I imagine what you are doing now; there are two options. You are probably tired, Little Bird, probably drinking green tea, snuggled up in bed wearing socks and your glasses (you look so very pretty in them you know) reading or watching television. Those images make me happy, to think of you being cosy. I have a massive urge to tuck you up into bed all safe from the world. Psychotic of me, sometimes, I think.
The other one is that you've gone out, and that you're getting drunk and upset. I wish I was there to tell you you're fine, you're OK, you're wonderful. I don't know what else to feel; sad. You always buy other people drinks, and I don't want you to feel like you have to do that for us. We like you just exactly as you are.
An image just popped into my head; of you being a victorian Lady, and I'd be the servant, doing your hair or something, before a big party. Glances in mirrors.
What does it say about me that I automatically relegate myself to a submissive role? I can imagine, with difficulty, you being the servant; only your face is so refined, pointed, carved of marble. Mine is hewn and rounded out of wood. My being the lady makes you my cinderella. I know I am not pretty; and I am past caring, except when it seems to matter. I don't know. It's saying a lot for my talent if it matters that much. Maybe I am neither pretty nor talented. Maybe I am pretty, and talented, just unlucky. I can't fathom it. I'd rather be talented and not as pretty.
He (and beanpole) said I was a six out of ten; better than average. I don't think so- they were being kind. Men aren't, but I evaluated myself as a two. I suppose they're more subjective. I don't know. My personality can be attractive sometimes.
Do you find me so, Little Bird? You have said I'm good looking. I don't comprehend exactly why. I am not, really, truly. You are and you don't think so either. I want to trace one of your delicate cheekbones with my fingers, and to put a hand on your mouth when you cry, or when there's a sob behind a laugh. To fold around you when you sit in dischord and to stroke your hair.
Friday, 7 March 2008
It is I who is the dumpy one now dear.
Not you.
I don't care. Come closer Little Bird.
Then, I do like to feel his flesh under the cashmere jumpers. I am under the jacket now, and I do not think that he minds so much. He maybe even likes it. I feel like I've been patient and crouched outside a bird's nest, and helped it to extend its wings... that's a God complex if ever there was one.
I showed someone my magdalen laundries thing today, and they loved it but couldn't understand it (because there was no context whatsoever). But they liked it. I could maybe be a writer, it made me feel better. Constructive criticism, they gave me spades of it... and I left feeling pretty good. I felt good about what I'd done. I couldn't believe something I'd just dashed off read that well.
There's a boy in my creative writing class that irritates the hell out of me. Stupid jowly pube face heavy breather. He inhales and exhales in this orgiastic fashion when he writes, as if he can barely contain his own genius beneath his pudding frame, and his cheeks are like pale globbets of blancmange on his pasty white face, which, till lately, was tricked out in brown pube like chin growth. Pubes on a blancmange, quivering with sexual tension. He's short and chubby. Stubby. I hate him with a passion, though we've never actually exchanged words. I never hope to either. Ugh. Each time he speaks, or writes, or breathes, I feel this irrational surge of hatred; why is this? I don't even know his name.
I don't care. Come closer Little Bird.
Then, I do like to feel his flesh under the cashmere jumpers. I am under the jacket now, and I do not think that he minds so much. He maybe even likes it. I feel like I've been patient and crouched outside a bird's nest, and helped it to extend its wings... that's a God complex if ever there was one.
I showed someone my magdalen laundries thing today, and they loved it but couldn't understand it (because there was no context whatsoever). But they liked it. I could maybe be a writer, it made me feel better. Constructive criticism, they gave me spades of it... and I left feeling pretty good. I felt good about what I'd done. I couldn't believe something I'd just dashed off read that well.
There's a boy in my creative writing class that irritates the hell out of me. Stupid jowly pube face heavy breather. He inhales and exhales in this orgiastic fashion when he writes, as if he can barely contain his own genius beneath his pudding frame, and his cheeks are like pale globbets of blancmange on his pasty white face, which, till lately, was tricked out in brown pube like chin growth. Pubes on a blancmange, quivering with sexual tension. He's short and chubby. Stubby. I hate him with a passion, though we've never actually exchanged words. I never hope to either. Ugh. Each time he speaks, or writes, or breathes, I feel this irrational surge of hatred; why is this? I don't even know his name.
