Dead Trees And Traffic Islands

2011-09-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

I find that I am much more peaceful inside this house when there are no men. Not that I am in any way sexist, but just so I don't have to listen to the incessant roars and squeels and giddiness of a grown man cheering on his favourite football team. Or infact, his most favourite team from the two teams playing. Nonetheless, a man always finds a part of football to get giddy and girly about. Like a woman who can't miss an episode of her favourite chick flick TV programme, a man misses a football game and he winds up in a bigger state than a woman with terrible PMS.

I am getting better at finding more useful ways to spend my time. Before, when I got home, I would hover between lying down on my bed, going to the kitchen, going to the toilet, using the internet and so forth. Now I like to infuse reading into my routine. Many times I have tried to read "e-books" on pieces of technology and it never did it for me. Only when I have a beautiful piece of literature I can hold in my hand, do I truly want to read it. I know that when I put it down, it's sitting there waiting for me and if I feel like escaping again I simply pick it up and I don't have to think about anything but letting the words do it for me. It gives me something to think about other than myself.

There is always danger lurking around the corner I find. Between my habit of lying down, manouvering to the bathroom, kitchen and so forth, I find that if I let my mind realise that it has nothing to do, even for a minute, it can destroy the entire day ahead. Some people can cope with being bored as a daily happening in life, but when I sense boredom I sense the forthcoming misery of waiting out another lifeless day. That's why I can't let myself feel as if I am bored, even for a second. Sometimes my clock curiously puts itself an hour behind and when I realise that I have gained an hour I feel a shallow sense of relief that there is one less hour to fill. My worst hours are from noon till sometimes as late as 7pm. When the clock strikes seven, something clicks and I feel relaxed at the setting of the sun and the re-emerging life in me. Daylight sucks something out of me, making me feel as though something has to be done, but I never have the answer as to what. I live an unfulfilled life of spending and looking for something to occupy. Sometimes I buy myself computer games and then I play them for up to five minutes and I feel the impending boredom strike me once more so I put down the control. I don't think a game will ever keep me hooked or make me think. Not like a book can and has done in the past. In a book I am a spy, watching events unfold and feeling far too sympathetically connected to the character. Put me in charge of somebody in a video game and I haven't an idea in hell of what to do. Video games make you think that you are in control but the ending has already been fixated.

September's Ramble

2011-09-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

15th Sep 23:11

I mustn't feel that things are too perfect
Blood red roses and a powerful dialect
I want to hate but act upon it
A pounding thrust of demonic excitement

Revenge is best served in years to come
Than never to befall
Be it called such, that dwindling power
From my fist as it conquers all

Pain and anguish, she screams unto me
Heals to make me feel higher than heaven
Too comatose and too heavy for passion as such
And a weep to my command may so fault my touch

I needn't answer questions "Why?"
For a person I knew had to teach
That violence needn't dignity nor plausible reason
Just an overwhelming phase of powerful feeling

Dead and gone in the depth of bitterness
A fist says more than any mouth
Takes me high as I feed off imagery as such
A petty bark at my feet on all fours with much luck

A bruised and fatty carcass, A window to a devil
Broken and untouchable, as the bruises start to swell
Unmistakably horrendous, and a hellish shade of blue
A fool of a price to pay, for the pleasure of being you

Lost in coma and covered in cake

2011-09-14T09:25:00.001-07:00

As I was laying in the bath I could sense the end. Of what, I don't know. Anything from the end of the summer to the end of the world. It was my birthday yesterday and, though thoroughly enjoyable, the framed canvas of my mind had plenty of other ideas. I can't forget about it. Every time I turn around, every time I get up, every time I sleep and even worse when I wake. I don't know which part within what little I know seems to cause the most agony. The most important question happens to be: Why now? There are unimaginable things becoming imaginable and most of the time I feel as though I want to rip off my own head. There is no other possible plausible reaction for me. I feel that I need a memory dump. It keeps taunting and mocking and deriding me and only simply because it "happened". I didn't want to write about it but I feel like it's the only thing that might keep me from insanity today. I'm not sure of what the hell is wrong, I only know it's not fucking right. I think that maybe today I have had little sleep and might be emotional, but that doesn't excuse yesterday. It was my fucking birthday, and it's all I could think about. What kind of a fucking world is this? What happened to my "don't-give-a-fuck" switch? I feel an overwhelming desire to hurt her. Though what has she truly done wrong? I remember once upon a time having visions of posting lit matches through her letterbox. I don't have much of an appetite today and it's most probably for said reason. My mum just asked who I was talking to so i'm taking it in my stride to curse my stepdad less and write more. I take it time isn't that much of a great healer after all. I am becoming increasingly frustrated and increasingly misunderstood. I took a bath today so I could think freely inside a locked room, yet I didn't expect to cry so much. I am at a loss, though. Whatever this thing is punishing me, it was bound to happen after an almost emotionally faultless summer. I wonder, does this always happen with someone's first love. I'm done dwelling. I feel mortified and shamed.

Please Don't Go

2011-08-25T13:31:00.001-07:00

It's a lonely, mellow Thursday evening. These past two weeks have been a canvas of what I wouldn't mind it being like for the rest of my life. Just him and I and this house and some money to spend. It all finished in a flash, and I was alone again before I had time to contemplate exactly what I was going to do about it. For two whole hours I was a contented young woman trying to get on with the day and resume to make my life that little bit better. After hour number two the melancholy of the loneliness set in and I shed a few salty tears into my pasta. Last night we caught the largest spider I'd yet to see in this horrific house, perched bravely against the white wall of the living room. A size so menacing it left a horror-movie-style blood splat which proceded to drip down the wall. And so I took a picture and left the spider glued to the catalogue it had been hit with by it's own blood. Thinking back, that was an absolutely dire way for the poor little bastard to go. Alas, he is banished from my house but not yet from my thoughts. When creatures are stumbled upon in this house, they are not small creatures. They are always an XXL version of the beast in question. It is not right and it's not on. I had somebody to comfort my fear of arachnids last night but if tonight I find another one like that, I have to confess I won't know just what to do with myself. It's a pety fear for any human being to face.

2011-07-10T12:54:00.000-07:00

A winter's day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
But I've heard the words before;
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

- Simon and Garfunkel

2011-05-17T16:29:00.000-07:00

As my posts become less and less frequent, so does my strive to write them. Is it safe to assume that I am no longer miserable? Or am I simply at a crossroads, staring both blind terror and blind happiness between the eyes. I don't like what the pills have done to me, to my soul, or to my train of thought. I know no creativity anymore. I am an institutionalized bore. Just a dandy has-been. Yes, life causes me no stress or no harm. My mind has not been allowed the space to breathe, procreate, or flourish with the kind of thoughts that would make even the happiest person reconsider their own worth. What I am trying to say is that I am incapable of feeling misery. Everything is going right. Too right. I reminince of those days I was merely a slave to my own occupant thoughts. Such a beautiful, fragile place to be in. I participated in modes of thinking that would make a blessed man retch. Anyone with even an inch of courage would have taken none of it if in my shoes. Though that is something I don't have. Courage. Today I cut my finger and my mum put on a plaster for me. Like the sickening innocence of a petulant child. The blood did excite me somewhat, though I have never intentionally pierced my own skin. My body has a passionate intolerance toward drugs, alcohol, caffeine and pain. I am as clean as a whistle. The only thing I happen to abuse is my mind in all it's frailty. Something more fragile than any part of my physical anatomy. And throughout my drug-less, caffeine-less, very-little-measures-of-alcohol fuelled lifestyle, I remain one of the most corrupt I adhere to know of.

I have been off the pills for almost 2 weeks and I still feel content. No overpowering sensation to bang my head off a wall. No inability to think clearly and sanely, and certainly no muffled hallucinations of people calling my name. I begged to be helped. Something listened. I regret to inform you that, in the most apologetic and regretful manner, I miss my insanity.

I have nothing to hold on to.

Withdraw Retreat.

2011-02-12T09:48:00.000-08:00

Strange. Strangely abnormal to myself, what is normal for everybody else. Morning pill, afternoon of bliss, night of carelessness. Don't miss one. You might not make it out alive. I figured out that I needed them, God knows where I would be without them at this moment in time. My only worry is that my Citalopram ran out this morning, on a Saturday. The earliest I will get a repeat prescription will be Monday. I remember the last time i missed one and the hell that unfolded. I need them to stay within the walls of reality. They are bliss. They put me to sleep like a dying dog. A sleep so peaceful I do not even hear my alarm. Half gone from 9AM to 9PM and I yawn as I type. Some common and uncommom side effects include no appetite, unexplained muscular pains, delusions, hallucinations, increased desire for sex, dizziness, nausea, fatigue. Inability to drink large measures of alcohol (Which is not advised anyway.) I witnessed all. Above all else, they help me deal with some of the incomprehendable bullshit people in my life happen to throw at me. I feel hate, most recently. Hate for the people I am "supposed" to love. For the last week or two I have felt more like an unfinished book. Promises prescribed in the heat of the moment never quite came true. Does love flower, grow, flourish? Or even exist at all? I cannot allow myself to say anything apart from the fact that I am a fool of great proportions. Anything more would land me in great spots of bother. For now, I am a puppet with a rebellious mind. I am more tolerable of people. I'm not sure if I am comfortable with it. There's no pride, nothing to distinguish myself with, nothing to cling to. At least I can always say I am not fat. I met somebody who shares my passionate dislike of fat pigs. Their supreme stores of flesh are representative of two things and two things only. Gluttony and greed. Who could fall for someone who spends so much time pleasuring themselves with danger.

White Lies

Standing
Another comatose pill
Another tough Monday drill
I hear what no one else will

Staring
Five hundred birds haunt the sky
A freedom forced you to fly
A navy world from God's cry

Braindead
Tempestuous eyes now stem deep
The joy of making you weep
A hatred I long to keep

Sadness
Believe the truth, it will go
As rage inside steals the show
And comfort won't have to know

2010-12-17T03:17:00.000-08:00

In 2010 I finally obtained something I am terrified to lose. Love for a love-virgin is like an addiction. I broke, I snapped. I can't control myself when it feels like the very bane of misery is being placed on my shoulders. I can't handle a day. I can't handle a day without being loved. The very thought of sitting on a bed without the company of another is the bane of my misery. I died last night. A dead body cannot smile or think or talk. He was talking to a dead body. It started with nothing. I can't explain in any other way than if I were to say that the very energy of the world became sucked out of me and in it's place the most infinite and soul-crushing despair filed my head, my heart and my thoughts. I thought about playing in traffic. Next time I may not be so lucky. And his face. His beautiful, helpless face. I cried harder when I knew he could do nothing. I wanted to die but I wanted him to understand too. It is not too hard to understand that the misery of existance can be expelled in one short bang. I thought he could help me but I discovered there and then that I am beyond help. If he can't help me then nobody else would be justified in trying. I rely on him too much, but I don't trust the reliance of myself. Only one thing I have learned about the despair and that is that it is worsened by alcohol. It's as though it feeds off the alcohol and my inability to think rationally.

I have become a spontaneous liar. I have thought about it and there is no reason for it. I am not covering any dangerous truth. I just prefer to say what I think people would be more apt to hearing. Besides, I am too busy to have anything else handed on my plate. I am trying so hard not to be miserable at Christmas. Trying so hard to find the energy to function. Give me a meaning. Give me a meaning.

2010-12-13T10:56:00.000-08:00

"Your beautiful triangle of distortion."

I'm having the soul sucked out of me, although slower than usual. We're moving house. I still won't have a room of my own. It's in a part of Kincardine that looks isolated, dead and full of troubles. I'm absolutely less than uninterested. The next move I make shall be on my own. So far, so far. I dispise change. This house may make my life a misery but at least it's familiar. I feel miserably sad. At the moment I haven't a single place I belong. Nowhere in the world. I wish I could feel. Today I don't feel. I almost feel apathy. It's not the most convenient. My nerve endings feel numb and dumb like they've had a personal shot of pain relief. What the hell is heartbreak? A word to describe the authorised and official absense of somebody. I am not here, this isn't real. There's no sun. There's no sun in my life. I wake up in the dark and I come home in the dark. Like the world is a basement, and there's so much further to go. That's four months out of twelve I can't stand. I don't know what to do with myself the other eight. If I had my way there would be two months in a year. Grow older quicker, die quicker, closer to paradise. I want to be alone. Then again if I were alone for much longer right now I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I don't know what to do. Am I living for a beneficial purpose? All I seem to do is use up another batch of resources.

I'd love to run away. Run. A forest, a lake. It's still there. And now it's gone. My heart did sink. I am feeling. It is worse than not feeling. Somebody please end my misery.

2010-12-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

Since the beginning of September I am struggling to recall significant moments in my life. I've lain drunk, dead and with a stubborn writer's block. I wish I still looked at life so introspectively. So articulately and deeply. It's been snowing and I haven't lived life through my camera. Someone has made me feel a little worthwhile. Compliments are somehow so believable when they are spoken through his mouth. Am I falling into the trap I always deemed myself never to do? I am grabbing happiness by the balls. Every now and then the lack of deep-rooted despair made me anxious that I might never feel that free again. I don't feel free. Though I do feel happy. Then one day the despair hit me like a ton of bricks and it was after that day precisely that I vowed never to take momentary happiness for granted again. I bring despair upon myself and then I revel and a little piece of me dies everytime I seem to survive. I used to be able to handle numerous nights alone and now I can barely stand one. Now that someone is willing to hold me it seems only natural to be with them every single moment of my life. What am I doing to myself? Where has my apathetic, misanthopic view of the world disappeared to? At least in that frame of mind nothing could hurt me anymore than I was hurting myself. This is a dangerous business. Caring is a dangerous business. Being cared for is dangerous. It means there are now certain limitations on the severity of which I might like to hurt myself, for I am not only living for myself. I try my best to be loved. I'm scared to love anymore than I currently do.

... What it'd do to me, I can only imagine...

2010-11-23T03:56:00.000-08:00

"No matter what you do or say, I'm gonna love you anyway."

I awoke. Unfulfilled and ghastly. Slavery towards my own obsession. It is better to be obsessed with something else other than myself. Do I feel love or just posession? I awoke, again, to a dark and lonely room. I am unclean, unshaven, the appearance of delay. The time it took for my legs to fall out of bed I cannot tell. I reached for my dressing gown and wrapped it around my warm body and I stood up. I became dizzy with disappointment, dizzy with longing, dizzy with solitude. I trudged down the stairs and I stared at the clock. Seconds passed, minutes, a whole forty five of them, and I found my head forcing it's way into my hands. What I wouldn't give to be in those arms. It is not so much a matter of missing a person, it is a matter of being physically unable to do something which doesn't involve that person. Now I am all swept up in a haze of overwhelming nostalgia. Again, I paced upstairs and sat on my bed and cried once more. Whatever I was about to do, it did not involve going to college, and of that I was sure. I threw on his jumper and the closest clothes in my wardrobe and I grabbed the seven thirty bus. Four hours, eh? Four hours and I've manifested a mood such as this. I must sleep longer and think lesser. The bus approached the stop and upon witnessing a gathering of people I slipped out the side route into a place I was unsure of. My geography skill picked up and I found my way again.

McDonalds, in all it's capitalist glory, found itself with a returning customer that morning. I ate as slowly and surely as possible and didn't budge until most of my drink was gone and I was a little less nervous. I left and instead of making my way to college I blew fifty quid in the shopping centre on a pair of suspender jeans and a leopard print scarf amongst other little glories. This concluded my day thus far as I lay fatigued and dirty in my bedroom. I scope negativity. I deserve what I get.

2010-11-15T12:27:00.000-08:00

Do you know of the very moment when the world crumbles in the palm of your hand? I don't think much of it when, in periods, it happens to myself. Watching it in others, however, is fascinating. When my soul is flying high above the ground. You know it happens. You can sense the very bane of their misery, at least sympathetically if not empathically. Fascinating to watch somebody's world fall down right beside you. I know it's true but I happen to be hiding it well. They cannot. Pick yourself up. Kick yourself back down. If you don't then I will. So fascinating to witness the very epitome of darkness filling the void inside somebody's head. The absurdism of human nature playing like a physical slideshow before your very eyes. It's beautiful. Like the play I never got to write. The movie I never got to film. That's poetry right there. Don't tell anybody else or you'll be presumed "sick". Don't tell anybody anything. Smile, sit back and acknowledge the insanity.

Romeo Run

2010-11-08T10:23:00.001-08:00

Why don't you love me? Most importantly, why do you love me? I've had no time to write for a couple of weeks. While everyone's stressors are being set alight, mine remain cool, calm and conscious. They should be on fire. They should be dancing over their graves. Why am I here? It's a question I ask myself every day but this time in a subjective sense. Why am I at college? And am I right if I say that everything leads to nothing? In the end, at least. Existential bullshit. Give me meaning and I will live for that meaning. You tell me what I am supposed to do with the life "God" granted me, and I will get on with it in honorary silence. Each miserable day before the last miserable day before. I am nineteen years old. I think about death more than I think about life. Show me the purpose. I want to be reassured that the agony of every day will be outweighed with some kind of bliss in the end. I say bliss, perhaps I just mean contentment. The prospect of burning out seems all too alluring right now. I am determined to tell you that this is not a flurry of anguish, but rather a very rational decision. I am not sitting on bloodied knees, kneeling over and crying into my glass of water. I am in a very stable frame of mind. I feel nothing. And this is the best frame of mind I could possibly be in.

"It's true I always wanted love to be hurtful."

What was true once upon a time doesn't ring true so much anymore. I wanted someone to love me so much that it tore them apart. I wanted them to be unable to eat, talk or breathe without me. Thinking back, I seem to have developed a conscience since then. Perhaps just the loving is enough. Perhaps I would lack the ability to frankly give a shit. It hurts, having a care in the world.

2010-10-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

I don't know why people who can't spell write lyrics. Lyrics aren't all about music, they should be grammatically correct. And use some decent fucking words. If I wanted to listen to you talk I would have asked. It's about ambigious words, sentences being cut off, drama without the obvious grasp for sympathy. Ah, I am aggressively angry tonight. I'm trying to re-live my day to work out why. My alarm went off at 8AM as I wanted because the thought of venturing into Falkirk while it is busy depressed me. I set it for an hour later. Bathed. Watched people passing by outside. It looked cold, calculated and uninviting. Alas I was under the responsibility of buying birthday cards not only on my behalf, but on the behalf of my cousin too. As usual, the short journey on the bus to my destination is the most blissful moment of the day, and nothing outshines it until I go to sleep. I am amidst memories and conflicting situations. I immediately curse everything in my way as I step off the bus and continue to do so until I get the bus home. I conclude today was not the right day to be outside. Terribly anxious. I couldn't even buy a box of chocolates. Witness fleeting emotions of patheticness. I came home two hours later with nothing but cards and a pair of socks for myself.

Tonight I feel. Agitated, lonely, angry, sensual, sexual, soppy. I don't know how to react to feeling both angry and sensual. There's a regular beat being skipped. My stomach hasn't felt right for days. I do myself no favours. I do everybody no favours. Enough of the amusing self-pitying bullshit though for now.

Need someone to nurse me
Reach our for the first person I see
Comforts the helpless sole vanity
Caressing the broken heart of me

The difference between love and comfort
Is that comfort's more reliable and true
Brutal and mocking but always there
A crutch for emnity's saddest glare

I wish that someone would hold me
Wrap their arms around a shrinking somebody
Comfort comes and ease me till the morning
Whispered words of sanctuary

The difference between love and comfort
Is that comfort's more reliable and true
Brutal and mocking but always there
A crutch for emnity's saddest glare

Forgetting how I hate self-pity blonde
Comfort comes and smooths her over
Calloused hands turn a beautiful dress
Handcuffs now her pearl bracelets

Just Not true

2010-10-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

Today I had a wonderful expenditure of complete and utter humanity-loathing. I barely remember how it started. I was dandy in the morning. It was dark, there was nobody about, and I was wearing new clothes. We took a usual detour to the pub, although unsettling enough, I was really craving that drink before college had barely started. Talking, talking, talking. Desolation. More talking. She talked for half an hour straight about a tattoo. Somehow she managed to talk me into a crucially spiralling depression. My mind, as it does, wandered from her face to the empty and lonely building we had sheltered inside. Too much time to think. All is emptiness. I still hear yapping and wonder if I ever will get the chance to speak. The chance arises but I am already looking as sick as a dog. She thinks I look as though I am in "mental pain". Mental pain is subjective. The state of humanity is not. She talked again and my eyes lurked upon young men playing pool and buying drinks and doing what a young generation is supposed to do. By this time I think I lost it.

Cut to violent, passionate existential thoughts. I decided at that moment that I didn't care about anybody in the world. I only care about truth. I see no young men doing what young men are supposed to. I see A human bi-product of their mother's and fathers, a measley twenty or so years "experience" of human nature. I understand the absurdness of any of their existences. Smoke, drink, fuck, have children. Teach your children to do the same. I wade in jealousy at anyone fortunate enough to unexpectedly die young. I look at them still, without any expectation. I am not interested in a single living organism unless they invent a time machine or can teach me how to fly. All at once an overwhelming loathing. Loathing of earth, God, school, work, love, emotion. Contrastingly, a spark of sadness on what I am missing out from love. I'm sure it would feel great to love, and find contentness in only that. But to love me? I wouldn't put anybody through the trouble of that. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I look at humans like individual products from the same manufacturer. There are minor tweaks in everyone, but underneath there is the enforced conforming and they retaliate with the same fucking emotions.

I know lust. I appreciate aesthetic beauty. It only takes a small thought session to understand the naiveity in my ways and forget about them. I don't know what is vanity, pride, obsession, lust or ego. Are they not the same thing? All I understand is that I do not care. I care for no one. I am not interested in anything except my own truth. I'll say it again. An overwhelming disgust and disinterest in other human bodies. What can I do with them that hasn't been done before? And what do they want from me? I am saddening myself.

By now I am gone. I am away. People start not only to notice, but to verbally communicate to me their worrying. I can't talk anymore. I can't smile. I can look only upwards or to the left. Then again I do not care. Nothing and nobody matters to me. The thought of sitting in class crushes the very spirit of my soul. I take my seat and continue the way I have been behaving. I don't mean it, I just have less than nothing to say. By now my writing seems to be suffering. One hundred and twenty minutes. One hundred minutes of dictating what to write. I miserably note a change in my handwriting with every new emotion or lackthereof that fleets and flys. By the end of my pessimistic experiment I can barely force the pen hard enough to scratch the paper. My energy seems to have diminished and blown itself up in a cloud of smoke. I am in a daze, I have violent hunger pains, and I am forgetting the planet I was born on. I wish I could forget. But my eyes are weary and I struggle to raise my lids for long enough to hold sight of the board. A friend of mine keeps staring at me and they do not stop playing with my earrings and poking me and doing things I would completely give up just to live in my head for one moment longer.

2010-10-17T08:56:00.000-07:00

Today I feel fatigued, miserable and driven to despairing boredom. Why today, rather than any other day, I can't tell. I think something requires repairing in my upper region. A fatigue so overwhelming that my eyes don't cease to sting and stroll tears after a good twelve hours sleep. I feel hot, flushed, yet I refuse to take off my house coat. I managed to reach the top stair and stumbled backwards and almost fell down. I sincerely do not know what is going on. I only know I want to sleep and I never want to love anybody.

You're So Vain

2010-10-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

Today had me taken to Glasgow. My mum entered my room at eight o'clock to wake me up, dismissing my own ability to set an alarm for myself. Arisen, cleaned, freshened and destined. I embraced the October spine-chill with all arms bared in a brown cardigan and a pair of multiple zipped trousers. Glasgow. The bus came ten minutes late and when the driver arrived he had only space for one. Glasgow. We got the bus ten minutes later and perched at the back. I am always conscious of how loud my music sounds to the other passengers around me, but this afternoon I did not care. I crossed one leg over the other and tapped the foot up and down, and as the voice of Adam Ant proceeded to whistle, growl and yodel I turned it back down. I did care.

Around forty or forty five minutes will get you into Glasgow. I was fine where I was seated on the bus. I am always happy on a bus. We got off at stance six.

A city like Glasgow is far too daunting for my sterile eyes. I was fine and then proceeded, the further we walked, to be taunted by barbie dolls and hipsters. I don't like anything that reminds me that I am not God. And they began to sicken me a bit. Though I am the world's best hypocrite. Only this morning I was shooting my mouth off about consumerism and then proceeded to blow cash on beautiful bullshit to make me look even more asphyxiated in bullshit vanity. I watched the lady in the shop stroking her scarf, browsing the tops in the rack. I felt disgusted enough for the both of us. Everybody likes new things. Nobody ever tried so hard. I am not really interested in fashion, and this bullshit vintage facade is now boring me. I like buying new things to detatch me from the rest of humanity as much as possible. To look like anybody else in the world must surely be a sin. Nonetheless, I know "individuality is worthless." I feel sick.

The further I walked the further I decided that a city was not for me. Although boys stroll past in their hundreds, looking more and more as though they are being dressed by their mothers, many of them looked like him. None, however, looked like him. And for that, I am thankful. I can hold on to that. Shall I tell you what I bought today? In order, the futile list goes; A pair of leather leggings so tight that they squeak when I walk, a large, black bow chain necklace for lack of finding a bow tie, a pair of dramatically long, red feather earrings, and a ring master jacket I just knew I had to have.

