Should have been edited more; and I'd like to know if it's autobiographical or not. It feels more like a novel written for an exorcism than anything else. It could have done with a lot of condensing; I didn't enjoy the last hundred or so pages. I got irritated because Elaine quickly martyrs herself to her childhood, and consequently seems to exile herself from the rest of the world. Even her relationships with men aren't properly close; it's as if she's always shrouded, like there's permanently a wall there between her and other people.
There is no laughter, on her part, in the book, and she seems to disdain those that do. This is a common theme in Atwood's work; the heroine never laughs, or is never caught laughing properly, never properly happy deep down. People around her are allowed to be content, her teacher, Mrs Finestein, but not her. Not that laughing and happiness are the same, but that the absence of both, or rather, their presence as a facade in her books always make laughter and happiness seem fake and contrived in those who exhibit them, or at least underpinned by a major tragedy.
Conclusion: Margaret Atwood needs to display some sort of happiness, not just round the peripheries. Noone lives an entire life of wallowing and abject self-pity. But her Klein Bottles are good.
Thursday 26 June 2008
Wednesday 25 June 2008
So the story begins, City Dweller, Professional fella.
Your face is merging and blurring; pictures of you aren't what I remember you like and they're showing a different one. But it's still an image I feel a residual fondness for, though I know the real thing isn't that, and it's the real thing I'm thinking of that I want most. The pictures of you are just false icons; they're posed for fun, and look almost unnatural. The real you is sedate and comfortable that lies beside me in an alcove when we fall asleep together; and that isn't how you look there, loud and painted. But loud and painted you is still a piece of you, and I appreciate it as well as the rest.
I think I have been reading too much Margaret Atwood for my own good. She's very talented but I can't help feeling slightly annoyed with the fact that all of her heroines are the same; disdaining, injured and vaguely wistful, and wise, and melancholy. Of course, I am jealous, of these fictional women. I find myself becoming irritated because I'm not up to scratch with a woman in a book. Elaine Risely is bright and seductive without knowing that she is; disdain comes so easily, so does aloofness. I wish I could be aloof but I simply care too much about trivial things; everything that she cares about is invested with some sort of depth, everything she describes. She lives in a different world. I cannot be that way; because I refuse to let people sink beneath me. Every chance she gets she places someone under her in a mysteriously secret way that must be plain to everyone else; she is the protagonist, miles above everyone else. I worry that I am one of the flabby flittering flake girls that she muses over, who produce halfhearted work. I worry about what we would do if we met, and how boring and menial she would find me, and she is completely fictional; and even in a book, I find her tiresome and self-involved, so I should not care.
It's exhausting being in a constant competition with everything around me, even inanimate paper women.
I think I have been reading too much Margaret Atwood for my own good. She's very talented but I can't help feeling slightly annoyed with the fact that all of her heroines are the same; disdaining, injured and vaguely wistful, and wise, and melancholy. Of course, I am jealous, of these fictional women. I find myself becoming irritated because I'm not up to scratch with a woman in a book. Elaine Risely is bright and seductive without knowing that she is; disdain comes so easily, so does aloofness. I wish I could be aloof but I simply care too much about trivial things; everything that she cares about is invested with some sort of depth, everything she describes. She lives in a different world. I cannot be that way; because I refuse to let people sink beneath me. Every chance she gets she places someone under her in a mysteriously secret way that must be plain to everyone else; she is the protagonist, miles above everyone else. I worry that I am one of the flabby flittering flake girls that she muses over, who produce halfhearted work. I worry about what we would do if we met, and how boring and menial she would find me, and she is completely fictional; and even in a book, I find her tiresome and self-involved, so I should not care.
It's exhausting being in a constant competition with everything around me, even inanimate paper women.
Monday 23 June 2008
The Tyger- Blake 1794
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Chimaera
Changing change change.
There's something lovely about the name Moreau, and the name Finn, or Quinn. If I ever become a novelist I shall be Moreau Finn, Moreau Quinn, Quinn Moreau, Finn Moreau. Finn Moreau, I like this name. Beautiful and strong.
I worry that I will go mad; and people already think me verging on the line between sane and insane. A friend read my palm and said I'd lose it completely by the time I was sixty, and she knew of other things that were already true. And it is a terror.
I would like to be one of the crazy clean people; the ones who must arrange everything at perfect angles and spritz twice a day and only eat tuna, spinach and mud pie cake on Thursdays, with styled hair and surprised eyes and large expressive hands. The sort that rules an empire or opens an art exhibition. I fear that I will be the kind that smells of urine and stool samples, who fears the aliens will penetrate her tin hat.
It's times like this that I would like someone to laugh at me and tell me what they think; family can't really, you need a backup.
I wanted to write about a chimaera.
There's something lovely about the name Moreau, and the name Finn, or Quinn. If I ever become a novelist I shall be Moreau Finn, Moreau Quinn, Quinn Moreau, Finn Moreau. Finn Moreau, I like this name. Beautiful and strong.
I worry that I will go mad; and people already think me verging on the line between sane and insane. A friend read my palm and said I'd lose it completely by the time I was sixty, and she knew of other things that were already true. And it is a terror.
I would like to be one of the crazy clean people; the ones who must arrange everything at perfect angles and spritz twice a day and only eat tuna, spinach and mud pie cake on Thursdays, with styled hair and surprised eyes and large expressive hands. The sort that rules an empire or opens an art exhibition. I fear that I will be the kind that smells of urine and stool samples, who fears the aliens will penetrate her tin hat.
It's times like this that I would like someone to laugh at me and tell me what they think; family can't really, you need a backup.
I wanted to write about a chimaera.
My Life is not like this, it's just at night alone that the fears come
There's a fly buzzing in the corner, minor irritation that's forgettable and crops up until you free it or kill it, else it persists, and there always seems to be another, no matter how many you let loose or murder. Neither way means an end.
Feeling like this
Makes the back of my head feel hot and tight and the feeling you get of an ache, but without the pain, and acknowledging it makes my throat feel full of a cool liquid balloon, and my eyes tingle. That is the feeling of despondency.
Chimaera goes back to beast,
Knowing what she was at least
As ancestry reclaims nail for claw
Incisors sprout from feminine jaw
Tyger Tyger burning bright
Whose fearful symmetry's displaced
Wishes she was back inside
Not roaming crudely unabase.
Chimaera goes back to beast,
Knowing what she was at least
As ancestry reclaims nail for claw
Incisors sprout from feminine jaw
Tyger Tyger burning bright
Whose fearful symmetry's displaced
Wishes she was back inside
Not roaming crudely unabase.
Problems with my life.
1. I'm overweight, not BMI wise but personal-judged. I'd be happy at 9st. That's 16lbs away.
2. I feel far away from everyone. I feel as if University friendships might not last, and that noone is at home, nor do I feel close to my home friends.
3. I feel like a loser consequently.
4. I feel like my parents pity me, and want me to organise my life, and want me to have some something about myself. I haven't.
Jesus I am depressed. Nothing's going right. I feel dependent and needy and slouched.
2. I feel far away from everyone. I feel as if University friendships might not last, and that noone is at home, nor do I feel close to my home friends.
3. I feel like a loser consequently.
4. I feel like my parents pity me, and want me to organise my life, and want me to have some something about myself. I haven't.
Jesus I am depressed. Nothing's going right. I feel dependent and needy and slouched.
Sometimes I think
How much easier life would be if I took drugs constantly. I wonder how long I could take MDMA before gnawing my face off/collapsing/killing myself on the comedown/fracturing an ankle/ someone found out I was permanently hallucinating.
I feel so bored at the moment that it's very tempting simply to take some and apply for a media career, where everyone needs to act as if they're pilled up to the eyeballs constantly over-confident. I wonder how easily it would be to become addicted, or if I already am if I'm fantasising over taking it again. I know I'm not, really, or at all.
But I feel better on them. I feel brilliant, like I'm worthwhile and I've always got something to say, and if I'm bored I trot over to someone else and talk. I feel and see everything brighter and everything feels wonderful, like I've won the world, and I can make decisions and I don't want to eat anything. It's fantastic. And it's difficult, when I'm feeling the opposite to all those things, not to want to take it. I've got no access here, and I've got no place to get it; but I would. I wonder if there is a way to feel like that all the time, or at least, for more of the time. I might when I've got a brilliant career.
