I know, I know I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I saw her today

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

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

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

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

I wonder who she collides with?

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

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

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

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

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

It took a little time to get next to me

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

And you push me out to a state of emergency.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True dream.

Consider this, consider this.

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

I keep thinking of her, Lady of the House.

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

What role do you play for me?

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

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

A carriage from a pumpkin and paradise on crumbled earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food today:

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

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

Lady of the House.

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

They were all saying how brilliant she was.

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

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

A love story.

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't feel pretty".

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

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

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

Funny day

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

Lovely Thing.

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

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

I am going to

Apply for a BBC course
And some theatre schools

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

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

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

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

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

Overate AGAIN I blame my shit job.

Here's what I ate during the day:

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

then I had:

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

However, here are some good things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starting.

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

I hate feeling fat.

There's always tomorrow to make it better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One, two, one two three four.

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

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

I do. I can.

Goddamnit

Overate today, don't feel my very best.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silly girl.

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

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

Yesterday's was around 1500. Not too good.

So far today:

muesli-260
a biscuit--70
smoothie-70

I want something soft.

I want softness in my world. I want encouragement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

365 posts, 366th.

Eating today:

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

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

a cake-150
smoothie-100
250

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

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