Monday, June 29, 2009
what is wrong with me? summer. that's what's fucking wrong with me. i shouldn't be allowed have free time.
i wish i could just switch off my brain. or my heart. or both. go into hibernation and see how i feel in a few weeks.
those blasted emo tablets. i don't know. relapse time, i think. i wish it wasn't so. it's not. it's just the mood i'm in. static erratic. get a grip, emma, please. i'd nearly take a few now but i know it wouldn't work the way i want it to. does anything ever?
life will be amazing one day when i am in college and have a bit of a job and have a little bit of money and something of a social life. life could be amazing tomorrow but i don't know just what has to change in order for that to be. what is 'amazing' anyway? someone, please, offer a bit of insight.
All the plans I have involve money and having money and spending money. Either I am very material, or we are living in a material world.
I have a wishlist. But it's a very budget-y kind of wishlist. I don't want designer. By no means. I want plain glasses for fivety-nine yo-yos. And I'd go lower if I could. I also want a very cheap, basic phone as my one is on the brink. Like us all. Ugh.
On YouTube... Fred is hilarious. He's the most subscribed. He's such a freak but rather addictive.
Need a job. Why do I keep saying that and doing nothing about it? I probably deserve this poverty. Ughhhh.
On the brightside, I'm void of hangover symptoms and boys are sometimes very, very nice and I like my friends and my acquaintances and Stephen Fry and I'm even beginning to enjoy being on the Twitter bandwagon, for some reason. Life is good.
Still holding out for a real adventure though. x
Let's go camping out in the back garden. Anyone? Really. Anyone will do.
I think that the books I read last summer all had something in common: they fulfilled this need I had for reassurance, for someone else, even someone completely fictional, to feel the way I was feeling. I really think it helped. And maybe it seems a bit silly but those books really meant something to me, and always will. And I don't think I own any of them. All thieved from the library. One day I will buy my own. And even if I don't own any other books, I'll be happy enough to own those. I'm not going to relay their titles because really it's no one's business what texts got me through that summer. It's probably important to mention, though, that they weren't self help books. At all.
I don't know what started me off on that strange tangent but I'll return to the matter at hand presently: plans.
job. books. sleeping under the stars. cutting weeds. horror films. no alcoholic beverages whatsover (why, I don't know). writing. friends. adventures. relax. emo tablets.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Life justs get funny sometimes. And I'm forever saying the wrong things. Telling people things I should never tell them. And after one or two or five of these leakings, I tell myself, 'Never again'. Because I hate feeling vulnerable like that, having people know the odd theories in my head. And I have no idea why I do it. I could speculate. I could jump on a notion and explore it. Is it because people who act as though they are better than anyone else infuriate me? The people who pretend that they don't experience the same mundane or crazy and mortal thoughts as everyone else. I suppose I want to be a person. And I want other people to know that I'm only a person. But other people have this knack for professing that they are completely void of such peculiar thoughts. And then I feel like a maniac. But it requires a lot of brain power, thinking yer a maniac. And I couldn't be bothered anymore. So. I've decided. That I don't care anymore. About what other people think of my mental stability. Or instability. Or whatever. Because even if they abhor me and my head, no amount of thinking or worrying or debating about it to myself would change their opinions. And my life is full of things that are fine just the way they are. And, I dunno, that's that really.
And everyday life is tough enough sometimes and there always seems to be something wrong, a tiny something that's there, niggling. And right now it's my foot. And it's swollen and I'm going to the doctor's in an hour for that reason. But I have a thousand and one other maladies to present him with while I'm there. And I don't know why but I feel like crying. And I haven't in a long time. Not properly. And certainly not just because. Every time I touch my foot where it's swollen, I get this wave of sadness engulfing me. And I feel like sobbing. And maybe it's because it's a reminder of all those little tings that are always going to bother you. The only change in my routine lately is the varying ailments that affect me. They are there, a given, everyday. But some days it's a sore throat. And other days it's a sore foot. And, I dunno. Ya'd just wonder sometimes.
And I guess I just need another rest. 'Cause I had a bit of a one fer the last two weeks but it took so long for me to get into the swing of it that I wasted energy as quick as I was recovering it. Having been so exhausted for the few months before that. And it all kicked off again. And I'm glad, I really am, but I need to sleep. And just be. But I do think that I am happy and that I'm smiling on the inside. Nah, I'm smiling on the outside. :] And perhaps some day soon I'll have a cry - a nice one, a relieved one - and I'll be ready to go somewhere new. New adventures.
