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16 Juli Things I'll never say:I need you You broke my heart Stay I want you Don't touch me Why can't I be you? Come home I don't understand you I can't stand your girlfriend I hate you You don't know what you do to me I miss you Sometimes you scare me I want you to want me but I never want to want you again. I hate your band I love you I wish you could see you through my eyes Quit your job You're the bravest person I've ever met I admire you but that doesn't mean I want to live your life No, I'm busy We're still the same compulsive drunks we were when we were small You're the most beautiful girl in the world Get your own bloody shoes I'll never actually forgive you, not properly. I tried once, didn't work Don't marry her Seriously, stop eating How the hell'd we wind up like this? What we had was a nice thought but a bad idea You actually do drive me insane You mean the world to me 29 Juni The House Shoes do OxbridgeAfter being roused from my slumber by an impromptu redention of Boys Don't Cry at The Crack Of Dawn a.m., I embarked on my daily morning ritual ever-so-slightly less enthusiastically than normal. For those of you who don't know me, imagine the slowest thing you've ever seen, times that by infinity, take that to the depths of forever, and you'll still only have a glimpse of what I'm talking about. I'm not good at mornings.
Following several million sprints to the house and back, I finally set off on the long journey down to Oxford university, more than prepared to hate it.
I didn't hate it.
Not even close.
That's probably not a good thing.
I had a wonderful day, I was "adorable" and consummately colour co-ordinated, and DIDN'T get thrown out EITHER. There were people, all of which were nice to me, several of which complimented me on my shoes, including one guy who used them as a conversation opener.
Twenty minutes of flirting outrageously later, he threw in the fact that he's a lecturer.
16 Juni 'Cause I'm selfish, and you're sorryAfter reading Iain's blog on the distinct lack of communication on buses, I started to think about it. So many of us really do do whatever we can, just to avoid the slight possibility that someone actually might talk to us on the bus.
I know I do. Phone, book, magazine, i-river and if all else fails, an instruction manual. I do. If I don't have any distractions, I sit and stare out of the window and just smile standoffishly to acknowledge anyone talking to me.
The thing is, I'm not at my most sociable on the bus. Most of the time, even when people I know get on, I pretend not to see them.
It's because the bus is MY time. It's the only time during the day that is utterly, completely and selfishly MINE. I don't want to share it. I don't have to share it. And I bloody well won't share it.
I'm free to be alone with my thoughts, or the lack of, conversationally, and noone, not one person, can tell me that I should be "doing something." Because I'm on a bus, what else could I possibly be doing?
We were talking about it in biology, apparently it's the same story on trains. Granted, the majority of people have different reasons behind their behaviour - they're just trying to avoid The Crazies.
I came to thinking about the absurd lengths that I've actually gone to, just to avoid talking to someone.
"Pardon, mais je ne comprends pas parce que je suis francaise." + batting of the eyelashes is the most frequent. Although, should anyone actually turn around and speak French back, I'd be buggered.
Diving behind buildings, avoiding eye-contact, running around corners, pretending to be knee deep in highly intellectual conversation, or at least an absorbing one.
All tactics that I have implicated, and am likely to implicate again, just to avoid a quick chat.
You'd think I was unsociable, wouldn't you? 15 Juni Boys Don't CryAfter a rather tumultuous start to the week, today was surprisingly not quite the crisis situation that I'd imagined. However, despite the comparitive rainbows and sunshine dust I couldn't quite shake the shadow of misery of the previous few days.
We've all noticed that people, and I'm a real bugger for it, go out of their way to mask their true feelings. Take today, for example, I'm pensive and a bit melancholy; if you'd seen me, you'd probably mistake me for a extroversional cheerleader on a sugar rush. When I'm feeling particularly vulnerable is when you can bet I'll be at my most outlandish. I present some sort of solid and confident front when I don't want the world to know that I'm ready to go to pieces.
They say that when she laughs, she wants to cry.
I have a bank card again, I am no longer the socially disabled and can once again function like a regular human being. Let's hope that this marks a turn-around. Things could do to pick up again about now-ish.
I'm facing the weekend with a fresh dose of optimism, hoping that this time it won't be shattered by arguments at 6.53am. For the fifth day in a row. 10 Juni Keep all the pictures in their frames, cut me out, yeah, I'll be fine.I think sometimes it's just better to live in a dream world because reality could never measure up.
People are never there forever and things never stay the same.
I sat and looked through mountains of old photographs last night after being inspired by some sort of photo competition-type-thing. So I sat there with my prints, my laptop and my vodka and I reminisced. Quickly the reminiscing turned to mourning because, probably just as I'm doing now, I didn't realise how good things were then. When we all just were.
There was no need for bitching, no need for clothing, no need for paracetamol because we were immune to it all. It was fine for me to sleep over at Tom's house, because it was a Boys Night In. Noone cared who I hung out with and we'd do just that. All the time. We'd sit in a garage and play Halo and drink warm beer, moaning about the Hells of Highschool, just hanging out.
I used to answer the phone, back then. And it never stopped ringing.
I miss that.
It's not all bad these days; I have better shoes.
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