Be good...

Be good because you want to. Not because you'll be blacklisted from heaven, or because god says. Think. Logically, to me, be a good person, happiness spreads- std fast, it comes back, it continues. A nice chain letter. Like breath being recycled. I know when someone is cunty to me, it can affect everything... tainting the bloodstream with honked horns and glares. That was how every mornin started in my house. Or even that rare elated feeling- thumbtacked hard with one word. My dad was a professional squasher. Just if he was in a bad mood, mind. Which was unfortunately frequent. He could cut a laugh in half, whipping a word swordlike at me. Suspended for a moment. I could have ignored it, but I never did. I almost enjoys that wilting pain. the unfairness, indignation. Poor me.

Happy yet?

Statue of a statue of a statue

So nice.
Jet setters, trivia fiends and googling wannabes, who knows where each statue lives?

Evilish

Sometimes, it makes me mad that I can't choose heroin like some people choose sponge cake, or soda, or cigarettes. If it was harmful, I could understand. But a beautiful, natural plant, that could cost virtually nothing, banned because of..? Perhaps the addiction? But isn't smoking and sugar and videogames and sex and shopping and anything delicious that you love.... isn't that all addictive too? The crime and exploitation, the sex industry, the desperate beggars blamed on heroin- they come from the insane cost, nothing else. Calm, usually gentle people, too sensitive to face the shadows of the world, why are they forced into desperation? Moral dilemmas that equate to torture... all due to cost... hiked by goverments, driven into a dark scary place no one should ever find themselves. A stereotype that families can't see past. Mistrustful eyes, calculating every movement. Suspicious of your thoughts, handbag always locked within gaze, carried tightly to the bathroom. Lost Anything creates a panic and pointed fingers. Those were the people who used to love you. Deadbolting twice, thrice, locks changed, doubt and anger sitting in your old chair. You chose it, you had been warned, you did it anyway. Filthy, embarrassing, defective gene. Suffering is what you deserve. Maybe that will treat you a lesson. Pretending you want to quit!! IF YOU WANT TO, WHY DON'T YOU? I'll leave you if you do it again. Ultimatums are for your own good.

The only friend who understands you is one fast phone call. Three bills from somewhere sickening (not to be thought about), to be repaid before anyone notices, the flick of the lighter, soft bubbles, the barrel steadily filling, nice and brown. The first "I love you," hot breath as he nuzzles your neck, panties ripped off with one hand, the other holds you down. Teasing. Impossibly slow body lowering close but god, still not touching, hard cock brought to the soft dip beside the pubic bone, frustration seething, still no flesh to flesh. It skims your angry lower belly. Desperate hands stlll trapped. His body smooth and strong and forceful. No chance to pull him close. He's eating your earlobes, the hollows of your neck. The breath drags lower, hip bones licked. Your legs kicking, fighting, hips raised, anything to reach his. The cock laughing. Unrelenting, playing, always just a thrust away from a sigh. Cock slippery now, smells that fill your head. Hot and throbbing, you're really squirming now, you yell and curse. You hate him, you hiss. You're convulsing, your wet patch sending streams splashing in bottom creases, tracing cheeks to pool, warm and flowery. And then, your body crushed to bed, every surface matching his, fingertip to fingertip, nipple to nipple, lips to lips, hips ground so tight together every curve seems locked. Lego-like. His cock filling you up in the middle of it all. Throbbing so hard, waves rock through your veins. And then he pulls half out. Flips you over. You know what to do, a puppet, sliding to your knees, keeping him inside you. Starving for more, deeper, harder. Butt nuzzling hard into his pelvis, working his cock in. Greedy. Fat-personish, pulling away from a drive-thru, both hands in their mouth. Shoveling it in. Trying for every little bit, in...in...in as far as possible. So far in it hurts. His hands on your hips. He's teasing for a second, not helping, letting you struggle. And then, one hand around your throat, pulling you tight, he slams in. And your body goes limp with relief, he's rocking his hips, slamming and slamming. Your breath has stopped in your throat. You're not alive or dead. Maybe you're seeing red, or maybe it's black. No thoughts. Velvety oblivion. Catapulted, head first through the air. Your heart is hurting it's so happy.

That's the first blossom, the smooth whoosh of blood, colouring the brownish yellow magic with a hearty welcome. Thumb to plunger, a digit with emotion, singing cheerily. Steadily pushing, responsible, stern. Every act, each facet to the ritual must be observed. Drawing back, checking, pushing, checking. To the hilt. Loosening my handbag strap. A mother's love, a lover's love, a best friend's love. The feeling of a cathedral, where believing in god is easy. That moment your first child, slippery with blood, looks into your eyes. Elation, hope, pride, all the moments that make you so glad to be alive, forgetting the rape, your mother's failed chemo, the husband who left for milk and never came back.