And it sure was. It was just the way it came out that was hard to grasp at first. But I was okay. And I'm always going to be okay. And I learned things about myself that I really, honestly never knew. And, I dunno. I'm smiling again. 'Cause I'm actually proud. And I know it wasn't all me, that I had good friends who were lookin' out fer me, but I helped myself too. And someone said that. That ya haveta help yerse'f. And it was my metaphor, another 'un, that said ya haveta look after you before you can hope to take care of other people. Like, ya have to put on your own lifejacket before trying to save other people. 'Cause if you die, how are ya supposed to help other people? And ya can update that to the noughties if ya want, and say that the flight attendants and parents of small children have to put on their own oxygen masks before trying to assist other people with theirs. And they tell ya that at the beginning of every flight ya'll ever take and on every single one of those aeroplane disaster documentaries my dad watches ... So I'm kinda tryin' to mind myself a bit more than I used to. He always says it, he does, 'You're the most important person to you, Emma'.
So I've said too much in this and to him and to feasibly every other person I've ever spoken to in my life. And I wish people would interrupt me and say, 'Too much informaaaaaation, Emma'. But they never do. And I never realize until I'm at home in bed at the end of a day and I cringe because there's no taking it back and it's been said. But I don't care anymore. And that might seem like hopelessness. But really it's acceptance. Maybe things only happen 'cause they're supposed to.
40. What could be done to make things better for you?
Better? Hmm. Give me a whole heap of money and a few nice pages of stationary and some stamps and a nice, easy-to-read book and a huge hug and an evening watching Atonement with yer man and tell all those people who have recently morphed into uncaring airheads to get a grip. And give me a stylish new haircut and dye my hair back to an actual colour and ensure that I no longer have a tinge of ginge. And bully me into exercising regularly and eating healthily. And help me learn my lines for the play. And remind me to be nice to my peers and stop looking so sullen all the time. And make me consider the implications of all the lightening-speed bad decisions I make. And show me that I can't keep procrastinating on being a nice person. And congratulate me on realising the importance of doing maths homework. And give me a month's notice before you call 'round to my house. And tell me not to waste my emotions on people whose imagination stretches about as far as what's underneath my clothes. And prompt me to go to the doctor's because of my ear. And teach me the importance of mystery. And ask me about the meaning behind my silly metaphors. And talk to me about Skins and how terrible the writing is. And how hot Maxxie is. And tell me, daily, that there is life beyond this mess of a town. And that I'm gonna get there. Lie to me - tell me that I'm going to reach the unreachable. And hand me a pile of opportunities on a plate while you're at it. And tell the most uncanny person in the world to love me. And give me a fully-furnished, fully-functional conscience. And buy me new underwear. Remove all unwanted hair from my body. Super-moisturise my hands. Hand me energy in a plastic bag, or wrapped in tinfoil. Get me on a rugby team. Unite me with a sexy Australian man with a fabulous accent. Oh, and listen to me complain about how damned painful this is and advise me on whether it's a repeat event? And tell that fucking imbecile to please stop talking to me when they still reek of superficial sentiments. And instead of me having to go to town tomorrow, go there for me and go to the library, draw up a CV for me, buy me those shoes and print off my Careers homework. And put my curtains back up as my bedroom looks nude. And, for Chrissakes, slap me in the face, tell me to grow up. Better? Perfect.
OVER A YEAR LATER AND I'D STILL KILL FOR THAT LIST TO BE CHECKED OFF.
I'd like to talk about books and the way they make me feel. The way Tuesdays With Morrie made me feel, the way I cried at the end because it was beautiful and it made me think about everything. The way I cried after reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower and the way I felt lonely when I finished Life of Pi. The way some of the books I read might be overrated but I still adore them. They really do mean something to me. The way I almost obsessively locate similarities between me and the protagonists of the books I read. The way that there usually are similarities, but also very big differences. I can't comprehend differences. I never really feel like a different person. I accept and know and can see that everyone I know is different, not one of them is alike in more than one or two ways. As for me, I'm a carbon copy of one of them, all of them. Funny the way the head works.
