But it's kind of alright- I knew I would be.
At least I'm not ridiculous about that.
I saw him today, and he was charming and kind of made me want him again. I don't feel safe round him though, like I do round her.
Hmmm, I went to see friends. I feel ignorant and as if I'm not doing as well as they are, but it was lovely to be round them and good to see them and have them make me laugh. I got drunk, so sleeping was easy, which was good. It's just they're so secure, and so out to do things. I feel I'm not.
I won't be the lonely one, sitting on my own and sad.
But then, when I do sit on my own it doesn't make me sad. Contemplative maybe.
Oh oh, how you're my hero.
Which I know is the wrong stance, Lady of the House, because you don't have heroes. You hold people in esteem, everyone in esteem, but you don't idolise and lyricise about crinkled blue eyes, like I do with you. You don't put yourself below others automatically. You just don't.
That's part of why I'd like to be more like you. Not all of it though.
And I'd like to listen to it with Kindness as well. Because her relationship with her parents is akin... I'd like to dance with her to it. Not bopping around as I usually do, I'd like to take her hand and her waist, and move with her head on my shoulder. Like a slow waltz. Insensitive. It's such lovely sad music, and uplifting in minor chords. Strange. Like her, bizarre and strange and unexpectedly uplifting, my dearest.
Sunday 25 January 2009
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Tonight, I went out and had drinks and ate:
some crisps-150
a biscuit -40
a piece of bounty-40
a cookie-100
330
pizza and salad-360
a rocky bar-120
480
nuts and raisins- 100
apple and peanut butter-150
250
730 and 730= 1460. This isn't too horrific. I also rejected food before bed and didn't go on a massive eating binge. I could have done without the rocky bar, and the nuts and raisins, which would have brought the total to 1240. I will bear this in mind when I next eat.
I did feel like I ate all day long, so the lesson from this is, make some soup. It's not bad, considering I felt like I'd failed part way through, like I couldn't claw it back. I ate three portions of fruit and veg, so the lessons to be learnt here are:
1. Go for your walk. You know you always feel ten times better after.
2. Eat more fruit and veg, you know you prefer it.
3. When you think you've been eating all day long, you actually do OK.
I wonder if you were an alcoholic, or if you've just seen what alcohol can do, or if you just have always been a teetotaller? I wonder if you're an ex addict, an ex druggie, an ex whatever. You said sentencing for class C seemed harsh, so do you? Would you?
You don't do anything unless it's full throttle (you wouldn't like that choice of words at all), so I can believe that you'd be the world's biggest alcoholic or abstainer. It doesn't go both ways.
She's coming. Unexpectedly kind, she is on her way back for a weekend. There are lots of good things going on next weekend, but I have agreed to London and so I must go. Now, you, unexpectedly kind, have similar alcohol attitudes. Hen said you were feeling dependent on it, which surprises me. What sort of alcohol? I can't imagine you drinking alcopops or lager. Wine? White wine. Red wine. Port, like me? No, you wouldn't drink port. Gin or vodka at a push, I think. Did you drink alone? You hate clubs, you like pubs but you don't feel the need to fit in and drink. Maybe you do deep down, from what Hen said. It's obvious in the way you hold yourself that it's not deep down at all, it's close to the surface and working its way out, superficial surfacings.
And I'm betting you've got somewhere, just like me, where you tot it all up and I'm certain you'd want to be the best at it, just like I do. I bet you do the same things as me; try on jeans too tight, because the current size is shameful, measure waists and bend away from mirrors in the morning or when you dry your hair, because your waist is crinkling and it didn't used to. I think you'd be 'better' at it than I am. More adept. You're so on your own, that it would be easy. You like having control over things, you're very single-minded, you're a perfectionist. I want to see you because having you around is a comfort, and yet I feel so excited that I just want to skip constantly, till you tap me with an uncertain hand (not sure, how will she take it, how?) and I feel slower again.
I am fairly sure you like women, but I am not sure it's me you like. Certain it isn't, in fact. I'm more for Lady of the House at the moment, but I can't help thinking of you too, winging your way from the highlands to us here.
a chocolate -50
A few potato triangle crisps.-50
porridge and raisins-300
400
some crisps-150
a biscuit -40
a piece of bounty-40
a cookie-100
330
pizza and salad-360
a rocky bar-120
480
nuts and raisins- 100
apple and peanut butter-150
250
730 and 730= 1460. This isn't too horrific. I also rejected food before bed and didn't go on a massive eating binge. I could have done without the rocky bar, and the nuts and raisins, which would have brought the total to 1240. I will bear this in mind when I next eat.
I did feel like I ate all day long, so the lesson from this is, make some soup. It's not bad, considering I felt like I'd failed part way through, like I couldn't claw it back. I ate three portions of fruit and veg, so the lessons to be learnt here are:
1. Go for your walk. You know you always feel ten times better after.
2. Eat more fruit and veg, you know you prefer it.
3. When you think you've been eating all day long, you actually do OK.
I wonder if you were an alcoholic, or if you've just seen what alcohol can do, or if you just have always been a teetotaller? I wonder if you're an ex addict, an ex druggie, an ex whatever. You said sentencing for class C seemed harsh, so do you? Would you?
You don't do anything unless it's full throttle (you wouldn't like that choice of words at all), so I can believe that you'd be the world's biggest alcoholic or abstainer. It doesn't go both ways.
She's coming. Unexpectedly kind, she is on her way back for a weekend. There are lots of good things going on next weekend, but I have agreed to London and so I must go. Now, you, unexpectedly kind, have similar alcohol attitudes. Hen said you were feeling dependent on it, which surprises me. What sort of alcohol? I can't imagine you drinking alcopops or lager. Wine? White wine. Red wine. Port, like me? No, you wouldn't drink port. Gin or vodka at a push, I think. Did you drink alone? You hate clubs, you like pubs but you don't feel the need to fit in and drink. Maybe you do deep down, from what Hen said. It's obvious in the way you hold yourself that it's not deep down at all, it's close to the surface and working its way out, superficial surfacings.
And I'm betting you've got somewhere, just like me, where you tot it all up and I'm certain you'd want to be the best at it, just like I do. I bet you do the same things as me; try on jeans too tight, because the current size is shameful, measure waists and bend away from mirrors in the morning or when you dry your hair, because your waist is crinkling and it didn't used to. I think you'd be 'better' at it than I am. More adept. You're so on your own, that it would be easy. You like having control over things, you're very single-minded, you're a perfectionist. I want to see you because having you around is a comfort, and yet I feel so excited that I just want to skip constantly, till you tap me with an uncertain hand (not sure, how will she take it, how?) and I feel slower again.
I am fairly sure you like women, but I am not sure it's me you like. Certain it isn't, in fact. I'm more for Lady of the House at the moment, but I can't help thinking of you too, winging your way from the highlands to us here.
Monday 19 January 2009
I still do.
Today I ate:
A smoothie-100
a flapjack-300
400
jacket potato and tuna-250
a samosa-160
veg-50
470
more flapjack-150
apricots-80
a chocolate snowman-20
250
1130. Or, 1200. That's OK, I quite like knowing I won't eat more. I think I ate 5 portions of fruit and veg. I could go for a bit more. I do feel really full. I am worried that I have expanded my stomach, I always worry this. I am going to drink some tea, probably. I want to walk and sleep, I really want to walk, I only want to sleep because I haven't had much and I need to, I know I need to.
A smoothie-100
a flapjack-300
400
jacket potato and tuna-250
a samosa-160
veg-50
470
more flapjack-150
apricots-80
a chocolate snowman-20
250
1130. Or, 1200. That's OK, I quite like knowing I won't eat more. I think I ate 5 portions of fruit and veg. I could go for a bit more. I do feel really full. I am worried that I have expanded my stomach, I always worry this. I am going to drink some tea, probably. I want to walk and sleep, I really want to walk, I only want to sleep because I haven't had much and I need to, I know I need to.
Sunday 18 January 2009
Sie ist ein Model und sie sieht gut aus.
Her mouth and cheeks had a smudged look. The red of them jumped out from her pale white face.
"I want to go out".
She said it as a statement. I knew- she'd put the makeup on to fool me. More fool her. She hadn't ate properly for a few weeks, just sipping water and hacking coughs. She'd hallucinated through the night a few times, and I'd sat with her as she told me she was cold but felt too warm to touch. I knew she was coming down with cabin fever. She was one of those that like to walk every day, to draw, to do, and lately she hadn't had enough energy to hold a pencil. She'd been sleeping upstairs, or dozing on the sofa in the kitchen, smiling and listening to our conversations that went on without her usual additions. She seemed seraphic, with her alabaster look and sing-song pronouncements- watching from her vantage on the cushions, or sleeping. It was only mumps- she was prone to it at this time of year, but I wanted to wrap her up and feed her broth. She'd wasted away; she was athletic, and now she looked bony, enhanced by the pallid quality of her skin. She'd made a brave attempt at dressing appropriately- she'd put on a long white dress over a black polo neck jumper, odd socks and tights, and a cardigan. She looked like a homeless person. A victorian waif, with her messy red hair. I laughed.
"You didn't have to put makeup on for my benefit".
She shut her eyes and smiled back. She walked across the kitchen as if on stilts, and her legs seemed to collapse her into a chair. "But I do feel better, look at me. I'm up".
"you're most definitely sitting".
"oh come on. You must have stuff to do, let me come on one errand, or feeding the ducks or something".
"I've got to pop to the shop. You know, we can feed the ducks".
She stared at me, glassy-eyed. "Now?"
She had reason for surprise. I knew I didn't usually do anything that wasn't strictly of use. Duck feeding came second to shelter running, to cooking and meetings and things. But I wanted to do something for her, and I knew that duck feeding would be a big thing.
"Now, if you want. If you put on your boots, and a coat and scarf and hat and your gloves".
Her face broke with a smile. She leant forward and rocked, making the effort to stand. "Save your strength, I'll get them."
She sighed, but resigned herself to her own incapability and lay back in her seat whilst I collected the items. I was looking for a bag and turned round to see her standing, wavering slightly as if she were being blown by the wind. I took one of her arms. The knobbles on her wrist put me in mind of a silver birch tree I'd climbed as a child- a branch had given and snapped. The shock must have registered, because she said, "don't worry, I won't snap". We made our way to the front door. She was clinging to my arm, but I didn't feel her weight on me. We made our way to the shops in silence, over the bridge. She had put me in mind of the Artful Dodger, the way she used to move, but now she was hunched- more of a Fagin. We were collecting glances. An old woman supporting a younger. She was far taller than me, and her posture and shakiness drew mutters of, "drug problem". She tried to stand taller, and sniffed. I regretted making her wrap up- she was wearing a red scarf, purple gloves, an orange hat and the odd socks. She looked like a drug addict, truth be told. People probably thought I was clinging to her to prevent her from running for her next fix, not that she was in a fit state to run anywhere.
A few times I thought she'd faint- her eyes seemed to roll up, and she'd clutch my arm tighter, but when I asked if she was OK she whispered, "fine". And she would be. We were out in ten minutes. She coughed, a deep resounding cough, and said, "let's head to the canal".
The walk to the bridge was on the way to the house, and all I could hear was the stopping of her boots on the pavement, and the breathing, the little swallow she did to try and prevent a cough. When we got there, her knees knocked inwards and she sat on the nearest bench, loosening her grip on my arm a little. I proffered her water. Her cheeks were really red now, no need for the lipstick she'd used as blush, though her lips were blue. Her forehead was cold, and she was sweating. I put my hand to her forehead. She smiled and sang, "other people break into a cold sweat, if you said, but these are the best days of our lives". Just those two lines, very soft in the dusky canal light. I laughed softly myself and sat next to her. We threw the bread in, and watched, and she leaned against me. "Thanks". "No problem darling". I flushed. It didn't matter, she couldn't see me. I heard the grin in her voice, "you didn't have to take me, but you did. You're very clever and calm and you make everyone feel safe, you know. You never ask for judgement or compliments, because it's not your style, but lots of people do, I mean, I have in the past, not from you but from others, and you never do. I can't imagine you stooping to it. I think that's fantastic, that it seems as if you don't care how anyone judges you, but you can still care about people." I flushed again. I never knew quite what to say when she complimented me. All of it was given in a rush, with stops and starts. "I've embarrassed you. Sorry". "No, darling, you haven't". I meant it. I put an arm round her waist, feeling like I was embracing cloth and air. She sagged closer into me, and put one of her sapling arms round my shoulder. Her elbow joint cracked as she did it. Her head rested on mine. I could feel the coolness of her cheek, I could feel her breathing, in and out. I wanted to stay like this for a while.
"Are you getting cold?"
"No, you're keeping me warm".
I smiled. And we sat.
"I want to go out".
She said it as a statement. I knew- she'd put the makeup on to fool me. More fool her. She hadn't ate properly for a few weeks, just sipping water and hacking coughs. She'd hallucinated through the night a few times, and I'd sat with her as she told me she was cold but felt too warm to touch. I knew she was coming down with cabin fever. She was one of those that like to walk every day, to draw, to do, and lately she hadn't had enough energy to hold a pencil. She'd been sleeping upstairs, or dozing on the sofa in the kitchen, smiling and listening to our conversations that went on without her usual additions. She seemed seraphic, with her alabaster look and sing-song pronouncements- watching from her vantage on the cushions, or sleeping. It was only mumps- she was prone to it at this time of year, but I wanted to wrap her up and feed her broth. She'd wasted away; she was athletic, and now she looked bony, enhanced by the pallid quality of her skin. She'd made a brave attempt at dressing appropriately- she'd put on a long white dress over a black polo neck jumper, odd socks and tights, and a cardigan. She looked like a homeless person. A victorian waif, with her messy red hair. I laughed.