I segregated myself from my mother and auntie for a while to try and get some shopping done on my own. I managed to buy two things before I was calling them up and pleading to be reunited again. I didn't like the drama of using the changing room or the way the girl refused to respond to me when I told her I might like to buy it. The mirror in the changing room challenged my view of the world for a day.

We trudged home at the compulsory closing time and still hadn't had the chance to look around an admirable number of shops in the city of Glasgow. At the arrival of our feet in Kincardine, the two of them detoured to the chippy and I, rather unexpectedly, rushed in with "I'mgoinghomebye." And I bloody well did.

I rooted around in a large paper bag for my beloved musical device and tuned it into my ears, waltzing through the alleyway like some kind of lost orphan with my arms folded. Cars didn't phase me. Nor did the dark. Outskirts it was. I walked the same streets I walk home on my way from college and I opened my mouth to mime every syllable my conscious could keep up with. I did not dance. I walked with slightly more effort, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, hurriedly, and pretended I was on a catwalk. The world is my catwalk. I found it immensely enjoyable for about five minutes. Staring the darkness in the face. Swinging my hips with the movement of the wind. Then I had to arrive home. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Brown grass and gray skies

2010-09-23T08:50:00.001-07:00

Non-punctuated, non-edited, non-drafted. As rough as they come.

Am I ashamed of being alive?
Socialisation spat in mounds.
Leaves me screaming, solitary, dumbfuck
Parade the mirror for countless hours.

What is the meaning of this?
Semi-important lives leave semi-important tears.
If you are crying then you are living.
Albeit in a stinking, corpse-filled hell.

A grave I dug once upon a time,
Deepened by the alcohol washing out my veins
Am I losing my mind?
Your voice like a muffle infused with absurdity

Draw a noose upon your hand,
And the tree where they waited for Godot
Dictate that they should have killed themselves,
Ah, did they ever kill themselves?

Wait for nothing to happen, nor work, nor progress,
Took a long, large look at this life
I saw brown grass and gray skies,
A countless queue of ways to end being you.

What use a man to a mute, lonely worm.
A confidence shying in a brick cupboard
Parading your sense of being on the world,
A pretentious image of myself left hazy

I make no impression on you, it is wrong
To make an impression on me
Withering doubt and infinite ugliness
Conform to my list or you are dead

Left in the centre of the main street
Not at the foot of the bridge, where I can't be seen
Skim the outskirts of this abomination,
A staring contest with the ground

A fantasy of flashing images,
Broken bathroom mirrors, horizontal scars
Smashing heads off tables,
Deep wounds across a forehead

I zoned out,
Little by little,
Cell by cell,
Sound by sound
No memory of anything.

Never, ever... ever... ever land.

2010-09-02T03:02:00.001-07:00

Last night there was a small group of around two boys and two girls, or something to that effect. We were out walking, and I scarecely remember a forest path, a nude brown carpet of leaves and a tiny sensation of mist. One of the boys had his hand in mine, for reasons I cannot find, and for a while I am bathing in the simple lull of contentment. I find that our next stop is London. A stereotypical long-gone London of cobbled streets and prominent building brick work. I see a sign. It has his name on it. It is much like a wooden fence post subtly pointing the way to this man's workshop or house or some kind of business. I am overcome with excitement and I encourage my entourage to follow me as I run in the direction of the building the sign pointed to, located around a short, sharp corner. As I enter, I feel the sensations of a modern room made almost entirely of white. There is a deep black table, about 4 inches thick if you were to think of it in terms of a bunker. It reaches to about two metres long and one metre wide, and is the first thing I see as I walk in. There is a small gathering of people standing around the tall table and as I visually browse them I catch sight of the man himself, and little electrodes of excitement begin to pulse through me. I rotate myself around the table, all the while having my eyes remain on him. As I begin to exchange angles, I see more of him. More of his black hair, drooped down the top half of his face. More of his large button nose. More of his pouted lips and finally his almond eyes. I think I can faintly hear him talking. I remember being in disbelief that he was the man detailed in the sign at all. There were subtle little doubts in my mind, such as he wasn't exactly how I imagined in real life, and he looked strange and unordinary.

I eventually turn away to browse the shop in all it's heavenly shade, but am quick to turn straight back. My group is becoming bored and restless but I insist that we must stay. I discover that he is taking part in a theatre play and before I have barely found the breath to speak we are being situated at what might have been the same black table, and are gazing upon a high, jet black stage, devised, cleverly, to look like a large TV in-built into the white walls. He proudly takes his place at an uncomfortable closeness in front of me, and chants, or sings, a short, quirky song whilst making jerky movements across the front of the stage, but not actually on it. In the heat of the madness, he grabs a man at centre stage and proceeds to give him a large, sloppy kiss, all in part of the production.

As the end of this mysterious facade ends, I find ourselves heading for the exit and back out into an alley of cobbled ground and rural surrounds. I turn back to glance at the entrance to this wondrous place I have just been in and, situated on the wall angled with the black front door, is a very large poster pinned to the bricks on the building, plastered on top of a clean white background, is a picture of this man in Adam Ant's most prominent "Prince Charming" get up. I am, once again, shocked by small electrodes of excitement for the second time.

Failing to recall if anything happened between then and now, the next part consists of myself going back into the theatre room I had just been in, and having words with the management. Again, as I enter, the man is standing around the table, just as is another man who I presume to be his manager or boss. Another lady too, a roadie or designer of some sort. They are discussing how badly the play went, and I am listening contently. I eventually feel confident enough to voice my own opinion. I look him in the eye and I describe reasons why I thought the play was particularly good. I was very descriptive, articulate, and quite proud of my efforts to change their mind. His manager once laughed at me for thinking the play was anything other than a total flop, but the man himself I could tell, was acknowledging my opinion and seemed to be bathing in a wave of flattery. I think that may have secretly been my main intention.

Moments later I am invited to take a seat this time, around the trademark shiny, black table. Actually, more like a bright white modern sofa, box-shaped, white and with neat, square black cushions dotted along the length and breadth. It was a corner sofa, and he sat around the diagonally opposite side. Again, my memory fails to provide me with enough information to detail what happened whilst we were sitting down, but I will try my hardest to be truthful. Starburst. There was a packet of Starburst sitting beside me. As I engulfed their infinite sourness, the lady next to me snacked on a simple grapefruit. One thing I do know is that me and that man bonded like a house on fire. My train of thought was simply: "It's him. It's really him and we're talking like best friends, and he's laughing at my jokes."

He did laugh. I seemed to be on a roll. He definetaly appreciated my approval of his play and in thanks he was dedicating time to talk and negotiate with me. I was thinking at twice the speed of an average person. I was planning what we could do when I got home, if I could phone him up every day, or we could arrange to meet and see shows in the theatre, or we could simply take a long, isolated walk through a misty forest.

At that moment, none other but Jon Fratelli (see previous entry) came through the door. He greeted the man in a playful, laddish manner, and I can recall interrupting with a cheeky, yet playful comment. As he was turning to leave, he turned back around and responded to my playful comment with a jibe of his own. Again, playful. While I exchanged words, he apparently decided to sit down and make a day of it. I was looking into his large, brown eyes and curly-topped head, and he looked very animated and alive, and bursting with conversation. We seemed to banter for what seemed like ages. I was most certainly in a wave of both instant excitement, and in awe of what I might take home.

Until I awoke in my bed. Awoke, meaning became conscious but kept my eyes shut tight. It wasn't long before the dread knocked me back. I daren't open my eyes, yet I had not enough faith to keep them closed and try and resurrect the dream. My jaw was swollen to the size of a small tumour which had now almost spread to my neck. I decided to do nothing but simply lay. Lay and attempt to come to terms with the fact that said man has not... has never... And won't ever have a friendship or knowledge of my presence, for long as we both shall live.

Alice In Edinburgh

2010-08-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

Our venture on 22nd August 2010 took us to Edinburgh for the day and night. It was Natasha's birthday so we bought tickets for Jon Fratelli's first solo show a few weeks before. I opened my eyes at 8:30am early Sunday morning, bathed, and then dolled up in a white vest, black pants, a leather military jacket, gold chain necklace, hooped earrings and ribbon-laced pumps. I trotted past a bus stop, bobbing happily when a sudden speck of people made me want to cower away. "No." I told myself, and I raised my head up high and I swayed my arms when I walked, and gave them all an inaudible "fuck you." At 1:22pm the bus arrived for me to catch where a lonely-looking bus driver awkwardly tried to bring out my smile.

"Sorry, the bus is full."

I quickly glanced at the emptiness and smirked. I said I only had a tenner to pay him.

"Can I keep the change, no?"

I said no and I sat down. I had an increasingly irritating urge to smile. To smile widely, broadly, and laugh and cheer and tap my feet. I bit my lip in remorse worrying that the driver might think I had the chuckles at what he had said to me. A rapid half an hour later and I was at Falkirk Grahamstone train station buying my one way ticket to Polmont. It began raining but I withstood the rain for fear of going inside the busy waiting room. The train pulled in and, sighing at the lack of noticeable room, I walked inside and pulled down a seat between two carriages.

A mere five minutes later we had arrived in Polmont and sure enough Natasha pulled in to my carriage and we reserved two seats hidden at the back of one carriage beside the luggage area, unnoticed. She was wearing a "Happy 40th" badge that seemed to gain a momentus amount of attention throughout the night, assumingly from people realising she looked quite good for her age. Our next and final destination was to be Edinburgh Waverly. I gave her a card and we laughed the whole way. On arrival, we left the train station and hit the street. Jon Fratelli was our purpose and Jon Fratelli Natasha claimed to have seen heading through the door of the Electric Circus, Edinburgh, in a black t-shirt and neatly trimmed, short, curly hair. I grimaced in jealousy for my inability to notice such things.

Now Edinburgh is a world within a world. Stunning cathedrals and historical buildings lined the horizon, spoiled only by students dressing more fashionably than they can obviously afford. There was a Fringe Festival stampede heading in every general direction. But the beauty, was another thing. And in it's whirlpool of prettiness we stalked the streets, the fashion shops we care about, and even manouevered up a tight alleyway laden with tall steps and appearing to be the dumping ground for a bag of chips and a pair of trainers, nestling a curiously-placed Chinese restaurant. We drank in Wetherspoons, where we recieved our first curious customer who felt compelled to talk about Natasha's "40th" badge. Upon request, we browsed the novelty postcards and clever flickbooks of an art shop just outside the venue. I pissed. The Golden Mile was swarming but looked moderately uninteresting. A stage was set up for two musical comedians who hadn't even been blessed with microphones. Further up, another stage had been erected and held a fat girl and her army dancing to some unrecognisable tune. I didn't see anybody dressed up, but I did notice my inability to manage to move in a straight line.

We headed backward and straight down our alley again. It was barely 7:00pm before our impatience drove us to casually wait outside the venue. I looked at my ticket, put it back, looked at it again, found my passport, and waited again. We heard soundcheck taking place whilst we browsed the posters on the shutters until finally another couple asked if we were here to see Jon Fratelli. and indeed we were. Giving in to the pain, we cleared a spot to sit on the floor and made no secret about laughing at the group of boys who could barely pass for 10 who had queued behind us. Luckily our laughter was not prescribed only to ourselves and, as we were accompanying a couple of 15 year olds into the building, they joined us in our mutual distrust towards them. The venue doors opened. Not before an irritatingly quiet-spoken security guard had degraded us by asking for our ID to a 14+ show. We were stamped with "Sailor Jerrys" stamps on our left hands and entered into the building, passing on the one quid deposit if leaving our bags in the cloak room.

The room itself was a shock of purple and pink, and disappointingly much smaller than the pictures on the internet. A rectangle-based room with a bar bigger than the stage itself. I was stunned by the lack of any barrier cordoning off the stage from the audience. Merely 2 security guards, one placed at each tiny set of stairs leading to the stage. Behind all this nonsense was a railing with 2 proportionally placed sofas crowded 'round a small table. At the other side, a small gathering of tables and chairs that could have easily been confused for a 60s diner. Still, we managed to secure our places at the left side of the stage and up the front, although gravitated more and more towards the wall as the crowd crept in. And a crowd much larger than we had imagined.

It was a desperate wait before any kind of music was played and eventually, at half past 8, Hip Parade, a Glaswegian four-piece stumbled onstage, brushing past me at the stairs I had been thrown beside. Standing diagonally opposite the speaker was a deafening experience the moment the first guitar chord had been struck, and remained so until my ears had adjusted after song one. Most people stood and stared, a few shimmied, and I simply stood, smiled and observed. Music is so pleasant to watch. Their definition of music, well... Nothing short of bollock-raping Indie-schmindie cockless music. I enjoy any sound live. I enjoyed their sound. Their lyrics could have been written by a hormonally-raged 13 year old boy. I must say the sound in the venue was shocking. Now that they were out of the way, Natasha topped up her drink and I waited for her to return whilst trying to subtly hint to the lady beside that I had a space I was keeping, and for her not to make sign language at me.

About a half an hour later the music died down and a stage door, one I had the luxury of seeing right through, swung open, entering first Jon's guitarist, drummer and keyboardist, and then he himself. Appearing quite different from telly, his hair was as prominent as a newly vanished wig. It was short, dark and curly, and his face looked remarkably different for the first five minutes or so. Playing full pelt, he struck the guitar without saying a word. This continued for the first 4 or 5 songs before the goodies were plucked from the bag. Baby Fratelli was a noticeable favourite. When the bass died down, the people jumped up. Jon lost himself in favourably long transitions between songs, screwing his face up and exchanging glances with his drummer before jamming the last note. He looked like he was in a musical haven. A feeling I feel likely to witness when I am in a band. I took the chance to whip out my camera and record an unknown song. Unknown for I would waste no time recording when I could be singing.

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=453366272517&ref=mf

The group of young boys seemed more phased by Jon's appearance than any of the women, screaming that he was a "Fucking sexy bastard" and recieving a wink in exchange. Another male member of the audience stuck out his hand for Jon to reach.

After a sweat-induced hour and a half Jon made a pass at how he's not as fit as he used to be, and left the stage back-right. The set list had been placed mere centimetres in front of me, and I knew that he hadn't played every song yet. Upon the chanting of "Jon" repeatedly, he tediously walked up the stairs and raised his hand high to wave himself back on. One more song and of all the choices, Chelsea Dagger made it through. I make no mistake in saying I stunk. Only a fool thinks it wasn't worth it. The song passed quicker than I had liked it to, but it was the most driven of the entire night. You couldn't let him leave without playing it. It was a cardinal sin. Between every song Natasha and I poked at our ears in unison at the sudden surprise of not being able to hear a fucking thing. And to this day, 24 hours later, my hearing remains just as fucked. Curiously fucked.

The gig had to end sooner or later. I picked up my bag that I had skillfully thrown under a part of the stage, and I threw on my leather jacket. We wandered into the newly night sky but hadn't ventured far before realising we didn't want to leave the venue at all. I attempted to buy a drink. It was closed. We sat in a corner at a table with our heads in our hands and a curious aroma of sweat. It wasn't long before we left at the awkward sighting of a man hurrying people out of the venue and soon expecting it to be our turn.

We didn't go home. It was about 10pm and we slumped against the venue walls at my refusal to leave the street at all. We slumped for ages. Forever. Venue workers repeatedly entered and left the building in front of us. We didn't have a purpose except the right to tilt our heads back and observe Edinburgh in its dark, desolate view. What seemed like a while later, we were approached by a neat-looking man who had just left the venue doors. He walked towards us and stood with his back against the wall right next to me. He had the most curious stare, and he then said that we were looking at him as if expecting him to say something. I let loose a nervous laugh, but remained silently observing his neatly trimmed hair, fine features and sharp face. He turned to us and he asked us questions. Did we enjoy the gig? Were we massive Jon fans? Was he a tit man? He asked if we were waiting on Jon and I said we just didn't want to go home, if truth be told.

His impulsive stare was beginning to unnerve me. He rolled some weed in front of us and then asked us if we would like to get wasted. I made no remark. He remarked on Natasha's 40th birthday badge and he shook her hand and kissed her cheek. I am sure he offered me some of what he was smoking and so I politely said "No, thank you." Apparently I was wrong. I asked if he knew Jon, and he stated that they were mutual friends. Again, he grinned curiously at nothing and remained propped against the wall with one foot up. He left shortly after and went back inside the venue.

At the feet of our pain, we sat down and slumped against the wall in the very same way, closer to a dark blue mini bus that had parked directly in front of us. The venue staff were still at it, emptying bottles, sweeping the streets, smoking concoctions of stuff. Me and Natasha stood out like a sore thumb while all the men went about their business. Our next visitor appeared in the form of Jon's drummer. The blue minibus was being packed with amps and all the shit that the roadies could find. A man easily mistaken for Jesus and sporting a purple t-shirt and baggy cargo pants was loading the instruments. He opened the door of the minibus, got inside and closed it. Upon the door's next opening, I was hit with a huge whiff of dope. We had nothing to do and so we phoned people that we shouldn't, said stupid things and remininsced.

Jon's drummer had come out and was puffing on a cigarette, chatting to a lady. Natasha felt that he looked curiously like Ray Davies, and I had been thinking the same thing earlier on that night. As he was about to stumble into the bus we were acknowledged with a few words.

"Enjoy the gig ladies?"

"Very good." I remarked, half straight-faced, half one-sided smile.

"Brilliant."

In truth I felt like a prostitute slumped on a street having been rejected or mugged. It felt fantastic. At the very height of the night, just as the minibus looked set to leave, out came Jon casually strolling from the door of the building to the door of the bus. In all of a few seconds, he refused to acknowledge our presence slumped on the wall at his feet and sat by a window seat in the vehicle. I wasn't scared to look and so I tilted my head, trying to get a better view of the bus. He looked up then down, then laughed then turned to talk to somebody in the bus. And in the fleeting moment just as the bus door was about to be shut, he turned to me and caught my eye for just a second before the vehicle was locked. The minibus sped away in sing song and roudiness and it was then we understood that it was time to leave Edinburgh.

2010-08-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

I have been awake for 18 hours come 12 o'clock. No particular reason. I am in a fucking pesky, sad mood that won't appear to leave me alone until I crack. There's this fantasy I keep having. It comes back all the time. I've dreamt about it. I've imagined it. I've thought I knew where to find it. I'm going to describe this recurring fantasy to you the best that I can.

A building, a block of flats in somewhere in London. Whereabouts in particular is irrelevant, but near a river and in a historic area. The buildings aren't modern, they're ancient, but they're keeping well. I live with a young man, London born and bred. Slick black, gelled hair and razor sharp cheekbones. An articulate fellow, a budding artist, poet, writer, and speaker. He is passionate about the finer things in life. The things that everyday people leave behind. But we live together. We share the flat. The surrounding neighbourhood is quaint and decorated in cobbled streets. There are shops that look like they belong in the Victorian era. Like black wood furnished libraries and book stores. The kind that sell ancient books from a bygone age with a friendly yet mysterious grey-bearded book keeper. This man whom I live with also dresses in Victorian attire. Not forgetting that it is most certainly the 21st century we still live in. And we share a combined obsession with the Victorians, Georgians, Pirates, Sailors, you name it. The street lamps are run on oil. There are enough alleyways to produce an entire labyrinth.

Still, a fantasy is what it is and a fantasy is what it shall remain.

Ballad of Black Top

2010-08-18T07:15:00.000-07:00

Ribbon entwined dreams
All your own and all of mine
Day dream about a city
Where moon doth glow and sun doth shine.

A black topped recluse, lips supportive of his weight
Studies merrily a lady, lonesome at an iron gate
Nimble chatter it does strike, a chemistry so rare
Conversing about London, tales of drama and despair

Black top swears he'd die
Had fair lady try move away
A luxury of letters
Leads two hopeless minds astray

Black top does shy so sweetly
At fair lady standing near
A euphoria of two minds
A fantasy locking into gear.
Fair lady writes a letter
To be sent through local post
Words to stimulate your dreams
Envision echoes of a ghost.

A partnership fate did form
For, my God, if it did not,
Who'd be so lost in translation
Loveless worries, all forgot

Black top swears he'd die
Had fair lady try move away
A luxury of letters
Led two hopeless minds astray

And fair lady swears she'll die
Whilst gray is broadening her green
She will free fall from the hive
For nothing is just what it seems.

Linlithgow Palace

2010-08-12T10:21:00.001-07:00

Is where today took me. It looked impressive, huge, historical. There was also a wedding going on which kind of dissolved the derelict atmosphere. I went with both my sisters, although there seemed to be a rush so I snapped the best pictures I could which you should see have updated to the right. I arrived at the archway entrance and walked through the courtyard to witness ladies and men dressed in full Victorian regalia. It was humble, and the clothes looked just as beautiful as I imagined. Not tacky, fancy dress crap. They looked convincing. a girl was sitting on a stool in front of the admission desk just staring at me. She looked bored and restless. Even the admission room was intriguing. That is a room where I could spend my days, leaning on my own stool, watching nothing in particular happen from the cloudy, panelled window. I'd like a relaxing job like that. Well, for me in particular it would be relaxing. Spending all day in a museum or library or castle. It would create a huge sense of fulfillment. Fill a huge void.

Linlithgow was beautiful in itself. Small, cosy cafes nestled side by side. Neat, cobbled pavements swirling around a central statue piece. There was a free museum on the other side of the road but my sister had neither the time nor the patience to venture inside.

I rented a film last night called Love Bites featuring Adam Ant. I usually disengage myself from any kind of culture as I am very sensitive to the after effects. I am otherworldly enough without losing myself in another world completely for 2 hours. He was alluring, beautiful, charming, dark and handsome. The script, however- was abysmal. So bad you may even cancel it out as bad acting. He is okay at acting, but the terrible movie really did nothing for him. It was a bit like a comedy Twilight. But I would much rather watch it than Twilight. On the plus side, it did make me laugh alot. Although the laughing could have been mistaken for giddiness.

I also watched Disco Pigs the night before. Finally, a movie thats leaves you with at least one ounce of fleeting emotion afterwards. The characters were alluring, as was the plot. I find psychotic characters the easiest to relate to. The ending will break your heart- man, woman or child. So if you haven't seen it, get a move on old chap.

I came home today to find an extra large bag of minature plums sitting on the kitchen bunker. Apparently they were plucked from next door's garden. This I find a huge convenience for me. He grows lettuce, cucumber, plums, and tomatoes. I have seen him however, and he is most commonly seen either shouting at a neighbour across the street, trimming his garden hedge (Again?) or mowing the lawn. I ma have to get on his good side and politely trade some of his stock. Bye bye.

2010-08-10T09:26:00.000-07:00

My life is odd. I woke up having dreamt about planes crashing, clones, some kind of celebration or festival. Beautiful scenery, communion, family.

"To dream that a plane crashes, signifies that you have set overly high and unrealistic goals for yourself. You are in danger of having those goals come crashing down. Alternatively, the crashing airplane represents your lack of confidence, self-defeating attitude and self-doubt. You do not believe in your own ability to achieve those goals."

Beautifully worded and freakishly true. I also dreamt about somebody I feel like I should know but whom I don't really know. I didn't remember until I was in the car being driven home. An odd infatuation swept over me. I dreamt that he had been married for 18 years and was well and truly taken. He had jet black, charmingly swept back hair and a dark combination of clothing. He was beautiful. He still is. If soul mates exist, he must have been made for me. He insists to live privately in what seems to be the other end of the world. I could tell him my secrets. I wish he would go away.

I went to the dentist today and was given the option of having root canal treatment or having my back tooth removed. I wish I had looked after myself better back when the problems arised. Look what I have done and what this has come to. I couldn't bring myself.

I am living through the day in a dream like state. I have spent today trying to figure what is real and what is not. Who is really here and who isn't. I would really like to live in big, bold and beautiful London. Scotland is far too small for the likes of me. I'd love to meet the people I'd never have the chance to. Nigerian farmers, Chinese inventors, Jamaicans, transvestites, people who are lost, people who were found. I am sick of the British and their way of life. I am adaptable enough for an entire change of scenery. I want to brick up my bedroom and pretend I'm in a Victorian book shop. I want dark wood treasure chests, gold-crested boxes, red velvet curtains, black wood lining around my windows, pebbled streets, men in suits, top hats, ladies with umbrellas. I want to wear a gown twice the length of me and let it trail along behind every footstep. Then sit by the river eating a picnic while talking to the animals. I want every day to unfold a new world, a new character, a new setback and a new beginning. New choices.

Everyone I ever became infatuated with always seem to morph into one. One person always reminds me of the last. I hope somebody pulls me out soon enough. Fulfill that fantasy of mine.