I want to talk about the head, and the way it works. I want to make up new metaphors and talk to someone about them, without sounding like I'm repeating myself or am full of shite. I want someone to think as much as I do, genuinely. And to tell me what they think. But not be angry. Some people really do have a lot of anger swirling around their veins. I have annoyance, but not anger. I know one girl, and if someone looks at her funny, she'll seethe for the rest of the day. Maybe it's because I have a bad memory that those kinds of grudges don't hold with me. You know what I'm really scared of? That they do and I just don't notice. That other people notice and read this and go, 'She really is full of shite...' I am really scared of not knowing things. I think a lot in order to be aware of as much as possible. Sort of like, it doesn't matter what you say about me, because I've already thought it about myself. And I have. That's why I'm scared of people thinking things about these blogs, things I haven't. There's little you could think that hasn't already occurred to me. I think I'm full of shite too, you know.
I want to talk about relationships and how amazingly strenuous they are. Silly institutions for sixteen year olds to be in, if you ask me. When it comes to the brink, where you are hanging on for nothing... What is the point? You're young. And I'm only speaking from experience, honestly. So much heartache and headache and for what exactly? Love? Hardly. 'People accept the love they think they deserve'. I feel pretentious quoting that. But it is true. And I am speaking from experience. I'm saying it neutrally, too, you know. I'm not bitter. Not at all. I get sad sometimes. Mostly thinking of a phenomenal waste of time. But I'm not bitter. There's no point at all. I'm far too forgetful to hold grudges... It puts things into perspective to think about married couples, grown ups who have been together for years and are happy at present. I know it's all relative anyway. But thinking about all the ups and downs in a sixteen-year-old's eight month relationship ... just, what's the point at all? I suppose it's all training for when you're ready to be with someone for ever and create and procreate. But really. I don't know. I find it hard to get my head around ... Some people's fights are really fucking stupid, that's all.
Also, I want to talk about life. 'All say, 'How hard it is that we have to die' - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of those who have had to live'. And Mark Twain said that. Usually, the Marks of the world are the clever ones. The people with something in their heads and their hearts that really means something and really will change things. That's really very important.
I want to talk about priorities and the way I simply can't alter mine. And there are so very few. I don't want to talk about my priorities because they really are very private and very personal. I'm not very good at sticking to them. I'm not very good at anything, come to think of it. In fact, every good thing that I do seems like a complete fluke. And flukes are difficult to keep going. Which is why I fuck things up so beautifully. I really don't mean to, you should know.
I want to talk about emotion and the way it's the only thing I really understand. The way music and books conjure up these images and stories and little films in my head and they turn and twist and become real life in my head. Which isn't psychosis. I'm just very sensitive to those kinds of things, especially books. It's really odd, I find, that a decision seems like a Good Decision at the time, and you mull it over for such a long time. But as soon as it's over, as soon as it's come to pass, you still think everything's okay and it really was a Good Decision, the aftermath hits you. Suddenly, it really wasn't a Good Decision. It was a really Ill-Informed and Silly Decision. You really never can tell until it's done and filed away. But then you're hit with a boatload of emotion. A Lucky Bag of emotion. You won't have anticipated it but suddenly shame, worry and a small bit of depression are raining down on you from some malign being on a perpetual Cloud Over Your Head™, some entity who's laughing at your naivety. Not God. Of course not God. Something's that in your head, above your head. That's not psychosis either; I just use strange analogies sometimes.
I want to talk about God. Sometimes he's there, working small miracles on my life. Other times, he's somewhere else, looking after someone else. I really do believe in God. And I think He does His best. My concept of God isn't very detailed, it doesn't need to be. Don't ask me what God is, if He's all-powerful. Don't ask me why there's so much suffering in the world. Don't ask me what happens when you die. I don't know. I really don't know. I kind of think of God as a friend lookin' out for me. To be honest, that's enough right now. Ya can't really ask much more than that, can you?
I want to talk about miniature disasters. Things that happen on the other side of the world are important to me but I can't think about them for long without feeling the intense need to be sick. Maybe I'm just being selfish but sometimes I have about enough to contend with in my own small part of the world. Because whatever about global catastrophes, everybody experiences their own disaster every now and again. And ya might feel guilty or selfish to admit it when there's so much pain on a much bigger scale elsewhere but I think you should just feel how you feel and let that be it. Because your disaster is still a disaster, even if only for you. And it's all relative anyway. I understand when people talk about the Great Scheme of Things. I'm a great believer in the Great Scheme of Things. You're only one small part of a really big picture but I don't think that means that your woes and worries and triumphs amount to nothing. If they didn't, what would be the point at all? I think a lot about 'the point'. I assume other people do too. Sometimes I just don't see it. In anything. Sometimes I spend weeks searching for it, zero returns. Other times it's plain as day. It's like a Where's Waldo? book.
