Deservingly?

Because no matter how much you tell yourself that you know this, you know this, it doesn't mean you've accepted it. And by this, I mean how we live in a constant state of randomness. There are no patterns, and probability trees only exist in math. The output is not directly proportional to the input. What we do doesn't always pay off. And what we don't do is sometimes worth more than any imaginable action. There is no Lady Luck. And the stars have not spent millions of years realigning themselves in such a position so as to tell you in what month you'll be meeting the love of your life. But we're all so desperate for guidance and reassurance that we'd believe in anything.
Someday, when and if you'll be ready to stop believing all the fairy tale talk you've been fed, you'll acknowledge the fact that everything you receive in life is not something you have necessarily neither earned nor deserved.
You've been forcefully shoved into this world, blind and ignorant. Force fed a bunch of ideals to soothe the aching heart but not the mind, as useful as a map that only has ' you are here ' written all over it.

Pictures of who??

Good God!! I lost my virginity to a guy who now quotes The Last Goodnight's 'Pictures of You' on Facebook. In my defense, I was small and naive and slightly intoxicated.

This is the very good thing about losing your virginity to a guy you didn't really have a relationship with. The memory of it is clear and clinical, funny and devoid of feelings of heartbreak or disappointment. What's left is the memory of a sense of deflation, the burning, and funny ass, ridiculous quotes on Facebook.

That song is so incredibly gay.

12:00

I feel the need to ramble. I feel this need because I'm mightily pissed off. It's fucking midnight. I'm on here wasting my time looking at all things pretty and the fucking house is flooded with light. I can hear the sounds of people breathing because they are in the same room as me. They watch television. They type away on their notebooks. They listen to music, really low, but I can still hear it. It's fucking midnight and I still can't have any time alone in this cursed and fucked up house.
I hate that I'm back to living with this dysfunction because I'm not in a position to choose. My brothers talk to me with their deep voices and all I want to do is cover my ears and scream for them to shut up. Their fucking deep voices when all I want is dark and silence. It's late. It's not much to ask.
I don't want to smell other people's body odor. I don't want to hear them speak. I don't want to hear the sounds they make while they move around burdening me with their existence. Their presence is unwanted and unnecessary.
It's fucking midnight and I hate them. Right now I hate everything.
And if this sounds emo, I don't give a shit.
No one is forcing you to read this.

Really really random.

I will never, for the life of me, understand this. Look at this. Does that look sexy to you? How can something like that be so erogenous? I really want to know.

Movie Lovin' - American Beauty.

"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in."

I can't believe I only got to watch this now, but it really was beautiful, in a twisted and fucked up way. Which is how I like beauty to be. Morbid.

Five in the morning and I'm browsing aimlessly though pretty stuff on here. I just got a call from a very good friend whom I haven't seen in about two and a half years and I'm so happy she called, even if it's the middle of the night. It's took me about .0 seconds to come to and shake the drowsy sleepiness off.
I miss London. I miss living on my own, in the city, having friends who think it's fine to call you in the early hours of the morning from the other side of Europe just to chat.

Innocence Lost.

She walks around wearing thick framed lenses and no one could tell you the color of her eyes. Her hair is a mismatching rainbow and she could be such a pretty girl, the poor thing. You could call this the equivalent of self mutilation, only not as violent and a different kind of messy.

The weary little Lolita in hiding, punishing herself for something she's not sure she ever had a choice of avoiding . She wishes she could say she is mourning, but mourning means grieving for the dead and you can't mourn for something that never lived.

All too soon, a child is made aware of the power a body holds, the trouble:
"Don't sit with your legs open, don't hug men too close, Don't wear short Shorts, Don't bend over at the waist."

Fast forward only a couple of months and she'll be doing just that to get that Barbie, that glitter nail polish. Later still, to get the attention, the dinner, the opportunity, the fuck.

She dreamed long before it was due, of hands sliding gown her body, lips whispering dirty secrets while alert eyes followed her every gasp. Belatedly, all she yearns for now are chaste kisses and gentle play with her hair.

Too late now, she was broken in too early and for too long.

It's too late for her to believe enough to hope.

Everything is Illuminated.

"No hateful words were ever spoken, and no hands raised. More than that, no angry words were ever spoken, and nothing was denied. But more than that, no unloving words were ever spoken, and everything was held up as another small piece of proof that it can be this way, it doesn’t have to be that way; if there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it heavy walls, and we will furnish it with soft red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweler’s felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn’t exist, and I have tried everything that does."

Good Night.

It's 00:50 at night while I'm writing this. The street lamps emit a dull orange glow, the sky is dark and has only a handful of bright stars to wish upon. The streets are black and clean, and there is no noise of cars. I'm all alone in the house, for once. And I get the sporadic urge to skip down the three floors of stairs and run around barefoot on the cold ground.

When I'm like this, alone and quiet, so quiet I can hear my heart beat ring in my ears, I like to imagine I'm the only human being left in the world. I'm all alone, in a place where the lights still go on. The shops are open and stocked up but there are no people behind the counter. There are no stray dogs barking the night away. There's just me and the cold north wind.

I know a train of thought like this should be disturbing. But somehow the idea of being alone is kind of liberating. Not having to respond, to react, to answer to anyone. Not having to talk, not having to hear the sound of my own voice, which I honestly get so fed up of sometimes.

How would life be? If I really were the only being left? Would I read all the books in the world and hum softly tunes that will never be played again? Would I skip like a child to all my destinations? Or would I slowly go insane, losing myself in the endless labyrinths of my mind?

I think the latter would be most likely, but it's not like I have to worry about my strange, deranged wonderland actually happening. My temporary tiny window to solitude and silence is enough.

Psycho Therapist.

