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.