Invisible.

I don't understand how a single wall post can cause me to rant and rave to myself in the dark (really dark) hours of the night, just before I need to catch up on sleep. But it has. And somewhere deep down I am sure this is all for a good reason that may never reveal itself, but it's there.

FACT : I don't like introducing my friends to one another. Yes, brand me selfish before I even have a chance to explain this juvenile behaviour to you. You would think that this would just add to more fun. More people being more happy together with you. So this would all equal one huge super party.

Fuck that. The reality of the situation is, well my situation at least, is that people don't remember me as soon as they have met. They completely forget that I am in the middle of this entire conversation and proceed to discuss their life stories as if they had grown up together or something. It's not so hard to at least try and include me, but people are weird. I don't even know how this works. I don't know if I subconsciously step down to let them carry on their budding romance. I don't know if subconsciously I want people to be happy.

I don't fucking think so. It's so hard for me to hang on to friends. Either the really good ones move away, or I move away from the really good ones. And it feels like, you don't fucking care who the person that introduced you in the first place is. Why are you going around telling MY friends that you will be here? Why? Does this not go through me? Do you even care how I feel about these people? Maybe I had this massive fight with them and don't want to talk to them. Or maybe I just don't get along with them. I don't know.

Also, why them? WHY EVERYONE FUCKING ELSE BUT ME? Are you trying to make me feel more worthless than I already do? I'm sorry, ARE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING THIS? You don't think I have degraded myself enough? What makes them so much more entertaining than me? Is it tits? I got tits. Is it some easy look plastered on their face?

GIVE ME A FUCKING CLUE.

Tell me why I become invisible to everyone. Why does everyone forget me? It's like I am matchmaking friends but no one wants to matchmake friends for me. Why would anyone worry anyway, about matching people with me? I'm so fucking shit as a person, and heck no one would even remember me. Maybe because I don't even fucking care.

This is turning out to be the shit week I predicted.

A lot more tears on the fucking way.

Cheers.

PS. I miss you blog, you have no idea. How does even my BLOG manage to send me on a guilt trip???

The Beauty In The Eye Of The Beholder.

But the beholder is blind to me.

I can't get over this. I don't think I ever will. Ever feel good enough for anyone, not even myself. It's like one of those fly-on-the-wall situations, except for me it's apparently permanent. It has its own screen time and its own soundtrack, but without an audience. After all, who would want to watch such a depressing story for no pay?

I just watch myself, silently, blissfully. Waiting for me to make the next move. But I don't make any moves. Because I can't help but think of all the reasons why. Why I can't be good enough. Why I am constantly overshadowed and undervalued. Sometimes, the things people say really get to me. I feel less worthy than I should and incapable of being normal. Maybe the normality I wish for, isn't really normal at all. It's just something different than what it is for me now.

Normality is to be loved by people for who you are and in return you give love. So much of it that the amount of love you get back overwhelms you that you hate it. And maybe if you are so normal, your hopes and dreams come true because you work hard for it. Maybe you get rewarded for the little things that you do. Maybe you get rewarded for the little things you say. But you most definitely feel normal.

But I can't feel this normality. Nothing feels normal anymore. I don't know who normal something is or how absurd. My judgement impaired, I walk around in a haze hoping to find something normal, that will bring me back to the world I thought I understood. I wish for a star, a clue or anything remotely magical to show me the right way, for I no longer know it.

I don't know how to feel about things anymore. I don't know if something is good for me, or it's disguised as a curse. Because the happiness something brings me, inevitably invites bad auras and your happiness is short-lived. Should we really celebrate something that will only invite more curse? More pain? I can't imagine why someone would want to be happy.

I've realised that I am only truly pleased when I am depressed. My mood permanently sombre. If anything, it's more stable. It takes a lot of effort to shake someone out of depression, but think about how long it takes to make someone upset. How long it takes to mortify someone about their bleak future. How long it takes to make someone cry.

A heartbeat.

Even before their heart thinks of beating.

So why can't I stay depressed? It's a good place to be; nothing will bother me because there is theoretically nothing past rock bottom (although now that I have said that my rock bottom will fall through.) And no one can upset me. Because the only way they could is to join me there. And once there, if you do find me, you would be so overcome by the pressure of living in such a low place that it mutes you. Like the button on a remote.

And that is where I find the normality. To be stable. To be unshaken. To be fearless. To be totally depressed.

What about all those times I have been told that I will achieve something? This thing in particular is not something I can study for, or buy. I can't achieve this unless it chooses me. But I guess I am just one of those people who keeps getting passed over. Never chosen. Sometimes I am chosen, but only to learn hard lessons. I have no good memories from being chosen for this. There is always someone next to me who sends me into the darkness, where no one will see me. Past a beam of light is a haze of darkness, but you would never question the light or what lies behind it.

And there I am, wandering in the dark, watching all the attention go to the beautiful beam in front of me. It makes me wonder, will anyone ever look beyond the light and look for the beauty in the darkness? Is this beam even bright enough to overshadow me? Is this all just part of that fly-on-the-wall story?

Yes, that beam exists. And it is so bright, it's blinding. That even if it was possible to see past it and look into the darkness, you would not be remotely interested in what you find back there. After all, there is this shining light in front of you that would probably give you anything you want.

Am I always meant to be this way? Overshadowed? In the darkness? Never knowing what it's like to be the one that gets it all?

How do you think it feels when you are constantly passed over for things? If I could control this, I would have held its reigns by now. But at this moment, and forever it will be this way, I am in no control nor any indication of what this all means and why it happens. I am always the one in the shadows, waiting for my turn. Ever waiting. How much longer do I have to wait?

I think I am one of those girls who just never gets that one thing she wants. Maybe it's because I want it. But I can't just stop wanting this. But I need to. Because I am never going to get it. I am just going to have to live with what I have, however bitter and alone I might be. Perhaps I can pour my heart into other things. Be so famously ruthless that I am unstoppable. From all the anger that I have from not getting what I think I deserve.

What have I become?

A monster.

You leave me to be like this. Alone. You want me to be alone. Never to know what's it's like to be paid attention to. Alone. No comfort. No place to run from my sorrows. This is my sorrow.

Alone.

Forever.

I Have Never Been More Scared.

Than I am at this point in time.

FACT : I am scared of people.

That's why I try to make the effort to meet people and make myself so grotesquely vulnerable so that people would like me and I would familiarise myself with them and not be so scared. But I am still scared. The fear is always there. Lately I've been keeping to myself. Hang on, let's make it a bit clearer. Lately, I've been WANTING to keep to myself. Yes, that's so unlike me, I hear you say.

But this is what I've what I've become. A recluse. So afraid to approach people around me. For fear of rejection. For fear of disapproval. For fear of disappointment. For fear of fear itself.

I can't do it anymore. I want to be who I was before. Fun. Loving. Creative. Enthusiastic. Attention seeker. Where has that gone? It's disappeared. Locked up. I don't even know.

I just want me back. I am at odds here because I've quite basically lost myself and changed into something I vowed I never would be. I want my confidence back.

You hear that?

I WANT MY FUCKING CONFIDENCE BACK, BITCH.

Cheers.

PS. Sorry, but a perpetual state of panic is not a very nice place to be.

Stop.

Is it clear for me to go?

FALSE.

Just how long does it take you to realise that the people you had laid your trust in all this while suddenly emptied that bucket of it? Drained it until it was bone dry. Made sure every last drop of trust had been sucked up by the concrete it was poured onto.

And then proceeded to take your heart and wring out any emotion you had left stored in it.

It depends, really. Based on, well quite obviously, how much liquid trust you laid in them in the first place. How much of that dripped from you when they pricked your heart with a blade. How much they decided to collect in the bucket, and how much else they let you bleed out until you were exhausted.

And that is how you trust people. After you've spent most of your past building up walls to guard yourself from emotional attack, it becomes very difficult to allow any diffusion through these walls. Just as negative feelings bounce off the walls, positive emotions are blocked from leaving. After all, they leave you only to be destroyed or transformed into negative thoughts. Without these walls, you would be left in a state of delirium - deciding between depression or catharsis.

As I have said before, there is nothing more binding and powerful than the weapon of trust. Like a steel blade, only free from deterioration; like biological armament, only without an antidote; like a stab in the back, only a lot more effective. Yes, trust is a powerful weapon. But it is as powerful as it is scarce.

It's not something someone would readily give you. Unless they have a really good plan.

Or they really enjoy the sex.

