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February 28 DownhillToday went downhill fairly dramatically. Well, there was no way for it to go, after the beginnning, other than down. So I'll do this in bullet point form, because it allows for being random and not having to be in strictly accurate chronological order.
There're sure to be a few other things too, but I've written quite enough for one day. I'm going to bed, because I can't keep my eyes open, and I'm going to get up at six to do some Economics because I can't concentrate right now and I don't really want to get neutered. Sorry for not being online tonight, then, if you want an excuse, you obviously haven't been reading anything above. Hugs and kisses for someone who knows who they are and utterly deserves it. I knew there was a reason today was good. February 26 It begins a bit like thisMe then.
The girl who sat on her stomach behind the door of her room with her elbows rubbed raw on the carpet because it was the only place in the room with internet signal was five foot five inches, give or take, even though she still felt shorter than everyone else. She had ginger hair - well, lighter than ginger, really, she used to tell people it was strawberry blonde to stop them making jokes. She used to think it sounded impressive, and she got her kicks out of knowing more than other people. Her eyes were blue, but reflected the background of the computer screen in front of her - a sunflower (it used to be Stonehenge, but she fancied a change). Her glasses would have been sliding down towards the end of her nose, but she used to take them off whenever they got marks on them, and watch for people's reactions as they tried to work out what had changed about her face. She typed quickly, and mouthed the words as she wrote them, almost as fast as real talking. She was going to be a writer when she left college, no, she was going to be Poet Laureate, the next Emily Dickinson, or Wendy Cope, or Jane Austen. She knew she wasn't pretty, although had someone called her "not bad" that morning, and meant it sincerely, but she'd almost given up believing most people. Her legs were spotty, her bust too small - bust? what a joke - and her mother had told her she had a fat arse in an argument, which wasn't true, but didn't do her any favours; other than that she supposed, well, she was alright.
If you ever get the chance to read "The Woman Who Walked Into Doors" by Roddy Doyle, do. It's fantastic. February 21 Dancing on IceI'm watching the replay of last Saturday's, because I missed it.
My god. The voiceover man is an ARSE.
That is all. The morning after...Ouch. I was in a bad mood last night. Ah well. Back to normal and managing perfectly now, apart from this godawful cold.
Although I am still seething slightly at the kind of person who never talks to you except to try and be your confessor, despite not actually knowing you that well and being very unlikely to be one of the people you'd come to in a crisis, and then you have to be civil to them and explain things to their satisfaction no matter what your mood or whether you feel like beating your head against a wall screaming in anger and crying Angel-Falls-esque, because if you don't they will be determined that it is their fault and you hate them.
Not that I was screaming in anger and crying in such a manner that I resembled the Angel Falls. Of course I wasn't, it'd have to be a lot more serious than this for even the most melodramatic person to do that. I only make the point because that kind of person is intensely irritating.
Speaking of which, I cannot understand why blocking someone is such a terrible offence. It means, I do not want to talk to you right now. Not I hate you and never want to see or speak to you again as long as I live. It is not even a personal insult, I have on occasions blocked everyone on my list except one, or two, or four or five people that I know aren't going to provoke me in this particular mood, or just a couple of people because I don't feel like having the usual hi hi hows u fine thnx u ok thnx gdgd why did you want to bloody talk to me in the first place if this is the rubbish you're going to come out with conversations... If this reflects badly on me, so be it. Nobody's perfect. So what's at fault, my patience or yours? My perception or yours? Plus, you have to admit, it's pretty monotonous. So I'm a hypocrite. Good for me.
Anyway, I am in a better mood today, and, in fact, just in the mood to watch Murder By Death (significant coughing). Much too much work to do, so I shall have a stab at a bit of it... eventually... But I have considerably more important things, in my view, to be getting on with. I'll go away now and braindump for a bit, because I haven't in ages. Possibly write later because I have verbal diarrhoea and something to procrastinate. February 20 Definition and discussionMegalomania: (1) A psychopathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.
(2) An obsession with grandiose or extravagant things or actions.
Alright, alright, I admit it. You knew it all along, even if nobody else did. And I suppose I did, but I was carefully not concentrating on that. I admit it. I am... absolutely... terrified, and I hate that in myself with a vengeance. I am not built for things like this, I suppose you're right about what you said, although it felt like a slap in the face at the time. How do you reply to that, anyway? How am I supposed to reply without sounding either arrogant or self-pitying, and either way a not altogether nice person?