This is one of those stories where it's not supposed to be funny but it really really is.
It's not supposed to be funny because it's twisted and a bit sick. It's funny as heck because this shit always happens to me. I seem to be a magnet for the losers and the aggressively happy. I don't understand this as I look fairly normal on the outside, but I guess people connect through this cosmic weird bond that unites us weirdos all.

*Tap dance, tap dance, tap dance - Back to my story* I was sixteen at the time. A child with, how do I put this? quite a precociously womanly body. What do you care, you might ask? You don't, but it's a relevant piece of info that'll help connect the dots later on.

So I was sixteen, completely lost and confused ( which I still am ) and very, very angry. My parents had just split up, one of those nasty, messy break-ups, and I thought of it as good an excuse as ever to unleash my inner brat. I spent my days ridiculing my lecturers at school, smoking in hallways, shoplifting and pick-pocketing. My partner in crime and I had this well devised act where if we felt someone was on to us, we'd act all lesbian-ish. There weren't even any kisses, really. Just some nuzzling and groping. Enough of an attention diversion for me to slip my hand in some hand bag and pull out all sorts of stuff. Keep in mind that we did this in clubs, where it was dark and noisy and every one was drunk enough not to notice or bored enough not to care. Withing the first week, I had three cell phones, an iPod, about 400 Euros and a closet bursting with clothes.
Such fun times! But my mom and her new psycho bo thought I needed to see a psychotherapist. This was one of those epic, EPIC mistakes. Not about seeing a therapist, I mean, but the choice in therapist.

This 'therapist' looked like an oaf. He was pale, bland and gigantic. And this is how our sessions usually worked out. He made me breakfast and tea, even though I'd usually had some ( breakfast ) prior to the session. Eventually I just stopped bothering. He had this thing where he liked to watch me chew food, I shit you not. Really attentively. He'd then go ahead and start with the small talk, which consisted of him asking me personal questions which included but were not limited to whether I was a virgin and what I did when I went on dates with boys. He'd then make me talk to this hideously orange couch pillow, pretending it was my father, whom I had to yell at that He.No.Longer.Held.Any.Control.Over.Me! And all the while, he 'subtly' looked down my tops, of which I had many what with all the shop lifting. Back then, I found this funny as hell and amusing, in a morbid sort of way. See, I always had an awesome sense of humor like that.

I can remember, on different occasions, his massaging my shoulders while I happily chatted about how misunderstood I was and how all the world was out to get me. He even stood me up and took my measurements once, something which he never mentioned again.

After a while I stopped going to him because the amusement wore off and I got bored with this old man ( he was probably about thirty something ) ogling me, and also, I got tired of my own nagging voice. Around that time, I also started acting worse at school. I started skiving classes and just hanging out with my friends. And then the school board decided they had given me enough warnings and to just throw me out. I didn't really want to be thrown out. I didn't want to not be thrown out either. I didn't know much about what I wanted back then. So I let my mom persuade me to go to the university where this therapist thought god-knows-what and ask for a written clinical excuse of how I was going through a rough time and was really unstable and would the school please reconsider their decision of throwing me out.

I went with my friend Chanel, all giggly. The guy wasn't really impressed and gave me this two page report about how 'unstable' and troubled I was, which I thought was funny as heck. I made a copy of that and still show it around sometimes, for a laugh. And then this therapist guy looks at me all down and depressed and suddenly he gets this really pissed off look in his eyes and tells me, and I quote " You shouldn't have stopped coming to the sessions. You need help. You're going to end up losing your way and in shit. I can tell something is going to happen to you, like getting pregnant with no boyfriend in a couple of year's time, or something. I don't know. Something."

At which I laughed, incredulously. I took my report and giggled all the way back to my friend, who gaped at me disbelievingly once I told her what the psycho had just said. I can still remember feeling irritated and pissed off but choosing to laugh it off. That was so morally and ethically wrong on more levels that he would ever be able to count, to which I say PFFF.

So fast forward six years where I'm boyfriend-less and also baby-less. Fast forward six years where I still get incredulously giggly when I think about this, which is not very often mind you. But still, it's funny, how I manage to find the one odd therapist. The therapist who could do with some therapy himself. God, the weird people that I've met, I could write a book thicker than the bible.

And the morale of this true story is, never seek psychological help. Because turns out the people who promise to do that usually need that help way more than you do :)

Earsores.

I was broken for a long time
But it's over now
Said I was broken for a long time
But it's over now
Yes and you,
You walk these lonely streets where people stand, people stare
And some people just can't and I do pretend.

-Robert Pattinson

And what I say to that is '??????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????GWAH???!!!!!!!!!'
What does that even mean? Seriously. I am all for talent and expression but this guy is poisoning the minds of little tweens. Not only that, adults also admit to believing he's awesome and allow this sort of blasphemy just because he plays a guy who twinkles in the sun. For fuck's sake.

I used to bully guys like this in High School. They were my hobby. My sole reason for attending Advanced Chemistry Class was to mock bull shit like this.

Is this what people pass as art now? 'Artists' who sound like Jeff Buckley on crack?

Some people should just stick to what they're good at: looking pretty.

Word.

Loving Le Clezio

"Flee. Never stop fleeing. Leave this place, this time scale, this skin, this thought process."

Pathetic ramblings of the sleep deprived.

I hate the universe that is out to get me. I've had the worst bouts of insomnia in the history of ever, have a bad cold I can't seem to be able to get rid of, am on hormone therapy, feel bloated all the time, and have been more times to the hospital in the last three months than I've been in my life and that is saying something, because I've been to the hospital A LOT.
I feel like shit and I'm depressed. And though it's not over yet, this has possibly been one of the worst years of my life. There's only so much positivity one can embrace. After that, it's just being stupidly delusional.

