Just wanted to say a mad huge thank-you to everyone who’s sent me things over the last couple of weeks, I haven’t been checking in so I haven’t had the chance to reply to all of them yet but I really do appreciate it! Been writing a lot of candid snarky odds-and-ends recently which will no doubt make their way on here in due time. I’ll update in full when I get back legitimately but I will be moving back out of my Mothers house in about six weeks, hopefully to one of three places which all look lovely and have backyards and a scattering of vegetarian/vegan fiends.
Felt the need to get back on here super briefly as today was quite possibly the most passionately sad day I have had all year. It was hugely unexpected and foreign-feeling. I had a meeting at eight-thirty a.m which ran for fifty minutes and then I had to pick up some mail from a depot in town which turned out to be all of my high-school results, needed for my university application. Realized in a brief second that I actually did very well at school (at the time, and since, I always felt severely below-par), which was a shocking revelation almost awful for its chain-reaction response, which was to completely reevaluate the manner in which I have seen and still do see myself. Passing over those nondescript white A4 sheets as I waited for the lights to change, the wind twisting the ridiculous uneven crop of hair I don’t fucking care about all over my face, felt dirty but my mood was even. I was thinking of myself as I walked to the bus stop down the road but only negatively in the sense that I have had the opposite of faith in myself for how long and for basically little reason. Waiting for a bus that would leave me with a thirty minute walk up that nasty fucking hill I always slip over on didn’t upset me, either. The creepy old man who sat across the aisle from me and leered for inappropriate amounts of time on the way home had no effect.
But I got off and turned to walk home, started slowly and stopped.
I called a parent for a cab, said I’d twisted my ankle walking up the hill.
Really I just couldn’t stop crying. I curled into the corner of a bus-stop painted green and closed in, the tears were unbelievably forceful and earnest.
I paused for the cab driver, I didn’t think he’d understand.
I’m not one for damp embarrassing emotion. Crying stabs me guilty and weak. I can count the times I’ve cried this year. I said previously that I didn’t think I had reacted ‘correctly’ or ‘healthily’ to the events of this year and I always maintained that it would wind me one day unexpectedly (or it wouldn’t but it might expose itself over time and so I would just slowly crawl into crazy without really noticing). Today might have been a hint at that. I have never felt so uncontrollable, cheerless or completely mournful. It waned for an hour and I talked to a friend but it just picked up again like a vindictive schoolgirl fight.
I feel fine now, it’s eleven-thirty-four p.m and I’m half-heartedly watching The Shawshank Redemption through a comforting exhaustion. In truth I don’t feel very good. No reason for it, or a somewhat delayed one (or two or three or eight). It’s all on me, there’s no one I can really ‘turn to’ (for lack of a more profound cliche- if there’s such a thing), not that I would. And every person I think of, I don’t see them comforting me in any way.. I am too large an eyesore and too ridiculous a form to hold. Two hours ago, right before I calmed down, I had this reoccurring thought that the amount of pain I’ve caused others this year due to my irrational or numbed actions, is returning in this sick sort of just deserts manifestation.
This is something I would never usually do but if you read this however frequently, you’ll know I’m honest to the point of revulsion at times, in regards to certain things. I’m not 100% open about other aspects, though. I haven’t been explicit about what actually happened this year and to be honest I probably won’t be for this blogs lifetime. BUT. If you are around and you are in my life, I haven’t seen very much of you recently, I know this (maybe you haven’t noticed, I don’t blame you). But I think I really possibly need some help right now. I’m not sure in what respect or what exactly I’m asking but I guess this is something of a hand above water, what anyone does with that is not for anyone else to guess, least of all me. I really hate to evoke obligation in other people, it makes me awful and anxious, but I need some fucking basic human comfort or something right now. What I would like is just any ordinary affection if I didn’t feel so unkempt and totally at odds with myself at the moment. I am utterly terrified and saddened at the thought of summer again. But sad, mostly sad. I don’t know, unloved or something. Unlovable. Which hasn’t been the case for the last prolonged while so it’s a bit like a rug pulled out from my feet. One with the cliches tonight, huh.
Yeah, here’s me at my most honest, I suppose. Asking for help. Never have I ever.
