i hate how unreliable i am about everything

including blogging.

earlier hunched over my cat-patterned tray i cried pathetically into my microwaved spaghetti bolignese just because of california and time differences and crackly phone lines and background laughter and the squashed beer cans in the waste bin. i dont know anymore. the slurs and the squints and the misjudged slip of the door handle none of it is your fault. you’re going to bed because you’re “a bit whacked” at 20:24 in the evening. it isnt your fault it isnt anybody’s fault and i’m just a little sick of it being an issue. it shouldn’t be an issue. it’s nothing. it doesn’t matter.

i’m going to post this even though it appears to be attention seeking garbage. i dont even CARE.

good things

martin stockdale’s mole-like prescense and his referring to lady gaga’s wardrobe as “meat attire”, yes.

bill hicks and his speech on george bush, yes.

my aunt phillipa handing me a designer fashion catalogue and asking me if there was “any element of it you fancy?” for my christmas present, yes.

my new welsh english teacher (and her anger towards the word ”very”) who everybody hates except for me, yes yes yes.

your adorable little self-deprecating chuckle when i grumble “fuck you” down the phone, arghh yes.

there has to be more to life than knitwear.

yes there is more to life than knitwear.

knitwear isnt even that great.

lets smash a plate in silence's face

i'm hunched in front of the computer with the space between my lips clogged with Rimmel Pointless I'm Trying To Look Much Older Gloss and itchy eyelids from the horrible mascara that I'm wearing because I really do not want to get kicked out of a pub again.
And I don't honestly feel very much like blogging
but here I am because i've been so silent

I went to Endorsit festival and had my face painted with flowers by an attractive woman with no manners and drank expensive beer that I didn't pay for and sweated a lot in a crowd hot and sticky with dubstep and waving their glow sticks. I was too drunk to care about the fact I don't thoroughly enjoy dubstep. But fucking hell, that was amazing fun. Then I had chronic hiccups for hours and the group of us engaged in a conga line massage and danced and turned down sex from hairy strangers and felt up for anything but sleep. and sex from hairy strangers.

then the next morning muddy and dejected i dragged myself home into the warm domestic comfort of my bath tub and soaked until my skin had no trace of festival left on it.
and here we all are.
and i'm so sorry :)

limes from mexico arent actually very funny or interesting

I've been shit at this recently
I just can't seem to crawl inside my brain properly anymore
I'd like to curl up there,
sleep there for a week, warm and alone with my thoughts.

Or perhaps that's a fucking terrible idea, I'll never know.

My week so far has consisted of late nights and early mornings
Chewing on filter tips in the pub garden
Falling asleep with Rob's examless head resting on my calf
on Sean's bed watching Dexter's Laboratory
at 2:30 when he wanted to go to bed at 1:00
Walk home swallowing the dark trees with my eyelids, burning my temples with cannabis.

Yesterday I naively attempted to persuade the new students at our college to join the creative writing enrichment in my borrowed grey "Enrichment" hoodie. They seem so damn tiny, and uninterested, I think maybe if they grew an inch their enthusiasm would mutate into some kind of ugly fetish and that would be terrifying, it's best they stay short.

However we've got some people interested. Interest is something that seems to invoke this repulsive closed-mouth smile within me, and I babble away about poetry to people holding maps. I'm sat in the college library right now across from somebody saying he's "got loads of work to do". I find it weird that there are actually people here working after all the exams have dripped away and we're left with our lack of anything to do... I've forgotten what it's like to be stressed about education, right now all I feel towards it is a kind of content apathy. I sometimes just wish I had bones the consistency of strawberry laces so I could curl over and eat myself, starting at my feet. It would be something to pass the time.

Sometimes when I read back my blog entries I hear Sophie Dahl's voice and I wonder if maybe I sound a bit pretentious.

FREE WRITING #2

It's just fun now. I urge you to try it.