But once you have it, wow, your possibilities are only limited by your personal capacity for causing anarchy. You can tear apart friendships, relationships, and perhaps countries. The world, why not? Imagine the amount of pain you could inflict on those who deserve it. Or don't.

No firearm in the world would give you the same amount of pleasure; it's almost orgasmic.

THE CATCH.

If that person is already protected by several emotional barriers, you probably won't get very far. You might appease them to a certain extent, or break down a certain number of walls, but the barrier closest to the heart is usually the strongest. And if that person has already been broken several times, you might just die trying.

And this story of pain somehow always relates to ... me. Maybe when you keep getting beaten down for reasons you can't comprehend, you don't get what you deserve, you don't get the support you need, you can't understand the separation or the categorisation, you could begin to realise that things are just better when you are alone. Completely alone. With no one to ask why you are that way.

No one to question your paradox of happiness.

Perhaps it's time to truly understand emotional solitude. Being sealed. Being unbreakable.

Being unbeatable.

Because after all, I have all that trust buried inside me.

'Trust is like a mirror. You can fix it if it's broken.'

'But you can still see the crack in that motherfucker's reflection.'

Cheers.

Hang With Me.

Just don't fall

Recklessly headlessly in love with me

Cos it's going to be

All heartbreak

Blissfully painful and insanity

If we agree

Oh you can hang with me.

Robyn makes too much sense sometimes, it scares me.

I should rename this post 'Limbo', because that is how I am feeling right now. There are always several worlds you could exist in, and just because you have neglected one/some of them doesn't mean they disappear. They just repair themselves and become better than ever, waiting for you to return to it.

That's why it always seems better to get away from the world you are in right now, because the other one seems so much better than you remember it. And it is. It's everything you want it to be : calm, devoid of drama and everyone you love and care about loves you the way you want them to. Skies are always blue, beaches are always warm, and everything feels as real as it can.

Beach resorts don't really need marketing strategies, to be honest.

But that isn't where you can stay forever. Something in the other world will call you, claw you perhaps, and maybe drag you back into the world you hate to live in. It's got disease and disappointment and drama that only involves you.

That's where I am now. In limbo between two worlds. At first I hated being here. I wanted to return to the dream that I was living - with the comfort and the freedom I felt always. I eventually forgot about the loneliness and solitude that would have killed me had I not put it out of my head. I found solace in spending on clothes and shoes and beautiful things that would inspire me, and made the only place I had to myself, my sanctuary. Where no one could hurt me, destroy me and remind me of all the things I didn't have. Here, I could tell myself all the things I did have and feel grateful for them. And if I squeezed myself into one of the corners, I could dream of all the magical places I could be in at the moment. Where I had everything and everyone I wanted.

But then I had to realise that I was no longer dreaming. And I was becoming more comfortable with reality. I was more comfortable with having people to talk to and people who love me surrounding me at all times, and slowly I was waking up.

Soon I have to return to dreaming. I'm not going to like it, unless the dream gets more interesting. Which might not happen. And I think life is only going to get harder for me.

Fuck all this - things could just have been easier.

Cheers.

PS. I don't know what I am saying anymore so if there are grammatical errors then correct it yourself.

Kaythanksbye.

I Love The Way Nylon Feels Against My Skin.

It's better than leather.

Especially when it's crisp, glossy and filled with pages that try to pass themselves off as portals into a wonderland where music and fashion and photography combine into a melange of ecstasy.

NYLON magazine is not a drug. Although it's a close substitute.

It easily slides into the top spot on the list of my favorite magazines, right next to American Glamour because the only thing that's as good as a magazine that tells you what to do to be amazing, is a magazine that tells you the exact opposite. How to be an individual. How to be a rebel. How to embody all things hippy.

How to be in the indie about town.

But there is something so compulsively addictive about NYLON. Despite being a mainstream magazine, there is nothing mainstream about it; it's almost as if it's a constant battle to fight that label. It represents all things underground, from mid-level fashion to grungy attire for the decadent teen. It represents the pictures of the shutterbug with a less-than-efficient camera (think of the period between Lomo and SLR where no one really ventures) who still manages to portray some sort of adolescent angst through them. It represents the music you wouldn't listen to because no one told you to. Yet.

I won't elaborate because I know that once I entirely dissect this magazine, something in me will change my view on it and I will detest its very existence until my terribly short memory kicks in.

NYLON + GLAMOUR US = LITERARY ECSTASY.

Another thing. What is with this flood of indie, never-heard-of bands with nothing more to offer than a keyboard jingle and a bad haircut? First of all, they all look the same. You can literally spot them on the street in _____ (insert name of famously indie English city) ______, decked out in ankle-high pirate boots, skinnier-than-skinny skinny jeans and raggedy t-shirts with random prints, passed of as vintage.

All they play is trash! First of all they sound the same, they seem to date their influences to the same artists of the same time period (I don't expect Gaga to be mentioned but maybe you could pick an artist that hasn't already been worshipped?) and they all think that a cool haircut is one where you get really high and go crazy with a razor.

It looks stupid. There is nothing sexy about you. No one listens to your music.

Deal with yourself?

Cheers.

This was a completely nonsensical post. Yes, nothing has changed.

I Don't Know What I'm Doing Anymore.

I don't know how to feel.

Cheers.

Happiness Is Relative.

Absolute depression is more worth achieving.

Emotions. They can really tear you apart. You don't even need a reason for those emotions, really. It invites itself into any situation, mindfucks you beyond belief and then leaves you to crawl away barely breathing.

It might not hurt as much if there was a reason for it all.

I seem to have been submerged in this state of depression lately. It's been a while since I left it, since I started seeing the opportunities in life to actually have fun in my life and seize them. But it's dragged me back. Perhaps during my darkest days, I managed to sink to the bottom of the pool and sign some sort of diabolical deal to forever hold my soul within it. So as fast as I try to run, or as strong as I am to hold myself back, an invisible hand always has its gangly nails within the skin of my back, ready to pull me in when I get too happy.

Or drown me, if it sees fit.

I don't know where I belong anymore. I don't know how I am meant to feel anymore. Two months ago if anyone had asked me exactly what I wanted, I would have said that this would be it. This would make my world a little bit brighter. This would make me love life a little bit more. This would take all my problems away, for just that period of time.

Ask me now, and I could not even pretend to say that same.

The emotions that are clouding my head are a mix of guilt and general discontentment. It's like I feel that I am disappointed in a lot of things but guilty that I feel that way at the same time. And alongside all of that, I am longing for something I can't have right now. I find myself counting down the days, rather than counting away the days and putting myself in a state of denial that the days are longer than they seem.

I wish the days weren't as long as they seem.

And then comes that guilt trip I have been sent on. All I can think of is how I am letting down the people who love me more than I can feel about them at this point. How I wish I could feel the same joy and desire and passion that they feel about our embrace than I feel about starting a conversation with them. How I can't bear to let them know that only one of our smiles is true.

While the other one is more fake than the red lips on a whore.

I wish I had a reason for how I felt; at least then I could come up with a solution to rid myself of these feelings. What was meant to be a time of leisure has turned into weeks of mental torture because more than the fact that I feel bored, is that fact that I hate myself for feeling that way.

And the physical agony is just as painful. The sleepless nights, the appetite-less days and the idle mind.

I can't fucking do this anymore.

I hope it's just withdrawal symptoms from not visiting Topshop.

Cheers.

In My System.

Because I am out of it.

I am out of my system, quite literally. The system of coming up with a substantially cohesive blog post every other day has destroyed itself. And now irregular verbal diarrhea is all I manage to compose, which I try and pass off as something worthy of my blog.

Usually this works.

I think the whole novelty of blogging my life away has worn off. Somehow I seem to have found another outlet to vent my frustrations (god forbid that outlet be living) and listen to me mindlessly fabricate episodes of my life that don't really play out like I say it does.

Even at this point I am finding it difficult to get my point across. I guess it's also due to the fact that this blog doesn't get as much traffic as it used to, so I haven't got much of an incentive to blog about important things anymore.

I'm sorry.

Cheers.

Photographs.

So sick and fucking tired.

I'm just going to come out straight and say it because I can't give a fuck right now. Instead of sleeping I spent most of my night in the cold, wearing close to nothing and waiting to keel over from numbness. Or break my teeth from chattering. Or crack a bone from an attempt to balance my feet in a sea of rocks.

Or all of them at once, in a flurry of red.

