razzan (10:39:28 PM): hi
k (11:25:08 PM): Hello
razzan (11:25:54 PM): hows ur day?
k (11:26:18 PM): Good, how about yours?
razzan (11:27:09 PM): not all that
k (11:27:32 PM): That sucks, how come?
razzan (11:28:36 PM): i havnt found a cute interesting girl all day
k (11:28:58 PM): Oh, right
k (11:29:10 PM): My profile picture is of me :)

MY PROFILE PICTURE:

I Love My Sister

[23:34:46] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
twat
[23:36:00] Kirsty says:
Gayface.
[23:36:10] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
tit wankl
[23:40:19] Kirsty says:
Fucktard.
[23:40:27] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
:C
[23:40:38] Kirsty says:
And tit wank is something you do, not something you are.
[23:40:53] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
you are a tit wank
[23:40:54] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
end of
[23:41:50] Kirsty says:
And you have a face like a testicle ^^. End of.
[23:42:05] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
ew
[23:42:08] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
your sick
[23:42:10] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
innit
[23:42:15] '' [b]oliviiaaa (: [/b] : says:
blud
[23:42:21] Kirsty says:
*You're
[23:42:32] Kirsty says:
*Isn't it
[23:42:36] Kirsty says:
*Blood

Medicine Box

We can colour our memories (conscience?) clean/ In shades of dihydrocodeine


IT RHYMES.

By the by, here endeth depressing posts for a while. I'm getting a little sick of cataloging various hues of self hatred. There are better things to do.

Bollocks to you, bollocks to me.

She pulls on thick suck-in pants under black netted tights; a bra fit-to-bust with double the required breast size and a palpable pudgy overhang; the plunge pool of her belly groans with the strain of a large portion meal tucked into a small-portion skirt. Low neckline, adorned with a hand-shaped pendant reaching low into her cleavage. It's meant to symbolise a Muslim's promise to prayer five times a day: the true meaning is lost in folds of fat and irony. All this to advertise the undertow of emotional need; sex and love are relative terms. The two are simultaneously irrelevant and unlikely.

Women are shit.

Look Forward to Suburbia.

It's a kind of abstract conglomeration of love and loathing on my part and submarine detachment on hers. [ Submarine=hundreds of mad, feverish, scrabbling and sweaty Souls to be Saved from a cold titanium shell, although occasional porthole viewings reveal a grand total of two men playing cards slowly, and probably Solitaire at that ]. I'm not sure why I'm with her.

We fuck often enough to be afraid of her fertility. Each blotless month promotes another spatter of frantic activity in which we pelt our bodies with pills, booze, tobacco. A military-machine-gun like salvo in which no organs are spared. Liver, heart, kidneys, lungs; all hack and pulse and ulcerate in protest whilst she dispassionately dissects a future spelled out for us in entrails; guest towels, kitten- themed egg cups and ironically chintz curtains at thirty. You ooze around your urban domain in our Porsche, I sit at home and watch our frozen embryos take shape in the womb of a our paid Filipino surrogate. We are happy. We have dogs.

Hey, did you know?

That Malthus' 1798 predictions regarding the sustainability of an exponentially increasing population combined with an arithmetically increasing amount of food is applicable to living conditions in Africa?

Well, now that you do, it is required of you to take my Geography A Level exam for me. Ahahaha. Ha. I wish I was dead.

I'm Not Even Going to Try to Explain This.

I heard there was a secret call
To Dominoes, and it pleased us all
But you don't really care for pizza, do you?
Well it goes like this: Some salami
Extra cheese, no anchovy
The baffled call composing pepperoni.

Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni...

Well the taste was good, but needed spice
We'd hoped double jalapenos would suffice
The heat of this new pizza overthrew you
We tied you to the kitchen chair
Force-fed you spice and it wasn't fair
But from your burnt lips we made some pepperoni

Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni...

Baby I've been here before
I've ordered double cheese and I've wanted more
I used eat alone before I knew you
I've seen your diet plan for March
You say pizza's just a source of starch
But I think there's protein in pepperoni

Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni...

Well there was a time when you let me know
Which topping's calorie count was low
But now you never share that with me do you?
But remember: we're too fat to move
And our family doctor disapproves
There's some heart problems involved with pepperoni

Well, maybe we have pizza breath
And pizza love will cause our death
But we can't escape an urge for more anchovy
It's not a food to eat all the time
Unless you steal from the fridge at night
If you don't mind cold, leftover pepperoni

Pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni, pepperoni...


