Beautiful Confusion. and some cussing.

So,
how is everyone?
I am feeling rather odd, i am not sure if i am okay, or sad?
My phone got stolen, in Hatfield. I wasnt supposed to go out, - that fucked up - and i ended up going to pretoria-north in a bus. was a good evening till they stole my bloody phone.

anyway, i have been thinking.
shocking, i know. But life is a cluttered confusion. Now, i know its been said a bazillion times in many pretty and skillful ways, but its something i thought was a joke, but its really fucking serious. life is a mess.
But, id not have it any other way.
I dont get what i want, when i want. though i do want to.
people get mad for no real reason, and then stay mad. sometimes the silly madness gets to evolve, yay us! and then, friendships die, beautiful. i know.
But its true.
Sometimes the milk is sour, and sometimes you have to pay someone to tell you, that you are fat. and then have them rub it in by making you eat nothing.
but its all worth it. in the end.
which is odd, considering that in the end, we die? As in the beginning, we were born?
wtf right?
im so confused.


Also, life sans phone isnt that bad, unless someone mentions the efficiency the live with when the Blackberry is working.
If no ones mentions it, i forget. and im pretty sure feel "normal" again.
its rather strange.

Oh, poetry. ive not posted poetry in ages. But ive not read poetry in ages either. Ive been to busy reading novels and writing short stories - they fucking suck - to shove poetry into the equation. Ive also not had wine and emilie days in AGES.
But, im sure all is well, and shall return to normality soon.
if not.
fuck you.
that was harsh? right? yay me.

So, i was thinking, well not just me, me and a friend. we shall write a very rude, crude, bashing, evil and well shameful stand-up comedy act, and perform it. it shall be called one and a half girls, and it will be the best thing your eyes have experienced. your ears have never heard such laughter, and your voice shall be cracked up. fun? anyone feel like this is a good idea?

Does anyone even read this fucking blog?

Okay boys and girls, trans-gendered and animal-like beings.
im sleepy.
but i will go watch some tv.

keep well.
love fookers.

Its been ages.

So,
as i usually start these things, the words : Its been ages since i wrote anything etc etc etc seem to be my opening line. like a blessed little curse. But its better than nothing i suppose.

Now, on to more pressing matters. I AM SICK. thought id get that out there,
but not only am i physically sick with symptoms such as nausea, stomach aches, fever and all those lovely things. im sick of you.
yes, that is right. YOU.
Not you, but one of you.
the one person who i figure doesn't even read this bloody blog.
I am rather sick of you.

Now, i shant sit there pondering my total disgust with your total ignorance, i shall move on.
swiftly and with brilliant hair.. cause my hair is lovely today.

anyway.
Being back at that lovely place called school, searching for some sort of education, begging to be accepted by people id rather not see next year, trying to understand half of the nonsense they figure i need to know and and and, ive made some nice new friends and ive had some amazing conversations with people i never imagined id be able to talk to.
literature and tea. anyone up for some?
I need some wine.
So, give me a ring and we shall do wine and emilie.
you have to LOVE both wine and emilie autumn to come though, sorry.

Also, i have been re-reading allot of my posts, and my bestest friend ever in the whole world, told me to re-think my blackberry addiction. the post about my dependance on the blackberry was rather upsetting. i am recovering from my addiction.

Now, to sing praise.
I love my bestest friend more than i love wine and emilie autumn. which is rather allot, as anyone who knows me might, well, know. Also, i love her more than sylvia plath.

take that.


I shall update some more later..
{i say that all the time}

<3

Love fookers.

the age, the greed and the value of guilt. and a good old FUCK YOU.

So,
we are raised to believe in nothing but love and other such rare-niceties.
But we are never shown or taught the pure abuse of power. the only thing you really need to get anywhere, you have to be able to abuse the power around you.
That is where guilt comes in, if you can make someone feel guilty, you basically own them. They shall give you any and everything they can to get rid of their guilt.
Guilt is a super currency. its trumps any other.
But dont abuse it, unless its an emergency.

Something to consider, why the fuck does blackberry's battery life suck so royally?
Its always in the red, always!

moving on,
i have not blogged in a while, not since ive been back from the village, but here i am now, blogging away while i should be cleaning my rat cage,
i shall do that soon.
promise.

ive not been able to write recently, which kinda upsets me, and in a sick twisted way amuses me. makes me feel vulnerable and useless. but thrillingly so.

My friends, are now friends, and thus i am happy in life.
Some family members are fucking with me in the wrong way, and should rather shut the fuck up before they embarrass themselves anymore.
DONT YOU FUCKING DARE PRAY FOR ME.
especially not because of my sexuality.
Fuck you.

Now, getting older is something we all do, well you all do.
ive been stuck in this little midget leprechaun shaped body for 504 years.
so you age, i dont.
as i was saying, age is something that happens.
embrace it, up to a point and then start lying about it.
remain 32 for as long as your neck and hand shall allow, it then age gracefully to 45. Remain there until it becomes obvious and then jump immediately to 60 and freeze there. simple as that.
Oh and, also, have some fun.
live it up.
and if push comes to shove, you are covered in those scars and blotches cause you were a missionary worker for the UN in africa and you had no sun-lotion.
works like a charm, you get to be 32 for longer and you also get some sympathy.

I have no poem for you this time,
as i have no written poetry in a while. But how about a plath?
Good? yes?

Oh, before that.
You are allowed only so much naivety and stupidity around me, last night you practically overflowed all over me and the people around you, unfortunate for them, i hope you get a little cold and some alone time to contemplate the idiocy which is you.

Lesbos :

Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors --
Stage curtains, a widow's frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child -- look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear --
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face is red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her,
The bastard's a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He's a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.

Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: 'Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.'
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.

Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. 'Every woman's a whore.
I can't communicate.'

I see your cute décor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.


- Sylvia Plath.

Keep well.
love fookers