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 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.

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.