was peeing to check the colour. I may be going a little funny. Lately all I do is shove bananas down my gagging throat and daydream about Japanese boybands.
*
When I was ten or eleven I caught a train to Melbourne with my grandmother so we could fly to New Zealand to visit my uncle. I don't remember the ride, just how exciting it was at the station with fat men in summer wilted uniforms bustling around and seemingly ancient middle-agers muttering to each other in pre-holiday displeasure.

I was shocked at the smell of Melbourne, exhaust fumes and humid rot. The exhaust I recognised as city-smell but not the other, like beach towels shoved in a bag and found a fortnight later with the edges yellow crusted and the centre moistly moulding. It seemed dead, so unlike Sydney which is never silent or easy, not alive with family and friends and the strangers you see on the bus every single day like Adelaide.

We found a market, high class, and scavenged lunch from the free samples. Slightly mischievous, we wandered around long enough to double back to the places we really liked and present ourselves at the counter as new customers interested in perhaps purchasing some of this gouda but could we please try a titch first and perhaps some of that brie? I ate black pudding for the first time, the taste part dark rich earth and part cautious teeth and sucking mouth on a mostly healed knee scab. I've never quite been brave enough to try it again.
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talking to myself like a wino at the bus-stop

Thu, 30 Aug 2007 13:15:55 GMT

this thing twisting your belly like happiness. the best dreams you've ever had, your lover laughing with you while you both run naked from escaped sea lions at the zoo. coitus interrupted by glistening black fur and snarling teeth and there's water under your feet, kicked up against your shins as you pelt through lightless tunnels. the half joyful scream in your throat and heartbeats felt in the big vein in your wrists. this thing moving your belly like nausea and a boy who loves you in song lyrics. here i am here i am waiting to hold you. do you think i'd love you more if you stood pure and clean of those you'd known before? i often watch you the way you whore yourself you're so beautiful.
you, you like the ones that are so hard so hard to touch because what is easy is worthless and what is in front of you is useless. even though what you have, what you can grab in moist shaking hands, sometimes this is exactly what you need. but you, you like to
make the defensive crackling words like a whip ones, you like to make their faces crumple, their foreheads crinkle.
you like to
have the hard smack your face ones breathing heavy and humid into the cotton of your shirt.
you like to be needed
*

i live on mdma and self-satisfaction

Thu, 28 Dec 2006 07:25:53 GMT

Hey, how's tricks?

I have bloodfast dreams about killers and cannibals and in them I place pieces of human flesh on my tongue. I chew the meat with a laugh in my throat and a flirty twist of my hips because I live camouflaged and maybe lust and kinship will save me from being next in the pot. The sinews catch in my teeth, the meat forms dry balls in my cheeks and I smile when I ask for more. I wake up cold sweating because there is nothing I will not do to save myself, no matter what low and shamed thing is left to wear my face.

I go about my day and carefully don’t see people as sacrifices; ribs broken open , eyes staring and the fleshy parts of their bodies roasting in the oven.
*

It’s only that one day she woke to find herself completely alone in the world and it felt like madness. Hoping that it would go away if she just waited long enough, she pulled the covers over her head and tried not to think of being alone forever. Curled and staring, she found the humidity of her breath against her knees more comforting than she ever thought possible. She wasn’t choked by fear; it poured out of her like bile and her feet tripped and slid in the puddle it made so that the only direction she could move was slowly down. There were people once, she was sure of it. The memory of voices was too clear for it to have just been imagination and how else would she recognise it as speech when she is incapable of it? She pushed out noise in her frustration, trying to fit her tongue around consonants but failing to mimic those remembered words. In the end she became so quiet that it was as if she wasn’t there at all.
*

the skin strips off him and the muscles of his face smile at me, teeth gleaming from his bloody mouth and eyes ready to fall out of their naked sockets. a seizure epileptic fit too much like waltzing to be horrifying we dance we dance. boy dance with me in your ichor dripping nakedness and i will be terrified. boy dance with me. lay my hand on your wet thigh and stain me sticky with madness. boy you are greatness in the hunt and your dance your dance. no skin and no way to hold yourself in you can hide under my layers of callous and under my scars. slide over my flesh and i will love you boy i will have you. my skin split like over ripe cherries between your fingers with your weight on my bones and through the tears they will see our flesh intertwined your muscles leading mine in our twitching dancing dancing. twist twist for me my skeleton boy and i will have you.
*

The last two paragraphs were snips from my application to a writing course. I already feel like it's going to be worthless, based solely only the fact that they admitted me with writing of such low caliber. The truth is I'm a lazy writer and still tenaciously clinging to that stage of writing only for myself, unable to distance myself from my words. One day I will face up to the realisation that there is no interest in the auto-biographical works of someone who has lived a small, self-involved life.
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The internet dines on my brain once more

Mon, 20 Mar 2006 10:08:29 GMT

This is the patron saint of the internet, Isidore, who is often represented by bees.
There is a saint for nearly every profession, complaint, illness, activity or day of the year. One for motorists (Sebastian of Aparicio), knife sharpeners (Catherine of Alexandria) and open sores (Peregrine Laziosi). If your mother dies you'll have thirty-three saints rushing to your aid but only one if you're a refugee. Brigid loves chicken farmers, Paul digs rope makers and Quirinus is crazy about obsession. Only Thomas Moore is foolish enough to stand by politicians. Hosiers pray to Fiacre who will also help you out if you have syphilis.