*single tear*

Graffle.

Imagine the horror of having to write a sex scene. In a book, a play, anything. Even a poem.

(I've been reading some of the "Women's Literature" belonging to my mother and sister lying around the house, as yet another method of procrastination to prevent revision. Needless to say, I am more than a little cross. And confused. Why call anything a "mighty sword"? It doesn't sound erotic as much as it does painful.)

Apparently, you're not allowed to be truthful. Of the entire spectrum of things that can go horribly wrong, miraculously, NOTHING EVER DOES. No one gets their hair caught in a jeans zipper, or accidentally tears a condom with their nails.

And yet it's entirely common and expected for at least one character to go insane, get amnesia, disappear, die in a car/drugs/shark related accident, commit suicide, marry their brother, be abducted by aliens, betrayed by their lover/husband/brother/son, flayed alive, tortured, marry the love of their life, or kill about 5 other characters before finally getting to the lead character and then failing to kill them because of some bizarre coincidence involving a fear of water or the utterly implausible convenience of a police officer (and probable love interest) turning up "just in time".

Mm, I do so love a late night insane ramble.

I'm a silly girl who deserves to be punished. Here's almost all my favourite people:

Enough said.

I Like You

A little bit more than I'm willing to admit. Not even to myself.

Last night I obsessively crammed my mind with enough anime to squeeze everything else out through my ears, and made cookies at midnight. My dad crept into my room squeaking madly and wearing a mouse mask at some point, but fled after I informed him there was a cat in the room. I'm not entirely sure whether that was a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep or not. I'm hoping not. I have so much to do, and I'm doing none of it. YAY.

My mobile has no credit. I refuse to feel guilty about this, because I'm too busy feeling guilty about everything else.



Here is a story I told to someone else some time ago, in pretty much the same words:

Once upon a time there was a hedgehog whose name I have forgotten. He lived in a dark, dark forest (whose name I have forgotten) but that is okay, because I'm pretty sure it was called The Dark, Dark, Forest. So.

He had a pretty nice time of it there because there were no roads, so he never got flattened, and there were no old ladies putting out milk, so he never had to explain to them that he was lactose intolerant. In those days, this was a serious problem, because as we all know old women can be unbelievably sly and malicious, and would inevitably try and trick him by calling it soy milk when in fact it was really dairy. Old women cannot be blamed for this because of the "Change Of Life" my mother is always referring to mysteriously. You might have thought it was about the menopause but actually it has everything to do with lactose intolerant hedgehogs. But I digress.

The only problem with this was that he had to go to the supermarket every day to pick up soy milk, and being a very lazy hedgehog he tired of this trip. So he began to daydream about the forest across the river.

Now, this forest was called the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest, and you can imagine what a forest like THAT was like. All the animals from the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest were fatter than badgers (except the badgers, who were much fatter than that), and they all wore expensive watches and drove flash cars. Our hero seethed with chronologically deprived jealousy.

So, one day, he decided to travel across the river to the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest. This may seem like something simple he should have thought of long before now, but in fact it was VERY HARD. Very hard indeed. Because hedgehogs have short legs and stuff. Anyway.

TO BE CONTINUED... Except it doesn't matter: No one reads this.

Ahahaha, hahaha, haha.

I've finished my geography coursework. It's so late I've developed cataracts. Or I can see ghosts.

I'm going to die in my sleep and the last day of my life will have been spent in the most boring way physically possible. I think I might have to kill God as some form of retribution for putting me through this. God invented geography, malaria, H.I.V. and geographers who live to study such things and write long and dull publications about it. I hate you, God. Even the fact that you have a beard does not make up for this.

GOD: But it IS a rather marvellous and luxuriant beard.
ME: Oh, alright then. But you have to let me caress it.
GOD: But I just washed it and your hands are all sticky.
ME: If you don't let me stroke it I'll beat you to death with a crucifix.

No one likes to be beaten to death with a small plastic effigy of their son nailed to a post.

Hmm.

I've not been feeling particularly wordy lately. Either I'm too tired, busy, lazy, miserable, happy or not miserable or happy enough to be interesting about it. Having just returned from le Yann Tiersen gig at the Junction, I'm sufficiently reanimated enough to say the following things:

There is always time for Nandos.

