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.