But I wouldn't have minded all that. No, not at all. If there was some sort of surreal benefit to be gained from all this then I suppose I would have braced myself through the worst of the times. But I didn't see a surreal benefit. Not even one that was concrete or solidly standing in front of me - waiting to be violated. There was nil gain from having a few of my body parts die frozen. There was nil gain from sitting on the ludicrously dirty rock formations and being careful to avoid the various patches of old vomit across them. There was nil gain from asking dull questions about things I don't even care about to the people I don't even bother with.

There was nil gain from suffering through a fucking shitty night.

You can probably tell that this desperately pathetic post stems from a terrible bout of jealousy, or something within me that's deeper. Something that probably involves too many questions and too few answers.

Something you would rather not read about.

I guess it all comes down to one thing, really - about how I measure up to other people. I have become so used to serially comparing myself to others that it is my social mechanism. It determines how far I get by and what I am able to accomplish. It determines what my principles are and who I represent. It determines how much I laugh or who I choose to laugh with, and the tears I shed.

It determines based on something that I am not.

But it works. I compare myself to someone who resembles me and work past it to be better. I relate to someone with the same issues and work to overcome them faster. I observe someone else with the same constraints and work to break through them stronger.

It's when I don't work that it burns.

You should have already guessed by now that there is someone (rather, some people) whom I have recently compared myself to, and as it turns out - I can't overcome it. They are both more attractive than I am (by a fair mile), more confident than I can ever be (quite evidently) and just a heck of alot easier to be around. I thought I could work around it, but it just proved to be too difficult for me to even attempt.

I could have taken the high road and just believed I was slightly better. I could have worked against my instincts to compare myself and put it out of my head so I could have an amazing time. But it didn't work out that way. I ended up comparing myself up to the most petty detail, none of them being in my favour.

And just to make everything a little better, the people I had being trying to meet all this while seemed to warm up instantly to the new ones. Within a matter of hours, everything I had tried to achieve in 9 months had been sorted in 7 hours. And they even had a little more than what I had expected. It was if they had placed me in cage to watch the events of the night unfold but never letting me out to be a part of it.

Leaving me to feast on my own hungry heart.

I am still in that cage, watching others have what I deserve, or at least what I think I do. I guess the easy answer is telling me to change and find the answer within myself, but since when did we ever pay attention to an easy answer?

Since we stopped having easier problems.

Cheers.

*PS : I'll have you know that this is my 200th post. Cause for celebration?

So.

Now what?

2 days until it gets here. I've been waiting for it, no doubt; 10 months to be specific. I can recall all those nights spent alone in my room where I was sat in front of my computer, counting. Counting the hours I had spent sitting in my seat. Counting the hours I had spent alone in my room.

Counting to infinity.

And soon it will be here. This would give me a reason to replace all my future plans of spending more nights alone with something a little more stimulating and a little less liver-friendly. I'll soon be spending less time memorising the wall surfaces in my room and more time actually being normal. It's what I have been waiting for, the chance to be just like everyone else.

But as this moment draws near, I can't help but reflect all those times I only had myself to keep me awake. I remember creating routines for myself whilst trying to eat what can only be identified as my poor attempt at cooking. Once those routines were over, I'd pray that it was late enough for me to get to sleep - just to make it all a little less pathetic. But it's hard to fall asleep when on the other side of the door, all you can hear is chatter and laughter and happiness. It's almost as if, they want me to know how much fun they are having without you. That they relish in the fact that I am sleeping my sorry nights away.

That the source of their happiness is purely from the fact that I have been bound by the walls of my room until sunrise.

But enough with the self-hate. (Yes, a first.) The point of this post, as I hope it will come across, is that I am not really excited about the whole thing. I'm really not. I don't see how this will change my life. I don't see how this one circumstance that I shall be free from, can improve my well-being in any way.

Unless the world puts on a skirt and tells me the meaning of life, I don't see how I want to care.

I can't be bothered to meet new people. I can't be bothered to slap on cakey make-up and squeeze into a dress that I won't even look good in. I can't be bothered to act like I care. I can't be bothered to waste cash on something that would waste my liver. I can't be bothered to dance to music I don't even want to hear. I can't be bothered to stay awake all night.

I just want to eat and sleep and ignore people. Fun times.

Look at me. I am totally different person. I used to love being around people, meeting them and embracing them. Having the best fun with them. But now I'm just closed up. Like I started by swallowing my fist and I've just been ingesting the rest of me since then, until all I am is this little ball of ... stuff.

Maybe things will change in time, maybe it won't. Who gives a fuck, really.

Because I really don't.

Cheers.

Unsex Me Here.

You spirits, that tend on mortal thoughts.

So let's talk sex. A kiss could be sex. A gentle squeeze of the arm as a parting gesture, could be sex. The stroke of the palm on the cheek could be sex. The stroke of the palm on the ... could be sex. The clasp of hands during an orgasm, could very well be sex. The comforting hug afterwards, could be sex too.

Wearing a skin-tight leather dress in public, could be sex. Exposing as much skin as possible, could be sex. Maintaining finishing school posture, could also be sex. Revealing just a bit too much of that lacy bra, could be sex. Walking around in nothing but a bin bag, also sex.

What determines sex? Who determines it, rather? Is it the whole copulative process that represents sex, while all others just become innocent personal expressions? Does it matter that you haven't had more than 2 hours of conversation with the person? Does it matter that you have? Could it be that you feel some sort of unexplainable bond with the said party? Could it mean that you feel nothing at all, except some kind of seemingly insatiable animal passion?

Maybe the fact that you have a purpose makes a difference. What if you have no purpose at all, or something totally psychotic, perhaps in the name of friendship? What if you merely have a burning curiosity of what it's all about, or the need for proof for your skepticism? What if your clock is ticking?

Tick. Tock. Tick.

I have yet to reach a conclusion (Sorry if you were hoping for one, you should very well know I seldom have an answer to any of my questions.) But I have realised that moving out from home (at such a young age as well) and to a place with starkly different cultures and social conventions can change your perspective on life in general, better than any old fable or anecdote you might have been told. I had made principles for myself before moving out, and was quite content with them. But moving to a place where you have no companions or anyone you can relate to, almost forces you to change into someone the locals can recognise. You transform into something that allows you to relate yourself to the others, even if you can't recognise yourself.

It is sad. When you have to forget you thought you were, and pick out a new personality to try on. You never know if it will appeal to the rest, and more importantly if it will fit you. So it begins, the process of self-discovery. You have no clues, no directions and no right answers but plenty of wrong ones. Those who came to love you as you were before, may leave because they no longer appreciate your new personality. And the people you try so hard to impress, may decide they don't really like you that much anyway.

So what are you left with? Nothing. No side to defend you in your times of greatest need, no purpose to fight for, and no person to see you through the hardest period in your life.

You only have yourself, when all you wanted was everyone else.

And that's where the lesson lies isn't it? The higher power would not have been able to make it clear to you otherwise. It wanted to make it clear that the only person you should ever have to need and want is yourself; everyone else being a delightful bonus. Because the only person who will be there for you until the end is yourself, you can't lose it and you can't change it.

But I digress. This all relates to sex in some weird foreign way, but I basically wanted to make clear that as my perception of life has changed, so has my perception of intimacy and sex. When you should do it. How soon you should do it. With whom. How far you should go. I think I have new answers for them, but I don't think I can reveal them right now and right here, because it's something personal. More personal than this blog. And if it bothers you that much that you have to know, then you can ask me in person.

Knowing me, I will explain it to you in explicit detail.

So, sex? Fun times, no biggie. Once that's done, you can unsex me a la Lady Macbeth.

Because power has no gender.

Cheers.

Gam Zeh Yaavor.

Can I tell you a story while we dance as the sun starts to bleed?

I always imagined that life would be beautiful. People never grow old and people never die. People are honest and people never lie. People always laugh and never cry. People make love and never hate. People treat other people with respect and tolerance and people never ignore and forget.

People love other people, always.

Just one of the many fallacies of my thoughts. I suppose I lived in Utopia in my past life, the only downside to that being that I died. Everything was purple, everyone was happy. There was never a reason to be depressed. There was never a reason to fall out of love.

Never a reason to start a blog and discuss bitterness.

This weekend gave me yet another reason to sit alone and over-analyse the intricacies of life. Run my plans for the future through my head and find reasons to revalidate them. You would think that this tires me out, drains the blood from every other part of my body, or tears me open from exhaustion - but it doesn't. I guess the pain keeps me awake.

Someone told me I would not be good enough to achieve what I want. It broke me. I felt like I had been laid down in front of them to be stepped on and then tossed to the side. It hurts not to be taken seriously, and even worse to be lied to that you are being taken seriously. Deep down I know that there is a burning jealousy within those who know me. I can feel it. I can feel the hate for something I can't recognise or fathom.