I feel so bored at the moment that it's very tempting simply to take some and apply for a media career, where everyone needs to act as if they're pilled up to the eyeballs constantly over-confident. I wonder how easily it would be to become addicted, or if I already am if I'm fantasising over taking it again. I know I'm not, really, or at all.
But I feel better on them. I feel brilliant, like I'm worthwhile and I've always got something to say, and if I'm bored I trot over to someone else and talk. I feel and see everything brighter and everything feels wonderful, like I've won the world, and I can make decisions and I don't want to eat anything. It's fantastic. And it's difficult, when I'm feeling the opposite to all those things, not to want to take it. I've got no access here, and I've got no place to get it; but I would. I wonder if there is a way to feel like that all the time, or at least, for more of the time. I might when I've got a brilliant career.
I am calm now.
I went to Starbucks today to read Margaret Atwood and write about the other customers there. I started to write instead about fat, and how I felt about it; pitiful or disgusting or both, in essence.
Overeating (which I have been indulging in at the moment) happens when I am bored. It's something nice and indulgent and utterly futile to do that occupies me; so what I need is an equivalent, that's satisfying and pointless, to stop me doing it.
Or I could simply make believe. This was always one of my favourite games as a child, to pretend I was thin and bronzed like Enid Blyton's book heroes and heroines. Of course, I was ginger and lardy, and dressed hopelessly (a mix of the nineteen-nineties influenced by my parents and the eighteen-nineties, selected by myself) but I was nontheless happy.
I worry about my own attitude to fat, not least because of the consequences on myself but because of what it implies about how I feel about Little Bird. I, as much as anyone, can look at a person and feel pity because they are so large, or that they are stupid for eating so much. Those are people that whizz round on scooters because they're so large, or have a belt cutting into the expanse of their stomach. Do I just want someone to pity? I don't find Little Bird repulsive or pitiful; I want to comfort her when she is sad about it, but I think that her own stomach, her legs and her arms, are beautiful and strong. She's maybe stocky; she is nowhere near the scooter scale. It is strange; I do not want to possess her figure; but I do adore it.
Deep down, I do think that everyone should look 'healthy'. That isn't to say that BMI values hold; more that one should look as if you can run for a bus without breaking sweat. My Mum, who must weigh 12 or 14 st at 5ft5 is fine. Little Bird (maybe twelve or eleven stones at five foot four) is also fine; she can run and run and run, though they're both very different builds; my Mum is the kind that will always look slim or toned, she's muscular and, even at forty-eight, has no hint of jowl or double chin. Little Bird is softer and smaller built, and so looks larger, though she weighs the same or less. I can only think of one friend that I'd rate as unhealthily large; a friend and two acquaintances. Funnily enough, one I find self-absorbed and I feel bored with the other two; I wouldn't dislike someone on the basis of fat, but it's something to feel schadenfreude over.
I simply find it strange that I can abhor a rotund figure for myself, and on some others, yet rapturize over hers.
Overeating (which I have been indulging in at the moment) happens when I am bored. It's something nice and indulgent and utterly futile to do that occupies me; so what I need is an equivalent, that's satisfying and pointless, to stop me doing it.
Or I could simply make believe. This was always one of my favourite games as a child, to pretend I was thin and bronzed like Enid Blyton's book heroes and heroines. Of course, I was ginger and lardy, and dressed hopelessly (a mix of the nineteen-nineties influenced by my parents and the eighteen-nineties, selected by myself) but I was nontheless happy.
I worry about my own attitude to fat, not least because of the consequences on myself but because of what it implies about how I feel about Little Bird. I, as much as anyone, can look at a person and feel pity because they are so large, or that they are stupid for eating so much. Those are people that whizz round on scooters because they're so large, or have a belt cutting into the expanse of their stomach. Do I just want someone to pity? I don't find Little Bird repulsive or pitiful; I want to comfort her when she is sad about it, but I think that her own stomach, her legs and her arms, are beautiful and strong. She's maybe stocky; she is nowhere near the scooter scale. It is strange; I do not want to possess her figure; but I do adore it.
Deep down, I do think that everyone should look 'healthy'. That isn't to say that BMI values hold; more that one should look as if you can run for a bus without breaking sweat. My Mum, who must weigh 12 or 14 st at 5ft5 is fine. Little Bird (maybe twelve or eleven stones at five foot four) is also fine; she can run and run and run, though they're both very different builds; my Mum is the kind that will always look slim or toned, she's muscular and, even at forty-eight, has no hint of jowl or double chin. Little Bird is softer and smaller built, and so looks larger, though she weighs the same or less. I can only think of one friend that I'd rate as unhealthily large; a friend and two acquaintances. Funnily enough, one I find self-absorbed and I feel bored with the other two; I wouldn't dislike someone on the basis of fat, but it's something to feel schadenfreude over.
I simply find it strange that I can abhor a rotund figure for myself, and on some others, yet rapturize over hers.
Wednesday 18 June 2008
Too many cakes, weight mistakes.
I miss you dear. I miss your face in the afternoon, I miss reading when it's like we're alone together, I miss walking about with you and you waiting if we ever run together, because you're far faster than I am. I miss you comforting me about my results and my comforting you before a night out, I miss listening to your woes and laughing with you. I miss you. I miss everyone.
Take my hand.
Sink into you softly comforting all the shadows of vulnerable activities and your own deep breaths that serve to annoy on someone else, then, you aren't them and I want to touch.
Something in the turn of your eye's been brought back to life; we have such celerity in dying, a thousand times Shakesperian till we're solac'd again with each other.
Something in the turn of your eye's been brought back to life; we have such celerity in dying, a thousand times Shakesperian till we're solac'd again with each other.
I like to walk about with you in the dark.
Last night I thought about my night-terrors in the hotel room we shared, and though you didn't touch me you were still there and you cared enough about me to ask me, and to worry about them. I adore you.
After we'd been, all five of us, over my reluctance to hug anyone, I complacently sat next to you and stroked your hair. I think you liked it because you edged closer and closer to my thigh. On the last day of University you were crying because your so-called friends were angry with you for not going to souless night clubs. Darling, come with me and we'll get drunk and skate away over music we like in a crowd we don't know. We don't have to do their thing. I gave you a hug then, it ended abruptly because I'm not sure it was what you wanted, sometimes I don't, when I'm sad.
When I was cold you gave me your pashmina and warmed me up and let me rest my head on your shoulder as you chafed my arm and wrapped me up closer. I was in a hypothermic daze but I was incredibly happy. I always am with you, silent, or asleep, or awake, you make me feel safe.
After we'd been, all five of us, over my reluctance to hug anyone, I complacently sat next to you and stroked your hair. I think you liked it because you edged closer and closer to my thigh. On the last day of University you were crying because your so-called friends were angry with you for not going to souless night clubs. Darling, come with me and we'll get drunk and skate away over music we like in a crowd we don't know. We don't have to do their thing. I gave you a hug then, it ended abruptly because I'm not sure it was what you wanted, sometimes I don't, when I'm sad.
When I was cold you gave me your pashmina and warmed me up and let me rest my head on your shoulder as you chafed my arm and wrapped me up closer. I was in a hypothermic daze but I was incredibly happy. I always am with you, silent, or asleep, or awake, you make me feel safe.
Tuesday 17 June 2008
Emptinessisfillingme
Type that into google, and it comes up with a moribund girl obsessed with and failing to lose weight (at least, in her own eyes). She imposes such stringent regulations on herself; it's no wonder she breaks them eventually.
There's a part of the whole weight loss caboodle that's incredibly self-indulgent, and leads to self-pity; namely, "I am not the way I want to be; therefore I can blame the way I am on everything, and if I change it I will be perfect". Sadly noone is ever perfect, and subconsciously, it's known that perfection will never be achieved. The girls that practise pro-ana know that none of them will ever be happy; but there's a happiness, a gloating and security, in feeling self-piteous, a smugness in feeling that you are worst off out of everyone, and it's that feeling that the world of pro-ana deals in. The feeling of being the worst. And it's that feeling that I'm desperate to purge myself of; I have been the drunk girl that tells her friends how she doesn't like her body, and what she does to stave it off (and I was never even bulimic, and I think that's far, far more damaging than anorexia, corporeally and mentally) and I don't want to be anymore. I want to not care a jot about the way I look; because when I care, it tips me over that I can't control the way my body is.