"You didn't have to put makeup on for my benefit".
She shut her eyes and smiled back. She walked across the kitchen as if on stilts, and her legs seemed to collapse her into a chair. "But I do feel better, look at me. I'm up".
"you're most definitely sitting".
"oh come on. You must have stuff to do, let me come on one errand, or feeding the ducks or something".
"I've got to pop to the shop. You know, we can feed the ducks".
She stared at me, glassy-eyed. "Now?"
She had reason for surprise. I knew I didn't usually do anything that wasn't strictly of use. Duck feeding came second to shelter running, to cooking and meetings and things. But I wanted to do something for her, and I knew that duck feeding would be a big thing.
"Now, if you want. If you put on your boots, and a coat and scarf and hat and your gloves".
Her face broke with a smile. She leant forward and rocked, making the effort to stand. "Save your strength, I'll get them."
She sighed, but resigned herself to her own incapability and lay back in her seat whilst I collected the items. I was looking for a bag and turned round to see her standing, wavering slightly as if she were being blown by the wind. I took one of her arms. The knobbles on her wrist put me in mind of a silver birch tree I'd climbed as a child- a branch had given and snapped. The shock must have registered, because she said, "don't worry, I won't snap". We made our way to the front door. She was clinging to my arm, but I didn't feel her weight on me. We made our way to the shops in silence, over the bridge. She had put me in mind of the Artful Dodger, the way she used to move, but now she was hunched- more of a Fagin. We were collecting glances. An old woman supporting a younger. She was far taller than me, and her posture and shakiness drew mutters of, "drug problem". She tried to stand taller, and sniffed. I regretted making her wrap up- she was wearing a red scarf, purple gloves, an orange hat and the odd socks. She looked like a drug addict, truth be told. People probably thought I was clinging to her to prevent her from running for her next fix, not that she was in a fit state to run anywhere.
A few times I thought she'd faint- her eyes seemed to roll up, and she'd clutch my arm tighter, but when I asked if she was OK she whispered, "fine". And she would be. We were out in ten minutes. She coughed, a deep resounding cough, and said, "let's head to the canal".
The walk to the bridge was on the way to the house, and all I could hear was the stopping of her boots on the pavement, and the breathing, the little swallow she did to try and prevent a cough. When we got there, her knees knocked inwards and she sat on the nearest bench, loosening her grip on my arm a little. I proffered her water. Her cheeks were really red now, no need for the lipstick she'd used as blush, though her lips were blue. Her forehead was cold, and she was sweating. I put my hand to her forehead. She smiled and sang, "other people break into a cold sweat, if you said, but these are the best days of our lives". Just those two lines, very soft in the dusky canal light. I laughed softly myself and sat next to her. We threw the bread in, and watched, and she leaned against me. "Thanks". "No problem darling". I flushed. It didn't matter, she couldn't see me. I heard the grin in her voice, "you didn't have to take me, but you did. You're very clever and calm and you make everyone feel safe, you know. You never ask for judgement or compliments, because it's not your style, but lots of people do, I mean, I have in the past, not from you but from others, and you never do. I can't imagine you stooping to it. I think that's fantastic, that it seems as if you don't care how anyone judges you, but you can still care about people." I flushed again. I never knew quite what to say when she complimented me. All of it was given in a rush, with stops and starts. "I've embarrassed you. Sorry". "No, darling, you haven't". I meant it. I put an arm round her waist, feeling like I was embracing cloth and air. She sagged closer into me, and put one of her sapling arms round my shoulder. Her elbow joint cracked as she did it. Her head rested on mine. I could feel the coolness of her cheek, I could feel her breathing, in and out. I wanted to stay like this for a while.
"Are you getting cold?"
"No, you're keeping me warm".
I smiled. And we sat.
Fahren fahren fahren auf der Autobahn.
See, I think I am doing this for me, and I am. I am eating less, moving more because I feel happier, not just because I'll be slimmer, but because moving makes me feel freer and eating less lets me move more; I can't move after stuffing myself.
I have actually consumed about 1400 calories today- I ate half a peanut butter sandwich as well, I knew there was something.
Ah well, no more, no more. And that's sustainable. And I could do this every day.
It is for me, this thing, but it's about the way that people see me too, especially her.
I want her to think I'm in need of her, and that I'm lovely and beautiful, because I don't know what else I can offer.
Though it's what I want to offer everyone I've ever liked. Everyone, I am convinced, will think the same way of me once I'm thin. But what if she already thinks of me the way I want to be thought of? Or, what if she loved me for who I am now, and didn't want me to lose any weight?
I don't think it would matter if she loved me how I am, because I would still want to be different. Though, if she asked me to alter I'd not like that either. So I am doing it for a possible notion of myself that's refracted through someone else?
I am doing it for me, of that I'm sure. I want to be this way. But I know how people treated me when I was thin. Or maybe they only treat me that way because when I'm thin I feel a certain way? I can't figure which it is. I think it's probably fifty fifty.
Either way, I'm getting thinner.
I have actually consumed about 1400 calories today- I ate half a peanut butter sandwich as well, I knew there was something.
Ah well, no more, no more. And that's sustainable. And I could do this every day.
It is for me, this thing, but it's about the way that people see me too, especially her.
I want her to think I'm in need of her, and that I'm lovely and beautiful, because I don't know what else I can offer.
Though it's what I want to offer everyone I've ever liked. Everyone, I am convinced, will think the same way of me once I'm thin. But what if she already thinks of me the way I want to be thought of? Or, what if she loved me for who I am now, and didn't want me to lose any weight?
I don't think it would matter if she loved me how I am, because I would still want to be different. Though, if she asked me to alter I'd not like that either. So I am doing it for a possible notion of myself that's refracted through someone else?
I am doing it for me, of that I'm sure. I want to be this way. But I know how people treated me when I was thin. Or maybe they only treat me that way because when I'm thin I feel a certain way? I can't figure which it is. I think it's probably fifty fifty.
Either way, I'm getting thinner.
Hmm.
I feel more reassured now.
Occurring or ocurring? It's definitely the first.
The second just looks wrong.
I ate today:
cottage pie and chips-600
m and ms (Peanut butter)-100
some galaxy-100
a hot cross bun-200
a slice of home made pizza-200
So this is 1200, which is good, but I haven't done any exercise and I wish I hadn't eaten the bloody pizza. It's a waste of 200, it could have been 300 as well. I was happy because I managed to leave some of the cottage pie and chips- more than I usually would. My stomach must be shrinking, I can feel it getting smaller- this morning I didn't wake up and feel disgusting. I wanted to hop out of bed. Though it's only four days I can feel the difference in myself, opposed to how it was.
I didn't do any exercise today, which is really frustrating. I wish I had, I won't get to sleep for ages now.
Ooooh, you beauty. Lady of the House.
Now I'm listening to Bjork and feeling more relaxed.
Occurring or ocurring? It's definitely the first.
The second just looks wrong.
I ate today:
cottage pie and chips-600
m and ms (Peanut butter)-100
some galaxy-100
a hot cross bun-200
a slice of home made pizza-200
So this is 1200, which is good, but I haven't done any exercise and I wish I hadn't eaten the bloody pizza. It's a waste of 200, it could have been 300 as well. I was happy because I managed to leave some of the cottage pie and chips- more than I usually would. My stomach must be shrinking, I can feel it getting smaller- this morning I didn't wake up and feel disgusting. I wanted to hop out of bed. Though it's only four days I can feel the difference in myself, opposed to how it was.
I didn't do any exercise today, which is really frustrating. I wish I had, I won't get to sleep for ages now.
Ooooh, you beauty. Lady of the House.
Now I'm listening to Bjork and feeling more relaxed.
Saturday 17 January 2009
Wishing, oh wishing.
Soon I will be frail. Pale and frail. Pallid and frail. Wan and frail. The second sounds best.
I am not delicate, really. Too round in the face, too broad by half. I look jointed- like a puppet. I am taller than she is.
I had a dream today, that I was watching a novel and in it at the same time. It was about smuggling children, for slavery, or else bottles of liquor. We were on a ship, or a room painted wood, and then we started to rock- me, and a man and someone else. We had to smash all the bottles.
I can only remember that much. It was Georgian or Edwardian. The bottles made shards all over the floor, and I was excited, and scared.
I wonder if you ever think of me. Slim to nil, the way I think of you, you beauty who never could love me. If you could love me despite all the causes.
If I was ill, you would be there. You would support me when I got up and tell me to eat and make me wear warm clothes, even if I protested that I was burning. You would take me out, to feed the ducks, in a comatose state.
All supposition, but I think it's true.
I am not delicate, really. Too round in the face, too broad by half. I look jointed- like a puppet. I am taller than she is.
I had a dream today, that I was watching a novel and in it at the same time. It was about smuggling children, for slavery, or else bottles of liquor. We were on a ship, or a room painted wood, and then we started to rock- me, and a man and someone else. We had to smash all the bottles.
I can only remember that much. It was Georgian or Edwardian. The bottles made shards all over the floor, and I was excited, and scared.
I wonder if you ever think of me. Slim to nil, the way I think of you, you beauty who never could love me. If you could love me despite all the causes.
If I was ill, you would be there. You would support me when I got up and tell me to eat and make me wear warm clothes, even if I protested that I was burning. You would take me out, to feed the ducks, in a comatose state.
All supposition, but I think it's true.
Jesus, are drugs even worth it?
I'm trying to get hold of some; it's caused trouble between a friend and me (I'll call him Bloom), who's getting hold of it but feels anxious- and I nearly bungled it tonight by inviting in an unknown, who could get him into trouble, and me into trouble...
I am attracted to safe people. Yet this is such a dangerous thing. We're going to have to cut it in his car, so we need to find a secluded spot, where noone will suspect... taking it, I'm not so worried about. I think that part will be fine. But what if something goes wrong, what if I need to tell someone their son's died because of what I encouraged, what if?
Fundamentalism.
I am fundamentally attracted to people I feel safe with. The moment the safeness stops, I stop liking.
She's a fundamentalist, Lady of the House. No alcohol, no guns, no war. She banned her children from having toy guns. She said he was obsessed with them anyway; I asked, serious, whether he still was, and she looked at me as if I was teasing and said no. I usually tease, but not always. I wonder what my parental ethos is on that, guns I mean. They don't really ban things. They wouldn't like us to smoke under their roof, and I know they wouldn't be happy about drugs, but then they've encouraged us to try a bit of alcohol since we were tiny- three or four. They never ban things, reasoning that if they bring us up right we'll decide for ourselves. I wonder what they'd think if I brought home a chinless wonder, keen on the monarchy and shooting. They're usually a marker of right and wrong.
Then there's that other form of fundamentalism she so disagrees with. I wonder if you can only change the world if you're fundamental? Mum and Dad think I'm a black and white person, but really I can't decide. I'm all shades of grey about everything, only when I admit to it that seems to lead to wavering and failure and being shot down.
Bloom's guessed I've got a crush on her- I denied it. I said it was admiration, which it is, but it's more still. I can't stop talking about her. I think she's brilliant. I want to be around her, and yet... there's so much of me she'd disapprove of. This drug business, for one. Alcohol intake (though mine's nowhere near excessive).
Yet, she thinks I'm 'lovely'. Mum spoke to her inadvertently the other day, and said she was sure (though you have to lie to people about their children, really. She couldn't have said I was abrasive or annoying or horrible).
Oh, sort it all out. Do the calorie count, then talk about walking.
I ate:
a piece of toast
a bowl of muesli
a slice of pizza
apricots
It's 550 to here.
a mushroom
cous cous salad-200
some flapjack and chocolate-300
some apple crumble
a mentos
two m and ms- I'm going for 150 on this in total.
Ok, so 1200. I also drank a fair bit tonight, but I went on a big walk- 4.5 miles, and I walked back and danced a lot too. And worried, and smoked.
Now let's talk about walking.
It's brilliant. It clears my mind and makes me feel so much better about everything, no matter what it is or how horrible. I feel like I'm just going to keep walking till I get there, wherever there is. I walked back tonight, it's about a mile, on my own. The birds were out, so were a collection of vans and construction men doing railway work. When there were a lot of them, I felt safe- but when a lone white van passed me and hooted, I felt terrified. Would they try to bundle me in? They didn't. I carried on. The birds seemed surprised- they stepped into my path as if they'd been occupying that space on the pavement every morning, and they didn't usually find it being stomped by me in my grey and black. I must seem terrifying to a bird. I was hyper-alert- to windscreen wiper thwacks, bits of tarpaulin, the drips under the motorway sounding. I was scared- girls are taught, boys too, never walk alone after dark. It felt like the world was just about to come to life, with the birds chirping and the men and the orange-purple horizon, that I felt new and fresh too, like tonight didn't happen and I was uncomplicated again, and idealistic.
It's alright. Relationships can be salvaged. I am not under strain. I feel isolated, quite suddenly and quite shockingly. Like me and Bloom are in our own intense cloud, and I'm not so sure I like it just with him. He's more dangerous- no, more clued up- than I believed. And more forceful. I want everyone to be friends, just the same amount. I didn't realise how accustomed I'd become to our little dynamic, the four of us plus extras, whoever turns up. I couldn't have seen this coming.
