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."