52 posts from 2007

I am watching I Love Lucy! I can't believe I am actually watching I Love Lucy. On Tv. I can't believe how happy it makes me to watch I Love Lucy. Can you believe how happy it could make a person to watch I Love Lucy on telly?

It's not just I Love Lucy though, it's that I am wearing a Kat von D shirt I bought in the Virgin store at Times Square and I am drinking Kool-Aid. Jammers, not the do-it-yourself kind. Jammers, kids. As my bed-time lecture I am feeding myself the twisted mind of Sylvia Plath and I listen to Bob Wyss ( author of Brimfield Rush ...a book about the Antiques and things. Haven't read it yet. ) talking about Ornaments watching him play with his granddaughter. I talk to women who have raised three children and gotten a Ph.D. in Psychology and I spend my weekends wandering around New York City.

Well, not so much this weekend because Hey, giant snow storm all over New York. But generally that's what I do.

I wish I could write how depressing all of this is to see and I'm sure that moment will come especially with the delicate book-choices I seem to make and the non-existant interest my friends and family back home seem to have in setting up a virtual speak-and-see connection with me.

Yet, Lily Allen brightens up my mood and I couldn't tell how a 45 hour week with two baby-kids wears me out. The way I smile on pictures has changed for a reason or two aswell. I thought I had lost it and I'm not saying I am a different person but dear me I have my smile back.

I have all these pictures of me and my sister and somewhen a couple of years after my step dad had entired our life and things started to fall apart inside me my smile vanished. I started blacking out. Not as in fainting but rather as in fading out of the pictures. There is and was no personality of a bubbly happy child to be seen in those pictures. I was dull and bloated, an ugly vision of what should have been and was supposed to turn out as a decent child.

I desperately seek for a love to share with. Missing Holly is the worst part living here, really. She's my keeper. Keeps me sane, keeps me for the sake of me not going crazy inside this world. I will become a doctor even if it's just for the sake of knowing how to help her out.

The day after I got here Brody Dalle posted about being in the studio again. Right now the broadway people are on strike and they won't come back very soon which means I won't have to meet up with that ugly ugly butt ass of a person I met in the "training school" who is living downtown Manhattan.

Just two things : "I went to a private school." and "My parents are paying that...and that one too." GOD NO.THANKS.

These people are so intelligent it hurts my bums.They are both lawyers and he's working in finances currently. She's working from home though and talking to her is like diving into a different world. It's just been four days and we've pretty much only talked about kids stuff and things but those people are smart.

When I mention Sylvia Plath they do not only know who she was, they have read, written and rehearsed essays about her plus her work. When I got down in the basement there is a pile of VHS cassettes sitting on the shelfs and they are actually being used.
Saturday night Grace sat down with her dad and they had a saturday night movie night. He was actually sitting there watching the jungle book with his daughter. On a saturday night, after working 10 hours a day plus a two hour commute during the week. And he enjoyed it. I don't know if they are aware of how much they got but if they don't how just hope they'll never ever lose it.

I don't think I have ever actually meant it when i wished somebody the best but I do wish those people the best. This is starting to sound like a good bye letter and in a way it kind of is.

I remember my dad falling asleep while I was watching tv in his unfurnitured one room appartment.And it's not even making me feel anything negative - no sadness, no negative something.

Maybe it really is just the new-ness of this whole experience and maybe i won't be able to keep this up ( I'm secretly sure I won't be able to - although, I'm trying not to think about that. This is the first time ever since I can remember I am actually living inside the here and now. ) but this feels good.

This is actually feeling good - and loads of things have in the past. But this time it doesn't feel bad to feel something good.

I can barely see the letters on my keyboard cause my eyes are filled with pain and mildly tasting sugarwater. It falls down on your hoodie, on the map of NYC and it cause drips all the way through your heart and brains like your stabbing knife and knuckles did with mine.

I cry and you bow, you bend and you break and if i don't do the same your fist raises high up in the dark mood of the shattered sky.