Drugs mean you can't just be friends. Calling in favours, watching each other's back, paying, collecting, sorting, taking. Before, it was just going in and being sure someone else would. Now I've got to, and it's terrifying.
I was really happy this morning, having walked, having been with her, and having been able to say no, because she's a hard person to say no to. She wanted me to help with a demonstration; and I don't like to until I've researched it. She thought that this was because I wanted to be well informed, for passers-by. It's actually because I want to come to my own conclusion instead of anyone else's. I haven't researched. I'm lazy. I would feel shy, volunteering in public. I wouldn't feel shy being with her in public. I'd be proud.
She sent me a message, it ended love. She does that with other people's too, but with mine. I know she doesn't mean it love. I like to read it and kid myself. She said she wasn't on her own in the end. I never thought she would be on her own, but now I think about it, she's so into causes and factors and things- it's all so inextricably bound up with her. You can't love her without loving her causes too, really. And I do, I adore her, but I don't want to follow her on a say-so.
This is all postulation because she hasn't asked me to.
I think she really is on her own. She doesn't make friends because she's a brilliant person- though she is- she makes them because of causes. Or to do with causes. I'd like to be a cause-less friend. A friend totally divided from her politics. Mine are similar to hers, perhaps not quite so ardent, but similar. I would like to think my friends like me because of who I am, not my causes; but then, would I be interested in what I'm interested in if I wasn't who I am?
I would like to be in a play, and invite her to see it.
Leporine- of, relating to, or resembling a hare or rabbit.
Matitudinal- relating to the morning.
A beatific matitudinal glow. Not always. You look crumpled in the morning, but content. Beatific is right. Benevolent. You trot in with a smile, as if it's no trouble, no trouble at all, to be awake at quarter past seven every day. Maybe you are matitudinal- a morning person- but then you stay awake at night too, baking and making marzipan. You never look weary, though you do look tired, but you're always energetic about something, but calm too. It's confusing to try and describe you. I like the way you laugh. It's a surprised little hiccup, you show your bottom teeth and sometimes the top, if we're very lucky.
You look like a hedgehog. You're lovely.
I am attracted to safe people. Yet this is such a dangerous thing. We're going to have to cut it in his car, so we need to find a secluded spot, where noone will suspect... taking it, I'm not so worried about. I think that part will be fine. But what if something goes wrong, what if I need to tell someone their son's died because of what I encouraged, what if?
Fundamentalism.
I am fundamentally attracted to people I feel safe with. The moment the safeness stops, I stop liking.
She's a fundamentalist, Lady of the House. No alcohol, no guns, no war. She banned her children from having toy guns. She said he was obsessed with them anyway; I asked, serious, whether he still was, and she looked at me as if I was teasing and said no. I usually tease, but not always. I wonder what my parental ethos is on that, guns I mean. They don't really ban things. They wouldn't like us to smoke under their roof, and I know they wouldn't be happy about drugs, but then they've encouraged us to try a bit of alcohol since we were tiny- three or four. They never ban things, reasoning that if they bring us up right we'll decide for ourselves. I wonder what they'd think if I brought home a chinless wonder, keen on the monarchy and shooting. They're usually a marker of right and wrong.
Then there's that other form of fundamentalism she so disagrees with. I wonder if you can only change the world if you're fundamental? Mum and Dad think I'm a black and white person, but really I can't decide. I'm all shades of grey about everything, only when I admit to it that seems to lead to wavering and failure and being shot down.
Bloom's guessed I've got a crush on her- I denied it. I said it was admiration, which it is, but it's more still. I can't stop talking about her. I think she's brilliant. I want to be around her, and yet... there's so much of me she'd disapprove of. This drug business, for one. Alcohol intake (though mine's nowhere near excessive).
Yet, she thinks I'm 'lovely'. Mum spoke to her inadvertently the other day, and said she was sure (though you have to lie to people about their children, really. She couldn't have said I was abrasive or annoying or horrible).
Oh, sort it all out. Do the calorie count, then talk about walking.
I ate:
a piece of toast
a bowl of muesli
a slice of pizza
apricots
It's 550 to here.
a mushroom
cous cous salad-200
some flapjack and chocolate-300
some apple crumble
a mentos
two m and ms- I'm going for 150 on this in total.
Ok, so 1200. I also drank a fair bit tonight, but I went on a big walk- 4.5 miles, and I walked back and danced a lot too. And worried, and smoked.
Now let's talk about walking.
It's brilliant. It clears my mind and makes me feel so much better about everything, no matter what it is or how horrible. I feel like I'm just going to keep walking till I get there, wherever there is. I walked back tonight, it's about a mile, on my own. The birds were out, so were a collection of vans and construction men doing railway work. When there were a lot of them, I felt safe- but when a lone white van passed me and hooted, I felt terrified. Would they try to bundle me in? They didn't. I carried on. The birds seemed surprised- they stepped into my path as if they'd been occupying that space on the pavement every morning, and they didn't usually find it being stomped by me in my grey and black. I must seem terrifying to a bird. I was hyper-alert- to windscreen wiper thwacks, bits of tarpaulin, the drips under the motorway sounding. I was scared- girls are taught, boys too, never walk alone after dark. It felt like the world was just about to come to life, with the birds chirping and the men and the orange-purple horizon, that I felt new and fresh too, like tonight didn't happen and I was uncomplicated again, and idealistic.
It's alright. Relationships can be salvaged. I am not under strain. I feel isolated, quite suddenly and quite shockingly. Like me and Bloom are in our own intense cloud, and I'm not so sure I like it just with him. He's more dangerous- no, more clued up- than I believed. And more forceful. I want everyone to be friends, just the same amount. I didn't realise how accustomed I'd become to our little dynamic, the four of us plus extras, whoever turns up. I couldn't have seen this coming.
Drugs mean you can't just be friends. Calling in favours, watching each other's back, paying, collecting, sorting, taking. Before, it was just going in and being sure someone else would. Now I've got to, and it's terrifying.
I was really happy this morning, having walked, having been with her, and having been able to say no, because she's a hard person to say no to. She wanted me to help with a demonstration; and I don't like to until I've researched it. She thought that this was because I wanted to be well informed, for passers-by. It's actually because I want to come to my own conclusion instead of anyone else's. I haven't researched. I'm lazy. I would feel shy, volunteering in public. I wouldn't feel shy being with her in public. I'd be proud.
She sent me a message, it ended love. She does that with other people's too, but with mine. I know she doesn't mean it love. I like to read it and kid myself. She said she wasn't on her own in the end. I never thought she would be on her own, but now I think about it, she's so into causes and factors and things- it's all so inextricably bound up with her. You can't love her without loving her causes too, really. And I do, I adore her, but I don't want to follow her on a say-so.
This is all postulation because she hasn't asked me to.
I think she really is on her own. She doesn't make friends because she's a brilliant person- though she is- she makes them because of causes. Or to do with causes. I'd like to be a cause-less friend. A friend totally divided from her politics. Mine are similar to hers, perhaps not quite so ardent, but similar. I would like to think my friends like me because of who I am, not my causes; but then, would I be interested in what I'm interested in if I wasn't who I am?
I would like to be in a play, and invite her to see it.
Leporine- of, relating to, or resembling a hare or rabbit.
Matitudinal- relating to the morning.
A beatific matitudinal glow. Not always. You look crumpled in the morning, but content. Beatific is right. Benevolent. You trot in with a smile, as if it's no trouble, no trouble at all, to be awake at quarter past seven every day. Maybe you are matitudinal- a morning person- but then you stay awake at night too, baking and making marzipan. You never look weary, though you do look tired, but you're always energetic about something, but calm too. It's confusing to try and describe you. I like the way you laugh. It's a surprised little hiccup, you show your bottom teeth and sometimes the top, if we're very lucky.
You look like a hedgehog. You're lovely.
Sunday 11 January 2009
Another sad day.
Nothing decided, nothing gained, nothing nothing nothing.
Mum tried to make me feel better and failed. Her response was that I should stop being so damn self-pitiful and self-centred, that my friends were more successful because they have an idea of where they're going, and I'm flaky. She said, that letter's sat there on the windowsill since last week, you haven't posted it.
She said, you're not shit. So how was it that after our little chat, our little boosting talk, that I walked round the block crying? Thinking about how I am flaky, how I'll never change. Everything seems to be consolidating the fact of my personality- my brother came down and shouted at me to turn the TV down, and I did it. If I ask him to turn his music down, he never does. I make less of a fuss. Today he said I sound stupid when I say things, and he's right. I am just not like him, I will fail, I am terrible, I have failed and I am failing and all those people that say I'm on the cusp don't mean it at all. I'm just going to fail my whole life long. I'm just going to waste. Waste.
At least the letter got posted.
I hate my life.
And the hardest thing is that she's precisely right. I have got no idea. I am clueless. My friends are better at all that other stuff. I'm starting to feel like my friends are just simply better at everything. And I am shit. Mum's right, when I'm in one of these moods nothing's going to pull me out of it.
Dad said, well, it'll be a few days, or weeks, or maybe even a month, but you know you'll feel better again.
I didn't want to say so, but I've been feeling this way since school stopped, in varying degrees of awful. But always like I'm less than other people. Always like I've done the worst with what's been given to me, but I don't know how to do any better.
Alright, I do know. I need to be less self centred and more focusing on other people. More like Lady of the House. She was just aiming to help people, not to be great, and look, now she is great.
I was just sat here with tears running down my face, making no audible sobs. Mum came in and I just wiped my face, and spoke in a completely normal, perky tone. It wasn't even an effort to switch emotional states so quickly. I find it terrifying that I'm so inscrutable and inconsolable. It's not as if I'm wandering round wailing, it's just that I feel terrible and I can't make it better, and neither can anyone else. I feel so sad, and noone even notices. Mum asked if I was using face wipes. That was all.
Then again, do I want anyone to notice? I don't want hugs or special treatment or anything like that. If I'd wanted Mum to notice I'd have left the tears dripping instead of affecting normality.
We had a little interchange about going out on Saturday night. My Mum is fine, and she's not at all hard like I've painted her. She seems it but she's just trying to make sure I can face the world. Like she said, it's a big bad place.
But that's not true. Even in my sorry state, I know that good people exist, and that good things happen.
It's just that they don't happen to me.
I would really like a cigarette at the moment. The act of inhaling and exhaling and the smoke would be lovely.
I haven't got any. I will buy some tomorrow, or better, buy some rolling tobacco and teach myself how to roll.
If I could do anything now, I would put on my shoes and socks, take my cigarettes and matches and go and sit by our canal. I would find a ready made pile of stones, set in the place where I always go and sit, and I'd hurl them at the half-iced surfaces to break and shatter. There's a whole load of bread set on top of the ice for the ducks, who seem to ignore it slipshod skate waddling over the ice slabs on the surface.
There's something brilliant about lighting cigarettes with matches. It makes me feel accomplished. It's something I can, in my little world of can't. Sad, how far I've fallen from mythical discourses to smoking feats.
There's a girl I used to know, I think she still lives down the road from me, and I always wonder what happened to her. She's large and ungainly, with an inbred look to her. She takes after her father, who is similarly shy. Her mother's small and pointed, and I remember going to her house for tea when I was ten, and confusing her by being vegetarian. What did we eat? They lived next door to their grandparents, and the girl and her brother used a potty at night. They had a front room that was kept for best, a foreign concept. We rarely played there.
I wonder if she ever sees me, behind her net curtains. Her house used to be filled with paraphernalia, those dolls you get from Spain in frilly skirts to hide toilet roll, and ornaments and things. It was evident that her mother would have preferred a small, slight girl, to dress in frilly clothes and ribbons. I don't know how I came by this impression, but I knew from the way this girl held herself that she knew she was overgrown.
I wonder if she smokes now, or if she's rebelled or gotten pregnant or done something scandalous.
I am fairly pernicious in my assertions.
Mum tried to make me feel better and failed. Her response was that I should stop being so damn self-pitiful and self-centred, that my friends were more successful because they have an idea of where they're going, and I'm flaky. She said, that letter's sat there on the windowsill since last week, you haven't posted it.
She said, you're not shit. So how was it that after our little chat, our little boosting talk, that I walked round the block crying? Thinking about how I am flaky, how I'll never change. Everything seems to be consolidating the fact of my personality- my brother came down and shouted at me to turn the TV down, and I did it. If I ask him to turn his music down, he never does. I make less of a fuss. Today he said I sound stupid when I say things, and he's right. I am just not like him, I will fail, I am terrible, I have failed and I am failing and all those people that say I'm on the cusp don't mean it at all. I'm just going to fail my whole life long. I'm just going to waste. Waste.
At least the letter got posted.
I hate my life.
And the hardest thing is that she's precisely right. I have got no idea. I am clueless. My friends are better at all that other stuff. I'm starting to feel like my friends are just simply better at everything. And I am shit. Mum's right, when I'm in one of these moods nothing's going to pull me out of it.
Dad said, well, it'll be a few days, or weeks, or maybe even a month, but you know you'll feel better again.
I didn't want to say so, but I've been feeling this way since school stopped, in varying degrees of awful. But always like I'm less than other people. Always like I've done the worst with what's been given to me, but I don't know how to do any better.
Alright, I do know. I need to be less self centred and more focusing on other people. More like Lady of the House. She was just aiming to help people, not to be great, and look, now she is great.
I was just sat here with tears running down my face, making no audible sobs. Mum came in and I just wiped my face, and spoke in a completely normal, perky tone. It wasn't even an effort to switch emotional states so quickly. I find it terrifying that I'm so inscrutable and inconsolable. It's not as if I'm wandering round wailing, it's just that I feel terrible and I can't make it better, and neither can anyone else. I feel so sad, and noone even notices. Mum asked if I was using face wipes. That was all.
