2007

A year of suck.

I don't want to live through another year.

Choices, choices, choices...

Money!!!

My blog has earned me 32 cents, by hosting a Google ad. If people click on the link, then I get something like 6 cents. And when I get to $100, then Google will actually give me the money. Everybody click the link! Multiple times! Hurry!

Apologies

My hands really hurt. Punching stone buildings is never a good idea. I have a couple of fag burns on my arm, but other than that, I'm ok.

I'm sorry I was a crazy drunk. I'm sorry I hurt everybody. Please forgive me.

London

It was cold. But OK. I don't think I spoke more than twice the entire time. There were pictures, not very interesting to be honest. So much of modern art is utter shite. But some, some were good and special and meant something to me. Some were awesome, in their skill and perfection and wholeness of existence.
There was a man with a hawk at St. Pancras station. It was the best thing. He has his fierce bird of prey, and sends it out to scare pigeons.
A tramp on the tube scared me. He was walking down the trains, begging for any spare change. He had gangrene, walked with a stick. Scared me so much with the misery of his existence that I'm dizzy and horrible. The whole world spins out like crazy and for some reason all the nasty gets spun into me at the centre.
London is dirty. And there are lots of people running. Everyone else had fun. Its calming to listen to others talking and laughing so effortlessly.

Headache

I have.

Detox does this. Or it might be staring at a computer screen with wonky glasses.

I'm going to London tomorrow for art. I'm dreading it. I don't know any of my art group, don't really want to know anybody to be honest.
Big cities make me want to run. To jump in, lose myself, vanish in the noise and dirt and crowds. In the city, you can be free and alone and invisible. But I can't run. Not tomorrow. I have to stay, look at art, when I'm not in a visual phase. I can't see. I can only look and scribble dumb meaningless notes and scrawl far too cautious sketches which don't resemble anything and crawl out of the paper to scream failure and inadequacy at me.
Phases. So irritating. All of my life governed by some bizarre external/uncontrolled subconscious force, deciding whether I can read or write or draw or speak or move or care. For a month I can paint, then the brush turns to worms and the paint splatters and smudges in all the wrong ways. So I start to write, to speak, to natter and ramble on and on and on. Then it all starts to dry up. So I lie in my bed and cry with dry eyes until I feel lines criss crossing my mind and its time to paint crimson. Every stage interchangeable and I never know what I need next. No wonder I have no future plans, when every few months, weeks, days, I'm a different person, shiny and new or dragged out from the depths of the past old.
There have been too many different stages, new acts, but no new scenes. This characterisation is disintegrating, do you believe in reincarnation?

Ultra Spintastic 2 Minded Being

I really don't know what I feel any more. Its like, I veer from hope to crushing despair every few minutes. It really is tiresome.

HOPE
I got my first tattoo. Star outline behind my right ear.
I'm detoxing. Juice fasting. Or juice and soya milk fasting anyway.
I'm not dead.

DREAD
I couldn't go to school last week through depression and anxiety attacks.
A friend tried to kill themself.
I'm dreading Christmas. At my Grandma's house, at Grandad's nursing home. Being watched. Seeing everyone try to be happy in spite of it all. In spite of the obvious, screaming blackhole horror of the situation.
I'm utterly paranoid that I have no friends and I'm forgotten and rotting here in this hole.
I'm just paranoid really.
Everybody thinks that I'm just too lazy to do anything, to go out, to finish my work. When in my ideal world, I'd be doing everything, efficiently and on time. I'd be the perfect student. But to be honest, it's far too difficult to read even one page.
I'm just thick.
I'm so fucking pessimistic. I whine all the fucking time. The Dread list is about ten times bigger than the hope list. Really, girl, just SHUT UP!

Oh yeah, I forgot to add: I'm really fucking fat.

Anger

I've suddenly become an angry person. I think its PMS.

But really. I'm punching walls, smashing my head against walls, yelling at people for really odd reasons.

Everything is wrong. I only realised how irrational I was being when I had to turn some breadsticks around so they weren't pointing at me. Then I got pissed of when my brother moved them back round. They were pointing at me. BAD. BAD. BAD. Errrgh. I'm supposed to be doing German revision now. But to be honest, I can't focus enough. I think I'll go take a bath. Or something.

God I'm just so agitated. There are all sorts of rubbishes fleeing about inside my head. Family's problems. Problems. Random crap. What the hell. What the hell what the hell what the hell.
I'm pathetic. Totally pathetic. What am I doing wrong? Why doesn't it work?






What the hell what the fuck what am i even on about these days? I want to cry but i can't and I really don't know what is wrong I know there is something, but what? You can't be afraid of a nothing. But really, isn't the nothing what we all fear the most? Nothing happening, nothing. Empty. Alone. Dead and gone into eternal nothingness. Just no. I've been taking my meds I have I swear. I mean I really have I've been doing everything right I ate good I exercised I did work I went out. But everything goes wrong and all my monsters are here to eat me or maybe I will eat them you never know. Fucking eating disorders you never know which way they're gonna go.
Wait I don't have an ED i don't have a problem I have to tell the psychiatrist that I'm fine because she won't help me anyway. I want to leave. I thought I had left. No it all came back. I failed as usual. I should have been born dead it would have been so much less trouble. Smash your ugly face in you crazy bitch. What the hell. Really. This is like what it is in my head. It's all background noise, I can't usually make out what's being said, but its there and and it fills up and I want to escape but you really can't escape your own head is it? They hate you. Paintings I want to go home. Oh no oh god. Meow. Hahahahahahaha. Lalalaa. It all fades into an inaudible buzz. I've not heard voices, i don't even know what my mind is trying to tell me except that I'm fat and that something dread is going to happen but isn't it always? Maybe I should get some better meds. Tranquilisers or sleeping pills or something worthwhile. Something to fix everything and make me bright and beautiful. Hahahaha as if. Dreamer.