If there is anything i have learned about life then that is it: LIFE FUCKING BLOWS.
Who the fuck seriously wonders that the majority of young girls out there is seriously depressed and trying to kill themselves for the past fifty years please? Life blows. It blows ass. It blows mine and yours and the only thing that could ever ever ever EVER save me is the true love of my life. The one boy or girl who will sweep me off my feet, kiss my tongue and climb up my mind. The person who will derange my mind to an extend that will murder and master all these wrong, disgusting thoughts inside my pretty little head.
It sure is a pretty little head apparently. I have never been pretty but am now. What a weird coincidence crashing together with having graduated and my step-dad fucking out of my life.
My skin is still the same spotty little dirty bastard and my hips are still large, my belly fat still growing. But I am pretty now. Pretty pretty, that is. I am aware I have been some form of beautiful my whole life. But i have not been pretty until now.
I`ve got this glowly cutes-y smile going on that only dreamy girls have stuck on their face and I smile in a pretty way when a boy lurks at me from behind the books at the store I work in. It is an unperfect, slightly wicked kind of smile and whenever I use it the boy of interest ( in me, not me interested for him. My sexual drive is non-consistant these days ) ..well, the boy of interest ( in me, again. Not the other way round), he just smiles and on his shiny big forehead there is "She is well of a pretty lad!" written on it. It is in German most of the times but sometimes it is not. Sometimes it really does say just that sentence I just typed.

Wether it is in English or in German it both means I have suddenly developped and impact on this weird weird species with dicks and balls. They are everywhere in book stores it seems and their reading priorities are a bit weird to be honest. It is either the tabloids ( apparently nowadays spotty 20somethings are interested in flat-breasted models. It does not keep them from staring at my D-cups however, though while I scan their dirty little Penthouse magazines. ) or if it is not the tabloids it is weird, weird books about Physics and not the pretty ones with the cute covers. It is massively confusing Physics books.

Sometimes, anyway, a lot of times whenever one of those boys comes to my desk and needs my scanning abilities ( sometimes even my wrapping skills. Dear readers, whoever you hate do not give them Physics books for their birthdays. It is no fun. Kiss them instead. )  for their ugly mathematics statics I take the book and flip it round and say the name of the author mumblingly. And then I say "cool, cool." in my prettiest accent pulled off.

This little gesture brightens up their day apparently so much they keep on returning to me. Or so I pretend to believe. The geeks, they like me scanning their books.

However, LIFE STILL BLOWS.

There was this one time I had a midly life crisis ( #2382392 that year... this year. ) and i sat on the train ( tram! ). One of those old ones we still have, with the wooden chairs. They only drive the unimportant rodes. They are also higher than the rest of the trains ( trams! ) and the old and preggers hate them cause it is hard to get in.
It was day-time still and  I was crying already in the train ( tramtramtrammm...! ) but silently and then , cause I was having a life-crisis, then I asked the lady in front of me : "Lady, can I ask you something? Have you ever regretted something so bitterly past in your life? Has it had much inpact on your life now?"
She was beautifully old, in her 70ies probably. With perfectly curled hair and a fur coat wrapped around her slim, yeat meaty figure and I had fallen in love with her the moment she turned around. I was well sure, too that if anybody could solve all my problems and give me the right answer to my question of life ( like you get them when life tumbles and turns ) it would be just her. Just and only her. And i loved her to death and back cause she was so perfectly made for me in that situation just.
I won't tell what she said cause I promised myself never to tell anybody about this incident. For one because it is well crazy to ask a stranger and old lady in the tram what to do with my own life and base important decisions on her answer and for the second reason: It is well crazy to do just that without being drunk.

Still, LIFE BLOWS.
And i just really want to die. It is not to deny and the thought is still constant in my head. It comes in the dark and comes in the day and it only really vanishes for a bit of time when I am really busy. It never even goes away when I am having sex. Which is why I do not have any at this time. How deranging is it to be underneath a sweaty, groping bloke and thinking " I just want to die." ?

" Where the stars come from isn't called Hollywood for no reason, dear"

Chris and I wrote a song a week ago together with that title.. It's about Holly obviously and mostly about how she cracked me open after all that heartbreak I had been through after my ex. It reminds me how I don't want to go back to that place. Because it's what i'm heading for really currently. I'm about to ice up again and it's gonna cost me a whole lot of more energy cause currently it doesn't look like there is somebody around to get me out again like the last times. It's me by myself as it seems.

The song about fear a lot and it's still very very sweet cause that's really how it feels to be her friend.The tune itself is just acoustic guitar and it's probably the nicest combination of the same three chords Chris always uses that I've ever heard. I gave him that line above basically and he just went for it while I did the rest of the song.
 It's all this hurt stuck inside me and her and even though that's a constant in both of our lifes what we share is still just plain odd sweet.

