Where should I find it? In my own creativity. My auditions are tomorrow and I am terrified. The first and the second, the first and the second.
I want this so badly, this mark of approval that my head heats and beats blood about the space above my ears. I feel full of it.
So I shall write about little bird instead.
I hope she is not sad; all I want to do is to bond her to my shoulder and clean her tears. I do not care that she cuckolded her last boyfriend; she never loved him. One of my friends commented that she sells herself to the wrong audience; that is right. She goes to crap nightclubs and meets men there; she should at least aim for a more intelligent audience that's suited to her. I don't think I would be perfect for her; I am aware that this is all fantasy. But I do want her to be happy, and I don't think that happiness comes from associating with people that play, "fat or pregnant" about her behind her back. Oh Little Bird, I adore you fat or thin. You prefer yourself thin; I prefer you happy, that is all. I'd not let you wait till you were thin. I'd stroke your stomach and your soft thighs and kiss them, which would not make you worry less, but would show you that you are worthy of adoration.
Monday 31 March 2008
Saturday 22 March 2008
Eating so far.
Half a bowl of salad-200
two almond biscuits-100
a smoothie-120
I could eat something else now. I think I will.
two almond biscuits-100
a smoothie-120
I could eat something else now. I think I will.
Friday 21 March 2008
Ho Hum.
food today:
2.5 slices of pizza and salad-300
half a pint of bitter-90
some crisps and nuts-100
ice cream-200
chocolate-200
apricots-200
vegetable stew-300
1400. and walking. I suppose it could be more.
I need to do some work today. I won't probably unless it's creative writing. I wanted today to dance with him and then nestle into him; though he can be cruel. I just remember that he's let me and only me under his jacket, so he trusts me; and I adore that about him, though there's so much that irritates and angers me with him too. He feels so safe, but really he isn't.
I thought of her today driving home. She wouldn't feel so safe to collapse into; she's the sort that I'd want to cover with soft warm things and to hold close. To stroke her hair and tell her I'll always be here. She's such a pretty carved elfin beauty.
2.5 slices of pizza and salad-300
half a pint of bitter-90
some crisps and nuts-100
ice cream-200
chocolate-200
apricots-200
vegetable stew-300
1400. and walking. I suppose it could be more.
I need to do some work today. I won't probably unless it's creative writing. I wanted today to dance with him and then nestle into him; though he can be cruel. I just remember that he's let me and only me under his jacket, so he trusts me; and I adore that about him, though there's so much that irritates and angers me with him too. He feels so safe, but really he isn't.
I thought of her today driving home. She wouldn't feel so safe to collapse into; she's the sort that I'd want to cover with soft warm things and to hold close. To stroke her hair and tell her I'll always be here. She's such a pretty carved elfin beauty.
Thursday 20 March 2008
Goneril
Is she scared? Is that why she loves Edmund?
I think she is bullied; she's seen her father love the others more, and she knows that the only way she gets attention from him is to fulfil her role as eldest, a sort-of second best male heir. She gets recognition when she takes control, when she shields her emotions; and here, she is doing that. She isn't being faithful to Lear as he is now, but rather to what he taught her as a child, that to be strong the throne should be preserved. She's built up her own family in her court (and that's why she's defending it from these infiltrators) and in Oswald; her real family have rarely been that to her. She is scared; but she wouldn't show it. She's sad about the decline of her ruler father, but not in a fatherly way. She's cut off from the others.
Not only this, sir, your all licensed fool but other of your insolent retinue do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth in rank and not to be endured riots.
Ok, so the fool is causing trouble; but this isn't anything I am unused to. I have to talk over him. I am disappointed; this is merely an example. I'm frustrated; I shouldn't be, but this acts as a reiteration of childhood neglect; the fool is more important than you.
Sir, I had thought by making this well known unto you to have found a safe redress; but now grow feared by what you yourself too late have spoke and done, that you protect this course, and put it on by your allowance, which if you should the fault would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, which in the tender of a wholesome wheal might in their bidding do you that offence which else were shame, that then necessity must call discreet proceeding.
He always used to listen, at least a little to me. He was a great ruler; he should know that allowances are being made that should not be tolerated. At sir, I think he moves away from me; which gives me course to command the imperative, "Sir!". I stay on the spot; I would not move to him.
Come sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom whereof I know you are fraught, and put away these dispositions, which of late transport you from what you rightly are.
More kindly in tone. I am remembering that I do admire in him qualities of wisdom; am I maybe even scared for myself? That I'll go the same way? I want him to recover some of his sense to make this easier for me.
This admiration, sir, is so much the savour of other your new pranks, I do beseech you to understand my purposes aright, as you are old and reverend should be wise.
He isn't biting, so I reiterate the first point forcefully yet strongly.
Yet here you do keep a hundred knights and squires, men so disorderd, so debauched and bold that this, our court, infected with their manners shows like a riotous inn.
It's OUR court; not my court. Interesting. Trying to bring him into rulership, it's an issue of purity; an issue of what is making my space unclean.
Epicurism and lust make it more like a brothel or a tavern than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak for instant remedy.
These two sins are what I cannot abide. They must be fixed; there cannot be shame, we must be strong. Note the we. It isn't his shame; it's ours. Our house- Goneril is loyal. Especially to Edmund.
Be then desired by her, who else may take the thing she begs; a little to disquantity your train, and the remainder, that shall still be left to be such men as may besort your age who know themselves and you.
I turn to leave at this point; the unspoken threat hangs in the air. I am worried about having made the threat, but glad that I have said it, and glad that there is honesty now after the speech I gave in the first act.
You strike my people, and your disordered rabble make servants of their betters.
I could turn back round and say this to Lear, but I stand and look off. He merely must know that I mean this. I am a lioness.
I think she is bullied; she's seen her father love the others more, and she knows that the only way she gets attention from him is to fulfil her role as eldest, a sort-of second best male heir. She gets recognition when she takes control, when she shields her emotions; and here, she is doing that. She isn't being faithful to Lear as he is now, but rather to what he taught her as a child, that to be strong the throne should be preserved. She's built up her own family in her court (and that's why she's defending it from these infiltrators) and in Oswald; her real family have rarely been that to her. She is scared; but she wouldn't show it. She's sad about the decline of her ruler father, but not in a fatherly way. She's cut off from the others.
Not only this, sir, your all licensed fool but other of your insolent retinue do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth in rank and not to be endured riots.
Ok, so the fool is causing trouble; but this isn't anything I am unused to. I have to talk over him. I am disappointed; this is merely an example. I'm frustrated; I shouldn't be, but this acts as a reiteration of childhood neglect; the fool is more important than you.
Sir, I had thought by making this well known unto you to have found a safe redress; but now grow feared by what you yourself too late have spoke and done, that you protect this course, and put it on by your allowance, which if you should the fault would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, which in the tender of a wholesome wheal might in their bidding do you that offence which else were shame, that then necessity must call discreet proceeding.
He always used to listen, at least a little to me. He was a great ruler; he should know that allowances are being made that should not be tolerated. At sir, I think he moves away from me; which gives me course to command the imperative, "Sir!". I stay on the spot; I would not move to him.
Come sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom whereof I know you are fraught, and put away these dispositions, which of late transport you from what you rightly are.
More kindly in tone. I am remembering that I do admire in him qualities of wisdom; am I maybe even scared for myself? That I'll go the same way? I want him to recover some of his sense to make this easier for me.
This admiration, sir, is so much the savour of other your new pranks, I do beseech you to understand my purposes aright, as you are old and reverend should be wise.
He isn't biting, so I reiterate the first point forcefully yet strongly.
Yet here you do keep a hundred knights and squires, men so disorderd, so debauched and bold that this, our court, infected with their manners shows like a riotous inn.
It's OUR court; not my court. Interesting. Trying to bring him into rulership, it's an issue of purity; an issue of what is making my space unclean.
Epicurism and lust make it more like a brothel or a tavern than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak for instant remedy.
These two sins are what I cannot abide. They must be fixed; there cannot be shame, we must be strong. Note the we. It isn't his shame; it's ours. Our house- Goneril is loyal. Especially to Edmund.
Be then desired by her, who else may take the thing she begs; a little to disquantity your train, and the remainder, that shall still be left to be such men as may besort your age who know themselves and you.
I turn to leave at this point; the unspoken threat hangs in the air. I am worried about having made the threat, but glad that I have said it, and glad that there is honesty now after the speech I gave in the first act.
You strike my people, and your disordered rabble make servants of their betters.
I could turn back round and say this to Lear, but I stand and look off. He merely must know that I mean this. I am a lioness.
Fat fat fat.
How I always feel at home. I have ate so much food, just perpetually snacked. I don't know how to get the train tickets either. Argh. I'll sort them out tomorrow I think.
I am watching Judi Dench be utterly inspirational. I wish I was that good. Well, the more I watch excellence, the more I shall be able to attain ultimately.
I am watching Judi Dench be utterly inspirational. I wish I was that good. Well, the more I watch excellence, the more I shall be able to attain ultimately.
Old lady on a bus.
I sat next to a woman with a purple sagging lip on the bus today. At first I wondered if she was haughty, because I was occupying a seat demarcated for the use of the elderly/invalid (and indeed, she was in posession of a fine set of black wheels attatched to a bag). But there were no invalid elderly to occupy said space, and I realised that it's merely bus protocol; you don't need to sit and chat anymore. So then I thought I should tell her how lovely her hat was; it was one of those Russian-type fur ones, in a beige, classic beige. Then I decided that a conversation would be warranted; and I wasn't in the mood for talking. What would we discuss? I detest langourous small talk. Yet, I still wanted to comment on the aforementioned hat. So I would thus tell her a few stops before disembarking, to avoid the prospect of chitchat. Just as the point came, that I had decided on, I glanced at her ear and saw she was wearing a hearing aid. So, most likely, she wouldn't hear the compliment; she'd think I was insulting her, I might scare her, we might be forced to have a screamed altercation for the entire bus to hear. She might even actually be Russian, and hence most unlikely to understand what I was saying and more likely to conceive that I was about to mug her.
