tired tired tired

spiritually, not physically
how shit

spent all day moping, as per usual, and now doom doom doooooooom. cast into indescribable pit of ennui and general malaise. because if you're going to sulk you might as well be french about it.



i need something new, not necessarily material possession style, just something new in my life. preferably a lightbulb for my lamp because i don't have any more and now one half of my room is permanently cast into gloom. which isn't good for the mind. or a job, for something to do, and also money. and a furry pink cardi, because everyone needs one of those, but all the ones on ebay are for children, or fur trimmed. i am an eighteen year old girl with an eighteen year old sized body, and i want a fucking pink entirely furry fucking cardi!
gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

AHHHH

i would really like to get a proper nights sleep tonight, for the past week i've been lying awake listening to cars and staring at the ceiling. i am traditionally terrible for self-control, and i don't really like going to sleep. it is peculiar, yes, but i don't like it at all.

urgh urgh urgh i left satsumas on the floor and bugs started living in them. urgh. i made my boyfriend get rid of them, because obviously since it was my fault someone else had to fix it for me. i am just that sort of person. he is nice though, and shouted at me while he got rid of the buggies. ever since though, i keep checking that there aren't bugs in my clothes/ food/ underwear/ curtains/ books/ shower etc. i have always secretly admitted that i was more neurotic than your average human, but now it is quite glaringly obvious there's something a bit wrong there.

but anyway. the picture is of kim deal, lead singer/ guitarist of the breeders, vocalist/ bassist of pixies, and all round kick ass lady. pixies and the breeders are things my mum and i share musically, which is nice. kim deal is seriously bad ass: she turned up for an audition with pixies to play bass, having never picked up a bass in her life, and has been to rehab for alcohol and weed while her twin sister kelley has been to rehab for heroin and opiates. she's a big inspiration for my writing, her lyrics are written in a style i think i understand, and when i listen to them i just think yes, i get this. considering most of them make pretty much no sense, that's an achievement on her part. i like to think she's the patron saint of teenage girls listening to music in their bedrooms and not worrying about if they're fat, or ugly, or if a boy likes them, just caught up in 'fuck yeah' and feeling like they're in charge. call me a riot grrrl because i don't often shave my armpits or whatever, but i like not having to prescribe to this unrealistic hyper-sexualised way girls should look. i like feeling comfortable with who i am, and i think kim deal is one of my big inspirations for that. she's a goddess. honestly, give her a go so she can make you feel awesome too.

wait a minute

just before i go

the brain can't feel pain. how beautiful and steely in irony is it that the brain, the lumpy whorled meat in your skull, controls the electric impulses to nerve ending that cause pain, yet it can't feel pain itself? how hypocritical, to dole out and then refuse to take. however, to not feel pain is to not know pleasure. loneliness is the game of the brain; sending out the messages to feel. your first kiss, the way it feels to be left, being stabbed. the brain controls everything, but you can't shoot the messenger, because the messenger is in a cage of bone, controlling the feelings but never feeling them itself.
so; pity or resentment?

...but it's better if you do

another fantastically dull day: job centre, walk, metro, gosforth high street, home, film. guess what the film was.
i can't figure out where any deodorant is in my house though, all the bastards have hidden it.
tomorrow looks to be the same, exception being that i get to see my besties at the pub. tonight however i am alone, my boyfriend is on a man date and besties are tired/ have work. so i have done a pilates work out, dyed my fringe to match the rest of my hair, tidied my room and perved on coats online. as ever, i am the very pinnacle of production. when i actually get a job it's going to be such a shock to the system. i applied for pets world in gateshead, which i hope i get. spending my time feeding gerbils and birds sounds better than serving people.
today i met a brilliant lady in oxfam. she was called sonia, she was 70 and she used to be a care warden. tough old bird, and very funny. kept going on about her useless bastard ex, which made me laugh. apparently she worked 2 cleaning jobs at once before temping for a care home, and then realised she liked it, so she did it until she retired. i love old women, they have the best senses of humour.
and now i am going to paint my nails and continue being a useless lump.

urgh

boredom really makes for inspiration, wrote this really messily in my sketchbook before. took me ages to decipher some of it, i practically write in hieroglyphics when i'm tired.



'where is it: this love buried so deep in the cavity of the chest, sitting so far beneath the bile, the mucous, the throbbing sepulchral blood, that not even the silver-tipped tongue could hope to retrieve it. not even the heart of hearts in all his infinite sleaze and vigour could dream of cracking open the ribs to see the sticky beautiful mess within. chivalry and all his horses couldn't rescue it, nor lust and all his teeth. no, this devil child sits, charmed by itself, and waiting for the day it wants for something.'

barf

feeling a little shaky, haha, through sheer cowardice. i am technically getting my first (in a studio, performed by a professional) tattoo tomorrow. and even though it is literally three short black thin lines, i'm still having a nervy b. also, even though i plan to get more elaborate things in the future.

BUT ANYWAY

a love letter

there's more fish in the sea, i was told. and i began to think...

although the sea is so full of beautiful fish for me to love, sharks silently haunt underwater wrecks; so devoid of noise, the way satellites float endlessly in outer space. ghostly green water so beautiful below the sun becomes thick and black in its absense. poisonous oozing jellyfish extend probing stingers, so evil and treacherous when they curl around a wrist and tug. serrated teeth are prone to bite from below, unpredictable and unstoppable. slick oily scales will brush against my skin and make me shudder. taken in good faith, plenty of fish are indeed waiting in the sea. when they told me about these fish i could find and adore, no-one specified if they were venemous; carnivores; unclean, aqueous, bastard lamprey. on the sea bed, deep in the caverns of the uncherished heart, the fish are rife with deformity and uncouth from lack of playing (at least, playing with rules) ever hunting, ever searching, only able to see in the dark because they fell from the light. think of them as the sex-offenders in this metaphor. if all these fish are in the sea, then the sex-starved, leering, monstrosities could not be trapped behind bars to keep me safe. my venture into love is thus a terrible and unsafe one.

then, i think about my first foray into this ocean of love: thick, rubbery, half-deadened seaweed in hues of dried blood collects in the shallows, and limpets scrape skin from their rocks. crabs pinch my sore cold little toes, and my teeth begin to chatter. it's a scary business. getting into the sea is just as dangerous as being submerged entirely. not to mention beginning the search for the one.

if you'd like to think you understood love, imagine trawling the sea in search of the one fish you could ever want to keep in a bowl. the beautiful one in the jewel colours that crawls inside your veins and sets your wonderful heart on fire.

if you think about it, it's a really a very fucking stupid metaphor.

but if you continue to think about it, love is not the cleverest beast. monstrous, terrible, all-consuming, insatiable: yes. but not logical, linear, not remotely possible to analyze. matters of the heart have no autopsy to discover what created them; maybe literally, yes. but never, ever emotionally. a concept so over-analyzed in spirit that it's possible only the ghost remains, or the bare sucked bones.

if you've thought about it even further? then, i think you think too much.

for my fish