Speaking of transvestites:

2010-07-29T02:37:00.000-07:00

It was then, on the morning of 29th July 2010, that I realised I wanted to be bigger than The Beatles. To be bigger than Michael Jackson, Bowie, and Jesus himself. I awoke at five with fatigue-stained tears in my eyes. Sunlight was pouring in my window from a large crack in the curtain. It was a beautiful sky. The same sky in the same area used to look up at as a child. The internet can be a burden for your dreams. My idols, through all my dedication and hours of listening, remain as silent as a blank canvas to me. If only they understood my interest in everything they do. Perhaps then, not now. The bands I listen to, I see as dust in the wind. Dust on the shelves, in the corners of the roof, under the bed. Will they matter in twenty years time and, infact, do they matter now at all? What kind of pleasure would the most crazed and famous Beatles fan feel unless they are on the same par as their heroes. What? I don't see anything.

If I had one wish it would be to play God for a day. To be more well known than the speculation, the disease, the figure, the illness himself and all his rumour. All these people you waste your life fantasising about and worshipping. Your musical Gods and Godesses. What remains unseen to my eyes is how little you play a role in any of their lives. You might aswell be the homeless person who politely begs as they scurry past. The shop assistant bagging their groceries, the rat exterminated from their drainpipe. I don't blame this on them, it is a brutal necessity of life. They know they have fans but they do not know their fans. Realistically, who could come to personally meet and greet every one of you? Just like we, as individual specimen, have fans. Our friends are, for the most part, fans of what we do. The shit music we try and recreate by our heroes in our ugly bedrooms, the obsessive picture-sticking on it's walls, our self-confessed love for the way they walk, talk and think. We probably think about them more than their own wives. Our whole empathic existance lived primarily through the screen of TV and the speakers of stereo.

But what will they matter in twenty years time? What will you matter? Try and emulate your heroes and then die disappointed. Perhaps, for the most part, your heroes have no idea of the effect they have on your entire conscious. I know that by living this way my entire teenage life, I wake up most mornings a very lonely young woman. Traded socialising for music listening. What did they ever give back to me? The only people who reside on their walls are their own heroes. And who else but heroes of them. So many lyricists that had so much to say lay undiscovered only because they hadn't the fans to give a shit. And because of what, their beauty, wealth, nationality? Lyrics are entirely subjective. Entirely personal. By this mentality, the things John Lennon and Paul McCartney said are just as important as the lyrics some 13 year old kid scribbles into his notebook during Science lessons. Minus generating the musical inspiration of an entire nation, of course. Lyrics alone, are nothing, and can be said by a nobody.

Drinking coffee, making music, withering in pretension. Teasing and flattering. If only I were convinced that they did the best they could. Fame is the worst thing to happen, not only to an actor, but to every person disguised in spotlight. You think you understand, no, you believe you understand their anguish, woe and lyrical mentality. You presume to know. You then realise that you'll never know if you got it right. They discard it. The letter you wrote, the email you sent, the three hours you dedicated to getting every line exceedingly perfect. Hell, even that time you queued to see them in the pouring rain only to be greeted with a subtle "hello" and to remain unlooked upon in the face.

It is only through this isolation that I crave fame at all. The mentality, the adoration. Not only in my lifetime, but in the lifetime of my own musical heroes, be they still alive when I get there. Then my time will arise to be listened to intently through their headphones and straight to the eardrum of their conscience. To be on their walls, in their heads, unable to get out. This I find suitable repayment. Repayment for being such a disappointment to finally meet.

"It is the garment of my misery. The whole world ... is the garment of my misery."

Pointless Time-Consumer

2010-07-17T15:52:00.000-07:00

To know me better, is what I strive to do.

1. First thing you wash in the shower?
My forearms

2. What colour is your favorite hoodie?
I hate hoodies. Don't own one.

3. Do you like coffee?
Nope, which is unfortunate because I need it most days.

5. How are you feeling RIGHT now?
Blank, yet unusually optimistic.

6. What’s the last letter of your crush’s name?
Non applicable

7. Do you say aim or a-i-m?
Neither pops into any conversation of mine.

8. Tell me about the last dream you remember having.?
I, unfortunately, don't remember the exact last one.

9. Could you eat your favourite food everyday for a month and not get sick of it?
Most probably. I would never tire of peanut butter.

10. What are you craving?
Nothing. I just ate some 70% black chocolate and it has killed all cravings.

12. What comes to mind when I say cabbage?
Water

16. Have you ever counted to 1,000?
Not for entertainment's purposes, no.

17. Do you bite into your ice cream or just lick it?
Both

18. Do you use smileys?
It depends who I'm talking to and whether I'm being serious or not.

19. How many bedrooms are in your house?
Four

20. Have you ever met a celebrity?
Derren Brown

21. Do you like cottage cheese?
I know I would like it, which is why I want some.

22. What’s the last song you had stuck in your head?
Virginia Plain by Roxy Music

23. How many countries have you visited?
Thailand, Australia, England, Spain, America, China, Portugal, I think this is all.

24. Are your parents strict?
I don't think so.

25. Would you go sky diving?
No I wouldn't.

26. Would you go out to eat with George W. Bush?
Yes

28. Is there anything sparkly in the room you’re in?
Probably some of my sister's stuff.

30. Do you rent movies?
No. I am not very cultured.

31. Who sits in front of you in your math class?
Non applicable

35. Where are you going to be Saturday night?
I'd like to be visiting my friend.

36. Brown or white eggs?
Neither

37. Like rap music?
No I don't.

38. Ever taken a train?
Last one I got was from Stenhousemuir to Glasgow

39. Experienced the twin towers falling in New York?
No.

41. What day of the week is it?
Saturday. How depressing.

40. What was your Lunch?
Skipped lunch.

43. What is your best friend (wife) doing tomorrow?
I have neither a best friend nor a wife.

46. Have you ever seen The Butterfly Effect?
I think so.

47. So, how about them Yankees?
Pardon

51. Is your hair curly?
No, just thick.

52. Last time you cried?
2 nights ago watching The Best Little Girl In The World.

53. Ever walked into a wall?
I don't recall ever doing so.

55. Have you ever bought anything from PacSun?
No.

56. Favorite season?
Summer

61. The next person you’ll hold hands with?
Only God knows.

62. Do you sleep with the TV on?
I don't watch TV.

63. Have you ever drank alcohol straight from the bottle?
Yes

64. Do you think you’re old?
I feel old many times.

65. Are you afraid of the dark?
No.

66. Do you like your life right now?
I plan to enjoy my life in approximately a week.

68. Do you knock on wood?
No.

69. Do you have good vision?
Good enough.

70. Can you hula hoop?
Yes, and occasionally use it as a means of excercise.

71. Where are your parents?
Watching a film downstairs.

72. Have you ever kissed in an elevator?
No.

73. What is the next CD you will buy?
Most probably Delays new album. I am skint.

74. What brands are you wearing?
I don't know any pajama brands.

76. Have you ever crawled through a window?
I don't think so.

77. Can you handle the truth?
Too ambiguous a question for me.

78. What was the most recent thing you bought?
Chewing gum and diet coke.

79. How often do you talk on the phone?
Every 3 days or so on average.

80. Are you in a complicated relationship?
A complicated enough relationship with myself. Once we're cool with eachother I can move on to another.

81. Do you hate more than 3 people?
Probably. I hate little these days.

82. Have you ever tripped someone?
Yes.

86. Do you use chap stick?
No.

87. Are you too forgiving?
No, I am too grudge-bearing.

88. Do you own something from Hot Topic?
No.

89. Do you own a gun?
No. Please never let me have a gun.

90. Have you made a prank phone call?
Yes.

91. Have you ever been in a castle?
Edinburgh, Stirling, Doune, to name a few.

92. Do you like your hair?
I do right now until it grows longer and than I dispise it.

93. Do you like yourself?
It varies.

94. Are you closer to your mother or father?
I don't find the word "close" to be applicable to anyone.

95. Do you chat on AIM often?
No.

F.T.W

2010-07-08T16:15:00.001-07:00

All at once any sort of demon seemed to dissolve away. I was at a party. A party! I sung and danced! I came home the next day and the black dog hit me like a block of ice, smack bang in the head. I couldn't function, or move, or keep my eyes dry for half a minute. I slept all day and weeped all morning. I decided to either run away or throw myself off the bridge. I contained myself for the day and instead slept the misery away. I never in my life want to return to a place like that for as long as I live. A place plagued by visions of every member of this generation rotting in coffins 100 years on. An astonishing new height of despair. A pure and absolute dead end. I tried to live as any person might live. I am doing impeccably well, I should say. I spat in the face of the anxiety and shot holes in the misery. Tonight I deal with a new issue and that is anger. An anger suppressant, I find, seems to be writing. Writing anything. I have given my all and recieved very little. At least nothing worth being satisfied with. Set me free, why don't you? Get out my life, why don't you?

I hadn't realised how sour I had been until I recieved the message that I seemed happy. My dad became sentimental when he spoke of me being younger. I suppose I was happy enough to involuntarily induce memories of my childhood. I felt that he was happy. All those months when he used to phone and I had all but nothing to say, and he probably hung up the phone feeling unwanted and low. As did I, when he laughed and mocked the fact that I did nothing all day long. I have picked up a peculiar sense of humour. I rarely know when I am about to say something funny before a slip of the tongue reveals all. Yet I amuse myself more than my family. But I am happy with that. My amusement induces others amusement. What can I say anymore. I will myself to go out, if even just to spit it in somebody's face. Doing something so simple should never be so thought out. I have tried to be pure, simple and quirky. You know what? I'd rather be an angry hermit than to be so common. I have a pretentious likeability that is too rare to abandon. Fuck, it has taken me years to gather the evidence of why I should appreciate myself so much. Why I should love to sit and mope and write and curse and fuck everything up. I didn't want the company until it was handed to me on a silver tray. I took a chance on life and enjoyed what came, but 'till then the struggle isn't worth the guilt. I have a disgusting intellectual pretence going on and I can't help but make it my world. Nobody in the right mind would understand a sentence of what I write. I used to love that, but is it really worth the point? What would happen if you feel too mentally segregated to possibly have a healthy relationship? My mind controls my body, but is so full of shit that it rarely finds time to make it move.

I am not scared of your world. I am too comfortable in mine. I am all set and prepared for a journey with endless supplies of gum, diet coke and vitamin suppliments. Here's to wasting, I say.

Something New

2010-06-25T19:33:00.001-07:00

I have, really, just the oddest degree of depression right now. It's not even a depression, I just can't stop thinking of death. Not suicide, but coming to terms with death. For the past 3 days or so all I can think about is when people might die. Why they might die, and how their life will mean nothing to humanity. My mum, my dad, me. All my dreams have just disbanded. I'm not even sad. I used to want to be in a band and become famous and take over the world. I used to want to be loved and adored. Now I understand the little importance of any of this. I don't get butterflies when I think of crowds cheering my name. All I think about now is how worthless all of this is. How worthless this dream is. Everybody dies, I could be Elvis Presley or I could be a beggar on the street. Either way, when I'm gone, I'm gone. This is a horrible new level of melancholy. A level I've never before experienced. I don't want a lover, I find no worth in friends. I feel no close bond with my mum, with my dad, with my siblings. My dad phoned me tonight and for the first time in my life I realised I knew nothing but wanted to know everything about this man. I miss him. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I don't know how to function a relationship with anybody. I love my dad and the only chance I had of going over to New Zealand to see him, I chose to reject because I was deeply depressed and couldn't bear it. My parents are nearly 50. What if, when they die, I still don't have a close bond with them? How do I know when they will die and I will be left alone? And will I live my life in despair wishing I was able to feel connected to people?

I have never felt such despair about this world and humanity in my entire life. I have never cared so little about everyone and everything and this so-called "gift". I have never so much wanted to end the existance of everything, ever. All my life I've had niggling doubts that "I don't know what real depression feels like." and "You have no idea, you've had it easy."

Sometimes I try to come up with all the mental illnesses I think I have had in my life. I've never been to a doctor. I broke down in front of my mum and she suggested I see a psychologist and I said I didn't want to. I'm sick of keeping secrets, I have tons of them. I am willing to defend the notion that I am depressed by concluding that I simply do not care for a single entity or aspect of this world.

Decay

2010-06-12T16:48:00.000-07:00

Today I was asked to go out and see my sister's fiance's band with her. Deliberately I said yes straight away and decided I would contemplate it further when she had went away. I knew she would hound me and ask me why not if I had said no. When she had gone I looked into the mirror and I witnessed my disgusting tan and my newfound spots on my face, and I thought hell no. I am unclean, and in need of a hair cut, and peeling and unnattractive. I behaved like a chicken would and said no, I would not like to go over the internet. I ran myself a bath and I lathered in it for what felt like hours, and my mother asked me why I was not going. My twenty six year old sister had just went and told of her frustration to my mum first, in baby-like fashion. I was sick and tired and did not want to explain the real reason why and so I said, in monotone voice, "I don't feel like it."

She muttered something I did not hear, although I am sure there was a curse word and an insult both in the quote. I turned on the bath tap just to hear something other than awkward silence, despite the bath being hot already. I contemplated whether I would ever feel fit enough to tell people why I couldn't go and attend something on a designated day. I have to wake up happy, look appropriate enough, and most importantly, look like myself. Individuality is a prime constant for me, although it is completely and utterly worthless, and I know this first hand. If somebody tried to dress me up in clothes that I did not like and would not wear then I would rather go outside naked, for at least it is truly me, whether I like it or not. To wear what they wear and do what they do, I would rather be dead than follow robotic routine. At least that which I can help.

I was contemplating whilst I was bathing. I came to decide that young people can be so absurd in the way they view things. Young people, and teenagers, they think that they can second guess and always be right about their peers and what is going on inside their heads. The truth is that they are driven by lust and rage and jealousy, the kinds of emotions which most adults learn to handle as they get older. They think they can understand and see when somebody is being fake or insincere, somebody of their own age. How egotistical it is to believe they have the power to do that. The most honest thoughts in the world most probably come from inside the head of a teenager. Their mind is trapped on a plane between being children and being adults, and how much more of a confusing place can someone be in. The teenage mind is truth. It has absorbed what it not true in childhood and is beginning to learn how corrupt the adult world is too, and this is built on honesty by observing adults and having every right not to want to be like them. For adults, I could understand why most see their teenage years as one long, confused warp of angst and despair. The moment we grow out of being children is the time we are most susceptible to seeing the world for what it really is. When you turn into an adult, you are presented with the choice of either obliging with the poverty of ideas and getting on with life with your lips sealed, or bringing the teenage truth into light and trying to do something about it. By then, the people who know what is wrong and corrupt about the world, but whom choose to ignore it and find happiness no matter how little there is, are set in their decision and are not interested in the views of others.

The world is set in stone now, and that stone is merely shit disguised as stone. I would much rather learn to live like a caveman than try to settle myself in this adult world. To live alone and isolated like Thoreau and have my own plot of land and merely my own company. Isolation much further down the line cannot be too much worse than this. Not too much. In a short time I will scramble though papers and internet and I will look for a job I will be sorely dissatisfied with the moment I walk though the building door. I will pay no attention to what I want, for there is nobody with the skill to cater for me personally. I will hate every moment in my waking life from Monday to Friday and only on weekends will I truly experience splendour with what little money I have. After then it is back to the beginning. To be a musician, or an artist or film director, is not really an occupation worth pursuing. Neither are worthwhile nor benefitial to mankind in any huge way like being a doctor or a paramedic does. Music and art can be graceful for the soul, like a form of therapy a psychiatrist might perform. Unless what you choose to write about and perform merely steeps one's depression. Then again, the happy vibes released from an uplifting song can only last so long and only go so far. The only way is to hack at the root of the problem rather than at the branches. The root is long and winding and it begins in a place called humanity. The cold and the selfish breed more cold and selfish, and the loop is never ending. People believe they are really interested in getting drunk and getting high when, really, they are only interested in escaping reality for as long as they possibly can. Never have I been in more despairing company than with someone who is only aware of happiness when they are drunk.

I want to meet the man who first came to the decision of money. Who thought that we, as humans, must gain some of this stuff to manouver our ways through life and, quite simply, to survive. On planet earth there are tons of stockpiles of food, shelter, water, clothing and whatnot, and whoever decided that man must become a slave and work to earn his share of what he needs to remain alive. Everywhere you turn your head, all you will see is man-made, unnatural surroundings. There is nobody more desperate in life than a man who's sole purpose is to make money. Discover what sells and stick it on everything. On towels, purses, bags, hats, clothes. For you understand we will all flock like sheep at a feeding pen, spending out hard-earned money on petty media-centered objects and then regretting it the next day. At work we must do whatever our manager or boss says, otherwise our job is lost and our pay is lost and we have no means of survival. I believe that humans truly believe that if they were to lose their job, things would be so bad and so disgraceful and they would have so little money and supplies that planet earth and it's people would simply leave them to suffer and die. This is not true, for there are individuals who work in need of others, and who set up charities and shelters for people with little to no money. Still though, people will stay on with a job they despise like rats in a cage, and they become more and more bitter and more and more bottled up that the only way they can release it is if it were to be at home, away from their boss's eyes. A wrath released on children, wives, husbands, pets, neighbours and the like, and one so unforgiveable and so undignified that they may then lose all contact with those closest to them.

Either way, we unwillingly but actively choose to be slaves. Slaved trapped in relationships, trapped in families, in the workplace, in the shopping centres, in our own homes, and most important, trapped in the capitalism of human nature. A world where decisions are based on the object of money, artificialities and goods, and not on the individual needs of earth's most advanced and intelligent species. Our advancements have turned around to spit in our faces, yet still we keep advancing.

What gives man any right to exploit another fellow man. But by the most horrendous standards, what gives man any right to kill another man? A murderer or serial killer is driven by his own personal reasons to want to kill, but the man who straps that man to an electric chair or who wraps the noose around his head is in his own mind and should therefore be able to understand that he is in the wrong too. The man who destroys the other man on death row, what then happens to his newfound status of murderer? If the saying "A life for a life" were true, then there would be a chain of lives taken with no means of stopping.

A man who murders is never in the right mind to begin with. Almost every bad decision ever made in history was made because one thought his mind ought to tell him to do so. Schizophrenia, depression, personality disorders, bipolar, are all diseases of the mind. What lesson is a murderer taught if he is then executed by the same means of which he was not allowed or supposed to carry out? What kind of a mark does that leave on us? A sufficient punishment would be to isolate these people from society and, instead of entirely giving up hope on their situation and of that person's place in the human race, to try our best to aid that person with the help of psychologists, professionals and highly skilled doctors. One factor of humanity is that humans will never let go of something they fathom without witnessing appropriate punishment and revenge. The family of the victim of the murderer then becomes the murderer themselves as they see no way how this could have possibly happened to their dearly beloved wives and husbands and children and relatives, and so only see fit to do what was done to them. I am not for a moment suggesting that murderers are at all justified to murder because many are suffering with unbearable mental illnesses, but instead trying to focus on what makes humanity turn hypocritical and to an equal degree, think much like that murderer has thought by wanting to take somebody's life without sufficient reason other than because they might be likely to kill again. Let them remain alive and isolated in a pale white room, and let them attempt to live with what they have done, for that is much more sufficient punishment than cutting off their conscience altogether.

Post-Holiday

2010-06-11T17:29:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to sleep last night because I knew that if I was still back here when I woke up, then it wasn't worth it. Coming back from a holiday to an isolated village in Scotland is destroying to say the least. No job, companionship, nor will to live life as it is to be lived. Just simply looking at the people in this house makes me sink. I did wake up, I do not recall the time. It must have been early because I have been up at around 10am for the last two weeks. I stared at my bedroom door, motionless, and I blinked over and over. I was still in Scotland. I re-positioned myself and I closed my eyes again. For a short few hours I slept until they opened again to The Beatles "I Wanna Hold Your Hand". Conveniently, the song that had been sung on karaoke a few times and just the reminder I needed to tell me I was no longer living the freedom of being out of Britain. I still lay there and stared at the walls in all their isolating glory. I did not want to move a muscle, nor say a word if I were to be back in my own bedroom again. This phase lasted for about an hour.

Eventually I raised myself up out of bed, but was not redeemed enough to go downstairs. Already, within 2 minutes of waking, I had less than absolutely nothing to occupy myself with. A hopelessness I hope never to run into again. A hopelessness worth remembering as to avoid it in the future. What I did instead was what I have done all my life. I sat cross-legged on my bed that I had just gotten out of, and I opened up my laptop and I checked my emails for people who did not want to know and did not care. Blank, expressionless and mundane. All I could think about was why I was not still on holiday.

But alas, I am almost completely regenerated into my old routine. My routine of compulsive email checking, forum browsing, alienation, and then writing about it all. That is all I do. I have just had a taste test on how to meet people. It was the best test I have ever taken part in, and now everyone is cordoned off with a large warning sign. It reads "May result in embarrassing situation".

Tomorrow I might try and gather all my songs together in one place and see just exactly how many I have written. What needs to be edited and what doesn't. Presumably nothing. I prefer to leave it as it was written- it was a whole truth then and it is a whole truth now.

Holiday Journal.

2010-06-10T11:55:00.000-07:00

Day 1. I'd like to say that it got off to a good start. The truth is I
am sick of every person in these apartments already. My stepdad, whom
I already hate with wrathful passion, has only spoken of cigarettes
since we arrived. He has, infact, decided to use a food bowl to
dispose of ash because he couldn't find one. Right at this moment my
mum used the word fag in the same sentence twice. I am sick to the
stomach of the two of them puffing in my and my seven year old
sister's faces all day. I can not come to terms with how sick the two
of them are making me feel right at this moment. I said to my mother;
I haven't stopped eating on this plane. I then inquired about whether
the pool would be deep enough to swim in. I don't remember her exact
words although I think she said "That'll tone some podge."

I have never hated as much as I do right now. I am so close to tears
and we have been here for an hour. I am muttering that I want him dead
under my breath and he is walking past me obliviously not knowing
anything like a stupid dumb, child-poisoning fuck.

I'm off to attempt to shed some light on the situation.

My mum just took out a packet of cocktail sausages from the fridge and
two plates. I asked who they were for and she didn't reply. I then
said don't make me any and she replied "You weren't getting any."

It's only twenty-five past nine and I am lying in bed. I managed sleep
for an hour on the bed whilst everyone else bathed under clouds on the
balcony. I was carelessly tired when I awoke.

The waiter left us 3 shots of peach schnapps at the restaurant we went to and I drank two. I bought a medley of them on the way home although they tasted of vodka twice
as much. I like the almond one, it tastes much like a liquified
bakewell tart.

Day 2. Awoke feeling angry. Walked feeling calmer. Arrived home
feeling sore, and more angry. Supermarket sweep. Look for cheap as
chips labels to please mum. The supermarkets do the
biggest selection of pastries I have ever seen. They shove everything
in them, from chocolate to fruit to cream to you name it. I don't seem to be sweltering in the heat today, though I am
cold 70% of the day on most days.

Mum is cleaning, Shannon is writing. Just about to switch on Manics by
the hotel pool. This is the only bliss I await.

It's 5:12 in the evening and I'm sitting alone with a box of cherries
at hand. My mum is asleep and everyone else is still at the pool. Have
been walking for what seems like forever. Hotel rep seemed happy to pick on us around the pool. He stared me out
from the pool and whilst soaking the kids muttered "You're next!"

Instead he brainwashed my sister into soaking my stepdad whilst the
other guests laughed in that way that they do. He grinned whilst
carrying the watering can up to my bed where I grinned in retaliation
and curled my legs. Apparently a "No, don't." was enough to scare off
the hazard.

Cherries are the most beautiful fruit. They are proper, classy
cherries binded in twos by a double stalk. The darker they are, the
redder inside. I wet them and then placed them on both the white
worktop and the blue wooden table and took photographs.

Day 3. I love the way my mum will yelp every time a fraction of one of
my body parts retreats to the shade. It's as though she took me on
holiday merely for an experiment, to see what I might look like with a
tan. Fuck it, pale all the way. I am scared that the sun will lighten
my black hair. Every decision is based on vanity.

There is a man I recognise on the sunbed infront. He looks like one of
the Welsh men from Jackass, or is it that other version of the show?
He is also one part of the "Pain men", if it is indeed him. There are
3 girls relaxing to chart music to the right of me. They are annoying
and I wish they would move.

2pm. We have just been to the apartment to eat lunch. I had a bowl of
porridge and peanut butter. I used the Internet for 10 minutes to a
Euro. Nothing much happening there.

11:54. Sitting woefully in the hotel lounge and bar area. Soon perked up
watching the kids play musical bumps. Mass conga. I was one of the few to not join in. I couldn't possibly.
I made an excuse that I wanted to change my shoes in the apartment and
while I did so I ate a slice of cake.

My mum only seems happy when others are content with us. She took
photographs of my sister and she forced her to smile widely and I
wanted to vomit. She enquired about whether the couple sitting beside
us might be bothered by her cigarette smoke blowing in their faces.
"Such is life" my stepdad answered. It doesn't phase her, however, to
blow smoke in the faces of her own children every day since we were
born. Nor break hotel rules by smoking inside the building. Sometimes
her blind ignorance could knock me off my feet. Sometimes I want to
shake her and ask her what the hell she is playing at.

