Now then, why is it?

That I am so very eager to please you?

Because pleasing others isn't what you do, not what you esteem yourself on, so why on earth should I set such great stock by it when I want to help not please people, which are different things? I desperately want you to like me, which is silly and needy. I don't think you've ever desperately wanted anyone to like you. I don't think many people are desperate for others to like them like I am. Well, they are- my brother's becoming a cock because of it. But...

There's something strange about the way I do.

I must stop pleasing you

Paranoid Android.

I don't feel quite so bad as I did earlier today about a variety of things.

I can be quite ridiculous.

I am sad about being larger, and so I will eat less and move more. It's all very simple. I will also drink more water.

I am fed up about being gazumped by someone who appears to be a better version of me in every way, so I will just have to be a better me.

I am going to go to the House tomorrow, and be happy, because going there makes me so. Other things that make me happy are earning money and creating things. So I will do that too.

I am going to ask for my part back, from the theatre. I would love it back. It would be wonderful.

It's difficult to be happy for other when you yourself are unhappy.

Because unhappiness becomes the general barometer.

My family felt christmas was nice, but flat, this year. I didn't think so- or maybe I did but I didn't like them saying it. I haven't really been out of the house much today, so I feel a bit strange and flabby (though that might be because I am flabby, currently). And I've eaten loads.

I don't know why I didn't like them saying it.

I think I'd like a christmas where we don't watch TV, maybe just a film, christmas carol, and when we sit about or read or go on a walk. I got some good presents though: a lens for my camera, so I can take it about again, a book of black paper from my brother, two strong small propelling pencils from my sister, some oil paints, a watercolour sponge, The White Tiger and Shakespeare's complete works were my favourites.

I have decided to begin wearing only quality clothes that I love.

And to lose weight.

When I have done the second I will begin the first.

I am also going to get my hair cut. Soon.

I really would have liked to see her today, but I felt strange. My grandma came, tea was late, I went to see a friend and we played a good game at night, and I didn't think there was a right time, and I felt strange saying I'd be popping off to see her anyway. Though I would have liked to. I will tomorrow, but it's not quite the same statement, seeing someone the day after. I worked out what I would have taken her: a load of mince pies for the people, because they're useful, consumable and not directed to her but are for her, and a card. I've made a few for friends with robins on, but I'd have made one for her with a hedgehog wearing a christmas hat. She said she had an encounter with a hedgehog once- it had gotten into her house, her cottage as was, and was eating food in the kitchen. I'd have liked to draw a hedgehog sat at a christmas table. If she was an animal, she'd certainly be a hedgehog. She looks like one- cute and small, spiny yet oh so innocuous, with unlikely fervour. Not that hedgehogs are usually imbued with fervour. Trotting around with surprising speed, they certainly share that in common.

Earth as hard as iron, water like a stone.

You said, you thought you'd end up somewhere green on a hill with water, you don't want to do a degree anymore, you get tired of the mother role. All bits of information I'm going to store up together to make a big thing.

That you didn't know what to say about wheelie bins. That made me laugh. It was a response to something I said, something like you were always yourself, you always seemed to know what to say or do about what mattered. As if you care about wheelie bins, as if it matters you have nothing to say about them. What matters is that you say what you care about and do what you care about, and that is what I want to do to.

A psychology degree, smashing pots with mad people, teaching in a progressive school, alcohol clinc worker, no keys liberation, a cafe from free food and rejecting a ten pound donation, living in tents with no possessions, marble tops and rejecting meat and husband in one go... these are things I will remember. I hope I remember the nuances too.

I am glad that I make her laugh. I wonder if she wants me around at all. I can't tell, because she lets everyone around her even when it's not what she wants- shooing people out the other day, but I can stay for tea, but maybe she wants something from me? I'll never know.

Snow has fallen, snow on snow.

Eating has been going well-ish. I have been drinking alcohol. But mostly keeping under, I think. Today I did a five-mile walk and ate:

A piece of swiss roll and a baked biscuit-300

A jacket potato with tuna and vegetables-500

A piece of trifle-200

4 chocolates-200

Which is 1200, so I am happy about that.

In the bleak midwinter is a lovely carol.

She came to see me.

I got a text message today that said was I in, I want to drop off a present and I was hoping so badly it was her. She doesn't know where I live, and she wouldn't give me of all people a present. But she did come to see me at work, and others haven't. But I felt so stupid there.

Stupid is an overruling feeling lately.

What can I give her, poor as I am. If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, if I were a wise man I would do my part. Yet what I can I've given her; given her my heart. And she doesn't know, which is fantastic and sad. Or maybe she does know. The wise man is particularly pertinent.

She said she doesn't like playing the mother role all the time, and sometimes she feels she has to. I am trying to work out what sort of 'role' she is to me. I can't fathom. Does she see me as a daughter? I am probably young, naive and ludicrous enough to warrant guidance and... cloying and needy. Because I do need her.

I would like her to think of us as friends, despite the age gap, despite the wisdom gap. She is very wise. Pertinent. Just as I am thinking, if I knew what she thought of me, I could be satisfied (not happy, but satisfied), she came out with the platitude that you can only judge yourself, and find out who you are without others. And it's so true, and I hadn't even voiced how I was feeling (but maybe I didn't need to, maybe she was just picking up on what is evident, that I need guidance, and advising me as such).

She makes me want to give her things.

In the bleak midwinter.

Well, I cannot be happy, I think. I cannot be happy that I have got a job when everyone else is doing so much better.

But then, I can be momentarily happy. I just keep my eye on what everyone else is doing and feel I'm falling, falling, falling behind. Ugh.

Why?

I feel like all my friends must know I'm this horrible petty person, and must hate me for it, and I must be the person they least like. How else? I only whine, and my problem is just that I'm not good enough, not that I've got actual problems, family problems. I feel so stupid. I feel like they must know and not really want me around.

But then...

I went to see her, Lenny Stalker, and she said some amazing things and made me think different. I can't stop saying stupid things- she said she got rid of all her stuff twice in her life, to stop it defining her, I think, to stop other people defining her and to make her freer. Well, I couldn't help saying she was good at talking and organising, and giving my opinion, and she went a bit quiet and I thought, oh no, you've been stupid. She knows and she won't want to see you again.

She came to see me in the shop and I felt so embarrassed. Because I had to ask people about loyalty cards and serve her as my manager was watching, though I didn't ask her, but I felt strange taking money from her. I felt strange. I felt like I wanted her to watch me and see me doing things. She said she did grotty jobs. This isn't exactly grotty, but I felt like I was in salesperson mode- I said I liked the books she'd bought, but I felt like I wasn't talking properly, like there was a gap between what I meant and what I said that would be glaringly obvious.

I think it's just me.

Being at her house makes me feel different. I want to take her something, but she probably wouldn't want possessions. I don't know what to give. I'd like to give my time or a poem or something, but I don't think I could without making it seem silly. I'll probably draw her a christmas card and take it today.

Tickle me pink I'm rosy as a red appleskin except I've never been quite as sweet.

1 slice toast with marmite-100
a smoothie-200

bens praline cookie-400

chocolate-250
curry and rice-400

chocolates-200
cake-240

gah. 2000. I suppose I stood all day. Curry might be 300 instead of 400. But even so. I need not to be eating this much. Tomorrow I will bike to town, buy christmas presents, eat well. Yes.

Pray for the people inside your head for they won't be there when you're dead.

I think I am narcissistic lately, and I can feel people becoming bored of me. I need to focus more on others, not just in the whiny adoring way I do. Which I am about to do.

Three people.

I am hoping Lenny Stalker will be the person that ends up doing the shelter with me. I don't know if she'll find anyone. I think she's lovely. I wonder how it will be. I do like her a lot.

Then there's you darling. Sweet and awkward in it. Terrible at art, brilliant at working, not knowing quite how good you look. What there is in the narrowness of your nose and the evenness of your wide smile. Your earnest eyes. They crinkle lovely. You just need someone who knows what you want and how to give it to you. I don't think I am that person.

Today was a good day.

Because I might have a job, I might have two and I have to choose. Pros and cons list is to follow.

Two of my friends contacted me, which makes me feel less awful.

I ate:

meatballs and chips and peas-400
5 chocolates-250
1/2 a fairy cake-50
some curry-300
dates-100
2 pints of lager-300

1400. Or 1500, and I've walked round town.

Songs I should remember that I like for reference at auditions

Ladies who lunch (Carol Burnett/Anna Kendrick)

I'm Still Here. I think it's a fosse number.

The first time I volunteered at the shelter.

I felt worried because:

1. I was worried I'd do it wrong
2. The other volunteer would be impossibly cool and I would lose out.
3. How hideous I would look in the morning, how L.S. would know that I'd been wearing makeup and was trivial, how the other volunteer (who was beautiful and thin, but not disdainful and actually good to spend the night with) would think I was hideous.

Well, I think I kind of did it right, I hung about for a bit in the morning. L.S. might have been surprised at the state of my face, but she didn't seem to be too shocked (though I suppose it's not something she'd care to admit to. She's probably too concerned with global issues to let the state of my skin register). And it was good, and I had fun doing it and I felt better about myself and wanted to be there again. So there is a lesson in itself.

The article wasn't that bad, and I need to stop being a wimp.

I read it. Mostly it's young entrepeneurs and single mums, people who are four or five years older than me that have done well.

Maybe I just expect too much of myself.

I am always worrying that I do/am doing the wrong thing. Maybe I don't do the wrong thing. Has anything terrible happened to me as yet? No. Why do I feel like I'm wasting my life then?

Here are good things that happened today:
1. One of my friends here now knows I'm bisexual and seems ok with it.
2. I had a good night last night with people I liked.
3. I got an interview for a job I won't hate. The first interview, but at least it's a shot.
4. If I am being rejected anyway, I am considering auditioning for Grease in London. It would at least be fun. And noone would know. I wouldn't tell them.

Oh, I need something brilliant in my life. Here are a list of my worries.

