Thursday, January 29, 2009

Goodbye, January.

What do you even want anymore, Emma? It used to be so simple, the answer to that question. It's not difficult now - it's inexplicable. I don't know what I want. Bottom line, I want you. But what does that mean? You're you, I have you. But lately that doesn't feel like enough. I need something more than the routine we've entered. Small woes compared to what I endured just to be with you Before. But I don't know. It's all relative. And this new agony, this new boredom, is bigger than the normal tragedies I endure on a day-to-day basis. I'm growing weary of the fights. Last week, I was terrified of them. And now I'm bored. Help.

I love you. That's enough. Or it should be. But these fights, these half-fights are draining. You defend yourself, or don't defend yourself, in the same manner with every single incident. Perhaps I do too but I don't notice. Boredom is supposed to be frustration or anger in disguise. Am I frustrated? I need something new. Not the kind of newness and the way you spoil me when I've been upset for a while but the kind of newness that stretches beyond material things. I want you to talk to me. Am I angry? Maybe I'm angry that our conversation consists of me chattering on incessantly like a retard, you laughing at me and explaining to me the reasons why Metal Gear Solid or some other nonentity of a thing is not the best game in the world, contrary to what your abusive fellow YouTube members seem to think... Americans with no sense of humour, apparently.

And it's not that I don't find all that fascinating. I do, in some kind of way. I don't expect you to think that Wuthering Heights and the sexual exploits of my friends and the conclusions I reached while watching Skins for the third time are completely riveting. I miss when our conversation was new. I miss having something worthwhile to talk about. Even compliments are boring now. Which is sad. Which is very sad. But when you look me bang square in the eyes and tell me I'm beautiful, I still melt. And maybe that counts for something.

And I still try so hard for you. I think I might have given up for a while. But the world was against me. With a new vaginal infection as soon as I'd finished a set of antibiotics for its predecessor, and the breadsoda baths and the ugliness that goes hand in hand with inflamed nether-regions, I wasn't feeling very pretty and I wasn't acting very pretty. January isn't my month either. These January Blues that I never really believed in before have affected me more than I'd care to admit. But it's nearly over, the bout of melancholia will pass.

It might seem like I'm just making excuses for myself, for us. But if I don't blame my itchy fanny or the recession-induced, beginning of the year depression, then I'd have to say that maybe the end is nigh. And that is what I don't want.

I love you too much to give up on us, especially when I cry almost weekly, fearing you will, but I feel like something has to give. If I make it out of this month, all two and half days left of it, I'll be okay. And whether or not that means we'll be okay remains to be seen.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

A Filler.

Drunken nights out in bars notorious for their leniency in selling alcohol to underage school-goers where your clothes are old and recycled and your make-up's cheap and so are the drinks. That is the beauty of youth. As well as never holding yourself responsible and never realising the importance of things until they're long gone. Beautiful.

Or maybe that last part just applies to me. Maybe I'm the only person on the planet who never notices my errors until much later and am adamant in my self-defence 'til then. Who knows?

January has been tough. I am happily sending it on its way out. A trying month and probably only for the misery connotations that go with it. But err and err I do, it's almost over and things are going quite static, thank you very much. Maybe I've finally started to pave my own path. For example, I used heat protection spray on my hair today before I straightened it, which says something. And I've stopped making the usual weekly and fortnightly mistakes. And I'm giddy.

I want to be blonde. And thin. And rich. And beautiful. And happy. But I'm content enough at present to keep going as I am. Right now I'm only writing because I can. Maybe some day soon I'll have something interesting to say.

Things keep moving, don't they? Scary previous blog posts and I just don't know how I feel. If things were that bad, as bad as I made them sound, why did it last? How did it last? In truth, it didn't, did it? It went on hiatus. And returned triumphantly and I'll never love anyone so much.

I'm excited for the stage. I'm excited for the opportunities and maybe fate is real. And maybe things really are falling into place. Perhaps I'll never, ever stop learning and one day I'll learn to draw something from these ever-frequent errors. And to form coherent and aesthetic sentences. But I wouldn't hold my breath on that last part.