Abrasive Me

Disclaimer:
If you don’t like me, I strongly advise against reading this blog. I mean, who’s going to benefit from that? Certainly not you. You’ll just waste your time and maybe get a bit annoyed at me. And while I’m at it, if you don’t like me, just go ahead and unfriend me on Facebook, ok? It’ll save you building up annoyance inside yourself anytime I post something. That’s bad for a person, you know?

 I was going to do this in vlog form, but that takes effort to make and apparently people don’t like my videos. So, basically, to explain the back-story of this blog, I went and made a profile on a website called spillit.me. If you aren’t familiar with this site, its main purpose is to let people anonymously post their opinions of you online. Yeah, sounds like a stupid thing to join, the whole “leaving yourself open for attacks” thing. I joined because I was curious to see if the things I thought people disliked me for, were the actual things they disliked me for. They were, because people are pretty predictable like that. Here’s a basic outline of things that kept coming up.
1. People calling me slutty.
This one didn’t surprise me because people have got up in my grill about it before. And by up in my grill, I mean they’ve whispered about it behind my back before. How brave. Mostly the types of people who’ve said this are either socially awkward perma-virgins or girls with stunted thoughts that don’t understand that it’s totally possible to be friends with guys without letting them go potholing in your knickers. Growing up, most of my friends have been guys and I can safely say I’ve never been introduced, nor wanted to be introduced to the contents of their trousers. However, people see me hanging around with guys and being able to converse with them without looking like a single brain-celled twit and presume they have all boned me. Which is pretty gross, considering half of those guys are basically my brothers. If you’re one of those people who believes me a harlot, I’d be quite interested to hear the tales you have either heard or made up. If you haven’t made me sound like a Diamond Dog from Moulin Rouge, I will be very disappointed.
(Having said all this, props to the person who called me a “genital jockey”. That’s hilarious. I’ll have to use it more in everyday conversations).
2. People telling me I think I’m better than them.
I’d like to clarify that I don’t think I’m better than other people but I understand why people might come to that conclusion. The most likely reason this comes across is because social situations make me quite shy and uncomfortable, and when I’m like that, I never think that people would want to talk to me and have a conversation. This makes me seem snobby and unfriendly. Chances are, I really do want to talk to you, but I don’t know what to say that won’t make me sound like an ass.
Another, much less likely reason is that possibly, I just have no time for you. This is very rare as mostly, I will like anyone I am introduced to, until they give me reason not to. I’ll be friends with anyone but if I find you dishonest, unkind or bitchy, I’m sorry but I’m not the right friend for you and we’ll both be better off without the other.
Another thing that came up was my apparent anger on the internet. If you’ve watched my videos or are friends with me on Facebook, then you’ve probably seen or heard me complaining violently about something or other in a manner that involves much swearing. Someone told me that I must do it for approval because I feel I don‘t fit in anywhere. I mean this in the least offensive way possible and I’m sure you’re lovely, whoever you are, but bitch, please. I don’t do it for the approval. I do it for the fight. In real life I’m quite a calm person who avoids conflict, but yes, there is some anger in me. And I don’t think that should surprise anyone. My father did die in front of me after all. (Yes, I did just play that card). I don’t need the approval of people I half know and am only connected to by the internet and I think you’ll find that in telling me I don’t “fit in” you’re about a year and a half too late. I actually have friends now. But good attempt at amateur psycho analysis.
Stemming on from this, I think there is one thing that someone said that is true. I do underestimate people’s ability to understand me but I’ve good reason. I have had friends in the past who haven’t been able to deal with me in times when what I was going through was too difficult for me to handle. They’ve left me to find easier to deal with friends and that has hurt me. I don’t trust people so easily anymore and I no longer take someone’s ability to take me for what I am for granted.
One last thing. Someone complained about my voice. Yeah, because I totally talk in an irritating way on purpose, just to piss people off.  Also, thank you for telling me my hair is a “bit greasy”. Sorry we can’t all be blessed with delightful lustrous locks. I wash my hair every other day but it is determined to stay fine and flat and limp and its all I can do not to despair over how horrible it always looks and how much I hate it. So thank you for letting me know that, I’ll get onto telling my hair to stay shiny and nice for longer than twelve hours.
If you’re interested in seeing my spillit page, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, as it was purely an experiment and I am shutting down my account presently. So congratulations all the people that insulted me. You were part of a social experimentation trail. You all failed. Have a nice shiny F. This also means that if you meant to bitch at me and didn’t get a chance, you’re going to just have to keep it inside you or say it to me in a non anonymous fashion. Maybe you’ll make me laugh. Maybe I’ll be furious. Maybe I’ll be reasonable and explain myself. And who knows. Maybe you’ll make me cry. If you do, I hope it’s in public so that people can feel bad for me and think you’re a dick.
I want people to know that I used to hate myself and everything I did and no one could hurt me more than myself. This meant nothing anyone else thought mattered. Now I don’t hate myself but what other people think still doesn’t matter, because I am happy for the first time in my life and being called and angry, bitchy, pompous whore is not going to stop that… although I’m genuinely offended about the greasy hair.
So, if you made it to the end of this blog, I can either presume you are my friend, or you don’t like me and you’re just some weirdo that likes to be pissed off.  If it’s the latter, I’d like to finish up by saying, if you dislike me, chances are, I disliked you first. Also FUCK YOU CUNT, because if you don’t like me, that’s probably all you’ve been seeing when you read this whole blog. So buh-bye, friend or you know, not friend, and take with you my final words of wisdom: Haters gon’ hate.