With light in your veins, tragedy replaced with love... It seems odd that this is an "evil" craving. Plaid shirt, ipod wearing crowds fuck condom-free. You're okay until you know what you are missing. A friend who will never judge, beside you... inside you. Hating it... is like? I don't know, it's like hating laughing. No more laughing you bad, bad girl. Tears are the real you, get used to it.

Too late

I have some things to tell you. I know you'd come right here and hug me tight, tell me what to do. Make me do them. Supervise me, but funly. Rent dumb movies. Hug me tight. Pure friend. Not wanting anything from me, but wanting friendship. We'd giggle. I wouldn't get irritated when you seemed different. The days you'd spend in pajamas, on the couch, ignoring the dishes. I understand now. I understand it all and it's impossibly late. That time we were in your room, teenagers still, you left, to make drinks, lying on your bed, us three girls, waiting for you. Being so silly that day, and I picked up your diary. And then I started reading from it, I didn't even see the words, not a word. Mimicing a dramatic voice, I was so ignorant. No concept of what it could contain, until you opened the door and I saw your face. That was a terrible moment. I knew I had come close to something big, monsters I didn't know existed- could exist- for anyone.

You thought I knew more than I did. But if I did, I couldn't recognize it. That was my first glimpse in. The moment that echoed on, never forgotten, not even pretending to laugh as you reminded me. You held that close, the betrayal. I tried to explain then, but I couldn't just as I can't now. Hyped and ditsy, we flopped around your bedroom, bored. I expected shopping lists and dentist appointments, not darkness, tranferred to biro, safely filed into somewhere innocuous, external. I understand now. That's how I smile. By writing out the shadows, the yellow hall light fingers in, a stripe just wide enough to keep your head above the blankets. Just enough to not thread gas to your car with a rubber hose and wait in it, escaping any lucky twist of fate, just dying there, too tall for your coffin.

Squidgey

I feel weak. My personality, you don't notice it here- I'm tougher writing, much tougher than speaking- is like a soft play doh bloop, squished into different shapes by whoever I'm with. Cynical, thoughtful, eloquent, anxious, eager to please, difficult, responsible, mischievous, sensitive, shy, rebellious, awkward, seductive, tongue tied, outgoing and confident, smart, really fucking dumb. I hate the malleability. It makes me uncertain, who am I when I'm alone? I guess that's the real me. I love shy people, they make me miss confident, I draw them out, it's like an art, careful not to scare the walls back up, warm, silly. I loved my boyfriend because although he made me nervous, as all good potential lovers do, I could be a 5 year old nerd, and he got right into it. Sillyness makes me happy. And usually, girls are so much better at it, guys shy away, afraid cracks will form in the carefully suave veneer. So different boys and girls, in every way. I'm very glad to be a girl. But for an hour, or maybe two, it would be fun to be a boy, to have sex as one. I'd go and find my girlself and seduce real me. Rate my skills in bed. No that's wierd. God, I must be tired.
'Night.

Lolita-time

It's been described as "French Maid meets Alice in Wonderland."

The Lolita fad is big, really big. From Tokyo, where it first began, to smatterings of bonnets in Helinski. You can see the European 14 year olds in the second & third photos down. I love it. These girls are so young but so tough. They take fashion seriously, rebels in frills. Extreme sweetness to confuse parents and tie rules in knots. The Lolita look even has sub groups, the Gothic Lolita, Country Lolita, Sweet Lolita... and more I'm sure. I don't know the subtleties, but there are rules to follow, outlined in The Gothic and Lolita Bible.

It's inspired by Victorian clothing and mixed with Japan's unique cutesy aesthetic. Sweet Lolita is all pastels and ribbons, innocent and girlish. Gothic Lolita is completely black and white, sometimes a smidge of red. It's not Goth as in angst teens with acne and Marilyn Manson posters. Gothic to the Japanese means elegant. Lolita means childlike.

I'm curious who they date. What is the male Lolita like? If there even is one.

WHY

Remembering.

I have so many false starts to choose from. That time, warmed by lines of late afternoon sunshine, angling through the glass doors. Nighty on. Fringe slick to forehead with cold sweat. Curled on the couch. The patches of skin that touched the reddish woven fabric, worn in parts, screamed, crawling. It wasn't because of the couch, it was my skin, like a suit made of that scratchy wool, ill fitting, claustrophobic, no zips, you're trapped. You'd tear it off with your bare hands, if you could. It's a feeling I hope none of you ever have to experience. God, it's hard to describe.

Terror. It's like spiders under your T shirt, scuttling up the legs of your jeans. Big, hairy spiders, heading towards orifices. And then they're inside you, and there's nothing you can do. Well, there is one thing, one cure only. The antidote. And it's on your mind in neon and italics, flashing, glittering, seductive. The cock pushing between your thighs, hard, pressing against your wetness, almost in, the moment of foreplay where your mind goes blank red, you don't even exist, you're an animal and this is the reason you were born.