The hat went uncommented on; but she asked me if I could move so she could get off the bus at exactly my stop. She seemed really lovely. I should have done it.
The motto of this meandering narrative is probably carpe diem, or don't be scared.
The hat went uncommented on; but she asked me if I could move so she could get off the bus at exactly my stop. She seemed really lovely. I should have done it.
The motto of this meandering narrative is probably carpe diem, or don't be scared.
Wednesday 19 March 2008
Bird again.
If I could, darling, I'd metamorphose to become you. I'd shed my blunt features and lack of stamina; I'd put on that layer that's seperating you and the world at the moment. We'd create our own ovoid space together, yolk and white. I don't know which I'd be.
I am watching Judi Dench at the moment; I wish I could act like that. Not act exactly as she does, but to have the sort of confidence and innovation in my performance that's so evident in hers. I should just pick one way, make it my own and make it right. She's so very believable. I watch films and I'm aware, they aren't real life; they're like a beautiful version of it that makes sense, where everyone's emotions are set out and played perfectly, so that they look beautiful, not the people but rather the emotions themselves. People in real life aren't a jot like they are in films.
I am watching Judi Dench at the moment; I wish I could act like that. Not act exactly as she does, but to have the sort of confidence and innovation in my performance that's so evident in hers. I should just pick one way, make it my own and make it right. She's so very believable. I watch films and I'm aware, they aren't real life; they're like a beautiful version of it that makes sense, where everyone's emotions are set out and played perfectly, so that they look beautiful, not the people but rather the emotions themselves. People in real life aren't a jot like they are in films.
It isn't fair.
Everyone famous is pretty when they're young (the women, anyway) and I know that maybe when I'm older I'll look back and probably think I was comparatively stunning; but that doesn't mean that right now, at this moment, I'm not the prettiest pork on the shelf. I'm fairly ugly; probably in the twentieth percentile of my age, if not lower. It isn't fair; why do the other eighty percent get to be beautiful, when I've got nothing except hyperactivity to get me by? Ugh.
To regard others on one's own level is to respect them.
This was a point that Dogville tried to make; that we must hold others to our own standards; to do otherwise is arrogant, because you're implying they're not worthy of your standards.
Good point. But Nicole Kidman kills them; she does what they do to her back to them. She becomes them instead of merely judging them. To judge is fine; to mete out punitive measures is to become something else altogether. To inflict your own belief system onto others lowers you to their level. And after that, you haven't got the right to judge them anymore, really; you've made yourself into that other thing. You have to be destroyed because they are. Though, being re-absorbed into the Mafia circuit is a kind of destruction of what Grace was, I suppose.
I can't propose another solution, because they should have been punished, and I was glad they were; I only know that to kill a village was not the right way to do it, and it wasn't for the right reason.
Good point. But Nicole Kidman kills them; she does what they do to her back to them. She becomes them instead of merely judging them. To judge is fine; to mete out punitive measures is to become something else altogether. To inflict your own belief system onto others lowers you to their level. And after that, you haven't got the right to judge them anymore, really; you've made yourself into that other thing. You have to be destroyed because they are. Though, being re-absorbed into the Mafia circuit is a kind of destruction of what Grace was, I suppose.
I can't propose another solution, because they should have been punished, and I was glad they were; I only know that to kill a village was not the right way to do it, and it wasn't for the right reason.
Metamorphosis
I was watching (of all things) grand designs, and I got an idea for a story. The people were stripping back a victorian barn to its skeleton and reforming it; and it was described as a metamorphosis, as something sloughing its skin. It's made me think about
Writing a book from a perspective of a building
Writing about a mythic metamorphosis in terms of sloughing an old skin
Maybe metamorphosing from a building to a person, or even a person to a building.
I should work on this right now.
I ate so much today that I am metamorphosing into nothing more than a blob. I need to get this under control right now.
I did pick out two monologues today. And I think I've improved the Goneril. And I might sing Chicago at my audition (what would they want us to sing though?).
Here is what Goneril wants:
to grasp power in the kingdom. To wrestle it from an unsound mind, who is not even really her father anymore; who always preferred her prettier, better sister. What is wrong with being pragmatic?
Here is what Tillie wants:
To make the house nice. It isn't nice. But one day it maybe will be, because it was... but after all, there's no sense in was or were because there's no going back, so I might as well make the best of it.
Here's what Mama Morton wants:
To be Queen, which she is. Life is a game that she's playing. It's a loveless life; but money can buy you love. And I am Queen.
Oh if only I could metamorphose into a life with gothic cornicings and a sharp angular body to match.
Writing a book from a perspective of a building
Writing about a mythic metamorphosis in terms of sloughing an old skin
Maybe metamorphosing from a building to a person, or even a person to a building.
I should work on this right now.
I ate so much today that I am metamorphosing into nothing more than a blob. I need to get this under control right now.
I did pick out two monologues today. And I think I've improved the Goneril. And I might sing Chicago at my audition (what would they want us to sing though?).
Here is what Goneril wants:
to grasp power in the kingdom. To wrestle it from an unsound mind, who is not even really her father anymore; who always preferred her prettier, better sister. What is wrong with being pragmatic?
Here is what Tillie wants:
To make the house nice. It isn't nice. But one day it maybe will be, because it was... but after all, there's no sense in was or were because there's no going back, so I might as well make the best of it.
Here's what Mama Morton wants:
To be Queen, which she is. Life is a game that she's playing. It's a loveless life; but money can buy you love. And I am Queen.
Oh if only I could metamorphose into a life with gothic cornicings and a sharp angular body to match.
Tuesday 18 March 2008
Too much, too much.
I came back home today; I don't know. I always feel so fat here; today, for example, I ate
a cookie
two oranges
broccoli and pesto and tortellini
That's about six hundred.
before leaving.
then:
1.5 krispy kreme doughnuts
vegetable stew
some mini oreos
a banana
probably 800. Not terrible but not brilliant. I must do better.
The plan for tomorrow is to go and buy some new shoes, to go out walking, to practise my monologues and do some housework.
I might also get in touch with friends. I definitely will.
Parenting methods.
The one mine used was to ignore what I did when I was bad and to show me attention when I was good. It's meant to be a good method, but I'm not so sure. They've turned out proud of me. I would show more anger, though. There is nothing so awful and frustrating as being ignored; it tells you that when something is going wrong, or you're not pleased, that noone cares, nor will care. It is saying, you aren't allowed to be angry. So does smacking; but in a different way. I wouldn't smack. I want my children to be respectful of me but not terrified of me, or inable to express emotion. I'd never ignore them. Ignoring is a terrible, terrible way to parent, and I hate it.
a cookie
two oranges
broccoli and pesto and tortellini
That's about six hundred.
before leaving.
then:
1.5 krispy kreme doughnuts
vegetable stew
some mini oreos
a banana
probably 800. Not terrible but not brilliant. I must do better.
The plan for tomorrow is to go and buy some new shoes, to go out walking, to practise my monologues and do some housework.
I might also get in touch with friends. I definitely will.
Parenting methods.
The one mine used was to ignore what I did when I was bad and to show me attention when I was good. It's meant to be a good method, but I'm not so sure. They've turned out proud of me. I would show more anger, though. There is nothing so awful and frustrating as being ignored; it tells you that when something is going wrong, or you're not pleased, that noone cares, nor will care. It is saying, you aren't allowed to be angry. So does smacking; but in a different way. I wouldn't smack. I want my children to be respectful of me but not terrified of me, or inable to express emotion. I'd never ignore them. Ignoring is a terrible, terrible way to parent, and I hate it.
Monday 17 March 2008
Dogville.
I watched it and ate another 200 calories.
He makes me feel so fat, and only by being honest; but I am never that honest with him, never, not like he is. He is cruel; others are honest without being horrible. He can be horrible and think he is kind; it is a fault. He touches me in a way that makes me conscious that I am fat, then says I am neither fat nor thin. He cannot see how it upsets me to be broad (though part of me is glad about this, because it means that maybe noone else knows either).
I hate him sometimes, his arrogance and patronising nature. A break will be good for us. I don't want to spend another three months with him somewhere we can't escape each other. I will tell him, no.
1300 so far then.
Dogville is interesting; I admire Lars Von Trier, and I like the Dogma95 principles, but only if some film makers, not all, adhere to them. What's the spice of life if not variety? I got a bit bored, but I was interested throughout- it took a while to get going though. Nicole Kidman is overrated- she's pretty much the same in every role. I'm angry Nicole, sadist Nicole, Virginia Woolf-nosed Nicole... there's not much variation there.
But she did show me a new way to do the script.
Lauren Bacall is beautiful too.
I might go out tomorrow and be in character. I might do Calphurnia's speech. I need a book of monologues; no. I will settle on one within the play I chose, and one from Lear or Calphurnia.
I just need a quiet place to do it in. It's not fair. My brother can play his guitar as much as he likes without fear of repercussions; but if I was to stand and act out a monologue, or to do a speech, they'd think it was ridiculous or pretentious or something stupid and pointless. But it isn't to me. I care so very much about acting, and that's why I'm sad about the video. That's why.
Anyway, I can do better without a shitty script. When a writer can't handle criticism, no wonder his work is awful; when he hears only what he wants to hear. I cannot tell him how truly bad his work is.