Must remember to make a parody folk singer character who screams and can whistle through his ears (not based on Yann Tiersen).

Yann Tiersen has the loveliest eyes.

Joanna is always right.



Night, my luffs. Kisskisskiss.

Bof the Tadpole

I have tingles all over my arms and legs. Would you like a picture?


Of course you would.

An Almost Face

When I came back from Lincoln today I

Ate some tasty leftover spaghetti sat very small and quiet in the red room practicing becoming invisible watched completely still an ashen bee tumbled out of the fireplace and lazily swooped its way to my lap picked up the bee and set it free outside where it will die because we took away its queen thought about the bee man and his veil like a bride taking away the queen in a big box turned the T.V. on didn't watch read bits of paper or looked at them whilst thinking about other things like how I haven't been to college for a week watched Star Trek for no real reason came online talked to Chris, Max, Josh, Alice, Alfie then Phil still talking to Phil and Josh realised I have very few female friends realised I like about 3 of them only felt guilty OH GOD

I don't want to get involved in mess and create mess. But it's very tempting to ignore my inner Mrs Judge My Mother, and just go with it, because you're nice, and I like that.

I also like Audrey "Her almost face a garden, waiting" Niffeneger, Captain Picard, and velvet eels, so perhaps my judgment is skewed.

Oh, bugger.

My life runs in CIRCLES. I really hate that. This is going to get messy all over again. Maybe I should stop, BUT: good things are hard to find.

But in other news: I went to Alton Towers, with the ever-awesome Joanna, and Dan, and Chris. We skipped most of the scary rides and went on Duel about 10000000 times. Which was completely worth it because you got to shoot zombies, and Dan and Jo screamed occasionally in an amusing manner, or at least in a way which was amusing until one of the giant spiders inadvertently terrified me. Oh, and I have a beautiful camera which I will be having hot, steamy sex with until further notice.

Ohhh, Camera. Don't stop.

I am eternally in debt to the instant mood-improving powers of Ben Folds.

I Don't Know Where I Stand

On anything. Anything at all.

Me and my Dream Ribcage

I had a dream last night (and it fit me like a glove)* It was most likely precipitated by my realisation in the bath last night that I have a ribcage, and that I can SEE IT. I've never been so thin, and my ribcage is gog-magog gigantic.

Anyway, in the dream I was imprisoned inside my own ribcage. Luckily, I realised with time that it was huge, and that I could quite happily live there. So I built an indoor swimming pool, a miniature golf course, a bowling alley, and a home cinema on the ground floor and made buttery popcorn from the fatty deposits between my ribs. The second floor I rented out to large groups of migrant workers, whom I charged ridiculously extortionate amounts to live there. I was very happy, until I died, at which point living in my own ribcage became an inconvenience as I had to spend a large portion of my time coating the walls with formaldehyde so that bits of rotting corpse would stop glooping onto the cinema screen during movies. The end.

I think all the other things that are bothering me are pretty inconsequential. Fare thee well.

*Whatever (I had a dream)-Butthole Surfers.

Naked Face Day

I like:
The Bell Jar
Byron,
Baking,
Bees and
Baths today.

I'm Really Sorry.

My worst friend right now is a long, green, worm. He has his tail neatly wrapped around my oesophagus, squeezes unwanted air from my lungs and eats the soft, pulpy muscle around my heart. I think he's composed of anger, sadness and a large dollop of guilt. I think I'll name him Gareth. Gareth the Guilty Worm.

(It's the do or die moment of a long-standing issue with me: clearly state a dislike of a certain person, or admit that I'm unreasonable, stop bitching about it in private and forget the whole thing).

Joanna and Dan, as usual, are my conscience. They're right: I can't keep pretending. That makes me the Bad Guy. I will say now, as a permanent record of folly: Joanna, you're right about everything, I'm sorry lashed out at you, and I could really use your advice right now. I feel sick.

I Can Post Twice In One Day.

See?

Spot The Difference.

I tried to make these pictures as similar as possible, but it is strange that the non-make-up-me looks more genuine. But would you tap that? Perhaps I should make a poll, but as far as I know only three people at most would actually vote.

Guilt is a Terrible Thing.

I feel bad for basically using this as a duller version of a diary. I'm aware that most bloggers DO, but I honestly didn't set out to be this apathetic. SO. I wrote this as prose, but it reads well as poetry. And everyone knows pretentious bloggers write poetry, right?