The problem with everybody, I humbly think, is that they take themselves too seriously. I have no idea what happened to genuinely Being. Everybody feels like they're just walking around doing really bad, grotesque impersonations of themselves. No action is un-performed, no speech is unprepared. Nobody looks in each other's eyes anymore. Not really. They're either looking at your nose or at your lips or at your brow. Is it too much to look at someone's frail humanity reflected in their eyes? Too distracting, maybe?
Anymore, I think it's mostly not worth it engaging in conversation. Because when an actor is delivering, you feel compelled to deliver back. It's like a literal manifestation of Shakespeare's 'The World is a Stage'. Only, this time, it's life that's imitating art.
And how I feel about this is permanently maladjusted and I don't think the problem is me.
My feelings get lost in translation to words, but what I'm trying to say is that all this interaction is stifling. It's like being on a television show and I'm the only one who knows there's no one on the other side of the screen.
How this feels like is incredibly frustrating and really, really... lonely? That's not the right word but it's the first that comes to mind.
And I guess this is what Wilde meant when he said, "Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
All everybody does anymore is echo someone else and do what they think'll look good.
Exasperation, this time, is the right, first word that comes to mind.

In desperation, I write this in this cold, electronic device, reading my words off of a glaring screen, because there is no one to listen.
My whole life, it feels like I'm going nowhere. And maybe I'm not trying hard enough, but I have no idea what to do. I feel small and need directions. It is not really enough to know your place in life, even if that alone is a rarity. You have to know how to get there.
And how I feel like is like I've been trying, all this time, to win a fight underwater. No matter how hard you try, you can never punch what you're aiming for.
And God, it's so exhausting, just deciding what you want, that by the time you do decide, you've got no strength left to act it out. Passion is dwindling out and I'mOnlyTwentyOneYearsOldForFuck'sSake!
I crave forgetfulness. I pine for oblivion. What I need is constant distraction, because facing the shit is really not working. And fleeing only takes you as far as where you've started out from. Back to the start, over and over and over again.

In envy, I read and re-read the verses that Alexander Pope wrote in his poem 'Eloisa to Abelard':

" The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd. "

I would have felt sad at this were I still the existentially angsty, emo sixteen year old me. But now I just think I keep proving myself right, even if it's about something wrong.
The point I'm trying to make is that you're all alone, whether you're depressed or sick or just minimally sad about something. Nobody every goes out of their way to come and simply see how you're doing. It's disgusting.
Maybe they'll send a couple of text messages or call you up at most, and then you're left to your own devices. And this would have hurt me were I a little bit younger but now I know to feel annoyed. Annoyed and irritated and pissed off, because I've stupidly gone out out of my way to make somebody better, before.
I'm just so damn angry.

Of teeth and wisdom.

The unbearable pain that is having teeth taken out. I had one wisdom tooth taken out last Tuesday. They had to file at my jaw bone to get the tooth out and I was awake through all of this. True, I was doped up and all I kept trying to do was hide my unshaven, hairy legs from the really hot dentist patting my hand, but all of that wasn't enough to distract me from the guy jerking my head from side to side trying to pull the tooth out. And let's not talk about the stitches! I think the Novocaine might have started to wear off by that point because I could feel the needle going in and out of my gums and I could feel the thread moving through.
And now I look like I've been abused, with half my face swollen the size of a basket ball. I can't talk, I can't eat and that's basically the end of my world as I know it.
There's really no particular point I'm trying to make. I just want to whine. And since I can't do it physically, I'll do it by writing.
Life's a biacth. I hate this.
And yet, I can't help but look forward to seeing the hot dentist again. Must remember to shave legs this time.

An existential sorrow.

An existential sorrow: I am plagued by a sort of universal sadness that seeps into my skin and takes over my every thought. Anymore, all I do is look down and watch my steps. There's only an occasional faded interest in looking upwards. In looking down, there's a vague sense of hope of eventually looking up and finding that your feet with their ugly cheap shoes, have managed to take you somewhere marvelous.
It has yet to happen. The collective, mysterious 'it' with its accompanying questions with no answers has yet to happen.
And I don't know whether to wait in hope or walk on. Towards anywhere. Looking at my ugly, ugly shoes.

How can you like someone yet be so embarrassed by what he does? Every little action of his visible to the outside world mortifies me.
I need to flee.

random thoughts.

Sometimes I conclude all by myself that I am a major bitch. I take The Boy lightly and he treats me like a princess. He takes me out to watch the stars, out to dinner, out for drinks, out to chase time and burn daylight and all the while he's unbearably sweet while I'm thinking about how the hell to get out of the country.
Is it bad that I give more importance to dreams than to people? I've been chasing the person I've always thought I'd turn out to be for far too long to just give up now because of a penis. Well, he's more than that, but still.
Also, I'm really glad to have my new job but I miss dancing. How can that even be? It was a lousy job in a lousy club full of lousy men, but still. Plus, I have to work extra hard for a a pay that I could have done in two nights at my other job. I'm still not going back to it though.
That being said, I feel bearably light. And it feels wonderful.

Frustration and virtual swearing.

This is not working the way I wanted it to, for Christ's sake!! This frigging guy, he's nice and all, is planning to leave the country with me. Umm... I don't remember inviting anyone but my girls. Also? My wanting to keep him a secret? Fate is a BITCH. Through circumstances regarding time and place, he met all my girls. What the fuck is with that? Jesus H!!!
This is SO not good for me. I've no idea how to behave with boys that I've gone a little bit beyond dating with ( I do NOT wanna call this a 'relationship' because it's NOT ).
God, I need a plane ticket and a plan.
Before I start freaking out for real.

Vane and ...insane??