He makes me feel so fat, and only by being honest; but I am never that honest with him, never, not like he is. He is cruel; others are honest without being horrible. He can be horrible and think he is kind; it is a fault. He touches me in a way that makes me conscious that I am fat, then says I am neither fat nor thin. He cannot see how it upsets me to be broad (though part of me is glad about this, because it means that maybe noone else knows either).
I hate him sometimes, his arrogance and patronising nature. A break will be good for us. I don't want to spend another three months with him somewhere we can't escape each other. I will tell him, no.
1300 so far then.
Dogville is interesting; I admire Lars Von Trier, and I like the Dogma95 principles, but only if some film makers, not all, adhere to them. What's the spice of life if not variety? I got a bit bored, but I was interested throughout- it took a while to get going though. Nicole Kidman is overrated- she's pretty much the same in every role. I'm angry Nicole, sadist Nicole, Virginia Woolf-nosed Nicole... there's not much variation there.
But she did show me a new way to do the script.
Lauren Bacall is beautiful too.
I might go out tomorrow and be in character. I might do Calphurnia's speech. I need a book of monologues; no. I will settle on one within the play I chose, and one from Lear or Calphurnia.
I just need a quiet place to do it in. It's not fair. My brother can play his guitar as much as he likes without fear of repercussions; but if I was to stand and act out a monologue, or to do a speech, they'd think it was ridiculous or pretentious or something stupid and pointless. But it isn't to me. I care so very much about acting, and that's why I'm sad about the video. That's why.
Anyway, I can do better without a shitty script. When a writer can't handle criticism, no wonder his work is awful; when he hears only what he wants to hear. I cannot tell him how truly bad his work is.
Angry today.
Because of my tiny room. Why did I let this happen to me, why didn't I say something sooner?
Today I ate:
Sugar puffs and yoghurt-200
broccoli, pesto and tortellini-400
Chicken Pizziola from subway-500
1100. Ok, tomorrow I will eat my subway biscuit. Well, maybe later, if I get really hungry.
I didn't really drink enough water today.
I found a good play called, "Into the Night" by Ger Duffy. It's so sad. I might do it for drama school; if I can do it without an Irish accent. I do want to go to drama school, but I'm doing it more for the accolade of being able to say I could get in. If I can get in, I will be happy that I can pursue a career.
Home will be boring but here is too. I don't know.
I feel like I need to do creative writing, but I can't think of anything at all to write.
I think of you at night and your softest wrinkled fingers next to mine, I'd rub cream onto them for you. I'd enfold you into my arms and let you lie beside me. You're beautiful, though you don't believe it.
If I were a selkie, and lived in the sea, I'd slip off my skin so you'd be next to me. I'd take it out to tide and let it float away, so I'd be there with you all night and all day.
And because you are whole, and firm, and soft too, and you fit into my arms so easily, your head is just the height of my shoulder. Because I can feel the clear bone of your forehead through your tanned skin. Because you're adorable when you think you look your worst in your glasses and comfy clothes, and because I feel the most for you when you think you are being your worst, sad, and silent. I don't mind your being silent. I don't mind your being sad. It makes me feel you trust me.
At least for this little while. I do adore you now, I know you can be annoying, but I adore you. I do I do.
Today I ate:
Sugar puffs and yoghurt-200
broccoli, pesto and tortellini-400
Chicken Pizziola from subway-500
1100. Ok, tomorrow I will eat my subway biscuit. Well, maybe later, if I get really hungry.
I didn't really drink enough water today.
I found a good play called, "Into the Night" by Ger Duffy. It's so sad. I might do it for drama school; if I can do it without an Irish accent. I do want to go to drama school, but I'm doing it more for the accolade of being able to say I could get in. If I can get in, I will be happy that I can pursue a career.
Home will be boring but here is too. I don't know.
I feel like I need to do creative writing, but I can't think of anything at all to write.
I think of you at night and your softest wrinkled fingers next to mine, I'd rub cream onto them for you. I'd enfold you into my arms and let you lie beside me. You're beautiful, though you don't believe it.
If I were a selkie, and lived in the sea, I'd slip off my skin so you'd be next to me. I'd take it out to tide and let it float away, so I'd be there with you all night and all day.
And because you are whole, and firm, and soft too, and you fit into my arms so easily, your head is just the height of my shoulder. Because I can feel the clear bone of your forehead through your tanned skin. Because you're adorable when you think you look your worst in your glasses and comfy clothes, and because I feel the most for you when you think you are being your worst, sad, and silent. I don't mind your being silent. I don't mind your being sad. It makes me feel you trust me.
At least for this little while. I do adore you now, I know you can be annoying, but I adore you. I do I do.
Sunday 16 March 2008
My pale beauty.
A cringeworthy post.
I never know whether to trust you or not; but you are beautifully bovine. A strange one; but you are. Large eyes. So lovely. I think I would rather your face than mine darling.
I did want Little Bird today, she who I can be so silent with and so gracefully still. I want to hold her and to let her tell me each and every little thing that ever was wrong, or ever is wrong, and I would hold her and stroke her hair and say that even if this or that is so, it does not mean that all is lost. And I would let her cry, and not say "sssssh", and never lie.
I'd like to take her to the tiny grassed area near my house with the trees in it, early in the morning, and we could run about there. We'd climb the tree that was such a struggle when I was seven, eight, nine and we'd sit and discuss. Or sit in quiet. I'd like most of all to stroke her hair and kiss her pretty mouth, to make her smile. Then we could go back and eat toast for breakfast, and then walk to a shop. I could take her on a bike ride along the canal or show her all the places I used to go so often. We could find a playground and do balancing, or if it was a rainy day, after the walk we could sit inside and watch a film or laugh at cheap paper magazines. We could cook dinner or lunch. We are happy in each other's company; and if her family does not appreciate her, or does not like her, then she should come to share mine. They won't be hers. I am not assuming they would ever be hers, but I would let her share them as a temporary half replacement. We'd have a big dinner and we'd go off to bed, chatting in each other's arms, quiet till the morning rays.
I never know whether to trust you or not; but you are beautifully bovine. A strange one; but you are. Large eyes. So lovely. I think I would rather your face than mine darling.
I did want Little Bird today, she who I can be so silent with and so gracefully still. I want to hold her and to let her tell me each and every little thing that ever was wrong, or ever is wrong, and I would hold her and stroke her hair and say that even if this or that is so, it does not mean that all is lost. And I would let her cry, and not say "sssssh", and never lie.
I'd like to take her to the tiny grassed area near my house with the trees in it, early in the morning, and we could run about there. We'd climb the tree that was such a struggle when I was seven, eight, nine and we'd sit and discuss. Or sit in quiet. I'd like most of all to stroke her hair and kiss her pretty mouth, to make her smile. Then we could go back and eat toast for breakfast, and then walk to a shop. I could take her on a bike ride along the canal or show her all the places I used to go so often. We could find a playground and do balancing, or if it was a rainy day, after the walk we could sit inside and watch a film or laugh at cheap paper magazines. We could cook dinner or lunch. We are happy in each other's company; and if her family does not appreciate her, or does not like her, then she should come to share mine. They won't be hers. I am not assuming they would ever be hers, but I would let her share them as a temporary half replacement. We'd have a big dinner and we'd go off to bed, chatting in each other's arms, quiet till the morning rays.
I am so very easy.
Because I can fall for anyone if they are honest to me (even if it hurts) and if they make themselves vulnerable.
Today I argued with him; I argued because someone criticised his script. I said they were a good scriptwriter, and he should heed the advice; he didn't think so and even went so far as to say I was vain because I only thought she was a good scriptwriter because I had the main part in her newest script. I could have responded by telling him that if I was vain, I'd have said the same about his scripts- then he said I was playing devil's advocate, which is what he does to dismiss all of my points. I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn't. He can be such a tosser. But he is honest and vulnerable.
Anyway, I went to see The Other Boleyn Girl with one of my best friends; who actually knows me, and about me and Bombazine. I do not know what euphemism I should call her by; she's acerbic and sharp but sweet. So pale, and docile looking. Melancholic. Anyway, she had a talk to me; she said her Dad doesn't contact her but does her sister. She's so lovely; she deserves better. She said she didn't know, sometimes, why we liked her; I told her later that it was because she was sharp, clever, funny, witty, and kind but without people knowing it, because she's honest. She is pretty too; I told her that this wasn't on the why I was friends list though. I just wanted to touch her and say it'll be alright; but then, she told someone else because they're unflappable. I just said that I thought she was right, and it was wrong that she has to stifle her anger, and that her Dad was in the wrong. We read each other's creative writing, and we were honest (but it did not hurt) and we were vulnerable. And I adore her sometimes. I think she tells me what she thinks is the truth; but she fights with so many people that I can't ever trust her completely. Why does she fight with them, why do they all argue with her?
Today I ate:
a cookie-210
chilli con carne without rice-600
some crisps-170
some chocolate and cream-200
a half pint of lager-100
a tangerine-20
1300.
I walked to town and back, and around town.
I feel a little sick. I will eat more vegetables tomorrow. Yesterday was 1100. Or maybe 1000.
My waist measures 28.5 inches; but there's a horrible flabby overhang.
Today I argued with him; I argued because someone criticised his script. I said they were a good scriptwriter, and he should heed the advice; he didn't think so and even went so far as to say I was vain because I only thought she was a good scriptwriter because I had the main part in her newest script. I could have responded by telling him that if I was vain, I'd have said the same about his scripts- then he said I was playing devil's advocate, which is what he does to dismiss all of my points. I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn't. He can be such a tosser. But he is honest and vulnerable.