Erasmus is the patron saint of explosives workers and Barbara against death by explosion. Oh! the arguments they have! Gives God quite the tension headache, let me tell you. Really it's a problem that could be easily solved by bare knuckle fighting, Saint (After)Deathmatch! Spit on the palms and haloes shoved in back pockets... Of course, there is no patron saint for boxing so they're both just going to have to pray to Servatus for success.

Some have few responsibilities (Cloud, patron saint of nail makers) and spend their sainthood lazing about at God's feet drinking shandies. The one I really feel sorry for is the Blessed Virgin Mary, patron saint of countless towns, diocese and everything from Spanish air crews to coffee house owners. She is the patron saint for all bodily ills, every continent, most countries and any type of vehicle with two wheels. Also, the entire human race.
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When I'm bored with the music I'm listening to I like to download any unknown song that people on my friends page are listening to. However, I've stopped doing this after a bad experience with a Bright Eyes song. Tisk tisk, whoever was listening to that.

Now I just pick a random word and download songs that come up on that search. For example, "hero" yielded Slug - Peaking, Sofahead - Our Hero and Scott Walker - Hero of the War amongst others. The ratio of good to crap is about 20/80.

Try it, it's fun. Ok, no, it's not. I'm just bored. Suggest words?
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The heads of little girls

Fri, 17 Feb 2006 14:45:42 GMT

I have this scene in my mind, half-remembered and much changed. I don't know where I saw it though I'm guessing it was a movie.

There's a indistinct person and they're praying. Not simple prayers before bed but the kind of pleas that come with blood and pain. They're damaging themselves: cutting, flaying, beating. The method changes on my mood. Through it all they're repeating one sentence. "Make me be good. Make me be good."

Makes me cry.
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The other day I discovered that the hairline above my left ear is fully an inch higher than that curving over my right ear. Why the dickens would this be so? Is it the ungodly amounts of chemicals I put on my hair? Am I balding? Gosh, I hope so. Bald women make people so very uncomfortable and I find this interesting. One of my regular female customers is balding and has been described as "creepy" and "freakish" by my revolted co-workers. This is quite an extreme reaction to the loss of hair. As childish as it is, I like making people uncomfortable because of the way I dress and the expression on my face. For a long time I was very conscious of the way I appeared to other people and dressed myself into the shadows. Nowadays I exaggerate myself, throw me in everyone's face so I can see their reaction. It's a shortcut to knowing someone. There are the ones who look at me like I'm scumfuck infecting their air, the ones who check out my awesome shoes out of the corner of their eyes and blankface on eye contact, the ones who look skittishly uncomfortable, the ones who make a point of letting me know they think I look "cool", and the ones I like, the ones who look me in the face and see me.
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I'm floating right now, a bit disconnected from my life. It's ok. It's all just ok. That's good, I guess. I'm making mistakes left and right, pinballing between highs and not learning anything. But I'm having fun all the time that I'm not not having fun. I do my best to make things interesting, at least.
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Live life

Tue, 24 Jan 2006 15:38:20 GMT

I live life sleeping.

I've been forced to make a decision regarding my job. After two years of being the go-to, handling shit for everyone who's too stupid to deal, doing the right thing, doing my fucking job, they've decided to cut my hours down to an unlivable level. All of a sudden the benefits of having a job I can do in my sleep aren't looking so beneficial. Decision time. yeah? Dread. I have this job because I don't want to have to think about earning money, want it to be a footnote in my day to day. I want to be unencumbered. Want to simply exist in between fast bright moments of joy and despair. Live life sleeping.

I try to think there's something romantic about drifting through the everyday and something free in the way I never remember the consequences until they're spitting in my face. I don't have to be certain, don't have to hold to absolutes because I'm fluid, baby. Rolling with, taking as it comes, free as breath. I'm letting life decide for me; I'm a blank sheet.

But when things like this happen, I envy the people who think and plan and work towards. I don't know how to do it. Motivation has never lived in me because I've never figured out which direction I'm pushing myself in and whether I really want what's at the end of that road. I want to be happy now and deal with regrets as they come.
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