Then again, do I want anyone to notice? I don't want hugs or special treatment or anything like that. If I'd wanted Mum to notice I'd have left the tears dripping instead of affecting normality.
We had a little interchange about going out on Saturday night. My Mum is fine, and she's not at all hard like I've painted her. She seems it but she's just trying to make sure I can face the world. Like she said, it's a big bad place.
But that's not true. Even in my sorry state, I know that good people exist, and that good things happen.
It's just that they don't happen to me.
I would really like a cigarette at the moment. The act of inhaling and exhaling and the smoke would be lovely.
I haven't got any. I will buy some tomorrow, or better, buy some rolling tobacco and teach myself how to roll.
If I could do anything now, I would put on my shoes and socks, take my cigarettes and matches and go and sit by our canal. I would find a ready made pile of stones, set in the place where I always go and sit, and I'd hurl them at the half-iced surfaces to break and shatter. There's a whole load of bread set on top of the ice for the ducks, who seem to ignore it slipshod skate waddling over the ice slabs on the surface.
There's something brilliant about lighting cigarettes with matches. It makes me feel accomplished. It's something I can, in my little world of can't. Sad, how far I've fallen from mythical discourses to smoking feats.
There's a girl I used to know, I think she still lives down the road from me, and I always wonder what happened to her. She's large and ungainly, with an inbred look to her. She takes after her father, who is similarly shy. Her mother's small and pointed, and I remember going to her house for tea when I was ten, and confusing her by being vegetarian. What did we eat? They lived next door to their grandparents, and the girl and her brother used a potty at night. They had a front room that was kept for best, a foreign concept. We rarely played there.
I wonder if she ever sees me, behind her net curtains. Her house used to be filled with paraphernalia, those dolls you get from Spain in frilly skirts to hide toilet roll, and ornaments and things. It was evident that her mother would have preferred a small, slight girl, to dress in frilly clothes and ribbons. I don't know how I came by this impression, but I knew from the way this girl held herself that she knew she was overgrown.
I wonder if she smokes now, or if she's rebelled or gotten pregnant or done something scandalous.
I am fairly pernicious in my assertions.
And furthermore...
I also ate:
some rice with chicken and other stuff- 150
6 quality street chocolates-200
some grapes-30
so, 1400.
I think.
some rice with chicken and other stuff- 150
6 quality street chocolates-200
some grapes-30
so, 1400.
I think.
Diaries.
Eating today:
1/4 a pizza-100
smoothie-290
300
flapjack-80
2 dates-20
sandwich- 1 slice bread, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and salami-400
a biscuit-100#
marzipan-100
700
1000. I went on a seven or eight mile walk today, for a few hours. It was good. I love moving, going out and doing. It's ten to eight now- I woke up at two. I need to wake up far earlier. I am wearing a pair of jeans that used to be loose and now just fit. I am wanting to make them loose again.
I have ate a ridiculous amount of food, just because I've been inside and feeling upset about not being able to do anything with my life. It's all such a waste, the degree, the effort, everything, because I'm just generally useless.
1/4 a pizza-100
smoothie-290
300
flapjack-80
2 dates-20
sandwich- 1 slice bread, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and salami-400
a biscuit-100#
marzipan-100
700
1000. I went on a seven or eight mile walk today, for a few hours. It was good. I love moving, going out and doing. It's ten to eight now- I woke up at two. I need to wake up far earlier. I am wearing a pair of jeans that used to be loose and now just fit. I am wanting to make them loose again.
I have ate a ridiculous amount of food, just because I've been inside and feeling upset about not being able to do anything with my life. It's all such a waste, the degree, the effort, everything, because I'm just generally useless.
Saturday 10 January 2009
A Revelation...
I read an article in the Daily Mail on an anorexic who says she enjoys having the body of a twelve year old because, among other reasons, people are surprised when she's intelligent and articulate as their expectations are lower because she looks so neotenous.
This is something akin to the reason I want to be thin again; to surprise people, because I believe the world is kinder when you are thinner. But why do I want lower expectations and a softer life? Isn't it better to be able to say, I can compete- and to do it with or without the sympathy or pity of others? Passive-aggressively eliciting pity with one's corporeal form isn't exactly the most ingratiating of personality traits. Is intelligence not as impressive if it's not coupled with the conditioner of a young body?
I want time to stand still at the moment, so that I can get more money and begin my life in earnest. No graduate programmes for me this year. Ugh. I feel terrible about it. I don't feel ready.
I have had a bad two days, food wise. I have been eating anything and everything, and I think it's because I am just disconsolate. Inconsolable, and by this I don't mean that I spend my time crying. I mean that I spend time moaning to one of my friends, and that I cannot be snapped out of this mode of thinking that encroaches on me night and day. I can be happy for a few hours talking about other things, but just thinking about my lack of progress and general awful life makes a lump well up in my throat, like I've got it all wrong and I've got no idea, though I thought I had, so if I thought I had and I haven't will I ever have any reasonable ideas? I need to get away and be me.
I hate myself, and I can see nothing good about being me for now, only in comparison to friends (one friend is getting married, and I'm just so very glad it's not me, but aside from this I cannot see what is good about me). And that's a horrible thing as well, to only be good in comparison. I suppose everyone's only good in comparison though- even Ghandi.
I don't make any sense. That's why the BBC don't want me. That's why Rada and Bristol
Old Vic didn't want me. That's why people don't want me.
I am thinking of moving out to The House, or just going somewhere that isn't here to be me and be me on my own terms. I just don't want people to keep telling me how ridiculous I am, or holding out too much hope. My little social world seems sharply divided into these two camps. I hate even writing about it. I prefer to write about kind things, like Lady of the House. Things that are kind and familiar, that I've written about a hundred times before, that lull me to safety and feeling alright, because her response to me could be best or worst or anywhere in between, because it's not been tested, because.
Just because.
And her, the Unexpected Kindness. I don't think she likes me at all. Cut my losses. I am always cutting losses, and I sometimes wonder if I should just chop chop chop as I'm doing.
Here is what I could do in the next few weeks to make myself happier:
Join a good amdram.
Write the damn articles.
Find work experience at the Birmingham publisher in Digbeth with three people, or go back to the paper, or do something. Don't just sit.
But I look at all of these things and feel a huge wave of resentment. Nowhere wants me, so why bother? I can do all of those things, but I'll just be donating my time and the people that get it will no doubt put me to use stuffing envelopes, or use me for a while and then chuck me aside, or flat out reject me. And I cannot take any more rejection. I want people to say yes. I know everyone goes through this, every graduate blah blah blah but I don't care. I got a degree in English and I do all this work experience, and does the bloody BBC even want to give me an interview? Do they fuck. I fucking hate everywhere and everyone, and most especially myself for being a whiny piteous cow who isn't doing anything, who's just letting the world traipse her into the ground. I'm never going to fucking well make anything of myself if I don't shut up and get going.
Noone can say anything to encourage me, or to pep talk me into it. I'm in a state where anything is a bad thing to say. Those who assure me something will come are talking out of their arses, because how the fuck do they know? To the world I'm just another grey piece of shitty nothing. Those who say no wonder, you need this or that, just make me want to scream again, because who the fuck are they to tell me what to do?
Noone can win, least of all me. What I really want is someone to take me outside and let me run and scream and kick some tree stumps. This is what would really help, someone who wouldn't think I was terrible, or who would and who wouldn't care.
Unfortunately there's noone like that.
If I told Lady of the House any of this, no doubt she'd think it incredibly spoilt. I can see it behind her eyes sometimes- she'd never say it of course, but she must be thinking, spoilt little materialist brat.
She knows a better version of me. I'm a better version of myself around her, but also, she knows that journalist that trounced me into the ground. Week long expose, as opposed to a little snippetty bit in the free rag that most people mistake for an advertising magazine. I bet the woman that wrote it isn't at all like me inside. I bet she's funny without being overly flippant and endearing and beautiful and thin and talented and not at all worried about speaking her mind and an oxbridge graduate. Me if I was better. My friends actually said, "she looks like you". Someone thought she was me. On a good day. When I'm thin and far more beautiful than I actually am. Healthy tones and lighter hair, always indicative of the heroine, whilst I skulk and sulk in the background with my pasty face and eye bags and dark blood hair. Oh, who cares? Really, who cares? I need to do more for others and less for me. I'm worthless anyway, unless it's in relation to other people. And mostly I'm worthless in relation to them anyway.
Like an ancient day and I'm on trial.
Alright. Let's say something that made me happy today.
I talked about the Lady of the House in relation to Trinny and Susannah, harridans. I was talking to a friend, who said she hated them, and I agreed. I said I didn't know who would subject those they knew to such treatment, especially when dress is so indicative of character. Lady of the House, for example, looks utterly lovely, I think. She's got cropped grey white hair and resembles a hedgehog, and like them, is spry and shockingly fast when she wants to be. She looks clever, shrewd- as if she's sized you up in two minutes and got the measure of you, but she'll treat you just the same as everyone else nontheless, as if she knows exactly what everyone's about, or doesn't care. She's got stick thin limbs and a round body, and she wears a few clothes on rotation- she's got a velour pair of purple tracksuit bottoms, a few polo necks, a velvet jacket, lots of flowy skirts that swish round her tiny ankles and a light navy cotton long sleeved empire line top with tiny floral print, a v-neck but always over some other top. She always wears good leather flat black sensible lace ups. She doesn't look groomed or primed, but she looks exactly like herself, perfect, and I'd never ever want to change the way she looks. Why do people nominate others for that sort of thing? Why can't we all just be ourselves?
This is something akin to the reason I want to be thin again; to surprise people, because I believe the world is kinder when you are thinner. But why do I want lower expectations and a softer life? Isn't it better to be able to say, I can compete- and to do it with or without the sympathy or pity of others? Passive-aggressively eliciting pity with one's corporeal form isn't exactly the most ingratiating of personality traits. Is intelligence not as impressive if it's not coupled with the conditioner of a young body?
I want time to stand still at the moment, so that I can get more money and begin my life in earnest. No graduate programmes for me this year. Ugh. I feel terrible about it. I don't feel ready.
I have had a bad two days, food wise. I have been eating anything and everything, and I think it's because I am just disconsolate. Inconsolable, and by this I don't mean that I spend my time crying. I mean that I spend time moaning to one of my friends, and that I cannot be snapped out of this mode of thinking that encroaches on me night and day. I can be happy for a few hours talking about other things, but just thinking about my lack of progress and general awful life makes a lump well up in my throat, like I've got it all wrong and I've got no idea, though I thought I had, so if I thought I had and I haven't will I ever have any reasonable ideas? I need to get away and be me.
I hate myself, and I can see nothing good about being me for now, only in comparison to friends (one friend is getting married, and I'm just so very glad it's not me, but aside from this I cannot see what is good about me). And that's a horrible thing as well, to only be good in comparison. I suppose everyone's only good in comparison though- even Ghandi.
I don't make any sense. That's why the BBC don't want me. That's why Rada and Bristol
Old Vic didn't want me. That's why people don't want me.
I am thinking of moving out to The House, or just going somewhere that isn't here to be me and be me on my own terms. I just don't want people to keep telling me how ridiculous I am, or holding out too much hope. My little social world seems sharply divided into these two camps. I hate even writing about it. I prefer to write about kind things, like Lady of the House. Things that are kind and familiar, that I've written about a hundred times before, that lull me to safety and feeling alright, because her response to me could be best or worst or anywhere in between, because it's not been tested, because.
Just because.
And her, the Unexpected Kindness. I don't think she likes me at all. Cut my losses. I am always cutting losses, and I sometimes wonder if I should just chop chop chop as I'm doing.
Here is what I could do in the next few weeks to make myself happier:
Join a good amdram.
Write the damn articles.
Find work experience at the Birmingham publisher in Digbeth with three people, or go back to the paper, or do something. Don't just sit.
But I look at all of these things and feel a huge wave of resentment. Nowhere wants me, so why bother? I can do all of those things, but I'll just be donating my time and the people that get it will no doubt put me to use stuffing envelopes, or use me for a while and then chuck me aside, or flat out reject me. And I cannot take any more rejection. I want people to say yes. I know everyone goes through this, every graduate blah blah blah but I don't care. I got a degree in English and I do all this work experience, and does the bloody BBC even want to give me an interview? Do they fuck. I fucking hate everywhere and everyone, and most especially myself for being a whiny piteous cow who isn't doing anything, who's just letting the world traipse her into the ground. I'm never going to fucking well make anything of myself if I don't shut up and get going.
Noone can say anything to encourage me, or to pep talk me into it. I'm in a state where anything is a bad thing to say. Those who assure me something will come are talking out of their arses, because how the fuck do they know? To the world I'm just another grey piece of shitty nothing. Those who say no wonder, you need this or that, just make me want to scream again, because who the fuck are they to tell me what to do?
Noone can win, least of all me. What I really want is someone to take me outside and let me run and scream and kick some tree stumps. This is what would really help, someone who wouldn't think I was terrible, or who would and who wouldn't care.
Unfortunately there's noone like that.
If I told Lady of the House any of this, no doubt she'd think it incredibly spoilt. I can see it behind her eyes sometimes- she'd never say it of course, but she must be thinking, spoilt little materialist brat.