Slowly, please, slowly, and from a distance. I need my distance, I'm sorry, I can't manage without my distance. I'm alright when I have time for a draft copy, see, this is alright, I can look over this first and come back to it and change it, anything written down can be changed and made to sound right.
And besides, "Be yourself" is a joke. Myself is not going to be right, as you so kindly proved by revealing a certain part of it I was trying to forget. Some things are private, they keep me going but they are mine and not to be shared. I know it's not much, it's not important, I'm taking this way too seriously but ONCE BITTEN. I'm not doing that again in a hurry, and if that means just leaving everything along those lines, well, that's how it's going to have to be. I'm scared. I'm so scared. Why ME?
I don't know if my self confidence has always been like this, or whether it's just recently that I've started being convinced that people are lying to me to make me feel better. I don't know. Call it paranoia.
What's the difference between before and after, anyway? February 16 Two yearsCan you believe it? Two years of blog today. Time travels at weird and wonderful angles. The fourth year seems so long ago, and yet I don't feel like I've been writing this for two whole years. I mean, say I write in it twice a week approximately, that means I've passed the 100 entries mark without realising it. Maybe that's a good thing; if I had realised it, I'd feel like a bit of a freak.
Two years ago I was feeling selfconscious and a bit panicky. One year ago, I was absolutely hyper. This year... pretty tired, actually, and grossly overworked. Some things never change. I'm going middle aged.
It occurred to me somewhere approaching Hursley on the bus home that "mullet" is a much better thing to call someone than "muppet". Although this may need a second opinion.
I have gone from feeling absolutely wonderfully ethereal and cryptic yesterday (I tend to do that on occasions, think it's the effect of people saying they don't understand, you know, like "You think that was possibly making a mountain out of a molehill for no apparent reason?! How's THIS for confusing, my friend, you ain't seen nothing yet...") to really feeling in the mood for calling a spade a spade.
GWENDOLEN: (satirically) I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade.
I give up. February 15 Advanced IllegibilityNow you see that's about when I'm thirty-something, which isn't at all to say anything about now, or, incidentally, staying power, just that it was rather nice prose and it would be quite lovely... and after all, I had to put it somewhere...
Macchiavelli was a bastard. Just so that everyone knows. Utterly and completely wrong. It's ALL about getting there, well, not quite all, there is nice, but here is good too. Progression beats finale any day. So much more is about the journey than anyone gives credit for. It's in the moment.
Now this is good. This guy is fantastic.
The beauty in the cipher is that the answer is plain, an plaintext, and the ciphertext is unreadable. It's not about the cipher. It's not about the plaintext. The beauty is in the decoding. For me, the beauty is in that brief moment when you've found out what cipher you're using, and how to apply it, and that's it, you're not concentrating on anything else, just for a second it's as if nothing else in the world matters, there is nothing else to concentrate on... right before you start to second-guess yourself and realise that's how you feel. That moment of suspension, like the moment of floating, just as gravity is about to take effect. THAT is the best feeling in the world.
"But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be Six now for ever and ever." February 13 EventuallyThis is how it will be, eventually. Finally, when it happens properly. So not for years, most likely. But still. Written 5pm approx today, on the bus on the way home.
"It's not even love, not really, more a sort of... companionship. I did love, finished years ago, it's too needy. He's always on the brink of leaving. So am I. But there's room on the edge for two.
I always used to see this far as being more traditional husband-and-wife, like Mum and Dad, but I prefer it this way. We share, but not everything. Life is an exchange of one-liners. That's not to say that it could all change in a moment, more that it is bright, and there's no final punchline. You can't all go home yet.
When he looks at me, it's like a quick appraisal: and it is good. Pass. Well done. It's still fresh, I like you this moment, too. And this one. That one wasn't so good, you're not perfect, but, hey, I leave half-finished mugs of tea in the sink. I love you, I really do, you're so tolerant of me. Tolerance? That's not the issue. And, anyway, it's entirely mutual. Let's go out tonight, for a meal or something. Go Dutch. Shall we? You read my mind."