I cannot fathom why it should be my body that garners such loathing from me. There are other things I don't like about myself; mediocrity, lackadaisical tendencies, unrealistic aims, lack of ambition, lack of concreteness, lack of neatness, non-perfectionist- and I feel they might be solved if I could solve my body. Of course, they won't be. The main reason, though, why it's strange is because I have long been accepting of my face. It isn't perfect; there's a list of faults; my nose is short and wide, there's lines either side of my mouth, I'm getting double chin more frequently, my forehead and chin sections are too long and my skin isn't the most wonderful, my teeth are too large and my mouth can look annoying and is also massive; but for all that, I am attached to it. If anyone offered me free and painless plastic surgery to correct these deficits, I'd reject it because I am honestly and truly happy with my face. I don't know if it's a pretty face or an ugly face; but it's got its own nobility, and that means I don't particularly care. It's me. It's not refined and sharp but I like it, because it's quirky and expressive and it's got it's own idiosyncracies that are attractive enough. I can't even think of much right with it; my favourite feature, my eyebrows are overgrown and dark, but even so, I like them. It's this disjuncture of acceptance between body and face that I cannot bridge, and I'd like to. If I could feel the same about my thighs and hips as I do my nose and teeth, I'd be happy. I wonder if it'll ever happen.
There's a part of the whole weight loss caboodle that's incredibly self-indulgent, and leads to self-pity; namely, "I am not the way I want to be; therefore I can blame the way I am on everything, and if I change it I will be perfect". Sadly noone is ever perfect, and subconsciously, it's known that perfection will never be achieved. The girls that practise pro-ana know that none of them will ever be happy; but there's a happiness, a gloating and security, in feeling self-piteous, a smugness in feeling that you are worst off out of everyone, and it's that feeling that the world of pro-ana deals in. The feeling of being the worst. And it's that feeling that I'm desperate to purge myself of; I have been the drunk girl that tells her friends how she doesn't like her body, and what she does to stave it off (and I was never even bulimic, and I think that's far, far more damaging than anorexia, corporeally and mentally) and I don't want to be anymore. I want to not care a jot about the way I look; because when I care, it tips me over that I can't control the way my body is.
I cannot fathom why it should be my body that garners such loathing from me. There are other things I don't like about myself; mediocrity, lackadaisical tendencies, unrealistic aims, lack of ambition, lack of concreteness, lack of neatness, non-perfectionist- and I feel they might be solved if I could solve my body. Of course, they won't be. The main reason, though, why it's strange is because I have long been accepting of my face. It isn't perfect; there's a list of faults; my nose is short and wide, there's lines either side of my mouth, I'm getting double chin more frequently, my forehead and chin sections are too long and my skin isn't the most wonderful, my teeth are too large and my mouth can look annoying and is also massive; but for all that, I am attached to it. If anyone offered me free and painless plastic surgery to correct these deficits, I'd reject it because I am honestly and truly happy with my face. I don't know if it's a pretty face or an ugly face; but it's got its own nobility, and that means I don't particularly care. It's me. It's not refined and sharp but I like it, because it's quirky and expressive and it's got it's own idiosyncracies that are attractive enough. I can't even think of much right with it; my favourite feature, my eyebrows are overgrown and dark, but even so, I like them. It's this disjuncture of acceptance between body and face that I cannot bridge, and I'd like to. If I could feel the same about my thighs and hips as I do my nose and teeth, I'd be happy. I wonder if it'll ever happen.
Epiphany on success.
I have wanted to be a leader for quite some time now, the sort of person that's a leader, that is. But now I think about it, I think I might be better at quietly working away without the credit, like Mary Portas, in Mary, Queen of Shops. I realise that she is a leader now, and that she is a perfectionist that knows how to do things and imposes that on others; but she's also taken a framework and worked within it in a creative way, and that's what I want to do. I also want to be as secure as she is in her own beliefs, and in her knowledge of what is right. I think she is incredibly cool.
Novelists as well, don't always have to be leaders. And I think I can be pushy at the right time; just not overbearing like some leaders are. I'd like to be a perfectionist; I am trying to be at the moment. I am in certain areas, or at least, I practise harsh jurisdiction on my body, people's sartorial choices (though these aren't in line with the norm; I abhor pastels and beige where others might an ill cut skirt), and other's actions and deeds; but rarely on standards. I'm no editor.
But this is something I can develop. Twenty one is no age to stop learning.
Novelists as well, don't always have to be leaders. And I think I can be pushy at the right time; just not overbearing like some leaders are. I'd like to be a perfectionist; I am trying to be at the moment. I am in certain areas, or at least, I practise harsh jurisdiction on my body, people's sartorial choices (though these aren't in line with the norm; I abhor pastels and beige where others might an ill cut skirt), and other's actions and deeds; but rarely on standards. I'm no editor.
But this is something I can develop. Twenty one is no age to stop learning.
I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you.
I came home to the homestead and now everything has settled down. I talked to my parents, and they aren't disappointed- well, I think they are. But they don't want me to feel that they are. So I feel better. They seem proud that I've got friends.
My housemate most hated has got a bill for a hundred pounds for me. Argh. This irritates me, though I know I have to pay it, I can't help but think she's making it up. But I've got till July to send it to her.
I think Bovine hates me because she will not reply to my wallposts. I think she knows I secretly think of her (it's usually obvious to others). She and Doll must detest me at the moment; not knowing what to do about me, that, or they must pity me inexorably. Inexorably-not to be placated or appeased or moved by entreaty. Appeased is the one I want.
What else? I have been eating ridiculous amounts, simply because the food is about, which is tragic. I am getting to be a plump pork. I must cut back. I'm not used to this continual fullness feeling, and I know I'm only doing it because I'm bored, so I should stop. I'll find other ways to occupy myself soon enough; I could write a novel, though this leaves ample opportunity for snacking. I don't know.
I am sat in my sister's (she's eleven) skirt, which she discarded because it was too tight, but it fits me, and my brother's cardigan. I look a ragamuffin. I wish I was neater.
My housemate most hated has got a bill for a hundred pounds for me. Argh. This irritates me, though I know I have to pay it, I can't help but think she's making it up. But I've got till July to send it to her.
I think Bovine hates me because she will not reply to my wallposts. I think she knows I secretly think of her (it's usually obvious to others). She and Doll must detest me at the moment; not knowing what to do about me, that, or they must pity me inexorably. Inexorably-not to be placated or appeased or moved by entreaty. Appeased is the one I want.
What else? I have been eating ridiculous amounts, simply because the food is about, which is tragic. I am getting to be a plump pork. I must cut back. I'm not used to this continual fullness feeling, and I know I'm only doing it because I'm bored, so I should stop. I'll find other ways to occupy myself soon enough; I could write a novel, though this leaves ample opportunity for snacking. I don't know.
I am sat in my sister's (she's eleven) skirt, which she discarded because it was too tight, but it fits me, and my brother's cardigan. I look a ragamuffin. I wish I was neater.
Sunday 15 June 2008
Now everything's unpicked
I don't feel anything at all. Except a slight misgiving that I haven't unpicked it the way I should; too self indulgent, I'll try again the next time my triskaidekaphobic self requires a decade of posts.
When I was very thin
You were both worried (which, underneath, I know I wanted. All that attention foisted on my brother, never late to pick him up from his practices and always late for me) but you emanated this strange sort of pride as well. Compared to my thin blonde cousin, I'd always been the lumpy ugly silent awkward one, set in a corner, not really good enough; but now I was elfin, mysterious and a cut above, or at least it felt like that, when Mum nagged me to eat and Dad said, "oh leave her, she's fine", and when she introduced me with a pleased, "Oh god, she's so thin lately, hanging off her", to her friends in supermarkets.
I did want to be the cool kid; because you wanted me to be, you didn't want me to be excluded and you feared I was. You wanted me happy. But what would have made me happy was to see you both happy with me exactly as I was, chubby or no, 10st 4 or even more, and then I'd not have needed to do it.
I'm considering doing it again.
Why shouldn't they want a perfect daughter? They don't ask for one, but they deserve one, because they have been perfect parents and I am simply not coming up to scratch.
I feel guilty guilty guilty.