Anyway, I went to see The Other Boleyn Girl with one of my best friends; who actually knows me, and about me and Bombazine. I do not know what euphemism I should call her by; she's acerbic and sharp but sweet. So pale, and docile looking. Melancholic. Anyway, she had a talk to me; she said her Dad doesn't contact her but does her sister. She's so lovely; she deserves better. She said she didn't know, sometimes, why we liked her; I told her later that it was because she was sharp, clever, funny, witty, and kind but without people knowing it, because she's honest. She is pretty too; I told her that this wasn't on the why I was friends list though. I just wanted to touch her and say it'll be alright; but then, she told someone else because they're unflappable. I just said that I thought she was right, and it was wrong that she has to stifle her anger, and that her Dad was in the wrong. We read each other's creative writing, and we were honest (but it did not hurt) and we were vulnerable. And I adore her sometimes. I think she tells me what she thinks is the truth; but she fights with so many people that I can't ever trust her completely. Why does she fight with them, why do they all argue with her?
Today I ate:
a cookie-210
chilli con carne without rice-600
some crisps-170
some chocolate and cream-200
a half pint of lager-100
a tangerine-20
1300.
I walked to town and back, and around town.
I feel a little sick. I will eat more vegetables tomorrow. Yesterday was 1100. Or maybe 1000.
My waist measures 28.5 inches; but there's a horrible flabby overhang.
Saturday 15 March 2008
Dream a little dream of me.
Oh darling, I am so sorry I didn't see you off.
I wanted so much to see you happy and glad, you would have been, because you improvised the script and everyone thought you were funny then. You are funny, and clever, and beautiful. I would have told you. Now you are skiing. I hope you're happy.
I don't want you to go to a doctor. I want you to tell someone all about it, and then to make it better for yourself.
I'd like to fall with you into a tangle of limbs and soft caresses. Cliche. I just want to make you feel so, so good.
I wanted so much to see you happy and glad, you would have been, because you improvised the script and everyone thought you were funny then. You are funny, and clever, and beautiful. I would have told you. Now you are skiing. I hope you're happy.
I don't want you to go to a doctor. I want you to tell someone all about it, and then to make it better for yourself.
I'd like to fall with you into a tangle of limbs and soft caresses. Cliche. I just want to make you feel so, so good.
Gurning and yearning.
Ah. Lots of lots.
Last night he said he didn't expect me to be so broad, especially in comparison to the Architect, who is so narrow shouldered. He said I had muscular arms; he was trying to compliment me. It didn't work. I just felt like the incredible hulk- he said it suited me. I don't want to suit it though. This is exactly the feeling I want ever to avoid giving Little Bird, who left yesterday. I was meant to see her off but I couldn't. That makes me feel desperately sad. I wanted to hug her and make her happy, though I probably couldn't do that. But I could have let her know I cared about her.
I took some MDMA last night; I've had cocaine and weed in the past too, but this is the first time on a pill. It was wonderful. I had an excellent time; I just wanted to dance forever. As I don't usually become overly discursive, I didn't blab my heart out, I just was happy to chitchat to whoever about all manner of things. I convinced an Irish man that I was Irish, which impressed me no end. Now I feel a bit tired and spacey.
I never worry that I'll get addicted to drugs. I really should. It's bizarre that I think it's bad to take paracetamol (I think it's a placebo that just gives you headaches and makes you more dependent on it) and yet I'm fine to experiment with things. I do it with people I trust. I used to have a rule I'd never buy... but last night I did. I just had such a good time. I know that's the problem, you have a great time, you want another and another... I would do it again. I'm not going to do it forever though. It makes you not eat as well; I've had about five hundred calories today, and it's six pm. Which is only a plus for me. I might be ravenous tomorrow though.
It made me gurn, it made me clench my jaw, but nothing worse than that.
Yesterday I ate:
salmon and rice-500
salad-50
a lindor egg-150
700
some cake-300
some soup-200
two bits of cake-300
800
1500. That's ok.
Today I ate a pot of pesto salad (400) and two teaspoons of chocolate sauce (60) and a teaspoon of cream (40).
I could have danced all night. I bet Eliza Doolittle wasn't on crack though. Well, neither was I.
I'd never tell my parents. My Dad would accept it, but be worried and maybe disappointed. My Mum would be worried sick. I'd tell them if I was addicted, but I'm not about to blather it all out when I'm just experimenting- I don't think they want to know. It would be like discussing sex with them- they tell you the basics and you work the rest out. My Mum works with drug addicts, and she'd be terrified I'd waste my potential and end up homeless. I think she expects that I'll experiment though.
Last night he said he didn't expect me to be so broad, especially in comparison to the Architect, who is so narrow shouldered. He said I had muscular arms; he was trying to compliment me. It didn't work. I just felt like the incredible hulk- he said it suited me. I don't want to suit it though. This is exactly the feeling I want ever to avoid giving Little Bird, who left yesterday. I was meant to see her off but I couldn't. That makes me feel desperately sad. I wanted to hug her and make her happy, though I probably couldn't do that. But I could have let her know I cared about her.
I took some MDMA last night; I've had cocaine and weed in the past too, but this is the first time on a pill. It was wonderful. I had an excellent time; I just wanted to dance forever. As I don't usually become overly discursive, I didn't blab my heart out, I just was happy to chitchat to whoever about all manner of things. I convinced an Irish man that I was Irish, which impressed me no end. Now I feel a bit tired and spacey.
I never worry that I'll get addicted to drugs. I really should. It's bizarre that I think it's bad to take paracetamol (I think it's a placebo that just gives you headaches and makes you more dependent on it) and yet I'm fine to experiment with things. I do it with people I trust. I used to have a rule I'd never buy... but last night I did. I just had such a good time. I know that's the problem, you have a great time, you want another and another... I would do it again. I'm not going to do it forever though. It makes you not eat as well; I've had about five hundred calories today, and it's six pm. Which is only a plus for me. I might be ravenous tomorrow though.
It made me gurn, it made me clench my jaw, but nothing worse than that.
Yesterday I ate:
salmon and rice-500
salad-50
a lindor egg-150
700
some cake-300
some soup-200
two bits of cake-300
800
1500. That's ok.
Today I ate a pot of pesto salad (400) and two teaspoons of chocolate sauce (60) and a teaspoon of cream (40).
I could have danced all night. I bet Eliza Doolittle wasn't on crack though. Well, neither was I.
I'd never tell my parents. My Dad would accept it, but be worried and maybe disappointed. My Mum would be worried sick. I'd tell them if I was addicted, but I'm not about to blather it all out when I'm just experimenting- I don't think they want to know. It would be like discussing sex with them- they tell you the basics and you work the rest out. My Mum works with drug addicts, and she'd be terrified I'd waste my potential and end up homeless. I think she expects that I'll experiment though.
Thursday 13 March 2008
My essay is complete, referenced and I'm checking it.
Today I ate:
A bowl of cereal-180
an unfilled profiterole-20
two biscuits-300
And it is 14:45.
Last night I went to see Little Bird in her play; it wasn't very good. She's upset about it; I found her crying afterwards. I went and told her it was fine; she did the best she could with a constrictive part. She feels ashamed, but she shouldn't. We went out to eat and she told me it isn't just that, it's lots of other things too; I don't know what things. She could tell me if she wanted to.
I held her and stroked her hair and told her it was fine. I don't pity her. I admire her, almost, for doing what she can. She feels; I don't know what she feels, but it isn't good. It isn't good at all.
I am feeling ugly and fat. And stupid, of late.
A funny thing happened; I do not like my neck. The rest of me is too fat, but my neck is tendons and bone and adams apple, almost, it's vile. My friends are getting to know this (I wear an inordinate amount of polo necks) and they tease me. I showed them it last night and Little Bird said, "stop doing that weird thing". I didn't realise I was tensing- I was- and it made me laugh that she was trying to make me feel better rather than to heighten the complex. She's lovely.
Here are the things I must do before I leave:
Return the wild library book
Pack
Cast my play.
A bowl of cereal-180
an unfilled profiterole-20
two biscuits-300
And it is 14:45.
Last night I went to see Little Bird in her play; it wasn't very good. She's upset about it; I found her crying afterwards. I went and told her it was fine; she did the best she could with a constrictive part. She feels ashamed, but she shouldn't. We went out to eat and she told me it isn't just that, it's lots of other things too; I don't know what things. She could tell me if she wanted to.
I held her and stroked her hair and told her it was fine. I don't pity her. I admire her, almost, for doing what she can. She feels; I don't know what she feels, but it isn't good. It isn't good at all.
I am feeling ugly and fat. And stupid, of late.
A funny thing happened; I do not like my neck. The rest of me is too fat, but my neck is tendons and bone and adams apple, almost, it's vile. My friends are getting to know this (I wear an inordinate amount of polo necks) and they tease me. I showed them it last night and Little Bird said, "stop doing that weird thing". I didn't realise I was tensing- I was- and it made me laugh that she was trying to make me feel better rather than to heighten the complex. She's lovely.
Here are the things I must do before I leave:
Return the wild library book
Pack
Cast my play.
Wednesday 12 March 2008
Essay is a quarter done; the rest looks like it won't be fun.
Lord, I was in a terrible mood last night. Everything seems easier in the morning though; I got up early, and though I'm knackered now, I'm hoping it'll last till night and then I'll get back into a sleeping pattern alright.
Here is my eating so far today:
Breakfast-
hot cross bun-200
raisins-70
milky drink-100
4 sweets-70
soup-180
an apple-40
-440 and 220 makes 660. Not so shabby as yet, and it's half past three. I can be.