She knows a better version of me. I'm a better version of myself around her, but also, she knows that journalist that trounced me into the ground. Week long expose, as opposed to a little snippetty bit in the free rag that most people mistake for an advertising magazine. I bet the woman that wrote it isn't at all like me inside. I bet she's funny without being overly flippant and endearing and beautiful and thin and talented and not at all worried about speaking her mind and an oxbridge graduate. Me if I was better. My friends actually said, "she looks like you". Someone thought she was me. On a good day. When I'm thin and far more beautiful than I actually am. Healthy tones and lighter hair, always indicative of the heroine, whilst I skulk and sulk in the background with my pasty face and eye bags and dark blood hair. Oh, who cares? Really, who cares? I need to do more for others and less for me. I'm worthless anyway, unless it's in relation to other people. And mostly I'm worthless in relation to them anyway.
Like an ancient day and I'm on trial.
Alright. Let's say something that made me happy today.
I talked about the Lady of the House in relation to Trinny and Susannah, harridans. I was talking to a friend, who said she hated them, and I agreed. I said I didn't know who would subject those they knew to such treatment, especially when dress is so indicative of character. Lady of the House, for example, looks utterly lovely, I think. She's got cropped grey white hair and resembles a hedgehog, and like them, is spry and shockingly fast when she wants to be. She looks clever, shrewd- as if she's sized you up in two minutes and got the measure of you, but she'll treat you just the same as everyone else nontheless, as if she knows exactly what everyone's about, or doesn't care. She's got stick thin limbs and a round body, and she wears a few clothes on rotation- she's got a velour pair of purple tracksuit bottoms, a few polo necks, a velvet jacket, lots of flowy skirts that swish round her tiny ankles and a light navy cotton long sleeved empire line top with tiny floral print, a v-neck but always over some other top. She always wears good leather flat black sensible lace ups. She doesn't look groomed or primed, but she looks exactly like herself, perfect, and I'd never ever want to change the way she looks. Why do people nominate others for that sort of thing? Why can't we all just be ourselves?
Friday 9 January 2009
I just wanna talk to you and tell you how I feel.
Oh, you beauty.
I wonder how many people have said this to you?
The odd lascivious male, traversing the streets of an evening. Or after you've handed in an essay, or when you're providing help, maybe.
Or maybe they just say, nice boobs.
An interesting fact: in my twenty-two years, a quarter of which I have been endowed with mammary glands, no man has ever commented on my breasts (or lack thereof). Not unsolicited. Most girls get the odd, "get them out for the lads", the occasional grope, the eye downwards, the "cor they're lovely". Not me. Not unless they're right there, uncovered, in front of their faces. One man named them and said they were lovely, and men seem to enjoy them when they're completely exposed. Bombazine doll remarked, "more than a handful's a waste". She told me they were lovely. But they're not the sort of breasts that attract unsolicited attention. It's more often my posterior that does that. I suppose I wear a lot of high necklines, but even when I'm not attention is not forthcoming. It's the high clavicle- that takes all of the attention. It's the thing that light reflects off and draws the eye in, not the flat white prairie below. One man once said to me, "you've got a lovely figure, don't hide it away", walking home from school- but this was years ago, and generic. Note the use of the word figure rather than specifying a certain part. It's the overall look. A year ago, as I was walking to a friend's, some boys shouted from across the road, "don't bother putting your hair up, you look like a man in a skirt". I wasn't offended by this, though I know I should be. I was mistaken for a boy another time as well, but I find this almost a compliment- the surety of my movements, the length of my limbs, the capable quality of my hands, I like all of these things. Stark eyebrows, strong jaw, ready smile. Boyish. I am boyish.
Your breasts attract so much attention. It's obvious that this makes you shy. They attract my attention because you bundle them up under your arms, in an attempt to make them look smaller or go away. You hunch over. This only makes them larger, more overt. You need simply to be proud. They aren't going to go away, you know. Just like mine will never grow. It's a hard thing to do. I am not proud of my body, but at least my arse, which is the most prominent thing, is tucked away from my point of view. At least I can't see it to try and hide it. You can't hide an arse anyway. But breasts are different. I suppose mine are low maintenance- not a problem running, dancing, you can sling them in any old bra and chances are noone will know. I'm sharing bras with my twelve year old sister. That's tragic. I don't think that you should suddenly start flashing your chest, no v necklines or plunging decolletes- though it would look fine, that's not your style. I do think that you should stand up straighter, and be prouder. Because you have a body to be proud of. It's strong and self sufficient, perfectly proportioned, and it's evidence of all you've done and achieved, it houses your wonderful mind, and it's smooth and tanned, even in winter. You don't need to keep yourself hidden away from the world. I don't mean dress in lycra and teenybop the night away, I just mean that I want you to be happier with yourself when you're trudging down a street. I don't want you to look as if you're always expecting an attack. A verbal siege. You beauty. That's what I want to shout at you. If I dressed in men's clothes and ran off straight after you wouldn't even know. I could borrow my brother's. You might think I was being ironic, or crude, but the meaning would be clear. I wonder if anyone's ever shouted that at you? From what you tell me, people are far more bellicose towards your retreating back. Bastards. They're all completely wrong, dear. You beauty.
I wonder how many people have said this to you?
The odd lascivious male, traversing the streets of an evening. Or after you've handed in an essay, or when you're providing help, maybe.
Or maybe they just say, nice boobs.
An interesting fact: in my twenty-two years, a quarter of which I have been endowed with mammary glands, no man has ever commented on my breasts (or lack thereof). Not unsolicited. Most girls get the odd, "get them out for the lads", the occasional grope, the eye downwards, the "cor they're lovely". Not me. Not unless they're right there, uncovered, in front of their faces. One man named them and said they were lovely, and men seem to enjoy them when they're completely exposed. Bombazine doll remarked, "more than a handful's a waste". She told me they were lovely. But they're not the sort of breasts that attract unsolicited attention. It's more often my posterior that does that. I suppose I wear a lot of high necklines, but even when I'm not attention is not forthcoming. It's the high clavicle- that takes all of the attention. It's the thing that light reflects off and draws the eye in, not the flat white prairie below. One man once said to me, "you've got a lovely figure, don't hide it away", walking home from school- but this was years ago, and generic. Note the use of the word figure rather than specifying a certain part. It's the overall look. A year ago, as I was walking to a friend's, some boys shouted from across the road, "don't bother putting your hair up, you look like a man in a skirt". I wasn't offended by this, though I know I should be. I was mistaken for a boy another time as well, but I find this almost a compliment- the surety of my movements, the length of my limbs, the capable quality of my hands, I like all of these things. Stark eyebrows, strong jaw, ready smile. Boyish. I am boyish.
Your breasts attract so much attention. It's obvious that this makes you shy. They attract my attention because you bundle them up under your arms, in an attempt to make them look smaller or go away. You hunch over. This only makes them larger, more overt. You need simply to be proud. They aren't going to go away, you know. Just like mine will never grow. It's a hard thing to do. I am not proud of my body, but at least my arse, which is the most prominent thing, is tucked away from my point of view. At least I can't see it to try and hide it. You can't hide an arse anyway. But breasts are different. I suppose mine are low maintenance- not a problem running, dancing, you can sling them in any old bra and chances are noone will know. I'm sharing bras with my twelve year old sister. That's tragic. I don't think that you should suddenly start flashing your chest, no v necklines or plunging decolletes- though it would look fine, that's not your style. I do think that you should stand up straighter, and be prouder. Because you have a body to be proud of. It's strong and self sufficient, perfectly proportioned, and it's evidence of all you've done and achieved, it houses your wonderful mind, and it's smooth and tanned, even in winter. You don't need to keep yourself hidden away from the world. I don't mean dress in lycra and teenybop the night away, I just mean that I want you to be happier with yourself when you're trudging down a street. I don't want you to look as if you're always expecting an attack. A verbal siege. You beauty. That's what I want to shout at you. If I dressed in men's clothes and ran off straight after you wouldn't even know. I could borrow my brother's. You might think I was being ironic, or crude, but the meaning would be clear. I wonder if anyone's ever shouted that at you? From what you tell me, people are far more bellicose towards your retreating back. Bastards. They're all completely wrong, dear. You beauty.
... is sad tonight
This is what your facebook status read.
I could have been sad tonight, but I went out with some friends to somewhere I'd usually have found utterly awful, but it was actually alright. I just got into it, I experienced it as they might have (like the sikh wedding) and kissed someone with soft lips, and listened to the most amazing unexpected beatboxer.
You won't ever have that experience, because you hate going out to those places and drinking VK cherry drinks, and dancing. I usually hate going to those places and drinking those drinks, but how can you hate dancing? Like Lady of the House said, everyone loves moving. I wonder what you'd do if she tried to move you? I suppose you're worried about the negative attention. It's really not noticeable. I wear polo neck jumpers and look very different to the majority of people, but still they accept me and want to touch me... I suppose I'm just a slab of flesh, commoditised- I am a woman, any association with me is valuable and worthwhile, because I show you to be a macho man. Of course, that's not how it always is. But I can promise you that you'd be viewed the same. You'd not be shunned.
Though you have been. I think you are shunned because you're visibly against the crowd- with your fleeces and scraped hair- and maybe this is what I like about you. That you're completely honest and not willing to bend at all, I can feel safe with whatever opinion you give me because I will know it to be the honest truth. You don't want to subject yourself to their judgement. Though you are too wary of being judged- who cares? If you really didn't care, you'd go.
You're back in the Scottish town now. I wonder why you are sad tonight. I would ask, only it feels too strange for us two, just recently reacquainted.
Do you remember that time when we were about fourteen, at your house when you'd just said something inexcrably sad about your past, and I hugged you? I remember. You used to be the person I missed (and, with only a few words and meetings, still are). That time you pushed me away after a minute or so. Why? Were you frightened of your Nan seeing? Do you really just feel that I'm not for you? Are you so ashamed of your body? Are you unused to physical contact?
The last two are my reasons for rejecting hugs. Hugs. It's such a terrible word, isn't it? Cheap, used on cards with badly drawn teddy bears and fluffy borders with pastel colours. Not your word, not mine. Closeness, that's preferable. Our closeness...
I could believe I'm not for you. I could believe any of those responses, but most of all that one, and I'm sat here analysing after half a decade has passed. I wasn't even aware of what I felt for you then, but looking back I can see that I felt this all along, that I would have been more than happy to do anything with you, to go anywhere. We fell out, and neither of us can remember why. Or do you remember? I don't. I wish I could. I think you called me a slut one day, but that was long after. I do seek solace in the arms of strangers... I'm just a Blanche Dubois, but nowhere near as bad as you were thinking.
Were you just jealous? Hen said you'd told her once, after you knew she slept with that man, you were. 'Just jealous'. You'd given a series of other reasons- sexual connection has to be on a basis of months, of knowing the other person, of whatever else... I don't agree. Sex doesn't have to be emotional, though it would be with you. But I think 'just jealous'- Hen says you said it with a shrug and a little laugh- says the most. Because you haven't, not even a kiss, as far as I know.
If I'm wrong, I'd love to know. I still think you adore her, girl that's always in contact. I wish, for your sake, she'd stop loving her partner and take up with you instead dear. I'd rather it was me, but if it can't be, I want you to be as happy as is humanly possible. I bet she doesn't do drugs or go out clubbing or kiss strange men, or come to your house and be overly loud. I wonder if she looks at you when you drink tea, and thinks your habit of going home for tea at six is quaint, or wants to touch your cheekbone.
I have had a sad day, and tonight I forgot it all. There's the fact of wasting two years, at least, and the fact of too many calories and I'll never be slim enough. Maybe I am too slim for you? Would you like me if I put on weight? Would I do it? I'd not. I hate putting on weight. I went for tea with a friend and forgot it then, and then I went out and forgot again. Oh, a half rhyme. But why are you sad? As if I could heal your sadness and heal mine too. I think that the most likely answer is that you have lost computer information. Hen told me that you cried when you lost your laptop- though you had it all backed up on hard drive. Losing work hits you hard. Especially when you're such a good worker.
I suppose I just want you to know that someone thinks, even if I am on and off with who I like, that you're the most beautiful thing in the world.
That's all.
I could have been sad tonight, but I went out with some friends to somewhere I'd usually have found utterly awful, but it was actually alright. I just got into it, I experienced it as they might have (like the sikh wedding) and kissed someone with soft lips, and listened to the most amazing unexpected beatboxer.
You won't ever have that experience, because you hate going out to those places and drinking VK cherry drinks, and dancing. I usually hate going to those places and drinking those drinks, but how can you hate dancing? Like Lady of the House said, everyone loves moving. I wonder what you'd do if she tried to move you? I suppose you're worried about the negative attention. It's really not noticeable. I wear polo neck jumpers and look very different to the majority of people, but still they accept me and want to touch me... I suppose I'm just a slab of flesh, commoditised- I am a woman, any association with me is valuable and worthwhile, because I show you to be a macho man. Of course, that's not how it always is. But I can promise you that you'd be viewed the same. You'd not be shunned.
Though you have been. I think you are shunned because you're visibly against the crowd- with your fleeces and scraped hair- and maybe this is what I like about you. That you're completely honest and not willing to bend at all, I can feel safe with whatever opinion you give me because I will know it to be the honest truth. You don't want to subject yourself to their judgement. Though you are too wary of being judged- who cares? If you really didn't care, you'd go.
You're back in the Scottish town now. I wonder why you are sad tonight. I would ask, only it feels too strange for us two, just recently reacquainted.