I did want to be the cool kid; because you wanted me to be, you didn't want me to be excluded and you feared I was. You wanted me happy. But what would have made me happy was to see you both happy with me exactly as I was, chubby or no, 10st 4 or even more, and then I'd not have needed to do it.
I'm considering doing it again.
Why shouldn't they want a perfect daughter? They don't ask for one, but they deserve one, because they have been perfect parents and I am simply not coming up to scratch.
I feel guilty guilty guilty.
I am not the daughter that you deserve.
You blame my failures on luck; unlucky, not getting into Cambridge, unlucky, not getting a first.
When instead it is me. Just me, who fails, despite the best upbringing; you loved me, but not too much, and helped me, and sent me to the best school.
But no.
It makes me wonder
How much worse I'd be with only a middling upbringing.
Because I'm pretty mediocre now.
Lump in throat but I can't cry.
Face is empty cheeks are dry.
You blame my failures on luck; unlucky, not getting into Cambridge, unlucky, not getting a first.
When instead it is me. Just me, who fails, despite the best upbringing; you loved me, but not too much, and helped me, and sent me to the best school.
But no.
It makes me wonder
How much worse I'd be with only a middling upbringing.
Because I'm pretty mediocre now.
Lump in throat but I can't cry.
Face is empty cheeks are dry.
Father's day today.
I wonder how my father feels. He's probably happy; in his own melancholic way. He thinks I don't love him when I do, and he tells me that I'm wonderful in my own right, though the world disproves this. He's got three children; me, my brother, my sister. He can be stand-offish; we wouldn't ask him to cook for us, we'd do it for ourselves, though he's more than enthusiastic about helping with homework or taking us to the pub.
I feel I've let him down with my 2.1. I've let myself down, yes, but him and Mum as well.
My little sister is a perfectionist, a clever sort, hardworking and dedicated. She does everything through channels; Mum thinks she doesn't go out enough, she goes out more. Mum is actually worried about her friendships; that she hasn't got any. I think she's verging on asperger's syndrome, but I like that about her; it picks her out and makes her special. It's strange that I think of this as an elevating quality. I think that she'll make friends with some perfectionists later, no wonder she's got none now; noone else her age is like her, but that'll serve as bonding material later. But she doesn't understand, so she has to be friends with people that aren't really her favoured friendship material. I wish Mum would let her be happier alone. I was. Maybe I'm just shadowing myself onto her. People can't be done through channels. I think she should join a drama group; but she won't.
My brother must be the child they wished for. Though I can't see it, people say he's good looking. He's bright but doesn't work. He emanates success; he's good at the guitar and that's all he wants to do, never mind school. He probably will do it as well. I'm jealous that he'll succeed where I've failed utterly; to find something he excels in and to take it. I'm still floundering. He's charismatic and knows what to say to everyone, and he's popular. Mum always talks about how he's got so many friends. She must be relieved that not all of us are social rejects like my sister and I are, misanthropic souls.
And that's my father's lot. I admire him, but I don't want to be him. I know that he is successful; but he doesn't care about other people, and he can be arrogant, and he doesn't see what we really want but rather what he wants for us sometimes; which is to be happy, but to be happy his way. He's a misanthrope, but a cheerful one, a cynic that bashes everything (and I'm starting to, in his way rather than my Mum's), he's too cool; he's musically aware and he likes all of these things that would make him a hit with my university friends. I feel if he was here he'd have made a better time of it than I have; I know he would have.
I feel guilty that I can't be as good as he or my mother are.
And what father's day present can I give to him? A mediocre daughter that fails.
I feel I've let him down with my 2.1. I've let myself down, yes, but him and Mum as well.
My little sister is a perfectionist, a clever sort, hardworking and dedicated. She does everything through channels; Mum thinks she doesn't go out enough, she goes out more. Mum is actually worried about her friendships; that she hasn't got any. I think she's verging on asperger's syndrome, but I like that about her; it picks her out and makes her special. It's strange that I think of this as an elevating quality. I think that she'll make friends with some perfectionists later, no wonder she's got none now; noone else her age is like her, but that'll serve as bonding material later. But she doesn't understand, so she has to be friends with people that aren't really her favoured friendship material. I wish Mum would let her be happier alone. I was. Maybe I'm just shadowing myself onto her. People can't be done through channels. I think she should join a drama group; but she won't.
My brother must be the child they wished for. Though I can't see it, people say he's good looking. He's bright but doesn't work. He emanates success; he's good at the guitar and that's all he wants to do, never mind school. He probably will do it as well. I'm jealous that he'll succeed where I've failed utterly; to find something he excels in and to take it. I'm still floundering. He's charismatic and knows what to say to everyone, and he's popular. Mum always talks about how he's got so many friends. She must be relieved that not all of us are social rejects like my sister and I are, misanthropic souls.
And that's my father's lot. I admire him, but I don't want to be him. I know that he is successful; but he doesn't care about other people, and he can be arrogant, and he doesn't see what we really want but rather what he wants for us sometimes; which is to be happy, but to be happy his way. He's a misanthrope, but a cheerful one, a cynic that bashes everything (and I'm starting to, in his way rather than my Mum's), he's too cool; he's musically aware and he likes all of these things that would make him a hit with my university friends. I feel if he was here he'd have made a better time of it than I have; I know he would have.
I feel guilty that I can't be as good as he or my mother are.
And what father's day present can I give to him? A mediocre daughter that fails.
Pretty and thin equates to win.
How dire. Facebook gives insights into other's lives, and it's simply so depressing. A girl that's vacuous and hateful gets a first, another that's simply vacuous and beautiful gets Rada recalls. I don't know. I wonder if it's because I'm uglier and fatter, or if it's because I'm simply worse; and decide that the latter is far more terrible, because if I'm ugly and fat there's nothing I can do, or, there is something... either way, it's not intrinsic criticism. But if it's because I'm not good enough, because I've not got stage presence or talent, then that's infinitely worse. Terrible, really, either way.
Armistead Maupin, author
My only regret about being gay is that I repressed it for so long. I surrendered my youth to the people I feared when I could have been out there loving someone. Don't make that mistake yourself. Life's too damn short.
I want to be famous.
I don't want to be famous, I want to be happy. I want to do what I want. So here are a list of things I should or could do to achieve what I want.
1. Talk to blonde Alex from the play about work experience with her actress mother, who is not famous but happy.
2. Take up FriendDissertation's advice about newsanchoring.
3. Also give her some of your illustrations to take to the ethical publishers.
4. Try to get seen by literary agents, acting agents, and illustrating agents.
5. Do not get knocked back. Rejection is the name of the game, and all those who succeed are at some point rejected.
6. Try to write for papers or magazines in Hometown.
1. Talk to blonde Alex from the play about work experience with her actress mother, who is not famous but happy.
2. Take up FriendDissertation's advice about newsanchoring.
3. Also give her some of your illustrations to take to the ethical publishers.
4. Try to get seen by literary agents, acting agents, and illustrating agents.
5. Do not get knocked back. Rejection is the name of the game, and all those who succeed are at some point rejected.
6. Try to write for papers or magazines in Hometown.
And Little Bird
Who I think I am clinging too much towards. But I need someone that doesn't hate me and that isn't disappointed in me, and that doesn't see me as a massive failure.
I hate feeling like I've failed, and that I'm mediocre.
I hate being in this skin. 10st 4, and nothing to show for myself that rises me up.
She cried the other day because her friends are horrible to her and she felt she had to go out with them, so I went to her and held her in a bathroom stall, but I don't think it's what she wanted. I am too eager to help or to pity I think. And those are the emotions I despise.
I hate feeling like I've failed, and that I'm mediocre.
I hate being in this skin. 10st 4, and nothing to show for myself that rises me up.
She cried the other day because her friends are horrible to her and she felt she had to go out with them, so I went to her and held her in a bathroom stall, but I don't think it's what she wanted. I am too eager to help or to pity I think. And those are the emotions I despise.
Calories yesterday
brownie and ice cream
smoothie
pasta and bread and vegetables
cake
sultanas
I work this out to be about 1500, which is not terrible, but is not good either. So far today I have ate a brownie and some ice cream again. Cake cycles. I just feel a bit bored, a bit lonely, which is unusual for me as I'm mostly ecstatic in my own company. Not yesterday- I feel like I need people that are similar to me to take my mind off the mediocrity of the 2.1 but she of the bovine won't or can't. I know, I know, I know that she is seeing Dollface. I can't confront them or do anything about it because it's not my right. It irks me that they think I'm so stupid as to have not realised, or that I'd be angry with them when I've evidently no right to be.