I think I'm finally starting to realize the extent of my vanity. So, here goes. I'm kind of seeing this guy. I know, this sounds really weird as I never really see anyone ( besides Robert Pattinson, and that only happens in my head ). Where was I?
Yes, I'm seeing this guy. He's my age which is not a lot to start with and he looks really young, baby face and all. He also works with me at my new job and that's where it all kind of started. He's not bad looking. I mean, I think he's cute, really, I wouldn't be with him otherwise. The thing is, what I see him as is a close kept secret. I don't want anyone to see his face or know who he is. And here are some of the reasons why:
1) I don't want people telling me he's 'not all that' because that would put me off of him completely, which is a shame because he has a vague idea of which buttons to push to get me going, if you know what I mean *wink*.
2) I hate his hands. My fingers are longer than his and if anybody comments on this, I'll dump him.
3) He's like a little puppy, i.e. cute and lovable but with potential to embarrass you to no end.
4 ) I already know this is going nowhere as A ) I have different priorities, B ) I have bigger dreams, C ) I'm leaving the country in October and D ) I'm looking for someone whom I can wear heals with. I think I'm an inch taller than this guy.
Also, we work our asses off to make money, so I'd feel bad making him spend that on me. Which is not something I want to be feeling. I want a man who can wine, dine and dime me. What I mean to say is, I'm a very independent girl, but it'd still feel nice to be pampered with things.
What I'll do is this: I'll not think about it. This'll be like one of those fun summer projects from summer school.
Yup.
And try not to get bored midway.

Of blinding lights and hope.

I'm not really the dramatic sort, like those kind of people who make a tragedy out of seemingly nothing. I was working at my new job as a waitress today, working my ass off and generally enjoying being the 'shiny new toy'. One of the more experienced waiters, thirty something with maddeningly orange hair and freckles everywhere, complemented my 'excellent performance' at work.
It made me smile sadly, though. How I long to hear those same exact words in another context, you have no idea. Preferably while the spotlight is still blinding me, the stage creaking with movement and everywhere is roaring applause.
But I feel there are so many endless small steps before you ever get to the important ones, that you get lost in the way. Your dream looses brightness and then starts to fade, so that ultimately what you'll be left with is a vague idea of a wish and a memory of longing.
So this is what I ask. How do you not lose yourself in the way? How do you not ask yourself 'what if'?
What do you do to keep your dream alive?

Dysfunction is a four lettered word.

Unbelievably disgusting. I was talking to my mother, Brigitte about weird fetishes, because yes, Brigitte and I have very weird conversations on a daily basis. She suddenly turned serious, which in turn made me listen carefully, because my mother doesn't do serious very often. Brigitte got to know of this girl who wasn't feeling very good, subtly, for some reason: no specific symptoms. At the clinic where she went to have tests done, the doctors kept drilling her, asking her who she was having sex with. The girl had left her boyfriend of eight years some nine months prior, hadn't had sex with anyone since. The clinic called the boyfriend and asked him who he was having sex with. Cue 1940s black and white gasp!! Turns out the guy, who worked as a grave digger, was fucking dead people. No shit. The poor girl contracted some terminal disease for which he was only the carrier. So he can go carry on fucking with/ the dead and she's got only four months left to live.
This is what Heisenberg calls The Uncertainty Principle: it has as much to do with quantum mechanics as it has with every-day life. This principle states that it is impossible to know both the position and velocity of a particle. The more precisely one property is known, the less precisely the other one can be known. It's a catch 22 with no definite results. Roughly, this translates in that the more you think you know something, the less you know because your knowledge automatically cancels out on principle. The more you think you know someone, the less you really know. You'd think your best friend sees you in a certain way only to discover she has an entirely different perception of you. You can think your parents love you for who you are only to turn out that who they love is the role they decided to give you in their life. You can think you're everything to your boyfriend who loves you very much only to turn out he's a sick necrophiliac.

The morale of this story, Blossoms, is that whatever you think you know is really what you don't know. Who you think you know may turn out to be the complete opposite. And no matter how much you pussy-love someone, always wear a rubber.

Apathy as a small victory.

Not looking through to what's on the other side of the glass, I know the sky is blue. The sky is an unforgiving blue and I'm smoking designer cigarettes I can't really afford, drinking what only looks like black coffee. There's something in the water that makes coffee taste like cardboard. And I'm apathetically thinking how I'll probably turn out to be nothing. My reasoning is: there are only seven notes, only five primary colors, only twenty-six letters, and I believe you know where this is going. Variety is limited. The song you dream of writing has probably been written by somebody else a hundred times over. The painting you'd like to paint is in some gallery somewhere, possibly a million times better than you could have ever dreamed of painting it. Your words, they're like a teen-age's half baked attempt at writing, having just discovered Nietzsche and Nine-Inch Nails. Mildly put. Do you still think you need to save yourself from apathy?

What I'm doing is waiting for something. For inspiration to hit me like a violent electric shock. Or for it to hit me like a rock, I'll have it any way. It'll turn me into some late-blooming Mozart. A precocious Picasso. I could be the next Sophia Loren. Maybe I'll get myself a hobby, be crazy-shit creative and everybody will think me a genial artist. In turn, I will start socializing with affluent and influential people, engaging in mindless, meaningless copulating that will push me even further up the social ladder.

I could publish a book. I would obviously write it in some annoying slang, presumptuously believing it will make it 'different'. I'll write in circumlocutions and have people believe me a literary genius. See what I just did, right there?
"What seems to be the self-representing, ever expanding variety of emotion in the human being appears to be of inversely proportional importance to the elocutionary potential of a tooth-brush"
What makes no sense-we immediately consider to be beyond us. Mostly, when something sounds like nonsense, it's because it is.