Do you remember that time when we were about fourteen, at your house when you'd just said something inexcrably sad about your past, and I hugged you? I remember. You used to be the person I missed (and, with only a few words and meetings, still are). That time you pushed me away after a minute or so. Why? Were you frightened of your Nan seeing? Do you really just feel that I'm not for you? Are you so ashamed of your body? Are you unused to physical contact?
The last two are my reasons for rejecting hugs. Hugs. It's such a terrible word, isn't it? Cheap, used on cards with badly drawn teddy bears and fluffy borders with pastel colours. Not your word, not mine. Closeness, that's preferable. Our closeness...
I could believe I'm not for you. I could believe any of those responses, but most of all that one, and I'm sat here analysing after half a decade has passed. I wasn't even aware of what I felt for you then, but looking back I can see that I felt this all along, that I would have been more than happy to do anything with you, to go anywhere. We fell out, and neither of us can remember why. Or do you remember? I don't. I wish I could. I think you called me a slut one day, but that was long after. I do seek solace in the arms of strangers... I'm just a Blanche Dubois, but nowhere near as bad as you were thinking.
Were you just jealous? Hen said you'd told her once, after you knew she slept with that man, you were. 'Just jealous'. You'd given a series of other reasons- sexual connection has to be on a basis of months, of knowing the other person, of whatever else... I don't agree. Sex doesn't have to be emotional, though it would be with you. But I think 'just jealous'- Hen says you said it with a shrug and a little laugh- says the most. Because you haven't, not even a kiss, as far as I know.
If I'm wrong, I'd love to know. I still think you adore her, girl that's always in contact. I wish, for your sake, she'd stop loving her partner and take up with you instead dear. I'd rather it was me, but if it can't be, I want you to be as happy as is humanly possible. I bet she doesn't do drugs or go out clubbing or kiss strange men, or come to your house and be overly loud. I wonder if she looks at you when you drink tea, and thinks your habit of going home for tea at six is quaint, or wants to touch your cheekbone.
I have had a sad day, and tonight I forgot it all. There's the fact of wasting two years, at least, and the fact of too many calories and I'll never be slim enough. Maybe I am too slim for you? Would you like me if I put on weight? Would I do it? I'd not. I hate putting on weight. I went for tea with a friend and forgot it then, and then I went out and forgot again. Oh, a half rhyme. But why are you sad? As if I could heal your sadness and heal mine too. I think that the most likely answer is that you have lost computer information. Hen told me that you cried when you lost your laptop- though you had it all backed up on hard drive. Losing work hits you hard. Especially when you're such a good worker.
I suppose I just want you to know that someone thinks, even if I am on and off with who I like, that you're the most beautiful thing in the world.
That's all.
Tuesday 6 January 2009
I am pale, pallid, wan.
I know.
And I strive so much for acceptance. This is part of the problem- people can sniff it a mile away, and my brand is particularly noxious. I think I have good taste in people- I like her of the House, I like people that are worthwhile- but I can't seem to stop striving for their approval, and I need not to do it. It's with the people that I care a little less about that I'm best. Otherwise, I go into overdrive- I'm too much, manic, or utterly withdrawn and silent because I'm intimidated by their excellence.
I need something.
Drugs would be it.
Or I can set myself a goal.
I've got two goals, one is to be in a play and one is to be a size ten (UK). The first is easier than the second. I used to want to be a size eight, but I'm going to have to be more realistic. I'm a size 12-14 now, at 5ft 8. I wear a 36A bra. My Mum bought me a size 14-16 pair of pyjamas for christmas. They're quite nice, but I can't wear them without getting this churning feeling in my stomach, and an embarrassed prickle on the back of my neck. I put them on last night and couldn't sleep in them. I was angry, if anything. I am not prepared to wear anything that's a size 16. Not even if Mum bought it on the basis of it being big.
I feel like I can't control anything, and I need to control this to stop people giving me advice on what to wear and how to be, because the horrible truth is that if I was skinnier it really wouldn't matter so much and Mum wouldn't mind. I don't think that my life would be perfect, but it would be one segment to worry about less. When I'm thinner, I feel that people judge me less and I'm easier to be around. It's something I've won at, when I feel I'm failing in all else. I feel like I'm not clever, like I'm a charlatan. Not witty, not able to get a good job like my classmates, not anything and I hate it. I can't even break out of it because I'm too scared and too absorbed in everyone else and their successes to think about how I can be like them. Well, this is one area I will win in. I am going to be thin and I am going to be in a play. And the rest will come.
Here are things that will make me thinner, that I am already doing:
1. Eating when hungry.
2. Occupying my time with walks and things like that.
3. Eating fruit and veg.
4. Drinking water a lot.
5. Drinking less alcohol and more tea.
6. Walking for an hour a day, or doing something similarly exercise based that I find pleasant.
My hair is dark like blood at night, and my skin is pale and my cheekbones are cutting through. And I feel happier.
I am good because:
I have worked out, on my own, that I can please who I want to, and that I don't necessarily have to please the cousins.
I do things because I like to and not because I should.
I am accepting, and I don't expect much from people.
I would rather be with someone who feels the same rather than have inequality of partnership.
I would rather speak French than drink alcopops and bump and grind.
Oh, but these things don't compare to a junior editorship at a wonderful publisher's and novel writing on the side, a place on a marketing theatrical scheme for postgraduates, a potential teacher who knows exactly what she'll do and a traveller with a first from my University. Why on earth would they all be interested in me? I just feel like I've fallen so far behind that I might cry, living at home in a shared room and having nothing whatsoever to offer the working world. I hate myself. I hate being me. I hate, hate hate. I just want to feel like I'm on par, and I'm not, they're all prettier and better and thinner and no wonder I just can't.
I am crap.
I hate it.
There's a feeling of my throat widening, so I have to swallow and tears come, just a few. I'm not crying. It's more a watering of the eyes. I just feel like I'm this terrible composite version of all the people I know, they're all better versions of me than I am of myself and I'm just terrible at everything, too mediocre and half-assed and not perfectionist enough at anything to be chosen for it, just middling at lots of things. I can't even form relationships without freaking out about it.
I wish that it wasn't two in the morning and I could go on a walk. Ideally, I would ring her, and we'd meet and go on a walk together, because nothing's as scary in the darkness and she's good at defending herself anyway. We'd walk and I'd say exactly what was wrong, and she'd say nothing except... I like you.
And that would be fine. And I'd listen to her be sad too. I just want someone to listen to all this stupid narcissistic crap and tell me that they like me nontheless. It's not going to happen. I don't want anyone to tell me that I am better, that I will succeed, that it's OK, because none of those are guaranteed and none of them are true. I want someone that says it's OK to be angry, and that it's OK to feel what I feel. I can't be a perfect person.
And after I'd done all that, and had a final kick at a tree stump or a lamp post, we'd sit and just laugh at how silly I am. And that makes it seem so much less...
I should have gone to help at the House tonight, if I had I wouldn't be sitting here typing out things that are beyond ridiculous, beyond pitiful and I wouldn't have had that conversation with my brother or felt this way, because the Lady of The House has some sort of calming effect on me that makes me believe it will be alright and that I am useful, because she trusts me and these people trust me and I'm doing something that's good and that's effective, there and then. I don't tell her these things, but she's got such a different outlook- looking at others- that it rubs off and I don't focus on I. She's always got something interesting to say, always fascinates.
I wish I'd gone.
And I strive so much for acceptance. This is part of the problem- people can sniff it a mile away, and my brand is particularly noxious. I think I have good taste in people- I like her of the House, I like people that are worthwhile- but I can't seem to stop striving for their approval, and I need not to do it. It's with the people that I care a little less about that I'm best. Otherwise, I go into overdrive- I'm too much, manic, or utterly withdrawn and silent because I'm intimidated by their excellence.
I need something.
Drugs would be it.
Or I can set myself a goal.
I've got two goals, one is to be in a play and one is to be a size ten (UK). The first is easier than the second. I used to want to be a size eight, but I'm going to have to be more realistic. I'm a size 12-14 now, at 5ft 8. I wear a 36A bra. My Mum bought me a size 14-16 pair of pyjamas for christmas. They're quite nice, but I can't wear them without getting this churning feeling in my stomach, and an embarrassed prickle on the back of my neck. I put them on last night and couldn't sleep in them. I was angry, if anything. I am not prepared to wear anything that's a size 16. Not even if Mum bought it on the basis of it being big.
I feel like I can't control anything, and I need to control this to stop people giving me advice on what to wear and how to be, because the horrible truth is that if I was skinnier it really wouldn't matter so much and Mum wouldn't mind. I don't think that my life would be perfect, but it would be one segment to worry about less. When I'm thinner, I feel that people judge me less and I'm easier to be around. It's something I've won at, when I feel I'm failing in all else. I feel like I'm not clever, like I'm a charlatan. Not witty, not able to get a good job like my classmates, not anything and I hate it. I can't even break out of it because I'm too scared and too absorbed in everyone else and their successes to think about how I can be like them. Well, this is one area I will win in. I am going to be thin and I am going to be in a play. And the rest will come.
Here are things that will make me thinner, that I am already doing:
1. Eating when hungry.
2. Occupying my time with walks and things like that.
3. Eating fruit and veg.
4. Drinking water a lot.
5. Drinking less alcohol and more tea.
6. Walking for an hour a day, or doing something similarly exercise based that I find pleasant.
My hair is dark like blood at night, and my skin is pale and my cheekbones are cutting through. And I feel happier.
I am good because:
I have worked out, on my own, that I can please who I want to, and that I don't necessarily have to please the cousins.
I do things because I like to and not because I should.
I am accepting, and I don't expect much from people.
I would rather be with someone who feels the same rather than have inequality of partnership.
I would rather speak French than drink alcopops and bump and grind.
Oh, but these things don't compare to a junior editorship at a wonderful publisher's and novel writing on the side, a place on a marketing theatrical scheme for postgraduates, a potential teacher who knows exactly what she'll do and a traveller with a first from my University. Why on earth would they all be interested in me? I just feel like I've fallen so far behind that I might cry, living at home in a shared room and having nothing whatsoever to offer the working world. I hate myself. I hate being me. I hate, hate hate. I just want to feel like I'm on par, and I'm not, they're all prettier and better and thinner and no wonder I just can't.
I am crap.
I hate it.
There's a feeling of my throat widening, so I have to swallow and tears come, just a few. I'm not crying. It's more a watering of the eyes. I just feel like I'm this terrible composite version of all the people I know, they're all better versions of me than I am of myself and I'm just terrible at everything, too mediocre and half-assed and not perfectionist enough at anything to be chosen for it, just middling at lots of things. I can't even form relationships without freaking out about it.
I wish that it wasn't two in the morning and I could go on a walk. Ideally, I would ring her, and we'd meet and go on a walk together, because nothing's as scary in the darkness and she's good at defending herself anyway. We'd walk and I'd say exactly what was wrong, and she'd say nothing except... I like you.
And that would be fine. And I'd listen to her be sad too. I just want someone to listen to all this stupid narcissistic crap and tell me that they like me nontheless. It's not going to happen. I don't want anyone to tell me that I am better, that I will succeed, that it's OK, because none of those are guaranteed and none of them are true. I want someone that says it's OK to be angry, and that it's OK to feel what I feel. I can't be a perfect person.
And after I'd done all that, and had a final kick at a tree stump or a lamp post, we'd sit and just laugh at how silly I am. And that makes it seem so much less...
I should have gone to help at the House tonight, if I had I wouldn't be sitting here typing out things that are beyond ridiculous, beyond pitiful and I wouldn't have had that conversation with my brother or felt this way, because the Lady of The House has some sort of calming effect on me that makes me believe it will be alright and that I am useful, because she trusts me and these people trust me and I'm doing something that's good and that's effective, there and then. I don't tell her these things, but she's got such a different outlook- looking at others- that it rubs off and I don't focus on I. She's always got something interesting to say, always fascinates.
I wish I'd gone.
Conversations with my brother
make me feel terrible. He's arrogant and cool- and lies, a lot of the time, and is ashamed of me, and I am so jealous of him.
I'm jealous that he's going to make the right decisions with Universities and life. I'm jealous that he's getting the chance to learn how to DJ, I'm jealous that he has a wide circle of friends at home that all like doing the stuff he likes (though they don't seem to have a lot of fun when I'm about), I'm jealous of his cocky arrogance. I'm trying to work out why it is that he just assumes everyone likes him. They do, but I can't work out of that's because he assumes it's so or because he's innately likeable. Which stems from which?
Our cousin is a case in point- she's his age, and I always think she's looking down on me. She's very pretty, and very popular. He is popular, and (apparently) good looking. He never has problems with her, and they get on fine.
The problem is that I am a jealous person. I need not to be. I need to kick myself out of it and turn it into competitiveness instead, into believing that I can compete. I just feel like everyone is so much cooler and sussed out and better, generally, at being than I am.