Skittles kind of sweet.
 
Where you can get gross, bitter, disgusting candy bits if you don't watch out - kind-of-sweet. If it wasn't for the ugly tasting bits in our friendship I think we wouldn't quite know the good ones in such an extend that we do ( or I do, anyway! ) .

I really miss her right now.These days.

In other news my mum has basically thrown me out kind of. Obviously I left after we had a discussion but it still feels like i'm atleast unwanted, really.
I acted very responsibly of course. Called her up once I knew where  I was sleeping, called my grams so my mum couldn't call her and pretend she doesn't know where I was as she did last time I left and overall been a good kid. As far as fucking off can be considered being a good kid.

I just can't take it anymore though.She's been home for three weeks now and we just get on each others throat if we spend more than two hours a day together, really.
It's just how we are.
It's especially rough because lady is on the break every DAMN SECOND DAY. She's sat with a whine glass, fag in hand and tears spread all over her face in the living room ( we have a living room now that the no-rent-paying-prick moved out. Yes i'm calling my step-dad a prick. Yes it's immature. No I don't care. ) every second day because she can't handle with heights and lows at fucking all.
Whenever there is some kind of positive addition to her life ( may it be a possible new appartment or a maybe...like.a tree? ) she completely throws herself in it. Not in the regular sense as in "ooh.This might be cool.Let's see..."
No, it's a total "OH MY GOD THIS IS SAVING MY LIFE MAKING ME INSTANTLY HAPPY OH MY GOD."

I'm aware how hurt she is. I doubt i can actually understand how heartbroken she must be sending the man off she always wanted to be the man of her life.
I remember still how hurtful it was breaking up with my first love. Every child she has with him must maximize this to an extend I can't grasp. Every hit she has received from him must send the hurt into spheres she can't grab either. It's something most people don't get but physical abuse connects you with the person who abuses you in a way that is quite insane. Very much so anyway.
And with those two it wasn't just physical but also emotionally and mentally. It was abuse in every layer of life you could imagine and now that he is gone there is basically nothing left.

Besides her kids of course.

She wants it all to be straight now. She wants it to be a family now and to be the family she always wanted.
Where comes the hurt in is that in all her hurt she has created this image of her "new" family is her and the little ones. The new appartment is going to be for her and a room for each the babies. It's true that i'm not trying to change her view on this. It really is. It's probably even moreso that i'm not trying to involve myself very much cause I haven't really felt involved in this whole process from the start.
I'm focusing on the AuPair thing and my drivers license and finding a job ( which i have btw. Bookstore, starting november ).

I don't focus on the pain like she does. I don't focus on that my step-dad is gone. I don't focus on finding a new appartment. I don't focus on feeling bad or trying to change the situation at home.

I don't do nothing the way she does currently and with her and I having nothing to do currently she can see that on the open plate. It adds that nothing she does works out in the end.
It hurts her probably, I guess I get that now.

Okay, so yeah, it's true.
Most of the time i'm really not the best person ever.
Might come as shock. Cause, y'know, I tried to convince the world with that post that I'm really a good person ( it did work!partially.did work, really.Except for that genderless person of a twat who introduced me to the world of STD's. Thank you, again, thank you.I appreciate comments. ).

Thing is,  I hate the people around me. Most of them anyway. And even I do like them after a week or two oh boy you can be sure  I shall have found something that bugs the fucking shit out of me. All the while living in a pink bubble of bliss believing that I never ( never! ) would be such a pain in the ass like the person of current hate-ings is.
I've always been tracked down, face-front into the mudd, by the fear of losing. Losing in general. People, credit cards, ID's ( it's the 5th since 2005.go me.I don't even have to pull a number anymore at the office.They have a desk especially for me. ) and socks.

But mostly it's about the people.

Generally about 2 years after I have bonded with somebody in a proper, deep, 3am-McD's-drive-in-trips kinda way they start throbbing out of my life again.
A couple of years back that was mostly due to my incapability to stay inside school facilities for longer than 2 years. It just naturally lead to deaths of friendships in a monotonous kind of way. It hurt though. Nevertheless.
Nowadays it's a bit different. There hasn't been a school changed ( besides..d'uh graduation! ) for the past three years - which is btw. the longest I have spent in one school since elementary school - and no drastic drug abusings or me running away from home.
It's what i'd call well, disgusting as it may sound : normal.Stable, even.