1. I push people away, and I haven't had contact with people I considered proper true friends for a good while. Do they hate me.

2. Loan, which is accruing interest. I could work one day a month, and that would pay it back. But I don't know.

3. Everyone I have spoken to (bar him, the director I had and my second cousin) have cacked all over the idea of me going to stage school and think I should take some time to develop. This means they think I am silly and foetally underdeveloped in my life plan. Everyone seems to get this look on their faces- oh no, she's gone mental, bless her- if I mention it. My Mum looks like she's trying to swallow her smile- she looks like she does when she sees a homeless or particularly obese person. That's the level of disdain/pitiful sympathy.

4. That cacking means I think I don't want to go. If I was really good, then people would encourage me. I can't be that good if people aren't saying it. I haven't looked further into applying because I'm worried about my loan and how it would affect that, worried about failing and everyone knowing, and worried about what everyone thinks of me trying for it. These are the reasons I didn't tell anyone. The RADA workshop didn't do my confidence any wonders- I wasn't the worst there, but out of a tiny pool, I wasn't the best either. Maybe I was the worst and I just didn't know. Jesus.

5. I will never find something I'm happy with/ I'll spend my life chasing silly dreams. I was so set on it. If people can put me off this easily, how will I ever find something I really want to do?

6. I'm having black dog days at the moment. Because noone is contacting me from University, and I am contacting them. Maybe their lives are busy, but it feels like I've got dull and uninteresting and I'm dragging people down so they don't want me, so I'm dull, so they don't want me...I'm sending a very belated present to someone, maybe this is why she and that pocket of friends don't seem to like me so much anymore... the others, I'm at a loss, maybe I'm being self indulgent in my trucking with them.

7. I don't know how I can build a new life here.

8. I have the overriding feeling that noone thinks I am at all capable of making my own decisions without significant guidance, far more than anyone else needs.

9. I couldn't even bring myself to read the feature 'how it feels to be a young woman in the 21st century' in the Guardian today. I bet it's all about successful young things, that are my age, that are doing wonderfully. No doubt some will be at stage school or on journalism courses.

10. I cannot, for the life of me, see what is good about being me. I thought I had an idea of what I wanted, and I'm not sure I want it anymore.

11. My brother keeps wiping his social superiority in my face, knowingly. I know that it's probably because he feels jealous that I'm more academic, but he could be too with a bit of effort, and he's probably going to do just as well at university/beyond, if not better. I am feeling crap at the moment, and he just makes me feel worse. I don't know if he knows how crap I'm feeling. I don't think he would care if he does/did.

12. I am getting fatter and fatter, and it's horrible. I feel pretty hideous at the moment- like I'm growing face chins, my parents keep nagging me to sort out my clothes and buy new ones and get a haircut, because everyone takes me at face value and I can't keep scragging about like this. I hate it. Why do people take me at face value? Why can't I be a valuable human being if I don't look beautiful? Why do you have to 'make the best' of yourself? Can't you make the best of yourself by developing your mind and helping people and being generally brilliant, like Lenny Stalker?

This last one I can do something about. The rest are a horrific merge of hideous entangling ideas that are shaping my crap existence, but I can deal with all of those better if I felt better about myself. And I might feel better if I cut my hair, or sorted my clothes, but I know for sure that I would feel a million times better if I was thinner. I went a bit off track today, and drank yesterday but I will start being better.

I'm so contradictory. I am mainly attracted to larger, chubby people. With men, taller, with women, it doesn't matter about height, but I prefer people with more meat on them. I don't find thin people attractive- I'd worry they'd snap. I suppose I'm really worried they'd hate my body. Or my body would be too much for their body. I don't want to touch thin people. I crave a comfortable body. The girl I like at the moment isn't comfortable in hers, though. So a body that is comfortable for me but not for them, a contradiction once more. If I put on weight, I get a hot feeling across the back of my neck- I am embarrassed by myself. But I am not embarrassed for her. I think she's lovely. I can't think of anyone I'd want to touch more.

Maybe the characteristics I associate with thin people- untouchability, fragility- are ones I crave myself. Mum can't help commenting on, 'little dot' children, and I like it when people worry about me as opposed to ignoring me completely/aggravating me about the way I look. And as for being untouchable, I always feel that people are cannibalising my life (my parents, but sometimes now even the odd well-intended friend will drop me a look that says, you're delusional, or talk to me about, 'the future' or say, 'so what are you going to do') and I suppose that what I really want is for everyone to get out of my life, for better or worse, and regard me as an equal. Not to touch the areas I feel most sensitive about. I want them to withdraw their tanks and their armies of well meaning concern and let it be my territory once more. That's a metaphorical quibble rather than a literal one- I suppose I don't really like people hugging me, apart from certain people, and vanishing and becoming more fragile would be a subconscious attempt to say stay away, I am not ready to be touched by you.

My aunt.

Had meningitis at an early age. She's disabled. She's got the mental age of a young person, about ten. She's in bed most of the time.

My Dad grew up with her and I sometimes wonder if he sees me as her. I know that I look like her. I catch it sometimes, in my dark eyebrows or the way my nostrils are. I'd be her, if she'd been healthy. I'm not pretty, but I am... I make people want to look again, I think. If she'd been healthy, she could have been like me instead of making people look again because of the way she is. Maybe Dad would have had someone to share secrets with and play with and bounce off, like I do with my brother and sister. Someone to compete with on even ground.

My Grandma spent a lot of time looking after her and not much on looking after my Dad, who was bright.

So I suppose in teaching me he's teaching her, and teaching himself. I'm what he could have been. I'm what she could have been.

These feel like horrible things to say but they're the truth. Here's another one. She might come over for christmas, and I don't want her to. I don't want her to be laid out on a sofa bed drinking coffee through a straw whilst we eat a roast. I won't be able to. I don't want to have to make forced happy conversation.

I think she might come and I don't want her to.

I feel horrible. I know how much she would enjoy it, and it's one day, a few hours, of my whole year. Christmas doesn't mean that much to me. I don't want a perfect christmas. I don't want presents, so it's not as if I'm sacrificing something massive.

I know noone wants her to come. But we should have her.

It's just that the things I like about christmas- the mince pie making, the dinner, the walk after (which might not happen because she'll not be able to go on it) are all dimmed by the prospect of this occasion.

I want to go and help in a shelter on christmas day. Granted, she will be there. But how is it that I am quite happy to share a shelter with twelve people, all homeless and nontheless resilient, but not one relative, who loves me and who loves my father, and who deserves a good christmas at least once instead of the dull, semi-heated and fatty conversation, or food, doled out at her Home (with a capital H, it's a house, not a home) this year.

It might be her last.

Why can't I do it with a spirit of being happy? Of making the best. Why can't life be like a children's book, where the disabled person turns out to have so many amazing qualities and it's sad and happy instead of just sad?

Why am I so selfish? If my Dad, who has sacrificed so many years to her, can do this, then so can I.

Happier things to think on that people have said.

I'll get the bad one out of my system first:

"You need to put more graft in, like your sister"

Said by my psychology teacher to my brother. Now, this may seem good- I put graft in. But really, my brother is charismatic. He'll get by on his own merit, he doesn't need to put graft in, and he's bright anyway. I, on the other hand, put graft in and got nowhere, and I'm not the brightest or the best, so why bother? What are good intentions when they come to naught.

Better things,

"You look so cool"

By her. Remembering that she thinks this makes my heart swell. Maybe she doesn't anymore, but she did once. She used to say it every time we met.

"A man said we were sisters because we've got the same eyes"

Said by a girl working at a bar with me with beautiful eyes, lots of eye makeup and mascara. She was kind and nice. The best thing was, I wasn't wearing any eye makeup- and she was really pretty, so it was good to have someone say that. We both had blue eyes and red hair.

"God, I thought you were a boy"

Said by a punter at the same bar. I find this flattering because of what it insinuates. Because of my sharp jawline, cheekbones, the fact I've got hardly any chest therefore can't be thought of as fat, because he said this after I'd moved, thus my movements must be feminine? I like to think I've got an androgynous physique.

"You should act. You're good"

Said by him, and by a director I esteemed. I assume the director was being nice. Maybe not. I never could quite come out of my shell with him. But these are the only two people that have ever encouraged me to follow what I want. Everyone else takes my passion for acting as a marker of dissatisfaction or not knowing what I want to do so throwing myself after this one thing. I find that vaguely insulting, like I'm a small child that doesn't know what I want. So it's good to be told by some people that it's not stupid.

Oh god. Maybe I'm completely wrong about everything.

Is what I think sometimes.

When I let my Dad in an inch and he takes a mile. It's my fault really. I don't say how I feel enough, so he doesn't know when I'm feeling red raw about job rejections and just can't take even mentioning it unless it's a joke, and when I can talk or not.

And then once I start talking to him about that, he starts talking about learning programming and how to design websites and everything else, and I just want to crawl the walls, because I feel like I've just let him in on this part of my life and now he wants to colonise it all, wants to take over and make me learn new things.

And he doesn't. He just wants me to try something he thinks will give me a lot of pleasure.

But I think back to the maths tutoring at fifteen, and the reading at two, and how much they weren't fun. How much he wanted me to succeed and enjoy and be advanced, and how much I hated being bent to someone else's desire for my own good, even if it was for me to do better and be better and be happier. Why can't I say this to him? I just don't want the tiresome long debate that comes after it. And it sounds so spiteful, to hold over his head something that he did (especially as he was believing it to be for the best, and perhaps it was, because didn't I get an A in maths, and didn't I do very well at school, and can't I read the fastest out of everyone I know?) decades ago, or seven years ago. It sounds petty, like I haven't moved on. But the truth is I haven't. Why can't I just say, yes, I am petty. Yes, I am inherently spiteful in how I think, and I can't help it, and this is how it is?