Madeline sits on the bed.
She's very real, and close, and silent.
She has a livid red blotch
On her back from the scratch and grate
Of stubble between her shoulder blades,
And the inside of her thighs sulk
With purple, yellow, black and blue bruises,
Some like fingermarks, others not.
A thin white scar,
As if from a knife wound,
Snakes from between her breasts to her navel.
It not an old scar; it shimmers silver against her jaundiced frame.
I can trace her bones through translucent skin,
See the skeleton rising up through living flesh to greet me.


I like the word skeleton.

Notebook I

I did promise some drawings. Here's my notebook in all its glory; I'm giving it away soon.

Bleurgh,

Today has been a complete waste of my precious, precious time.

I can't jog with the the dog, not allowed to jog without the dog.
In a desperate attempt to clear my mind I left the house ANYWAY, but halfway round my usual loop of Button End the dog decided that she was bored of me not throwing her stick and so decided to dance around me irritating little circles, tripping me up.

I met:
1 professional dog walker, walking what looking to be an elderly lion but was probably in fact a near-death-through-obesity golden retriever,
2 old biddies who were both the kind of woman who is probably extremely rich but wanders round in her nightie and a pair of wellies anyway,
and that guy I keep seeing (i.e. twice) who has the voice of Joe Johnson, on a bicycle. As before, he said "Evening" and cycled on, leaving me to be savaged by the now insufferably bored Caris.

Also, it has come to my attention that my ass is missing.

It's late.

And I still can't forgive you. I'm only a tiny bit sorry about that.

On a brighter note, finally getting some birthday treat times, I have an entire day off on Tuesday, and I have some award-ceremony-for-doing-that-OU-course-that-you-only-paid-half-attention-to-but-passed-anyway to attend on Monday. I get my picture taken with Richard Skelding. No, I don't know who he is either. I have some lovely friends around, although never at the same time. I have a revolving door system of friends.

Everytime I want to send a text I shouldn't I send it somewhere else. I am listening to: Talk Like That by the Presets.

I exercised so much today my body is still humming with it. Time for bed.

Lazy, Lazy Girl.

I'm too lazy to post properly, so I'll just paste the promised conversation about trading facial hair and live off the wit of five days ago.

Kirsty. says:
Followed by suicide.
Robert. says:
Followed by A&E
Robert. says:
Followed by Needle in the Haaayyyyy
Robert. says:
Actually I think Needle in the Haaaayyy starts before the A&E
Kirsty. says:
To be honest, the suicide thing was mostly due to over-exposure to terrible music
Kirsty. says:
Needle in the Haaayyyyy at the appropriate moment might just have saved my life.
Robert. says:
Yes, but, listening to Needle in the Hay and committing suicide also involve shaving off all of your facial and head hair
Kirsty. says:
But I've been collecting
Kirsty. says:
I almost have the full set
Robert. says:
Mustache?
Kirsty. says:
I tried
Kirsty. says:
But no one will trade with me
Robert. says:
Erm... mutton chops?
Kirsty. says:
Almost
Kirsty. says:
But they're only functioning at 43% capacity
Robert. says:
Hmm, I have some level 76 muttonchops
Robert. says:
But only a level 16 tash :(
Kirsty. says:
Pah
Kirsty. says:
I'll trade you
Robert. says:
I'll trade you my tash with a condition that it be returned when I reach 74
Kirsty. says:
But it will have levelled up by then
Kirsty. says:
I'm not nurturing your mustache for you
Robert. says:
But you can enjoy it for many years
Kirsty. says:
Only to have it torn away from me
Robert. says:
Not torn...
Robert. says:
Look you can have my mutton chops forever.
Kirsty. says:
I will think about it
Kirsty. says:
And confer with my agent
Kirsty. says:
He seems to think that mutton chops might hold back my career
Robert. says:
Erm...
Robert. says:
For a while
Robert. says:
Until the 70s roll back again

I'm going to take pictures of my notebook and post them because I'm going to give it away, and copy and paste some creative work, because I keep meaning to, and generally be a better person from now on because I feel much better in myself than I have done for a while now. Except there are some things not worth being nice about. War, apartheid, and jellybabies, because jellybabies are nice enough without sugar coating them (as it were).

Mmm, sugar coated jellybabies.