Still, people keep dropping out, really. Situation being different I feel that I have changed, too. It's not like the people around me have been picked by my "role" in school anymore like it does when you're 15. I have actually chosen to call these people my friends.
It wasn't the unfortunate happening of them sleeping in the same basement for three months that made us friends or that they had the same smellyness surrounding them and holes in their clothes ( none of them ever wear clothes with holes.Those spoiled bitches! ).

I liked those people.

From the bottom of my heart and with all the love my tit-covered chest has to give. Because they were how they were, nothing less, nothing more. Just perfectly themselves. People with their own stories, their own love for music ( cause really, even though I did pick them love for music was one of the things mandatory for a common future together. If they wouldn't have checked that one their application for being my friend - no chance! ) , their own sense of dressing, family issues and weird, random randomness.

The buggingness starts when one of those proper individuals starts completely losing it out of whatever reason there may be and starts friggin absorbing somebody elses personality. What tastes like a fine compliment at first starts haunting your dreams, it burns conversations down after the "hey...!" and burries convo topics that seemed so normal and natural at first six feet under.
It's a thing to be inspiried by the people around you ( which i am.I'm a fucking copycat all the way.Brody Dalle basically dressed me through my teenage years and did my hair - literally. )  and another one to forget who you are simply to pretend to actually be the punk rocker from down under.

It's not a flattering thing to lose yourself. It turns yourself sour and damages the connection you once had to the person you copy. Cause they know. They do. It's obvious and it's freaking out. It's not cool and it's not going to get anybody anywhere.

I love sharing the simply love for sharing things. But i don't actually like sharing my loves.

Which is rubbish of course and it doesn't conform with the whole giving-up-yourself-attitude those Yoga-types and Feng-shui-seekers try to teach people these days. But damn I do have right to own some things to myself and just to myself. Even if it's just the love for a coked-up Amy Winehouse. I wouldn't mind if people around me would like her - for their own reasons. Hell, i don't mind! Everybody knows and loves her. It's a good thing to see i'm not the only one.
But if there is somebody who steals the way to love the things you love it becomes a scary thing.

There's a certain arrogance in this of course. Saying "only I love blue eyeshadow in a daunting, kinky way and nobody else should." but why can't you just love blue eyeshadow in a sexy, fancy way?
Is that too much to ask? I'm not wantint things all by myself. I just need to be able to appreciate them the way I do - without worrying about somebody else forgetting how they appreciate things in order to be closer to a way of living and loving things they admire.

I don't wanna take that responibility.It's a stupid thing. And it's not like I love things in a very positive, beautiful and copy-worthy way either.
I'm just me and I'd like to stay the only me available. And moreso I'd like the people I like to stay the way they are. Which is selfish, I'm aware. But if they have to change please do it in a way it's still you at the core - not me.

I have changed. I don't know if i have lost something or gained anything else. If I have gained anything ( you know...one of those things you should collect when you grow older..whisdome, gloriousness, an adult kind of fashion sense? ) it hasn't yet shown.
And it's not like i'm not tying to find it. All week I have lazed inside my bed seeking for that striking knowledge to hit me while watching Invader Zim or Angel&Buffy re-runs. I did try.
However, it's not really coming out or I haven't done the proper thing to make it stop hiding wherever it may be... So for now I just feel like i'm losing parts of myself. And there's nothign really in the air convincing me of any other truth.

The week I've spent with Eva, basically. Everybody else was out of town. The only option to call and do things with was me then. I'm okay with that, i guess.It's the same thing I do usually. We went to the movies ( "Because I said so" , which was surprisingly not-as-worse-as-you'd-think starring Mandy Moore.Partially because there's the dad fromSeventh Heaven shagging Diane Keaton and because Gilmore Girls' Lorelai was playing a Psychocologist.D'uh. Eva and I partially agree on how Lauren Graham is basically there to portray me - in different life stages - on screen for the world to see.Gilmore Girls was just the beginning! ) , got stuuuupidly drunk on a saturday night ( how do you spend only 5 bucks on a night out and drink about 6 beers, 4 tequilas, Jägermeister and Baileys? You go out with me and let me flirt with the bumper.I do own at life. ) and had lovely chats at nights with bottles of whine.
Fun stuff.
What girls do.