Tonight today etc etc.
You were happy. And you said I had huge pores in front of people. That made me feel irritated; but I don't know if it's just you.
I was happy because you're taking criticism and you're more talented than I thought you were.
And I ate:
pie crust and milk-300
a chicken wrap-600
an apple-40
a smoothie-120
1060
some yo sushi:
seaweed and cucumber-60
chicken katsu curry-549
a mousse thing-300
900
four brazil nuts-150
1050
2100 today, then, and not much walking to walk it off, no wonder I feel like a fatty. Oh, I hate feeling like this... like I don't deserve anything. Tomorrow will be a better day. I am sure of it.
I was happy because you're taking criticism and you're more talented than I thought you were.
And I ate:
pie crust and milk-300
a chicken wrap-600
an apple-40
a smoothie-120
1060
some yo sushi:
seaweed and cucumber-60
chicken katsu curry-549
a mousse thing-300
900
four brazil nuts-150
1050
2100 today, then, and not much walking to walk it off, no wonder I feel like a fatty. Oh, I hate feeling like this... like I don't deserve anything. Tomorrow will be a better day. I am sure of it.
Thursday, 6 March 2008
Come on, skinny love, just last the year.
Oh I wish I was thinner or prettier or better or cleverer.
Noone notices me properly in the right way.
Some people do, sometimes. P and Doll did.
Enough of this whining. Enough.
He said the first time he met me he thought I was weird and probably stupid because I said nothing and because I looked perpetually terrified. Only I wasn't, I think he thinks I was because I told him this subsequently. I don't think I was. But I know people can't like what you don't show them; they aren't going to know you're interesting if you never are.
Your crepe stomach is dwindling and I adore you still darling. Or do I? I never adored you because of it, but I do want to hold you safe from all those things. Strange that I like in you what I detest in myself, isn't it. I could stand and stare at you protected by the glass, but there's nothing more to say to you so please don't ever ask.
Have we ran out of things, Little Bird? You and I are so different and I worry that we've separated because, maybe, I adore you too much. I don't tell you my problems and I must. I only tell you the solvable ones, nothing else. I worry you might hate me otherwise though I know really you wouldn't.
I am always silent when I'm happy or furious. When I'm happy I see no need to say so. When I'm furious I don't know where to start and I feel like I'm wrong.
I don't even know what to write anymore, I am so bored of it all. Blah blah blah, I like someone, they don't like me, or they do but not enough, that's the more frequent case, for acting, for life, for whatever. I'm tired of it.
Noone notices me properly in the right way.
Some people do, sometimes. P and Doll did.
Enough of this whining. Enough.
He said the first time he met me he thought I was weird and probably stupid because I said nothing and because I looked perpetually terrified. Only I wasn't, I think he thinks I was because I told him this subsequently. I don't think I was. But I know people can't like what you don't show them; they aren't going to know you're interesting if you never are.
Your crepe stomach is dwindling and I adore you still darling. Or do I? I never adored you because of it, but I do want to hold you safe from all those things. Strange that I like in you what I detest in myself, isn't it. I could stand and stare at you protected by the glass, but there's nothing more to say to you so please don't ever ask.
Have we ran out of things, Little Bird? You and I are so different and I worry that we've separated because, maybe, I adore you too much. I don't tell you my problems and I must. I only tell you the solvable ones, nothing else. I worry you might hate me otherwise though I know really you wouldn't.
I am always silent when I'm happy or furious. When I'm happy I see no need to say so. When I'm furious I don't know where to start and I feel like I'm wrong.
I don't even know what to write anymore, I am so bored of it all. Blah blah blah, I like someone, they don't like me, or they do but not enough, that's the more frequent case, for acting, for life, for whatever. I'm tired of it.