(Today I have eaten one kindly donated orange, a biscuit baked by the ever-delightful cook Tilly, and a calippo ice lolly. My tummy is growling like a beast.)

Rawwwrl. Night.

I promise:

I will never suppress my intelligence for the sake of friendship, or even a relationship, ever again.
I will attempt to eat more than half a meal per day.
Five miniature marshmallows do not count as a meal. Noodles are not a food group.
I will find Afro Dave a girlfriend so that he does not talk about sex 24/7, so my dad can bear to drink with him again, so that I can still get drinks bought for me on a regular basis without getting my boobies out.
I will not get my boobies out for free drinks.

I will pass my exams, take the best English and creative writing course in the country, at the fourth best university, and use my success to shit on everyone else's dreams for a change.

It goes something like this:

I found some work in one of my mountains of scrap paperwork. It's not dated, but it's probably from around 7 months ago. Very pretentious, so I will keep it for the sake of posterity. Years from now I can look at it and laugh even harder at myself than I am now.

It goes something like this:

"I want this:

The thrust and pulse of music reverberates through my body. Slammed closer, skin to skin, a thousand myriad strangers shudder and grind together. I feel sickened by my own perversity, my desire for violence, for hard, heavy contact- a collision of corporeal ghosts. I did not come here alone. I have left the others far behind me in my thirst to belong to belong to this host of unknown individuals, made one in our desire to forget. We are pulled inside out, our dark and sweaty inner selves exposed to electric lights and the vibrations of synth, bass, drums. We cling and are clung to, frantic hands flung upwards as if gasping for air.

I want this:

She wakes up the earliest, because she never really slept. A confusion of half-hazy ideas and vivid pictures possessed her mind in the night. They are banished by the shrill and desperate dawn chorus. She dresses at speed, knocks back tepid bedside water, and quietly lets herself out of the house. The girl does not take a key, or mobile, or money. She does not leave a note. As soon as she is out of human sight, she runs. She does not stop. She disappears into the landscape of her own thoughts.

I want this:

I discovered that I was still ugly. I had removed so many layers, peeling back, scraping, scratching and destroying, pulling out the barb of past experience from my skinless self. When I found the core I saw that it was ugly, and wrong. I ran down to the beach, lay down in the surf, and let the swash and backwash of the ocean soften and erode me into nothing. Into dust."

By me, for me, about me (probably: I am very ego-centric) because I don't expect anyone else to read this blog.

My First Post: On Amicable Break-ups.

Robert. says:
What you have to remember is that woman are naturally below men
Kirsty. says:
Robert
Kirsty. says:
Now is not the best time to be telling me this
Kirsty. says:
This is the post-break up period in which the only appropriate comments are:
Kirsty. says:
"You go girl!"
Kirsty. says:
"Who needs him?!"
Kirsty. says:
And "Screw them all, let's have martinis!"
Robert. says:
Who needs him!
Kirsty. says:
NO ONE
Robert. says:
Screw them all let's have martinis!
Kirsty. says:
YES LETS
Robert. says:
YOU GO GIRL!
Kirsty. says:
OKAY WHERE
Robert. says:
Erm... it was more of a hollow empty statement with no real meaning...
Kirsty. says:
Oh.
Kirsty. says:
Well that was fun, anyway.
Kirsty. says:
Cue montage
Kirsty. says:
Theme music: "Sisters Are Doin' it for Themselves"
Kirsty. says:
Followed by "R.E.S.P.E.C.T"
Kirsty. says:
Followed by suicide.

I might add:

This is a joke.
I am not, nor have I ever been (never) suicidal, least of all over boys.
I like chocolate-covered coffee beans.
I shouldn't have eaten so many chocolate-covered coffee beans.
This was the most amicable break up I've ever had.
I still have a friend. His name is Rian. He's still pretty cool.
I am pleased.

This conversation continued, on the subject of facial hair trading cards, and Keanu Reeves statuettes. More may be posted at a later date, when I am less hyped up on coffee beans and miniature marshmallows.

[00:08:20] They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back From The Dead!! Ahhhhh! says:
To be honest, the suicide thing was mostly because of over-exposure to terrible, funky music

As are all suicides, perhaps.

P.S. Possibly the first blog ever tagged with both "relationships, suicide," AND "mustaches, coffee beans, funky music". Hopefully not the last.