Back in just under a month! Hope you all have a wonderful next few weeks.
Also: I’m currently reading As Hot As It Was You Ought To Thank Me by Nanci Kincaid and the first one-hundred-and-seventy pages have been brilliant. I like most the fact that it’s immeasurably readable (in a manner I can’t seem to display) whilst also maintaining a sense of profoundness with some starkly beautiful excerpts. You should have a flick through(I’d like to say particularly if you’re female but I don’t want to generalise) if you get the chance.
Also II: Please do send me something for when I get back. An anonymous or not-so something about yourself.
Also III: Your favourite meal would also be much appreciated.
You say You Changed and I say It’s A Drop In The Ocean because it’s easier than saying I Did It For You.
Another day spent lingering in the paradise I have ownership of.
Met someone at the library who said he liked Kafka and my shirt.
So I said I’d been drinking chili spiked coffee, he said he liked apples and cinnamon.
A spider on his shoulder like a raindrop and he is fearless while I laugh at my hands. We are beautiful ideas with home lives of our own (respectively).
His careful advances made me appear cruel.
If I had a number to give him, it would be the fingers I have placed on the necks of those who have left me eventually.
If I had a name to let slip, it would be the identity of a girl in a story who was not aware of the impression she gave and who closed doors quietly. Don’t disturb anyone, don’t evoke obligation.
So with my blush and stutter, words kicking at their heels and colliding, I said instead: I don’t eat lunch very often.
And he said Oh and bloomed crimson in unison.
Number one is warm and celebratory. An award of sorts, there is only one of you and you came first, still do, always.
Plus my hands are always biting at themselves, there isn’t any room left for the palm of someone else.
You are looking thin and ridiculous. I am looking at you. Sometimes in the morning when the sun grapples at my sheets with silvery limbs, I think of what I’d like to do that day. The man who mows my lawns comes by my window early. I wish he’d bring the grass back, he cuts down all the daisies. It is like a battlefield out there, my backyard exposing the wounded. The ones that were left behind, stems not quite long enough to chain together, they lie dying and I don’t cry. Fresh cut grass and my colourless neck and arms for contrast.
I play waiting room games in the line for coffee. I only go to one place. One I know none of my friends will go, nobody I know. I pick out what I would order if I was a wealthy businessman on a lunch break. Or if I had just broken up with someone. If I hadn’t eaten in days or had just finished a marathon. I always get the same and they always have the order ready before I get to the front.
Because I am rarely not the same.
The man with the accent, we have seen each other a few times. We smile and he tries to get my attention on occasion. It’s pleasant because I am not attractive but he is and there’s an incredible security knowing I would never let myself be tempted by anyone again. His friend smiles at me too and I smile back. All innocence, that’s something of an assumption made about me almost constantly. Round face, round eyes, swelled bottom lip and soft everywhere. It is a cruel remark. They don’t think it’s possible I could have maintained the seductress lifestyle I did once.
It’s possible that wasn’t even me, though.
It’s possible I will never climax again.
It’s possible all of my teeth will fall out and I’ll be made to pick them up, one by one, off a filthy floor.
I don’t blame you,
She has eyes like honeyed fingertips.
You are dithering, she is magnificent
But you can’t let her walk home alone.
Lust is funny in the sense that it’s not funny at all.
Being in love is awful.
Stains all of your clean shirts and hands.
Leaves you with cold places and empty curved waists.
It’s a lonely forgotten end-of-the-road,
With boards on windows and faded receipts- the rudest memories.
If there are photos and you keep them
You’re a fool. But if you don’t then you are callous.
Balance is a dry patch in your mouth,
When your emotions are drugged up on chemicals you yourself produce.
Lust is a serious pre-concept. It’s an afterthought.
It’s someone you don’t even know that well.
Somewhat safer, perhaps.
It is a warm room, for me.
I have no feelings left to develop or gift to others.
That’s unfortunate, maybe someone would say. That’s sad.
You’re not going to let her walk, enveloped by the evening
Where it can touch and hurt and mark her
Legs like adjacent swing-sets, meeting in the center with the steady shift of her hips.
Caramel suede skin and you’re in.