Instead, every time he mentions me programming, I just shut off and close up and say, mmm, mmm, hoping that conversational markers and lack of real response will make the issue go away. Because I don't like being such a spiteful bitch without reason, I don't like preventing myself from learning something because of past hang ups, and I want to let go of what I'm feeling because I know I'm wrong because he's right. And I am wrong. I know it. I am who I am because of what he taught me, I'd be nothing if he hadn't spent all that time teaching me things. And maybe that's it, there. I'm scared to take his help because it feels like I can't make anything of myself unless someone else is there helping me along. I want to make something of myself on my own, not because anyone else has helped me. I need to be able to say, I did this myself, without falling back on anyone.

So do I want to be miserable?

My brother's having a christmas dinner with friends from school, and Dad said I should have a christmas dinner with my friends from school. He doesn't understand, I don't think. We are having a few get togethers, and I like my schoolfriends, but I've made others who are really and truly friends, and my brother's schoolfriends are his true friends. He's Mr Popular, and I can feel my parents worrying about my lonerish tendencies, my lack of aesthetic value. They advise me to be more like him instead of as I am. I should be more like my brother. He's charismatic and will get through life wonderfully. I won't. I take things too hard and I'm narcissistic and dull and I'm not even a perfectionist to make up for it and I've got all sorts of strange hang ups. I didn't do well. He'll do well, with less effort too. He'll be brilliant. He'll get jobs and be successful and noone will ever worry about him being a loner because he's got far too many friends. He's bright, and he didn't have the same help as me.

Why do I feel like I'm so much worse than everyone else?

No alarms and no surprises

She of the Bovine has a friend that she says she doesn't like, doesn't get on with, doesn't feel as close to as she does to us. But then why does she respond to messages and other things, from that friend, weeks and months before she does with me? Ugh. Jealous jealous jealous.

I'll take a quiet laughter handshake of carbon monoxide.

Those aren't the lyrics at all.

Here's the problem with me.

I can't take any careers advice at the moment, because when anyone begins to advise me I feel like shouting:

I HAVE TRIED THAT, YOU ARSE. HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING?

Or

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO BE ADVISING ME? I'M DOING MY GODDAMN LEVEL BEST.

The second isn't great. Because I'm not doing my level best; I should be sending more stuff, ringing more people. I send a few applications out every day, but it's so demoralising to get no response. And I can take advice from anyone. It just irks me that everyone thinks they know best and I get left feeling like a massive failure or a stupid kid. Or like I haven't tried. Or worse, the advice my second cousin gave me- keep doing a normal job and write on the side. Well, idiot, that is exactly what I was going to do, do you think I'm that retarded? Honestly.

I hate being so angry all the time, and it's not the people I'm angry with. I love my cousin. It's the fact I haven't got a job, noone thinks I'm special, boo hoo. Noone will ever say I'm fabulous or care and I will never get anywhere. That's what it reinforces, when people give me advice, and that's why I don't want to take it. Everyone else in the world seems to be floating along just fine, going out, having fun. It's just me that's ruined my life.

God I am such a drip.

The Night Watch

I adore the night, don't you? I wouldn't want it forever, but it's so refreshing. It smells like Christmas- satisfied and sharpening and full of space and infinite time to think and walk. People are scarier at night, but there's less of them and they're usually benign.

I adore you because you're a bundle of contradictions. You're soft without being weak, strong without being hard, open but you're so guarded about being unhappy, modest and attention-seeking, brave about your life but scared of letting someone get close to you. And I mean anyone, not just me. I don't think you would want me as close as I want to be, you see. You seduce without lipsticks and cigarettes and feminine airs, whilst being the most girlish, most beautiful. You've won without running the race, dear. My race, anyway.

Oh my friends I've begun to worry right; where I should be grateful I should be satisfied.

I got rejected once more yesterday, for something I really wanted. And actually believed I could get; it was a journalism training thing. I feel so stupid. I knew I wouldn't get it. I knew they'd want someone with a first from Cambridge who had managed to live through two Bolivian wars, and fashioned a camera from mud and sticks so that they could report on it at the tender age of three.

I know I'm not any of those things. But I spent days filling out the form, taking so much care, letting my parents dissect it. I thought my work experience would help.

I should be grateful, I should be satisfied.

I hate being rejected. All I wanted was an interview, and I didn't even get that. My Mum said today, don't you just feel like you're on the cusp of something? And I said, no. Because I have had one offer of an internship and a hundred offers of a big fat no no no no no.

And then Mum said my self-presentation had really slipped in the last week I was at my job, and I was miserable going in every morning, and how could I expect them to keep me on?

Which is partially true, but I did the damn thing, I forced a smile on my face as much as I goddamn could, I was as chirpy as it was possible to be there and I tried.

And even they didn't want me.

Mum couldn't have said the right thing if she'd tried. Dad tried a gambit- if they have over 2000 applications, they probably go through the first hundred. I said how the hell did he know, had he applied to this place, had he done this, had he done that? He was just being kind. He said he'd seen it happen, but it pissed me off again, worse than Mum telling me I hadn't been up to scratch, because I can't stand people making excuses for me failing. Then Dad said I would find something and I'd be brilliant at it, he was the same... but then I thought, you can't say that, you can't be sure, that's utter shit. It could just be that I'm a crap person, and the reason that noone wants me, and that noone wants to stay in touch, and that noone cares and that nothing about me is worthwhile to any companies in the world is precisely because I am a shit person, and I am worth nothing, in the eyes of employers or otherwise.

I feel unwanted. I feel like my friends don't care and my parents have to, and like I'm not worth anything. I'm like a thousand million other white spoilt rich girls overpopulating this planet. I got good marks, so I was told I was clever, I did well... and now noone cares, and I haven't got any pizazz to get me through the rest. I'm not a wonderful precious flower (stamp stamp stamp), though I never thought that precisely... I thought I was clever enough to get what I wanted, but now my system has fallen away, and I think, why bother?

I didn't wake up till three forty three today.

After the rejection, I filled out five or six other applications, all the while thinking, there's five more failings. I felt I had to. I wanted to recompense. I want to succeed, but I can't help thinking it's all futile. I stayed up till five doing it.

All my thoughts I return to summertime.

I saw some new pictures of her today, and she looks beautiful. With her sister, who knows she's beautiful, but the secret is that she isn't half as beautiful as.... She knows what she's doing, and she's going to do it, and it's a wonderful worthy thing that suits her down to the ground. And she's going to be a raging success, and I don't feel jealous. Just thinking it makes me feel happier. My other friend, JD, I feel jealous and sick when I think about how she's succeeding because she's such a brilliant person. But this girl, I just feel happy to think what she's doing. To think she's happy. And to think someone knows exactly how wonderful she is. It's almost like living vicariously. She looks like she's jumping in every picture that's taken of her. Smiling with lots of her little teeth, eyes half shut and hair exploding in blonde curls. Brilliant, and other people know it.

Oh, you've got no pictures of yourself.

So you must think some terrible things.

I don't.

I am such a stalker because...

all it takes is a two sentence message from you and I'm back, back there with you and thinking about you like that and adoring you.

Any tiny sign of interest and I'm hooked.

I harbour no delusions that you reciprocate. I think instead, oh how kind, how lovely, how I adore you for being that.

But I know that your feelings aren't that level.

The thing is

You think I'm so cool and I'm really not.

B said,

"Stop telling her she's cool, you'll give her a big head".

Because she thought you were being strange, or really I would, or because I can't say anything back when you say that?

I can't work out why you think I am.

There's nothing conclusive and brilliant ab0ut me.

You can sing and make people laugh, make audiences laugh.

You're open and honest and kind and you always know what to say.

I am not really anything. Scabby skin (yours is luminous gold)
shrunken into myself and so secretive

And most projects are doomed to fail

So wishy washy

And I can't believe anyone worth liking will ever really like me. Friend or otherwise.

I'm worried B doesn't.

And I'm so trivial and obsessed with things that don't matter, I'm such a narcissist, I get people wrong and I do things wrong.

And why?

Do you think I'm cool?

Why do you say it when

you're so much better, infinitely so.

In fact, if I was as honest as you are

I'd be responding with a cannon's bomb

of effusive comments.

But I'm not.

I lie.

And so I'm left to puzzle. And dip my head and laugh

chin down and thoughts inside

So you'll never know that I'm hoping

the reason you think I'm cool is that you're as wild and deluded about me as I am about you.

Some hope.

I replay a scene. If we were out together holding hands and someone shouted something vile. I know what it would be, ginger pubes and blondie, or preying mantis and beetle, or something to do with your smallness and my height and boniness, or my hair, or yours, or us. And I would turn round and shout, 'she's beautiful, and I don't care'. And we'd hold hands tighter and storm off, heads high.

Because

I can't be with you I like to try and analyse you instead.

I've been inside for three days moping. Life just isn't it at the moment, and I'm scared I'll never be happy doing a job- because everything seems to lack variety and....

But I do like to think about you, it's just I've lost all desire to do anything.

So thinking about you...

Brother with drug problems and a sister, who I've heard, is always the centre of attention. Bee says. That must shunt you to the back a fair bit. I can't imagine you ever being shunted back, you're so very present in every way... but I suppose you must be. Maybe at home you're the quiet one? I've seen pictures of your sister and she's very pretty but I don't know. You're prettier, bobbing about and being happy and never trying to be seductive but seducing me utterly, nontheless. Your hair's full of life and even when you're sad you laugh. Noone's ever told you this, and I would be the first to tell you that you mean this to me. I can't deny that's attractive. There's no sense of unfairness about you. I mean, I always think everything's not fair, why why why, and you never whinge and never whine and never say anything's bad. You whine about little things- blisters, not having chocolate, walking too far- but never bigger things.

And you are attention seeking and far too loud and bouncy in all situations. I wonder how you'd be at a funeral?

But none of those seem like bad things, and you always know when you're seeking attention. I'd like to write an ode to you. I just wish you could know that someone thought this about you, that you're beautiful and wonderful and all the rest of that schmaltzy rubbish, because you'd be pleased. I wish I could send you something, maybe to tell you... maybe a letter. You'd never believe it, and you'd think you were being stalked. You might go after the wrong person entirely or think it was a cruel joke, but at least you'd have about two minutes when you'd know.

