...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

my life

a genius omelette i made. generations of people will come together in the future to worship the memory of this omelette, i am so serious. it was amazing.
















i bought a tiny solar system and decided to put it above my bed. last night saturn fell on me and i shit myself! (not literally)








then today i went to the baltic and i took a picture of the tyne bridge like a tourist which is sad because i live in newcastle







and voila, the highlights of my past two days. you can kind of tell i'm uneployed.

what constitutes a road trip: pt. 2

a chapter from each character i think. i'll continue with alison. alison's the hedonist of the group, along with the most emotionally fragile. but because she's not quite as prone to thinking profoundly, she's written entirely differently. i'm still not sure if i'm doing the idea of her in my head justice. she's such a huge personality, and kind of in charge of the group.




none of us were planning this, i don't think, but hell; show me a crystal ball and i could have pointed you in the right fucking direction. there's only so long before people like us meet, and crystallize, and blast off into outer space. i guess to us, the desert was outer space. a faux-space where sand flies like stars and jackrabbits orbit the cactuses like meteors and planets. either way, christ, you don't plan these things to, like, be.
for me it started with (zuts alors) professor guillame. oh yeah, he taught me la belle francais alright. his salt-and-pepper style and that delicate way older men are were what did it, i think. i liked to think i could overpower him, overwhelm his little world. give him back what zest for life he had.
alison: mmmmm, a vivacious sex goddess, reinvigorating those limp little men and their limp little souls. answering the mewls; 'wah wah wah, my wife's a bitch and goddamn i didn't think life'd turn out like this, god i wish i could get it up' creating life where there was no life. the positive giver of blood; she giveth you the wood, and then she taketh away. she's a veritable cup of sexual charm, and her cup spilleth over.
truth? all these sad little men they kind of turn me on, they make me sick so much. when my mom found out i was screwing them, she didn't understand. that's fair, i don't think many people understand it too good. but, like, with her devotion to drama, she threw me out of the house. momma done threw me on the porch with a trash bag full of my shit, and told me i could take up with someone else. momma done bust my heart is what she done. god, alison, shut up.
but wait: i get ahead of myself. people always say that, they say alison alison slow down kid, you got all the time in the world so slow down. but if i've got all the time in the world then why doesn't it regenerate? why don't i control it? if i've got it all, then i'm losing it every second. life itself is a cosmic sweater being unraveled by that crazy kitten called time. and if i slowed down, i'd be too scared to speed up again. maybe if i stop looking at clocks, timing everything and shit, time'll stop.. or reverse . i never wanted the time i spent on the road to end, but it did. it was like time couldn't find me. for a brief period of time, four people existed outside of anything. anything at all. nothing could find us, hurt us, make us old or sick, poison us, break us or even find its way into our secret world to touch us. the people i remember are different to the people i see now, so obviously something found us. running away was about the smartest move i ever made, and goddamn i'm not too smart, (i always knew that) and i'd do it again if i could guarantee i'd get to be that way again. like the best things in life, i didn't realise how happy i was until it was over. i lost a hold of the bluebird that i loved.
godfuckingdamn, can you hear this? pathetic alison, reminiscing like a fucking diary. i think i meant to try and explain my life before we left for the desert but i've ruined it for myself now. yeah i can't do it now. yeah... no, try again later. we are currently cruising at 30, 000 feet and unable to land.

aahhh

i still don't update this ever.
since i am here however, here is point.


i hate the way most men dress now. seriously. not to be mildly sexist, but jeez, get your balls back! v neck cardigans? pointy shoes? trench coats?
what the fuck!
i can say in confidence that one of the reasons it would be cool to be a boy is that they don't have to care what they look like. in fact, it's pretty sexy for a guy to be scruffy and just in jeans and a t shirt. when they start spending longer on their hair than i do, something's wrong. being masculine has become a completely bizarre thing. i see guys with diamond earrings, bleached tips, and sometimes even ugg boots, and i vomit, and more importantly i weep. ugg boots, i ask you. they're hideous enough on girls, but when boys take to them as well that's a clusterfuck of wrong right there. fair play, i may not be the girliest of the girlies, but there's no chance of anyone looking at me and thinking 'she's a dude', so it's alright for me to be saying this i think. i miss the days before male fashion had been transformed into a cash cow by topman. basically, any man who by coincedence reads this, THINK TO YOURSELF: WOULD I WEAR UGG BOOTS??
because that's what the world is coming to. you might actually, one day, be mocked for not wearing them.
and by that time it will be too late.

what constitutes a road trip

consider: the dead leaves of summer. they blow down the highway, in the aftermath of a glistening black camero. panther-like, piloted by one of america's million misanthropes, never had anywhere to go yet in a rush to get there.
a lifeless head lolls against the grimy window; the hair is partially sucked by the voracious force of air escaping the car at such speed. fine curls of smoke as thin as hair flicker through the dim light. the only reason i know we're not in hell is because hell isn't this cold.
introduce an element of chaos; my brother, his face stern, drives and drives and drives. any hair he had before has been burnt away. i know this to be true, because the acrid stench still hovers in here. dark lenses hide what i know to be equally stern eyes. this i am grateful for. his pale sea green irises spook me. taut musculature jumps under his skin every time he moves.
introduce the source of the only noise puncturing this disturbingly cold night; draped artfully across the backseat with blanched skin glowing, a girl notes everything she sees into a small black dictaphone. her lack of colour turns her into the moon in the universe that is us.
the boy she leans against is asleep and curved s-shaped into the back of the car. a lit cigarette splutters ash onto his collar as he snuffles.