You don’t let her walk home alone, she comes home with you instead.
And again and again and again.
Been walking too much, the skin on my heels coming off.
But the air outside cuts through the haziness I feel over another loss.
Or another speed-bump, you, ever the optimist when it came to me, would mouth.
I’d only see your lips move, positivity ever strained and behind glass.
And she comes over with diet drinks like some sort of sick hint. Is that what you want? Because I could do that. That could be an inflexible summer project.
This is a diary of sorts, of sorts. I haven’t been thinking about who reads it and I haven’t given out the link lightly for the last little while. It’s more of me you’ll see than early morning moans and passion with my dress still on. Jesus I never want to go naked again.
Thank you so much for your answers. Basically I write almost exclusively about people so it always helps to learn more about them. Making quirks and experiences up feels so fake at times, having an actual truthful ‘base’ makes it feel less far-fetched, no matter how ridiculous-seeming it might sound. Also it helps with writers block, which I am sitting underneath at the moment. Thank you again :) TN
I have more questions for you:
(If you have not been around long, I sometimes ask people to throw a whole bunch of stuff at me as it usually sparks ‘inspiration’ and also aids as a base for character references. You are more than welcome to go mysterious and anonymous. Chuck into my Ask or send to email@example.com)
- Something you have done (recently or not so) that you are totally ashamed of.
- Something significantly bad that has happened to you whilst travelling-near or far.
- If you are in love, what defines that for you. How do you know you are? If you are not, have you ever been and how did you know?
- Your favourite word/words.
- At least one thing you enjoy doing that does not involve other people.
- A lie you have told and why.
- An event you believe changed you. It could be anything from a book you read to a loved one passing.
- Something about yourself you secretly adore no matter the effect it may have on others.
- Something you would like to say:
Ask or firstname.lastname@example.org
Thank you again :)
Being young and being hard to please, I suppose we were quite different. When we stepped outside and found nothing worth working towards, nobody worth working for and no appreciation grand enough to sedate our unwarranted rage towards nobody in particular. Diverting it away from ourselves.
No hills to head for, no money for cars we didn’t have licenses to drive.
We still need direction but hate anyone telling us what to do. I’m sitting here with dettol heels and memories of tight smiles and pretty girls. Nothing to bulk up the last four years but drunk nights, which are as weak as coffee stains. Coffee I don’t even drink anymore. Coffee I only drink on the weekends.
And having sex again was always a terrible idea.
Didn’t See You On Sunday he says. Yeah My Other Life Caught Up With Me.
My Mother on watching American Pie 2: ‘Why do all guys want us to lick their balls?’
And me: ‘I don’t think they do, Mum.’
And her: ‘No, ____, I think they do.’
On circumcision. Her: ‘I’ve only ever slept with one guy who wasn’t. I used to call it a sleeping bag. You know? Because it goes inside it at night?’
I don’t even.
Two young lovers
Open mouth on sunburned knees.
Later you say you can take it from here
Which is another way of saying Don’t Touch Me.
It’s ok. I’ve had this throbbing notion that perhaps I don’t deserve affection anyway.
Highschool Best Friend: ‘Yeah I Heard You’re Gay Now, What’s Up With That?’
This is why I don’t go out anymore maybe.
Woke up at three only to remain still and lick over the ceiling with resignation glittering dark behind my eyes. For all my transparency my bones are mimicking lethargy to an extent that if I were indeed translucent, the marrow I own would be a luxurious plutonium.
Or lutetium. Something I never actually learned in chemistry but am mildly interested in now that I am old enough to have some jaded points.
It’s Sunday and I have bad news. I would be used to it by now if I didn’t still have the hope of a toddler. Being called a dreamer, again and again. I always took that as something of a compliment, even though it was said with malice mostly.
It’s Sunday and I have bad news. I can understand the views of the main person involved and I can understand how in the long run it will probably end better than if things just continued the same way. But I have been thinking about sitting outside in the sporadic rain.
It’s almost Monday and the news I have is bad.
Fuck if I don’t get into university next year I honestly don’t see myself being fulfilled in anything. That has nothing to do with the news that is bad. I’m venting. I think that’s what the main purpose was for this blog anyway.