I know that there is something inside me that makes you want to hurt me.

But I can't let you do it. I can't let you take my dreams away from me. I want to break free from what I have been given and run from it as far as I can. To the other side of the world. To destiny.

Cheers.

A Little Less Conversation.

Might do me some good.

My theory that an exceptionally good day is routinely followed by a not-so-exceptional series of bad seems to be holding, unfortunately. Just when you think things can only get better, they get a little bit worse, disproving any theory you might have had about life not being a total bitch. And when you think you might as well relieve yourself of any more emotional turmoil, the day starts looking a bit brighter. You feel a little less doomed.

The sun actually shines so bright, it burns your face off.

And then while you bask in the delight that is that stress-free day, you fall asleep waking up to a nightmare. A nightmare that never left you; it simply forgot to show up for one day.

Now that I have come up with this theory, it's almost as if I caused it to stay in place. Because now it applies not only to days, but weeks. And soon enough, months. I even see a clear pattern in years, where even-numbered years prove to be the most odd.

I must admit what has brought this up is nothing new or even substantial. It's just that permanent feeling of loneliness, which doesn't seem to stop being ... permanent. The feeling that no one ever really needs you like you need them. The feeling that you have to need somebody. The feeling that you are somewhat abandoned, even while surrounded by other people. The feeling that you might not be missed if you decided to just run away. The feeling that there are some people who may need you, but never let you know - making their feeling for you almost unimportant.

The feeling that you know deep down you would be better of without, and because of this, can't seem to get rid of.

I sometimes wonder. What if. What if I just disappeared? (I contain this within my imagination of course, because I know I could not live without having to leech off other people's lives.) What if I just wasn't there to speak to anymore? What if I just left with no traces, and in no general direction?

Would it matter? Would they notice my room was empty? Would they notice that I never came round anymore? Would they notice I was not there to listen? Would they notice I was not there to answer their calls? Would they notice that their lives were better off quieter?

Would they even care?

Sometimes I used to feel that I owe people something by being their friend. I owe people something when they listen to my problems. I owe people something when I listen to their problems. I owe people something when I try and make them laugh, put a smile on their face.

I owe people something by just being there.

Now I feel it all the time. And it hurts me to think that I owe all these people, but there is no chance of them owing me anything. I may as well saw off my leg and move far far away to a pirate ship or something (now that I have one leg.)

Deep down, I just wish I knew the truth about myself. I just wish people would tell me how they really felt about me - and fucking mean it. If I make peoples' lives so epically unbearable, I want to know about it. If I make people feel ill just by thinking of my face, I want to know about it. If it pains people to have to come up with conversation with me, I want to be told.

If I should just sit by myself and watch the rest of the world mingle and rejoice and celebrate in each other's company, then I should know.

Maybe it's about time I stopped leeching off other people and internally established the fact that being alone is in fact a way of life. A way of keeping everyone else happy.

Even if I am crying inside.

Cheers.

I'm A Banana.

I just realised this.

But anyway, back to the point.

I have no idea what to say, so before I begin this verbal diarrhea of absolute shit (ha-ha) I need to firstly, apologise to my blog for inflicting torture onto it; and secondly, ask why all of you still read my blog.

No, seriously. It's been 13 days since my last post (god knows how many of you actually noticed) and I feel like I'm losing my creative side to the blasted work I am meant to be doing right about now. I have nil photography inspiration, what seems to be an epic writer's block, and a seriously serious craving for sugar and/or salt.

For serious.

Let me make it clear that from today, the figure I was finally on the path to achieving shall return to its normal state of fat.

I also have another thing to say.

Red lips are so the shizz.

Try it, even if you are worried you might look like a unpaid hooker. However if your skin is so pale it looks like it needs a slap, you might want to try a pink-ish red. And if your skin is so dark they call you dark chocolate (now you know I love my dark chocolate), you should go for a deep red.

Also.

I am very horny right now. Give me shitloads of work, and I'll give you an underaged highly-stimulated wackomaniac with no moral decorum. I want you. Yes, you. Give it to me.

The way you work your tongue, can I hire you?

On that note.

Nicki Minaj is actually quite cool.

And finally.

Why are the top male artists on the British Top 40 charts right now so fucking hot?

Aggro Santos

Tinie Tempah

Jason Derulo

(My parts physically long for him.) If you get a chance, watch his performance at the BBC Big Weekend 2010 - this boy is ripped.

Cheers.

PS. Genuinely sorry for this retarded post, I just needed a reason to get away from myself.

Freefall.

You know how some days tear you up from inside, devour your flesh, vomit you back out in a half-digested mass and hope you feel better at the end of it?

Yeah. Just worse.

I guess I should admit that it's not as bad as it seems. There are plenty of things I am thankful for, and yes god I am very thankful. But I should also admit that I have a tendency to exaggerate the situation to a point where it can't be identified.

But I still feel like shit and you can't deny that.

It's that time of year again where I only leave my room to breathe. Everything suddenly becomes a distraction: the sick state of my room, the spot of grease on my window, the speck of dust in the corridor, bread in the toaster, a leaky faucet, the absence of cheese in the fridge, grass growing, paint drying. And just when I have seized that moment of concentration, it evades me like the bug on my wall.

Ooh, bug.

I have an unnecessary stockpile of magazines on the floor of my room that are calling to be perused, when it's the financial markets and the fucktards who gamble on it that need to be understood. I have sticky notes reminding me of unfinished work, pasted on the sole strip of wall in my room untouched by anything decorative (shocking), but nothing motivates me to get to them. I have less than three weeks until my brain completely explodes, and I don't seem to want to care about it at all. I can't focus on anything solid, and I feel nauseous reading information I don't even want to care about.

Who gives a fuck about risk and return on fucking bonds that crashed the fucking markets in the first place sending us all into friggin freefall with no chance of covering our asses?

This isn't the first time the stock market has crashed ... maybe there IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH IT.

Take a hint.

Cheers.

We Are Broken.

How do you break if you are already broken?

It's quite simple, really. You determine what exactly it is you are holding to, and take it away from yourself. Destroy it. Watch it crash and burn and die in front of you, while the embers from its flame linger past your eyes only making you want to cry harder. Now, for many of you, you might be holding on to many things, all of equal importance. And the rest of you, to whom I can relate, there only one thing in the world you could ask for and it is the one thing that helps you go to sleep at night. That helps chase your worries away when you are hurting.

That keeps you breathing.

And just as easily as it appears to hold you up, it tears itself down. You immediately lose your balance, fall, collapse and hit your head so hard on the ground it paralyses you. And while you are still conscious, you observe your mangled body and try your best to carry out damage control. But eventually you will realise that there is no way out of your broken bones, or your burst organs, or your mental distress.

Just before your eyes close and you lapse into a virtual haze of peace.

But it all depends on just how much you rely on this pillar of hope. If it is something you can easily substitute for the same amount of contentment, then it might not affect as much as it could. But what if it was something that made a difference in your day? Something that gave you that glow, that spark that people noticed when you walked by? Something that made your cold lonely nights so much more bearable than it really is? Something that helped you fall asleep at night, and woke you up in the morning? Something that helped you hold back your tears when you were upset? Something that motivated you to work extra extra hard in your days and overcome sloth?

Something that made you so fucking happy.

Why, it could make you hurt for as long as you can imagine. As long as you want to keep feeling that pain, it will be there. Stinging. Burning. Ripping you apart. And the tears that follow. That never stop. That stop you from sleeping. That stop you from dreaming good dreams.

It's what makes pain so feared.

And while you're suffering, pain gives you the power to pass it onto others, like a chain reaction you did not intend to start. But before you even realise it's happening, it has already spiralled out of control. Affecting everyone you know and those that you have come to love. Those you wish nothing but beautiful things in the world for.

And in an immediate reflex, you turn to the person who appears to have pulled the pillar of hope from under you. The person left standing holding it in the air, as if it was an innocent child-like mistake that was meant to go unnoticed. But what you don't realise is all the other people who are standing behind her, who coaxed her into trying the stunt in the first place and pushed her inch by inch to it. And just as she was about to commit they would back away instantaneously as if they had no hand in it.

Leaving her to take all the blame.

Is there a way to ever replace that pillar? To restore that hope, that spirit that you need to keep functioning? I suppose not. The only way out is to slowly rebuild one, taking extra care with it so that with each brick you lay, it only gets stronger.

So it gets strong enough to hold you up.

