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.