I also ate:
a brie sandwich with salad-400
a couscous salad from nandos. The website says 220, but I'm not sure I trust it.
All in all about 1300. Hmmm.
Here is my eating so far today:
Breakfast-
hot cross bun-200
raisins-70
milky drink-100
4 sweets-70
soup-180
an apple-40
-440 and 220 makes 660. Not so shabby as yet, and it's half past three. I can be.
I also ate:
a brie sandwich with salad-400
a couscous salad from nandos. The website says 220, but I'm not sure I trust it.
All in all about 1300. Hmmm.
Tuesday 11 March 2008
Goneril; A serpent's tooth of a child.
I am exactly as she was. My perfect part, he said. Yes, it is, it really is. It's the part for the bitter, the twisted, the self involved who'll never be a pretty pretty heroine. I never am the heroine. Damn, I'm hardly even ever the antagonist.
Just slightly heavier of jaw, of figure, of tread than her pretty sister Cordelia, and not even as apt at seduction as Regan. A little less sympathetic, a little more spiteful than the protagonist heroine. But she still feels the same.
Just slightly heavier of jaw, of figure, of tread than her pretty sister Cordelia, and not even as apt at seduction as Regan. A little less sympathetic, a little more spiteful than the protagonist heroine. But she still feels the same.
I have started counting again.
Today's eating:
small hot cross bun-200
smoothie-180
apple-40
carrot and cheese sandwich-400
yo sushi comprising of:
vegetable rice-260
omelette and watercress sushi-199
a pancake-135
3chicken cubes-200 (800)
800 and 800 is 1600. That's around what the superskinny people eat. But stil 400 over count. I suppose I walked to campus and stuff.
Anyway. I saw Little Bird today, and she's annoyed with herself. I want desperately to make her feel better. People keep asking me if I'm alright; I am worried, but not about anything I'm not usually worried about. This deadline looming is a concern (Thursday).
Our mutual best friend (the other member of our triad- Meerkat, maybe) was sad today because her hamster died. I was sad too for her; she's really cut up about it, but then I thought about Bombazine sitting in the middle of us, whose Dad is dead (he died two years ago), and that made me feel angry with Meerkat for caring too much. She's very senstive, she anthropomorphised the animal; I haven't had that much of a connection with an animal. Maybe when I was seven, with my rabbit; but human deaths are so much more pressing, I think. I couldn't empathise, really. I am sad that she is sad, and I acted the empathy, because I know she would for me.
Little Bird is frustrated that she feels she's falling behind in all of her seminars and that she's not as bright as she used to be. I get this feeling all the time. I don't think that this is it though. I think that there is more. I do care desperately about how she feels in herself.
And I feel shit about myself, no good at acting, no good at food, no good at figure or face, no good at being honest or being a good friend, or being in a relationship even, no good at essays, no good at waking up, no good. Self-indulgent. I have to put where I feel somewhere, and I don't want to tell anyone else because they will just say I'm stupid, and privately agree, I am sure. I must be bad at acting, not to get a part. I must be. I must be awful. This brings a lump to my throat and makes me want to cry.
He's always so goddamn excited about other people; excited about millions of girls. There's the young architect that's fantastic at drawing and acting and stage setting and making us laugh, who is "so nice," and so pretty. There's Lice Mutton, whose father is head of a paper, who is pretty and the best flirter he's ever seen, and clever and driven and interesting. There's Work Experience in our play, who he adores for her sunny disposition and luck of the draw birth with her contacts. There's the good organisers, two of them, one of whom he thinks is pretty and wonderful. There's Little Bird, the funniest of all, and so pretty and kind, and good at socialising. There's the girls in the play, all pretty, all funny, all wonderful actresses. There's Cultist with me, who he is so excited about casting that I pale into insignificance. I haven't been as good as usual in rehearsals and I know that he is probably disappointed; especially as cultist two is devastatingly beautiful, and a fantastic actress that intimidates me to hell. I'll pale even more alongside her. We are wearing magenta robes; and they will look wonderful on pretty her, and hideous on me. I know how it is. Women like me are comedic, all the time; with my face, can I be anything else, and girls like her are the beautiful parts everyone takes seriously. Oh, but I'm "so good at comedy". I don't fucking care. Just a few times I'd like to be the girl in the serious role. I have been; but only when a kindly director takes pity on the ugly one. He said I was a six but I know that I am a two, maybe worse. I know I shouldn't do this. I know he thinks I'm funny and maybe even attractive, but when he ruminates over all of these I just feel like I'm worth less. Not worthless but worth less than all of them. I'm no good with people, I am not as good at drawing or stage setting or whatever as the Architect, I'm not contacted (though I don't care as much about this one) and I'm bad at organising. Needless to say, I am not pretty. He sometimes tells me I am attractive, but that is different. He doesn't respect me. I suppose I don't really respect him, but I want his respect. And he always tells me I'm a good actress but this is an utter lie; have I ever gotten anything I really and truly wanted? It's disproved by circumstances. And that I'm a good judge of character; but this is only because my views fall in line with his. He also tells me I'm self indulgent, and that my breath smells, and that my skin is bad.
I know that I'm no good. And yet I keep trying. I feel like crying now, but I don't do that. I might scream instead.
small hot cross bun-200
smoothie-180
apple-40
carrot and cheese sandwich-400
yo sushi comprising of:
vegetable rice-260
omelette and watercress sushi-199
a pancake-135
3chicken cubes-200 (800)
800 and 800 is 1600. That's around what the superskinny people eat. But stil 400 over count. I suppose I walked to campus and stuff.
Anyway. I saw Little Bird today, and she's annoyed with herself. I want desperately to make her feel better. People keep asking me if I'm alright; I am worried, but not about anything I'm not usually worried about. This deadline looming is a concern (Thursday).
Our mutual best friend (the other member of our triad- Meerkat, maybe) was sad today because her hamster died. I was sad too for her; she's really cut up about it, but then I thought about Bombazine sitting in the middle of us, whose Dad is dead (he died two years ago), and that made me feel angry with Meerkat for caring too much. She's very senstive, she anthropomorphised the animal; I haven't had that much of a connection with an animal. Maybe when I was seven, with my rabbit; but human deaths are so much more pressing, I think. I couldn't empathise, really. I am sad that she is sad, and I acted the empathy, because I know she would for me.
Little Bird is frustrated that she feels she's falling behind in all of her seminars and that she's not as bright as she used to be. I get this feeling all the time. I don't think that this is it though. I think that there is more. I do care desperately about how she feels in herself.
And I feel shit about myself, no good at acting, no good at food, no good at figure or face, no good at being honest or being a good friend, or being in a relationship even, no good at essays, no good at waking up, no good. Self-indulgent. I have to put where I feel somewhere, and I don't want to tell anyone else because they will just say I'm stupid, and privately agree, I am sure. I must be bad at acting, not to get a part. I must be. I must be awful. This brings a lump to my throat and makes me want to cry.
He's always so goddamn excited about other people; excited about millions of girls. There's the young architect that's fantastic at drawing and acting and stage setting and making us laugh, who is "so nice," and so pretty. There's Lice Mutton, whose father is head of a paper, who is pretty and the best flirter he's ever seen, and clever and driven and interesting. There's Work Experience in our play, who he adores for her sunny disposition and luck of the draw birth with her contacts. There's the good organisers, two of them, one of whom he thinks is pretty and wonderful. There's Little Bird, the funniest of all, and so pretty and kind, and good at socialising. There's the girls in the play, all pretty, all funny, all wonderful actresses. There's Cultist with me, who he is so excited about casting that I pale into insignificance. I haven't been as good as usual in rehearsals and I know that he is probably disappointed; especially as cultist two is devastatingly beautiful, and a fantastic actress that intimidates me to hell. I'll pale even more alongside her. We are wearing magenta robes; and they will look wonderful on pretty her, and hideous on me. I know how it is. Women like me are comedic, all the time; with my face, can I be anything else, and girls like her are the beautiful parts everyone takes seriously. Oh, but I'm "so good at comedy". I don't fucking care. Just a few times I'd like to be the girl in the serious role. I have been; but only when a kindly director takes pity on the ugly one. He said I was a six but I know that I am a two, maybe worse. I know I shouldn't do this. I know he thinks I'm funny and maybe even attractive, but when he ruminates over all of these I just feel like I'm worth less. Not worthless but worth less than all of them. I'm no good with people, I am not as good at drawing or stage setting or whatever as the Architect, I'm not contacted (though I don't care as much about this one) and I'm bad at organising. Needless to say, I am not pretty. He sometimes tells me I am attractive, but that is different. He doesn't respect me. I suppose I don't really respect him, but I want his respect. And he always tells me I'm a good actress but this is an utter lie; have I ever gotten anything I really and truly wanted? It's disproved by circumstances. And that I'm a good judge of character; but this is only because my views fall in line with his. He also tells me I'm self indulgent, and that my breath smells, and that my skin is bad.
I know that I'm no good. And yet I keep trying. I feel like crying now, but I don't do that. I might scream instead.
Monday 10 March 2008
Darling.
You think you're too broad, but I said to you that you're fine; girls like you (and you said only weirdos and cripples). I said no. This is because you're beautiful just the way you are; and you said I should dye my hair brown. It would look hideous, I've already forayed into follicle fabulations. Red is the only way to go.
You are not too broad; not too broad for me.
You said you don't like people you might like-like once you're properly friends with them. Because then you can't imagine anything.
And you said you thought one girl was pretty; I don't think she is, not like other girls anyway. But you are beautiful.
I feel guilty in front of Pudding because everyone thinks she adores you; and I think she does, but that can't stop us touching touching touching all the time, so sure.