I need people to like me and tell me I'm OK.

Noone will at this point.

I need to stop comparing myself to everyone else and reassure myself that people out there still care and it's OK because I can't be happy all the time.

I just want to curl into a little ball and come out when life is better.

It's not going to happen though.

He wrote to me today. Just when I was thinking, god, all I need is someone to tell me I'm not awful or...

and he did. He said I should apply to acting school and I was good.

He's biased. He says all manner of terrible things too. But that little thing made me flutter for him again, and jesus, I don't even feel like that anymore but it's just because I need someone so badly at the moment. I also like the way he calls me by my surname. He felt so comforting when I lay next to him, so strong and soft and vulnerable as well, and just... but then I never felt perfectly safe in his company.

Here's the way I'll react to this.

It's good to have encouragement and support from someone.

But I don't have to fall lovingly back into his arms or anything about it. Any port in a storm, and I will ride this one out on the waves.

Another shit day.

Because I didn't do anything. Say I'd woken up early and drawn and done things, it would have been alright. But I didn't.

Anyway.

I wrote back to Successful friend, which compounded my feelings of uselessness, because she's so successful.

I told my Mum I felt shit about it, and she just said, well she's probably had her dad know someone.

This is crap for two reasons. Firstly, it isn't true, so makes me feel worse. And secondly, even if it was true, that implies I'll never get anywhere without father connections, or that it's only people with connections that get places, and that isn't true either.

I'm pissed off because I've done three work experience placements and noone cares enough to give me a job. I'm fed up because my friend has done one internship, albeit for a longer length of time but even so, and they think she is "fabulous" and have given her a brilliant job until christmas. Noone thinks I am fabulous. Noone thinks I deserve, because I don't deserve. I just feel useless, like I'm not keeping up, like I'm not up there.
And all Mum said to this was to stop feeling so sorry for myself (fair point) and that I was being hard on myself. I'm not being hard. I'm being truthful. I am just so shit that noone will ever take a second glance and I hate it. I hate the shit people make me do, fucking filing non stop, never giving me a chance, and I hate the way that the last work experience place said I was great but still wouldn't fucking take me because I didn't have a cunting course I could have done when I was eighteen. I hate that all I'm good for is shit jobs, and I'm not even wanted at one of them because I'm not the perkiest fucker in the fucking shed. I hate that everyone else is launching themselves on the world and I'm not. I hate my stupid fucking reaction, sitting here typing away when I should get off my fat arse and do something instead of just feeling crap.

But I feel so bad that all I want to do is sit and type or tell someone, but noone wants to know and noone cares and who should because this is self pitiful drivel, so it's best just to type it.

Fucking hell.

Thoughtpanic

Not even looking at her happy face can cheer me up because I can hear what the message girl would say about it in my head.

I've got to purge this panic about what everyone else thinks of me. Who cares? Who really and truly cares?

Here are some good things about today:

1. I wrote a letter.

2. People that go to the poor school can go onto be spotlight members.

3. I sent out CVs.

Don't hang about people that make you feel bad.

Just deal with people that make you feel good.

Good rule.

Bad day, just felt sludgy and failing.

Because I don't feel like anything.

Or I'm starting to doubt acting- will it make a big enough impact?

When people are sure about things I think I'm sure about I think why would they be sure in me, I'm so unsure, I never get it right... and now I panic, what if I'm wrong all about myself and I'm doing the wrong thing entirely.

I had a message today from someone I thought was funny, clever, a good actress and, I think, who holds me in general disdain. She was one of the girls everyone liked, and I wasn't. Because I'm so silly- and I fear she knows exactly how silly I am and contact with her reminds me of all my various shortcomings.

Some people are just born better I suppose. I can't handle the fact that I'm comparatively useless, or worse in every way, to her. Email was civil- but began that she was contacting me for something only. Not to be friends, make that clear, you will never be my friend you are not cool enough.

Maybe this is not what she thinks at all. And it's all just me.

And why am I wasting time thinking about it anyway, jesus I am so self-pitiful.

I rang the woman today to let her down and tell her I wasn't going.
Telling her didn't go well- she just said, OK, OK and put the phone down. I felt bad. I'd let her down and made her angry. But then I reasoned, it's better than going somewhere you don't really want to go for six months. Then I panicked about shutting off opportunities- and then thought again, you haven't kissed goodbye to travel, just one avenue out of millions of possibles. I concluded, you can't make everyone in this world like you. And that is certainly true, I just wish I'd got a handle on making people respect me.

Why does my heart feel so sad?

Because I make it so.

Because I am dishonest.

Because I am terrified of repelling people with the truth about myself and cover it up.

Because this makes me fear I'm never genuine.

Because I'm terrified people don't like me; I'm terrified I'm like my Grandma, or Frida Kahli- I'm just a tag on people feel they have to care for else she'd drop off the edge altogether. I think people must pity me. Because what's there to like? I try things. I... I'm too uncaring about what I'm doing I can't decide I'm stupid I'm creative but not good at it, not like other people are like, Flowergirl, and like JMCD. I'm not genuine and that's not why people will like me and I hate myself and I hate being me.

So stop it you silly pitiful little girl.

Start being who you want to be, start thinking how that girl acts and says and does. Stop whining and start being happy now, stop it and shut up.

I'm wearing black and I refuse to throw anything out
Bursting to brims with ideas to shout
All I want is you to let me out and flood
Over the world with you to make my mark
A tide of pearls glowing soft in the dark
I want to make my own way without interference
Or plans that beg for common sense adherents
I can't but I can and I've lost before I start
Because my life's planned out to break all their hearts
And I think that I've discarded or been left far back
I'm too old or juvenile with jaw oh so slack
I don't commit and I'm just far too dense
Perimeter's wide so bring on the fence
I'm thinking of too many things in a state
Just waiting for terrible cares to abate.

I know what to do so why don't I?

Combined times of loveliness and despair.

Despairing because I'm not sure that what I've always wanted is what I really want.

Rada workshop today; and I didn't do it as best I could, it didn't bring out the best in me and I couldn't stand for two hours. Am I not cut out to be an actress, am I not enthusiastic enough?

I can't tell whether she liked me or not. She knew me. She knew she'd rejected me I think. I hate that I'm not an honest person.

But I don't want to back out on all the things I thought I'd want, so... if I want to be a politician or a barrister or a foreign correspondent, I still can. If I want to be a journalist and change the world, I still can.

There are all these jobs... arts marketing. Bee is going into arts marketing, or academia, and I hate that I'm so jealous of her and my other friend that are doing so well. I'm a horrible person. I hate other people being happy, even when I like them.

It's just I can't see anything good about me.

Bee said today that I see something good in wherever I am. I think that about her. She's so lovely, and I am jealous but I'm aware.

Why haven't I got talent or intelligence? Why can't I even make a simple decision? Why do I feel like I'm utterly pointless and I can't function, please help me.

That's what I wanted to say to her this weekend. Everyone's got their opinion on what I should do and it seems so much better than my own, better thought out, better argued, with more conviction but I can't help feeling not right.

Maybe it's my own stupid contrary attitude.

I am stupid and stupid and horrible and I'm getting to detest myself. I just wish I was better. I wish I was direct like Bee and genuine like JD and clever like Bovine and relaxed like GeniusC and talented like Lady Macbeth.

And I hate myself for feeling jealous of all of them but I've really got no choice when I've got nothing for them whatsoever. I wonder what they're all doing wanting to hang about with such a silly inconsequential person. I suppose I'm not intimidating. I'm malleable. I'm funny and laughable. I'm a stop gap for when you haven't got anything else to do, a sort of puddle. I feel crap.

I want to be brilliant and intimidating and...

something other than what I am now, someone who's always feeling that what she's feeling is wrong, someone who always feels ten steps behind and racing to catch up. Someone everyone else has to advise, because she's so likely to screw up her own life and make the wrong decision that everyone else needs to tell her to do this, do that, don't waste it, chill out, step up, earn it, pay it, don't pick, you aren't thinking, find it out, do it this way, don't eat that, drink this.

I am not happy. And all I really want is to be happy.

I desperately want to tell someone all of this, not my parents, someone I can sink into and sob onto and weep with, that will say exactly the right thing which is? I don't know.

I think of BL and her perfect shape. She's small and goes in and out, and she's so springy. I always think of her as a light person. Long hair, big eyes, heart face. She feels so safe, she feels so right, and sleeping next to her was so easy this weekend. I never wanted to leave. Silence is easy, speaking is easy, does she think that too or did she want me to sod off? I wanted to roll over and hold her and tell her it all, though she advises me too, and not always the right thing but she cares.

I just need someone to hold onto, to cling to, to adore.

She thought she loved someone and he turned out to be addicted to hash and she couldn't. He had no ambition, just floating around not doing.

And I don't think she could ever love me. She gets bored of me, I can feel it, though I'm never bored of her and I feel cosy and comfortable and she said she likes lounging around cuddling on the sofa, and that's exactly how I think of her.

Maybe she thinks I'm silly and reckless and hates that I take MDMA on every odd occasion. I went out this weekend and I don't know how curious she was; I told her about it, and I offered that she could come, but I knew she wouldn't want to. I'd want her to come but only if she wanted, but I didn't want her to think I'd not want her there. I'd want her anywhere. I took it and saw her the day after; she asked how I felt and I said fine, but I was hazy that day, and I had jaw ache, which always happens because of abruxia. She did the perfect thing; took me out, made me beans and tortillas, which I was sorely in need of after a vegetable deficit. There and then I wanted to wrap my arms round her comfortable little shape and say, how did you know you brilliant thing? How did you know how I was feeling and what I needed? But there's every chance she didn't and was just some sort of coincidental selfish.

I don't offer her anything. I don't offer anyone anything except worry. I feel useless.