My head is killing me, my nose is exploding. But, for some reason, I think sixteen is my lucky number. Hmm. February 12 Pause for thoughtAn interesting idea... I wonder what you make of it...
On another note, I found out earlier that it's a racing cert. Everything gets passed on, these days. That's just how it is. So that's settled then. Good good. Well, we'll see, shan't we? Actually, this is the bit I think I would have to say I love the most. Anyway... keep moving... nothing to see here... you either notice automatically or you shouldn't...
Enough procrastinating, I really ought to get on right about now... February 11 ConfusionNormally, I would be absolutely desperate to know. I suppose part of me is, just because that's what I currently think of as convention, but really, most of me is happy not knowing and would prefer it if you didn't tell me.
I feel... twee. Absolutely twee. And hyper to extremes, as if I'm meant to be feeling happy but have missed the mark somewhat. I blame adventuring, although I'm not sure what about it I blame... maybe just attaching the word 'adventure' to something makes it all seem a whole lot lighter, and brighter, and worth doing. Recently, though, I've been feeling all at sea all too often, as if I don't understand anything, and I'm not taking in half as much as usual. I'm sorry, everyone, if this happens when I'm talking to you. It's not that I don't value what you're saying, it's just that I keep phasing out and there's this whole string orchestra in my head starting up every few minutes that I can't help but be overwhelmed by.
It used to be poetry. Now it's music. I wish I knew where my poetry has gone. I wish I knew where anything fictional I could just make up on the spot has gone.
We use words too much, I think, they've lost their meaning. "I love you." What does that mean? You are my soulmate and we were born to be together? I like talking to you? Or even, stop taking the piss out of me? There are way too many superlatives hanging around the place. Best. Most. Fantastic. Completely. Hate.
If only other people wrote stuff down, too. You've had two years all but of me writing down a bit about how I'm feeling, little and often, so you have a clue how to react, or what I'm thinking. Why won't anybody do me the same favour? You know I think like this. I've told you. You've got an opportunity to compare your own thoughts with someone else's. Congratulations. It doesn't take THAT much effort, does it?
Or maybe it does. Maybe I'm just used to it. February 09 Expressing oneself inaccuratelyIt is one of the limitations of the English language that in order to adequately express how we feel using words with the appropriate definition, we must often cope with words with the wrong connotations. There are two ways in which one could deal with this: first of all, saying everything you mean several times over just to see if you can get it right (or as I prefer to call it "spending my entire free after break not doing Maths but writing three pages of diary in tiny handwriting basically saying the same thing over and over"), or abiding by the time-worn philosophy, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.
Rebecca's being exceptionally quiet at the moment, I think she's sulking with me for some reason, she's usually pretty vocal when I'm feeling like this - but the general result is that I haven't written her story for ages. I just can't get it out. I think she's trying to prove something to me, but whatever that is only time and a series of baffling coincidences will tell. Hmm.
The topic for today, boys and girls, is pressure, because as you all know I don't talk about it enough. Out of interest, it might not be a good idea in the near future to ask me how I am. It's a bit hit and miss; either I hit you, or I actually tell you, and you might get a bit sick of it after a while. All offers to listen greatly appreciated, but you know how I am and there's a certain probability you know how you would be in my situation and it's not all that different to this.
I know there's something wrong - and this is a pretty reliable indicator of how tense you are - find a hard floor somewhere and lie down flat on your back for a moment and just close your eyes and try to relax into it. If you feel tense, or find it in any way painful, chances are that either you've sat on something or you're stressed. I tried it earlier, and it was agony. My back cracked several times and my shoulders stuck up, it took several minutes to coax them to lie flat on the floor.
Having said which, as Fridays go, today was pretty damn good. Not overdone. Bears repeating on most counts (the best-not-to-be-repeated ones being that I didn't see Rhi all day and haven't handed in my Economics).
I wish Mum would have the grace to at least sound vaguely enthusiastic for me, sometimes it sounds like she thinks I'm doing something wrong, but I can't understand what it is I've done, and if I ask her she'll say I'm picking an argument or making her out to be the bad guy. Funny, that.
Give up for the evening. Shall leave you with a nice bit of not so nice poetry, written on the bus yesterday. (By the way: to prevent speculation, it's NOT about anyone in particular. Okay?)