Holding up long enough to keep you alive.

Cheers.

Dancing On My Own.

Robyn needs to stop reading my mind, and even more so reading my blog. How she hits the nail on the head with every new song is still an enigma; it's as if she's sitting behind me now, reading over my shoulder as I type this post.

Which would be crazy cool but totally creepy at the same time.

And as she sings, she makes you imagine just where she is and how she is feeling, and consequently you become her. That miserable girl who is second best to everyone, who watches on as others follow on to success and happiness and general sugary chocolatey candy fun. That miserable girl who only wants you to hear her out when she has something to say, however morbid or even if it involves unusual amounts of blood. That miserable girl who only wants what she has.

That miserable girl who only wants to be everything but.

And as you might have guessed (gosh, you people are incredibly slow today), this post is leading to something you've never read before on this blog. About sadness and depression and my frustrations about life.

New material is important for progress, as they say.

There isn't any point in explaining how I am feeling because quite frankly I am too damn exhausted to think about it. All I know is that maybe that pending change of perspective needs to be set into motion soon. Should I start looking at the brighter side of things from now on? Perhaps I could ignore the malfunctions of life (mine and everyone else's) and place myself in a comfortable spot where nothing can hurt me. Maybe I could even blow up a giant bubble to live in so the air I breathe is pure and pretty and untainted.

Let's leave the eventual suffocation out of this for argument's sake.

But if you live on the brighter side of things, you would be avoiding the very things that make life what it is : bitter, burdening and essentially broken. Now you'd be missing out on half the fun don't you think?

Here's something interesting I read the other day, which quite frankly is something I have spent alot of time thinking about. (Can't remember what I had for dinner, but sure let's think about mental patients.)

The Total Perspective Vortex

'It’s a disconcerting concept. It’s certainly easier to think of the mentally disordered as lunatics running about with bizarre, inexplicable beliefs than to imagine them coping with a piece of reality that a “normal” person can’t handle. The notion that we routinely hide from the truth about ourselves and our world is not an appealing one, though it may help to explain the human tendency to ostracize the abnormal. Perhaps the reason we are so eager to reject any departure from this fiction we call “normality” is because we have grown dependent on our comfortable delusions; without them, there is nothing to insulate us from the harsh cold of reality.'

Seriously, read it.

But I digress. I can't force myself into a happy-thoughts-only process because that isn't the way I function. I'll bet it could lead to one heck of mental disorder, but maybe I am better off just accepting that I am never good enough. Always second best to someone else. Always watching someone else get what they want. Always hoping for a miracle, and just that - still hoping for a miracle.

And maybe I have learn to be better off without any friends. I should stop looking for them, and constantly making sure they are in my life. If I have something to say, I should tell someone who really bothers. I should stop telling people who are only there to receive information and then withhold things they could easily discuss with me, but prefer to elaborate with other people much different than I.

I should start living for myself.

But I have a strong feeling that this epiphany is short-lived. There is only so much time before I pass everything off as depression.

I'm in the corner watching you kiss her

I'm givin' it my all, but I'm not the girl you're takin' home

I keep dancin' on my own.

Cheers.

We Make Plans.

So you can break them for us.

Maybe if I put more time and effort into the things that actually need work on, I might get somewhere. Like the definite things in life that need no reciprocal action from others. Things that I can accomplish on my own without having to involve others. Things I have put aside to fulfill at a later date, that could easily be dealt with at this point in time.

Things that I don't want to worry about.

But it's the things that aren't within my power I want to grab the reigns of and hold close to me. Until nothing fazes me. Until I become fearless. Until I don't have anymore reason to expect it and wait for help. I will no longer need people to keep me company, to keep me sane.

To keep me alive.

That's what it means to be powerful, doesn't it? To be able to hold yourself steady when everyone else is dying like daisies. To control over your emotions in their entirety and manipulate them as a separate being. To have the ability to mind fuck as many people as you can, without even trying.

To hold the world as if it was your own.

But there is an irony to it. The hunger for power inevitably destroys it. The more you are starved of it, the more it validates your internal wars. The more it tells you to do what's wrong, for the sake of what's personally right. The more it heightens your ability to seek and annihilate, and wound those who can help you overcome your addiction.

Until you reach its pinnacle.

And it's at the pinnacle where you realise that there is no pinnacle. There is no peak. It's a never-ending climb to the infinite end. Why? Because you want it that way. The peak is never enough. You will reach that virtual end and then think - how is there not more of this? Wasn't I promised more?

I could make this taller if I was in charge of the pinnacle.

And then you continue to climb and climb and climb and try your best to satisfy yourself, until you disappear beyond the thick clouds. Drunk of power.

And dead from it.

Cheers.

Trains.

Dream chambers, those are.

I haven't got anything to say, really. It's all been said before. Emotional burdens. My various hit-and-runs. My epically dramaless days. Times when I haven't got anyone to talk to. Physical anguish. Weight issues.

It's like the world is running out of things to throw at me.

It first poured liquid emotional frustration into the bodies of mental teenagers with nil people skills and rolled them my way. Then it tried to break me with exam papers. Then it took the only friends I ever loved away and put me in a foreign place. And its gang of Secret Service Hit-And-Run boys decided to pursue me and take advantage of the trust that I give away as easily as my body.

I wonder why Oprah hasn't called me.

So here I am click clacking at my keyboard, trying to put together a string of ideas into legible text so people can read them and want to overdose soon after. I have a question though.

How do you put depression into words?

Could there be some sort of code for the mentally-ill I have yet to familiarise myself with? Could there be a transitional language that applies only to those with permanent states of upset? Could all those doodles that I produce have some kind of weak connection to how I feel inside?

Is that how you write about depression?

Or maybe I just mean that I am sad. Because there is a clear boundary between being properly distressed and exaggerating your life away. Because being depressed hurts more than it should, but being sad can't be too bad when you have Ben and Jerry's.

Because clinical depression isn't free.

To be honest, I can't explain exactly how I am feeling now. I have so many things to look forward to at this point in time. I only have this many weeks left of classes, I am going to see my closest friends in less than three months, summer is coming (yes!), my birthday will be here soon (double yes!), and I can be home again.

But something upsets me still.

Maybe I am one of those people who will never be happy with what I have. I will always have too little to be content with. I will always be pushing myself as far as I think I can go. I will always be hurting and I will blame it on things around me.

I will always find something to be hurt about.

How after all this while, in a new environment, I am not myself. I haven't found someone to give my spirit too. I haven't found someone to run to when I am broken. I haven't found someone to give me a reason to stay. All I've got are my dreams, really.

I swear that if that's the only thing that is going to keep me moving, I might just want to stop.


Cheers.

I'm Stagnant.

In the flow.

This disjointed title is pretty self-explanatory and any attempt of trying to discuss this would launch me into a full-flung state of upset and sometimes I am just not ready for drama, even it it's my own.

The last 14 days have been crazy for me because I have actually put in more effort into my work than in the last 7 months combined. The stress of the impending exams has gone straight to my head and it's hit me worse than wintry mulled wine.

That has a long story to it, but let it be known that it's been the only time I've felt like throwing up from too much drink.

The whole weight of the situation that I was in a week ago sent me back into that depressed state I try so hard to overcome and leave behind. It really sucks having to be so upset about everything. It really sucks that I find things to be upset about more easily than I find things to be happy about.

I'd put it down to a state of mind, not entirely, but perhaps to an extent. It's not something I can change automatically though, and it's not something that would change soon unless I have a mighty revelation from some out-of-this-world source that needs me to be happy for the sake of the universe.

Right.

As human nature dictates, it is possible to find solace in something around us, no matter how toxic and no matter how much it costs us. You can't put a price on happiness, even if it means obsessive gambling or sending your blood pressure to rocket levels after your easy fix or giving it up for love that lasts a night and is only worth a dirty bed.

It really depends on what comforts you.

Taking a fairly long train ride into shopping heaven relieves me of all my adult duties (Isn't it funny that I have adult responsibilites but am deemed to have no right to adult fun?) while my bank account dies a little. At least I am past the first step of curing my addiction - admitting my problem. It's the leap to the next step that is going to hurt the most.

God forbid that I am allowed credit cards.

I suppose I could make this blog more interesting with pictures. Here are my latest buys.

Marc B. Oversized Shopper.
Same bag in black.

Topshop Strappy Sundress
Same dress in screaming yellow.

Upper Fifth Graduated Fuschia Leopard Print Scarf
It graduates from white to fuschia!

Two Tone Wal G Dress
When the wind blows, people get a good view of your bits.