Though I am, but only here. I'd never say so. I've no right. She's never been in love before, and she should be in love, she should have the chance to be happy and to feel that way and to feel...
It's just that I wish she felt it for me instead of for Dollface that trashed me utterly.
But that's selfish. I've no right, no right at all, and I'm just bitter and disconsolate. I think she likes me less now but I think it's just that she likes Dollface more- or is it that she abhors me? Or doesn't like me, or....
I need to stop doing this.
smoothie
pasta and bread and vegetables
cake
sultanas
I work this out to be about 1500, which is not terrible, but is not good either. So far today I have ate a brownie and some ice cream again. Cake cycles. I just feel a bit bored, a bit lonely, which is unusual for me as I'm mostly ecstatic in my own company. Not yesterday- I feel like I need people that are similar to me to take my mind off the mediocrity of the 2.1 but she of the bovine won't or can't. I know, I know, I know that she is seeing Dollface. I can't confront them or do anything about it because it's not my right. It irks me that they think I'm so stupid as to have not realised, or that I'd be angry with them when I've evidently no right to be.
Though I am, but only here. I'd never say so. I've no right. She's never been in love before, and she should be in love, she should have the chance to be happy and to feel that way and to feel...
It's just that I wish she felt it for me instead of for Dollface that trashed me utterly.
But that's selfish. I've no right, no right at all, and I'm just bitter and disconsolate. I think she likes me less now but I think it's just that she likes Dollface more- or is it that she abhors me? Or doesn't like me, or....
I need to stop doing this.
You were made for me everybody tells me so you were made for me don't pretend that you don't know.
You weren't made for me, though I thought you were, turns out, in fact, you were made for her, mistakes incurred, not your wrath, a general distaste that's built to last so instead I'll sit and write an ode, untold, to you, in days of old, maybe you would have if I'd asked but as it is, opportunity's past, so there's noone to blame; except the last, resort. That's me. Sat unasked.
Wednesday 11 June 2008
Fetishize and empathise.
I do fetishize her, too much, as a body. Her soft hair, vulnerable figure, delicate. Can I list the things other than that that I adore about her? She's generous, to a fault, I worry that she doesn't stick up for herself with her terrible friends that don't help her. Though I wouldn't separate her from them for the world; I think she likes our friendship group more, but the terribles that play games with her mind lurk about the peripheries.
She'll be the first to jump in, into mud, into water, into exercise. Whenever she does something it's with no regard to mess and to ultimate excess.
She's clever. She tries to hide her disappointment and what she truly thinks, and I like this about her; it's a kind of stoicism that's permeable.
She tries so hard at relationships with her brothers, who she evidently idolises. I worry that it isn't a two-way street, but then, nothing is ever absolutely equal.
She's driven. She will stick with what she's promised until she goes down with it.
She's trustworthy. I trust her. It's not difficult; and she almost always says the right thing.
We can be silent companionable together, reading under her duvet or watching a film or eating or simply sitting. It is alright for us to be utterly still. I crave and adore that time.
We go on walks and find things. She likes novelty as I do.
She can find her way on a tram in a foreign city.
She's easily hurt. This is not a good point; it makes her impatient and harmed, and sensitively self centred, but I like her for it nontheless because it is what makes her her. I know that it is a fault; but noone is perfect. Not everyone can have a hard skin.
I could think of more. It's easier than I imagined, though not so easy as sinking into her arms would be.
Remember me when I am gone away...
She'll be the first to jump in, into mud, into water, into exercise. Whenever she does something it's with no regard to mess and to ultimate excess.
She's clever. She tries to hide her disappointment and what she truly thinks, and I like this about her; it's a kind of stoicism that's permeable.
She tries so hard at relationships with her brothers, who she evidently idolises. I worry that it isn't a two-way street, but then, nothing is ever absolutely equal.
She's driven. She will stick with what she's promised until she goes down with it.
She's trustworthy. I trust her. It's not difficult; and she almost always says the right thing.
We can be silent companionable together, reading under her duvet or watching a film or eating or simply sitting. It is alright for us to be utterly still. I crave and adore that time.
We go on walks and find things. She likes novelty as I do.
She can find her way on a tram in a foreign city.
She's easily hurt. This is not a good point; it makes her impatient and harmed, and sensitively self centred, but I like her for it nontheless because it is what makes her her. I know that it is a fault; but noone is perfect. Not everyone can have a hard skin.
I could think of more. It's easier than I imagined, though not so easy as sinking into her arms would be.
Remember me when I am gone away...
Call me in a few month's time and I'll be fine, I know.
I got a 2.1. Hopefully- it's provisional, an authority has to check it, but I hope against hope it won't go down.
I just feel disappointed because some of my friends (not all of them, but about four or five of them) got firsts. I've done well to pull my mark up, and they worked without cessation, but I just feel so disappointed that I didn't, and I can't say that. I'm happy I didn't get a 2.2, and that was a possibility.
I don't know.
Little Bird's not too happy- she says it's because she's worried about some of her friends, but I think not. I think she's simply sad about not getting a first- a lot of people were on a 2.1, she was too. I think she feels a little bit sad about it. I don't know. I wanted to hold her tight, she said she was happy sitting about doing not much. This morning I was in a different continent and it seemed easier to both sit on her bed in the room we shared with our other friend, and to stroke her golden brown hair when everyone else got ready around us, sleepy and indolent together. She got scared I'd touch her ears, but I didn't, and her head pressed lightly against my thigh, and she was beautiful. She always is, only I don't think she feels it. I wanted to tell her; I tried when we were advising her on what to wear for a night out. Her clothes don't suit her, really, they're garish and overstated. All the same, she looks beautiful and I told her so; that there was no difference in the outfits. She didn't think so; she thought I was lying to protect her. I was being so honest, as honest as I've ever been- but she doesn't see.
I think she doesn't like going out at night because she's gained weight. She said she tried on her white trousers and cried. I laugh at things like that in other people (even in myself) but her... I just wanted to hold her and tell her, you are beautiful to me, you are, you are.
She'll not feel it until she diets herself away. I worry she's making herself sick; she's been sick so much in my presence and I think it might be an automatic reaction thing. I have a kneejerk reaction to her; she seems so vulnerable and strong that I only want to say, sometimes, Little Bird, sometimes, just let me take care of you, and to wrap her in something warm and to show her how beautiful she is. Because it would be true.
I just feel disappointed because some of my friends (not all of them, but about four or five of them) got firsts. I've done well to pull my mark up, and they worked without cessation, but I just feel so disappointed that I didn't, and I can't say that. I'm happy I didn't get a 2.2, and that was a possibility.
I don't know.
Little Bird's not too happy- she says it's because she's worried about some of her friends, but I think not. I think she's simply sad about not getting a first- a lot of people were on a 2.1, she was too. I think she feels a little bit sad about it. I don't know. I wanted to hold her tight, she said she was happy sitting about doing not much. This morning I was in a different continent and it seemed easier to both sit on her bed in the room we shared with our other friend, and to stroke her golden brown hair when everyone else got ready around us, sleepy and indolent together. She got scared I'd touch her ears, but I didn't, and her head pressed lightly against my thigh, and she was beautiful. She always is, only I don't think she feels it. I wanted to tell her; I tried when we were advising her on what to wear for a night out. Her clothes don't suit her, really, they're garish and overstated. All the same, she looks beautiful and I told her so; that there was no difference in the outfits. She didn't think so; she thought I was lying to protect her. I was being so honest, as honest as I've ever been- but she doesn't see.
I think she doesn't like going out at night because she's gained weight. She said she tried on her white trousers and cried. I laugh at things like that in other people (even in myself) but her... I just wanted to hold her and tell her, you are beautiful to me, you are, you are.
She'll not feel it until she diets herself away. I worry she's making herself sick; she's been sick so much in my presence and I think it might be an automatic reaction thing. I have a kneejerk reaction to her; she seems so vulnerable and strong that I only want to say, sometimes, Little Bird, sometimes, just let me take care of you, and to wrap her in something warm and to show her how beautiful she is. Because it would be true.