I have worked it out. Since I was a child, my Mum's always made it evident that people were observing and judging us (this usually revolved around my clothes- she didn't like me going out looking neglected, because it reflected badly on the family). Similarly, Dad has always pushed me and asks constantly how I am doing compared to my peer group. Therefore, I grow up with the notion that I am constantly observed (and to my detriment). It's strange that I'm not obsessed with clothes- I worry about weight, but I've also got a spotty, pale complexion and I scrat about in the daggiest old things, but this doesn't fuss me half as much as weight or my general coming across does. Mum used to worry that I was lonely a lot, that I read too much, which I suppose I probably picked up on, so I conceive of myself as a bit of a social oddity. What's worse is that there's no discussing it, or no consequence. My cousins have ignored me for a fair bit- we used to play together, then we all went to school and they realised I was a loser, and since it's been shaky (recently, one said I'd 'been a loser, wow, not anymore'). But Mum and Dad never said that it was OK to not want to be friends with them- I still had to make the effort, even if they weren't. And if I didn't make the effort, I was the one that was bitter and twisted. Anyway, I don't think Mum worries as much about the observation with my brother (there's always the excuse of him being a boy, so clothes don't matter, actions don't matter and he could always handle himself. He's always been the sort of effervescent person that bounces back up no matter how hard you slap him). And he had me to socialise with (to learn how not to be with people) so he's OK. And I am... languishing, and odd. And infinitely closed, secretive, mendacious and bitter. I am wishing that I was more decisive and successful.
I want him to stop making little wisecracks at me. I really don't need them. I don't wisecrack at him.
I want the world to stop making little wisecracks at me. Ha, no, you can't have this, you didn't do that, you're not enough of this and too much of that.
I am going to get thinner and cut out squash. At 42 calories for a pint, it's really not worth thinking about. I can't make any decisions except dietary ones at the moment.
I did my customary walk today and ate around 1300, or was it 1250. Which is good, though I only had two portions of fruit and veg. I think I've ingested around 1000 calories that I've kept overall. I'd had an alright day up until he chatted to me, and now I just feel washed out.
I'm jealous that he's going to make the right decisions with Universities and life. I'm jealous that he's getting the chance to learn how to DJ, I'm jealous that he has a wide circle of friends at home that all like doing the stuff he likes (though they don't seem to have a lot of fun when I'm about), I'm jealous of his cocky arrogance. I'm trying to work out why it is that he just assumes everyone likes him. They do, but I can't work out of that's because he assumes it's so or because he's innately likeable. Which stems from which?
Our cousin is a case in point- she's his age, and I always think she's looking down on me. She's very pretty, and very popular. He is popular, and (apparently) good looking. He never has problems with her, and they get on fine.
The problem is that I am a jealous person. I need not to be. I need to kick myself out of it and turn it into competitiveness instead, into believing that I can compete. I just feel like everyone is so much cooler and sussed out and better, generally, at being than I am.
I have worked it out. Since I was a child, my Mum's always made it evident that people were observing and judging us (this usually revolved around my clothes- she didn't like me going out looking neglected, because it reflected badly on the family). Similarly, Dad has always pushed me and asks constantly how I am doing compared to my peer group. Therefore, I grow up with the notion that I am constantly observed (and to my detriment). It's strange that I'm not obsessed with clothes- I worry about weight, but I've also got a spotty, pale complexion and I scrat about in the daggiest old things, but this doesn't fuss me half as much as weight or my general coming across does. Mum used to worry that I was lonely a lot, that I read too much, which I suppose I probably picked up on, so I conceive of myself as a bit of a social oddity. What's worse is that there's no discussing it, or no consequence. My cousins have ignored me for a fair bit- we used to play together, then we all went to school and they realised I was a loser, and since it's been shaky (recently, one said I'd 'been a loser, wow, not anymore'). But Mum and Dad never said that it was OK to not want to be friends with them- I still had to make the effort, even if they weren't. And if I didn't make the effort, I was the one that was bitter and twisted. Anyway, I don't think Mum worries as much about the observation with my brother (there's always the excuse of him being a boy, so clothes don't matter, actions don't matter and he could always handle himself. He's always been the sort of effervescent person that bounces back up no matter how hard you slap him). And he had me to socialise with (to learn how not to be with people) so he's OK. And I am... languishing, and odd. And infinitely closed, secretive, mendacious and bitter. I am wishing that I was more decisive and successful.
I want him to stop making little wisecracks at me. I really don't need them. I don't wisecrack at him.
I want the world to stop making little wisecracks at me. Ha, no, you can't have this, you didn't do that, you're not enough of this and too much of that.
I am going to get thinner and cut out squash. At 42 calories for a pint, it's really not worth thinking about. I can't make any decisions except dietary ones at the moment.
I did my customary walk today and ate around 1300, or was it 1250. Which is good, though I only had two portions of fruit and veg. I think I've ingested around 1000 calories that I've kept overall. I'd had an alright day up until he chatted to me, and now I just feel washed out.
Monday 5 January 2009
Your prettiness is seeping through, out of the dress I took from you.
So pretty.
Well, you are, but instead of please please don't leave me it's please please believe me. I don't think you would if I was to tell you. You might believe that I adore you, and you might believe other things too but you wouldn't believe that. I thought that if you caught me looking at you too long you wouldn't catch my meaning. You never think people are looking at you because you're beautiful and they want to absorb you before they're deprived of you. You think people are looking because you're not good enough, not because you're too good to be true. I don't think you noticed me looking. I love the lines of you, blue eyes and fair eyebrows, proud nose, pretty teeth, your little chin.
I saw you today, and it was lovely. Lack of subtlety, completely, about a lot of things you were saying and a completely lovely way of doing it because you're so subtle about other things, like job applications and self-advertising and being generally wonderful. It wasn't just the two of us- our other friend was there, and it was good to be the three of us. I was glad to have her there too because it meant I didn't feel so strange being alone with you.
You were wearing a navy fleece and I was sat next to you. Your jumper makes me think of comfort and kindness and sensibility and respect, zippered up and keeping you in and the harsh cold out.
I want you exactly as you are and no different, trousers too short and hair scraped back, head bowed and utterly beautiful.
When we read the papers together our shoulders made contact and I could feel the vibrations of your laughing and speaking through it. I would have been happy to sit all day if I could have sat there in that space, in that position, laughing at ridiculous paper assertions connected with your insides. They're usually hidden, you see. I don't think you know you're lovely and that makes me want to tell you, in detail, exactly how lovely you are. How can you not know? How can noone have told you?
You said you went to some god forsaken shag tag night, for a friend. I can't imagine anywhere you'd hate more. You don't like dancing, you never dance in public, you hate that particular brand of sexual thrusting exhibitionism that proliferates in so many plastic nightclubs. Someone was rude to you, oh darling I'd have set him straight. You set him straight by the sounds of it though, no need for anyone else's help. You're so fantastic at defending, at keeping yourself safe and keeping your principles.
Personally, I adore dancing. Not the kind you hate. I adore moving to music. I'm not in the least sexy when I do so, and I don't intend to be. I skip, hop, jump, pump my fists, stick out my elbows. My face is consumed in a maniac's grin, no pouting here please. There's no chest to speak of, and I don't wear the sort of clothes that look good on a bump and grind. You wouldn't do this kind of dancing. You wouldn't like the drug scene that goes with it. That's OK.
I'd like to dance with you, not my way and not their way. If I could, I'd like to go to one of our houses, when it was quiet. Perhaps house sitting for someone else. I'd like to watch a film and make you dinner to eat side by side. I'd put on some slow, slow music, something old. Paper Moon by Ella Fitzgerald, or the Cranberries, whilst we washed up, and I'd hold your hand and twirl you, slowly slowly so you got the rhythm of it, and then sway, holding your hand on my chest, resting my mouth on your hairline, like old times, new times for both of us. Dancing in the kitchen is always the most romantic, I think. Soporific swirling with sudsy hands with a tinny radio, like something out of the forties in technicolour.
I don't think you are straight as you say you are. I'm not so deluded that I think you like me, because I'm not clever enough, or hardworking enough, or I'm too flip. Here I'm nothing but serious but in real life I'm as flippant as can be. I think that you're in love with that girl that you're always talking to on the internet, the one you can keep at a safe distance because she's got a partner. I bet you feel something for her though, something quite other than what you profess to feel. I'd like it to be me, but if it can't be me I'm glad it's someone who returns your affections. You deserve it, so much.
Well, you are, but instead of please please don't leave me it's please please believe me. I don't think you would if I was to tell you. You might believe that I adore you, and you might believe other things too but you wouldn't believe that. I thought that if you caught me looking at you too long you wouldn't catch my meaning. You never think people are looking at you because you're beautiful and they want to absorb you before they're deprived of you. You think people are looking because you're not good enough, not because you're too good to be true. I don't think you noticed me looking. I love the lines of you, blue eyes and fair eyebrows, proud nose, pretty teeth, your little chin.
I saw you today, and it was lovely. Lack of subtlety, completely, about a lot of things you were saying and a completely lovely way of doing it because you're so subtle about other things, like job applications and self-advertising and being generally wonderful. It wasn't just the two of us- our other friend was there, and it was good to be the three of us. I was glad to have her there too because it meant I didn't feel so strange being alone with you.
You were wearing a navy fleece and I was sat next to you. Your jumper makes me think of comfort and kindness and sensibility and respect, zippered up and keeping you in and the harsh cold out.
I want you exactly as you are and no different, trousers too short and hair scraped back, head bowed and utterly beautiful.
When we read the papers together our shoulders made contact and I could feel the vibrations of your laughing and speaking through it. I would have been happy to sit all day if I could have sat there in that space, in that position, laughing at ridiculous paper assertions connected with your insides. They're usually hidden, you see. I don't think you know you're lovely and that makes me want to tell you, in detail, exactly how lovely you are. How can you not know? How can noone have told you?
You said you went to some god forsaken shag tag night, for a friend. I can't imagine anywhere you'd hate more. You don't like dancing, you never dance in public, you hate that particular brand of sexual thrusting exhibitionism that proliferates in so many plastic nightclubs. Someone was rude to you, oh darling I'd have set him straight. You set him straight by the sounds of it though, no need for anyone else's help. You're so fantastic at defending, at keeping yourself safe and keeping your principles.
Personally, I adore dancing. Not the kind you hate. I adore moving to music. I'm not in the least sexy when I do so, and I don't intend to be. I skip, hop, jump, pump my fists, stick out my elbows. My face is consumed in a maniac's grin, no pouting here please. There's no chest to speak of, and I don't wear the sort of clothes that look good on a bump and grind. You wouldn't do this kind of dancing. You wouldn't like the drug scene that goes with it. That's OK.
I'd like to dance with you, not my way and not their way. If I could, I'd like to go to one of our houses, when it was quiet. Perhaps house sitting for someone else. I'd like to watch a film and make you dinner to eat side by side. I'd put on some slow, slow music, something old. Paper Moon by Ella Fitzgerald, or the Cranberries, whilst we washed up, and I'd hold your hand and twirl you, slowly slowly so you got the rhythm of it, and then sway, holding your hand on my chest, resting my mouth on your hairline, like old times, new times for both of us. Dancing in the kitchen is always the most romantic, I think. Soporific swirling with sudsy hands with a tinny radio, like something out of the forties in technicolour.
I don't think you are straight as you say you are. I'm not so deluded that I think you like me, because I'm not clever enough, or hardworking enough, or I'm too flip. Here I'm nothing but serious but in real life I'm as flippant as can be. I think that you're in love with that girl that you're always talking to on the internet, the one you can keep at a safe distance because she's got a partner. I bet you feel something for her though, something quite other than what you profess to feel. I'd like it to be me, but if it can't be me I'm glad it's someone who returns your affections. You deserve it, so much.
Things I did today.
Guh, I just facebook friended an old school friend I met out. She's really cool and always has been- and I've always been a bit of a loser, and I felt weird doing it- like she's going to think I'm a stalker/a kiss ass/ something weird. I was with my friends, who are OK but not the coolest people and I don't know what to do about it. Oh well. It's done now, if she rejects me I never have to see her again.
Eating today comprises of:
orange juice-50
Meatballs and chips at ikea-450
2 tangerines-50
550
a chocolate bell-70
2 shortbreads-200
some marzipan-100
370
some stew-350
770 and 550 are 1420. Not too bad, considering I also walked about three miles. So therefore the key to eating less is to spend more time moving and less time eating. The moniker move more eat less is all very well, but maybe if you move more of the time you eat less of the time. The key is the percentage of time spent doing both.
Tomorrow I might go on an early morning walk. Then I will return things to appropriate shops. And volunteer at the House, if I'm not needed by my job. And see my friends in the evening. I think these are enough distractions from food.
Eating today comprises of:
orange juice-50
Meatballs and chips at ikea-450
2 tangerines-50
550
a chocolate bell-70
2 shortbreads-200
some marzipan-100
370
some stew-350
770 and 550 are 1420. Not too bad, considering I also walked about three miles. So therefore the key to eating less is to spend more time moving and less time eating. The moniker move more eat less is all very well, but maybe if you move more of the time you eat less of the time. The key is the percentage of time spent doing both.
Tomorrow I might go on an early morning walk. Then I will return things to appropriate shops. And volunteer at the House, if I'm not needed by my job. And see my friends in the evening. I think these are enough distractions from food.
Sunday 4 January 2009
Ohh eee oooh I'll be just like...
Linda Bassett, of East is East, Kinky Boots and Calendar Girls. I want to be able to convey stuff like she does, without speaking, drawing the eye straight to her. I wonder how people do that. I can't seem to do it. I think I need to care less about drawing the eye, and care more about feeling it. I need to banish caring about judgement, focus on character.
It can be done.
I am desperate to act, to be in a play, any play that I possibly could be in.
It can be done.
I am desperate to act, to be in a play, any play that I possibly could be in.
Hmmm.
And today I ate:
crisps-200
stew -300
raisins-150
650
cake and cream-300
3 biscuits-300
2 pieces of shortbread-190
chocolate-2 roses, some coins, a chocolate snowman-200
cucumber and pesto-50
1050
more crisps-150
Jesus, and I wonder why I'm becoming morbidly obese. I thought today's tally would be far less than this. Horrific. I haven't even done any exercise to counteract that, I'm on. And I drank last night.