You are not slim, nor delicate (except in mood) but you are something else that's wonderful and sepulchral and strange, all that at the same time. You're lovely, just lovely.
And today I ate:
Crunchy nut cornflake cereal-200
A smoothie-123
An apple-40
Pasta-523
Sweets-450
You are not too broad; not too broad for me.
You said you don't like people you might like-like once you're properly friends with them. Because then you can't imagine anything.
And you said you thought one girl was pretty; I don't think she is, not like other girls anyway. But you are beautiful.
I feel guilty in front of Pudding because everyone thinks she adores you; and I think she does, but that can't stop us touching touching touching all the time, so sure.
You are not slim, nor delicate (except in mood) but you are something else that's wonderful and sepulchral and strange, all that at the same time. You're lovely, just lovely.
And today I ate:
Crunchy nut cornflake cereal-200
A smoothie-123
An apple-40
Pasta-523
Sweets-450
Sunday 9 March 2008
Calories I almost forgot.
Here they are:
six brazil nuts covered in yoghurt-300
oats, pumpkin seeds and sultanas-400
two slices of toast, some beanfeast, spinach, peas and cheese-500
1200. Though I haven't really done any exercise today. But I'm glad I kept under. It showed me that if I don't eat so much, I can do it.
How are you faring Little Bird? Are you alright, with your own?
I would touch your shoulders and your back, but never your stomach, because I know what it is to be confronted with that reality.
Fat or Pregnant indeed. You are neither, darling. Neither. They are stupid boys, stupid and silly, and they know that you are too pretty.
Someone said tonight that you were one of the lads, and as such got passed over. I think the opposite. You're pretty and you're one of the lads; they notice you, and they know you, and like you. So far, two have, in our little group, and probably countless more. It's an artless seduction. It's that simple, really it is. Lord, I wish I was beautiful like you.
six brazil nuts covered in yoghurt-300
oats, pumpkin seeds and sultanas-400
two slices of toast, some beanfeast, spinach, peas and cheese-500
1200. Though I haven't really done any exercise today. But I'm glad I kept under. It showed me that if I don't eat so much, I can do it.
How are you faring Little Bird? Are you alright, with your own?
I would touch your shoulders and your back, but never your stomach, because I know what it is to be confronted with that reality.
Fat or Pregnant indeed. You are neither, darling. Neither. They are stupid boys, stupid and silly, and they know that you are too pretty.
Someone said tonight that you were one of the lads, and as such got passed over. I think the opposite. You're pretty and you're one of the lads; they notice you, and they know you, and like you. So far, two have, in our little group, and probably countless more. It's an artless seduction. It's that simple, really it is. Lord, I wish I was beautiful like you.
Oh, hard times, come again no more.
Irish songs are lovely, quite simply. I could listen forever.
Everyone tells me I look Irish; because I've got red hair, and that sort of nose, and I wear a lot of green. It's a strange assumption because I'm not at all; but I do look it, I know. And I can do the accent well also.
I'm excited about directing this play.
I'm sad about Little Bird; my friends told me she cried tonight, just in front of everyone there and then. I want to know why she's sad; is it because she's in this play that might flop (that probably will flop, and I encouraged her to audition for it, and even showed her it; that makes me feel awful, like I'm the one that made her do it). Is it because she's going through a tough family time? Is it because those boys are being horrible to her again? Degree worries? Conjecture does nothing really though.
I imagined her crying and wanted to gather her in my arms and stroke her hair till she felt better. I'd tell her, oh Little Bird, perfect as you are. You are fine when you eat, fine when you don't, fine when you want to sit and not to talk at all, fine when you talk far too much, fine when you are irritated. It is the world that is not fine to you; but it will be. And maybe you feel like you're trying as hard as you can, and the world isn't being kind. In that case, I would be kind to you. I would listen.
Everyone tells me I look Irish; because I've got red hair, and that sort of nose, and I wear a lot of green. It's a strange assumption because I'm not at all; but I do look it, I know. And I can do the accent well also.
I'm excited about directing this play.
I'm sad about Little Bird; my friends told me she cried tonight, just in front of everyone there and then. I want to know why she's sad; is it because she's in this play that might flop (that probably will flop, and I encouraged her to audition for it, and even showed her it; that makes me feel awful, like I'm the one that made her do it). Is it because she's going through a tough family time? Is it because those boys are being horrible to her again? Degree worries? Conjecture does nothing really though.
I imagined her crying and wanted to gather her in my arms and stroke her hair till she felt better. I'd tell her, oh Little Bird, perfect as you are. You are fine when you eat, fine when you don't, fine when you want to sit and not to talk at all, fine when you talk far too much, fine when you are irritated. It is the world that is not fine to you; but it will be. And maybe you feel like you're trying as hard as you can, and the world isn't being kind. In that case, I would be kind to you. I would listen.
Overeating again. Oh damn.
He came over last night; he was lovely. I never know how much he's flirting with other girls or not, and he said he was glad I liked the play he'd written- I don't like it compared to everything, but compared to other things he's written. I'm happy to be in it anyway.
We spent till about nine am together. Half kissing. I like that he is insecure about how broad he is. I adore him for it, really. I feel safe with him, and comfortable. He's so easy to wind around, and he's got this lovely face. Oh, I adore it when he's worried about something.
Pudding came too; I still don't know about her. She stuck around for a bit before feeling like a third wheel, then left. But because he will hold her too I feel like I'm not the one and only he does this with. I'd like to tell him that he is good looking. I have, but I don't think it goes in.
I've started to let him touch my neck; it was the area I felt self-conscious about, and he did touch it, and it was fine. But last night he touched my stomach (which is flabby and awful, worse, maybe than my ugly neck, because whilst the tendons and bones in my neck look horrible, the stomach is evidence of gluttony, and I hate people knowing). He had a theory that when he'd touched it I wouldn't feel so self-conscious. But really I just felt worse. He said there was nothing there- I think he lies. I've been thinner and I'm not happy at being this way. How did he know?
I wonder how it felt not to be able to make me feel better. I always want to tell him, in those moments, exactly how precious he is to me, or how much I adore him, and I never have. Last night he shut his eyes for a while and I mouthed, "you are beautiful".
I am so ridiculously fickle, and I talk about being safe but I am not actually at all safe with him. Does he do this to other girls? Does he want Pudding, secretly, and does she know that he wants her; are they actually together? Does he want Producer/actress? He never distinguishes. I might never know or be sure.
We spent till about nine am together. Half kissing. I like that he is insecure about how broad he is. I adore him for it, really. I feel safe with him, and comfortable. He's so easy to wind around, and he's got this lovely face. Oh, I adore it when he's worried about something.
Pudding came too; I still don't know about her. She stuck around for a bit before feeling like a third wheel, then left. But because he will hold her too I feel like I'm not the one and only he does this with. I'd like to tell him that he is good looking. I have, but I don't think it goes in.
I've started to let him touch my neck; it was the area I felt self-conscious about, and he did touch it, and it was fine. But last night he touched my stomach (which is flabby and awful, worse, maybe than my ugly neck, because whilst the tendons and bones in my neck look horrible, the stomach is evidence of gluttony, and I hate people knowing). He had a theory that when he'd touched it I wouldn't feel so self-conscious. But really I just felt worse. He said there was nothing there- I think he lies. I've been thinner and I'm not happy at being this way. How did he know?
I wonder how it felt not to be able to make me feel better. I always want to tell him, in those moments, exactly how precious he is to me, or how much I adore him, and I never have. Last night he shut his eyes for a while and I mouthed, "you are beautiful".
I am so ridiculously fickle, and I talk about being safe but I am not actually at all safe with him. Does he do this to other girls? Does he want Pudding, secretly, and does she know that he wants her; are they actually together? Does he want Producer/actress? He never distinguishes. I might never know or be sure.
Friday 7 March 2008
Oh skinny love.
I imagine what you are doing now; there are two options. You are probably tired, Little Bird, probably drinking green tea, snuggled up in bed wearing socks and your glasses (you look so very pretty in them you know) reading or watching television. Those images make me happy, to think of you being cosy. I have a massive urge to tuck you up into bed all safe from the world. Psychotic of me, sometimes, I think.
The other one is that you've gone out, and that you're getting drunk and upset. I wish I was there to tell you you're fine, you're OK, you're wonderful. I don't know what else to feel; sad. You always buy other people drinks, and I don't want you to feel like you have to do that for us. We like you just exactly as you are.
An image just popped into my head; of you being a victorian Lady, and I'd be the servant, doing your hair or something, before a big party. Glances in mirrors.
What does it say about me that I automatically relegate myself to a submissive role? I can imagine, with difficulty, you being the servant; only your face is so refined, pointed, carved of marble. Mine is hewn and rounded out of wood. My being the lady makes you my cinderella. I know I am not pretty; and I am past caring, except when it seems to matter. I don't know. It's saying a lot for my talent if it matters that much. Maybe I am neither pretty nor talented. Maybe I am pretty, and talented, just unlucky. I can't fathom it. I'd rather be talented and not as pretty.
He (and beanpole) said I was a six out of ten; better than average. I don't think so- they were being kind. Men aren't, but I evaluated myself as a two. I suppose they're more subjective. I don't know. My personality can be attractive sometimes.
Do you find me so, Little Bird? You have said I'm good looking. I don't comprehend exactly why. I am not, really, truly. You are and you don't think so either. I want to trace one of your delicate cheekbones with my fingers, and to put a hand on your mouth when you cry, or when there's a sob behind a laugh. To fold around you when you sit in dischord and to stroke your hair.