Day 4. Off for a walk down the harbour we went, which went hand in hand
with my mums subtle little put downs. Today I learned that I lack the
ability to think for myself, and last night it was that I am the only
person who doesn't make negative comments about the prices of raffle
tickets. My mum is a slave to capitalism. Her every choice and whim is
based on cost. Everything. And by habit, I choose the cheapest I can
to please her. In an ideal world, she would base her decision on what
she most needed, not what came more free. The level of slavery in this
world is phenomenal. The worst thing is that nobody even knows it.

I cannot sit at peace. I am sitting alone by an umbrella in the shade,
and the heat is still unbearable. Everyone else basks in the sun. I
think that what I had at a beach restaurant has upset my stomach, it
keeps churning. The discomfort in my face was a mixture of hate, anxiety, fear and heat. She said I
looked as though I was about to hit someone. I wish I had that sort of
menace physically.

The heat is torturing me and making me
bloat and driving me out of my mind. I would cool down in the pool but
it is too loud and boisterous. My stomach is twice the size and looks
set to get bigger. I am still yearning for any sort of affection.
Anything. Maybe even a hello.

9:40pm. Drink at family bar, creeped out by unfamiliarity, child-like
energy overtook me.

Day 5. Went for a stupendously long walk in 26 degrees.
I woke up ravishingly hungry. I had just dreamt
that I was in Egypt and I was in amazement. I passed a wonderful book
shop filled to the brim with old archaelogical books. Then I passed a
tropical fruit shop with various juices and smoothies and they were in
their hundreds. Then a chocolate shop was seen. We left the cluster of
shops and were met with a longated buffet table decorated with every
food known to man.

I have no idea why it was Egypt we were in and as we walked along open
plan stalls in Alcudia, my eyes caught site of a particularly nice
bag. I grabbed it and pulled it closer to my eyes and the first word I
did see was "Egypt".

I started a new book last night. It is about a man who isolates
himself from society by living solitary and alienated in a forest.
Usually I highlight parts of books that I like, this one more often
than usual. I was highlighting a sentence or passage every half page.
It was glorious to find something that ticks on my level.

"None can be an impartial or wise observer of human life but from the
vantage ground of what we should call voluntary poverty."

"Practically, the old have no very important advice to give the young,
their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been
such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe;
and it may be that they have some faith left which belies that
experience, and they are only less young than they were."

4:54pm. Woke up alone after sleeping outstretched on the bed. Minty the hotel
entertainer said to me- tomorrow never comes. He was right in many ways. I am hoping that
everyone has not ventured out without me.

Day 6. Last night my stepdad started on me completely randomly whilst
I was on the balcony. The worst thing is that I was feeling
particularly dandy last night. He said I never look happy and I make
my mum unhappy because I am apparently not enjoying myself. He said I
never laugh or smile or show appreciation. I was so angry the more and
more he spoke and even when I started crying, still he did not stop
slagging me down. I had nothing to say in retaliation. I wanted to run
away into nowhere and the more I realised I was speechless, the more I
cried. I went into bed without word.

Day 7. I dreamt that Angie wrote me a letter saying that she was
cleared of cancer. She doesn't have cancer, to the best of my
knowledge. I hope it wasn't a sign. I awoke thinking deeply about
Richey. I do hope that that was a sign. We have Welsh local news on
the TVs in this hotel for some reason and there was a piece on the
Severn Bridge. I watched it thinking and knowing that his remains are
in there somewhere, in hidden view of their very cameras. It was scary
and very sad. Today I am going to use Angie's songs again and try to
OBE in the apartment. I remember my last holiday I returned from. It
was Portugal and when I got back there was a beautiful poem sitting
there waiting for me amongst other things. It makes me feel hopeless
knowing how things could have been different.

8 minutes past midnight. We were in the bar and, for once, I felt joyous and calm. Minty the
entertainer did a quiz and we won for the second night in a row. We
now have 3 bottles of champagne stashed away. I believe we are among
the most intelligent in this hotel. Or that I take it most seriously,
at least.

I was bathing around the pool this morning but the clouds had hidden
the sun. There were tons of newcomers and Minty was showing off by
soaking everyone with buckets of water. He shouted my name, of which I
don't know how he learned it, and he said I must go in the pool today,
and I was certainly planning to. He then filled his bucket to the brim
and threw the entire thing over me in front of everybody. It was
dripping off my hair and down my chest and it was absolutely freezing.
I thought best to make the most of the water and, while still cold, I
jumped into the pool and swam lengths. I embraced the laughter and
attention, actually. He is overweight but surprisingly fit and healthy
for 52.

Day 8. Nothing going on. Been in pool, been out of pool. Minty was
entertaining the kids by soaking every single person in a bathing suit
on sunbeds. I have realised that my family members are extremely
dysfunctional. How dare they lecture me about not appearing to be
happy when they sit there as miserable as sin with their petty marital
disagreements. If I am not happy then it must be in relation to them.

I have the oddest urge to go out walking in the early morning. To go
out and find somebody to confide in. I often fantasize about sitting
down by the pool in darkness and having somebody come over and listen
to what I have to say. Usually the hotel entertainer. All my problems
and doubts, and then when I am sitting at the bar he can wink at me
and we can know what's going on but just between us two. Then I never
have to bring someone home who is able to monitor me. Just a temporary
comfort while I am away. I find it odd that I always find
myself wanting to be deep with entertainers whose sole job is to make
people laugh and entertain. There's something alluring about having a
serious conversation with them, I suppose. If I were ever to make a
clown sad, I would feel fulfilled. When I write I try to make people
who know me saddened. I love misery. It's the most natural emotion.
All happiness, to some degree, is forced. Much like self worth or
beauty.

It is now 8 minutes past midnight. I am listening to the opening theme
of Rocky Horror. What a f*cking wonderful film. We went into the bar
and did the quiz. We were tied winners. Again. My mum very nicely gave
the champagne to the other lady. I am burnt down my left arm and on my
right foot. The sun is my enemy. I am lonely. Short sentences mark the
beginning of boredom. Goodnight.

Day 9. No particularly overwhelming feeling today. Disastrously hot
but our beds are now in the shade of a tree. Rejoice. I took my little
sister to get a pony ride without realising I would have to walk by
it's side. I returned with inflammed skin, spots, itching and redness.
Hate animals. I did feel sad for the thing though. Everyone is basking
in the sun trying to look browner than they are. This is the saddest
lifestyle I have ever taken part in.

11:23. Hotel entertainment can be both a hilarious and depressing
experience. Minty the overweight, middle aged man kept perving on a
group of four girls. He's never given me that kind of treatment. The
"lady" treatment. Just because they are wearing dresses and have long
hair, does that mean that I, with my black trousers and short hair, am
not worthy of being traditional teen eye candy. She was only nineteen
and I am eighteen, yet all he does is try and soak me during the day.
With those girls he picks them up and gives them the eye and gets
nostalgic.

So for that reason I have proposed an experiment. One night I shall
wear a skimpy dress without leggings. I will monitor him
and see if I notice any difference. A skimpy dress with high heeled
platform shoes.

It begins tomorrow. I have had a disgusting week. Truly disgusting. I
am bored. The young boy entertainer is dumb but he might be fun to
talk to. I wish I were here by myself. I wouldn't be under the
watchful eye of family.

Day 10. Beach day.

12:23 or 11:23 in British time. What an odd night. We went to the
hotel restaurant for dinner and, as I thought I looked alright this
evening, I decided it was the night to try out my experiment. I wore
tall wedges. Quite ugly, but they made me noticeably taller and made
my legs look slimmer. I wore only underwear and a leopard print tunic
which came to just above my knees, all floaty and feminine. I
straightened my hair properly (I prefer to have it wavy and free) and
I went out to observe.

Tonight was Elvis night. Whilst sitting in the
restaurant, Minty popped his head through the door and then I waved.
The Elvis impersonator felt a bit cheap. He was kind of alluring
though. He had a wide Cheshire cat grin and he could do a Scottish
accent. Although Spanish, he could even identify that Britain does not
only consist of England, and that it has other countries too.

I kept my eye out for Minty. I looked like those girls now. He always
stands and looks quizzical whilst his eyes gaze around the room. He is
unnatractive, overweight and a bit perverted, and I didn't want to be
perved on at all. Okay... Maybe a little. Since I arrived I noticed
that he has a signature greeting for every guest he knows. One lady he
shouts "Mum" to, and those four girls are the butt of his filthy
jokes. Whenever I cross him he just stares into my face until I either
laugh or look away. His assistant entertainer is called Ashley. I do
admit to feeling sexier tonight than usual, but only because my legs
were on show and I felt like some sort of gypsy slut. I smiled at him
because I could.

Besides. When Elvis got going, and I stood clapping, Minty stood
beside me in my heels and stared at me as if to mock my newfound height.

High heels gain attention - check.

As the guests got rowdy, he pulled various guests up to dance. He did
pull me up and I kicked my legs about for a while whilst I laughed.
However, he danced with two or three of the four girls first.

Dress works - perhaps... It certainly makes people look.

We'll never know if the straightened hair works as it's not a common
topic of conversation, how straight ones hair is. He smelled of sweat.
He looked like sweat. I conclude my experiment to be partially
successful.

When I got back to the apartment, I couldn't hear in my right ear. The
poor thing is not used to such a rowdy, loud atmosphere. I stood on
the balcony and observed the other balconies and I saw a young man
sitting in a chair who looked at me at the same moment I looked at
him. I looked for a further slow second or two and then looked away.
Each time I glanced back either he or I would turn our heads away. As
if not to notice our impolite staring. My stepdad was talking to me
but I wasn't really listening as I turned my head to giggle at the
game of "Bet you can't catch me looking" going on. I think he gave up
first when his father sitting beside him started retelling childhood
stories of embarrassment. I hope I don't come across his path
tomorrow. The minx is going to sleep.

P.S - the experiment isn't over.

2:13. Awoken by an immense anger. My sister feels ill and my stepdad
is trying to comfort her. When he whispers he makes my skin crawl. I
hate every bone in his body and still I do not know why. The sounds he
makes, the smacking of his lips every 5 seconds, his burping and his
stupid fucking face. All of it gives me an anger so overwhelming and
intolerable that I cannot stand it. I cannot stand it for one second
further. I want to kill him. For all those stupid noises, I want to
kill him. He hasn't done anything bad to me that I
can note in particular. All I know is that he smacks his lips and for
that reason I want him to die. He is everything wrong in my life. I
hate him so much it makes me want to die too rather than listen to him
for one second longer. If only my mum knew.

Little one is crying again. If he comes anywhere near me in this room
I will kill him.

Day 11. Mum and I went a long and tiresome walk along the promenade
because I wanted to go shopping. It got personal again. I am
tired of those games. I found two beautiful designer shops filled with
amazing clothes. Leather dresses, chiffon shirts, studded blazers. All
for a price I can not afford. But they were amazing.

It rained and that is why I am inside writing this. I did pass by that
young man who was on his balcony last night. He was in the pool and he
looked at me again but he is really nothing special so I don't look
anymore. Although I might do for fun. I don't know what to wear
tonight. Whether to wear a dress again or stick to some trousers or
shorts and a fancy top. I did feel so confident. I wish I had gotten
high heels today to accentuate my legs but I do not have the money. I
hate the heels I wore last night. They are not me at all. I will wear
flats to avoid them. It is funny being taller than most of the men
here though. Actually, I will probably go half and half. I will wear a
dress but I bought a hair wax so I will make it as wild as I can and
sport that. I feel pretentious. Pretention, repulsion, I am fluent in
both. I much prefer to feel pretentious though. I don't think there is
anything wrong with that.

While out walking with my mum she insisted she knew I was born in the
wrong age. Not the wrong decade nor century. The wrong age. I told her
about how I would love to dress like a rich Victorian with a satin
dress and cream pearls. And how I love the vistas of a Victorian
alleyway lined with authentic book shops and handy brick work.

It is only 4:26. There is too much time
between now and 8:30 when I can go downstairs. I am going to ask if I
can have the money to buy a vodka and diet coke so maybe I might liven
up a little. I would love to do something stupid and spontaneous. Mum
says she is making a picnic for dinner.

11:27. The plans changed and we ate out for dinner. In the end I wore
a tight pencil skirt, a rose embroidered cream top and a floaty cream
cardigan.

I took my little sister down to the bar with me and watched her dance
the mini disco and whatnot. My skirt kept going up but it is all part
of the experiment. I don't think Minty was in the mood tonight, he
didn't pay much attention at all. I was overwhelmed with a huge
jealousy when he paid attention to the adult ladies instead. I didn't
do much except take on some habitual staring. I thought I ought to
stop being so attention seeking, and it was weird. Weird to find
myself being so bothered. Even the young 17 year old entertainer
didn't take much of a liking to me. Nobody notices me sitting there.
Unless I were to go up on stage, which won't be happening any time
soon. Pretention turned repulsion. If only I could call out and join
in. I just want somebody to talk to me. How can a person pick me to
dance and then say nothing of it the day after. You humans, you're all
too casual.

There are loud people on their balconies outside. I am resisting the
urge to get up and out and witness this kerfuffle like a nosy
housewife. One night, one night I will go out and sit at a table in
the early hours of the morning, all on my own, and somebody will walk
by and see I am lonely and maybe ask me what is wrong and cause a fuss and something
interesting will finally be happening in life. Like in movies.

Why would I ever want to want to chat late at night with a middle aged, overweight man. He is older than my mother. That is worrying. Goodnight.

Day 12. I am in the sun I feel my skin burning. How some people will
find this natural, I'll never know. Minty took out the goal posts for
water polo and asked if I wanted to play so I nodded. Luckily enough I
was already in the water and adapted. I had to wear a stupid blue hat
and I was on a team full of men who were against another full team of
men. I thought, I will be chief goal scorer and so I stood by the
green goal. This could either go very well or be disastrously
embarrassing. It was fine apart from getting kicked in the stomach
which wasn't painful, and my top falling down when I jumped. I am
praying no one saw. Those men are bloody ferocious. I ended up scoring
2 out of 5 goals for our team but we lost anyway. It is very funny how
they all fondle and jump on eachother but if anybody jumps in my way
they ask if I am okay.

Whilst at the bar I figured that the young
entertainer speaks Spanish, which is always impressive for someone who
looks so permenantly gullible. I chew gum so often that I have developed a habit of blowing
bubbles at awkward moments. I did it alot whilst I was playing polo
which was a bit stupid, really.

Minty was on top form and doing some comedic routine tonight. Half of the
jokes I had heard more than once. More than enough.
We won the Bingo. The young entertainer Ashley kept darting his eyes
over to me as I did to him. As the night grew long and the bar
emptied, I decided I didn't want to smile at him anymore. He has a
disastrous taste in music, fashion and haircuts. I soon learned when
he took over the music. It was a depressing bout of Florence and the
Machine and then Rhianna. Besides, I was now sitting alone as my mum
and stepdad were at the bar with another family they had met.

More and more people were leaving and I finally had what I wanted. To
be sitting alone and be in the company of people who may be willing to
listen to me. It was funny to look at Ashley. I don't know why he was
ever willing to look back but he did. It might be because I was on his
water polo team today and he was impressed. I do not make it up when I
saw he was looking at me. I might be crazy but I'm not dellusional. I
am the only girl about of his age. Minty invited anybody out to go and
have a drink with the two of them. Every sensation in my body wanted
to ask to come with them. How wrong and strange that would have been.
It would be like a date with an unwanted guest. Like he had brought
his father along. It turns out that nobody went with them, I think.

Whilst they were closing and tidying up, I sat alone with my legs
crossed and bit my thumb nail. I was virtually alone now. I observed
to see if either Minty or Ashley were taking the chance to notice
this. It lasted a long time. I wanted somebody to come over, sit down
and just talk to me.

All the lights were almost out before Minty ventured past me. I
pretended to be in a daydream and occasionally mimed to Bridge Over
Troubled Water. He looked at me and, because he knew he had to say
something, he asked if I was waiting for my "little sistah". I said
no, I am waiting for "them", and motioned to my mum and stepdad
sitting amongst a small crowd at the bar. He said he did not notice
that there were still people up there. Presumably he felt silly asking
such a question when I gave such a snappy answer. There was my moment
and I wasted it with petty chit chat. He never returned to say
anything else to me tonight. Ashley did pass by and looked at my face
where I put out an uneasy smile and he did one even more uneasily.

I went back upstairs alone. I sat on a white chair on the balcony and brought out a small
bottle of melon schnapps. I planned to make a night of it but the
liquid was truly disgusting and undrinkable. Everyone returned and
soon disturbed my peace. I wanted to wait and watch people outside
passing by. It was too cold to stand it much longer though, and now i
must retire to nod. Goodnight.

Day 13. Mum called me stupid for wearing make up in the sun. I had a
spot on my face, what does she expect?

1:03am. For dinner we went to an area with a strip of British pubs. I
always found it ignorant when people visit predominantly Spanish
places and hunt for restaurants which only cater for their own
culture. It is really quite lazy. I came to the decision of lasagne. Me
and mum went and did a small deal of shopping afterwards. I passed by balcony boy and smiled at him right in the face.
All I seem to do is smile. It's such a natural, casual front.

There was karaoke going on. By karaoke I mean the same man going up
over and over again. How I would love to get up and grind and sing. I
would sing something before my time and all the adults would debate my
age and say I must be so mature to have such a music taste. I told
everyone about a Fats Domino song that came on that I liked, and I saw
mild impression. We sat at a table and I asked for a vodka and diet
coke. It made me wonder whether they had put any coke in it at all. A
family whom they both talk to came over and sat around. I felt instant
unease. They were chatting amonst themselves when my mum and stepdad
both left to have a cigarette and I was left alone with the 3 of them.
An elderly man and woman and their middle aged daughter. The silence
was unbearable. They asked a question and I gave a reply. More
silence. I did not care. I have observed all of them and I can tell
when neither of them care what the other is saying. This must be a
common occurence in humanity. I pretended to need the toilet and left.

Don't get me wrong, they were pleasant people. I had a feeling of
authority and class as both mother and daughter sipped their tomato
juice with Tabasco sauce. Coincidentally they were ranting about a
fellow neighbour in the hotel who is posh and a bit up themselves and
who eat mussels for dinner.

We soon got sick and, after being the last of 2 groups of people left
in the bar, me and my mum went upstairs.

Day 14. Everything is quiet and solemn. The sky is cloudy and grey and
I am the only one of my family on the sunbeds but there are still
brave people in the pool. It is still very warm, mind you. I want to
stay here but then again I want to go. Tomorrow I will be returning to
episodes of repeated isolation. To confined sole bedrooms. Laptops.
Kitchens. Even more intolerable family members. The only thing I
cherish is my Internet. But then again, even that becomes mundane
after 15 minutes. I have to look for a job. I
wish I could live this lifestyle forever instead. At home there is nobody to try and impress.
Nowhere to go at night.

It is 4:09. The heat has done funny things to me. There are clouds
covering the entire sky but still I feel faint and melancholy. I used
the lift up to the apartment and for a moment I thought I was in a
rocket. As though I did not expect the lift to move. I got out all at
once thinking I was on the wrong level, but I wasn't. I felt very odd.
I went inside and pressed my face against the wall and then the
window. I used
the toilet and for the first time in my life I thought I might go out
the way Elvis did. What I did notice though, were red spots on the
tissue. From this evidence I cannot conclude what exactly is wrong
with me. My stomach is rumbling like never before and I feel like I
could be sick.
I am home now. I was supposed to write about last night when I went to bed but instead I was catastrophically ill. I asked for a vodka and coke and then another, and I plucked up the courage to go over to Minty and ask, because I thought it ought to sound impressive, if he could put some 60s on. After saying "Pardon", and me repeating myself, he gave me a quizzical look and then reached for the CDs. Beforehand I went up to pay for some bingo cards and Ashley, in confusion, handed me a euro when I had not even paid for the cards yet. He then laughed, apologised and put it in the hat. To be fair, I did ask for a "Strip, please".

All the popular groups of people and Minty's favourites happened to be leaving the next day too, so we all confined ourselves to 3 tables. I could get used to him staring in my direction every now and then. I wanted to make a night of it so when everyone had went to bed I haggled my mum for money and I ended up going to a bar with a middle aged couple and a couple of 17 and 18. I didn't speak to the young couple nor did I know their names. June, the middle aged lady, was the "life and soul of the party", as they call it. As Minty came over to say goodbye to her and stood right next to me I noticed that, actually, he has lovely sharp eyes and chiseled dark stubble. Although that could have been my influenced thoughts.

We went to a bar called Cheers and it was then that I knew I had reached a level of drunk not before achieved. We stood up the whole time and it was dark and I was far too dizzy. For the first time in my life I yearned to sing on karaoke, but there was none on. I heard Ashley was supposed to be coming to this bar and I found myself embarresingly yelling "Where's Ashley? I thought Ashley was coming?". It was only because I wanted to make an impression so he might go back and talk about me to Minty and I could gain some small satisfaction of fame.

We went to the bar next door for a short while and I thought the strobe lights were 3D. As we stumbled home, I saw my stepdad in the hotel lobby and from afar I thought his head looked small and pin-like, and that I was incredibly tall. I went upstairs and dived into my bed and even with my eyes closed I thought I was flying. As I woke up this morning I tumbled out of bed dizzy. My other symptoms included the shakes, tiredness, stomach upset, sickness and being very off-balance. I went downstairs before everybody else to wait for the coach, and I looked around for anybody to say goodbye to. There was no one. When we finally got on the coach, instead of reminiscing my holiday, I instead wondered whether I would make it to the airport alive. I did and unfortunately I had to come back to Scotland. Last night is how the beginning of a holiday should be. Only on day 14 did I make friends when they are gone again the very next day. Cruel.

2010-05-14T06:24:00.000-07:00

13/5/10 22:05PM

I am in bed preparing for sleep and it isn't even dark yet. The moon is there and the sun is gone but its rays have left behind a sort of light grey in our favour. It makes me sad to think that this is all Summer comes down to. I looked outside my window and it seemed as though the sky was etched in memory of an early winter's night, not a late summer's one. I can hardly believe that it is after ten. I can hardly believe that it is only one month until June. It's now that I realise I don't remember which season is the most depressing. My mother has started using cancerous sunbeds. We are off to Majorca. This is the least appealing season come this year so far.

Inferno
Round five, why does it anger you so?
To exchange frustration with a perfumed rose
I need to talk with the usual sentiment
Of softened faces and bodies bent
Don't frown at me as though I kill
I've got five reasons why I know I will
Such a shock my bitter terror would bring,
A gathering of roses fit for a king

Derren Night Part 2

2010-05-06T09:32:00.000-07:00

We left the Opera House with great big smiles and begun (With emphasis on this word please) to walk down the street that took us home. We managed a half-way walk down the very first street when we (At least I know me and Natasha did) decided we weren't quite as satisfied as we hoped and turned the other way to see what else we could squeeze out of the night. I don't recall us managing to accomplish much as the theatre was almost deserted and a security guard had managed to take his position up outside. I found it very funny that there had to be a hard man placed outside to protect Derren from any disconcerting fans of freaks. It was only us. I couldn't imagine Derren in a fist fight or shielding himself from any Daily Mail readers or Christian activists. Besides. We had grown a fathomable love for the Derren posters that had been placed in the windows of the theatre and intended to hang around until we could either have them or steal them.

We didn't progress to doing much after that resorted to going back to the hotel where we drank the champagne, vodka, and watched omnibus's of Coronation Street, heckling at all the overweight characters like drunk thugs. I did a forwards roll on the hard floor and hurt my neck, Natasha sat in the shower drinking Vodka straight, and Claire jumped in the covers to catch up on what she had missed of The Great British Menu... Before also resorting to the shower to practise hand stands.

It wasn't long before the hotel room became boring and mundane and the amount of fun you can have inside is limited by the four walls. I was ravishingly hungry and so, at around 2AM we took a long walk to the nearest McDonalds, and we chose the route down past Harry Ramsdens famous chip shop, the Sea Life centre, and Louis Tussauds very unfamous Waxworks. It was almost a blackout but I wasn't cold. Claire and Natasha had found a block piled high with what looked like builders sand and had taken to running to the top of it and getting pissed off with coincidentally getting the sand in their shoes. I wanted to keep walking so I walked a few metres ahead and held out both arms to see if I could walk in a straight line like people do when they've been caught drinking in their car. I don't think I could, but I didn't have the eyes to see. The two of them were taking ages and then Natasha came bouncing towards me talking into a mobile phone in a Welsh accent and swearing. Alot. The swearing became contagious and I started being fowl towards people I would never have the guts to be foul to in real life, but whom wholeheartedly deserved it.

We did find a McDonalds, and it was situated in the town centre, open twenty four god forsaken hours. I was gutted when I noticed that the seating areas had been cordoned off because it was too late, but I held my breath and ordered a single bag of large fries. Everybody copied me. I was ditzy and not very hungry but I forced them down, despite getting closer to vomiting with every salt-ridden one. Natasha had burst into laughter and another Welsh accent amidst the isolated McDonalds queue. I hadn't noticed if anybody has noticed her. We left the shop and dodged the wet floor, and back into the refreshing air.