The self control it takes to last through this, it's heroic. It would be easier if you were doing it to save someone else.

Breathe. Run a bath, writhe in it. Pace, pace. Get back in bath, writhe more. Twitch covers on, off. Sometimes I can sleep for patches, my subconcious on a drug loop. Like a CD skipping. Spewing reasons into my mind to use. Nothing seems irrational. It's your heart saying do it. It's like breaking up with someone you love. Someone a phone call away, ready to hold you and make everything better. And even if you make it through the worst 4 days of your life, it doesn't end there. It really just begins.

Mourning the same as if a loved one had died. With an unfair twist... you can bring them back. It's not just your emotions grieving, each cell remembers, aching, stamped with need. Heroin has made me realize how inextricably linked physical and emotional pain are. I used to think of them as seperate entities. No wonder hate causes cancer.

I lasted a day without opiates, once after a methadone detox. All the emotions I'd avoided for the past year slammed into me. I opened the newspaper, on my lunchbreak. A small girl had been raped by her father and abused by her mother repeatedly through her childhood, investigators found her dead body emaciated and covered with cigarette burns. There are no words for what I felt then. There, on a bench on the busy street I sobbed. Messy, snotty sobs tearing at my lungs. I despised myself for feeling self-pity. I despised the world. I wanted to be a pebble on the ground or a leaf on a tree. I wanted to be nothing. The space that my body takes up, me-shaped, where ever I go, I wanted to empty it.

When people kill themselves it often makes those who loved them mad. Angry at what they think is selfishness. But it's not that, I understand now. When you feel that blackness, the emptiness like a black hole, you aren't thinking about family, or friends and how they feel. Death is calling your name and something inside you is answering. A magnetic force is pulling. Have you ever been caught in a rip at sea? Trying to swim back to shore, exhausted, choking on sea water. Panic building. But while you fight, with everything you have, there is that sneaking lullaby, sung from the bottom of the ocean, the temptation to give in, be taken by the waves, whooshed away. It used to be blamed on mermaids. I don't know if it's whispered in your ear, or if it comes from inside. But sometimes when a subway train comes and I see its front looming, that moment yells at me: DO IT! And then the moment has passed and I push through the doors and stand with everybody else. Expression blank like the strangers' faces on either side of me. Maybe we're all thinking the same thing. I know I'll never do it. Well, I don't think I ever would. It's just an option, like one more quarter in the slot machine, but not as bossy. The subway isn't demanding, it's just a reminder, like the robotic voice that calls from the video store.

Trying not to think

In everyday life I wrap lies around me, thick bubble wrapped lies, I paste on flawless masks, I stomp the secrets deep. I have to, to survive. It used to feel so free, to wipe away the bullshit, and let my heart peep out, here, anonymously. But recently, when I've sat down to write here, it's been hard. I feel like I'm drifting away. It's getting harder to be truthful. I pick and choose the information, afraid of your reactions. I know that none of you (except for Michael- once, for 20 fast minutes) have met me in 'real life'- but I've been writing on this site for six months at least. So now, after all my uncensored burble, you, the people reading this regularly, know me better than anyone else. I know you want me to be clean, some of you care a lot, more than you should. I feel bad for pulling you in so close.

I hate writing about drugs now. I feel your frowns. Or maybe it's just my own, glaring back at me, stamped on your imaginary faces. I know I'm letting myself down, but it's so much easier when it's just me. It makes no sense why I can't cut the cord, let go of the weight that locks me into living the same situation, over and over. I don't know why I can't do it. I feel embarrassed. I talk about quitting and seem to want it. And at that moment I'm certain, so absolutely, fucking sure that the last time I withdrew the needle, eyes closed, heart buzzing with softness, sunshine racing through my veins, was the very last. Sure in myself, full of commonsense until that second. Like a switch, or dial turned high, in the mid-afternoon. One glancing thought. Half a thought. Then the phone number starts repeating in my head, louder and louder. And my heart starts beating, high and fast, like you could see it, through my shirt. It fills up my ears, I can't write, or think, meetings I'm just partly there, trying not to, feeding myself reasons like snacks, as if they can fill up my hunger.

Finally I think fuck it. Tomorrow. I'll be stronger tomorrow. And my finger is dialing even while my mind is shouting no Tui, what are the fuck are you doing? stop, stop it goddam it. It's like my finger doesn't even belong to me, my feet walk to meet him, with an unusually decisive stride, get out of my way motherfuckers, withdrawing cash, it's like I'm trapped inside a robot's body. I'm just a whisper, a silent scream. Powerless to change what has been set in motion. And to drown out the scream, I think well it's only shitty because of the money. People have done this for centuries, and in some cultures it's acceptable. It's better than gambling, and that's legal. I don't agree with lots of laws, opiates aren't bad for my body, they don't affect my work, they make me more creative. They're like an anti-depressant, to stop me thinking about ways to kill myself. They stop me seeing the world the way it really is, they kiss away the tears, hold me in the tightest hug, soften the corners, stir in a sugar cube, melt the cold, gloss the cruelty and stupidity and violence of humanity. It's just the cost, I tell myself. I wouldn't be concerned with quitting if it wasn't for my hiked tolerance. 'Just the cost' is bigger than it sounds. It may not be the best reason, but it's big, and dark and lonely.