Horrible

The things that hurt most in no particular order:

She's got her head screwed on, she has

about bee from my mother. And I haven't. Has she? Scatty B. Whose parents can pay for her career, who didn't say things in the tone my mother said them.

You haven't thought about this

And a series of assailants on my dreams that tangle up the fine thread till I can't merge back through it.

Your dad was distraught last night after you said that about the tape

Why does what I think about a bloody tape matter so much, why is he so sensitive about a half-joke, why does he think I'm this complete and utter snob, why am I not allowed to express myself in exactly the same way that he does?

I know you aren't happy. You keep picking your chin.

I am happy. I'm not overflowing with joy but I'm reasonable. I'm anxious because people shit on my plans all the time. Parents shit on my plans all the time, to be more specific. And added to this insult, you're not happy and that is your fault for doing the WRONG DEGREE and your fault and your fault (the implicit statement added by me, I feel it, I feel the waste of money and time and effort and how disappointed they must be in me). And then there's also- you're picking your face. You are becoming ugly.

I hate it when they nag me because I know they are right. I wish they'd just back the hell off and let me have a little area of my life that noone intruded into. Now they're in it I want to prove them wrong by letting other people in who think it's OK- I thought Bee thought it was OK and now I'm not sure. Maybe she thinks I'm as stupid as Mum and Dad do. I hate it when people pity me, and people frequently do. Mum did all of tonight. She pressed her lips into this line and her eyes had a sad look, like they do when she sees a fat or homeless person, both of which I will surely become in her world. I hate it. I hate being a source of worry and disappointment and pity. Why can't I be happy and reasonable? Why did my argument consist of just backing down? And hers just upped the throttle. It wasn't a throttle. It's just because they care, but caring means they're destroying my dreams and making it impossible... to think about acting without thinking about them saying you can't you can't you can't and when people say it I can't say I can. It's not my life. It's theirs. And I want it to be mine.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

I am unrealistic and cruel and flaky and 'I thought we'd brought you up better than to be unreliable'. And I want to weep because it's all true, and now I'm just going to sink into a pit of my own despair as usual.

You haven't thought properly.

About drama school, about financing it, about WHAT HAPPENS AFTER AND MAYBE NEVER OWNING MY OWN PROPERTY (I'd rather have a job I like but the parents are sure this will change), about how much it will cost per week to live there and where it comes from.

In my head, I was going to work this year, maybe sell some illustrations, and use that money to pay fees. I'd have a further few thousand saved for rent, and a day job to pay for food.

But I don't know how many thousands are saved. And I don't know how much student debt I'm in. And I don't know how much it will cost to live where I want to go.

I am irresponsible and flaky.

I am. I am probably going to let someone down. Why isn't it OK for me to let someone down? And I only took the goddamn thing because the parents wanted me to so much.

I am not happy, after they financed me through a degree.

What did they expect? A degree then immediate joy when I have a shit job and nothing to look forward to except courses next year that they shit all over?


Why can't they just let me be. I'd be so much happier about researching things if they weren't breathing down my shoulder.

I'm cruel because I disdained a tape my dad offered. For god's sake, he's judgemental enough about our music and tv and we don't take it as if he's constantly putting us down. People always think they're sensitive and then are utterly insensitive to others.

I had made the best of a bad day. I was happy at half past eight. Now I just feel....

Like I don't deserve anything good to happen to me, and I am cruel and snobbish and disdainful though I thought I wasn't, and I don't know where I'm going and I'm not worth it because I've wasted a degree and who cares? Who on earth actually cares how I feel, and can show it in the right way?

Couldn't stop contemplating you

Ugh, it's what gets me through my job, little fantasies. I get tired because my job is all filing and no thinking, and that means that I let my mind drift.

I let my mind drift to a comfortable bed and your arms opening and mine too, where we're both crumpled and curled into each other with supine spines. Silent or talking slow and soporific, this is where I am most weekdays 9-5.

I want to be thinner because

I want to be good enough for them, and not to embarrass myself around them.

When I have short hair I feel more efficient, and a similar feeling comes from being thinner.

A horrible spiteful bit of me thinks, you want me to give up sugar Mum? Screw your halfhearted hints and your worry about how others are judging me. I'll look like a skeleton and then let's see.

Of course, the logical reaction would be to gorge myself stupid.

I won't have to throw out my clothes.

I'll feel more confident.

I'll move freer.

I'll have some control over something.

Here's what I'm going to do.

Be thin.

I will do this by:

Eating more vegetables and soups.

Walking more or exercising more.

Drawing more.

Sleeping more.

And then I will suddenly be a size 8-10 (England).

Tired triskaidekaphobe types.

Always the same, repetitive narcissist. You'd think I'd get bored.

I'd like

To wrap up cosy with you.

To take your hand watching fireworks.

To make you a set of songs that remind me of you. Pretty by the Cranberries would be one of the first.

To waltz with you in a bedroom.

To sit facing each other like book ends and touch your neck.

To have you accompany me on late night walks. Usually I hate anyone except me being there. But I would like you being there.

I want to let you into my little world and have you let me into yours.

Then there's you.

I try to imagine you but you're different. On facebook there's only six tagged photos of you.

I wouldn't know what to say if someone asked if you were beautiful. I couldn't say you were because I'd know the person's viewpoint and I'd know they'd think I was lying though you are to me, and there's so much to offer someone besides looks, like being intelligent and kind and funny.

I could say: she looks tender and vulnerable and sweet, and she covers it all with a brash exterior.

But you can't say that to anyone and everyone who asks.

I could say: she's lovely.

But that's a cop out.

I could say: we make a good pair.

And that is the best.

Charity is giving to oneself.

I might volunteer at christmas, just to escape the house.

I like volunteering. It makes me feel useful and that I'm doing something I want to do and being the person I want to be.

Lady of the House asked me to be part of a tableau today. I can't anymore. I can't be involved in drama that isn't absolutely what I want to do. It's destroying (melodramatic). It's not that I don't want to help, it's just that I want to be me as well. I can't compromise on this thing.

I want to draw

Centaurs and fairies on a snowy mountain

Child looking at the rain

Victorian suited children having tantrums

Give up sugar

Did you say it because you think I'm getting fat? Do you want to control that? Why do you worry about our weight so much? We can tell. I wasn't that chubby a child and yet I thought I was, and now, I can feel you being anxious about the way I look and the way I dress and...

It's almost worse than B's mother, who tells her outright she's too fat. Though I think she's perfect. It's all subtle, subtle because my Mum doesn't want to hurt, she just wants us to be happy, and so she'd never say I was getting fat. The way she goes about it is far more difficult to shrug off.

Or was it just because of my skin?

I walked five miles today. And overate.

I need to start controlling food again. Going home sends me like this, and it's not good but it's necessary to control something because I am currently expanding. But not to please her.

I am going mad.

I picture you

Lying sickly on a bed, and you just need me to read to you and stroke your hair and hold you. Why do I like that picture so much?

I'm so secretive and dark and unknown that I can't trust anyone who is simply open. I need someone like me, and I'd like to believe that Lady of the House is, because... of low self esteem and her battleaxe complex.

I could be wrong.

I want to know about you.

I saw Lady of the House last night. She can be boring and day to day and a zealot. I knew this.

I only fantasise about people in suboordinate roles, or when they need me and are meeker. Why?

Lady of the House is who I want to be when I'm older and I desperately seek her approval constantly. I want her to think I am worth bothering with.

The world doesn't seem to think I'm worth bothering with, but then why should it? Why should I have a job or people telling me I'm wonderful when there's no reason to do so? I'm such a narcissist.

I want to be Lady of the House, because she's got her own little kingdom and lives her life as she wants to and has lots of people around her. I think she's happy. She's got this amazing way of making people do exactly what she wants. Like casting a spell.

I want to ask her if she always knew what she wanted to do, and what she despises in other people (because there must be something). I want to know so that it reassures me; she wasn't always like that, maybe I can grow into someone driven and passionate not afraid to speak my mind, not afraid of being a real person.

I want to know for the joy of knowing about her. I want to see if I can get deeper in, but there doesn't seem a time to ask. And she hates asking about history, she doesn't like us asking others about their history before they came here because it might be painful, so is her history painful and maybe she doesn't want to talk about it or am I reading too far?

It's the shell again.

I think she dislikes me.

Why is it so important for me to be liked when the people I want to be like aren't necessarily always likeable?

I need to learn to go my own way and screw everyone else.

I'm just not sure that I'm right about myself, and I want someone to tell me I am right. But they can't because I should know I'm the only one that knows what I want.

Even Lady of the House can't tell me.

I haven't told her about my thespian ambitions. I worry she'd cannibalise them. She's so sensitive at times, then at others...

Not being allowed to be me.

I have this feeling a lot around my parents though I shouldn't.

They're supportive and love me and all the rest of it.

But I feel like they're cannabalising me.

If I tell them what I'm doing (going abroad, going to drama school) they assassinate it with questions about fees, contracts, where, what and who. Usually I have the answers, but it sucks all the fun out of it. Then they have their own little ideas on it when I just want it to be me, mine, for me. Not about them, but it always is.

And being angry. When Mum is angry, she wants everyone else to be angry. I'd left a glass of water on the worktop and she came and shouted at me for it, and my bedroom. And yet if I was that angry, I'd be told to cut down the melodrama. When she does it I sit in angry silence because saying something will only make it worse. Me being angry isn't a serious event. Her being angry is. It makes me feel about two years old, that my emotions aren't valid.

And the way they're proud of me for keeping this shit job when I want to jack it in.

And how Mum says I should cut down on sugar for a week to help with my skin. OK, I've got spots, fine, but why does she have to go suggesting? Why can't it be my decision? I feel like I've got no power at all over my life, no control, and they're making it worse than it needs to be by trying to be helpful.

And I'm such an ungrateful bitch, because I know that they are damn good parents but I just feel like crap.

I know, I know I know.