Daddy issues tangle in your hair grip your roots like dirty grease and make your boyfriend run
you love him it them when why do you try and eat the peel of the orange rather than the broken segments little orange squidgey sunrises collapsing from the stem and hit my poor mouldy feet they hurt like bowling balls and go to shake the tree its far too warm for pink armpits under the green sky which turns out is a reflection in the river, the river which I'm under eating the stones I eat and eat and eat and eat and bloat like a bean bag i swim, i sink, i swim, i sink, you laugh and laugh and fall in after me CRASH your head cracks above the sharp spheres of brown and grey blood all over your favourite vest and red and white always tattooing the inside of my eyelids i see it when I sleep now, that crimson rush on your white vest that eyelash brushing your white face my frozen thoughts on your white mind i am you. who are you by the way?

Free writing

FREE WRITING - a prewriting technique in which a person writes continuously for a set period of time without regard to spelling, grammar or topic. It produces raw, often unusable material, but helps overcome blocks of apathy and self critism.

Let's take a swing at it then....

Only four thousand dollars,
only four thousand but they can wear that four thousand dollars with
boots
they can wear it with tights
in the winter they can wrap a fur coat around their four thousand dollars and give it a russian twist like a shot of vodka in some lemon juice. sweet.

She ripped the silk from silver shelves and draped it on the skeleton
the skeleton shook her hand and twirled around and stomped like Tyra Banks
she never wore the silk away from staring faces
wrapped in bed a cocoon of excess
staring with her bush baby blue rocks swimming in her face eating pearls from the floor in the manner of bonbons and kicking the ceiling with her heels,

where have you gone skeleton?
she uses her own skull like a punch bowl
can't really afford a glass one
in the magazines with shiny brims
even after all the shows and stomps and staring faces
and pens rampant on paper
it is the paper's fault.

dancing in the room my blood filling my ears and i can only hear the sound of the electric heater buzzing like the football match and it's melting my inhibitions and i wish it wasn't because there is the skeleton eating the pearls and staring like i've hit her. oh god, i sang last night like a squeaking moron accapella because you snatched the guitar, was i that dreadful?

Pizza menu

We're sat under the dirty yellow light
waiting for our cardboard boxes
They go outside to smoke, do I want to come?
No, I'll stay here, it's cold
and watching other people smoke is dull.
Conversation or warmth?
For once I pick warmth, and they're outside puffing
and I poke my head out and ask if I can borrow a pen.

I haven't got any paper so I grab a menu from the box on the counter.
The woman in her black hat glares at me, disrupting her staring at her all important orders
movement in front of her face that isn't an oven door.
I smile sideways and slip back to the window

Not much space on this thing,
only the white sides framing the persuasive adverts
and ORDERING FROM US HAS NEVER BEEN EASIER!
I don't really care, I never was swayed by convenience.
Hah.

So click click, I use his pen
to write around the adverts
bad poems about being sat in a pizza place.

I despise the maddening fingertips in eye sockets,
sighs like a rubber breeze just used to inflate
a castle like the one in the catalogue bounce
until we fall screaming on our prepubescent asses.

and this one

This is what they call last resort.
Soles on the hard grey
Fat baseball caps and slogan on their foreheads.
Branded.
Pizza slaves
Staring at me
All I want is a Mighty Meaty.

Poor menu, this isn't what it dreamed of!

Cold blue stones chuck swing bolt at me
hit my chest
bleed scream fall
eat pizza
go home.

So some of them aren't directly about pizza...

There isn't enough time left to accept life as something earnest,
so earnest that I eat the right food
buy the right clothes
use thu rite spellin nd grammar
get upset about the right things
and listen to the right noises.
Right now there is very little noise outside my own skull
And getting upset is too much to think about.

There isn't enough time to think about my burning temples at 11am
Curled up staring at the back of my eyelids
Listening to Rob's mum play country music.

So I'm abandoning any rules you sling at me,
Civilisation,
with your polished work tops chopping up loud teenagers with a stainless steel knife

There certainly isn't enough time to be angry with you.

I should go to sleep now, but I just have too many eyes.