Vodka on Tap.
There's something beautifully onomatopeic about the title of this blog, and that's why I chose it. I like vodka well enough, but not enough to title a blog so; I think it can look elegant, I like most that it tastes harsh and that it's very effective as an analgesic; it's Russian in so many ways.
He came over last night, and when we are alone together I want to stroke his face and lie with him (as we do). He lets me into his little world and I feel I might crush it so easily; we are so close to kissing, so often. I do adore him, when we are like that; but then he doesn't write excellent plays that mean things, plays that I want to be in, and so I can't respect him creatively. He's awful at paying back money that people have borrowed, that I've borrowed, and he keeps telling me I've got bad breath, or draws attention to my bad skin; and I cannot abide with those two. Three.
Someone told me today I was underrated by our student theatre. She's a good actress, and I kind-of trust her opinion. She doesn't get parts, I think, because she's got Hong-Kong heritage; if it was up to me, there would be race blind casting. I think it's stupid to beset a play with racial problems; can't they just take it aside? All the best theatre companies do. I cannot see why I should be rejected, as a caucasian I'm not exactly excluded by race laws; if I am as good an actress as she suggests, then why on earth have I not got more parts by now? Because I am bad; this is the only reason. Either that, or I am too distinctive looking, too tall, too broad, too ugly or whatever else there needs to be. What is wrong with me that I do not get parts? I did think it was those reasons; it's better to think it's that than to think it's because I'm talentless.
I am terrified of applying to these theatre schools. Terrified.
And anyway, what about Little Bird? I'm scared I annoyed her because I was showing off about the German last night. I do like her a lot. She's so pretty, so funny, so clever, and when she's quiet for a long time (because she fluctuates between being silent and being manic sometimes, and I think I adore her silent time). She doesn't care if I disagree with her. She's started to lose weight again. I hope she's alright.
Today I ate:
granola-200
some raisins-170
some nachos-170
540
a sandwich-360
a smoothie-200
1100
a cube of caramac-20
pie crust-265
quorn and vegetables-200
1600
Is today's grand total. Not too bad.
But today, today, today, I started my period and I didn't wear makeup and I felt hideously fat. Not pretty at all; especially as I saw this really thin girl in a play naked, and even she looked fat- if she looks like that, how must I look? Ugh.
He came over last night, and when we are alone together I want to stroke his face and lie with him (as we do). He lets me into his little world and I feel I might crush it so easily; we are so close to kissing, so often. I do adore him, when we are like that; but then he doesn't write excellent plays that mean things, plays that I want to be in, and so I can't respect him creatively. He's awful at paying back money that people have borrowed, that I've borrowed, and he keeps telling me I've got bad breath, or draws attention to my bad skin; and I cannot abide with those two. Three.
Someone told me today I was underrated by our student theatre. She's a good actress, and I kind-of trust her opinion. She doesn't get parts, I think, because she's got Hong-Kong heritage; if it was up to me, there would be race blind casting. I think it's stupid to beset a play with racial problems; can't they just take it aside? All the best theatre companies do. I cannot see why I should be rejected, as a caucasian I'm not exactly excluded by race laws; if I am as good an actress as she suggests, then why on earth have I not got more parts by now? Because I am bad; this is the only reason. Either that, or I am too distinctive looking, too tall, too broad, too ugly or whatever else there needs to be. What is wrong with me that I do not get parts? I did think it was those reasons; it's better to think it's that than to think it's because I'm talentless.
I am terrified of applying to these theatre schools. Terrified.
And anyway, what about Little Bird? I'm scared I annoyed her because I was showing off about the German last night. I do like her a lot. She's so pretty, so funny, so clever, and when she's quiet for a long time (because she fluctuates between being silent and being manic sometimes, and I think I adore her silent time). She doesn't care if I disagree with her. She's started to lose weight again. I hope she's alright.
Today I ate:
granola-200
some raisins-170
some nachos-170
540
a sandwich-360
a smoothie-200
1100
a cube of caramac-20
pie crust-265
quorn and vegetables-200
1600
Is today's grand total. Not too bad.