The town was desolate and looked like a ghost town, and there was no sign of light or life. Naturally we took this as our cue to belt out Fratellis lyrics in a sluggish manner and repeat endless "Your maw" jokes. Something was missing though. Like a shroud of little lost puppies, I really wanted to "hunt" for lack of a better word, Derren, which turned into a mass stalking spree which I am not embarrased about even now. We started endlessly slurring "I bloody love Derren!" every now and then, and scouring the tops of buildings with our eyes to see if he might have left a light on signalling where he might perhaps be staying. (We found out later, if of any importance at all, that it was nowhere near where we were situated.)

We walked back up towards the theatre and stood outside where his posters were designated once more, except this time I kept dropping chips out my mouth by trying to talk whilst eating, and I felt like an out-of-control litter bug. I can say that dirty things were said and I shall not say what, for, despite this blog being the most unread blog in the history of the web, it would be just my fucking luck for someone to visit this exact moment. We were sorely dissatisfied, and once more made our way to hotel camp, past two different groups of three males, with only the second group heckling us which stood to be half of how many I expected would. It was vulgar. We went home.

After another hour or so I'm pretty sure we did go out of our way to visit that McDonalds once more, but I can't recall why and what for, or even what happened on the way back. I do remember that the same man was standing behind the check out like an overworked puppy with only us keeping him from quitting work and comitting suicide. We went home again.

We were distraught to find that the sun was starting to creep up and wished to death that it was still the night. The daylight pouring in behind closed curtains can be harsh and brings you back to the reality of the day. The three of us had been in bed and out of bed, and Claire had decided to stay in bed and catch up on lost sleep. Me and Natasha dared to lay our heads back but I didn't let sleep reel me in just yet. The two of went to the bathroom where she took up her spot in the base of the shower, and I took up mine on the toilet (The seat was down). We passed the camera back and forth to eachother and snapped eachother with ridiculous faces. We shouted Claire every now and then but she had certainly been seduced by sleep and couldn't really be woken for any longer than 10 seconds.

Trying to stay awake was like trying snap out of a coma. The food we ate had so many empty calories that the energy was expended straight away, and I was beginning to think we should have been eating Weetabix or Shreddies. It was time for the morning news and weather, and we jumped in bed with Claire. The subtitles were, once more, suitably hilarious and must have been switched on for no other reason than to provide some laughter relief from the shit tip that Blackpool is.

The thought of packing was nauseating, but I got up and did mine quietly before anybody else so it could be done and out of the way. I already had a semi-large cut along my waist on the right from my laptop digging into me the entire day, so I made sure to wrap it in two plastic bags before it did anymore damage. It had only felt like we were out looking for Derren like automatic magnets a mere two hours ago, but it had been at least six. I looked out the windows and there were people, the worst of people, flogging the streets already, and I began wishing that they would retreat back home and leave the streets for us. Another reason I fought sleep was because I hated the way it feels waking up. We got dressed and made up and presentable and headed- you guessed it- to our beloved McDonalds for a breakfast of full fat bacon in a full fat bread baguette with a full fat hash brown. They looked disgusting but I was hungry. And we were noticeably tired.

We went back to finish packing and admire the alcohol stains on the wall, and say goodbye to the hotel room we didn't want to leave.

It was a slow, slow walk to the nearest Starbucks and we were hoping to pass a few hours in there to take us up to 4PM where we could nestle on a train. Despite having virtually no hunger left in me, I ordered a fruit salad and a hot chocolate. It made me laugh thinking that a fruit salad could make up for all the shit I consumed the night before. I couldn't eat it all, and so I left it on the table and laid my head back in the chair. I began almost wake-snoring like Claire had done a few hours previously, and sharpened up, embarrased. We went to HMV and to the DVD section to look for, if I remember correctly, a Derren Brown DVD. After no luck, Natasha left with Codeine Velvet Club's album. We then took a trip to Yates' and between us ordered a platter of nachos and a bowl of chips, and spent a decent amount of time in the "Chatterbox" toilet upstairs which, pervertedly, allowed two toilets in one cubicle, to chatter in. It was beyond odd. It was a picture-taking haven.

We trekked to the train station and my shoes were giving me a pain worse than agony. I didn't want to look like I complain too much so I took baby steps and stayed quiet until the train station. I had a twenty minute wait before mine and Claire and Natasha a thirty minute wait before theirs. Mine came quicker than I expected and so I asked the train guy if it was mine and he said it was. We had a group hug and then I turned and waved. I am surprised I even remembered thus far considering how fatigued I was. I got on it and typically chose another seat which went backwards. I was in a daze, and the glass water bottle by my feet kept clattering whenever it touched the floor. Three people sat next to me if I remember correctly. Two snotty looking women, and a man in a suit. I struggled for a place to look, but everytime I looked out of the window the trees passed by so quickly and sent me straight into a dizzy warp. I tried to look at the floor but the ladies bare legs were in my way, and looking down just made my head bob and my eyes tilt shut. I remember once watching a man on a bus from behind. His head bobbed left and right and it was out of control when it fell, and the weight of the fall woke him up quickly. I shut my eyes for a mere second and my head fell forward and broke my sleep, and my head shot up automatically. I was embarrased but too tired to take notice of it. I did this again. Twice. It had only been five minutes and the train had arrived in Preston, as if I had been in a super fast jet propellor.

I wobbled my way to platform one and stood for a good ten minutes and started kicking my feet up behind me to try and kick up some energy to last me the day. I don't know how long they had been there, but as the train in front of me left, I saw Claire and Natasha waving enthusiastically at me as the train sped away. I shot my arm up and waved, and suddenly wondered if I had smiled or not, and got nervous. The Glasgow Central train pulled in and I, this time, checked for an UNRESERVED seat to park myself in and hopefully stay in. My iPod had somehow lowered itself to a very red battery but despite this I plugged it in and hoped the audible waves would keep me awake for another measley three hours or so. From this point on I can't remember whether I slept or not but it wasn't long at all before we were at Carlisle, which I consider the half way point between Scotland and England.

I opened and ate a Galaxy bar and silently cursed my iPod which had now failed on me. I let my head drop back and onto the back of the seat, and mere moments later the journey had passed and I was in Glasgow. I, again, couldn't look straight out of the window without having the room spin and my eyelids drop like lead weights. I fumbled viciously with the ragged plasters on my heels before I got off and prayed that they would be satisfactory to walk in, if only for another mile or so. I stepped off the train and the shoes dug into my sores like needles, harder and then softer with every step. Some steps made me audibly moan in pain and others were alright. I stood and glanced at the huge timetable boards and, failing to find a train to Falkirk Grahamston, waddled over to the Ticket desk to ask when the next one would be. I was told I would have to find Queen Street Station and buy my ticket there, and, after dimly listening to instructions, I walked out of the exit and into the harshness of the busy city, looking no worse than a girl who hasn't slept in thirty six hours with a weight on her shoulders.

I failed to understand the "Turn left at the end of the street" instruction, and wondered just where a street abruptly ended for me to turn left in. Thinking back now it would have made sense, but not back then. I got lost and was walking for the pure joy of walking after a while. I saw central park and I passed about three photographers all with their cameras pointing at me and felt, for a moment, like a celebrity. I hurdled past them, with my aching heels (Have I put enough emphasis on my agony yet?) and walked towards the huge, square park to admire a large map and sign. It didn't even hit me that the station was standing to the right of me, showing itself illuminously. as I walked the short baby-step walk to the station, three different sirens went off, two from police vehicles and one from a fire engine which had begun circling its way around the park. I saw police motioning the vehicle to go here and there, and for the first time I realised I was in Glasgow. "Murder capital of the world." I stood at the traffic lights and watched the city people. They walk so carelessly, dodging traffic with their little legs, taking a risk by running whilst every car is stuck in a jam, and by thinking that the few seconds whilst the car engine is warming up is enough time to make it across a road. I had none of the same pleasure and had to wait until the traffic light had told me I could cross, and then cautiously baby-stepped my way around it.

I waddled to the ticket office to buy a single ticket to Falkirk, and was surprised by how smoothly it ran. Usually when I buy tickets I expect the ticket officer to look at me as though I just asked where the nearest whore house was. He gave me it and I run, or at least tried to rush, to platform seven where my deserted carriage awaited me. After being reassured by a train officer that it was the Falkirk train, I sat on it and felt at peace.

I was excited when the timetable for this particular train read "Greenfaulds" and then "Cumbernauld" and secretly hoped I would find a Jon or a Mince come steaming onto the train and park their bottoms beside me. I looked into the window beside me and I looked a catastrophe. My nasolobial crease was two foot deep, my eye bags were much of the same, and I had dry red lips and a stupidly puffy face. Whenever I looked to the left of me a man in a seat facing me seemed to never take his eyes off me. It was disconcerting so I vowed never to look in his direction again. The train stopped every ten minutes to another deserted train stop and then sped off again five minutes later. I hadn't recognised any of the places. We finally stopped in Cumbernauld and I saw no sign of buildings now life. I did see a few council estates like the type you see in run down places on TV documentaries. The kind people might want to consider killing themselves in. There was grime down the walls, pathetic little playparks in the middle, and towering flats which looked as welcoming as the plague. I did see a few small clusters of nice looking houses but no sign of anybody boarding the train which was sad. Everything else I saw had designated it's place in a large skip or manifested itself into a burnt pile of rubble. Because that's the way to get rid of unwanted goods.

I landed in Falkirk and was the last one off after gathering my things. I circled around the main building to look for a public telephone and upon failing, left the train station by the exit to find one outside. I felt the burn of the people in the waiting room watching me as I walked sluggishly past the windows, sometimes wobbling from side to side, sometimes wincing in agony, and sometimes stopping altogether. Five minutes later and I had reached the stairs. I was very much aware that I looked drunk and/or drugged, but I kept going besides. I crossed the bridge and left and realised that I knew where I was. I was in Falkirk Town Centre, so I started going forwards but then saw a phone box situated behind me and so made my way there. I started looking around for familiar buildings in which I could say I was outside of. I put my money in the phone and picked up the reciever to call. I phoned my number and heard nothing but rings and then an answering machine. I cursed, loudly. I tried a variation of my number considering I may have got it wrong from tiredness, and rang again. The thieving phone had nicked the two pound coin I had used for my previous call, but I stood my ground. A man answered this time, and I said "Hello" in a daze. He proceeded to shout hello back as if he had not heard me. I returned the favour and eventually grew impatient and put the phone down. I picked up the phone once again to try the first number and did it quickly incase said man attempted to phone back. There was nothing but answering machine noise. My own mobile phone had lost it's battery hours ago and I had nothing but coins to rely on.

I reluctantly closed the phone box door and stood still, completely dumbfounded as to what to do next. I walked up the hill with bleeding, scarred heels and past a bus stop where a man and a lady looked at me in the most peculiar way. I saw the large Tescos and figured that there must be a working telephone box there that might let me ring someone to come and save me. With every step I saw nothing but parked cars and a cluster of late-night shoppers exiting the building. I walked past the Tescos and by the closed Boots, B & Q, and other megastores and eventually walked in a huge circle around the carpark and past the shops. I felt the young drivers monitoring me in their cars and I grew helpless. They often come here to speed around the carpark and beep their horns and presumably pick up girls. At that moment in time I couldn't think of anything sadder in life itself. They drove past me once and then twice, and I collided with them whilst crossing the roads, and they sped past as soon as my puny feet had hit the pavement. I genuinely wanted to collapse and sleep on the metal barges on the traffic islands.

I found no other telephone box and so took a diagonal path through the car park again and towards the cinemas. I thought that, if anything, there would have to be phone boxes outside a huge cinema complex. After an agonising walk I was bitterly disappointed again, as I found nothing. There were couples making their way inside, and I thought they ought to find me a little worn down to be visiting the cinemas at this time of night. I walked past the cinema doors twice and past the McDonalds to scour for telephone boxes there. Nothing. I thought to myself that, if I ever were to reach anybody by telephone how would I even begin to explain where I was anymore? I didn't really know.

I shuffled my feet past the McDonalds, and I noticed that I was making my way into suburban territory. There were houses and street signs, and all sign of shops and nightlife had began to disappear and I knew that places like this just didn't have telephone boxes. I wasn't even picking up my feet anymore, I was trying to hover. I spotted a wall with a fence and crossed a desolate road to get to it before collapsing and sitting on it with my bags by either side. I tried to turn my phone off once more but it instantly said "Goodbye" and so i decided to turn my attention to nursing my bleeding feet. I took off my shoes and loosened them, and then attempted to walk but found they had made no difference. I had a brainwave and pulled out both of my laces so there would be absolutely no pressure on my feet while I walked. I thought I had finally found the solution and would be able to walk again. Although my iPod was dead also, I had managed to get it on for at least a few minutes, and had luckily picked up someone's wifi from near by. I browsed the net for a free text site where I could text someone to come and rescue me, and began to write something there.

It hit me then that I couldn't switch my phone on to find my mother's number and I swore under my breath. I switched off the internet and began to write an email in desperation. The iPod switched itself off. It was almost dark now and I felt hopeless. I gathered my bags up and stood up to prepare for an agonising walk into the middle of nowhere. I was hating everyone right now, for firstly not answering the phone, and secondly for my doubts that they were even wondering where I was. I took another few steps and my shoes dug a new fresh wound into my heels. Taking my laces out hadn't worked, and I shimmied along just as I had done before, in blistering agony. I walked up a short hill and back into the shopping complex car park, into safe territory. I had eventually remembered that there was a working phone box I had used a few weeks previously while I went for a college interview. I began to make my way there, with the sun settling down behind my back. There were too many dodgy roads, the kind that are so wide that you have to run across them incase a vehicle comes speeding around the bend. Running brought me unimaginable pain.

I followed the road down and was beginning to doubt that it was infact the right road as I could see no phone box in view the more I walked. I passed a wall and there was a man laying on his side, with a bag of what looked like frozen peas lieing under his head. He was mumbling and when I walked past seemed to motion his arm out at me. I felt rude and inhumane to pass him with a mere glance, but I would have felt even sillier if it had turned out he was merely drunk. I couldn't do anything about that. I walked on further and by now the darkness had completely settled in and made itself at home. I saw the phone box standing next to the bus stop and opened the door and stood inside. I phoned the number again and the same man I had spoken to before answered. He said "You ignored me last time!" in a jolly Scottish twang, and I apologised and asked for my aunt's name, despite us both knowing I had dialled the wrong number. I called the other variation of the same number and it rang and rang and rang. And then went onto the answering machine.

There wasn't much light but there was just enough to see that there were ants clambering about on the reciever and all over the phone's buttons, and by there being so many I began to imagine I was in some sort of fictional horror movie, where nobody can get a hold of me and I can't get a hold of them. I dropped my bags helplessly and for the first time that night, fought back tears. I didn't cry though, and instead just cursed silently for longer and longer periods of time.

I checked the timetable on the bus stop next to me and didn't even attempt to understand it, or expect any bus going to such a tiny village appear at this time of night. Just then a bus came up behind me and, although I didn't motion it to stop, the female driver opened her doors for me and exclaimed that I looked a bit lonely there. I Just etched a smile and asked her if she goes to Kincardine and how much it would be. She said she does and so I gave her three pound and dodged my way past a few pensioners to the nearest unreserved seat to the front. As the bus drove off I could barely see outside because of the harshness of the light inside. I wasn't excited about getting home, I was dreading my walk from the bus stop to my house and how I would possibly make it.

She dropped me off at an earlier bus stop in which I was thankful for. It wasn't in the centre of the village square where all the junkies and drunks go at night, and it was just up the street from my way home. I had planned to take my shoes off to give me a smooth walk but when I witnessed the amount of stones and rocks on the ground I thought it best not to. I didn't walk long, and as I stepped through the children's play park I counted the number of chimes on the village clock and it came to nine. It certainly felt alot later than nine o'clock, I was sure of that. I walked the last street and came up to my doorstep where I immediately dropped my bags and took off my jacket. I removed my shoes as best I could and walked through the doorway to the living room. Everyone was sitting on the sofa watching TV dumbly and hadn't expected me to be home any earlier. I limped through the living room and sat down on the chair and answered questions I had no interest in answering at that time of night. I looked down and admired my battle wounds and found that I had three on each foot, all of a distinctive shape and size, and shade of red.

I rolled my trousers up incase the slightest touch made them flare, and I retreated to my bedroom with my laptop in hand, just as I would on any given day.

Room 323 at a Blackpool Travellodge and Derren Brown

2010-05-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 7am on a Monday morning. I went to sleep at 11PM but had since woke up in regular intervals for small periods of time. I raised myself up and out of bed at 7 out of pure distrust for electronic alarms (I had set 2, that's how sure I was that something would have to go so wrong to ruin something so good.) and I got myself dressed and ready. It had, infact gone quite as planned. In my bag was a laptop, plugs, pajamas, clothes, toothbrush, among other everyday items. I hitched a lift to Glasgow Central Station, and crawled the floor in my chosen black linen trousers, black and cream rose-decorated coat and brogues which I claimed for £50 off. (I soon realised why) As the train disembarked I had made comfortable arrangements in my very own seat situated at the back of an almost fully reserved carriage. I re-played the Fratellis, I ate a sandwich and I drank a bottle of water. Ten minutes later the train came to an abrupt hault just outside of Glasgow after having struck a mysterious object. I saw Police men monitoring the train, walking back and walking forth and talking into walkie talkies. This, I realised, would have had to be the thing to ruin the day. I grew more impatient in intervals of about five minutes, pondering every different situation and what objects we might have hit. Track rubble, a thrown object, an animal, a person, another train? The announcer finally announced that we were ready to re-embark but failed at his job miserably by not being able to quench my thirst for knowledge and leaving the unidentified object unidentifiable.

During a two hour and a half long journey I proceeded to stare outside half a window, gain a headache from earphones plugged into a loud iPod (I wouldn't have had to have it so loud if the train were a bit quieter), and sip water from my water bottle miserably, with only the process of exchanging texts to keep me company. I was then disturbed by two ladies in Lancaster who asked for their reserved seat back. Twice. I stood between two carriages for the remainder of fifteen minutes, with nothing but my heavy luggage and an inapropriate fit of giggles.

I had soon enough arrived in Preston, and after being made to fumble through a generously packed bag, managed to show one full price open return ticket to a railway man standing on top of the stairs. How do they sleep at night? I was more train station savvy than I realised and found platform 1 quickly and with pace and sat myself on a sideways seat facing the left window. The ultimately boring but nerve-inducing journey lasted no longer than twenty minutes and seduced me, afterwards, very quickly to the ladies toilets to freshen up and take an incredibly long piss into what looked like a metal cooking dish. Alas, as I opened the cubicle door, I winced in shock as the two people I had been waiting for had come to surprise me by waiting no further than two metres away from the door. makes me wonder if they had been there when I first walked in and I had been in too much of a rush to see them. But by now, everything had run smoothly and I was glad.

Claire, Natasha and me walked out into sun and clouds and paced along the station car park. I pointed out people I had known but don't anymore, places I used to stay and visit, and an old home. We walked down the golden mile, grabbed fifteen donuts immersed in sugar between us, and got lost in Blackpool's maze whilst looking for a football stadium and a Travellodge to dump the weight off our shoulders. We found a huge, divine looking place almost attatched to the stadium and paced back and forth outside wondering just how I would manage to sneak myself in. As the two of them queued for the reception area, I briefly and deliberately inched past it and stayed round a corner until the coast was clear. Little had I known that it was infact the wrong hotel, and they had both made their way past the window, ringing my phone twice while it vibrated silently in a black bag hanging by my waist. We walked back outside and laughed. The laughing was then cut short when I explained where and how far North Pier was. Half way there we stopped at a Home Bargains and bought what we thought we might want to feast on in the next 24 hours that we would try and stay awake for. Collectively we grabbed Nutella, honey, champagne, beer, vodka, coke, mini cakes, chocolate, and marshmallows. Natasha crept outside while Claire and I got hassled for proof that we were infact, probably eighteen, and I was once again forced to trail through a bag five foot deep and present a shiny passport photo which she studied and I noticed a wince of unsureness that it was really me.

It was now that I had begun to notice how much my heels were beginning to ache. I typically buy new shoes before a day out and this time I had done much of the same. A pair of brogues I had admired in Topshop a couple of days before had bargained themselves at merely a fiver. That's fifty pounds off their original price, and I knew there was a huge mistake, but the checkout girl seemed happy (enough) to give me them and I left the shop with my mum's instructions to "Run before they know they've made a mistake." Besides that story, I braced the pain and loosened my steps while we sat in a tram stop waiting for one of the oddest forms of transport I could think of. And I expected a measley price of about fifty pence to take us from one pier to the other, but it was worse than that and we were refused entry because the tram was "Full". Finally, eventually, we walked to a bus stop and paid one pound twenty five each to get us half a mile away.

The bus drove past the travellodge and in all my four years there I never realised it was the building that it said it was. To my joy the reception area was on level one and I didn't have to sneak like a ninja past some reception staff. Instead I took the lift up two measley levels and stood alone in one of the corners of the hall. I remember now hoping that there was no CCTV facing this particular area as I dropped the bag full of vodka and champagne and it made a shattering noise as the bottles hit against each other, and I almost tripped over my own aching feet. An embarrasing story if the staff were to label me as a binge drinker and suitably kick my arse out of the hotel before check in. The doors of the lift opened and I breathed a sigh of relief as it was just Claire and Natasha coming to collect me and drop us in room 323.

The walls were mental institution white, and the carpet was an unsettling dark blue, just like in the adverts they show you. I looked at the bed and how well prepared it had been for us, but I didn't expect any of us to sleep in it. We sat on it, and even laid on it, but not in it yet. We inspected the room and dropped off the alcohol and admired the windows. Claire put herself inside the window and tried to close the one which stubbornly stayed open.

After a thorough inspection Natasha whipped out the Fratellis photos she had printed out and brought specially. There was a dumbfounded-looking Mince, a photo of Jon playing guitar and a photo of the three of them that had come out smaller than we had hoped. At least that Natasha and I had hoped. Jon found himself being placed firstly on a spot underneath the TV which was situated, rather poshly, on a wall framed with wood, and secondly pinned on the bed headboard as for us to get as close as possible. I had hoped that it would distract whoever dared to watch the TV but instead the clumsily typoed subtitles did that job for us. Mince and his evil and peculiar looking gaze was blue tac'd to the mirror just as you go in the room door. The photo of all three was placed above the bed to the left wall framed in another wooden board. They looked beautiful, and Mince especially, since we had found time in our heavily packed schedule to give him a beautiful makeover.

We put the bags of food on the floor and instead took the drink out of the bag and arranged it nicely on the table beside the kindly contributed kettle, cups, tea, coffee and wall stains. We got changed and brushed teeth and applied mascara and whatever else it is that people do. I took out my laptop, showed how appauled I was at being charged a fiver an hour for wifi, and instead of browsing the net, listened to The Fratellis and watched Rocky Horror movie clips on loop. Vodka had been cracked open in moderation, and cheap plastic cups had been drunk out of.

Upon being quite finished arsing about, we acquired some plasters from the reception, sat on the bottom of the stairs so I could put them on my bleeding heels, and then walked mere metres to the nearest Subway. Two girls and one lady who were sitting at the table in front were coincidentally just the group that sat infront of us during the theatre later on that night.

We walked up a newly cobbled road towards the Blackpool Opera House, and witnessed crowds gathering outside. We must have been at least twenty minutes early and so to pass the time in such a heavily populised place, we retreated to a public photoart-esque cubicle in the centre of the bustle and made fun of everything we could possibly think of. Having noticed there was only room for two, I stood outside with my head poked inwards, and realised that any loud laughter would point eyes directly at myself. I was already amidst avoiding anybody I might know.

In about twenty minutes time the stage doors opened and we obediently queued and walked into a wonderous looking room. I thought that where we sat was amongst the best seats, close to the stage, on the aisle, and en route to toilet, stage, exit, and every other place you would possibly need. The music played beforehand sure entertained, and set Natasha and Claire off bobbing away. I was too nervous to dance. The theatre filled up unbelievably quickly, with people aged between twelve and one lady I saw who was at least sixty. People had minstrels and ice cream and coke and hot food but I hadn't bothered to dare if I faced the possibility of being pulled like an unwilling horse and cart onto the stage. It felt like an eternity before Derren Brown made an appearance, and when the lights finally dimmed, and his television-like voice burst through, I sat back and started unwillingly shaking at the thought of going anywhere near that wide open stage, and even more so at having to speak.

To tell the truth, watching Derren Brown at a reasonable distance from the theatre stage is much like sitting at home with a wide-screen TV and watching him there. There were tricks that impressed me little and tricks that impressed me more. The less impressionable tricks probably just looked a little dumbed-down from having watched Derren on internet television too much at my own pleasure and witnessed even greater things there. Under strict rule which forbids me to tell anyone what happens in the show, I can say few things only. To our delightful pleasure, one of the men standing stood in our row a few seats away, which prompted Derren to ask Claire if he could get in our row, and which made us have to stand to let him through. He briskly walked past like a man late for a meeting, and inspected the standing man before whisking him out and very molly coddly grasping his hands to gently haul him on stage. He was short and gentle and almost frail looking, with a soft and warm voice.