Thursday 5 June 2008
Solace
You mean that to me. I am sharp and prickly, angular and cold to the touch, and then you come and wrap me up and hold me tight and make me feel alright again, cosy and warm. I adore you. Every time I think that maybe I don't you go back to being exactly you and not worrying about the silly things (because your actual worry things are worthy of worrying, and you shouldn't worry, and you aren't boring darling). You are clever and beautiful and, no, not perfect, but nontheless perfectly right for me. You look after me and protect me and I like that, because despite that prickly sharp exterior I do need someone. I wonder if you'd let me look after you. We will be sleeping in the same bed more in the next month, and I get excited and calm at the thought of all night chats back to back with you. Beautiful.
Here's an example. I haven't been eating right and you noticed. You let me do your hair. You let me be honest to you, and you need me as well. You let me sleep in your bed even if I might be irritating and large, and maybe you need me there too because of nightscratchings round the peripheries of your thoughts. You care about your parents but not so much that you try to save them from each other, a futile endeavour.
You're solace. Your perfect neck that fits the curve of my skull, kind words and understanding silences, even if you don't understand what it might be about, the soft strong curve of your arm round my shoulders and your back on the crook of my elbow that makes me feel happy that I can support you too; I'm none so angular that we don't fit. You're vulnerable and strong all in one, body the texture of silk into my arms that's pliant and firm. Perfect.
Here's an example. I haven't been eating right and you noticed. You let me do your hair. You let me be honest to you, and you need me as well. You let me sleep in your bed even if I might be irritating and large, and maybe you need me there too because of nightscratchings round the peripheries of your thoughts. You care about your parents but not so much that you try to save them from each other, a futile endeavour.
You're solace. Your perfect neck that fits the curve of my skull, kind words and understanding silences, even if you don't understand what it might be about, the soft strong curve of your arm round my shoulders and your back on the crook of my elbow that makes me feel happy that I can support you too; I'm none so angular that we don't fit. You're vulnerable and strong all in one, body the texture of silk into my arms that's pliant and firm. Perfect.
Two tales of the ball.
I think bovine beauty and Doll are seeing each other. I'd had this suspicion for a while; there are little clues- one lingers when it's time to say goodbye and I've stepped out of the door, they do a sort-of smile to each other, they mysteriously ring each other when one is upset. Yesterday we were going to leave the ball- I was getting bored- with two other friends. A group of five. I was going to come and they said it was alright if I wanted to stay; and, as we were all walking, I saw that they were holding hands. It confirmed it for me. I felt lots of things, but I stayed and found Little Bird instead. There were a lot of silly reactions; the first was an immediate feeling of stupidity. How could they not be together? Then a why- why wasn't she with me-answered by a number of reasons. I'm repressed, I've never asked her, I'm not pretty or clever enough. Then I felt angry- Doll saw someone else behind my back, and now she's seeing her and not telling me again. I felt pushed out and in the dark. I feel like I just want someone that wants me back, and I can't ever find anyone, or if I do they want someone else, and then I'm left out again.
I'm so fed up with it. And resigned. I bet everyone knows except me, and I'll be the fool to find out last, as if they weren't obvious anyway. That's another thing- do they think I'm so stupid? They must if they can be so overt and not tell me. Or maybe they want me to recognise and break the silence on it- I don't want to. Why should I put myself out there when she's already shat all over me? Doll obviously thinks I'm stupid. Not only academically (she's on a first) but emotionally, everything. She thought I wouldn't find out about who she was with at the same time she was with me, that I wouldn't find out about her and B. It makes me furious that she's so incredibly condescending and puts herself above me, when she's not half as clever as she thinks she is. Maybe she is. But she definitely isn't as nice as she thinks she is, as innocent and without blame. Not by half. I suppose karma should sort this out, but I don't get any good karma. Ever. Where is mine? I think I give it out. I hope I do. Maybe I'm exactly as bad as she is and I just haven't acknowledged it.
You're a narcissistic psycho creep and boot-licking ass freak.
Enough. I know more than most that you can't help who you fall for. I should be happy for them, they found each other, they're both clever. God, I bet B. isn't annoyed with Doll at all (sometimes she says that she is, but I think that this is an elaborate evasion to show that she's not seeing her, that or she's too close to her to tell her now.) Obsessing will only drive me mad. I should be happy. I think I'd be happier if B. was with someone else; I'd be fed up, but at least she'd be happy. And I can stand that. And I think that she is happy with Doll, but I can't reconcile them being happy together. I'm a terrible person. No wonder I've got no karma.
So I found Little Bird, lovely Little Bird. She let me do her hair earlier. She's beautiful, all the time, all the time. We waited for the buses and they took hours to come, and we were waiting in the cold, me in my flimsy nylon. She wrapped her pashmina around me and hugged me warm, like a hot water bottle, or I hugged her. And on the bus on the way back, I had a little sleep on her shoulder. My head fitted perfectly there. I wanted to tell her about it all. I didn't, I talked about her instead. We saw another person home and then she said I could sleep at hers if I wanted. I slept in her little alcove bed, with her by my side. I wondered if I'd feel differently about her because B is now off limits in all senses; I didn't. I wanted to hold her and hug her and tell her thankyou for keeping me warm and being such a comfort. I wouldn't have slept without feeling furious if it had been on my own, but her there with me just made me feel so much better. She looked perfect; she hadn't had a very good night either. It would have been easy to roll over and hold her tight. Instead I rolled back to back with her, and felt protected.
I'm so fed up with it. And resigned. I bet everyone knows except me, and I'll be the fool to find out last, as if they weren't obvious anyway. That's another thing- do they think I'm so stupid? They must if they can be so overt and not tell me. Or maybe they want me to recognise and break the silence on it- I don't want to. Why should I put myself out there when she's already shat all over me? Doll obviously thinks I'm stupid. Not only academically (she's on a first) but emotionally, everything. She thought I wouldn't find out about who she was with at the same time she was with me, that I wouldn't find out about her and B. It makes me furious that she's so incredibly condescending and puts herself above me, when she's not half as clever as she thinks she is. Maybe she is. But she definitely isn't as nice as she thinks she is, as innocent and without blame. Not by half. I suppose karma should sort this out, but I don't get any good karma. Ever. Where is mine? I think I give it out. I hope I do. Maybe I'm exactly as bad as she is and I just haven't acknowledged it.
You're a narcissistic psycho creep and boot-licking ass freak.
Enough. I know more than most that you can't help who you fall for. I should be happy for them, they found each other, they're both clever. God, I bet B. isn't annoyed with Doll at all (sometimes she says that she is, but I think that this is an elaborate evasion to show that she's not seeing her, that or she's too close to her to tell her now.) Obsessing will only drive me mad. I should be happy. I think I'd be happier if B. was with someone else; I'd be fed up, but at least she'd be happy. And I can stand that. And I think that she is happy with Doll, but I can't reconcile them being happy together. I'm a terrible person. No wonder I've got no karma.
So I found Little Bird, lovely Little Bird. She let me do her hair earlier. She's beautiful, all the time, all the time. We waited for the buses and they took hours to come, and we were waiting in the cold, me in my flimsy nylon. She wrapped her pashmina around me and hugged me warm, like a hot water bottle, or I hugged her. And on the bus on the way back, I had a little sleep on her shoulder. My head fitted perfectly there. I wanted to tell her about it all. I didn't, I talked about her instead. We saw another person home and then she said I could sleep at hers if I wanted. I slept in her little alcove bed, with her by my side. I wondered if I'd feel differently about her because B is now off limits in all senses; I didn't. I wanted to hold her and hug her and tell her thankyou for keeping me warm and being such a comfort. I wouldn't have slept without feeling furious if it had been on my own, but her there with me just made me feel so much better. She looked perfect; she hadn't had a very good night either. It would have been easy to roll over and hold her tight. Instead I rolled back to back with her, and felt protected.
Oh, I see. Hunger hurts but starving works.
Two strange days. Yesterday there was a ball and I ate:
a bowl of oats, sultanas, milk and cream
an apple.
And that was it. I drank a bottle of Jacques fruit cider, a large bottle of cobra and two small bottles of brahma. Needless to say, I was ridiculously drunk. It was fun, but I spent the ball feeling like I should be with other people rather than who I was with; I wanted everyone together but it didn't happen.