Dream

Last night I dreamed that I was a stowaway on a large ocean liner. As I secretly boarded it with a young boy, another stowaway, I saw an immense statue of a naked woman being loaded into the ship. After the ship set sail and we had been on the sea for several days I began to feel uncomfortable and tried to use my phone to call my mum and my friends. However, whenever I tried to use my phone all that happened was that an image of the statue's face flashed up. Finally, I could bear it no longer and I asked a woman what was going on. She told me that the ship we were on was the Titanic, raised from the ocean floor and restored. The statue in the hold was a statue of God and we were retracing the Titanic's path. We were going to hit an iceberg and the ship would sink with the statue in it, to please the devil, who lived in the sea. The woman told me that I may or may not survive the wreck. I was terrified and heart broken because I hadn't even said goodbye to the people I loved most and I missed them so much. I went to talk to the boy I sneaked onto the boat with but he just smiled and told me that he wasn't real, he was made by the sea devil from bits of my mind and that I had to stay on the ship until it sank or he would kill me. Needless to say, I awoke a little shaken.

Hello Sweetie

Hi Sausages. I'm trying to reconnect into the internet world. Shouldn't be hard with my good looks, quick wit and amazing rack. Anyway, for now, have my new vlog entry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfxM-5qcMRs&list=UU9tT7JWBMl63_6QPPlGlMdA&index=1&feature=plcp

Also, fucking Rachel Allen says "pap-rikka" not "pap-reeka". This is why she is an idiot. She also thinks squid is a fish.

Hello Sweetie

Hi Sausages. I'm trying to reconnect into the internet world. Shouldn't be hard with my good looks, quick with and amazing rack. Anyway, for now, have my new vlog entry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfxM-5qcMRs&list=UU9tT7JWBMl63_6QPPlGlMdA&index=1&feature=plcp

Also, fucking Rachel Allen says "pap-rikka" not "pap-reeka". This is why she is an idiot. She also thinks squid is a fish.