I'm leaning and leering far too heavily on what others think of me and on you.

I should decide for myself, whether to have this six months travelling or whether to prepare for theatre school with working and reading plays.

Then there's you. At the moment I'm telling you everything in a single paragraph, what's bothering me most about my little world. You're half responding. It's a strange thing, this sort of talking, but I like it. I don't think you're about to open up any time soon, though if you did it would be a miracle.

If I could be called anything else I'd like the name Magdalena.

Martirio has a nice sound to it, but the meaning's off. Angustias is out of the question. Amelia and Adela are too light and airy sounding. I'm undoubtedly Magdalena.

These are just ghosts that broke my heart before I met you.

There's a photo of you that makes you think 'no'. It makes me think, yes, you're so lovely. So kind and awkward and a bit confused looking, but happy, ish. I adore you, I wish I could say there's no need for you to think no about that photo. I see it and think something entirely different. Though I have photos where I think no. But then there's a scene I replay with you and me, you and me, you and me over and over and over... and a no isn't involved at all.

I saw her today

Lady of the House. Sounds like Florence Nightingale. She's got such a sweet happy name.

I thought I'd stopped feeling quite so much for her, but I must not. I walked into this cafe and there she was with a big group of people. She loves being with people. I saw her bending down and looking at her meal, and I thought maybe she wanted to be left alone so I stalked past. I'd been in the mood for a big meal but I was so jittery that I just had soup, which I regretted. I was so conscious of my movements, of what I was doing, of how I was. I sat fairly close to her. I wanted her to notice me, and part of me didn't. She did. I'd reached over to get a book and tried to settle to some drawing. Drawing and eating is difficult, and she really liked some of the things I'd drawn in the past- but I'd been so shaky, so feeling euphoric and high on her presence that I'd not drawn anything of any worth. She saw before I could move my book, and I thought, oh no, she'll think I'm rubbish- though I know her mind doesn't work like that. I thought, if she could see through those last two pages, she'd see her name and how much I rely on my estimation of her esteem. Two thin slices of paper, all it would have taken was a gust of wind, something to remove my hand from holding it, and a moment, and then, it would all be over.

There was no gust and my hand stayed put. Life's not a film. As soon as she came to chat, I realised that I must look like a complete loner- her with everyone, me without. I'm happy on my lunch break- I take it to escape people and to have time on my own to think, but she's a social being. What if her reaction was like my mother's reaction? That I'm sad for sitting alone and staring off into space, that it makes her sad to think of me that way, not being sparky or interesting. We talked, I like her still. She invited me to come to something tomorrow night, a charity thing. I'm still acolyte fodder, I know that but I watched her stalk off on heron legs. She's smaller than me, and we're inverse shapes; I carry weight on my hips, she does not. I watched her velvet skirt swish round skinny ankles in sensible shoes and thought, there you go, off to right the world. I'm so glad she's around. I thought how strange it was that our lives should collide. It's strange that anyone's lives collide, and lots of people must get this feeling with her because she's just so very...

But I was thinking, a baby born fifty eight years ago, a baby born twenty two years ago, and all the places we've been and gone, and all the things our parents did and told us, and grandparents, and great grandparents, and it all lead to us together, my clicking on that little link that opened up a webpage that opened up me to her, and she doesn't even know how much the collision means to me because she can't possibly feel it.

I wonder who she collides with?

Some people never say the words I love you, it's not their style to be so bold.

Aside from three decades, here's the difference between Kindness and the Lady of the House.

They're both so strong and intelligent and independent, but then, I know underneath there's this vulnerable person. In Kindness's case, it manifests itself in these wonderful awkward bouts of loveliness. For Lady, it's more confusion when someone tells her she's good, or good at something.

I wonder why she can't take a compliment. There's got to be something that's stopping her. I think it's something similar to one of my friends- she doesn't believe it because everyone says it to everyone, though, in her case, it's true. But oh, they're both lovely, and they need reassuring but not in the conventional way that reassuring's meant.

The Lady would have no problem saying the words I love you, if she did. Kindness, on the other hand, would have massive problems. I don't even know if she'd like to hear it. She would like to be shown it. She shows it herself, and that's more comfortable for her I think. I could live with that. Like I did with him, I'd just say it quietly into her hair one night as she was drifting off to sleep, all cuddled up with me. Just so I could say it, but she'd never have to return such an onerous gift.

It took a little time to get next to me

That's applicable to both of them. It doesn't take any time to be let into Lady of the House, but I think there's a little bit of her she keeps just for herself, that noone else knows about. I'd like to be let into that. Kindness is similar; she puts up more of a wall, but I know that once you're out you're out. I wish I could remember what we fell out about.

And you push me out to a state of emergency.

I went to spend a week with a friend abroad, and it was fantastic. And I think I will move out and go somewhere and do something other than being who and what I am now. I like Germ.

I will make a plan detailing the next half century. I make miniscule to do lists, but really the big picture... I'll realise I don't need the miniscule when I've got years and years.

I was imagining her, the Kind one, all of the nights. I just thought of how comforting she is. Unintentionally wonderful and kind, it's so lovely how she is. And you push me up to this state... I wonder what she would think if she knew what I was thinking? She would hate it, because she doesn't adore me. I don't know who she adores. I wish I did. It would give me more of a clue anyway.

I know I made her sad once and she'll not trust me again. But I adore her. It's a passing phase like everything. I'll never do something forever. Someone, haha.

I just want someone who is safe that I can love who loves me back, who is clever and kind and upright and yet still inexplicably somehow would love me in return. I am clingy when I'm this way. I'm silly and stupid and soft. Malleable and easily hurt and exactly the sort of person I'd hate, so how can I expect anyone to love me? I love people with tender intelligent vulnerability that expresses itself in strong facades. It's always the way. My heart beats that little bit more at a clumsy kindness or when she says why did they think I was brilliant, why, why am I good? It makes me want to say, oh you're brilliant you're put on a pedestal by me. It makes me want to take their hand and play them a beautiful song and say, that, that one makes me think of you dear. That's what would happen in a perfect poetic world, they'd soften and I'd soften, because outwardly I am a hard person and they can be scary but underneath I just know that they are safe. In the real world I tongue trip over my words recalcaitrant and truant my feeling for them.

We were just two lovers crying on each other's shoulders.

I like her because she doesn't interrogate my plans, she's just kind about them, and supportive, and her voice doesn't annoy me when she gives me advice.

I so badly want her approval. I'm such a silly goose, a funny ossity, a pathetic person. She'd like me more if I cared less, or would she? I don't know. I want to please her so I can please me, really, because pleasing her pleases me. Narcissist.

I wonder what she would say. I don't want you to be a role for me, I just want to be us together. I would like to invite her out somewhere.

She laughed with me the other day and tapped me on the shoulder, laughing. I'd made fun of her, and she blushed and tapped and laughed. Easy, and I made her happy. I brushed her on the stomach by accident. It's so strange that I remember every point of contact. She doesn't know that I don't hug or kiss.

I worry I don't sound authentic around her because she's so authentic, and I'm flippant and silly, though I really do mean it but I'm just not used to expressing feelings so very much. I worry I sound like Little Bird can, over-meaning, but not really meaning, though I do mean.

Another thing that worries me is that I won't be the best. Until now I've been the only person like me that sees her- the only person from outside the House. I was the only journalist, till the other one turned up. I had something. At meals she'd ask me what I thought to break the silence, that sort of thing. I don't know. It's not anything really. But last night there were tons of girls like me, tons of pretty girls impressed with her, all authentic that wanted to help properly and thought she was good. And I thought, I haven't got anything compared to them. I'm silly. They're cleverer and funnier and prettier and more sensible and more authentic and helpful. I shrank into myself, confronted with these people that I think will creep high into her esteem. If she doesn't think it already, she'll get bored with me. The others are better than me, and they'd replace me easily if I have any place in her affections.

I want desperately for her to like me more. I can't tell her. I told her that the girls I was talking to thought she was brilliant. So she knows. It's not that I think she'll embark on a relationship with one of them, it's just that I want my place in her heart, and I don't want other people to have it, or to be the same... it's that old selfish wish to be the best, the one and only. It must come from being the oldest, the precious only child that's then shunted aside. I do have these horrible jealous feelings. I am a horrible person. I should be happy so many people turned up, that they were cool, that they want to help, that it made her happy. I am happy about those things. I'm happy it made her happy. But there's also a piece of me that feels all those disgustingly petty things as well, because it's not easy for me to be the one and only me when there are fifteen other, better me's out there. I'm so stupid.

Sweet Painted Lady, seems it's always been the same, getting paid for being laid, guess that's the name of the game, oh.

I feel like everyone's interrogating my plans and not listening. I don't want plan interrogation, I just want the freedom to follow them. I know what I want to do (theatre school) is ridiculous, but even so, I feel young enough to give it a go. I'm not stupid. I know I could end up eking out a living as a god forsaken temp between incredibly infrequent roles, if any, but I can't help it. I just want it. I've said only once how badly I want it, and when I did I couldn't stop saying it. I don't want to seem that stupid again. It felt good to say it to someone though, to say I want this, this is me and this is what I feel, even though it didn't get me anywhere. Usually I don't say what I mean or what I feel but I did and it was good to feel it.

I had a dream a while ago about the Lady of the House. She was looking after a baby, and we were in town. It wasn't a child from either of us, we were looking after it; she was, anyway. She had a pushchair and an umbrella and all the paraphernalia that goes with children, and she said, look after the baby for a bit, I'm just going to do some things. We were meant to meet on a bus, but she was late, and though I had the baby I'd somehow lost everything that belonged to it; the baby was clothed and fine, but the pushchair and umbrella were gone. I can't remember if she was upset or not, but we did get on a bus, though I can't recall if it was the right one.

I never have lucid dreams, I never realise I'm dreaming. I get caught up in it. That's true of life as well, really.

The dream's to do with not knowing where I am in life and responsibility and not caring enough about inner child, or what's inside me, and thinking about someone I've got a crush on, and needing to declutter and strip it all back.