But today, today, today, I started my period and I didn't wear makeup and I felt hideously fat. Not pretty at all; especially as I saw this really thin girl in a play naked, and even she looked fat- if she looks like that, how must I look? Ugh.
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
Worries.
Little Bird asked me last night if I was worried, and I am about a multitude of things, but only a few that I can tell her about. I am worried about, in no particular order:
My weight
My degree and the upcoming essay I have yet to begin, and my dissertation more specifically
The play I am going to be in
The play I am going to direct. Will I be any good at all as a director? I know nothing about the radio.
Anyone or everyone finding out about Bombazine Doll, and the pity.
Having to come out fairly soon because I know it will happen
Having to tell my parents that I am moving and not coming home for a year
What if I never have a gap year
What if I never have a meaningful relationship with anyone
I don't like him as much anymore, though when we're alone together I feel that I do, but I don't need him or want him so much and he is making me feel bad.
Have I got bad breath, and what do I do about it, and why did noone tell me before.
Losing friends I've made after University
Why did that director lie to me about her being my first choice, because even though I pretended I didn't believe it, I had started to and it was a huge boost to my self esteem. Now I know she was lying I feel embarrassed. I got caught up in it, noone else knows how caught up, and now it was a lie I feel so stupid and talentless.
What if I don't even get a recall for stage school? What modern audition piece can I possibly do? I shouldn't take this on alone.
And I told her about the essay and the plays. She doesn't know about everything else, I don't know if I want her to know. Telling everyone seems like such an effort, because then there is surprise and questions; it would be so much easier just to let her read this, but I'd never trust anyone enough to show them because this is strange and dark and private.
So instead I told her the rudimentary things and we listened to her Ipod music. She was wearing a black sheen shirt (she said she looked like a magician, it was because she says she's fat at the moment and that she can only fit into costume cupboard clothes, and I thought, oh well, you are beautifully magic, dear). But the sheen shirt was nice, and it was good to lie next to her on the bed, because I feel safe that she knows me.
She's quite comforting but I feel that she knows there's more going on below the surface that I haven't told her, and I might like to tell her, but I don't want a reaction, and she takes me oh so seriously; I want someone to laugh at my problems and tell me they pale into insignificance. Because really they do, what's a rich white girl like me truly got to worry about?
My weight
My degree and the upcoming essay I have yet to begin, and my dissertation more specifically
The play I am going to be in
The play I am going to direct. Will I be any good at all as a director? I know nothing about the radio.
Anyone or everyone finding out about Bombazine Doll, and the pity.
Having to come out fairly soon because I know it will happen
Having to tell my parents that I am moving and not coming home for a year
What if I never have a gap year
What if I never have a meaningful relationship with anyone
I don't like him as much anymore, though when we're alone together I feel that I do, but I don't need him or want him so much and he is making me feel bad.
Have I got bad breath, and what do I do about it, and why did noone tell me before.
Losing friends I've made after University
Why did that director lie to me about her being my first choice, because even though I pretended I didn't believe it, I had started to and it was a huge boost to my self esteem. Now I know she was lying I feel embarrassed. I got caught up in it, noone else knows how caught up, and now it was a lie I feel so stupid and talentless.
What if I don't even get a recall for stage school? What modern audition piece can I possibly do? I shouldn't take this on alone.
And I told her about the essay and the plays. She doesn't know about everything else, I don't know if I want her to know. Telling everyone seems like such an effort, because then there is surprise and questions; it would be so much easier just to let her read this, but I'd never trust anyone enough to show them because this is strange and dark and private.
So instead I told her the rudimentary things and we listened to her Ipod music. She was wearing a black sheen shirt (she said she looked like a magician, it was because she says she's fat at the moment and that she can only fit into costume cupboard clothes, and I thought, oh well, you are beautifully magic, dear). But the sheen shirt was nice, and it was good to lie next to her on the bed, because I feel safe that she knows me.