I'm thinking, if all else fails, and I'm still un-hit and uninspired, I'll become a librarian. I'm really good at suggesting books to people. I can quote crap from books like it's an Olympic sport, I'm that good. In my room, what's not taken up by my bed, is taken up by scraps of paper with random quotes scribbled on them. I don't even know why I write them down because I rarely ever use them, but it's comforting: knowing that I could just bend down and pick up and answer to at random. There is safety behind words when they're not yours. I read somewhere, that quotation is a substitute for wit, a short-cut for not thinking. I happen to know that this is absolutely true. I have this written down somewhere, too. How much you read and remember is not how much you know. I happen to read a lot but can't seem to know anything of substance.

What I know is that I'm waiting for something to happen. Something that'd make me different. A never seen before variation of some other variation. What I know is that apathy can save you from despair. Sometimes.

...

It's all the 'not sleeping at night' that I do. I got home at nine in the morning, stumbled to bed and woke up at one. Four hours of sleep may be why I'm tearful right now. I have no other possible explanation.
It may also be because I'm watching a documentary about Florence on the Discovery Channel, on my own at home, on a sunny Sunday.
Or maybe because I've just seen pictures of a friend of mine, who's a touring dancer for Cheryl Cole. And I'm still here, not doing anything, feeling like an absolute failure.
This could go on and on and on and on....
I don't even know what I need.
And this is completely irrelevant. I need sleep, that's what I need. I need sunshine and motivation, a good book to read and for this stupid 'mother's day' to be over, so that I can rid myself of the obligatory duty of playing nice.

On ignorance, in ignorance.

My complete detachment from reality makes it possible for me to cope with the fact that I'm surrounded by mediocrity and the conscious-blind, who are all ready to judge me. It also teaches me how to ignore early instilled morals that do no make sense. The latter sometimes wears me down but I am a student of life: and I'm slowly learning how to not be a slave to my upbringing.
That is why my general plan involves:
A) Living the arts. The less of yourself you are, the more you discover about yourself. I want to know as much as I can so as to not be destroyed by other people's perception of me. Also, art alienates you, which leads to point-
B) Living the arts in a crazy little house. Colorful indie style being my choice of interior design, as well as having my paintings, various instruments lying around, books everywhere and aerial silks hanging from the ceiling.
C) A good sound system. I want to have soft, beautiful lyrics surrounding me all the time.
I don't know whether I'm moving towards something here, or running away. I have to keep reminding myself what it is that I'm fighting for, otherwise I start fighting against something and that something in this case, is judgment. I'm strong for the most part, but sometimes, on my low days, it gets to me. And when it does, it gets to me bad.
Being 'different' comes at a price. As does having dreams. Although I don't entirely understand these 'definitions'.
I don't know why I even care this much. I guess no matter how much you tell yourself that you don't care about other people's opinion, you do, some of them, even if just a little bit.
I don't know . I don't even remember what the point of my writing this was.
To put it eloquently: I know nuthin'.

The frustration of an apparent cocktail.

I'm sitting here, writing this, contemplating whether I should go fix myself something to eat, having had nothing all day. Or whether a grumbling stomach is better than one in pain.To eat or not to eat? The anxiety I've suffered all my life is at its full force now. And I feel desperate.
What I could do with is meeting people similar to me, but I have absolutely no idea how. I want to meet friends with my same interests. That doesn't mean I don't love the ones I have now because God knows I do, and so do they, themselves. But I'm so tired of feeling so different. And I'm perpetually frustrated.
I want people who're adventurous. Who'd purchase a plane ticket on some last minute inspiration and go somewhere. Who sleep on beaches just to look at the stars. Who dream big. Who want to see the world. Who live outside the lines. Who would enjoy abseiling just as much as they would enjoy walking around the Louvre or listening to chamber music. Trekking and reading a good book.
I'm so entirely fed up of everybody being so conventional. Most people have every little step of the way planned out and it's so fucking boring. I can't even stand the thought of it. More and more, spontaneity is becoming just a word in a dictionary.
And words can't really express the frustration I feel right now, but I'd still like to give it a try. How this feels like is having somebody repulsive, somebody you absolutely hate touching your body in some way. Your face, your arms, whatever. And you keep saying ' stop touching me, stop it! stop it! STOP IT!!!' but your voice isn't loud enough and your arms can't move and you're so fucking stuck.
I'm so sick of everybody being a carbon copy of each other.
I'm so angry at everyone. And disappointed. Which is stupid because they are who they are and that's that, you love them.
I just wish really hard to meet someone different.

Where I'm supposed to be studying.

All day and I have no idea what I've done. It's five in the evening here, the sky is a violently happy blue and the sun is making my skin blush. Theoretically. And I was supposed to be studying. Instead I wasted a day literally not doing anything, avoiding it. Might as well have done something I like. My exams are in less than a month and I've never felt so bad about this as I do now. I hate how the last bit is always the hardest. I'm absolutely fed up. I feel like horse riding and swimming and sleeping on the beach with sand down my pants and I feel like not giving a fuck. These past months have been unnecessarily stressful, and having spent the past three years not giving a shit about anything, re-starting to care is... tiring? It takes adjusting to. It feels frustrating. This is what I'm missing;

and this;

and this;
It feels good to be home, right now, and I'm looking forward to spending the summer here. I was supposed to go back to London in June to a NYFA film acting course, but the plan kind of fell out. Got postponed. I don't know. Every time my life seems to get some sort of direction, everything radically changes. So I decided to go half-way back to how I used to be. Make a general plan, and follow it through. Don't take it entirely too serious. Don't plan too many details.
And so that's it. Spend the summer here and then off to Florence in September for an insane mask-making course. Then London. Then... I don't know.