Another part of this same trick was to take another girl still asleep from trance and make her sleepwalk through the entire audience to pick out any audience member she wanted to. She walked past our aisle like a visible ghost with her hands by her frail side and her hair masking her face like some kind of horror movie character. I faced the stage instead and saw Derren facing our direction to keep his eye out for said character, and I liked to imagine that he was staring at me as I walked away like a long lost love. And I absolutely loved it and did not give a shit.

The climax to the show involved a dancing Derren holding a thin stick with a bauble on the end, pointing at pictures. Running back and forth hitting them in an exciteable manner, and eventually leaving to an array of applause and standing.

When he had finished we had proposed two different decisions we could make. Number one, we could go home and drink and have fun, or number two we could wait outside the Stage Doors like desperate little school girls. Realistically there had been no choice and we had to do the latter. We stood amongst an irregularly small crowd of people (More like a neat queue) and waited for a Derren to make his way out. We blethered, stood around, laughed and eventually sat on the top of the stairs where the toilets were after getting sick of standing, thinking up absurd excuses as to why there were people backstage who hadn't had to wait for Derren like everyday people. The best excuse I ever heard came from Claire and stands too easily offendable to type in print. I was busy thinking up ways to come across when he came out. I could smile and tell him my name so he could write it down and never be thought of again. I could say I loved the show, but he'd have heard that a million times. I could have said a really interesting and philosophical question relating to magic and psychology. Infact, when he came out I must have panicked because I took out my camera and forgot to say anything at all. I asked the guy in front if he would mind taking our picture in return after Natasha had taken his, and he said it was fine and no bother.

We abruptly jumped up from our spot on the stairs when we heard the gentle voice coming out the door, and skidded back to our place in line. He looked far too busy to acknowledge anybody really, but he did have a certain enthusiasm and menace in his eyes and his voice with each and every person he passed. He asked Natasha her name, and proceeded to sign her booklet she had bought for a fiver. He then asked Claire her name and in turn how to spell it, which I thought odd. Then the camera was on and we jumped in quickly for a photo.

Part two will be written tomorrow.

A Nightmare Too Realistic

2010-04-28T01:53:00.000-07:00

I laid on my bed last night, and I didn't even attempt to get to sleep. I lay on my back and kicked my legs in the air, and fiddled with my clothing, and turned left and then right, and eventually got myself comfortable inside the duvet. I awoke at around 8 in the morning, as my sister was getting up and ready for school. I nodded off again and have been in virtual terror for the past 2 hours or so. The first thing that struck me about the dream as sinister was when I was sitting at a computer with a friend in a college, and there was a fellow I used to know sitting at a computer near by on the other side of the room. My friend went away and the lights had gone dimmer, and he started speaking to me in dull, perverse tones. I don't remember what he said but I could feel the uter violation, and I became disgusted with him and myself in those very few moments. This lasted a long time and when the lights brightened he was eventually caught out and questioned by a teacher. We had evidence to conclude that he had planned to shoot a movie where him and me were hopelessly in love and even had people play cameo roles in it to see how it would pan out. They began to show the movie in a room as evidence, and I was in the room, and I curled up into a ball and held my knees and arms around my face in both disgust, terror and humiliation. I rocked back and forth, and would every so often let out what sounded like a pathetic scream.

In part two I was at home. I can't even describe how disgusting the stalker in this part of my dream has made me feel. I can't mention who it was, only that it was someone very close by. On one occasion, and this was not all, I was clambering about trying to get my sister ready for school with my mum, and all the while my eyes were scouring the house like crazy. I knew he was hidden somewhere, doing something dumb, useless and time-consuming to pass the time until I was outside the house so he could follow me. I pleaded with my mum, I never said many words but the look of sheer expected terror on my face must have done the trick, you would think. I still had to go outside and take my sister to school. We were halfway down the path when I saw that all too familiar human shape following closely by. I didn't rush. Closer, and closer, until he was almost stepping on my heels. He didn't say much, infact if I remember correctly, he may have passed by. It was an odd route to school, we had to go through a derelict, urban part-building and climb some tacky ladders to fully make it all the way. I was in terror and needed to know where he was, and so I hurried my sister up the ladder and followed myself, in all expectation of having my feet yanked underneath me and to be collapsing in the arms of a monster. We walked through the front door of the school or college, or what now seemed to be a place withholding both. I saw him standing amongst a flurry of white plastic tables and chairs, tall, muscleless, and looking for somebody. I grabbed my sister by the arm and dived under one of the tables as quickly as I could, and as was definetaly not expected, he disappeared and went.

The next morning I sufficed more of the same. I was still terrified in front of my mother, and she was still jolly, careless and doubtful. I logged onto my Facebook, and somebody had uploaded at least 7 pictures containing the same thing that I used to be nicknamed as a child, and set them as my profile picture. I saw underneath that there were the names of a couple of friends on Facebook whom, out of kindness and non-obliviousness to the fact that I had been hacked, had reported the images. Now anyone should know that I withhold not much of a life outside anything virtual, and was quite taken aback that such a personal space, hell, my only personal space, had somehow even been taken over by this creature too. My mum didn't do much in the way of frown and tilt her head a little. I continued my journey to school. There was my sister and one of her young friends this morning, and I took them to the derelict ladders. There were two, which I hadn't noticed had been there before. The two of them climbed the first one quicker than I managed the second ladder. Amongst that all-consuming feeling of being watched and violated, we made it to the front door of school once again, and everything seemed to have been a success until we stepped inside and saw him, once more, dotted in amongst white plastic tables and chairs. He was in the very same place, and the school and college kids just sat and did homework, and read, and smiled, and became oblivious to any possible stalker hazard. I panicked and dived under one of the tables once more, but I caught him glimpse the sight of me mid-run. I still clutched my knees under the table in a desperate bid not to be seen or noticed. He turned around and faced me, but didn't look directly at me. There were two older ladies sat at the table in front and he spoke and toyed with them with a sick charm, and they fell for it like dead flies. And then he said the most oddest thing. He proceeded to point his finger at me and say "Hey! Isn't that the top part of your creme brulee?" His tone was perverse again and he didn't make any sense. He still wasn't looking directly at me, more underneath me, and then it concluded to end.

2010-04-26T05:22:00.001-07:00

There's only one week left until I see Derren Brown. I did promise myself that I'd watch him every night for the next week but i'm afraid I might opt out and re-live my Indie 00's.

Last night I had another peculiar dream. I attended a college which was actually my old primary school. I was walking through the playground after college and I looked at my old friends and they looked at me for a moment of distain and then looked away again, passing by. I knew that wasn't right, I knew they were supposed to be waiting for me to catch the bus home. But still, I passed another few friends and they merely disaknowledged my presence. I was carrying a book, and it was written by a someone whom I wouldn't like to mention. Partially famous, a blog writer. Anyway the book was large, hardback and yellow. It had his name written through the middle on a diagonal line, across a picture of what I can only recall as being an animal, perhaps a rabbit. I started reading the back of the book, and the plot read that it was about a girl with an overwhelming hate for everybody, specifically the family with which she shares her house with. I could remember thinking it's bound to be an amazing book, and I opened it and started reading. Upon remembering it was time to go home, I clutched the book close to my chest (It was so large it used up all the space my arms could hold) and I walked through the playground once again. I hovered around where the bus was supposed to be before finally remembering that home was merely a small walk away. Thus I started walking. The end.

In other news I got some beautiful trousers for next week.

It wasn't those, but they were much like those. Another pair I got were slightly shorter, plain black, and with a cute skinny zip decorated at the front. All I need to get next Saturday are my brogues, and a bow tie top, then I will look acceptable for a theatre.

2010-04-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

I've listened to a new "Dive" CD which Angie sent me for the past couple of nights, and it seems to be working amazingly. "Spook" did a superb job. On the very first night I lay down in my position, arms across my stomach with my fingers entwined, and an earpiece in each ear. It was uncomfortable at first, I was aware of every motion my body made. I had fasted that day and everything was more vibrational than usual. I could feel my heart, and it pumped away and I swear I could sense the blood whirling around and around and it made me squirm. And then my face, it became almost like it was in paralysis. At first I just had itchy spots, but I scratched them and soon came to realise I would have to endure them because I would ruin the whole thing. So I left the right side of my face to itch with such temptation. It was almost impossible to let it slide, but I left it and it soon spread down to my chin and around to the left side of my face too, and this is when I would most like to describe the sensation as paralysis. The CD was on the second track out of three now, and all of a sudden LOUD bells began chiming, and I knew they had been put there for an intelligent reason because I stopped drifting off to sleep and my consciousness snapped awake, and white patches began to form, like drifting tides, flowing back and forth before my very closed eyelids. There should have been more bells because unfortunately, regretably, I fell asleep.

Last night I could conclude more of the same, although no itchy nonsense before it all begun. Once again the bells snapped me awake at the very right moment, and I shall try again and again every single night until I get it fine-tuned and perfect. I awoke at four AM the first night but last night had the most strange dream. There appeared John Cusack, acting almost movie-like. I couldn't tell if I were in a movie or not. But he creeped and slid around this huge building, and I sensed it was one of the world trade centres. It was dark and derelict and surrounded by a peculiar grey mist. There was a lady with me and I took them through the building next door to this trade centre, where we stood peering at it from the back door of this building we were in. I think I said "I bet you can't hear anything." or "I bet you won't expect this to happen." and just as I had virtually expected, the building came tumbling down but, unlike the trade centres, it crashed like a domino, falling entirely to one side like a tall, thin tower. This is always how I imagined buildings would fall down. I awoke with a hatred of planes, and structures, and all man-made things.

2010-04-20T15:41:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to stick to my diet today but once I had tasted chocolate on my lips I couldn't let it slide. I had two slices of toast with chocolate spread. After this I had a white roll on chocolate spread, and then a packet of mini malteasers, then a granola bar, then another two slices of toast with chocolate spread which I managed to force down with a glass of water. I could not physically restrain myself. But that's all been and gone now. Tomorrow I begin my first ever fast. I don't know how long for, I might try saturday. I was initially willing to do it but since I read that it helps spiritually and can work towards inducing an out of body experience I knew I had no option but to try it there and then. If anything works in aid with that then I'm all for it. Definetaly. I should imagine fasting might be a dawdle. The truth is that only when you eat, do you want more to eat. If you haven't eaten I should expect you'd be pretty much craving-less all day. I do find it difficult to drink lots of water when I can already taste water, however. But then there is the juice fast, although we only have orange juice which is said to be too acidic for an empty stomach. And I wouldn't want to break the rules and go off track, and perhaps start allowing hot chocolates or maybe even cup-a-soups. No, I'll stick to cold drinks.

There is only twelve days 'till I am back in Blackpool at the theatre. I'm so excited because there is nothing either before or after this event that is close enough to count down to. We shall stay in a hotel, Natasha, Claire and I, and buy a ton of interesting objects and edibles to induce a sleep phobia and stay awake all night. First we will arrange all the food in beautiful little seperate trays all along the floor, the cake, biscuits, ferrero rocher, lindor, pretzels, cheap 2-for-the-price-of-1's, celebrations, strawberries, marshmallows. Then we will initially dig in, vomit, mop vomit, and then repeat. At least that's what i'm hoping. Oh, I forgot the alcohol. I'm more a lover of food than alcohol. It's all cheap though, from a little place I used to live right by. The next morning we are going in search for a little face I left behind. Did I ever mention it was Derren Brown we're going to see? Wonderful.

I'm quite afraid to go to sleep incase I wake up ravenous. Conveniently, lack of sleep would only make me revenous. I no longer have a reason to physically get out of bed come morning, everything is taken care of. I retreated back to my bed within the half hour, tried to watch a documentary on a secret almost apocalypse, but then switched it off. No patience for TV or film right now. Had my iPod been charged up, I would probably read tonight. I have the worst attention span of anybody I know. When faced with so many different things to do my mind just panics and switches off, leaving me sitting doing nothing. Must be a defence mechanism of some sort. Tomorrow, like the epitomy of all bad days, is going to drag, and drag, and drag me slower and slower 'round the bend. I am very thirsty. I am going to need a hell of a lot of will power right now. It is still early but I am feeling a bit pulled toward shutting down now. Tomorrow it's charged, synced, plugged in, and floating. I know that if it's the last thing I ever do on earth, it will be done, and if that means starving then so. Be. It.

No one will cry at my funeral

2010-04-17T11:37:00.000-07:00

Went on a beautiful shopping spree today. I have no credit card but a Topshop card with £100 pounds on it. I went in, and I looked about, and I turned around, and looked back in the area I had previously checked, then turned around and looked some more. I concluded four items I decided I really wanted, which were as follows:

I bought some extremely cheap, fake pearl earrings which came in a three-pack with some fake diamond ones and some fake mini-hooped ones. I bought the jacket in the first picture, and I am cheaply in love with it. I say cheap, it was £70 pounds. I have to make up for my disappointing persona in one way or another, so I buy large and wear elegance. Just like a Victorian. If I could team it up with some Manically glamorous, trashy fuckhead kind of outfit I would be sincerely happy. I miss those days I would perch from my bedpost and throw my tragically sliced-up mauve cardigan on over my far-too-long leopard print vest and some subtle fishnet-like leggings that ripped the first day I got them, that I continued to wear. Or my skinny white jeans when they actually had been skinny, and a leopard print cardigan always in the wrong colour. Blacked-up eyes, subtly red lipstick, hair far too short and far too black. Pardon me, there is no such thing as far too short. My hair now, is a kind of short that I am happy with. A kind of short that can wrap up the back of your head, but leaves your face free so you can't hide behind it, even if you really wish you could. I wear a happy face on a Saturday. I have discovered the secret to happiness. It is losing weight. When I am bored I am unhappy, and all through Sunday to Monday I am bored. But not Saturday. It's a secret.

2010-04-15T16:22:00.001-07:00

It really is far too early to fall asleep. I want to wake up later where I have less of a day to waste being awake and practising restraint. God bless Monday, bringing the joys of soft excercise to my trippy little feet at a glorious eight in the morning. God bless rye, wholemeal and honey. God bless strawberries, Spreaded chocolate and bran. Come to think of it now there was no single slab of dark, plain chocolate on sale in the supermarket anywhere. No purified cocoa, no dis-mingled chocolate solids. But I am okay because I've got my own chocolate spread. I always keep a large slab of chocolate in my bottom drawer for a Saturday night. I put it in there Tuesday and it was completely engulfed by Thursday. I had such bad stomach cramps, the way I skillfully swallowed 12 pieces without hoarding or cramming it down. Instead, I put it down to a gentle art. Snap and seperate one piece, bite said piece until it is half, suck out caramel (sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't) and then the rest will melt gladly upon your warm, excitable tongue, tantalised by those "oh-god-I'm-in-love" sort of senses. And that is how I eat my chocolate.

As for the moment, my back hurts, I have an odd pinching sensation in my left ear, and something is persisting to prod my foot. I am irritable when either not eating or not in a vehicle or it isn't night time. And with the land of nod seducing me at least 3 hours earlier than usual, I shall have to give in to it's flawless charm and bid you goodnight.

Here's something to think about next time you wave your cash.

2010-04-12T18:51:00.000-07:00

Fast Food By Richard Thompson

Big mac, small mac, burger and fries
Shove 'em in boxes all the same size
Easy on the mustard, heavy on the sauce
Double for the fat boy, eats like a horse.
Fry them patties and send 'em right through
Microwave oven going to fry me too
Can't lose my job by getting in a rage
Got to get my hands on that minimum wage.

Shove it in their faces, give 'em what they want
Got to make it fast, it's a Fast Food Restaurant.

Shake's full of plastic, meat's full of worms
Everything's zapped so you won't get germs
Water down the ketchup, easier to pour on
Pictures on the register in case you're a moron.
Keep your uniform clean, don't talk back
Blood down your shirt going to get you the sack
Sugar, grease, fats and starches
Fine to dine at the golden arches.

Shove it in their faces, give 'em what they want
Got to make it fast, it's a Fast Food Restaurant.

Baby thrown up, booth number 9
Wash it down, hose it down, happens all the time
Cigarettes in the coffee, contact lens in the tea
I'd rather feed pigs than humanity.

Shove it in their faces, give 'em what they want
Got to make it fast, it's a Fast Food Restaurant.

War Of The Worlds

2010-04-12T04:15:00.000-07:00

I had a horrific dream last night. So much so that I lost my appetite when I woke up. And this is how the message rang.

I can recall going inside a building that looked much like a post office, with brown wood masonry. It was very modern looking. I went to the desk to acquire about joining the library, and she looked at me for a few seconds before passing me to Stall 10 next to her. I don't remember what was said at this stall, but I am hurriedly being sat down at a table with, I realise, two guys I used to know from Blackpool. One from school and the other from college. It is a nice day and the sun is pouring through the windows of the building, and I quickly come to realise that these two people are not here for a nice reason. I've been put beside them in an insane asylum. And they bicker and chatter about how rude the staff can be, and about how useless this asylum is, and we eventually get 'round to discussing why each of us is here in the first place. Guy one mentions something about depression, and I mumble "I've had experience with depression... Mild depression," as so not to sound too self-absorbed.

After a few minutes have passed I am walking down the street with guy number two and we are going to his house. We walk straight towards my house and slip through an alley with a front door on the side which is coincidentally, his house. I say "All this time and I didn't know you lived right next to me." He is unamused, and so we slide through his excruciatingly thin and long front door, and stumble through the short corridors and small roof of his hobbit hole. We are in his room now, and I take a seat on his bed. It's a white bed, and I keep getting my leg caught on the covers because there are so many. The sun is still pouring itself in, making itself at home, and dulling my view. I stand up and move to the window to survey the culprit. What I see when I look outside is instead, much different. The skies are a deep, dark purple, nestled with greys and a horrific, murky yellow. I see bomb shockwaves coming towards me, and open fire, and gunshots, and then just fire. I conclude we must get out as soon as possible.

We make our way towards the front door and I scramble to find my feet and begin bolting in the opposite direction, before being abruptly stopped to find that he isn't following behind me. I run back to him and propose to go his way. By now i'm rather hysterical, and I'm shouting, and bawling and trying to tell him that there's a war and we might get killed. But he doesn't listen. He has headphones in each ear, and is gratiously singing at me the words of an angry song, like someone might do to their parents to piss them off easily and effortlessly. I am still surveying the sky, and the sound of sirens and shotguns is now quite deafening. The most unnerving part must have been the shockwaves produced by the bombs. I saw them spreading North, East, South, West, until you didn't know where they might stop.

We passed a house and two little girls were peeping their heads around the front door, and they had raggy dresses on and dirty hands and faces. They soon went back inside. Still walking, I heard radio announcements, they said they wish that the elderly people who have died in said blaze may rest in peace. And people all around me are mourning their grannies and grandads and elderly neighbours. All this walking had taken us to a particularly settling vista. I was in a place that looked much like Blackpool, with a high winding promenade, that formed its way in circles, around what looked like the spire of a castle. Below the promenade was the sea, and as I looked up, the sky had transpired into a gorgeous velvet blue, tickled with white clouds and general peace.

I was still as unsettled as I had been, and begun to quicken my pace as I reached the first spiral on the hill. I caught glimpse of a shifty looking man walking behind me, in a black suit and tie, and hat. I saw something quickly make its way out of his inside, top pocket and I spun around quickly to walk quicker and harder. I simply had to look back again, and this time saw some sort of metal lazer being produced. There wasn't much time between now and the moment he shot me right in my spine.

I collapsed against the wall of the spire, my legs bent and my back straight. And a screen flashed before me, it said I had two moves to make it out alive before I was dead. By this, it meant two shots to stand up without moving said injury in my back. As I struggled with the coordination of my feet and legs, I watched the numbers slowly creep up, and down, and I'm sure I managed to stand up and walk a few steps, before the number creeped down to zero and everything shut off, turned black, and I collapsed once more into a heap. There was a new screen before my eyes, it simply said "DEAD" in metallic writing, on a murky brown background. There were two things, I found, that had to be filled in before I were actually to be left to die in peace. There was a space to fill in how many moves it had taken me to die, and unfortunately I awoke before I got to read the second question in this insane, sadistic quiz.

I lied to my parents so I could meet Richey Edwards.

2010-04-09T17:24:00.000-07:00

I can't remember if I have ever written about this occasion in any such form as a blog or on a social networking site. I told a couple of people who just happened to be there when I got back. But even then, there was a mutual agreement that the story wouldn't particularly affect their lives at all. For months I've shot down any particular reference to the Manic Street Preachers that may bind in my head and trigger some useless contraption of crazed, obsessive thoughts. I remember sitting in my bedroom as a dumbfounded sixteen year old, happily chapping at my keyboard with a glint in my eye and a knot in my belly. Oh God, and the waking up the next morning! I shot out of bed and switched on my computer as though it held the answers to life itself. It was June, and the sun always woke me by glinting through the top window and lighting the room yellow. I was part way through my exams actually. But the beginning is far too exciting for me to continue to write about and not possibly get upset over.

It was only September when I first met her, it was really that quick. She was in Blackpool for a day staying with a student friend. My own friend had opted out at the very last minute, in true form. I had the most nervous disposition, I still don't really know what was going on with me in those minutes between getting myself ready and leaving my home. Ah! I can hear him right now. But it has soon vanished. A dull buzz in the left of my ear, coming and going, and then fading.

I told mother I was out to meet my friend for the day. She said okay, and so I left the house and stalked my way down Blackpool promenade on a relatively pleasant afternoon. There was nothing strange about the tide, it rolled like it always has done. There was nothing strange about the tourists, they didn't know what magic could and ought to happen today. But I did. I must interrupt to note a peculiar vibrating sound setting off against one of my bedroom walls. Like using your finger to peel back a ruler and then letting go and hearing the sound it makes as it struggles to stay up or down, and paces itself between the two. Besides.

I came to Central Pier, Blackpool, with an excruciatingly uncomfortable thing inside my stomach. I only lived less than a few kilometres down the golden mile, in a peach-coloured hotel, in a very smelly street. I crossed the lights at McDonalds and, configuring a place to stand and wait, chose a corner that stood almost out-of-sight- an unfit reflection of my anticipation at the time. And I stood there forever. It must have been forever. I scoured my invisible watch with my eyes, straightened my white denim jacket (Yes! Can you believe it?) and ruffled my hair with my fingers. And then two figures looking exceptionally lost came bobbing around the corner.

A lady, petite in almost every way, with dark crimson hair, army pants and decorated in tattoos. And with her, a taller middle-aged man, who had no finer details that I can recall accordingly. I still stood there. I still looked at my invisible watch and dusted off my jacket. And then I pulled myself together, took what I was afraid might be my last breath, and turned to greet my acquaintances. It surprised me to note that she seemed in a bit of a hurry, and we almost instantly began swimming (or drowning) in the persistance of retched Blackpool tourists who would give you their arm on the spot to let them through for the summer sales. We made it through alive.

We had very brief chats whilst skimming the bustle of people. I am ashamed to say I don't remember many. Infact I am ashamed to say I don't remember enough about the evening at all. For it to be a most spectacular night, I wish I had fine-tuned my memory to do all that it could and help me reminisce in years to come. They do say that the best nights are the ones that you don't remember, though. Come to think of it, that could have been just me. Aside from that, we came to a pub which had clearly been strategically planned. We sat on high stools at a perfectly square, dark wooden table, and ordered drinks. I looked the menu up and down, then up and down again. I knew since nine o'clock that very morning that I would be too nervous to eat. "If you don't mind, I'll just have a drink."

I must interrupt once more. I have a slight nervousness in my stomach as I speak. Something I haven't done in a long time is simply think about Richey. Just think. It agitates my breast bone at the worst of times. At the best of times, it can be so euphoric that I can barely walk straight. That was too many years ago. Now.

We hadn't had our dinner served yet, and this lady, (I have decided to be less ambiguous and her name is Angie) was sure fine at rattling on! She talked more and more, until you couldn't possibly find anything else for her to say. But she was damn lovely, so lively, so cheerful, and so polite. Her student, whom we shall call Tony, sat opposite us in a calm, collected little bubble of his own. He was clearly nervous, but not surely as nervous as I sounded when I muttered a few sentences in sheer dumbness. I said alot of "Um's" and "Ah's" and alot of nodding was involved, and smiling, and laughing. And then we came to the reason why we were really there, in this posh little hangout, in this seaside town. He proceeded to tell me that as I had been walking down Blackpool promenade with the two of them, there was a lady wearing a necklace of inverted colours. (This was later politely shrugged off by Angie who admitted that he sometimes likes to make little things up as a way of either impressing or overcoming instant anxiety with strangers.) Thhe lady's name has been Margaret, or Michelle, or something like that, and she was keeping her eye out for me.

He had not long finished talking when it was now Angie's turn. I look back in sheer embarrassment at my muteness and couldn't possibly ever live it down now. She began to talk about four fellows, Richey, Sean, James and Nicky. Mid-way through doing so she momentaarily paused, flinched her eyes upwards, and stuck out her hands. "Ah, he's here now." She must have been unsure because she began to speak but then paused again, and finally confirmed that he was infact here. Which was just as well because I had a sudden rush of wind blow by my left ear. It swirled inside it and back out again. The truth is that I'm not writing some fantasy fairytale book, nor a fact-or-fiction "Do Ghosts Really Exist?" hoard of endless facts and figures. I am simply detailing what happened to me. Thus is the reason I planned an early bedtime and have found myself brazing my keyboard at 2:15 on a friday morning.