Cheers.

*Any mistakes in spelling or grammar are purely accidental. And if anything makes any sense, I'm sorry.

Missing Me.

Missing you.

I suppose it's going to be another ohmeohmy post lacking direction and common sense. One of those where you wish I had something better to do than spend my life facing this computer screen, mindlessly browsing through the same pages every two minutes and playing idiot songs on repeat.

In shambles I tell you, in shambles.

I really don't think I can carry on trying to portray my feelings in puzzles anymore. I used to be in this phase where I couldn't reveal names or use real people in my posts and I couldn't discuss things as they had happened, for fear of my blog falling into that trap of being a retarded online diary for people who haven't realised that diaries are meant to be sacred. Secret. Secluded from everyone else. Antique books of crisp brown paper bound in leather, waiting to be scribbled on in thin ink; and perhaps a burgundy strip of suede to keep the book sealed.

No?

Well that's what I had in mind anyway. And I thought I should maintain a blog as my go-to plan when I'm feeling less than amazing and no one else wants to hear my story. My blog always listens, and therefore I tell him everything. I named him Twisted Tragedies because only something so strange could bear to listen to me over and over again at any odd hour of the day.

And I'm sure he loves me.

I used to take more care of him. I used to make sure I was satisfied with what I was coming up with before publishing it. I used to make sure I used the right words, to exactly express myself. I used to make sure I had people read him and give him the attention he deserves.

But I can't be bothered. I can't be bothered about alot of things lately. How I feel, how I look, how I want to approach the day. I quite simply, can't give a fuck. Nothing really matters to me anymore. What I achieve in the future, what I work for in the future, who loves me in the future, who befriends me in the future, who matters the most to me in the future, who brings out the best in me in the future.

Who cares.

I don't and I can't. Because I've put too much hope into myself. I've put too much hope into people that I think are worth my while (or anyone else's for that matter.) I assume that things always get better when I hit rock bottom, and it does for a little while, until I dip back to where I was before and sometimes I plunge beyond that. When I think that I can focus on my work and hope that I can push through to make it happen, I fuck up and procrastinate until it becomes humanely impossible to accomplish what I should have started aeons ago. And I hope for people to come through to hear me out, but it doesn't always work out now does it?

Something has brought on this intense emotion. Literally putting it, I am alone in this house. The people I love very much are away for a short break and will be back in a week. Although a week doesn't even seem like a week anymore, it still hurts that for the time being they've left me alone.

Alone with my thoughts.

And a week does tend to go by as slow as it can when you feel like shit.

I've got to hang in there, I suppose. Never have I been left alone (and deprived of a holiday) before, so maybe it has to hurt for a while.

But I don't understand why I have to hurt all the time.

Cheers.

You're Everything That I Want.

But you don't want me.

A complete stranger told me I was beautiful, and sometimes that's all you need. And that is one of those things that cheers you up no matter how down or worried or upset you feel. He didn't even have a reason, he didn't want anything in exchange.

It also helped that he was (oh, mama) fit.

Now you tell a stranger they're beautiful.

But that's not what I want to post anyway. My situation right now is a little ambiguous. I don't know if I should be worried about it, or if I am in a comfortable spot where I have the desperate urge to fuck things up. There hasn't been any new drama (nothing that I started anyway) and nothing interesting enough to mind-fuck myself over.

So why do I have this need to fuck around with calmness? Can I just not deal with serenity? Is peace of mind so torturous to me that I can't bear to leave it alone?

Or maybe instinctively I know it's making way for an even bigger storm.

At this point, it comes down to a couple of things that are on my mind. And because the few people I ask (close to begging) to contact me or come online really can't even be bothered to respond to my plea, I have to talk to my best mate that virtually exists. My best mate that hangs in cyberspace.

Still my best mate, though.

And I can't be fucked to type in riddles, so I am just going to get straight to the point. I think we all hope that sometimes, when it comes to reading this blog.

Sometimes I wonder if it's just me or if life has a morbid sense of humour. I was thinking about my entire history of encounters with opposite sex (something I really shouldn't have started, but because I knew I would be done in under 2 minutes, I thought what the hell) and they always always have the same ending.

Me see boy. Me run after boy. Me still running after boy. And still running. Boy gives a clear sign that he would rather eat his intestines than look at me. Me break down and cry. Me force myself into denial and run after boy. Boy tries to get rid of me. Me still wallow in denial and run after boy. Boy wants to kill himself to get away from me. Me break down and cry. Me get depressed and sing morbid songs and draw morbid drawings. Me call friends. Friends want to hurt me. Me stop calling friends and be depressed. Me see new boy. Me not depressed and me run after boy.

And it's been happening like that since I was three.

Unrequited love (I mean like) is an understatement. Because I keep running after the same situation over and over again, never learning from the past and never wanting to change the state I put myself in. And it's done wonders for my self-esteem levels.

It makes me feel like shit. It makes me feel ugly. It makes me feel like less of the person that I really am. It makes me feel stupid. It makes me feel unworthy. It makes me criticise myself. It makes me hate the person I have become. It makes me think about all the things I have ever dreamed about and if I can still achieve them.

It makes me question myself.

I mean, you read about gentlemen and their acts of chivalry and how they act like they don't want you but you are the only one they want and stories of men who would die for you and stay up all night thinking about you, and not for the sex but because you make a difference in their life.

Where are they, for fuck's sake?

But someone told me that I would have to meet a few douchers before I found those few guys who are everything I described.

If that's the case, I'm starting my tally.

3 down, _______ to go.

Cheers.

Oh, Baby.

I'm a rockstar.

Once you finish reading this post, you are going to realise something. Either :

a) I have sniffed/snorted/smoked/fucked around with something illegal and god, the feeling is great until I'm KO-ed on the floor.

b) You are at the wrong blog.

(Because I am still depressed, people!)

So basically, there are some things the British own the Americans at.

Things like food.

Scratch that.

Things like language.

Double scratch.

Things like the weather.

Losing my argument here.

Things like ELLE magazine.

Bingo. Because British ELLE totally owns American ELLE's ass, in terms of mostly everything. Apart from the fact that the Americans are holding Joe Zee hostage in their plush offices and paying him good money not to tell anybody about it, the British own the scene. Their editorials are better, their content is more interesting, and honestly, American ELLE should come with prescription glasses because I can't read a fuck they print because their font is so tiny! And half the magazine is filled with advertisements, boring ones at that. Sure it's their biggest source of revenue but spice it up a little, maybe?

Believe it or not, this isn't even what I wanted to discuss.

Alexi Wasser was featured in the March edition of American ELLE. Who is Alexi Wasser? Only the most realistic blogger you could find out there. Her blog, http://imboycrazy.com/ is the biggest slap in the face you will ever feel. It's a pep talk, straight up, no frills, no unneccessary punctuation, no flowery details, and no blah content. It's all about how you should feel about yourself in the most confident way possible, and how to handle practical situations. My favourite posts are the ones about relationships and wow, they hit you like bricks. A sampler :

'BOTTOM LINE: i think it’s sooo important to makeout with everyone, and have up close and personal pillow talk with cute and/or interesting dudes….but don’t get locked in! have an awesome fling, and then get the fuck outta there! you’re too sexy and young to get in a rut! no matter what your age or sexy factor! I’m serious. dead serious. fyi: i don’t mean to be a weirdo slut, but i think that flings are important because the essence of a person you get during a makeout, the side that you get to meet, the things that they say…are like priceless gems. you’re collecting intimate experiences. you’ve become an intimacy collector. and if you’re going to give up this aspect of yourself, if you’re going to give up this opportunity to share private moments with sexy dudes that could possibly resemble a member of the strokes circa 2001 or Michael pitt…..to be monogamous…..YOU BEST BE IN LOVE MUTHAH-FUCKAH! or else it’s not worth it!'

From : http://imboycrazy.com/2008/12/are-you-fucking-kidding-me/

Also, all her 'Blind leading the blind' posts. Read them. Learn them. Extract what you like from them. And remember them.

She honestly made me rethink the whole situation that I was in, and perhaps I could put myself in a better position than I had thought of. I could (and should) turn it around to make ME feel powerful, instead of anyone else. No one hurt my feelings, no one broke me down. Sure there were liars and cheaters, but how does that stop me from being one to?

Total female empowerment.

I think someone spiked my coffee. It even smells funk-

Thud.

Cheers.

Life In Denial.

Is oh, but the sweetest thing.