True dream.

Consider this, consider this.

I think I about hit it today. I had about 800-900, and ate some crap after that, but I don't think it was catastrophic. Let's say around 1300. Good.

I keep thinking of her, Lady of the House.

She of the bovine asked me how my romantics were going, but I can't tell her. I can't say, oh, well, I happen to have fallen for a woman more than three decades my senior, but I know nothing will ever happen, so I just fantasise. I can't say, I also like two girls my own age. I can't even say, for a time, dear, I thought you were the most beautiful creature. She's never loved anyone. She writes about transport and crashes a lot. I sound crazy. So I just say nothing is happening, which is accurate, but for it to be completely truthful I would have to add except inside my head. I don't think romance counts if it's all one sided. All of this is coming from me, and not from anyone else, and if I thought otherwise I'd be a stalker... I'm fully aware these are fruitless imaginings. But oh, what imaginings they are.

What role do you play for me?

She said she plays roles for people if they need her to. I'm wondering if she's playing one for me, then, can she see what I am and how I feel? She's had so much experience I must be utterly opaque, a translucide. I think she'd think what I'm feeling is dangerous and she'd try to keep me away more if she knew. I don't want her to play a role for me. I want to be her friend.

We're almost unknown quantities to each other and yet
I feel so very familiar because of that space between us
It's not quite politeness; because I'm in your life, but not in that way, too close
In the way I want to be. I don't want you to be a role for me.
I don't want to be a role for you. I wonder if we are friends or if
You're just working your spell on me; fairy Godmother
I think more Cinderella.
And I'll be the prince, though not really.
You're the rescuer but maybe I could
switch roles once in a while. Because I'm boyish
And I leap railings, and you're always by the hearth
Though well protected, no need for a valiant knight.
Because you're magic, sorceress of solace.
A carriage from a pumpkin and paradise from crumbled streets.

A carriage from a pumpkin and paradise on crumbled earth.

If you ever felt sad it would be because of the sadness in the world. It would be about big things. You've got a good view of yourself; brilliant but scary, well, I don't know if you agree with the brilliant bit but you wouldn't obsess over it; you just think, I'm not brilliant, I'll look to other people instead of in. I wish I could be like that. I loved how you asked, why, why am I brilliant, with a little pause when I couldn't see your face in the dark, a why-were-they-saying-that-you're-surely-making-up-stories-you-tricksy-journalist. If I don't think I'm ace I wonder why anyone would want to be around me and I always think I'm falling short of some goal; I'm not authentic and caring and driven like you, and my friend, I'm not sarcastic and witty like she of the Bovine, I'm not beautiful or thin or particularly remarkable in any way. I'm not the funniest. I'm not the best. I want to be. I don't really think that people respect me, but maybe that's because I need to respect other people. I'm awkward and silly and narcissistic, and I always do or say the wrong thing out of all the things that could be said or done. I'm wishy washy and far too malleable to what people think of me, and that's stopping me from being the person I want to be. But somehow you don't seem to mind too much. You'd not write this about yourself, would you? You're the best without wanting to be. You just want to make the world better, and if it's good for you so be it, if it's bad then that's fine too. I wish I knew what you thought of me, properly thought. If I could have anything I'd love a list of the things you think about me.

But then, I want to look into you. I want to know funny things you did as a child, and what your middle name is, and whether you were good at sports or if you hated them and what you loved about school and what your nickname in the playground was and to see old pictures of you when you were my age, and were you addicted to something because of how you are about it now, or was it parental problematics, alcoholics maybe? How many pillows you sleep with and if you snore and when you started drinking coffee and what your children are doing now and how often you talk to them and what happened to their dad, though that's prying. It's all sticking my nose in. But I want to know all about you dear.

You said tonight, when you've been in hospital for a bit... so have you been into hospital? What for? Children, probably, but then something else too, I think, from how you said it. Where's the scar? There's a scar on your wrist, just one, you talked about self harming and I just thought, no, she couldn't possibly, no no no. Probably a burn from one of those huge saucepans.

I'd like to be the one you talked to about it. I'd like to be the one that gives you something, I want to give you things, I want to shower you with kindness and wrap you in affection, but that's stifling. I'd like to give you a penny encased in glass, like a paperweight. I'd like to give you a load of sketches of the House and you and some poems as well, good ones, though I don't know which are and aren't good. I'd like to give you books and cakes and things I've made and a hand knitted scarf, though I can't knit. I'd like to put on a play for you, just for you, just to show you, I'd like to sing you a song if my voice isn't too annoying. I'd like to show you some new music I think you'd like. Neutral Milk Hotel and Beirut and India Arie and maybe Aretha Franklin, though you know her. All of these things I want to festoon you with that are of no use to you, or that you wouldn't like. They're all little bits of myself, that's why I'm so pleased that you liked the posters, it's because I'm appliqueing bits of myself to you, though you don't see it that way. Donating things that I like, or sticking them to you? I know what's nicer but I don't know which I'm doing because I know I am jealous and vindictive sometimes... You need what anyone could provide, and with more sense than me, a good capable pair of hands, and I can be that, just about... If this was the other way round, you feeling everything and me feeling nothing, you'd expel it by working harder at the things you want to work at, you'd not speak to me till it was out of your system, you wouldn't want to expunge yourself onto me like I'm doing onto you, you'd just be happy for me to have anyone, or someone. You'd try to make me happy with someone else.

I want to talk to you about what I should do. What would you think about theatre school or journalism or illustrating or going abroad? I think you'd say go abroad. I can do the rest anytime, anytime, or no, you'd say do what you think is right. You'd give me good advice. You're someone that's never irritating. How do you manage that? I want to be one of those people. Those sure-footed people that never make a mistake and come out with egg on their face, I seem to be the opposite category, always silly and stupid and not catching on fast enough.

I can imagine you lying awake worrying. I would say to you, you are helping, lots and lots, darling, you need to leave some of yourself there as well. I want to glide into a single breath, and take you soft in my arms and mould to your shape for you to find comfort in. You might feel guilty because you had me and others have noone, but there's another thing neither of us can help, and even if it's a scenario that never comes true you certainly deserve someone. That's what I want. It won't happen, but it's ludicrous. I live in hope. I have an image of the two of us at Christmas, round her wood burner. I'd read to you and you'd read to me and we'd eat something and fall asleep wrapped round each other. Maybe we'd go on a walk. We'd swap hats and dance round frosted streets like Fred Astaire and walk in mittened silence, happy with each other. People would think, oh, there goes a boy and his Mum. We'd know different.

Food today:

an apple-30
curry-400
a wispa-210
chocolate-200
pasta and 3 pcs garlic bread-400
ice cream-150

and I did walk a lot today. So it's.. 1400. I walked three miles. Skipped, walked, ran... I do that a lot when I'm listening to music.

Lady of the House.

Saw her tonight, along with lots of other people. I hadn't met the other people before and I was terrified of them, but I didn't want her to think I was, so I tried to make conversation with them. They were my age, and achingly cool.

They were all saying how brilliant she was.

One girl said she liked my hair. It wrong footed me, this compliment, and I responded with, "Do you?" not quite believing, but she really did. People mostly say my hair is cool. It's short, and it used to be red but it's dulled to a browny-red. I can't fathom what's so good about it, unless it's in comparison to the rest of me. Is it her face, her figure, herself, her clothes? No it's her hair. Hair, out of those, really is the least. Then, if someone thought my face was cool, they couldn't say so. It would sound strange to say it. Isn't that weird? Maybe people think I've had cancer. I am very pale. Maybe they think my hair is cool because I've overcome some sort of disease.

I hope Lady of the House doesn't think I'm silly. She took me through to meet a journalist- I didn't know that I wanted to- but she laughed with me and I felt so priviledged to be taken away from the crowd. Silly, because if anyone else had spent as much time around her and been as keen as I am she would have done the same. It's not me that's special, it could be anyone. I told her everyone else thought she was brilliant, and she said why, and I said, because you are. The way you say things is good. She said, sometimes I'm a bit scary, and I muttered, well, sometimes you have to be scary to get your point across. Then she showed me my posters, and she was happy and so was I. I like her a lot. She's brilliant. Everyone knows it. I just think it a bit too much. I adore her.

A love story.

We're laid entwined but you say, I feel too heavy, you are digging into me with ribs and hipbones and I can feel your breathing lungs.

So I say, it's fine, I am strong and I like where you are.

And you say I am too big, too heavy for you, I'll crush you. I can't sleep thinking I'll crush you.

I say you do no harm. There's a pause. I say you are the perfect size, and you aren't hurting me.

You get up and cross the room. I think you're going to the bathroom, but you stop in front of the mirror and make a face. You think I am asleep. I say, come back to bed, sleep grates on my voice and you say, in a minute. I heave my sleep sodden legs out of the quilt and brave the arctic cold of the room to sit by you in front of our dressing table. Your belts and my bangles strewn across it. You are looking down at your hands. I put a hand underneath your chin and tilt it towards me to kiss you, but you pull away.

"I don't feel pretty".

"Noone thinks they're pretty in this day and age darling, but you are perfect to me".

You laugh. I put an arm around you and you lean your head on my shoulder. There's a bang as you contact my clavicle, but we're nested in each other. "Perfect, perfect. You make me feel safe and cared for. I want to make you feel good, good, as good as I feel."

You smile and say I would if I was different. I stroke your stomach and dapple my fingers along the outlines of your face. You flinch at these touches, because you don't like specifics about yourself. You bury your head into my chest. You're warm and you smell of soap and shampoo. I inhale the comforting scent of your hair, and kiss the top of your head. "Come back to bed". I take your hand and pull you over. This time I don't argue when you lie down first and pull me into an embrace. I fall into soft arms and you say, it's just that I'm not happy with myself. I say I understand. I let you touch my neck and my thighs, just to show you, that you and only you can touch me there and I'll be alright with it. Not other people. You say it's difficult to believe anyone thinks this about you, when everyone else has told you different. I say they are lying. And do they matter now anyway, here, in this safe place? You come home to me, I say. You make a murmuring in the back of your throat, and I respond by sighing to express contentment. I trick my fingers through yours and say I am so happy, here and now. You're luminescent. I put a finger tip to your cheek and feel it wet, and make a clucking. I draw myself closer into you. I want to be underneath your skin to weed out all of the bad that you think about yourself. I let you cry until we both fall asleep, but I whisper, perfect perfect perfect, you are perfect, a charm to try and soothe you.