Today I ate:
two turkish delights-100
one and a half slices of beans on toast-400
It's two o clock.
a bowl of oats, sultanas, milk and cream
an apple.
And that was it. I drank a bottle of Jacques fruit cider, a large bottle of cobra and two small bottles of brahma. Needless to say, I was ridiculously drunk. It was fun, but I spent the ball feeling like I should be with other people rather than who I was with; I wanted everyone together but it didn't happen.
Today I ate:
two turkish delights-100
one and a half slices of beans on toast-400
It's two o clock.
Monday 2 June 2008
Post for triskaidekaphobic ends.
I think I will write a poem, because there is nothing else to write, and I feel I must.
I can't delve below your bovine eyes
Not a compliment, but it's true
I wonder how the world might seem
In their browned and placid view
Though underneath, who knows
about you? Not me. Too true.
Another, better, instead.
I have lost my voice, and yours is on the way, and I should shop for a dress, yet I'd rather stay here with you, though I don't know if you want me at all and I feel awkward, like I've embarrassed myself. Your hair one minute, semi-rape the next, Lucrece.
I wish I knew what you really and truly thought of me.
I can't delve below your bovine eyes
Not a compliment, but it's true
I wonder how the world might seem
In their browned and placid view
Though underneath, who knows
about you? Not me. Too true.
Another, better, instead.
I have lost my voice, and yours is on the way, and I should shop for a dress, yet I'd rather stay here with you, though I don't know if you want me at all and I feel awkward, like I've embarrassed myself. Your hair one minute, semi-rape the next, Lucrece.
I wish I knew what you really and truly thought of me.
She of the beauty.
Another one that should wear her hair up but doesn't. She worries it makes her shoulders look excessively broad and her head excessively small. She thinks she's too fat to wear her hair up. Her face is beautiful and she shouldn't waste it; I've told her as much. I don't think she'll take the advice; she only sees herself her way. We all do, I suppose. Her Mum's an alcoholic and she loves her but hates that she destroys herself, and feels like a nag, like she's no fun, when she tries to get her to stop. I wish I could be more use to her when she tells me this. I just listen.
I can't work her out. She said once that she finds people who ask her to go somewhere and are eager about it too needy. I know that this is evidence of low self esteem (if they like me, they like someone crap, so thus are crap people). I don't want to irritate her so I try not to ask too much; I told her I'd come over one day, between two and three, and when I got there at three she was surprised (and slightly ill, with a sore throat). I couldn't work out if it was because she was ill, or because she was put off by my being there, or because she'd last seen me tweaking out and didn't know how to deal with it, but I felt like she didn't want me there.
One of her housemates that she's got an on-off almost-sleeping-with arrangement tie to got drunk, and she got drunker, and they ended up sleeping together; though She of the Beauty said that the housemate had forced herself on her, and she'd been too drunk to resist. That idea terrified me; she says she's going to give up drinking, maybe, but I don't think that that's what needs to be done. It disgusts me that her housemate is unrepentent and hasn't acknowledged what happened. It scares me that she accepted it; though she's good at masking things. What I really wanted to do when she told me was to give her a hug and make her feel safe, but she isn't the sort of person that seems to want that, or to want me to give that, though I wonder if it's all a front; she said once that she liked people to push at her boundaries because sometimes she needed things to be let out.
Conflict seems to chase her; she argues with her housemates, with her ex boyfriend and with almost everyone; not with our group of friends, though. I can't work out if it's her or them that need sorting out. I think that most of her relationships are based around conflict. I know that I think she's wonderful; but untouchable, and that's scary. I want to touch her. Sometimes I wonder if she's a pathological liar; I'm always worried that I'm the butt of someone's joke, since Dollface turned out to have someone else that she liked more. I can't trust her, though I'd like to.
I can't work her out. She said once that she finds people who ask her to go somewhere and are eager about it too needy. I know that this is evidence of low self esteem (if they like me, they like someone crap, so thus are crap people). I don't want to irritate her so I try not to ask too much; I told her I'd come over one day, between two and three, and when I got there at three she was surprised (and slightly ill, with a sore throat). I couldn't work out if it was because she was ill, or because she was put off by my being there, or because she'd last seen me tweaking out and didn't know how to deal with it, but I felt like she didn't want me there.
One of her housemates that she's got an on-off almost-sleeping-with arrangement tie to got drunk, and she got drunker, and they ended up sleeping together; though She of the Beauty said that the housemate had forced herself on her, and she'd been too drunk to resist. That idea terrified me; she says she's going to give up drinking, maybe, but I don't think that that's what needs to be done. It disgusts me that her housemate is unrepentent and hasn't acknowledged what happened. It scares me that she accepted it; though she's good at masking things. What I really wanted to do when she told me was to give her a hug and make her feel safe, but she isn't the sort of person that seems to want that, or to want me to give that, though I wonder if it's all a front; she said once that she liked people to push at her boundaries because sometimes she needed things to be let out.
Conflict seems to chase her; she argues with her housemates, with her ex boyfriend and with almost everyone; not with our group of friends, though. I can't work out if it's her or them that need sorting out. I think that most of her relationships are based around conflict. I know that I think she's wonderful; but untouchable, and that's scary. I want to touch her. Sometimes I wonder if she's a pathological liar; I'm always worried that I'm the butt of someone's joke, since Dollface turned out to have someone else that she liked more. I can't trust her, though I'd like to.
Calories today, AOK.
Today's are:
Toast spread with pesto and tomato puree (1 slice)-150
two clementines-52
three biscuits-300
an apple-40
Innocent smoothie-125
A meal I made consisting of: 25g rice, peas, half a can of low fat baked beans, pesto and a bit of cheese, which I reckon out to be-450
Options hot chocolate-40
A slice of brownie-30 (and I'm talking 2.5cm x 3cm x 0.4cm. Slither would be more appropriate)
This comes to about 1200, maybe slightly under.
If I split it into mealtimes, it runs as follows: I wake up at half ten, watch television, drink some tea and at eleven, eat the toast.
I sleep for a while, wake, read a little, feel nauseous, sleep more and then eat the clementines, and half an hour later, the biscuits.
I go into town, have a walk about and now it's half past seven- I go to starbucks and ask them to blend a smoothie with ice, and drink that.
I toddle home, watch some more television and make my meal around nine, which I split in half and refrigerate one for a later date, then eat the apple as pudding at ten.
Then I have the hot chocolate at half one, and the brownie catches my eye.
I've felt under the weather today- I went out last night (not on drugs) and danced too much, I've had a sore throat and I started my period today. I don't ever get period pains but I do feel tired, it's probably the lack of iron. It seems unfair that women have to do this and men don't. I'm not moaning; I was one of the last to start my period, and I'm thrilled I've got it, but surely there should be a male equivalent. I suppose worrying about a fleshy appendage hanging about outside your body almost qualifies, but still, they don't have to push a child through it at any point in their lives. Anyway, I'm usually hale and healthy so this collection of symptoms is unusual, but nontheless, if it's aiding calorie cuts I won't moan.
Toast spread with pesto and tomato puree (1 slice)-150
two clementines-52
three biscuits-300
an apple-40
Innocent smoothie-125
A meal I made consisting of: 25g rice, peas, half a can of low fat baked beans, pesto and a bit of cheese, which I reckon out to be-450
Options hot chocolate-40
A slice of brownie-30 (and I'm talking 2.5cm x 3cm x 0.4cm. Slither would be more appropriate)
This comes to about 1200, maybe slightly under.
If I split it into mealtimes, it runs as follows: I wake up at half ten, watch television, drink some tea and at eleven, eat the toast.
I sleep for a while, wake, read a little, feel nauseous, sleep more and then eat the clementines, and half an hour later, the biscuits.
I go into town, have a walk about and now it's half past seven- I go to starbucks and ask them to blend a smoothie with ice, and drink that.
I toddle home, watch some more television and make my meal around nine, which I split in half and refrigerate one for a later date, then eat the apple as pudding at ten.
Then I have the hot chocolate at half one, and the brownie catches my eye.