Tomorrow is another day, and I need to be thinking more and eating far, far less. 4 helpings of fruit and vegetables, no wonder I'm feeling terrible.
Tomorrow there will be more fruit and vegetables, and more activity, and just more. Less food, notably. Eating crap gets you nowhere.
I miscalculated- I've actually eaten 1850, still over but under enough that if I eat like this every day I can keep it.
I am going to lose some pounds, seriously, and I think I will make a list of reasons why.
1. I don't feel embarrassed of myself when I am the best weight- this means I can act better, move better, easier, I'm more outgoing and I critique myself less. In other words, weight loss means freedom.
2. I like the way I look more.
3. I want the epithet skinny ascribed to me. Thin. I also want to be hardworking, driven, successful... serious. I would like to be described as or taken seriously. I can do this by being those things.
4. One of my friends is getting married. I want to be thin for it.
5. I want to be thinner for her, more desirable. Someone she's not ashamed to show off, should the opportunity ever arise.
Sometimes I try to dissect the way I feel about people- I certainly have a type. I always go for people larger than me in some way. I hate being large, so why do I find it so desirable? I equate largeness with comfort, with soft places to niche myself into. Not someone I'm worried about judging me, or someone I'm worried about breaking. Though I want to be worthy in other ways- I want to be worthy of people that are clever, intelligence and work ethic are paramount. Everyone I've ever adored works hard and is enthusiastic about being intelligent. If I don't find them attractive the first time I meet them, I always find them attractive once I am head over heels in. The people I like are honest and kind, usually kind in bizarre ways that aren't necessarily kindest. Explosive people, that are quick to anger about anything that riles them. Specific people, who have a set way of doing things and a set way of being. I think this is because my parents are quickly angered, and because I adore extremity- if something is worth doing it's worth doing to the utmost lengths. This is what makes it good. I want injured people, people with a practised and unsuccessful veneer. There's something awfully endearing about vulnerability. I suppose, deep down I am vulnerable and I want someone that I can be ridiculous with. Hard cover, soft inside. Or perhaps I have a saviour complex- I want to be the one to cure them, or to alleviate, to salve the wounds. I am too intense, as Judi Dench says in Notes on a Scandal. I need more than a friend.
crisps-200
stew -300
raisins-150
650
cake and cream-300
3 biscuits-300
2 pieces of shortbread-190
chocolate-2 roses, some coins, a chocolate snowman-200
cucumber and pesto-50
1050
more crisps-150
Jesus, and I wonder why I'm becoming morbidly obese. I thought today's tally would be far less than this. Horrific. I haven't even done any exercise to counteract that, I'm on. And I drank last night.
Tomorrow is another day, and I need to be thinking more and eating far, far less. 4 helpings of fruit and vegetables, no wonder I'm feeling terrible.
Tomorrow there will be more fruit and vegetables, and more activity, and just more. Less food, notably. Eating crap gets you nowhere.
I miscalculated- I've actually eaten 1850, still over but under enough that if I eat like this every day I can keep it.
I am going to lose some pounds, seriously, and I think I will make a list of reasons why.
1. I don't feel embarrassed of myself when I am the best weight- this means I can act better, move better, easier, I'm more outgoing and I critique myself less. In other words, weight loss means freedom.
2. I like the way I look more.
3. I want the epithet skinny ascribed to me. Thin. I also want to be hardworking, driven, successful... serious. I would like to be described as or taken seriously. I can do this by being those things.
4. One of my friends is getting married. I want to be thin for it.
5. I want to be thinner for her, more desirable. Someone she's not ashamed to show off, should the opportunity ever arise.
Sometimes I try to dissect the way I feel about people- I certainly have a type. I always go for people larger than me in some way. I hate being large, so why do I find it so desirable? I equate largeness with comfort, with soft places to niche myself into. Not someone I'm worried about judging me, or someone I'm worried about breaking. Though I want to be worthy in other ways- I want to be worthy of people that are clever, intelligence and work ethic are paramount. Everyone I've ever adored works hard and is enthusiastic about being intelligent. If I don't find them attractive the first time I meet them, I always find them attractive once I am head over heels in. The people I like are honest and kind, usually kind in bizarre ways that aren't necessarily kindest. Explosive people, that are quick to anger about anything that riles them. Specific people, who have a set way of doing things and a set way of being. I think this is because my parents are quickly angered, and because I adore extremity- if something is worth doing it's worth doing to the utmost lengths. This is what makes it good. I want injured people, people with a practised and unsuccessful veneer. There's something awfully endearing about vulnerability. I suppose, deep down I am vulnerable and I want someone that I can be ridiculous with. Hard cover, soft inside. Or perhaps I have a saviour complex- I want to be the one to cure them, or to alleviate, to salve the wounds. I am too intense, as Judi Dench says in Notes on a Scandal. I need more than a friend.
Friday 2 January 2009
Things to do instead of eat.
1. Draw.
2. Drink coffee, tea or water.
3. Play music that I like.
4. Make a list of what I have already eaten today.
5. Go on a walk.
6. Write.
7. Make a to do list.
Music that I like includes:
Neutral Milk Hotel
Johnny Flynn
Antony and the Johnsons
Patrick Wolf
Shapeshifters
Derek Mai
Beirut
Simply Red
Christmas carols and hymns
The Eurythmics
Bonnie Tyler
Heather Small
the song that goes, "things ain't gettin' over, listen to her say, got to turn around, got to turn around"
Celine Dion- now
Oasis
Blur
Bon Iver
My Bloody Valentine
Deathcab For Cutie
The Cranberries
Dizzee Rascal-dance wiv me
Simon Webbe- No Worries
Drum and Bass in general (needs to be more specific)
Bjork- emotional landscapes
I need more music than this to listen to, and to learn what the D and B artists I like are actually called. I also like house, but have similar problems to D and B with it.
2. Drink coffee, tea or water.
3. Play music that I like.
4. Make a list of what I have already eaten today.
5. Go on a walk.
6. Write.
7. Make a to do list.
Music that I like includes:
Neutral Milk Hotel
Johnny Flynn
Antony and the Johnsons
Patrick Wolf
Shapeshifters
Derek Mai
Beirut
Simply Red
Christmas carols and hymns
The Eurythmics
Bonnie Tyler
Heather Small
the song that goes, "things ain't gettin' over, listen to her say, got to turn around, got to turn around"
Celine Dion- now
Oasis
Blur
Bon Iver
My Bloody Valentine
Deathcab For Cutie
The Cranberries
Dizzee Rascal-dance wiv me
Simon Webbe- No Worries
Drum and Bass in general (needs to be more specific)
Bjork- emotional landscapes
I need more music than this to listen to, and to learn what the D and B artists I like are actually called. I also like house, but have similar problems to D and B with it.
Oh my beauty.
You're my beauty, my love, my darling, my dearest, my K...., my partner, my confidante.
You fold yourself up and squash yourself down and you're just lovely, let it out.
You get hung up on stupid things and worry too much and let trifles consume you.
You own a pair of scales I'm sure you hate.
You're not in the least seductive, sexy (what a ridiculous word), alluring, you don't try to be... which, to me, makes you all three of those things. You turn me on, and I don't mean that in the usual sense that conjurs up images of erections, groaning and mess. I mean that when I see you, it's as if there's been a button pressed inside me that fills me with air and light, that makes me feel as if I'm tipping off the ground, like I'm liberated from gravity, like I could spin off any moment. I want to smile and dance and wait for you to touch me, to trip me over the edge of my circuits and off into oblivion. Getting tea from a newsagents becomes a voyage when you're about.
I want to lay with you and make you feel safe and loved, though I wonder, with your experience of love, if you'd want it. If you'd not rather have someone that criticised you, or was less fervent, or was the same as you. Less flip than I am. You keep saying you are straight, and usually I concede the point with women I adore, knowing that they are not interested, but with you I do wonder. If you adore men so much then why...
I could be wrong.
You fold yourself up and squash yourself down and you're just lovely, let it out.
You get hung up on stupid things and worry too much and let trifles consume you.
You own a pair of scales I'm sure you hate.
You're not in the least seductive, sexy (what a ridiculous word), alluring, you don't try to be... which, to me, makes you all three of those things. You turn me on, and I don't mean that in the usual sense that conjurs up images of erections, groaning and mess. I mean that when I see you, it's as if there's been a button pressed inside me that fills me with air and light, that makes me feel as if I'm tipping off the ground, like I'm liberated from gravity, like I could spin off any moment. I want to smile and dance and wait for you to touch me, to trip me over the edge of my circuits and off into oblivion. Getting tea from a newsagents becomes a voyage when you're about.
I want to lay with you and make you feel safe and loved, though I wonder, with your experience of love, if you'd want it. If you'd not rather have someone that criticised you, or was less fervent, or was the same as you. Less flip than I am. You keep saying you are straight, and usually I concede the point with women I adore, knowing that they are not interested, but with you I do wonder. If you adore men so much then why...
I could be wrong.
I want to fall through the stars straight into your arms.
Anyone who ever held you, would tell you the way I'm feeling.
The only thing I ever wanted was the feeling that you ain't faking. Wait a minute, can't you see?
I adore her, and I saw her today. She's lovely. I ate 1350, which is good, and did about a four mile walk.
I adore her when she's nervous and comes off wrong, even more so when she's comfortable and kind. She touched me three times today. Twice at her house- pat on the hand as I took tea, and a hand on my shoulder as I got in her way when she looked for milk, once as I was skipping about and tripped over a hoover. Silly little trifling incidences. She's got a light, gentle touch. Pacifying. I wonder how I look to her. I just want to make her feel comfortable.
She's got blonde hair that she always wears in a ponytail with a dead central severe parting. She's got this lovely dip in her waist, out to breasts and hips. She's got shrewd pretty blue eyes behind wire rimmed glasses and a hint of her cheekbones under very fair eyebrows, so fair she looks faintly surprised a lot of the time. There's a dimple in her chin, and in her cheeks if she smiles. She's shorter than I am (by about four or five inches) and curvier. She gains and loses weight a lot, amount wise rather than frequency. I love the lines of her. In and out and around. She tans easily, and her upper lip quirks up revealing white teeth. She's got a narrow nose. She has a nervous mannerism of opening her mouth and closing it, almost like a wince, which has reduced in the past few years but not disappeared entirely. She did martial arts which is reflected in the defensive state of her. Men touch her breasts without consent. She goes about in fleeces, trainers and trousers. Two men, to my knowledge, have done this; a drunk on a night out, and a man in an old people's home. She has a habit of bundling her breasts under her folded arms, away from that unwanted attention she feels they are responsible for, but I would like to tell her not to squash herself up into a little huddle. That I adore her fat or thin, I like her just as she is, however she is, because her body is only the expression of her, and it's her I adore. She has not had a relationship; perhaps because she is scared that who she sees will only see breasts, or only see something she despises about herself. Well, I adore each and every part of her. She doesn't go out drinking or dancing- she is far too self conscious for either pursuit. I want to dance quietly and slowly with her in a darkened room. I want to lie with her in her bed and make her feel as comfortable and safe and excited as I do when she's around. I want to touch her ears, her lovely face, the nape of her neck, the small of her back and her knees.
The only thing I ever wanted was the feeling that you ain't faking. Wait a minute, can't you see?
I adore her, and I saw her today. She's lovely. I ate 1350, which is good, and did about a four mile walk.
I adore her when she's nervous and comes off wrong, even more so when she's comfortable and kind. She touched me three times today. Twice at her house- pat on the hand as I took tea, and a hand on my shoulder as I got in her way when she looked for milk, once as I was skipping about and tripped over a hoover. Silly little trifling incidences. She's got a light, gentle touch. Pacifying. I wonder how I look to her. I just want to make her feel comfortable.
She's got blonde hair that she always wears in a ponytail with a dead central severe parting. She's got this lovely dip in her waist, out to breasts and hips. She's got shrewd pretty blue eyes behind wire rimmed glasses and a hint of her cheekbones under very fair eyebrows, so fair she looks faintly surprised a lot of the time. There's a dimple in her chin, and in her cheeks if she smiles. She's shorter than I am (by about four or five inches) and curvier. She gains and loses weight a lot, amount wise rather than frequency. I love the lines of her. In and out and around. She tans easily, and her upper lip quirks up revealing white teeth. She's got a narrow nose. She has a nervous mannerism of opening her mouth and closing it, almost like a wince, which has reduced in the past few years but not disappeared entirely. She did martial arts which is reflected in the defensive state of her. Men touch her breasts without consent. She goes about in fleeces, trainers and trousers. Two men, to my knowledge, have done this; a drunk on a night out, and a man in an old people's home. She has a habit of bundling her breasts under her folded arms, away from that unwanted attention she feels they are responsible for, but I would like to tell her not to squash herself up into a little huddle. That I adore her fat or thin, I like her just as she is, however she is, because her body is only the expression of her, and it's her I adore. She has not had a relationship; perhaps because she is scared that who she sees will only see breasts, or only see something she despises about herself. Well, I adore each and every part of her. She doesn't go out drinking or dancing- she is far too self conscious for either pursuit. I want to dance quietly and slowly with her in a darkened room. I want to lie with her in her bed and make her feel as comfortable and safe and excited as I do when she's around. I want to touch her ears, her lovely face, the nape of her neck, the small of her back and her knees.
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