Waiting On Loss Of Hope (Come On)

To be honest, I expected you to say something cliché. I assumed you would turn to me, flick your fingers to cup your pixie chin and lift your eyes. Let them eat cake, you would say. And I would feign delight and drama, roll my eyes with my face tilted to the fairy lights. A rolling, bubbling laugh that would attract the eye.  But instead, you pause and slip under silence. Not into; under. It rests like a metallic film, a mesh as fine as lace. A slight frown graces your complexion, fleeting, you purse your lips and raise features to the ceiling, brush the filmy quiet free. Let them be as content as we will never, you say. Let them recognise the stunning, where we won’t. Let them allow the beautiful as a whole, instead of picking it apart until only parts of it are pretty. But pretty things are commonplace. Pretty is a nothing word for a nothing idea. Nobody really wants to be considered pretty. Beautiful is key. Subjective, maybe. But as lustrous an idea as the sight of something or someone you consider to be other-worldly stunning. 
But this is all a dream. 
In real life, of course, given the opportunity. You would adopt the cliché. Make things sweeter and easier.. Build a short pastry crust around conversation and keep the content sugary and satisfying. In my dreams, though, you aren’t fake. Violently sexual, sometimes. But always consistent. 

I’m choosing to remember that night as the night I almost had you. Not the night she stole my pillow and I lay on my back, warm only on the right side. My waistline aching, my tongue and gums crimson, cheeks aflame. Lay on my back and hated some things. So common. So common is such an evening.
But I almost had you, didn’t I? You won’t get married for a while, I’d say. You think I won’t get what I want? 

With a beautiful neck and hunched shoulders. My coddled feline, sleek and neat. Don’t freak out, never looked upon you sleeping. The idea still sweetens the sour, though. When I’m tired and tired of myself and tired of the nothing I do and the nothing I have done. You, though. I did you. And that’s something.

Because he doesn’t know I’ve been sleeping with women. And he would never ask. Would never even consider the idea. It is a situation I have idealised, this step into a role I have not created. The biting of my bottom lip while contemplating leaving. Making my base a new city. Somewhere I can be new. I wouldn’t have the stereotype of that crazy redhead chick. That standoffish bitch. That girl with the round face. Her friend. Chain-smoking-drunk-girl. And it’s nice. It’s nice he still considers me new. It’s nice that he knows next-to-nothing about me. What is there to tell, I guess. Let’s just forget it.

Just What I Got Was Not What I Had Gotten Previously

No one notices the beauty of pigeons. Or the sexual appeal of smokers [Because there is none, you idiot]. Common birds, though, and the insects they survive on, serve as a reminder that people are seemingly obliged to let the common go unnoticed.

One word you would use to describe yourself: Observant
One word others would use to describe you: Flaky

I’m chugging away at spirulina like it’s going out of fashion [it’s not, that shit is red hot at the moment]. It tastes like bile but I feel AMAZING. The sales rep for my store takes eighteen capsules a day. She is quite the conversationalist. But I feel her eyes may be just a little too wide.

I took maybe 20 today. My eyes are most definitely too wide.

Whenever someone I don’t know sneezes, I literally have to fight the urge to yell ‘BLESS YOU!’

Word I hate: Masticate. Who, the hell. Seriously.

Therapist at my sisters group meeting ‘How old are you?… You’re very impressive.’ And me, thinking “YOU’RE JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE MY SISTER IS IN THE MIDDLE OF A “MAJOR DEPRESSIVE EPISODE”’.

On being twenty very soon: I am feeling the need to do all the things I thought would be exciting in my teens, but never did. Like streaking. Or body-painting. Playing for a crowded room. Being involved in a mass orgy.

Instead, when I turned sixteen, I got my lip pierced. Then again. And got drunk a whole bunch. It was all pretty mundane, and really, my parents had nothing to worry about. The psychic I went to said I was very intuitive. As did the psychic at my work. I know when someone’s a bad soul. They both also said there would be a pregnancy in November. And it would most probably be mine. Oh, thank goodness for that. Here I was worrying about fertility. Now I’m going to have a kid at twenty. The thing that really got me, though: Both of them said it would not be a mistake.

I can’t even imagine how I am supposed to be taking that.

Stocking up on contraception and abstinence pants for the months of October and November… Abstinence pants? I don’t know what I was thinking of just then. Maybe like barbed wire pants. ELECTRIC-SHOCK PANTS. But then I’m like… If I decide to abstain for those months, will the pregnancy fall to someone else… Like my MOTHER? My sister is not allowed to have sexual contact or any sort of relationship when she leaves the institution, for a year. Or that’s the advice that was given. She’s 23. My mother got married at 22. I know that really doesn’t mean anything. But it’s interesting to look at how things can change in 30 odd years.   

Jeff Buckley’s never been on my stereo for too long, that’s one difference between us. When I cancel my membership for something I feel a little bit less interesting, that’s two. From the ages of 12-late 13 I was convinced [and quite possibly clinically insane] that there were cameras everywhere and I was on a television show only I didn’t know about it. That should count for like a billion. I went to an all girls school, this was me: girl with extended fringe at the sides, packed into a uniform, packed into rows of giggling girls, packed into an assembly hall, packed into [and underneath] a grey, dismal sky. Thinking everyone can read my thoughts, like a thought bubble in a comic strip above my dyed and dry hair.

My possessions should fit into a desk, they don’t, but they should.

Going to tie my shoes with candy snakes, so even my feet are sweet. Below a smile stretched too wide on my pale and for once not sleep-deprived face. My skin seems to be drinking the cold air wellington keeps trying to feed it. My lips, on the other hand, crack and flake. Dry-wood kisses to your cheek, later on attacked with and old toothbrush and Vaseline [that works, by the way].