Depressing Monologue Fun Time

The grass really is greener on the other side. Or, maybe not greener. Maybe it’s yellow. But you know what? I fucking like yellow grass. It means hot and dry and little houses with pools and palm trees and a lake nearby and big suburbs and dog parks. And it’s not fucking here. It’s not fucking here.
It’s weird. Looking across the world at your counterpart. Peppy and sunny and tanned. She’s got a nice boyfriend. They take pictures of themselves. I don’t have any photos of me with any boyfriends. I was always too shy to ask to take pictures. Or I wouldn’t let them in enough so that they got invited to family events or whatever. Or they wouldn’t let me in. At all.
Sick to death. That’s what I am. I’m sick to death of this grey place with its two fucking streets and no secrets. It’s suffocating. Its ok for her. If she runs, she can run to the edge of our world. She can disappear into the red dust and heat haze and no one will ever find her again. Years later a pile of bleached bones picked clean by desert dogs and flies. If I run, I’ll never be more than what, six, eight hours away from someone who wants to drive out and drag me back. And all I’m running into are bogs. Bogs and rain and fucking sheep. Not that I could run if I had anywhere to go. I’m stuck.
See when something like what happened to me, happens to one, things just grind to a stop. You can’t move on because fuck, you saw your father die and you can’t go back because you smashed your head and can’t remember anything and you can’t grow up. You can’t grow up. I never grew up. I’m still an eleven year old girl. I can’t stay in my house on my own at night. I sleep with a light on. I can’t take buses on my own. I can’t talk on the phone. I am just so scared all of the time. And it would be ok, if I didn’t know.
But I can see what I’m missing, I recognise it, I want it. I want to leave here with brightly coloured suitcases and go live in a shit apartment with a roommate I don’t like and go to college and learn to be an actor and get to do all the fun things. I’d meet someone and we’d get married and I’d have a bouquet of orange roses and forget-me-nots and we’d live in a tiny, cold warehouse apartment until I got pregnant and then, I don’t know, some little Tudor cottage and I’d have a baby and another and another and I’d stay at home to mind them for a while and do my writing and get published.
But I can’t have those things because I can’t do anything without someone holding my hand. I’m a dependant, an invalid, a parasite.
And I always knew this but I let myself think about it only in teenage angst, not seriously. I always just figured, you know, extinguish the flame. Out like a light. Be young and beautiful and oh so tragic forever. Well, not so beautiful if I went under a train or off a bridge but only a few people would see that, guts and brains and blood and mess. Be a glorified little statistic, an angelic little mess for ever.
But I don’t want to die. I used to, because I hated everything and I hated myself and I saw nothing but filth and heartbreak and rape and murder and evil in the world. And I wish I could go back to that because now I see all the sun and freckles and love and hands to hold. I just can’t have them. Because my dad went and died and I’m all wrong and I’m just so scared all the time.
This future that I want, this orange and blue, warm, love and babies future. It’s a dream. Because I’ll never get out of this cage. I built it thinking I was keeping everything out, but I’m just keeping me in. And there is nothing I can do.
If I hadn’t left, I’d be in my last year of school. One more year, until I’d be expected to go into the real world. But my world hasn’t been real for a long time. One year. And oh, it will be a good year. I will succeed and I will be happy. But I can’t make it out there. Unless something amazing happens in those twelve months. I’m so scared. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

Sweet Meats: Choking Hazard

Seems my poetry gets more aggressive and physical when I'm drunk. Don't worry though, I'm not a smidgen as distressed as this makes me sound. I'm not actually distressed at all. I'm in quite the fuzzy mood.

I don’t know how to live again
And I doubt I’ll be able to love again
All I learned from love
Is how to break yourself into little
Brittle
Pieces.
And hand them out like candy
So that’s all that’s left are a few shards
And you know you’ll never get the others back
So you just have to make do with what you have
But it’s not enough
So you keep having to tell people, “sorry”
“We’re out of stock”
And you feel yourself melting away
Like so much toffee left in a pocket too long
And there’s a hammer on your back
No feathers on your shoulders
And all the other jars are being taken down
From the shelves
And being weighed out
But you won’t get a refill
Because your flavour isn’t popular
Or maybe it is
But you’re too high up for anyone to see
No one reaches up for your glass
Scoops
And eats what’s inside you
Oh. The feel of a mouth
Your sour apple cinnamon cream skin
They may salivate
At the thought of their hot breath
On your neck
On your breasts
On your thighs
Hard
Or maybe it’s you that salivates
Shivers at the dream
Holds yourself tight
At the fantasy
You see it from inside your jar
The sides of which
You press your naked self to
Taste me, taste me
I’m so sweet
So-so pure
(Not uncut)
Raw
And rare
And bloody
Cut from the bone
Boned and de-boned
My ribs on the floor
A fine meat, in heat
Rolling and writhing
For a single fingertip
On my
Aching
Twitching
Skin
Oh, God!
Don’t leave me
Fitting like a kitten first time ready to mate
I’m ready! Take me
Don’t make me wait
But I awake
I’m alone
Stuck in this bloody jar
Blood from a flower whose petals were torn
Visceral but lonely
Adamant and stony
Sweet to the tongue’s first touch
But we know they turn sour when surface sugar dissolves.

Insomniac

Goodnight cruel world, I’m going to bed.
It’s time to rest my aching head.
There’s nothing worth staying awake for.
This daytime world is such a chore.

My dreams take me so far away
To lovers’ worlds and happy days.
To faces gone and sorely missed.
To hands I’ve held and statues I’ve kissed.

All the things I have forever lost.
I can get them back but at the cost
Of waking to remember that they’re all gone
And my bedroom is dark and I’m alone.

My life’s not what I thought it would be;
My hearts not whole, my wings aren’t free.
This candle I hold just won’t extinguish
So I am stuck and left to languish

That I can’t go back but I can’t move on
And everything inside me feels so wrong.
The wax keeps dripping and burning my skin
And I can’t figure out how to let people in.

This life is too much, I can’t take it any longer.
I’m falling apart instead of getting stronger.
I’m stuck at the bottom of a hole I dug so deep.
And all I really truly want is just to go to sleep.