Someday, I want freedom. A daughter who looks like me. Someone to love like my mother loved me. I want to work on my own ideas and art, live in a house on a cliff by the sea, hear the waves crashing against it. I don't want to feel sick when I think of money, and angry. I work hard, I could be well off, paying a mortgage, driving a nice car, holidaying in fucked up, crazy places, wouldn't that be more inspiring? And then I think, but that is just like everyone else. I will be swallowed up, disappear. I will count on my death to stand apart, hope for something horrific and shocking, something that can be made into a tv movie, with that girl from Melrose Place to play me. And then at least she will remember me, if only for bad reviews and the death of her career.

Fuck the picket fence. I'm used to people thinking I'm strange, I've always been a triangle in a square world. Yes, every child thinks they will be a godlike figure to change the world. Magic from their fingertips, name whispered through generations, carved in stone. Everybody believes they're 20% better looking than they are. Everyone feels so fucking special that they can't give up, if it's not them it will be their children. Their children suck, so then it will be the grandchild. Desperate to make a difference, feel like it was all worth something. To not be just another blip of cells and flesh. Just in case there isn't a heaven, or reincarnation. Just in case we just disintegrate into the earth, chewed by worms, absorbed into trees. A memory shaded into a blossom, or baked into an apple pie. Sometimes I think a ghost is simply another word for an unusual echo, a strong moment, the future or the past, etched through time, a kind of photo, a reverb. Who would really want to stay as a spirit watching the living? Not able to participate, just linger. Like me at a meeting spoken all in French, requested to be there, but bored out of my brain, watching the second hand transforming my future into past.

So many unknown questions. I really wish blind faith was enough for me. Life would be so simple, unworrying, quite jolly in fact. Someone dies, well, see you later, in an eternal vacation without bugs or sunburn or lost luggage. Sounds dreamy. Definately worth donating 10% (or is it 15%) of your salary to a church for. Cheaper than an old folk's home. But then... who knows? Like you I can feel a warm part in my soul which feels connected to something. I believe in being kind and good and respecting the people I love, trying not to hurt them, be there for them. Be a positive influence on the world. Pass on happiness, help a stranger and they will help someone too. That's logical. I want to believe something big is out there, looking over me, an invisible hand in mine. I want to believe that if I pray I can avoid ever being raped or abused- never experience that dreaded c-word, so common on the doctors' chart. I want it all, every religion, all the myths aand fantastical, beautiful promises, to be true.

But if a god is there, smiling down, why do bad things happen to good people? Over and over. And why are there people who take pleasure in another person's pain? They call themselves religious but delight in hate. Hating gays, other religions, prostitutes, drug users, me. If I could believe in a god, I couldn't believe he'd take sides, I can't believe he'd hate.

The only person I soften my opinion for is my granny. I can't tell her I don't believe in heaven. She's about to step over, somewhere. I know she's scared. She thinks about it a lot. She turns to the obituarys first, when the paper is delivered. Reads another friend's name aloud. I try to believe that my best friend, and others who've died in the past 2 years are at peace somewhere fabulous. But one thing, like an itch just out of reach, niggles me again and again. Why us? Why humans? What makes us better or different than any other living thing? If anything, we're worse, cruel, greedy, arrogant. Arrogant enough to think we'll live forever.

Disagree with me. I want to be convinced.

Just like me

Shame about the lame soundtrack. I prefer watching this one with the volume off.

Chew on this

Completely uninspired, that's where I've been. I've never had a week like this before, without five minuutes to even procrastinate. Make up free, there's just no time, my legs are prickly, hair lank, same outfit on since Monday. I complain, but love it. It makes me feel important in a way, efficiently efficient, putting out fires, staying up to 4am, sleeping for 3 hours before racing back to work. (Someone really needs to invent an office chair that folds into a bed. I need one, bad. My bum is starting to resemble the shape of my moulded office chair seat. It's all squished flat.) The best thing, is that it's just advertising, no one will die if the client does't understand the ideas...

I have written a few things to you in my head, maybe in ten years I will be able to press send from there, but until then, I need ten minutes alone with thoughts and laptop.

Since Halloween I've been living off candy, I have this constant nausea that I keep trying to bury under abother chocolate bar, or slice of pumpkin pie. Sick.