The other one is that you've gone out, and that you're getting drunk and upset. I wish I was there to tell you you're fine, you're OK, you're wonderful. I don't know what else to feel; sad. You always buy other people drinks, and I don't want you to feel like you have to do that for us. We like you just exactly as you are.
An image just popped into my head; of you being a victorian Lady, and I'd be the servant, doing your hair or something, before a big party. Glances in mirrors.
What does it say about me that I automatically relegate myself to a submissive role? I can imagine, with difficulty, you being the servant; only your face is so refined, pointed, carved of marble. Mine is hewn and rounded out of wood. My being the lady makes you my cinderella. I know I am not pretty; and I am past caring, except when it seems to matter. I don't know. It's saying a lot for my talent if it matters that much. Maybe I am neither pretty nor talented. Maybe I am pretty, and talented, just unlucky. I can't fathom it. I'd rather be talented and not as pretty.
He (and beanpole) said I was a six out of ten; better than average. I don't think so- they were being kind. Men aren't, but I evaluated myself as a two. I suppose they're more subjective. I don't know. My personality can be attractive sometimes.
Do you find me so, Little Bird? You have said I'm good looking. I don't comprehend exactly why. I am not, really, truly. You are and you don't think so either. I want to trace one of your delicate cheekbones with my fingers, and to put a hand on your mouth when you cry, or when there's a sob behind a laugh. To fold around you when you sit in dischord and to stroke your hair.
It is I who is the dumpy one now dear.
Not you.
I don't care. Come closer Little Bird.
Then, I do like to feel his flesh under the cashmere jumpers. I am under the jacket now, and I do not think that he minds so much. He maybe even likes it. I feel like I've been patient and crouched outside a bird's nest, and helped it to extend its wings... that's a God complex if ever there was one.
I showed someone my magdalen laundries thing today, and they loved it but couldn't understand it (because there was no context whatsoever). But they liked it. I could maybe be a writer, it made me feel better. Constructive criticism, they gave me spades of it... and I left feeling pretty good. I felt good about what I'd done. I couldn't believe something I'd just dashed off read that well.
There's a boy in my creative writing class that irritates the hell out of me. Stupid jowly pube face heavy breather. He inhales and exhales in this orgiastic fashion when he writes, as if he can barely contain his own genius beneath his pudding frame, and his cheeks are like pale globbets of blancmange on his pasty white face, which, till lately, was tricked out in brown pube like chin growth. Pubes on a blancmange, quivering with sexual tension. He's short and chubby. Stubby. I hate him with a passion, though we've never actually exchanged words. I never hope to either. Ugh. Each time he speaks, or writes, or breathes, I feel this irrational surge of hatred; why is this? I don't even know his name.
I don't care. Come closer Little Bird.
Then, I do like to feel his flesh under the cashmere jumpers. I am under the jacket now, and I do not think that he minds so much. He maybe even likes it. I feel like I've been patient and crouched outside a bird's nest, and helped it to extend its wings... that's a God complex if ever there was one.
I showed someone my magdalen laundries thing today, and they loved it but couldn't understand it (because there was no context whatsoever). But they liked it. I could maybe be a writer, it made me feel better. Constructive criticism, they gave me spades of it... and I left feeling pretty good. I felt good about what I'd done. I couldn't believe something I'd just dashed off read that well.
There's a boy in my creative writing class that irritates the hell out of me. Stupid jowly pube face heavy breather. He inhales and exhales in this orgiastic fashion when he writes, as if he can barely contain his own genius beneath his pudding frame, and his cheeks are like pale globbets of blancmange on his pasty white face, which, till lately, was tricked out in brown pube like chin growth. Pubes on a blancmange, quivering with sexual tension. He's short and chubby. Stubby. I hate him with a passion, though we've never actually exchanged words. I never hope to either. Ugh. Each time he speaks, or writes, or breathes, I feel this irrational surge of hatred; why is this? I don't even know his name.
Tonight today etc etc.
You were happy. And you said I had huge pores in front of people. That made me feel irritated; but I don't know if it's just you.
I was happy because you're taking criticism and you're more talented than I thought you were.
And I ate:
pie crust and milk-300
a chicken wrap-600
an apple-40
a smoothie-120
1060
some yo sushi:
seaweed and cucumber-60
chicken katsu curry-549
a mousse thing-300
900
four brazil nuts-150
1050
2100 today, then, and not much walking to walk it off, no wonder I feel like a fatty. Oh, I hate feeling like this... like I don't deserve anything. Tomorrow will be a better day. I am sure of it.
I was happy because you're taking criticism and you're more talented than I thought you were.
And I ate:
pie crust and milk-300
a chicken wrap-600
an apple-40
a smoothie-120
1060
some yo sushi:
seaweed and cucumber-60
chicken katsu curry-549
a mousse thing-300
900
four brazil nuts-150
1050
2100 today, then, and not much walking to walk it off, no wonder I feel like a fatty. Oh, I hate feeling like this... like I don't deserve anything. Tomorrow will be a better day. I am sure of it.
Thursday 6 March 2008
Come on, skinny love, just last the year.
Oh I wish I was thinner or prettier or better or cleverer.
Noone notices me properly in the right way.
Some people do, sometimes. P and Doll did.
Enough of this whining. Enough.
He said the first time he met me he thought I was weird and probably stupid because I said nothing and because I looked perpetually terrified. Only I wasn't, I think he thinks I was because I told him this subsequently. I don't think I was. But I know people can't like what you don't show them; they aren't going to know you're interesting if you never are.
Your crepe stomach is dwindling and I adore you still darling. Or do I? I never adored you because of it, but I do want to hold you safe from all those things. Strange that I like in you what I detest in myself, isn't it. I could stand and stare at you protected by the glass, but there's nothing more to say to you so please don't ever ask.
Have we ran out of things, Little Bird? You and I are so different and I worry that we've separated because, maybe, I adore you too much. I don't tell you my problems and I must. I only tell you the solvable ones, nothing else. I worry you might hate me otherwise though I know really you wouldn't.
I am always silent when I'm happy or furious. When I'm happy I see no need to say so. When I'm furious I don't know where to start and I feel like I'm wrong.
I don't even know what to write anymore, I am so bored of it all. Blah blah blah, I like someone, they don't like me, or they do but not enough, that's the more frequent case, for acting, for life, for whatever. I'm tired of it.
Noone notices me properly in the right way.
Some people do, sometimes. P and Doll did.
Enough of this whining. Enough.
He said the first time he met me he thought I was weird and probably stupid because I said nothing and because I looked perpetually terrified. Only I wasn't, I think he thinks I was because I told him this subsequently. I don't think I was. But I know people can't like what you don't show them; they aren't going to know you're interesting if you never are.
Your crepe stomach is dwindling and I adore you still darling. Or do I? I never adored you because of it, but I do want to hold you safe from all those things. Strange that I like in you what I detest in myself, isn't it. I could stand and stare at you protected by the glass, but there's nothing more to say to you so please don't ever ask.
Have we ran out of things, Little Bird? You and I are so different and I worry that we've separated because, maybe, I adore you too much. I don't tell you my problems and I must. I only tell you the solvable ones, nothing else. I worry you might hate me otherwise though I know really you wouldn't.
I am always silent when I'm happy or furious. When I'm happy I see no need to say so. When I'm furious I don't know where to start and I feel like I'm wrong.
I don't even know what to write anymore, I am so bored of it all. Blah blah blah, I like someone, they don't like me, or they do but not enough, that's the more frequent case, for acting, for life, for whatever. I'm tired of it.
Vodka on Tap.
There's something beautifully onomatopeic about the title of this blog, and that's why I chose it. I like vodka well enough, but not enough to title a blog so; I think it can look elegant, I like most that it tastes harsh and that it's very effective as an analgesic; it's Russian in so many ways.
He came over last night, and when we are alone together I want to stroke his face and lie with him (as we do). He lets me into his little world and I feel I might crush it so easily; we are so close to kissing, so often. I do adore him, when we are like that; but then he doesn't write excellent plays that mean things, plays that I want to be in, and so I can't respect him creatively. He's awful at paying back money that people have borrowed, that I've borrowed, and he keeps telling me I've got bad breath, or draws attention to my bad skin; and I cannot abide with those two. Three.
Someone told me today I was underrated by our student theatre. She's a good actress, and I kind-of trust her opinion. She doesn't get parts, I think, because she's got Hong-Kong heritage; if it was up to me, there would be race blind casting. I think it's stupid to beset a play with racial problems; can't they just take it aside? All the best theatre companies do. I cannot see why I should be rejected, as a caucasian I'm not exactly excluded by race laws; if I am as good an actress as she suggests, then why on earth have I not got more parts by now? Because I am bad; this is the only reason. Either that, or I am too distinctive looking, too tall, too broad, too ugly or whatever else there needs to be. What is wrong with me that I do not get parts? I did think it was those reasons; it's better to think it's that than to think it's because I'm talentless.
I am terrified of applying to these theatre schools. Terrified.
And anyway, what about Little Bird? I'm scared I annoyed her because I was showing off about the German last night. I do like her a lot. She's so pretty, so funny, so clever, and when she's quiet for a long time (because she fluctuates between being silent and being manic sometimes, and I think I adore her silent time). She doesn't care if I disagree with her. She's started to lose weight again. I hope she's alright.
Today I ate:
granola-200
some raisins-170
some nachos-170
540
a sandwich-360
a smoothie-200
1100
a cube of caramac-20
pie crust-265
quorn and vegetables-200
1600
Is today's grand total. Not too bad.
But today, today, today, I started my period and I didn't wear makeup and I felt hideously fat. Not pretty at all; especially as I saw this really thin girl in a play naked, and even she looked fat- if she looks like that, how must I look? Ugh.
