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.