Funny day

Lots of bits of food, and I did a bike ride and walked for 2 hours as well. I will do the same every day. I like walking about.

Lovely Thing.

A girl I used to adore did something lovely and thoughtful for me today. She found a job she thought I'd like, and asked one of our friends to send it to me so I wouldn't think she was interfering.

It was beautifully done. She's such a strange fish, this girl. Her Mum wasn't wonderful, she lives with her grandma when she's not at University. She goes to weightwatchers. I didn't think she cared, but obviously, all through school, she must have. I found that sad. She was one of my closest friends. We fell out over something I can't even remember. I used to adore her, she's prickly and sometimes she's silly and ridiculous and even judgemental, but she was a big part of my life.

I am going to

Apply for a BBC course
And some theatre schools

The BBC before I go away on holiday, that's the 15th.

Send off my illustrations. It would be beyond amazing if they actually got anywhere.

Lose some weight. I hate feeling like this. I will lose weight by doing more exercise and eating smaller portions. I just don't need all that food, not at all. In the meantime, I will wear comfortable clothes, because wearing too tight ones makes me feel depressed and I don't move about as much.

I thought about her when I ran, and what she would think of me running, and wondered if she ever ran. I can't picture her running. Only in a funny way, she wasn't a sporty person, I don't think. She might be the sort of person that was really good at one sport, but never cared enough about it because she cares more about relevant things.

My Mum thinks I could be a runner. I do tend to athletic- broad shoulders, flat chest, substantial, tall, long stride. The fact is, though, that I haven't got the stamina or the skill- I run too much like a woman, I mean, overly feminine, flapping hands and turned out feet. I don't when I play netball, that's different because I've got purpose- I need the ball, or I need to defend- but just running I find really difficult. I probably could be good at it, but the effort required isn't worth the minimal pleasure I'd get from it.

Overate AGAIN I blame my shit job.

Here's what I ate during the day:

two biscuits
a truffle
an apple
a sandwich (butternut squash and stilton)

then I had:

some sultanas
two chicken wrappers- I don't know how many this is. I'm betting about 400
Pieces of chocolate, probably amounting to about 200.
sultanas
1/2 a slice of bread
biscuit pieces
chocolate chips
Altogether most likely another 200. I ate something else, as well as the sultanas... I can't remember. So I've had at least 1500 calories today. I also went on a run. It's simply not good enough.

However, here are some good things:

When I went for a run, my silhouette looked long and lean and purposeful. I liked that. It might not have been reality, but it's a version of what reality could be one day.
When I got back and removed my jumper my sister said, oh, your collarbone. Not in a bad way, she was just surprised it was there. My brother said it was disgusting, Mum said it was elegant. My brother said I looked like a stick wrapped in lard.
I felt good after the run.

Now she rides the circus wheel with your dark brother wrapped in white.

The fourth fat day in a row, of eating for comfort when I'm not hungry, just in anticipation of boredom.

Tomorrow it's dance, so I won't eat before that. Thursday I will draw. Friday its party time. Saturday I have to buy birthday presents and then go to another party. What I really need is another job, and to get these drawings out to the publisher and some others to the art shop at University.

I looked at the wanted adverts in the papers today. Seeking. Men seeking women, women seeking men, women seeking women. I found a fifty seven year old bisexual. She of the Bovine and I used to laugh at them; now I'm starting to wonder if she's advertising. Lady of the house. She's not the sort that would. I found myself hoping she was seeking. I wouldn't care if she had placed and ad, or if she hadn't.

I had a long sleep today and feel like I haven't properly woken up. There's just too much; too much sleep, too many carbohydrates, too many jobs to apply for for a better wage and too much boredom altogether.

Starting.

I've started a new job I hate. I've ate too much for the past three days, far too much and I feel fat.

I hate feeling fat.

There's always tomorrow to make it better.

I will get back to Blue Remembered Hills.
I will illustrate and get a bar job to subsidise theatre school.
I will keep looking for work.
I will start a mature theatre group.

She's started to leave me a single kiss at the end of emails.

It's such a silly thing to hang myself up on. I thought maybe she always did it, so I checked, previous things she'd sent and she hasn't. Three times now. Her name, then x. It means more because I never put x. Not when I don't mean it. But she doesn't know this, so maybe I will start putting x for her.

I'm not mad. I know that there isn't the slightest chance that the x could mean what I want it to mean. It's something she puts to anyone she's acquainted with, something friendly and loving without being over-effusive. She means it the same way that she means a touch on the arm and a big hug and asking me about my life.

It's just at night that I sometimes like to pretend she means something else. Like when she pretends she's living in Paradise, when she pretends a pumpkin's a carriage. I don't doubt she could make those things come true if she wanted. I can't. I haven't got the magic, but I can pretend.

All when I'd want to keep white roses in their eyes. Eyes.

One, two, one two three four.

I love the song Holland 1945, as is evident from the title of this post.

I'm not even feeling so much for her anymore... I don't know myself.

I do. I can.

Goddamnit

Overate today, don't feel my very best.

Starting data entry tomorrow. Remember, it's only a year. Then theatre school.

Sometimes I wonder if I really want to go. I really do. But then people get enthusiastic about me doing other things and I think, oh, maybe I'm not right about what I want. Maybe they know better because they're wiser or because I don't know myself.

Maybe I should just not worry, because even if I make the wrong decisions about myself, I can say at least that I have made them and noone else has. And who knows me better than I know myself? Noone.

Here are the people I still want to tell about theatre school:

three of my friends from University, the two that complete our set of five and one that's a brilliant actress.
Lady of the House.

The latter is a silly choice. Lady of the House would wonder why I would want to... or she wouldn't. She might think that I'm silly, or drifty or flippant about my life choices. I'm just trying to be realistic.

It might be nice to have her as someone I could take things to, to ask if I was doing alright or not with scripts or whatever.

It might be damn awful and I'd get as nervous as I do in front of Mum and Dad.

Silly girl.

I think that what's important is that I know you trust me. That makes me feel like I'm worth something to someone good. I don't care if you don't feel the way I feel about you (though I do) as long as you just trust in me, and think that I'm OK. I so desperately want your approval.

Your prettiness is seeping out from the dress I took from you.

Yesterday's was around 1500. Not too good.

So far today:

muesli-260
a biscuit--70
smoothie-70

I want something soft.

I want softness in my world. I want encouragement.

But why should I expect it? What have I done that warrants it? Nothing, I am not special and there is no reason that I should have softness and comfort when so many others want it. The answer is to look to help other people, because what you provide comes back to you.

I had an argument with my Mum last night because she stayed up late. Night time is the only time I get completely to myself, and I needed that bit of time, and I didn't get it, and it made me angry, and Mum said I was acting like a spoilt brat and we couldn't even have a proper argument about it because I didn't want to make her angry.

If I think about how she is feeling... it would have been different. She just wanted to sort out some tax things. I should have said it differently.

I felt like I was just being ignored, like I didn't matter. I wondered if I wasted away again if it would make any difference; of course, it wouldn't but in my mind, thin equals unreprehensible. I just wanted time on my own. I share a room. Mum's always saying how bad she feels about this but she obviously doesn't feel so bad that she'll let me have a bit of time to myself. That's the main crux of what makes me feel furious.

I turned my thoughts to her. Magic. She's so... she isn't soft but she doesn't make me feel bad. She is a source of something. She liked my posters. I liked that they had a point for her. She makes me feel like whatever I am, I am needed. Though maybe she only needs me for being a body, for just being there, but then doesn't everyone just need someone to stand about, that's what work is all about but I don't want to think of her as that mercenary.

She makes me feel like she isn't judging me though I do think she is. I want her more than anything. I imagined curling round her at night. I wonder if she thinks I am silly. I desperately don't want people to think I am silly, but they must. They must.

365 posts, 366th.

Eating today:

raisins and cream-15o
ham, cheese lettuce sandwich-300

450
1/2 cup of muesli in tea-added raisins-200
some grapes-60
beans on toast-400
660

a cake-150
smoothie-100
250

700 plus 660- 1460. Bearable. I also went to dance today, so that's some burning off, but I'm a bit hacked off it wasn't less. I could have ate less. I could have ate more.

Tomorrow I am going to go into town, see an agency, buy a present for my friend from the heritage stand on the market, look at carbonizers.

sibyl suspended inanimate

One of my favourite lines from something I wrote. I don't know what to write, this is really just for triskaidekaphobic ritual.

What a glorious face I have found in this place.

Sip tea on your patio, you sit in the sun, if I do that I'm done and I stay in the shade. I'll help you and you'll feed me, I say the wrong thing and you forgive, I work and you watch. What must you think of me? I'm tall and pale and a wimp sometimes. I don't want you to think I'm girly or ineffectual or chubby. Maybe you do.

Mollusc Monoverse.

Anemochore- the dispersal of seeds by wind.
ascidium- shaped like a flask, used for plants in biology
locular- containing chambers or hollows.
funiculate-forming a narrow ridge
Glissade
perdure-to last permanently

They track solemn over darkling tarmac flatlands.
Locular houses aback, an anemochral procession over
Sticks and stones. No bones to break. Funiculate
their path with a slow glissade. Perdurance is not theirs.
The crows will have them from a height tomorrow.
Or else schoolboys with salt or dead rubber shoes.
Tonight they cavort, feelers out from the grass
The morning brings smears, splayed shell asphalt cast.