She's quite comforting but I feel that she knows there's more going on below the surface that I haven't told her, and I might like to tell her, but I don't want a reaction, and she takes me oh so seriously; I want someone to laugh at my problems and tell me they pale into insignificance. Because really they do, what's a rich white girl like me truly got to worry about?
Sunday, 2 March 2008
Telling people things.
I told a mutual friend the other day about Bombazine Doll, her pitying me and then seeing me. It was alright, except for that I don't know how much I can trust... it's two people that know about it, and one knows Bombazine Doll. More than one. But two that I see in my everyday life. I hate it, it's worrying me that soon everyone will know and find me an object of pity.
I told her the whole thing; how I found out via myspace. Her reaction was strange; she said Bombazine Doll had idolized me for a long time, and wouldn't accept that she'd been with me only because she pitied me. It made me realise, that far from wanting her back, now I don't at all. And I feel for her, now, the one I told, or confessed to as she already knew. She thinks I'm ridiculous; and I'm terrified she's laughing at me behind my back, or discussing me, or something like that. I feel worried, and embarrassed all over again. It's strange, because usually to like someone I have to feel that they need me; I don't feel that she needs me at all. She never would.
It's scary, how I can change so fast. I've got no hope of it happening anyway- because she said she's never been in love with anyone. I said I've felt it, but I think love has to be reciprocal; and though you feel it at the time, it never lasts, not at our age. She said she's just never felt it, ever. I think it's because of her parents. And she alluded to some sort of father problem she'd told another one of our circle (but not me) and didn't elucidate. I'd have listened, but I didn't want to push her. I touched her sometimes, just on the shoulder- and that's far more than normal for me- and now I fear she might know, and I'll feel stupid again; trying for someone else that's got no interest in me whatsoever. Noone I want ever has; or is it that I only want people who don't want me? Either way, what if she starts spreading rumours; I never trust anyone. Ever. I feel that I've mistrusted her. I don't trust myself, anywhere. I even feel embarrassed referring to Bombazine Doll with that epithet, even though I only do on here and nowhere else.
Little Bird is sweet and safe and soft, and needs me. And I like her. I want to tell her, and I would trust her. I've got no reason not to trust the told; but I do, innately. Knowledge is power and all. Sometimes I just want to bury my head into Little Bird's shoulder and tell her each and every tiny thing; I never do.
I told her the whole thing; how I found out via myspace. Her reaction was strange; she said Bombazine Doll had idolized me for a long time, and wouldn't accept that she'd been with me only because she pitied me. It made me realise, that far from wanting her back, now I don't at all. And I feel for her, now, the one I told, or confessed to as she already knew. She thinks I'm ridiculous; and I'm terrified she's laughing at me behind my back, or discussing me, or something like that. I feel worried, and embarrassed all over again. It's strange, because usually to like someone I have to feel that they need me; I don't feel that she needs me at all. She never would.
It's scary, how I can change so fast. I've got no hope of it happening anyway- because she said she's never been in love with anyone. I said I've felt it, but I think love has to be reciprocal; and though you feel it at the time, it never lasts, not at our age. She said she's just never felt it, ever. I think it's because of her parents. And she alluded to some sort of father problem she'd told another one of our circle (but not me) and didn't elucidate. I'd have listened, but I didn't want to push her. I touched her sometimes, just on the shoulder- and that's far more than normal for me- and now I fear she might know, and I'll feel stupid again; trying for someone else that's got no interest in me whatsoever. Noone I want ever has; or is it that I only want people who don't want me? Either way, what if she starts spreading rumours; I never trust anyone. Ever. I feel that I've mistrusted her. I don't trust myself, anywhere. I even feel embarrassed referring to Bombazine Doll with that epithet, even though I only do on here and nowhere else.
Little Bird is sweet and safe and soft, and needs me. And I like her. I want to tell her, and I would trust her. I've got no reason not to trust the told; but I do, innately. Knowledge is power and all. Sometimes I just want to bury my head into Little Bird's shoulder and tell her each and every tiny thing; I never do.
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