I've felt under the weather today- I went out last night (not on drugs) and danced too much, I've had a sore throat and I started my period today. I don't ever get period pains but I do feel tired, it's probably the lack of iron. It seems unfair that women have to do this and men don't. I'm not moaning; I was one of the last to start my period, and I'm thrilled I've got it, but surely there should be a male equivalent. I suppose worrying about a fleshy appendage hanging about outside your body almost qualifies, but still, they don't have to push a child through it at any point in their lives. Anyway, I'm usually hale and healthy so this collection of symptoms is unusual, but nontheless, if it's aiding calorie cuts I won't moan.
Little Bird and her own preoccupations.
She's worried about her body. We went out the other night with friends and I could see that she was feeling worried about it; she'd like to take some MDMA and it certainly might work wonders.
We were getting ready and she went through so many outfits before settling on one. I did her hair; I put it up because she's got a perfect face that needs to be seen. It's not just deluded me that thinks this, but others do too; they tell her she looks lovely when she wears it up. She's so beautiful. She was worried that I was lying to her about which outfit to choose; this is something that I would never do. I told her as much, and exemplified that by adding that I disliked her shoes, but that the outfits all looked similar; and that it was down to taste. I wanted to hug her and tell her that I didn't care if she was fat or thin or whatever, because she was beautiful, but I simply couldn't be that effusive and instead settled for;
"Noone will deny that you've put on weight, but you're still beautiful. Look, I am honest about these things and I am telling you that you look lovely."
I know that acknowledging the weight gain makes her distraught; I can't stand people acknowledging mine, but then, I settle for outfits straight off. Maybe we're different like that. I thought that if she could see that I was being honest in that, she'd see that I was honest about everything that I thought. I don't know how to work her out; I don't know how to help her stop bingeing or how to feel that she is lovely and beautiful, because she is. She said her nose was too big and I stopped her dead; I said she'd moaned about her weight enough and she couldn't start on her perfect face. I told her about the hair off the face only when it's perfect theory. I don't know if she'll take any notice.
We were getting ready and she went through so many outfits before settling on one. I did her hair; I put it up because she's got a perfect face that needs to be seen. It's not just deluded me that thinks this, but others do too; they tell her she looks lovely when she wears it up. She's so beautiful. She was worried that I was lying to her about which outfit to choose; this is something that I would never do. I told her as much, and exemplified that by adding that I disliked her shoes, but that the outfits all looked similar; and that it was down to taste. I wanted to hug her and tell her that I didn't care if she was fat or thin or whatever, because she was beautiful, but I simply couldn't be that effusive and instead settled for;
"Noone will deny that you've put on weight, but you're still beautiful. Look, I am honest about these things and I am telling you that you look lovely."
I know that acknowledging the weight gain makes her distraught; I can't stand people acknowledging mine, but then, I settle for outfits straight off. Maybe we're different like that. I thought that if she could see that I was being honest in that, she'd see that I was honest about everything that I thought. I don't know how to work her out; I don't know how to help her stop bingeing or how to feel that she is lovely and beautiful, because she is. She said her nose was too big and I stopped her dead; I said she'd moaned about her weight enough and she couldn't start on her perfect face. I told her about the hair off the face only when it's perfect theory. I don't know if she'll take any notice.
MDMA
I think this drug was made for me. I've taken it twice and it makes me feel amazing; I take it with friends that supply what they're taking themselves at the same time. For all those who might read this and don't know, MDMA is a form of ecstasy that comes in tablets (bits of rolled up paper). The effects aren't the same for everyone but it makes me feel like:
I can be honest with everyone.
I am fascinating and deserve to make decisions
I can dance all night at incredibly high energy levels (and do)
No appetite
I don't care how I appear to anyone.
I also get the sweats, clench the jaw excessively (this is alleviated slightly by chewing gum rather than the inside of your face and last time I hallucinated that people had tattoos(but worked out that this was a hallucination and enjoyed it). My friends that weren't on it said I was manic, but obviously having an amazing time. I like it because I do not care and I felt light and worry-free, like I could just bounce away.
The downsides are:
Jaw clenching leaves you with an aching jaw in the morning
Depression the next day (mild for me, maybe suicidal for others). It's not crippling- usually I meet friends and do quiet sociable things to stave off the depression. I still can feel happy on those days.
Loss of appetite the next day- though for me this is a pro.
Possible embarrassment at effusive comments to others.
The other thing is: how do I know when to stop? So far I've taken it twice, two months between the first and second time. I took three tablets each time.
I know that that isn't addiction. However, it is enough for me not to tell my parents, as they'd worry, and it's not a cause for worry. Responses from friends have been varied: some are surprised, one doesn't want me to do it and fears I'll become an addict (I like that she cares about me) and a fair few want to try it. I don't want to advertise it; when anyone asks, I say that FOR ME (and I stress, for me) it's better than anything else I've tried, and I have a wonderful time on it, but I wouldn't do it too often in case I got hooked; also, I feel disgusting the morning after (just generally unwashed) so I couldn't take more- I couldn't do it constantly for a week.
But what if I keep on this path? What if I stop doing it once every two months, and make it once every month, once every week? I don't want to do that at the moment; two months is ample time. I'm scared that I won't have a line that's crossed, a definite breaking point that makes me realise I need to give up until I'm stealing from people or haven't eaten in a week or have eaten the inside of my own cheek from too much gurning.
One example I've been told is of a girl whose limit is having an abortion because she sleeps round after taking pills. But I never get the urge to have sex on MDMA, and besides, I'm pro-choice; I wouldn't count abortion as the off-point.
I know what addiction is; it's when the body craves the substance, when you want to take more and more and when you're preoccupied with it. I don't want it at the moment, and I don't want to take more and more each time- three is enough. But does this post count as preoccupation?
At the moment, I'm sticking by the two month rule. I feel a better yardstick is in order though.
I don't know if my personality is addictive, but it's almost certainly obsessive. I obsess over calories and over people I like and my own failures, most notably.
Ultimately, I need to draw a line somewhere. I don't know where that should be though.
I can be honest with everyone.
I am fascinating and deserve to make decisions
I can dance all night at incredibly high energy levels (and do)
No appetite
I don't care how I appear to anyone.
I also get the sweats, clench the jaw excessively (this is alleviated slightly by chewing gum rather than the inside of your face and last time I hallucinated that people had tattoos(but worked out that this was a hallucination and enjoyed it). My friends that weren't on it said I was manic, but obviously having an amazing time. I like it because I do not care and I felt light and worry-free, like I could just bounce away.
The downsides are:
Jaw clenching leaves you with an aching jaw in the morning
Depression the next day (mild for me, maybe suicidal for others). It's not crippling- usually I meet friends and do quiet sociable things to stave off the depression. I still can feel happy on those days.
Loss of appetite the next day- though for me this is a pro.
Possible embarrassment at effusive comments to others.
The other thing is: how do I know when to stop? So far I've taken it twice, two months between the first and second time. I took three tablets each time.
I know that that isn't addiction. However, it is enough for me not to tell my parents, as they'd worry, and it's not a cause for worry. Responses from friends have been varied: some are surprised, one doesn't want me to do it and fears I'll become an addict (I like that she cares about me) and a fair few want to try it. I don't want to advertise it; when anyone asks, I say that FOR ME (and I stress, for me) it's better than anything else I've tried, and I have a wonderful time on it, but I wouldn't do it too often in case I got hooked; also, I feel disgusting the morning after (just generally unwashed) so I couldn't take more- I couldn't do it constantly for a week.
But what if I keep on this path? What if I stop doing it once every two months, and make it once every month, once every week? I don't want to do that at the moment; two months is ample time. I'm scared that I won't have a line that's crossed, a definite breaking point that makes me realise I need to give up until I'm stealing from people or haven't eaten in a week or have eaten the inside of my own cheek from too much gurning.
One example I've been told is of a girl whose limit is having an abortion because she sleeps round after taking pills. But I never get the urge to have sex on MDMA, and besides, I'm pro-choice; I wouldn't count abortion as the off-point.
I know what addiction is; it's when the body craves the substance, when you want to take more and more and when you're preoccupied with it. I don't want it at the moment, and I don't want to take more and more each time- three is enough. But does this post count as preoccupation?
At the moment, I'm sticking by the two month rule. I feel a better yardstick is in order though.
I don't know if my personality is addictive, but it's almost certainly obsessive. I obsess over calories and over people I like and my own failures, most notably.
Ultimately, I need to draw a line somewhere. I don't know where that should be though.
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