Denial is a funny concept. I swear, it does make you laugh once you've properly grasped it. It enables you to live a whole new life alongside your current one, and switch between situations whenever you feel the need. It doesn't even take rocket science; a generous amount of time and a drop of insanity will do the trick. And the best part is, once you're through with your double life, you can just ... drop it. No horrible accidents, no suicidal urges, no nasty funerals.

Just a drop.

Not laughing yet?

Well really, the joke lies in the idea of it. The way it allows you to come up with excuses for everything. The way it comes up with excuses for coming up with excuses. The way everything has a reason for their existence and how they all eventually form an infinite cycle of madness. The way you are allowed to live in your own world of your chosen rules and your chosen inhabitants and your chosen beginnings and endings, and any form of disturbance is immediately morphed into an ideal. The way you can pick a character and create a story for just the two of you. The way you can feel however you want to feel without ever questioning its rationale or debating how wrong it is.

The way you can exist without ever worrying.

After all that reasoning, Denial seems like a perfect state to be in. Where else could you abandon any ounce of self-worth you have left in you, or knock your ego off from its pedestal, or neglect common sense entirely, or ignore perfectly sound advice ... AND live at the same time?

So we have discovered a flaw. As long as you're human, you can't live in Denial. That second life you have created for yourself, as are all other beautiful things in the world, is merely an illusion. It has no physical substance, no tangibleness and quite possibly, no existence. So while you've stepped out from that continous sweltering static we call life, in hopes of dipping your feet into the cool waters of Denial, all you achieve is falling through oblivion.

And that's where I have been all this while, floating through oblivion. Although it's more comforting to say that I am in Denial, I have to ... stop being in denial and realise that this circumstance I've been living in isn't really there.

Things are never going to work out between us. He was never a good person to begin with, and his friend isn't going to solve my problem either. Despite whatever I tell myself, I am still immensely attracted to him and it's about time I gave up that little bit of hope I am hanging onto. I have got to let go of it; him, his memories, his smell, his touch, how happy he made me feel, how alive he made me feel, how wanted he made me feel, how attractive he made me feel. I need to destroy everything and move along. Hate him, if I have to. Build myself an emotional wall. Enforce it with steel. And stop falling for people so fast and so hard.

I need to force myself to swim these waters and give up holding onto that gnarly branch that has been keeping me afloat.

Even if it means drowning.

Cheers.

Fountain of Happy.

Invisible only to me.

The previous post was simply a test-post. Something seems to be up with the edit box but I'm not about to fuck with it. Because I'm not brilliant at fucking with things and making it better.

I can't focus on anything at the moment. When am I ever capable of that, anyway? I'm always doing several things at one time, never paying attention to how I really feel or what it would mean for me to actually concentrate on getting something done. And that's when I fuck up. I end up losing money, or losing time, or losing people.

Because I could not give enough of a fuck to focus.

And then I feel like a complete failure. When do I not feel like a complete failure, anyway? Maybe that is the reason I focus on so many things at once. The more things I put my effort into, the less chance of me failing everything. Or maybe that's just me trying to tell myself that the world is a better place that it really is.

Someone said to me the other day that I am self-absorbed. Well I obviously am, I admit it to be one of my many personality defects. But he meant it in the sense that I don't take my behaviour or personality or perspective on things for granted. That I can't just take things as they are. That I always need to know why. Maybe I'm not perfect enough. Maybe I am one of those lost causes people just can't seem to care about anymore. Maybe there is no one else in the world who has the same fears as I do.

Well I completely agree with the last one. No one could have the same fears as I do. Either that, or they are so psychotically mental from fearing everything that they died from it.

But I can't help it. There is a reason for things. There is a reason for everything. And I can't just be content with accepting them for what they are. If there is a reason, then I want to know what it is.

If there is a reason I have more bad days than happy ones,
If there is a reason I don't have that person (or people)that makes me happy,
If there is a reason I don't really know who my friends are (in my current location),
If there is a reason that irritating can't-make-up-my-mind-about-him guy keeps giving me mixed signals,
If there is a reason I am strangely attracted to douchebags,
If there is a reason why I can't ever be as beautiful as my mother,
If there is a reason why the one person I want to cry to is not here to listen,
If there is a reason why I always seem to be one the left behind,
If there is a reason why I always seem to be the one longing for something someone else has,
If there is a reason why I think I have more than she does, but she still has more than what I do,
If there is a reason why I have a huge impossible dream,
If there is a reason why I fuck up,
If there is a reason why I can't stop shopping,
If there is a reason why I can't be normal,
If there is a reason why you persist in reading this blog,

I want to fucking know why.

Sorry. Its just one of those times I wish I could just curl into a tight ball in the corner of my room and cry about everything I am ever scared about. I wish I could just wrap my covers around me, close my eyes and imagine I was somewhere happy. I wish I could just turn of all my lights (except the fairy ones above my bed) and sing a morbid song to myself in whispers. I wish I could just stare at my walls and pretend that I could walk through them and enter a dimension where there were no worries. I wish I could close myself of from the world and sit in the darkness, creating a secret sanctuary with my mind.

I wish I was back in my room.

Within my purple walls. My walls that are covered in torn-out pages of editorials and foam stars that resemble candy.

Under my sheets. Thick and warm and comforting.

In front of my window. Staring out into the sun.

I wish I was home.

Cheers.

Fountain of Happy.

And I can't find it.

Somebody Bring Me Back Some Money Please.

Now double your money and make a stack.

Man, does Jay-Z have some hard-hitting lyrics. I think it's safe to say that he is about the only person who could ever make me listen to rap because he currently has me in a weird hip-hop/rap transition while holding onto pop and punk at the same time.

Yes, I'd appreciate if someone could explain this to me.

Speaking of money, his song 'On To The Next One' is brilliant stuff. And it's one of those songs that could not be brilliant without its video. The video uses concrete elements to represent the ideas portrayed in the song, and it leaves most of the thinking up to you. To make everything just a bit more awesome, it has a black and white theme throughout which could possibly be a reflection of the monotonous bassline. Put it all together, and you've got a vibe that's one part sinister, one part macabre and totally awesome.

But people just can't leave brilliance alone. No, they've got to start rumours of Satanism, and how Jay-Z praises the devil for all the money he's got, and how he is trying to be the anti-Christ. Well fuck that, he's making more money than you can count so y'all just hatin'. If I was making that much money, I think I'd like to be a little evil.

And one more thing. The hooded guy in the video. The one with the tattoo on his chest. The one who is so abtastic. The one who has a secret that you don't want to know about.

The one who sets my lady parts on fire.

I'm going to call him Orgasmic Hoodie Guy, because I can't find anything (not even a name!) on him. Spooky ...



Cheers.

Boobs.

Have a new meaning in my life.

I need to look like her, before I know the true meaning of beautiful.



And I still can't believe she's my height.

Cheers.

Good Days Come And Go.

But bad days are forever.

Hmm, profound. Anyway, I'm pretty sick and tired of wasting my blog posts on useless emotions and the equally useless people who inspired them. I haven't had a fashion post in a while (filled with more pictures than text, so I'll bet you'd be pleased) and I have had a few (a few?) things I've purchased over the past few weeks that I have yet to present to you.

Ribbed Over-The-Knee High Tights

I've never been a fan of over-the-knee/knee-high/calf-length tights because I always felt like there was something with them. If you wanted that barely-there look, shouldn't you completely cover your legs with the barely-theres? But lately sensuality seems to have struck a nerve in me, and I'm now on the hunt for alot more delicate looking pieces, as well as accessories that inspire sexuality so to speak.

Back to the tights. Proenza Schouler Autumn/Winter 2010 has converted me to overtheknees. Now I'm in love with my exact vintage copy. All I need are those gorgeous strappy platform booties to go with them.

*Thanks to Style.com*

Topshop Laced-Up Corset

Like I said, sex is a-calling. I wanted this other black caged corset (below) so badly, but by the time I made up my mind to go out and get it, they had run out of my size. But I guess anything that holds up your boobs and squeezes in your waist has got to work.




The one that got away.

Topshop Mock Suspender Tights

Ah, those limited edition Henry Hollands. I could have easily purchased them had I not been a complete ass about the price. Also, I underestimated just how feisty eBay bidders can get. But we shall not speak of the past. Because Topshop saves lives.

The other pair that got away.


Just a few more pieces to sort out before I have a fully-functioning Slut Brigade.

Cheers.

*EDIT : Now I want a hairy jacket! I like the fact that I appreciate things only when they are sold out.

Sunglasses.

Hide my eyes from the sun, and the pain from my eyes.