The point in this is... I think some people are meant to have everything mapped out. Of sorts. And some people aren't. I think it's easy for some people to know what they want, when what they want is something 'normal'. But I don't think I was ever cut out for normal. Sometimes I wish I were. Mostly, I'm very happy.

The point is, I'm supposed to be studying. But it doesn't look like it's going to happen. So I'm off enjoying the rays before they go to bed.

Spring

The air smells like honey already. The sky is cerulean and everything is light. The grass is an extra special green and I feel like I can do anything. I feel like I'm finally waking up.

Places, faces and things.

You kind of realize you're living the weird life when you start answering to names that aren't yours. Not really. I've had so many fake names I still answer to, leading to a lot of embarrassing situations where people just look at me weird and I can do nothing but shrug.
How many girls do you know of that have said " well, my real name is..." ?
And I don't know whether to be worried or amused. I'm leaning towards the latter.

That's all, really.

Quote of today.

" In the middle of a wrist's suicide slash-line, below the layered skin and above the pulse, there's an acupuncture point that says Get back to who you were meant to be .Your whole life, the skin on that place will stay closest to being a baby's skin, as close as you can get anymore to the way you started, the way you once thought you'd always be " - from Clown Girl by Monica Drake.

Action!

'Hot on Weapons' means the stunt weapons are ready to go, look like they're really shooting. 'Keep off the rails' means keeping off the camera-on-wheels tracks. 'A- Marker', 'Rolling', 'Technical rehearsal, keep first positions'... And at 5 you have to be at hair and make up. You barely have any time to have breakfast, trying to down as many coffees as you can before the make-up artist starts on your lips. Before hair people start spraying anything that can keep your back-combed- up do in place, right in your face. And then you have people leaning in, their faces in your groin, trying to hide your tattoos under layers of sticky concealers. You may be requested to let your pubic hair grow, having to be buck naked on a closed set of about fifty crew people/wardrobe and make-up people, some other thirty extras, about three main actors and a bunch of lights blaring down on you. You may be standing buck naked beneath a bathrobe which's been worn by God knows who before you, the producer telling you to act scared, perfectly normal, the camera zooming in on you, somebody holding a marker right in your face and 'Rolling!!!'.
This may go on for about twelve hours for days at a time, if you're unlucky. If you're lucky, you'll be doing this for the rest of your life, this safety bubble, where you're everybody else but yourself, protected from what's really going on in the universe around you, with people bringing you food when you feel like dying and looking pretty, sticky and sweaty, acting terrified for so long that when you leave the set, it only gets worse.
How do you know when everything falls into place? You know when you're worked for twelve hours straight and feel like you could go on for twelve more. You know when you feel turned off, like a switch, when the camera's not rolling any more, when there's no director telling you what to do, where to stand, how to act, anonymous hands pulling you in directions ' sweetie, look at him, move backwards, and turn'
This is me falling into place. like some pretty, complicated puzzle finally becoming a masterpiece.
This is what I want to do. Be in front of the camera. Have lines to deliver. Whatever.
I'll be whoever they want me to be.
I mean that.

Quello che la gente non dice.

Le cose più importanti sono le più difficili da dire. Sono quelle di cui ci si vergogna, poichè le parole le immiseriscono, le parole rimpiccioliscono cose che finchè erano nella vostra testa sembravano sconfinate, e le riducono a non più che a grandezza naturale quando vengono portate fuori. Le cose più importanti giacciono troppo vicine al punto dov’è sepolto il vostro cuore segreto. Come segnali lasciati per ritrovare un tesoro che i vostri nemici sarebbero felicissimi di portare via e potreste fare rivelazioni che vi costano per poi scoprire che la gente vi guarda strano, senza capire affatto quello che avete detto, senza capire perchè vi sembrava tanto importante da piangere quasi mentre lo dicevate. E’ una delle cose più difficili comunicare qualcosa che non richiede solo l’uso accurato delle parole, ma anche un’accuratezza di percezione che è al di là delle parole, e un sentimento, una sensazione di intimo contatto con una realtà.
Quando un pensiero rimane chiuso dentro non è per mancanza di uno che lo racconti ma per mancanza di un orecchio che sappia ascoltare.

Couldn't be arsed to think about a title.

Ugh. A little bit too much to drink at work last night, and my boss sent me home mid shift. So I wake up this morning and I'm not hungover, not tipsy. I'm literally still drunk. I keep drinking water to quench this thirst that is out to get me, and to think I was doing so well. I even cooked a mad omelet yesterday and tried not to choke my way through it. Carbs. There goes my diet. So it's detox today.
What better way to get back into shape than to starve?
Bloody fucking Jaegermeister.
The truth is, I wasn't even that drunk to start with, but once I stopped drinking, it seemed to hit me all at once. My heels death traps as I tried to balance on them but couldn't. I still can't. Balance. Or be balanced.
I slept in my make up and woke up in it, still beautiful. My hair a tangled mess of washed out sexy curls and ten euros in my bra, where it's been poking at my tit with its rough folded edge all night. I don't know where those came from but. Nah. I don't even know what there is to say anymore other than that sometimes, I don't want to give a shit. I'm tired of worrying about every little thing. I'm sick of always being nice to people, it's such a fucking effort.
And there. I've used up my complaints for today.

So be it folks.

Cringe-worthy.