Things were different though.I didn't mosh when we were out.And i didn't feel good after the night of drinking. I mean you never feel good after so much liquor. It was a different way of "not good" though. Not the usual sickness. Just a plain, rubbish "i don't like this.". And i loooove this usualy.It didn't feel like me. Not post-drunk Ina. And i've got a load of memories of that me to compare.
And I only bitched at a guy once.Which is a fucking joke in that club, really. Usually I end up nearly punching somebody cause those boys are stupid twats smacking girls in the faces and calling it "moshing".
I was wearing a skit.and heels.and i had my hair up.Which is good. I like that. But is that me? I'm a skirt-wearing girl? Isn't that a ridiculous question?

It frightens me though. To an extend I and my mind can't follow.

I feel alienated from myself.Like i've lost those accents and edges of the "me" that has made me, well, me. It's confusing and weird and frustrating.
I still like the same things I always did. On thursday I told the dj to play Distillers and what did he do? Play the fucking Hunger. I wanted the Distillers goddamnit! But i don't get them. I get the washed out acoustic version of them

That's exactly how me feels currently. Acoustic. There's no bass-line, no drums and no cow-bells. I love my damn cow-bells. It feels nekkied and slippery and gross at times even.

If you knew you had one week to live, what would you do, where would you go, who would you see? 
Submitted by normatheartist

I'd go to the only place I feel ultimately like myself and save, most of all. That is Camden and probably will always be. it'S weird but with all this death around me during the couple of weeks the thought of suicide has naturally ( as in "very common for my own nature" ) catched and injected my mind throughout sleepless, worried nights. It's a different kind of wanting to escape - feeling then it was when  I was 14, self-harming myself and just wanting to end it all cause that one guy wouldn't date me... or well, cause I had just been beaten up.
It's different because I am different today and it's the same cause it's still me stuck in myself. So yeah, the though of leaving this body and self and world has come to  mind lately too often to count and of course, has always been a part of my thoughts since I was about 8.

I would spend monday morning with my grandma, driving over to her house at 12 in the morning, go to the lovely fish restaurant 45 minutes outside of town where we always go to and my grand-grandma has had dinners even.We'd go visit her and my grand-grandpa's grave and my grams  husbands grave , we'd talk and joke and have cake and whip cream with it like we always do.

The rest of the week I guess I'd spend in Camden purely by myself at nights. I haven't really felt alive a lot during my life but the last time I remember feeling life flooding my veins was in january. Holly and the black guy who shared rooms with us were just heading inside again and I wanted to stay outside a little more which left me and just me in my PJ's on a little set of stone staircases with a bit of cheap beer. I had my hoodie up and Holly's hug still lingering on me and just felt good.
It smelled like life should all the time and the cold air whidened my senses to an extend I couldn't quite understand but appreciated so much in that moment. I think that was the first birthday I ever felt like celebrating my life.

So yeah, I'd go there and drink beer and just sit on those stairs night after night,  I guess.

I'm facing the floor, basically. My whole body is. It's pressed onto the stained, dirty grey rough idea of a rug my room is filled out with. Scratching against my cheek and the palms of my hands pressing against it. It does feel like I could get up but reality has it i won't.
Not in the near future anyway.

Chris has been hospitalized.Last friday he came over and hugged me and soothed me in sweet new tunes he wrote while being coked up. He's looking like a death, false image of himself two years ago.
He's not going to make it.
I stared at him all through the night, really. After a hysteric call at 2am because all this angst and fear of loss inside me overwhelmed me too much he came and rescued me.
He's brought me ( aka has ripped from somebody ) a little golden ring and gave it to me.
He's going to die.

His ashy eyes are all whidened up and slurred into his head and the way his hands stroke over his guitars has changed in a way I can't put into words. There's a certain agony tagged to his movements I don't understand or get at all and when he kisses me I can't feel his breath at all. It's like a rotten rest of him is sliding inside me instead of him actually being there.

It's not like he is still there anymore either, who am I kidding.

We lay onto the cold, rough grey carpet together just staring at each other after I had calmed and the weight of my body has never felt more like a pressure than that night I think. I wetted the spots next to my face like a giant mess.
I don't want him to die on me.