I can't be fucked to be cryptic right now, or poetic, or quite simply type this post out in riddles. I have a few people I would love to talk to right about now, but they are either unavailable or can't really be bothered to offer me the level of comfort that I am looking for right now.

I suppose at this point, all I have to offer are couldas, wouldas, and shouldas. (Read : The could-haves, would-haves, and should-haves.)

First of all, I shoulda listened to my gut feeling. There is someone I know who has an uncanny sense of instinct, and she told me that that little voice in my head is almost always right. But I hate myself so much for not being able to talk to her about anything, simply because I know she worries her life away because of me and she really doesn't need anymore of my issues to think about.

The one person I know who could sort my life out, is the one person I couldn't bear to tell.

I like how funny life thinks it is.

From the second I saw you walk away, I remember that voice in my head telling me that this would end soon. It would all be over. But I decided to waste a week of my life, hoping it was wrong. I decided to waste a week of thoughts on you. A week of giving you that little bit of faith to you that you hardly deserved. A week of waiting on you to show me that you wanted me as much as I wanted you. A week of thinking that you could be worth anymore than what you really are.

A week of lies.

Second, I shoulda seen it coming. I should have remembered exactly why I was attracted to you. I should have linked it to that little box of bad memories in my head. I should have predicted your next move. I should have realised that this could have never ended well.

Third, I shoulda learnt by now to keep my body and my feelings separate. Loosely translated to mean, I should have fucked your hot ass so many times over without ever thinking of you as a human being with real feelings.

After all, up until now, that's all you see in me.

I think it's safe to say that at this point, my life needs a bit of a clean up. I've got to get rid of the toxic people in my life, the people who cause nothing but issues that I have to deal with. All this pretty much includes bitches who lack maturity, bastards who can't be bothered to treat me as more than a piece of meat, and everyone else who I trust more than they trust me.

Because I shouldn't need to have to sort my life out as well as yours at the same time.

Cheers.

High Hopes.

Where the grass is greener.

I remember being absolutely in love with this song by Pink Floyd. Maybe it was the progressive piano tones, maybe it was the whining guitar, or maybe it was just lyrics that define me. How we all have high hopes, but these things don't always have to come true for you. They don't always have such beautiful endings. I mean, if you think about it, it's those stories with terrible endings in your head that always seem to turn out right for you.

Maybe we should all just look to the end of the world, and we might survive another day.

And then you have your emotions. Fluid and volatile. They control you, possess you, and dictate the way you are supposed to behave. They never let your mind intervene when it wants to, because it knows that when you are in a situation with only questions, you are better off acting on instinct. Acting on your psyche.

Acting on idiocy.

Maybe that's why it takes control of you. Because if we were left in charge of the mind, we would arrive at nothing because there are no definite answers in this game. You will probably never find the answer. If it were that easy, I wouldn't be here staring out into the sunny day, with a raincloud over my head.

The mind remembers all your experiences. It has to. It's the one that makes you stop in the middle of nowhere to throw you a surge of pain with a myriad of visuals. It's all you. And him. And how good it felt. And how bad it felt. And how guilty you felt. And how angry you felt. And how upset you felt. And how alien you felt. And how stupid you felt. And how humiliated you felt.

And how you blogged about it.

And it loves to remind you about your mistakes, at any moment in your life. As soon as you think about something beautiful, it stabs you in your chest with an emotion, that leaves you dangerously gasping for air even when pure oxygen surrounds you. Soon after, the stupidity hits you. The regret. The guilt. The disrespect you have caused your body. The way you can't recognise who you are after all this has happened.

And then the questions. The thinking. The over-analysing. The incessant worrying.

The self-destruction.

I like to call this the waste-away mode, because I literally waste away. I eat till I'm bursting, I moan till I'm tired, and I hurt till I'm numb. It's a vicious phase, but I suppose self-healing was never easy. It's analogous to peeling of your dead layers in tiny tugs until you bleed no more, and then you sit alone to dry yourself out until you can walk outside into the cool air to bloom again.

Yes, it's quite like that.

Or if you prefer setting yourself on fire and rising from the ashes. Your call, really.

They say it's important for you to learn from your mistakes, so history doesn't repeat itself. They say that it's best for you to understand yourself before approaching any situation, so you know exactly how to handle its obstacles.

But you never can.

Literally, the mistake turns into a memory. It separates itself into good and bad and sits there in your head until the next mistake happens. And eventually, all you have is just a ball of mistakes, rolling itself about in your brain.

Breaking you.

Cheers.

You Deserve It.

And you still don't have it.

There are some things in life which you stake as yours and keep for the rest of your life, or others which you carelessly toss aside once its life has passed. And then there are things that are rightfully yours, perhaps because it literally has your name on it, or rather its your instinct that says you should be its owner.

But despite all these categories, and mindless stereotyping, there are some things you just don't ever own in your lifetime. It could be something that is financially owed to you, and you never get it back. It could be something emotional that is taken away from you. It could simply be time.

And that's my dilemma. I can name a few things that should be mine, but are being taken away from me. I am usually cryptic on this blog, but tonight I just don't have the fucking energy to encrypt everything I am thinking into medieval-style riddles just so you can read this post four times over and still arrive at nothing.

I deserve my wages, and I am not getting it. You can think it's fun and games to pay me as and when you feel like, but for fuck's sake - get it into your head that I am going to be your employee. I have a cash problem and you are about the only way I can fix it. So treat me like an employee and have some ground rules for yourself.

There is nothing that I want more than this particular event right now. But if everyone is planning my life out without including me in it, then nothing you plan will make me happy. I am on my knees, begging for this one grant, but you can't seem to understand the magnitude of this plea. If you want to keep me away from you, then I shall do exactly that.

I know I can't help the way I am. I'm not old enough to do alot of things, even to live my life. But I am trying to change it because I know that I deserve it. I do the same amount of work as everyone else, but why must I suffer like everyone else? I can't slip on a false identity like other people can because of my brilliant circumstances. I can't fake something because things don't seem to want to work out that way either.

And another thing.

Completely unrelated.

As most of you know, I am a shopaholic.I live of retail therapy, and as an emo would dye her hair black and jive to Eyes Set To Kill, I would run off to the shops and buy as many things as my hands could carry when in depression. But right now, it's gotten worse. To the point where things aren't funny anymore. There are too many expenses and too many purchases for me to handle. I can't seem to be able to afford alot of things that I should be able to spend on. My shopping habits, for a start, have gotten more serious. Instead of having a good thought about an item before wearing it, I purchase it on the spot. Instead of giving myself a fixed budget, I spend past that because 'I just have to'.

I think I need help.

A miracle, maybe?

Or is that something I deserve.

Cheers.

Yours Truly.

The other woman.

I suppose I make myself blog about the embarassing/very disappointing moments of life because it's my way of seeking closure. And after I've closed this up, I seem to blog about it again because I can't stop thinking about it.

Or it could just be my way of telling my readers my life story without actually forcing myself to say it.

Ah, the other woman. Usually described as the person who comes along into a relationship and starts a rabid massacre. She tends to separate the two people so far apart from each other, that by the end of it they barely have any recognition that they were ever in love. She would now be the topic of conversations and the subject of rumours - basically instant fame.

All because of one small move.

Now if you know me well enough, you know that I've been there and done that. It's like going to hell and back because this situation isn't funny for anyone. No one likes to be cheated on, and no one likes to be part of it. And I told myself precisely to leave it all behind in my past.

But this is the story of my life.

And my blog is called Twisted Tragedies.

It's only right that the two relate to each other.

Yes, it happened again. And this time the offence is a little more serious. I never reveal details on this blog so there is no way you will find out exactly what has gone down, but I assure you that the effect of it is just as painful.

It was a crazy night. It was dark. It was heated. It was scary. I could not read his mind, he could not read mine. It was an act of lust and on my part, total stupidity. It was uncomfortable. It was unreal. It was haunting. It was mindless. It was heartless.

It meant nothing to me.

But there was a part of me that thought that there could be something more to this. That maybe it may lead to something worth my time. That maybe this wasn't something childish and complicated.

But hah. The story of my life is that of a Shakespearean play.

He was a liar and a cheat. I am the witness and evidence to a crime. And the most disgusting part of this, is that he is from the one part of the world that spells nothing but trouble.

Perhaps I invite trouble.

Perhaps I prefer to live on the wild side.

Perhaps I feed off the drama that becomes me.

Perhaps the only way I can have emotional contact with someone is with the lights off.

Perhaps I am always going to be ... the other woman.

Cheers.