POETRY WITHOUT PRONOUNS
====================
[ ] am going to write a love poem without pronouns
So [ ] don't have to say [ ] name. [ ] will start off by telling [ ], absolutely plainly, That [ ] mean the world to [ ] and always will do. [ ] love that tiny eyebrow smile [ ] do And the way [ ] never let it go when [ ] think [ ] are right And the fact that [ ] can't sing to save [ ] life. [ ] love the way [ ] nose wrinkles when [ ] are thinking And the way that when [ ] are trying to be mysterious [ ] can read [ ] like a book But, somehow, am always surprised. Every time [ ] see [ ], [ ] want to tell [ ] how [ ] feel, namely: [ ] love [ ], [ ] love [ ], [ ] love [ ], [ ] love [ ], [ ] love [ ]. [ ] wish [ ] were always together, and never apart. Without [ ], [ ] don't know what [ ] would do. But most of all, [ ] wish [ ] had met [ ] by now, Then [ ] could fill in some of these gaps. February 07 Quizzes again
February 06 By the wayI'm going to bed.
To sleep.
For a minimum of eighteen hours.
So I won't be in tomorrow.
It's complicated.
If I don't explain, chances are either you deserved it or I've explained it to someone else so you can hear it from them. Alright?
Stop fucking making me explain myself. Miserable, thank youToday has been an abject failure.
Well, it's me, really, not today.
From getting up in the morning right down to taking the train home from picking up Lily, my fingers nearly frozen off, throbbing headache, and the train conductor saying adult fare? Have you just turned sixteen then?
So that's twice I've felt like crying today, but I haven't done it, because Lily was there that time and before I refuse to let feeling like shit and being stranded in Romsey for two hours get the better of me.
And then Dad gets in and talks to me as if I'm somehow mentally retarded - FOR FUCK'S SAKE THEN, IF I DIDN'T MICROWAVE THEM LONG ENOUGH, TAKE THE POTATOES OUT OF THE OVEN AND DO IT YOUR WAY. IT'S NOT THAT PRECISE.
There you go then, I'm a wreck tonight. I'm an immature, shivering, DEPENDENT WRECK. I've been thinking it all day. Please be here... please be here, when you're here, everything seems alright. Please be here. Why aren't you here?
Why do I have to explain myself when nobody else has to?
That's NOT the bottom fallen out of your world. Grow up. Not everything on this earth is to do with SEX. Alright?
Don't hate me. Actually. You know what? Maybe it'd be easier if you did. Go on. GO ON THEN. February 04 On the trainThe carriage is full when she gets on the train, so she side-skips her way sideways down the aisle, through the doors - which won't open, she has to pummel the button and risk the man on the seat by the door smirking (cocky arse) - past the loos and into the nearest free seat. Pair of seats, she should say, luckily there are two together just the other side of the door so she falls into them and straightens her back and her neck so as to feel upright. To anyone watching her, perhaps it looks absurd, but she closes her eyes and mentally draws her chin over an imaginary bar in front of her face and pushes her shoulders down, and it makes her feel taller. She glances out of the window, and sees the other train, on the other platform, almost empty as far as she can see.
Pause.
She lets out a little sob, which is all she will allow herself, before pulling out her headphones and, after a moment of detangling and adjusting and deciding, sinking into a world of deep, dusky voices and words that promise they know how she feels... they don't, of course, but it's a nice dream... "constantly bailing out water, still feel like I'm gonna sink..."
The boy diagonally opposite her looks at her in slight concern as the tear rolls down her cheek - she wasn't going to let it, but it comes anyway.
The train pulls away from the station. She barely notices. The boy catches her eye and turns away again, she keeps looking, at the back of his ear, forces her face into unreadable - she's spent months practising, relaxing her features into neutral and is surprised to feel it working. It's one step away from not thinking about it. Her eyes swivel left, out of the window, watching the graffiti turn to memories as it disappears past.
Bzizz-bzizz. Bzizz-bzizz. Silence. Someone's not forgotten her. She fishes her phone from her pocket - the boy twists round for a second - and a small smile pulls the corner of her mouth outwards, which is the closest thing, in these circumstances, that she is going to get to happy. |
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