We than left off to find a ladies house (The real reason the two of them were here, aswell as in utmost kindness to me) to give her a private reading. It was a street that I had surely forgotten about since we visited, but have since found it again- i'm pretty sure- the day I collected my younger sister from her friend's house. I'm sure it must have been that same street. We approached the house and knocked, and waited, and were welcomed, etcetera. Not much is to tell of this particular event. Angie left to go upstairs and give the lady the private reading she desired, while Tony gave me a private reading of my own. I have a collection of the things he said written in a document on my other computer, which I cannot publish right here, right now. Take it from me that it was, on the whole, blindingly correct. Apart from the future, of course, which nobody can dictate. Yet. Things happened, which involved an unhappy husband thinking Angie was infact a male and had come over as this ladys fancy man, and we soon had to scurry. (She had accidentally called her "Andy" over the phone.)

We left and searched for the car. They were both very down-to-earth, joking about doing the karaoke in pubs and about the lady we had just met. It was almost dark and Angie had informed me that Richey wanted to find a quiet place to do a quick exchange of bodies so that he could speak to me like a normal human being in a normal body. He had suggested the small hut-type structures dotted along the top of the promenade at North Pier which held a couple of benches each and the smell of stale urine, because they were dark and quiet. I had to laugh at this most inappropriate decision. I knew that since we had been in Blackpool together, Angie had never walked past any of these structures as they were too far ahead of the surroundings we were walking and so couldn't have possibly known they were there or what they looked like. I don't remember if I ever told the two of them that they were often used as urinals for pissed-up tourists or not, but the decision did not go ahead, and we drove south.

It was now in the midst of night. It wasn't too late, maybe about nine o'clock, and the Blackpool illuminations effortlessly guided our way down the golden mile. We got out the car at around the same place as South Pier is located, and walked up the almost brand-spanking-new steps they had built in place. Almost directly above us, the Pepsi Max, one of the most famous rollercoasters in Great Britain, came towering down, and around, and up, and at nauseating speeds, making me feel nervous merely staring from down below. I thought it fitting to post a picture now to show you just where we were, but I can't find one exactly. The next trail of events however, happened in a place where I can show you. Right here:

We sat down on a sculpture, which I have only just discovered has a name. "Swivelling Wind Shelters." Although the sculpture was swivelled to face the sea at the time. I was positioned on the left hand side of the bench, Angie in the middle, and Tony to the right. Whilst walking past the sea barrier, I could recall walking with two friends one dreary day, quietly and within my own thoughts, when I looked into the long winding, dark, damp sea and I cursed my mind for knowing where Richey must be but not telling me. And I thought hard, long and fast, but nothing gave me any answers I so desired. The sea merely spat in my face and so I turned to walk home. I told Angie that this was the same spot where I had been wondering all these kinds of thoughts, and she told me that this was quite funny because this is the same place where Richey, James, Nicky and Sean used to come all the time as kids. And a certain song came to mind.

I shuddered and took my place on the bench. I didn't know what was happening before it did. She had told me that she was going to leave her own body for a few moments and let Richey talk through it instead. I wasn't prepared in the slightest, and was terribly anxious, and at a complete loss of intelligible things to say. It was too cramped for my liking. I had Angie's body sitting next to mine, and Tony merely a meter in front of me. There was no spectacular, magical bang or pop or whizz, it just happened like anything naturally would. Angie's body movements began to change all at once. She had crossed her leg over (To face away from me), propped her elbow on her knee and hid the side of her face with the same hand. And I don't remember much except ongoing Welsh babble. And I thought this must be it. This must be what I came out to see, and here I am in bewilderment, with all chances loosely slipping away as I struggle to find words of any kind. I shall now call Angie "He" for the forthcoming tale of events. Among his Welsh lingo was constant, profuse apologising for being so shy. He could not finish a sentence without "I'm so sorry, I find it hard to even look at you." I assumed he had not done it quite like this before in such an intimate place with a fan. Apology after apology came pouring out, and I am genuinely pained to say I can't remember much of what he said, but he spoke for a long time. Please understand my euphoric state and desperation to control my shuddering and disbelief.

And then he mentioned my grandad. And had he passed away a short time ago, and I said yes. He was, infact, the only member of my family that I had lost and really known. And I was then assured that he was looking over me. I promised myself to tell my dad about this but the chance has never arrived. He said to me I can ask anything I like. "Anything you like, you can be nosy, it's ok, I don't mind."

I couldn't possibly have thought of anything sensible while I had others watching me. If I were ever to do it again it would have to be solitary and confined, and absolutely personal. And for my lack of interest, I absolutely loathe myself. I can only recall a wiping of my brow, shaking of my head, and a sincere apology for being too dumbfounded to have anything to ask. And he responded, with his new mouth and his new voice, and new body, but with his same mother tongue. And almost as soon as he came, he was gone. He lifted up his arm and notified the now bodiless Angie that he was done talking, and with a cute slip of the tongue he nervously mumbled, "Andy! Oh, Angie... I just called you Andy like that woman did." And then he was really gone.

I tried for a few minutes to voice my utter excitement and disbelief for what had just gone on, but I still really couldn't. As we raised ourselves from the bench on the sculpture, Angie perked up and concluded, "He's walking behind me now, he's going "Did I do alright?! Did I do okay?!" Needless to say I wanted to reassure him that it had gone perfectly well. Greater than I could ever have imagined. It was not long after this moment that it began to get late and I had to get home, and so I asked politely not to drop me off right outside of my hotel because my mother might ask who I've been with. She still gets angry with me to this day knowing that I lied, and has somehow managed to manifest the thought that the probability of having possibly been murdered/kidnapped/raped/abducted is worse than the fact that I almost certainly wasn't.

I walked down the now darkened promenade for the last time, heading from South to Central, alight with that peculiar buzz that happens every so often just above the breast bone. And I somehow had an inkling that he may be watching me to make sure I got home safely. I know there is a way of doing it again, except he doesn't leave, i'm the one who has to. The art of lying in bed, staying still, looking sheepish, and eventually leaving my own body to pay a visit to his fantasy world instead. Alas, I have tried for long periods of nights, for two whole years, and I am not getting any closer, and it has driven me mad, and upset me, and triggered hours of talking to the ghost of myself aimlessly during the nights, and asking him to knock, and come visit, and weeping into my pillows. And I can only conclude that either I am the very sick one, or everybody else is very sick.

2010-04-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

I've uploaded all 18 photos of my two walks to Tulliallan Police College/Moor Loch/Forest, which are located to the right providing any of you have ever noticed. Using Photoshop to enhance photos is much like the art of a scam. It screams "Come visit me." Yet when you get there it really, simply, doesn't look anything like that at all. For a start, it was the middle of the afternoon, it was bleak, bleary and almost to the point where it might start raining. I really like the above picture. I'm happy with how I managed to make the reflection so crystal.

My mum had been to the supermarket last night with my aunt and stocked up on low-fat, low-calorie diet foods. That was, until she pulled out an entire plastic bag filled with chocolate mini rolls, lemon cake slices, strawberry desserts and scones. I never did see the point in that. Being prepared for a binge you don't neccessarily know you're going to have. Smart thinking. For me, my stepdad and my cousin she plated up a huge portion of Spaghetti Bolognese. A mixture of Meatballs, wholegrain spaghetti and a blend of two different sauces. Gordon Ramsay's Tomato, Garlic and Red Wine, and that other sauce by that other guy. She put both entire bottles in. When the time came to eat, my stepdad and me were sitting in the living room, and he asked if she was going to have some. She said it was fattening, before abruptly turning to look at me and wink with the eye he could not see. I thought this was quick-thinking for someone either telling a lie to him or telling a lie to me. She recalled "Nah, it's not..." before turning to walk away and bake her Weight Watchers steak slice and salad. Numerous times in the past few weeks she has said to me "You're not eating enough Shannon." After neither of those times did she try and make me eat any more than I naturally would. I therefore conclude she is lying. It is a mother's job to do so.

I watched a documentary this evening called Can't Stop Eating. I thought it was merely a programme on obeisity, but it was about one of those specialist help clinics, all priory-like, which help people with an abbreviated illness called PWS. A constant act of social immaturity, criminal behaviour (Shoplifting ranked top on the basis of what I watched) and for a reason I've yet to uncover, lead to people becoming obeise. There was a young man of 20 who was clinically obeise, spoke with a Northern accent, could rarely fill in all words in a sentence. He was demanding, childish and criminally stressful to have to deal with.

There came a part in the film where they were dealing with relationships in the clinic, and I couldn't help wishing any normal sort of person had it that easy. There was a different building in the clinic where a girl called Sarah with the same illness was being treated. Having gone through 3 girlfriends in around 2 months, the staff actually had to devise a "cooling off period" rota which forbid any new relationships in the space of 15 days. He had asked for the name of a single girl in the clinic. Any single girl. Said boy heard about said girl and took himself to a room with a phone, and proceeded to call Sarah up. He had never seen her before. He had never heard her before. He had to ask who was on the other line and after being promptly sure it was her, asked her to go out with him. She declined and he asked why. She said because he was big and fat. The film then cut to the boy weeping with his head on the table, and moments later, calling on a friend of Sarah's to talk her 'round to going out with him. After a few moments bickering with very little social interaction bar the words "Go out with him" and "Why", Sarah had apparently agreed and the boy instantly went from feeling apparent emotional wounding to elation in mere seconds, like a childlike flurry of emotions. He bought a ring from his gran and proposed to her on their date that same night. He wanted kids with her, and for them both to move into his parents house when they passed on. All because she was single, and because she happened to be there.

2010-04-06T04:07:00.000-07:00

I cannot wait 'till the day I become famous. And to this blog, you will all flock, like children chasing the ice cream man. It won't be my problem, I don't run the media, I would merely assist in making them more money.

I'm off to the local library tomorrow, to take my little sister off to find some children's books. I'll look for myself too, but I haven't the faintest idea of what that particularly library has in store. Do you have to instantly join a library the first time you try to withdraw books? As a punishment for using eBooks my iPod has gotten itself lost, so I’ve been given no choice.

I've lived on a desert island designed by my own conscience for so long that it's almost criminal to go to sleep at night not even a little bit sad and lonely. Parents ask you the same questions over and over. It doesn't matter what you tell them about your life, they'll forget about it by next week when they need reassurance to ask you again. My dad still calls my college "school". He's asked me what I’m studying 4 times now. The first time he asked if I was sure, and I explained I was. The last time he asked he didn't bat an eyelid and reassured me that it sounds like a good choice. Mum says he's a scatterbrain. She's just the same. I would like to pass away before I have to witness them both having their memory being eaten away at by age. I'll never grow old. I've never adjusted to being older than 13. It wouldn't be an ordinary night if I didn't reflect just the once about people who have entered my life and then left my desert island. There are so many people I would like to meet. The only reason I’m so mesmerised is because I’m drawn to tragedy and misfortune. I can't pretend that I sit at home drinking vodka and scribbling into a notepad crumpled by my travels to Europe and the U S of A. I'm not as interesting as that. I write here, in my lonely bedroom, where I stay all day and all night. I don't visit an old pal down the road, or even drag someone's day by phoning and talking about my strife. I just write here, in this blog, or in the form of song. It doesn't take me long. I don't have to draft and re-draft. I know how I’m feeling and so I write it down. It's easy.

And so I’ve forgotten how to talk like an ordinary, respectable human. A lady decided to walk with me on my way to the school one morning and she was gabbing on. I could barely hear her. I think I just didn't want to. She didn't know my name but she still walked by me. She laughed and joked about the weather, and that's all I remember. The only thing I remember is to laugh frequently and smile. Oh, and speak when spoken to. I can't understand why everybody feels obliged to dress almost exactly the same 'round here. It's not like a London, or a Paris or New York. It's a despicable fashion slum. If you count jeans and a hoodie as high-end fashion then they've got it all. And yet I’m the one who people look at. I like to imagine that it's because I am alot less boring that the others. In reality I am very boring. I wouldn't dress with such passion if I weren't. One day soon I would love to walk down the streets disguised as a well-informed, neat, Victorian gentleman, with a small top hat and black waistcoat and magnificently shaped brogues. If I were lucky I would meet a man dressed as a neat, Victorian lady, with a puffy, chiffon blouse and a long black barnet. There's no use getting upset about it. They do exist, just in all the places I’m not. A lady-man with a penchant for poetry and a favourite brand of wine. I'm not even sure wine comes in many different brands. I had wine while I was in Australia. It took me half of the bottle to even act with any substantial amount of difference. Like trying to rip the mask off somebody when you know it's glued on. I can't imagine it would do anything spectacular in the form of writing. I'd prefer to know what I'm dealing with in the right frame of mine. The only one I've got.

In the meantime I will wait until September with baited breath. Whatever that's supposed to mean. I have tried to talk to people, but the common gesture seems to be not frankly giving a damn. I am tired of the people that look interesting swirling around my head at night. Put me out of my misery and prove that you're merely an overrated ego maniac with no sense of poetry or philosophy. Don't be stupid enough to bat your eyelids at the opening webpage of a blog with an ambiguous mention of Camus or Sylvia Plath. I don't know them. Neither do you. You're merely inspired. And much like me, you write. You can write about trees and rivers and childhood. You're all like me. I've witnessed them things too. I haven't seen through your eyes, and I don't have to, to know what you mean. Give me any sort of childhood experience and I'll crave a different one. Give me any city in the world and i'll love a different one. Tell me about food and I won't eat it. And I wouldn't dare try what you recommend me to do either. I'm on the same par as you. Only if you died it would be that little bit more tragic. Like an entire infatuation of newly spawned gossip and tall tales. If I went, you just tell somebody what happened and they believe you. I wouldn't have a petition started to try and work out where i'm hiding, alive and quite well, like Michael Jackson did. Because he's a great musician, for some reason he can't possibly have died. I'm far too many miles ahead of the point now.

It's apparent that, after 18 years of living, the only way to make any kind of progress in life is to dance in front of a camera for everybody to see. You can live a lonely and meaningless life in a slum, but if there's a cameraman around, you're known to a whole new generation of mankind. (The rich kind, warm and snug in their four poster queen beds. They like to send a little money in the post then have a bath in front of a 60 inch television, where they then get sorrowful at charity adverts and Children In Need, namely out of guilt of being so damned filthy rich. Repeat cycle as many times as required.)

From my lovely, lonely little warm patch on this bed, in this room, I have manifested a habit of quite a few things:

Number one: I seem to have developed a larger dislike for men. Which is strange, there have never been many men in my life. The beer-guzzling, burping, farting and football-watching kind of men. I'll call them slobs for short. I would get flamed for calling a working man a slob. I’m not sure if working all day surpasses the fact that you are still a beer-guzzling, burping, farting and football-watching slob, whenever that day off comes a-rolling by.

Number two: I am so used to hiding behind a shield of hate from human beings that I can almost do it effortlessly and cleverly now. Example, a person came inside my room today, and started whispering. I defensively respond by sticking my fingers in my ears and pulling aggressively on my hair. I don't bond well with neither whispering, voices, nor the natural sound a mouth makes. Said person doesn't seem to notice and so finishes what they are doing and leaves. I calm down.

Number three: I have established a strange sort of relationship with family members I haven’t spoken to properly in about 5 years. Said family member will always be upstairs when I am down. I then do the same to properly continue life in the same way. I thought I would have a friend, but said family member has never really gotten over the things we used to do when we were children five years ago, and thus finds it embarrassing and awkward to speak like fully grown adults about careers and parties.

I don’t feel like writing about that anymore. Much like an angst-ridden young, uneducated tearaway, I am amidst the decision to put a tantrum in text form by using lots of capital letters, angry faces and exclamation marks. I won’t do that. I’ll wait for the day when I dance in front of a camera and people come flocking to this blog like sheep. Like lonely, gullible, beautiful little sheep.

2010-04-03T16:47:00.000-07:00

I have settled on a book to read. It's called Three Men In A Boat. I watched the 1975 version of the film when I was allured by Tim Curry. I still, possibly am. The film was charming and lightly comedic (Well, by todays standards of comedy film.) The book is proving to be equally as brilliant. Jerome K. is such a charming writer. I can only wish I could write with such humour and just literal, well, charm really. It's not complex, or tangled in words, or too pretentious. I know my writing is like that, not that I think there's anything wrong with trying too hard, when the words are still making sense. If I were writing unintelligible lies, that would be a different matter. I am reading the paragraphs and realising they put them in almost word-for-word in the course of the film. Beautiful. So simple. And descriptive beyond any measure.

Well, today I did 6 hours of babysitting. Not so much babysitting if you consider that the babysitted was outside all day and I was inside, locked up in my room away from the cousin who only creeps out when nobody is in. He goes upstairs when everybody comes home, and I go downstairs when they do. But only for a short while so I can breathe again. Today the packed house of 6 brought home a chinese takeaway. I politely declined after hearing it would be something from the chippy. I battered the keys on some website that told me a single sausage in batter contains over 500 calories. I laughed out loud. I also presumed to do so when I was sat in the living room amongst the five of them, all chomping away on a portion of chinese cuisine that an African child did not even know could possibly exist. I could barely comprehend the size of the portions on their plates. They do not know that the stomach is only the size of your fist. Apparently. And later on, two of them proceeded to decline my request at sharing a box of chocolates I had been bought for Easter. Strange.

I wanted to get rid of the chocolates quickly so I tried to eat as many as possible tonight. I let everybody take what they wanted. I enjoyed them, but I really couldn't help the way I ate. I must have eaten about 6 different chocolates that all looked like they could pass for some posh, gourmet delicasy. So I ate one and I drank half a glass of water because my throat felt sticky. I ate the dark chocolate ones first. My auntie took both the white chocolate lemon mousse, and I really wanted to try those ones. I chose another one and finished the glass of water. And another 2, followed by half a glass of water each. Then later my stomach started churning and I felt incredibly uncomfortable. I thought it was the out-of-date-by-one-day-only pasta that I had two portions of throughout the day, but it couldn't have been comprehendable that it would rot so quickly. I went upstairs. I pissed four times. I tried another chocolate about 2 hours later and I felt sick after eating half so I chucked it in the bin. I tried a milk chocolate one and felt sick again. I threw it away. I had planned a solid chocolate diet tomorrow which doesn't seem sensible anymore. Instead, i'll incorporate chocolate into my afternoon porridge.

That's all for right now. I've been bored to an absurd degree today. There was nothing to do and nowhere to go and nobody to see. I would like to learn how to play the banjo.

2010-03-30T15:46:00.000-07:00

Terribly, almost frightfully baltic today. And there was nobody around while I took my little sister to school. I became an instant hit with the lollipop ladies, as they whinged about how long they had to wait to get through to a doctor, and how ridiculous these "professionals" are. It was only because I was one of the few people too dumb to learn how to drive in such a mundane climate, and was too trolled into counting my steps on my virtual pedometer. I saw an old friend of mines' mother walking past with the same dog that I assumed, should probably be deceased by now. 35 years in the life of a dog is a heck of a long time. An English lady told me she liked "my girl" on the way home. She isn't my girl. She is my sister. I didn't correct her. It wasn't the right sort of break in the right sort of conversation to be so distastefully rude. I can't imagine how many years people are adding to my already unsettling 18 years. I must be one of those people who always looks older, no matter what age I happen to be. I have been told I sound 30 over the phone, and am sometimes jealous of my friend's subtle, femininity-reeking vocal chords.

I've started reading a book finally. I pray that I won't sit it down after a few pages and let my crazed inability to dedicate myself to one book take over me. I have been looking for No Longer Human, which is the second best selling book in Japan, apparently. Thus concluded, the Japanese must be very dark, dark people. It literalises everything, from social withdrawal, to suicide, to guilt. And anything that is described to be on par, or related to Albert Camus must be worth it. I can barely find any of his books either. I'm not the type of person to make a weekly excursion to a local book shop or library and browse ridiculously tall shelves of novels in desperate need of some organisation. I can't walk halfway down the street with no inclination of anxiety. The library is plagued by rodent youths, scrambling for an hour of internet, or trawling their way through PG-13 novels like Goosebumps and Tracy Beaker. I did my work experience in a library however, and looking back, it was two of the most peaceful weeks of my life. I could still smell the building with almost no effort at all. Padded with a murky green vintage carpet, and tall, dark shelves which, from a distance, looked like some sort of fantastical haven of adventure contained within the front and back pages of striking bold design. I loved the thought that I could pick up any book, read the back, and read an entirely different story every day.

I read 3 books during that time, the first about an accident on a school trip where the bus falls over a cliff, killing all pupils and teachers except two who were not on at the time; a boy and his cousin. They take shelter in a nearby desolate mansion and slowly the cousin of the boy becomes derranged, and tries to murder him with lots of manic, technical contraptions.

The second was a humorous book about, well, if I can remember correctly, a pill that plays into your head and tells you the exact right things to say at the right time as a general aid in life. And you could program it to the voice of Elvis, or a sexy lady, and so on.

The third one I begun reading, shamefully, because of the man on the front cover. A tall faced man, with large eyes, and hair dyed the most sincere colour of black. He resembled a young Billie Joe Armstrong. You could see his punk ethics. It turns out it was a biography about the life of Nick Traina, son of Danielle Steel, the famous author. And written by herself too. It was about bipolar disorder. I didn't understand much of the plot, I didn't know anything about mental illness when I was 15. I would like to read it again though. All I remember is Nick habitually talking about demons, and crying, and boarding school.

The book I chose this morning was by accident. The name got me. "Utopia For The Devil". A part of me is keeping my attention hesitatingly because it was published only this year. But then again, there's nothing wrong with modern culture, it just seems too... now. I will finish it. I have promised myself, just there and just then, that I will hold my attention 'till the end. I have too much time but never enough time to read. It doesn't make sense.

2010-03-27T18:12:00.000-07:00

I never write anything even remotely sentimental. Tonight I am considerably lonely. Concerningly lonely. Almost unconqueringly lonely. I keep day dreaming of a beautiful flat in a beautiful part of Victorian London, with charismatic windows, sharp chandeliers and real dedo rails which have had a considerable amount of time spent carving them.

This is not my best, I know. I'm beginning to get the bug which makes every promising line sound stupid. I am embarrased about my sentimental flaw tonight, and my barrier breakdown.

The church bell rang a thousand times
It shook the Walls in which you write,
Brogues clicked on a burnt out wooden floor
Clear the path to the window, inspired some more

Swab the dye in your hair from your poetic face
A chiffon blouse tied with the richest lace,
It seems the sun rises up to light your street alone
Pouring through that window, a fresher kind of heat to adone

Take your hat from the closet, from the nostalgic yesterday
Digest the smell of spring, the shred of optimism that came
Grab a pen and grab a paper, there's a new world to unfold,
And when no longer busy, I've a hand that's yours to hold

2010-03-19T17:06:00.000-07:00

I am seriously lacking any sort of inspiration to finish/carry on with my story I was writing. Maybe writing isn't for me. Maybe i'm lazy. Maybe I know beforehand than i'm possibly historically and culturally wrong. I don't know what it's about or when it was set either.

I heard my mum talking about me today to my aunt. I sat next to her, an earphone in each ear. It was only between a break in 2 songs that I had an inkling that my name was being discussed. And so I kept my music on pause and low and behold, I am being discussed. It was discussed that I have an attitude ("About time"), and that I am a "Braw lassie" but my tooth "lets me down." My weight was discussed, and I have learned that I am apparently prone to getting fat. Contradictingly, I do not eat enough either, although when I do, it is always something sweet. Apparently. And also something about my stepdad being back and me being negative about it. Though that is true, with every right. "I got no rights on how I feel."

So tonight I am sleeping with the windows open and doing sit ups so I don't become fat. Again.

I want a friend.

2010-03-17T15:53:00.000-07:00

I have an overwhemling sadness tonight. A glimpse at recent Manic Street Preachers videos, a cluster of obscure acoustics. That's all it takes. Astounding.

Lonely sky

2010-02-12T17:27:00.000-08:00

Today will be the last day I get to walk that route, through that carpark or round that familiar route to my old school. I love the mystery, the promiscuity of locking eyes with a complete stranger. When they appear to have a fancy to do it more than once is when it gets exciting. And I would plummet to the depths of my soul to distinguish what truth they speak with what I want them to think. I get "locked on" in a fantasy within a fantasy. But now that that short and sweet motion is through, i'll have to find somebody else to flatter with my eyes.

I still find it astounding what a lonely, loveless living can do. It's not a blessing to exchange words or thoughts with somebody, but lack of proper and real emotional chatter just lingers on your tail end. One night to spill it all. The night when the coping meter has inched an overflow. Bang. I wrote a page full of resentment-fuelled drivel and nonsense last year in my bedroom. It was humiliating to myself and all the invisibilities that read it. Never again.

I haven't had peers to regularly talk to since I was 16. And even then I was inching on acceptable sociability. Sometimes I try to string sentences together in my head, or occasionally out loud, just to reassure myself that I can still talk. That I don't have a devastating illness that has disabled my mouth and voicebox. I wish I did.