Oh my GOD. One of my worst nightmares is actually manifesting itself. I AM TURNING INTO MY MOTHER!!!!!!!!! What a fucking horrific thing. Not personality wise. Physically, I took after my mother in the most obscene way, which is for the best as my father is an oily, ugly midget of a wanker. But as I was going through my daily routine of looking for flaws ( of which there are plenty) in the mirror, I noticed fresh blooming ( not so good) similarities. So what? I'm a little bit vane. Everybody is.
I, ugh, don't even know what to say. You know how you aspire to be better than your parents? I'm turning into shit. I can't believe how much I've let myself go these past couple of months. I gained weight, impulsively chopped all my beautiful long hair off to shoulder length and don't even bother wearing lenses any more. Sometimes I just roll out of bed and leave the house with what I've slept with on. And this looks so much worse written down.
I just can't bring myself to bother, most of the time. I'm hiding behind some book wherever I go or busy snarling at anyone who attempts to strike conversation.
I think it's the routine, I tell you.
I don't regret starting studying again, at all. But when you settle into any sort of routine, you kind of stop bothering about a lot of things. At least I do. The spark is gone. And I need to keep reminding myself I am working towards something bigger.
The excitement is gone and I have nothing to express. I only wear black because I couldn't be bothered and I know black looks good on anyone. Oh, God, I'm turning into a wall-flower.
I need to do something. I need to find something new until I get to leave for London again in June.
I need to bring myself to bother.
( I need to get my ass into some gym)
I need to not turn into my mother!!!!!!!

I just came back from Florence. Literally landed.... I know. What a loser I must be to blog about this, having just landed. But this observation I can hold in no longer. I have to say it. Louis Vuitton sales people scare me. They're universally scary. They are.

Bolle, sospiri e brillantini

This biatch is off to Florence and Venice. Soak in the art and see a decent carnival celebration. I'm so looking forward to this, it's unbelievable. I want to think about nothing but the history and the art and the dancing carnival masks :D And now I'm off. Check in is in a couple of hours and I still haven't packed my suitcase. Ah! The joys of improv. I'll just throw stuff in there and then get a double surprise when I open my case, once there. Ciao belli!!!!

Fifty shades of fucked up.

I fucking hate myself sometimes, honestly. And that's not something I do often, seeing that I'm completely full of shit and like to make believe I'm an awesome person. The point in fact is, I'm a sad, hopeless hypochondriac. Really really bad. It's not something constant, it happens only in bouts but when it does, it drives me and the people I'm close to, nuts. I'll randomly call up my mom freaking out about my wheezing, afraid that I'm gonna die, when asthma is something I've basically lived with for my whole life. On my last visit to my optician's, I asked him whether it's possible for my retina to deteriorate. I honestly have never seen a doctor laugh so hard at something a patient said and I'm not entirely sure that was very professional. I have blood tests almost every year.
It's absolutely pathetic. This only happens when I'm not OK. When I feel upset by something, or am in a long term situation that doesn't make me happy, I start freaking out. I start being scared that I'm going to die unhappy. Again. Pathetic. Because when I'm in coherent, I can see how entirely stupid this is.
I have to fucking get over this irrational phobia of mine.
And then start working on the rest... God...

Eh...

In my defense, it's freaking cold here. So what? It's 1:30 pm... and I'm leaning towards tipsy. But again, it's cold, I have a bottle of Cointreau on my computer table, practically begging me to open it up and I guess I got a little bit carried away. Meh. No big.
It's also kind of relaxing. Makes me temporarily forget that I have a shitload of papers I still haven't written and that My exams are in... 5 months. And I still haven't started studying. And my film acting course is right after that so I have to move out of the country. Again. And I have to look for places to live in. Again. And look for a job. Again.
God, I think I may need another shot.
I'm not in the least bit complaining, mind. I just haven't gotten down to actually doing anything about it, yet.
I'm so lazy. And this is not good. And I think I'd better stop talking now.
And calm a bit down. I got english in about two hours.
Go me!!!!

Sun Days

I'm too tired to sleep. I'm too tired to be pissed off at my being too tired to sleep. And I'm too tired to be pissed off at not even bothering to be pissed off. And so on and so forth.
And I don't mean tired in an existential kind of way, whatever that is. I mean, physically, really. I haven't been sleeping much and my mind is kind of sluggish. I have this annoying cough which comes up randomly, something I believe in having to do with my quitting smoking.
And all I can come up with is 'Meh' and shrug.
The beginning of the year is not very inspiring to anyone, I think. Ideas grow cold and everyone is lethargic.
I'm happy with having made at least one improvement. I have quit leaving the house looking like some body's cleaning lady. You'd be surprised at the wondrous effect fake lashes, blush and gloss have.
Well. This is how I plan on spending the rest of the day...
1) I will sit on the couch
2) I will switch on the t.v.
3) I will channel surf.
And that's it. Pretty much, yeah.

Note: This is not a complaint. Merely an observation.

On suicide.

What is it with suicide?
I'm not trying to be judgmental here. I'm just morbidly curious. How does their mind work, these people attempting suicide?
I've seen this up close. My grandfather basically spent his entire life trying to die. He suffered from chronic depression, and I remember him as either really high up or really, um, resigned? He was about sixty when he was 'finally' successful at his attempt. And then that was it: the minute he realized that he had made it happen, he wanted to undo it all back. He wanted to go back home.And he wanted to stay.
It was too late by then, whatever poison he had swallowed was shutting off his organs like candles in the rain. But the point is, I've never seen him fight to live as much as he did when he realized he way dying. Maybe he realized he was scared of dying too.
I don't know how it works with other people, but I hear this is very much the case with pretty much anyone who attempts suicide.
One of my mother's friend's husband hung himself in the garage. They later found scratch marks all over the wall, what I assume to be his last attempt to stay.
So I ask, how? Why? Why? Are these people so horribly depressed that they think there is nothing worth staying for anymore? Are they so scared to live that they choose to die instead? Because, paradoxically, that's quite a brave move, deciding to end it here and move forward when nobody really knows what's there to move forward to. If there is anything at all.
Or is it that they've gone so numb that they try to feel alive the only way the know how? Giving themselves the highest thrill?
Or maybe, is it that they need a reminder of their own mortality to help appreciate their life more?
Maybe it's just as simple as not knowing what to do with themselves?
This was all brought up by a friend absently saying she feels like killing herself sometimes. I know she didn't mean it literally, but I don't think the general public understands the severity of such a statement.
How can anyone be afraid to live yet not be afraid to die?