He came over last night, and when we are alone together I want to stroke his face and lie with him (as we do). He lets me into his little world and I feel I might crush it so easily; we are so close to kissing, so often. I do adore him, when we are like that; but then he doesn't write excellent plays that mean things, plays that I want to be in, and so I can't respect him creatively. He's awful at paying back money that people have borrowed, that I've borrowed, and he keeps telling me I've got bad breath, or draws attention to my bad skin; and I cannot abide with those two. Three.
Someone told me today I was underrated by our student theatre. She's a good actress, and I kind-of trust her opinion. She doesn't get parts, I think, because she's got Hong-Kong heritage; if it was up to me, there would be race blind casting. I think it's stupid to beset a play with racial problems; can't they just take it aside? All the best theatre companies do. I cannot see why I should be rejected, as a caucasian I'm not exactly excluded by race laws; if I am as good an actress as she suggests, then why on earth have I not got more parts by now? Because I am bad; this is the only reason. Either that, or I am too distinctive looking, too tall, too broad, too ugly or whatever else there needs to be. What is wrong with me that I do not get parts? I did think it was those reasons; it's better to think it's that than to think it's because I'm talentless.
I am terrified of applying to these theatre schools. Terrified.
And anyway, what about Little Bird? I'm scared I annoyed her because I was showing off about the German last night. I do like her a lot. She's so pretty, so funny, so clever, and when she's quiet for a long time (because she fluctuates between being silent and being manic sometimes, and I think I adore her silent time). She doesn't care if I disagree with her. She's started to lose weight again. I hope she's alright.
Today I ate:
granola-200
some raisins-170
some nachos-170
540
a sandwich-360
a smoothie-200
1100
a cube of caramac-20
pie crust-265
quorn and vegetables-200
1600
Is today's grand total. Not too bad.
But today, today, today, I started my period and I didn't wear makeup and I felt hideously fat. Not pretty at all; especially as I saw this really thin girl in a play naked, and even she looked fat- if she looks like that, how must I look? Ugh.
Wednesday 5 March 2008
Worries.
Little Bird asked me last night if I was worried, and I am about a multitude of things, but only a few that I can tell her about. I am worried about, in no particular order:
My weight
My degree and the upcoming essay I have yet to begin, and my dissertation more specifically
The play I am going to be in
The play I am going to direct. Will I be any good at all as a director? I know nothing about the radio.
Anyone or everyone finding out about Bombazine Doll, and the pity.
Having to come out fairly soon because I know it will happen
Having to tell my parents that I am moving and not coming home for a year
What if I never have a gap year
What if I never have a meaningful relationship with anyone
I don't like him as much anymore, though when we're alone together I feel that I do, but I don't need him or want him so much and he is making me feel bad.
Have I got bad breath, and what do I do about it, and why did noone tell me before.
Losing friends I've made after University
Why did that director lie to me about her being my first choice, because even though I pretended I didn't believe it, I had started to and it was a huge boost to my self esteem. Now I know she was lying I feel embarrassed. I got caught up in it, noone else knows how caught up, and now it was a lie I feel so stupid and talentless.
What if I don't even get a recall for stage school? What modern audition piece can I possibly do? I shouldn't take this on alone.
And I told her about the essay and the plays. She doesn't know about everything else, I don't know if I want her to know. Telling everyone seems like such an effort, because then there is surprise and questions; it would be so much easier just to let her read this, but I'd never trust anyone enough to show them because this is strange and dark and private.
So instead I told her the rudimentary things and we listened to her Ipod music. She was wearing a black sheen shirt (she said she looked like a magician, it was because she says she's fat at the moment and that she can only fit into costume cupboard clothes, and I thought, oh well, you are beautifully magic, dear). But the sheen shirt was nice, and it was good to lie next to her on the bed, because I feel safe that she knows me.
She's quite comforting but I feel that she knows there's more going on below the surface that I haven't told her, and I might like to tell her, but I don't want a reaction, and she takes me oh so seriously; I want someone to laugh at my problems and tell me they pale into insignificance. Because really they do, what's a rich white girl like me truly got to worry about?
My weight
My degree and the upcoming essay I have yet to begin, and my dissertation more specifically
The play I am going to be in
The play I am going to direct. Will I be any good at all as a director? I know nothing about the radio.
Anyone or everyone finding out about Bombazine Doll, and the pity.
Having to come out fairly soon because I know it will happen
Having to tell my parents that I am moving and not coming home for a year
What if I never have a gap year
What if I never have a meaningful relationship with anyone
I don't like him as much anymore, though when we're alone together I feel that I do, but I don't need him or want him so much and he is making me feel bad.
Have I got bad breath, and what do I do about it, and why did noone tell me before.
Losing friends I've made after University
Why did that director lie to me about her being my first choice, because even though I pretended I didn't believe it, I had started to and it was a huge boost to my self esteem. Now I know she was lying I feel embarrassed. I got caught up in it, noone else knows how caught up, and now it was a lie I feel so stupid and talentless.
What if I don't even get a recall for stage school? What modern audition piece can I possibly do? I shouldn't take this on alone.
And I told her about the essay and the plays. She doesn't know about everything else, I don't know if I want her to know. Telling everyone seems like such an effort, because then there is surprise and questions; it would be so much easier just to let her read this, but I'd never trust anyone enough to show them because this is strange and dark and private.
So instead I told her the rudimentary things and we listened to her Ipod music. She was wearing a black sheen shirt (she said she looked like a magician, it was because she says she's fat at the moment and that she can only fit into costume cupboard clothes, and I thought, oh well, you are beautifully magic, dear). But the sheen shirt was nice, and it was good to lie next to her on the bed, because I feel safe that she knows me.
She's quite comforting but I feel that she knows there's more going on below the surface that I haven't told her, and I might like to tell her, but I don't want a reaction, and she takes me oh so seriously; I want someone to laugh at my problems and tell me they pale into insignificance. Because really they do, what's a rich white girl like me truly got to worry about?
Sunday 2 March 2008
Telling people things.
I told a mutual friend the other day about Bombazine Doll, her pitying me and then seeing me. It was alright, except for that I don't know how much I can trust... it's two people that know about it, and one knows Bombazine Doll. More than one. But two that I see in my everyday life. I hate it, it's worrying me that soon everyone will know and find me an object of pity.
I told her the whole thing; how I found out via myspace. Her reaction was strange; she said Bombazine Doll had idolized me for a long time, and wouldn't accept that she'd been with me only because she pitied me. It made me realise, that far from wanting her back, now I don't at all. And I feel for her, now, the one I told, or confessed to as she already knew. She thinks I'm ridiculous; and I'm terrified she's laughing at me behind my back, or discussing me, or something like that. I feel worried, and embarrassed all over again. It's strange, because usually to like someone I have to feel that they need me; I don't feel that she needs me at all. She never would.
It's scary, how I can change so fast. I've got no hope of it happening anyway- because she said she's never been in love with anyone. I said I've felt it, but I think love has to be reciprocal; and though you feel it at the time, it never lasts, not at our age. She said she's just never felt it, ever. I think it's because of her parents. And she alluded to some sort of father problem she'd told another one of our circle (but not me) and didn't elucidate. I'd have listened, but I didn't want to push her. I touched her sometimes, just on the shoulder- and that's far more than normal for me- and now I fear she might know, and I'll feel stupid again; trying for someone else that's got no interest in me whatsoever. Noone I want ever has; or is it that I only want people who don't want me? Either way, what if she starts spreading rumours; I never trust anyone. Ever. I feel that I've mistrusted her. I don't trust myself, anywhere. I even feel embarrassed referring to Bombazine Doll with that epithet, even though I only do on here and nowhere else.
Little Bird is sweet and safe and soft, and needs me. And I like her. I want to tell her, and I would trust her. I've got no reason not to trust the told; but I do, innately. Knowledge is power and all. Sometimes I just want to bury my head into Little Bird's shoulder and tell her each and every tiny thing; I never do.
I told her the whole thing; how I found out via myspace. Her reaction was strange; she said Bombazine Doll had idolized me for a long time, and wouldn't accept that she'd been with me only because she pitied me. It made me realise, that far from wanting her back, now I don't at all. And I feel for her, now, the one I told, or confessed to as she already knew. She thinks I'm ridiculous; and I'm terrified she's laughing at me behind my back, or discussing me, or something like that. I feel worried, and embarrassed all over again. It's strange, because usually to like someone I have to feel that they need me; I don't feel that she needs me at all. She never would.
It's scary, how I can change so fast. I've got no hope of it happening anyway- because she said she's never been in love with anyone. I said I've felt it, but I think love has to be reciprocal; and though you feel it at the time, it never lasts, not at our age. She said she's just never felt it, ever. I think it's because of her parents. And she alluded to some sort of father problem she'd told another one of our circle (but not me) and didn't elucidate. I'd have listened, but I didn't want to push her. I touched her sometimes, just on the shoulder- and that's far more than normal for me- and now I fear she might know, and I'll feel stupid again; trying for someone else that's got no interest in me whatsoever. Noone I want ever has; or is it that I only want people who don't want me? Either way, what if she starts spreading rumours; I never trust anyone. Ever. I feel that I've mistrusted her. I don't trust myself, anywhere. I even feel embarrassed referring to Bombazine Doll with that epithet, even though I only do on here and nowhere else.
Little Bird is sweet and safe and soft, and needs me. And I like her. I want to tell her, and I would trust her. I've got no reason not to trust the told; but I do, innately. Knowledge is power and all. Sometimes I just want to bury my head into Little Bird's shoulder and tell her each and every tiny thing; I never do.
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