It really is all relative. But sometimes there's no one to talk about relativity with because everyone's busy getting on with their lives, trying to cope with their miniature disasters. I don't know. I really don't. I won't pretend I know because, as ever, I am flamboyantly bewildered. I have no delusions of wisdom or knowledge, don't worry; this is just what I think.
Purple with diamonte trim? Oh yes, please.
Is there a party I can attend and get blind drunk (again) and collapse on the bathroom floor (again)? There must be. I'll wear a nice skirt and be horribly antisocial. It will be bloody amazing. But really, I should never touch alcoholic beverages again. I'm lethal with a certain dose inside of me. I still haven't figured out where the line is... The line between laughing and talking in hilarious, if incoherent, accents and crying for no fucking reason at all. That line. Why do I keep crossing it? How do I keep crossing it? Hmm. Have a chat with yerself, Emma...
I am in bed. I am rather tired. Oh yes indeed.
What on earth is wrong with me? Sometimes I think about a perpetual yesterday's events and just want to die. I don't know why I'm even left out if the house, I really don't. And I mean that in a hilarious self-deprecating kind of way. Obviously.
Twitter's a bit fucking boring, to be honest. One hundred and forty characters. Not a lot of leeway, is there? And it's all a bit narcissistic, isn't it? Well, I think so. Then again, I know all about narcissisism and neuroticism and all the rest. It should give me some sort of insight into something but of course it doesn't. I'm just self-absorbed. End of.
I could sleep now if I wanted. My mother has turned off Tina Turner's roaring one hit wonder and retired to the land of Nod. But, see, I'm awake now. Ish. And ranting about nothing at all seems a much more exciting endeavour than catching up on a bit of shuteye. I'm realising, belatedly, that I'm not very responsible. I risk everything. Always. Stupid things. Stupid me.
Just because I can't cook (at all) or bake or marinate or grill or taste does not make me domestically redundant, does it? Fair enough, I ate a gone-off sausage and couldn't really tell the difference other than it tasted as though it had been steeped in alcohol (a good quality for most things to have, I think). This makes me feel a bit stupid. But liberated having shared.
Also, I burn rashers on the grill regularly. In fact, almost always. And I don't cook chicken goujons thoroughly and consequently make people a little bit ill. And, to be honest, that black pudding tasted just fine when I ate mine earlier... Beginning to think my standards are rather low. But food is only fuel. It just has to be edible. I have more important things to be doing than wasting time preparing and then discussing tasties that will meet their end in the ceramic bowl. (Important things: sleeping, running late, watching telly, sleeping, reading, blogging... Eugh.)
I really wish I had important things to do. Oh, woe.
I'll surely return later for more nonsense.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
have still yet to bring back watchmen to the library. and dillon's japan book. and probably my shakespeare book at this stage.
i want a camera.
i want excitement.
i want drama.
i want talent.
and euros. obviously.
tell me what to do.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Where am I lately? Where am I is right. Horribly antisocial. Not on purpose. Really want to go out. Longing for a bit of craic. Longing for money. Have nice dresses and nowhere to wear them to. Have lots of good books to read and no time. Or peace and quiet, for that matter.
Why is everything so difficult? Oh, shut up, Emma; you'll only depress yourself. Bleh.
Got my school report today. I counted the points. 445. I am thrilled.
Must paint my nails. I want blue. Alas. I have but green. Green it is then.
I think the Simpsons is a pain of a programme.
I really do want peace and quiet. Would my mother ever snap out of her mood and go get a life for herself?
I think I'm turning into a bad person. Or maybe I've always been. Is looking out for number one a good thing or a bad thing? Sometimes I just don't know. More on that later, I suppose.
'This is great! And all I've done is enter my name: Thrillhouse.'
I decided to get into my bed. It feels like forever since I've actually relaxed. I could stay here for the night, I really could. It's warm and good and I'm happy so long as my mother stays away from me for the night... She wonders why I get stressed out. Why wouldn't I, being on edge every day, wondering if there's something I'm doing wrong? Hmm. Peace and quiet would be quite nice now, without feeling guilty for it. Really, it's hardly my fault there's a recession.
Short attention span, bbz.
Loving you and leaving you.