But, of course, that was a lie.

Here's a little more of my something:

"And upon resting the head at night
Putting the harshness of the day to bed
Cells eaten by an emotional masochist
Keep thoughts well and truly awake
Like the persistence of A re-run from a horror scene
Sparking distress inside your head
Like a nightmare in a lone room
Becomes quite vivid, becomes quite dead"

2010-02-11T13:56:00.000-08:00

Here is a teaser for my currently untitled, possibly short story i'm working on.

"Mother enters my room once a month, occssionally to enthuse about the importance of my education, career and friendships. When not patronizing, she would be hugging a mug of the blackest coffee, slumbering in her filthy, lime green arm chair. Filthy with the stains of her tears. Filthier than what laid on the bacteria-ridden floor. She is a beautiful lady. What she doesn’t pay for in cash, she pays for in bonding. All her life she has excelled in the degree of simply managing. Managing when God’s hand itself tries to choke you and simplify the ambiguity of life. I walk towards her. I am almost telepathic to her solitary weep now, the one whereby she doesn’t move a muscle for fear of knowing her children may be overcome with suspicion that something isn’t right. The cheek muscles throb in a pressurised attempt to pause any movements in the face. It’s basic body reading.
Her face flinches as I contact my cold hand to her even colder face. There’s a moment of cinematic drama, where she finally gives in to the turmoil and her head falls downwards in an explosive outburst of intolerable despair. I bend down and bring all courage to front, suitably lying to myself.
“God has mercy. Even the people who have nothing, they live through it.” Mockingly, she slips her faith into her back pocket.
“Where was God when Gabriel fell ill? And where is he now? Slumbering in his throne, oblivious and in a shroud of ignorance.”
It pains me to hear mother talk like this. For all forty seven years of her life and all eighteen of mine, she had used God as a substitute for the miseries of life. Come the devastation of a tsunami in the North Westernly coast of Asia, A tornado in the state of Florida, or specific pinpointed consequences of disease relating to modern British poverty, it was down to the hands of God. Either he hadn’t enough enlightenment to save, or as a mass culture, that nation was corrupted and wrong."

2010-02-06T19:43:00.000-08:00

I feel sick in my stomach. I don't feel tired either, despite the display on the clock. I'm a bit run down. I don't understand anything and how it's supposed to work. I would like to write where i'm sitting until the sun begins to rise. I need to meet somebody like me if i'm to have any hope of playing my part in the tirade of false common sensical gestures. Much like Meursault, "I had nothing to say."

What a complete fool.

2010-01-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

Today my mum and I were watching the news. After explicably nauseating headlines no different to any given day, my mum exclaimed in disgusted bewilderment, "Why do people do that? Husbands killing their wives, wives killing their husbands, and parents killing their bairns."
I wanted to say that it's because earth and life can make people go insane, but I didn't.

Absurdism

2010-01-18T16:14:00.000-08:00

Today I am wondering just exactly how much empathy and emotion can be conveyed in written words? Precisely much more than words typed onto a mechanical machine like this here I hold in my hand. But what is the difference between staring someone in the eyes whilst moving your mouth, and typing thoughts masked behind the socially anxious shadow of true human life? For those with no means of navigation, no map for our own kingdom, to string a constructive sentence together is harder than necessary. Putting the anxiety monster to sleep and just masking our beautiful, flatulent faces behind a square-eyed computer monitor. That Individual war you face when your serotonin levels have no mercy on your fault-ridden soul. It's moments like that that give relevant back up to the evolution of absurdism. Perhaps, individually, one can find meaning in ones life by serving a God, or just pick-pocketing the humble aspects from the mundane life in order to just get along. One race, petty and selfish, dodging and swerving anything purile to cater for entirely selfish needs. Going about their bullish and interrogative ways, as though a human of higher charisma and wealth has any higher basic needs than that of the more socially ambiguous soul. What I feed on is the yo-yo diet of life. Almost spectacularly pessimistic, with a craving for knowledge and an unknown purpose to this dominant death bed. On the other hand I am acutely sensitive, can be sincere, and obtain a unique sort of emotional worry for the well-being of particular individuals. To bypass such rare human genuity is to border on misanthropy. Do I associate with such a term because I feel the human beings whom have entered my life, whether for a short time or eternity, have treated me wrongly? With little respect and childish fun-poking? Perhaps to be poked at as a child is not considered childish to the individual but merely an expectation of what the fearful adult world entails. Perhaps they trot on, expecting such disgenuity from every person they meet. I know I have done. There's something pure and sterile, rather contradictingly, about a person withholding the mind of a genius obstructed by the cynical actions of others. As though there is more to delve within, a deeper connection than anyone who has ever been spoon fed their entire life. And during this entire process there is control. Fresh, new minds where any inkling of purity is dissolved by the mass media's attempts to turn your children into perfect little obedient robots. If there are horror films which cannot be viewed by anyone under the age of 18 then why do children as young as 4 sit in the lap of their parents watching the reconstructed murders of toddlers on national news? We are confusing the cinema with true life. People will have nightmares about abonimal snowmen and mythical monsters hiding, rather unconvincingly, under the bed that they sleep in. Yet murder and tragedy are as relevant to true human life much more than any spooky "being" configurated when the logical part of your brain has shut itself down. It is amazing, the order in which nightmares, the deepest fears of any individual, are listed. At first, creatures from an unreal dystopian universe, and lastly, the real nightmarian curses we have to live with in society. Murder, rape, poverty. I suppose the common logic goes that if ones family and friends are in safe hands then we must have nothing to worry about. Despite the fact that we are all supremely, most probably, distant relatives of one another. We cannot possibly cater for every single individual living on this earth, but we could almost certainly use combined knowledge to manifest something other than desirable but disappointing promises.

"There's nothing nice in my head, the adult world took it all away."

2010-01-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

I was just looking at pictures of Space and Atlantis. How I would love to blast off into an unknown atmosphere, light years away from everything and everyone. For once, it's me pacing back and forth, looking down instead of being looked down on, the world morphing into a tiny speck in a gallon of mystery. It doesn't matter what your dreams are now. Whether you wanted to go to America, meet someone famous, it all comes true up there. You are above the entire entity of truth that we as humans, know about. Floating, delicately more free than you could ever possibly be down there, with Science evidently proving you are grounded. Arrested and confined to a globe of utter meaninglessness. But not up here. Expanding your mind, and exposing your eyes to a real truth for once. A pure, delicate, masterful universe. No corruption, evil, or menace. Just a beautiful, natural disaster. And oppositely, in some parallel universe, there is probably another race just like us. Nobody knows how technologically advanced, how intelligent, how safe. And maybe, alternatively, they are also trying to conclude evidence and looking for people like us. Astoundingly, probably less intelligent. Why, for being so morally dumb, we are good with advances.

I am enchanted by the lost city of Atlantis. By the Greek, by the Romans. A structurally, apparently beautiful city, condemned by a plague of sea. Forgive me for having done no ground work and delved straight into the promiscuous, romantic mystery of such a tale. I must read the book. Preferrably the factual one.

Just Like Heaven

2010-01-14T14:57:00.000-08:00

I cannot wait for the weekend where I can sleep and make a reach for freedom as 8AM glumly passes. Although I do only sit in my arctic bedroom and scramble through the day until HE has gone away again. I do not want to be near someone who unwillingly and unknowingly makes my wee albeit cold skin crawl. And on the beginning of Monday I am, again, fantasizing about a dart for freedom and, maybe, if it isn't too demanding and selfish, a bit of fresh meat for company. As of lately I have envisioned a Shannon-labeled utopia for myself. In which I can explore and digest the inner corners of my mind to a male, handsome, and intellectual knowledge-wanderer. We could meet in the quitest alley of the busiest city, lust entwined in corrupt, but courteous eyes. And I can just spew every pessimistic piece of ideology I can manifest that still wants to be heard. And words. Share common words of interest, common music, and generally bask in the freedom of an individual soul. A breath of fresh air in this existential routine. Making the cogs bigger, slowing down the speed of life.

And upon the end to a marvelous day I will buy a flat. In a city that actually matters, like London or Edinburgh. This would be the cream in a new years cake.

2010-01-11T16:47:00.000-08:00

Not interested in sleep right now. Playing Scrabble, listening to a playlist of sickeningly pretty love ballads. Cher, Fleetwood Mac, Chris De Burgh. Writing. Hoping. Wishing. Enjoying the virtual embrace.

Eccentric, electric lung rumblings
Just seduced into another confused warp
Bones induced from coma, now lay quivering
Contemplating life after such an experience is over
Love, to love, and be loved
Making a mockery of my passionless living
Spark, sparking on, angel's touch
A dismissive refusal and I am sunk
Sleep next to the ashes of another unrequited love

And once again, i'm spat at
Once again I'm spat at
Lain where all the broken-hearted go

"10 rounds in the ring of love."

Mr X

2010-01-10T10:56:00.000-08:00

Exploited into distinction, though here I do not rest.
Shunning upon the masses, the classes, finished test.
So the ill beat the fighter, the services tumbled again.
And left a case of cynical beauty, a hope that rapidly digressed.

Fear not my darling, it should not pain you so.
What's hidden knowledge now will turn out to be something you'll never know.

The day I went I drowned, my darling, merely a dolphin amongst the echoes.
The ignorance of disagreement, it simply goes to show,
Fatal months of 12, I have my worst, and my days I donate
Watching the faces of the loved, I'll make their hearts disintegrate.

Fear not my darling, it should not pain you so.
What's hidden knowledge now will turn out to be something you'll never know.

Close your eyes, don't lie, kiss me goodbye
Close your eyes, don't lie, kiss me goodbye
Close your eyes, don't lie, kiss me goodbye

I am the messiah now, and that's how i'll spend my days,
Watch their fickle fascination, so much devotion, exaggerated in praise.
It's not that i'm not happy, i'm my own teacher now
I know that one day darling, you'll all learn my truth somehow.

Lost The Will

2010-01-10T10:51:00.000-08:00

A plank of wood is nailed across my jaw,
A pecking tension driving through my skull
A comatose muscle inhabits late night sleep
Barely a word i'm able to speak

My teeth are rotting at the pulp,
Inflamed and sore, a mechanic's delight
Red blotched skin and welcome home, cold
Skin so dry I leave a trail when I go

I've lost the will to love,
Any sense of a God up above,
I'm sleeping on a mattress made of nails,
A terrorist's empathy when I wake up

That time of day i'd love to have a drink,
Desperate chores to slyly prove myself
I'm not as boring as they think.
Though I love the scent of a boarded up room

These doors are always lying open
Those walls are always free to destroy,
This death it never ceased to taunt me,

I've lost the will to love,
Any sense of a God up above,
I'm sleeping on a mattress made of nails,
A terrorist's empathy when I wake up

I've lost the will to love,
Any sense of a God up above,
I'm sleeping on a mattress made of nails,
A terrorist's empathy when I wake up

Serotonin

2010-01-09T19:35:00.001-08:00

Serotonin upheavel was mocking me
A tight grip round my lungs, my face
In an eager addictive fit
Thought this design was built for me only

I am awash with Satan himself
Tear sacs wringing at every involuntary occasion.
I'm thinking of those who love me
The demon emphasizes, I can't give normality in return

And upon resting the head at night
Putting the harshness of the day to bed
Cells eaten by an emotional masochist
Keep thoughts well and truly awake
Like the persistence of A re-run from a horror scene
Sparking distress inside your head
Like a nightmare in a lone room
Becomes quite vivid, becomes quite dead.

Jedward and Youth Exploitation

2009-11-24T11:49:00.000-08:00

So here we have "Jedward", "The Grimes Twins", or whichever stage name you in particular have manifested for the pair. I have been watching X Factor from their very first audution to their controversial demise last week. From week one the twins seemed, rightly quoted by Simon Cowell, "Arrogant", and brimming with over confidence with little to no talent to show for it. They paraded around the stage with their rendition of "As Long As You Love Me" by Backstreet Boys, and were instantly in the bad books of, i'm assuming, the majority of the judges and audience members. With pound signs in his eyes however, Louis Walsh put them through, which we now know is absolutely not a result (Yeah right...) of their genetic boyband exterior- Ronan Keating blonde hair and, lets be honest with ourselves now, ideally proportioned faces that couldn't look more suitable plastered in a pimped up music video. Nobody really expected that Louis Walsh was absolutely serious in condoning both behaviour and talent of these boys, and, with never enough enthusiasm than was needed, they made it to the Live shows of X Factor. As the weeks paraded by, it was clear that the judges were struggling to come up with constructive criticism that didn't contain the phrase "That was shit", and Simon Cowell winced harder as, to his unexpectant horror, the twins outvoted every act one by one. Eventually, through a heavy process of pride-swallowing and realising the majority of the public had to be pleased, Cowell treated the boys for what they were- young, albeit confident, harmless kids from Dublin. It was pleasing to see even the most smug of minds could be swayed by the persona of these kids, and Simon finally, on the night they demised, admitted that he would miss them when they were gone. Alternatively, and most truthfully, he would miss X Factor's ratings when they were gone.

It's a shame the British public took the competition far more seriously than the judges. With unsettling headlines, public backlash, and, it wouldn't be unfair to say, a hatred manifested amongst peer groups, John and Edward, the pair voted in by you, the public of the United Kingdom, had given them more abuse than at the time 17 year olds, needed or deserved. Being talentless is nobody's fault. Being kept in the most watched show on TV because you're making them is. If you don't already know that X Factor is a corrupt TV show formed by producers with nothing but money on their minds, then you shouldn't have a TV set rooting in propagandic evil in the first place. Start "taking it on the chin", as you will. Money is the root of all evil- and evil is the root of all reality TV shows. There's an excellent post on this over here.

The purpose of this, however, was not to point this out. I've recently read that John and Edward were being bribed to make an appearance on I'm A Celebrity after Katie Price's demise this week, for £50,000 (some sources say £100,000). And now reports that they are being bribed to appear on Dancing On Ice, backed by a Facebook page apparently in favour of the twins, to find time in their fatigue-inducing schedule to face more public humiliation. They did say they were fans of John And Edward, didn't they? So, once the stressing introduction to the outside world (Hello Jedward- we hate you) is over and done with, looks like the boys are lined up to have 100 pound notes gracefully shovelled into their anus by a lanky man in a business suit bearing a grimly placed smile. (They're just kids after all, we do with them what we like!) My prediction for this year and all of next year and beyond is that the Grimes twins will be so lathered in publicity, dosh, screaming girls and boys at one end, whilst that niggling angelic voice at the other end of the spectrum is reminiscently reminding them of a life kept private with no death threats from absent-minded grown adults on the NME website who, I pray to God, don't have kids of their own, and don't ever claim to understand them.

You're right, i'm almost claiming John and Edward have absolutely nothing to do with their now vulnerable position in the erratic world of media. They popped onto our screens young, stupid, and vulnerable, and the folks of the higher ground have simply taken that into account when shoving money into their polished little shiny faces. As an adult, and especially in such a position of power, sometimes you really need to take the option of growing the fuck up and thinking about the people you are about to exploit for more than 5 minutes before you stick the boot in and wallow in your pathetically-earned (if you can even call it that) cash. Good riddance to the lot of you.

Back To School

2009-11-22T07:08:00.000-08:00

OK, so last night's dream was pretty sensually exciting. I was back at school (Not one I recognised) with a couple of friends I had back at the time. I remember running around, being stupid, and particularly running backstage. Two of us ran through a curtain and my eyes were pelted with the onslaught of about a thousand humans staring back at me. It was shock to the fantasy's system. We were on a stage, but we kept running, along a blue, carpeted ledge which weaved its way through the audience, stopping abruptly only for a few more humans in chairs to be placed. I knew we were in trouble now. The next thing I remember was being in my own kitchen, though darker, and eerier. It was the school kitchen. I had the subliminal feeling that teachers were looking for us, until Simon Pegg poked his head around the corner and I had the pleasing feeling that he was a teacher with good morals, and he took the whole situation as a bit of a joke really. I vaguely remember being on a bus from here, in my old home town, staring out of a raindrop-trodden steamed window. And then I am back on my old street. I pass my old friend's house and I go inside, without permission, as it seems nobody is home.

This is where it all becomes reality, where I enter her bedroom, and I see it the same way I did years ago when we used to have sleepovers there. The colours on the walls and the way the covers are placed on the bed. The room is the same shape and size as it has always been, and if I look outside the window I can see the view of the whole street. Just one long path, with houses dotted either side. She comes in eventually, and doesn't seem to be less excited to see me. She seems in a dreary mood, but I explain to her that, despite the fact I haven't seen her in years, I decided to come here for comfort and shelter from the teachers at school, but she understands. During this time I'm trying to make contact with another friend via my phone but can't seem to do it properly, and this continues for a few moments. I eventually tell my friend whose house I am in that I will be leaving and struggle to find my way to the kitchen to collect my shoes. I see her dad and he politely says "Hi Shannon." I see that the kitchen has somehow become messed up with hundreds of bedsheets lying crumpled on the floor, in piles, and draped across things. And this is where it seems to abruptly end.

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audience

Being in front of an audience can represent a feeling self-conscious, an awareness of or fear of being observed by others, or a heightened concern about others' opinions.

past

Dreams about the past are very common. They can be attempts by the subconscious to review, remember, explore your deeper feelings about, or make sense of past events. They can also be part of the process of reconciling the past within yourself, including grieving, reaching closure, forgiving, coming to terms, letting go of, or reaching inner peace with your past.

teacher

Dreaming that someone is a teacher when they are not in real life can mean that, to you, they represent:

An authority figure—someone or something in your real life who you allow to have some power over you in some way
Someone whose opinions or advice you listen to
Someone who has taught you something in real life, or whom you would like to do so

Right ok - Simon Pegg- Twitter. Watched him on Alan Carr a couple of nights ago, no real reason for him to be there other than that. 2 ex-friends, I still keep in contact with them by which those means have recently been upgraded slightly. Obviously all internet-based relationships. I cannot expect anything more. Not sure about school nor the other guy.

This Isn't A Decade Of Music To Remember.

2009-11-18T07:20:00.000-08:00

Because nobody is powerful or persuasive enough. Not least because hundreds of people have now been put off mainstream radio music, but also because nothing quite lives up to expectations or appears to have enough gut to spark off a new sub-genre of existing music. For decades to come people will be pondering "Remember those 90s", "remember those 80s", "remember those 70s" etc. I hardly think "Remember those 00s?" Will be a popular conversational topic in years to come. I remember those 00's very well. Chav genetics spawned, Green Day tried to make an opera, and Katy Perry inspired a nation of attention-seeking fake lesbianism. 90's Green Day fans melted in their own rage, and Green Day have had a bollocking ever since, despite their off-the-mark level of success. If there's been any sub-genre of music created in this decade then it's New Rave. It burnt out as quick as it came in. And it was utter shit. Who was prime suspect of that ridiculous trend anyway? Klaxons? They will be gone in a few years. I hardly think they will come up with enough material to keep their so called "loyal fans" at bay. There's only so many sound effects on a keyboard, and so many ladies gurgling opera notes to base a bullshit song around.

I admit I don't listen to the radio. Maybe i'm missing what's going on. Though I do browse music channels and this gives me some subtle hint of what exactly people are deeming "music". And this is why I turn it off after 3 minutes. Kerrang! has been playing the same songs it did 5 years ago. NME brainwashed us by glorifying New Rave and deciding to pop it on a channel of their own where we can squirm and vomit at our hourly pleasure. Kate Nash was an absolute joke too. There is no sense of community. Indie cannot be compacted into a sub-genre. 90% of bands that released debut singles in 2005 have since vanished off this earth, or tried a pityful attempt at a solo career, of which nobody knows about or has heard before and are assuming they have become builders or mechanics. Face it, there is nothing to look back on after 2010.

In the 90's we had the surge of Britpop, Green Day was part of a rebellious punk scene in California, Manic Street Preachers were born (Almost) and Erotic androgynous singers reeking of homosexuality dared to be different. Think Brett Anderson. Think Glamour Twins. Think Skunk Anansie- Alternative rock and sex. No need to conform to ridiculous genetic guidelines of perfection. There is an enormous list of what exactly makes every other decade better than this one, i'm sure you've thought up a few yourself.

But back onto the subject. There isn't a new band around today that has attempted and succeeded in launching or re-launching a sub-genre of rock that can put the excitement back into the radio once more. I know more people who despise the top 40 than who like it. And this is the music that we, as a nation, vote for, and endorse, and claim to be super, super fans of. If I hear another Lily Allen, Katy Perry, Lady GAGA, etc etc, then my hope for the nostalgia of this decade will be even lower than ever before. Bands just don't have any power. They don't inspire, they don't write about real issues, just pop songs made by rookies about girls being "lovely" and having some ordinary break up with your partner. You buy this shit? I am confident enough to put my 6 year old sister to the side of the Scouting for Girls guitarist and blow his fucking balls off with her guitar talent. And his balls would blow off, or lack thereof.

Yes, Manic Street Preachers are still going, and this is what is retaining my hope right now. God bless them. God bless they don't become exploited and cheapened and all of a sudden lose the ability to come up with a creative piece of music. (Well, it happened with the second-hand lyrics..) But after around 20 years of playing- I don't think so. Media please don't take them away from us. And please don't abide to what kind of music the general public of today would like you to play. I believe most band's first albums are their greatest. And something just makes every album after that slowly, slowly go downhill, and they become more overproduced, and more "Safe" and "Easy" to listen to.

MJ And His "Evil Thing"

2009-11-12T03:36:00.000-08:00

I was in a shop with my family in some town, the lady behind the till asks us to name 5 Power Ballads as they need them for this weeks X Factor, after racking my brains, we colloquially come up with Show Me Heaven by Maria McKee, can't remember the others we said, and at the end I wearily suggest Billie Jean by Michael Jackson, changing my mind slightly at the end after realising it wasn't really a Power Ballad. The lady thanks us and we leave the shop. I have this biting suspicion from now that I will have to sing Billie Jean on X Factor, and as I'm towed in, marching in time to the song as it plays when I enter, I have trouble keeping my feet steady with all the people watching, and I walk slightly in a semi-circle rather than a straight line. The X Factor live studio is small, and the roof is horizontal from where I can see. The floor is patterned with pink and purple lights, and looks warm and airy. I skip forward now to my own song - Billie Jean. The next thing I remember is that I'm on the stage, eyes locked tight, doing some free form, melodramatic dance to the song, thinking "Yeah... I've got this right" I can't see anything but darkness here.

I barely know what's happening now before I'm in my auntie's living room. There's a man hunched in the corner, who I later realise is Michael Jackson. And there's an "Evil Thing", labelled by the man himself, standing at the other side of the living room. It's pitch black outside, and there is only 2 lamps on in this room, making it dusky and damp looking. Upon my time in the living room I move around swiftly trying to protect Michael from the "Evil Thing". This thing moulds and morphs into different people. There were a few of these to begin with, but I can only remember 2 of the times it morphed. I firstly remember it morphing into an old lady. I have to throw heavy things at her to stop her from hurting me or Michael. One of these heavy objects knocks her backwards, and I hear a crack as 2 or 3 of her fingers are snapped right off. She suitably yells "My fingers!" before I find she's morphed into the body of an old man now. The man appears at the other side of the room, and I'm struggling slightly to find hard objects to throw this time. As I grab Michael, I'm holding him much like you would hold a toddler on the side of your hip, and I carry him to the kitchen, from which I can only see darkness. I carry him through the living room and we sit in the hallway. To my bemusement, I find my mum sitting next to me, not Michael. My auntie walks down the stairs and pops her head over the banister, asking my mum questions about a Razor she is trying to borrow. Me and my mum are somehow bewildered by this- and come to realise through some illogical term that my auntie must have been the "Evil Thing". We agree to let her take us into town. I take hold of my auntie's white and orange trainers and slip them on. "She won't mind me wearing her shoes, will she?" Moments later, when my auntie is back upstairs I order my mum to, when we go into the shops, call the police immediately.

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I decided to use this online "Dream Analyzer" where you input what your dream was in detail, and it gives you Primary themes associated with it. Here's the most interesting ones:

Dreaming that something evil, such as the devil, is trying to harm you or is coming after you can mean:

You're having a Toxic Dream
You have experienced "ill will" in real life recently (a mean or violent person, stories on the news, a scary movie, etc.), or something has triggered memories or imaginings of these negative things

Can't really associate with either of these things.

Holding an object can represent the following in regard to whatever the object represents:

Continuation or maintenance
Ownership
Responsibility or caring
Affection or liking

The color orange can represent:

Bold, outgoing, assertive, invigorated
Autumn, or the "winding down" of a phase or cycle

"Also, the significant symbolism of a person in a dream may not be who they are, but what they're doing, how they're doing it, or their attitude—anything that stands out about them. Pay attention to how the person appears, as well as what the actual person symbolizes to you."

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Well I gotta admit I watched Michael Jackson Seance for the first time last night, and the way Derek Acorah may or may not have "imagined" MJ talking in a childlike tone to a group of fanatics was quite disturbing none the less. He came across as innocent, childlike, pure, vulnerable, which is probably why I imagined him huddling in the corner while I got rid of so-called "Evil Thing"