New Year's Resolutions.

A little bit belated, but I'm indulging in a hobby of mine: making lists ( and working them out)

1 Embrace a Hippie/Nomadic lifestyle - hasn't worked out very well before. I travel for months at a time yet somehow I still end up back here...

2 Move somewhere NEW - Somewhere I haven't been before. Preferably a new continent. Get a crazy new job at some vintage record store or a book shop. Wouldn't that be nice?

3 Sit for exams ( before moving ). After about four years of not studying, I feel like I want to start again. I like learning. As long as it's on my own time.

4 Buy a good digital camera. I want to play God and make my own universe in pictures, the way I see it.

5 Get a fucking driver's license. I want a bad ass car. I want a mustang 1969. With lots of shoes in the boot and comfortable seats to camp out on.

6 Do what you love to do and start up something new - I want to expand my soul.

7 Draw new dreams and work on your old ones :)

I'm so positive about this year. I can honestly say the last year was the best one of my life. Ever. Imma work to make this one even better.

Undefined.

You know that spur of the moment decisions? The ones where you do something without really thinking it through first? You know how you tend to do this really often, your whole life really, having people call you irrational? Impulsive?
Yeah... I finally quit my shit of a job. My sore throat suddenly disappeared and the need to run to the rest room every four point five minutes is no more. Your job can give you hell, you know? If it doesn't make you happy, then it can make you really, really unhappy.
The thing is, I now have no job whatsoever. Kind of liberating really. Until I think about having to pay my studies and my driving instructor and my deciding to insanely buy a ticket to Florence for next month.
And then the liberating feeling kind of dims. I still can't bring myself to feel panicked though. Panic is so overrated. And the idea of being jobless leaves me indifferent. How bad is that? I mean, I can't even feel excited about winging it like I used to. I guess you grow, huh? And I guess it's not really winging it. I guess winging it would be packing up and leaving for somewhere with a one way ticket.
Or maybe over time, you start needing something bigger to excite you...

BS

" When you want something, the whole universe conspires into helping you to achieve it".
That's Paulo Coelho. And that's a bunch of bullshit.
I'm so frustrated! I'm trying to find myself a job where I'm not required to talk to assholes all night. And I'm finding nothing. And if I do find something, my computer gets magically blocked. What the fuck is this shit?
Maybe I'm not being clear enough.
" Universe? Universe? Umm... I want a decent job, please? I want to be able to work during the day in a nice, professional enviroment and finally give myself a break from being sick all the time... Universe?..."
God. I need another coffee. I bloody hate being this emo, but shit! This is shit!

Invisible nooses and everything else.

Sometimes, I feel so stupid. No no, I often feel stupid. Sometimes, I can't figure out what's bothering me. I feel physically bad and then I realize I can't swallow. That knot you have when you're about to cry? Yeah. And the thing is I can't point out what's making me feel bad the worst. I can't understand why I fall into this all the time. Why is it so hard for me to feel good? Sometimes I think that hurt is my twisted idea of a comfort zone. I find myself following trains of thought I don't want to drown. Triggered by phrases or pictures or paintings or even music. I don't know why I find it so easy to assimilate with pain.
I ask myself questions that lead me nowhere because, right now? I don't have the power to change anything. Well no. I do. But I don't know, I don't really want to, it's not time for the change yet. In a couple of months, I'll be free again. Maybe the invisible noose around my throat will loosen up.
Why am I here? Why am I not happy yet don't do anything about it? Why do I accept people trying to change my soul? Why does everyone one want to break you and remould you?
Love and like, they're just words. Whatever is done conditionally is not real.
I feel like I need to leave and be by myself to save what I am. I'm not a bad person. Why does no one understand that we're not carbon copies? I don't understand.
It seems like I can't understand anything anymore.

Do you know where your life is?

Where you kind of realize that starting over is just a part of the big chain of events. Jump to where you accept that sometimes you need an extra incentive, a push, an excuse, one might call it. And this is it. A new year, another fresh start. A new to-do list.
Your list may consist of pretty much one thing.
'Find out the place you're good at'.
You, you've spent endless days repetitively obsessing about the possibility of your not being good at anything. Of being essentially useless. Of being average.
How do you find what you're good at? How do you know you're good enough?
Right here, the whole problem with this is that you've never really tried. Tried tried.
You don't sympathize with yourself at all, about this naivete you seem to have become aware of, but you somehow got it into your head that people are born being good at things. When the thing is, people are not. Nobody's born writing music. Nobody's born solving everlasting math equations. Nobody's born reciting Shakespeare or understanding quantum mechanics.
The thing is, it takes some work to make it work. And actually, it takes shit loads of work and tears and nights spent sleeping on friends' couches because your dreams don't pay the rent.
The only reason why people don't make it is because they've got it all wrong.
Old Parmenides had it right - Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit. Nothing comes from nothing.
You keep expecting your talent to blossom. You keep expecting You don't even know what, being some genius late bloomer, the next equivalent of Chopin in whatever, wasting your youth here, doing what you don't like, being someone you're not and blaming everybody else but yourself.
And you feel so fucking small. You don't know where to start and you don't know which way to go.
And this is it. This is what your 'new start' is going to be about.
You're going to stop, stop, waiting for stuff to just happen.
You're going to get out there and live.
Have a happy year.