we've been driving together for just over three hours, to my best estimation. the buzz from the red bulls and cheap speed drained us, and has left us flying along this highway so nervously. we are an ant ascending the thinnest string on a harp. our commitment to this lack of structure has left us unable to stop.

skip to a week ago; my brother's hair is still in tact. always such a source of attention, being so thick and honeyed. i don't know these other two yet. i had been to the doctors, for reasons now unimportant. the doctor was a man so clipped i could hear the punctuation in his voice. his hair was brushed aggressively to one side, creating a plastic sheeny layer across a pockmarked scalp.
'so. you've been. feeling. sick?'
'to my stomach. like food poisoning'
'have you. to your. knowledge. eaten any. out of date. food?'
'if i knew i'd done that why would i come here'
truly, a boring encounter that left me dry.
the rest of the day was spent effectively, although i don't remember how. all that sticks out in my mind any more is my brothers hair, and where it went. an insistance that nothing happened and that he shaved it away has made no difference to my theory that he's fucked up real bad and that's probably why we're here now.

fast forward to now; the boy i don't know is waking up in the realisation that his shirt is a little bit on fire. patting it gently until it smoulders, he says 'goddamn alison, you know fuckin loud you talk? can you hear yourself talk? i'd be surprised if you couldn't cause you're so fuckin goddamn loud.'
the very blonde girl looks momentarily indignant, before succumbing to the realisation that she is the only sound we've been listening to for hours. if she's even slightly embarassed by the attention then she's not showing it. her brashness is apparent; she's wearing something not unlike a leotard, save for some half length legs attached to it, and it's an acid washed lime green. very violent. her bony knees buckle as she folds herself origami style into the opposite corner of the car to the smoking collar guy. i find myself wondering if they're dating.
'well someone has to document this auspicious occasion, and if that someone has to be me, then so be it'
an indulged and toothy grin takes up the lower half of her face, pushing her snub nose upwards and crinkling up her baby blue eyes. she's not ugly, but she's certainly interesting to look at. when she grins, her moon glow intensifies.
her conversation partner rubs his head all over, flipping it over briefly to scratch at the back of his neck. he is unaware that the cigarette in his mouth sits burnt down to the filter, seeing as he lit it before descending into unconsciousness.
'you know, you always find something stupid and pointless to say. how do you do that? i mean, we're in a car in the middle of nowhere and you're turning it into some epic drama.'
'couldn't we be anywhere rather than nowhere?'
'what?'
'i'd rather be anywhere than nowhere. anywhere has more potential than nowhere, so, like, if i'm anywhere, then i could be aaanywhere... you know?'
'god, you say some stupid shit sometimes'
with that, indignance gets the best of her and she turns to the window to quietly discuss the dick of the guy next to her and how small it is with her black dictaphone. i notice how acerbic her tone is, and think about the one-sided nature of her discussion.
'where are we man?'
this latest sluggish comment is, i assume, aimed towards my brother.
' you heard alison, man. we're anywhere.'
my brothers voice, despite being quiet, has a disarmingly penetrative nature. even when it's the quietest in the room, it's still heard the loudest.
' fuck, man, i mean seriously, where are we?'
the answer he received clearly wasn't what he wanted, so he reinvigorates his previous statement with the intention of something different this time.
a profound silence gestates in the small amount of air between us all. it's kind of electric, and kind of a threat. smoking collar guy is visibly growing more and more agitated, and alison the moon girl is still muttering in a concentrated manner in her corner. she's admiring the dusty cactuses we're driving past; she thinks they're beautiful.
'jesus, everyone in this fucking car is a fucking asshole. she's talking to herself, and you're just ignoring me like shit, and i don't even know who this fucking chick here is but she hasn't said a fucking word man. this is messed up.'
i realise that no, i haven't.
smoking collar guy has exploded in a carnal and emotional speed-addled mess. i can see his mental guts all over the window.
'that's paulette. she's my sister, man, so don't be a dick to her.'
i'm suprised that smoking collar guy hasn't realised we're brother and sister. although, the lack of hair on my brother probably diminishes some similarity. looking the way he does, you'd think he'd just left a naval base or something, even with his big dark glasses and suspiciously (smoke?) blackened vest.
'well whatever, she still hasn't said shit to any of us. what, you think we don't deserve your words or something?'
'leave her alone. you're such a jackass sometimes. in fact, no, my proportions are screwed up.. you're ok sometimes; you're a jackass most of the time. ignore him pumpkin, his balls are all whacked out of order cause he's not in charge of the road trip'
alison the moon girl has acknowledged me. her sheeny shiny gold eyes reflect in the wingmirror next to me. she must be an albino, because her skin is so white that i can see the network of veins in her goosepimpled arms. her hair is just as white, but she's pencilled in her eyebrows real thick and dark. it's kind of adorable, because either she's hoping people would think that's her natural hair colour and she chooses to colour it white, or she's proudly creating a conflict that challenges people when they look at her. either way, i like her.
'it's not a fucking road trip. road trips mean driving to florida or somewhere and staying in a crappy motel and eating out of vending machines. road trips need creedence tapes, badly folded maps and gross melted candy. this is not a road trip'
smoking collar guy taps his foot amidst the junk that carpets the back of the camero. despite being an asshole, he's intriguing too. again, i wonder if it's the passion between these two that sparks into conflict, or if they just genuinely have that much spite towards each other. it's kind of sexy to watch.

(unfinished)