Letters to nowhere...

YOUR LIFE IS NOT AN EPISODE OF SKINS.

THINGS WILL NEVER LOOK QUITE AS GOOD AS THEY DO IN A FADED, SUN-DRENCHED POLAROID.

YOUR DAYS ARE NOT AN EDITORIAL FROM LULA.

YOUR LIFE IS NOT A SOFIA COPPOLA MOVIE, OR A CHUCK PALAHNIUK NOVEL, OR A CHARLES BUKOWSKI POEM.

GRACE CODDINGTON ISN’T YOUR CREATIVE DIRECTOR.

BON IVER AND JOY DIVISION DON’T PLAY SOFTLY IN THE BACKGROUND AT APPROPRIATE MOMENTS.

YOUR HYSTERICAL TEENAGE DIARY ISN’T A WORK OF ART.

YOUR ROOM PROBABLY ISN’T SELBY MATERIAL.

EVERY WORD THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WILL NOT BE BEAUTIFUL AND POIGNANT, AND INFINITELY QUOTABLE.

YOUR PAIN WILL NOT BE PRETTY. CRYING TILL YOU VOMIT IS ALWAYS SHIT. YOU CANNOT ROMANTICISE HURT. OR SADNESS. OR LONELINESS.

YOU WILL HAVE TO GO WORK, AND HANGOVERS, AND BAD HAIR DAYS.

THE TRAIN BEING LATE WON’T LEAD TO ANY FATEFUL ENCOUNTERS, IT WILL MAKE YOU LATE.

SOMETIMES YOUR WORK WILL SUCK. SOMETIMES YOU WILL SUCK. FAR TOO OFTEN, EVERYTHING WILL SUCK - AND NOT IN A WES ANDERSON KIND OF WAY.

AND THERE IS NO DIVINE CONSOLATION - ONLY THE KNOWLEDGE THAT WE WILL HOPEFULLY EXPERIENCE THE FULL SPECTRUM - AND THAT SOMETIMES, JUST SOMETIMES, LIFE WILL FEEL LIKE A COPPOLA FILM.

Read this short article somewhere on the Internet and couldn't help thinking about my boyfriend...


Reasons for if I don’t reply to your text:

• I reply at the speed of molasses
• I lost track of it because what is organisation
• I didn’t notice that you replied
• I legit cannot think of any way to continue and awkwardly stopped
• I’ve already mentally replied to you and wandered into the depths of distractions and forget

Troublemaking at the library...

Excuse me, miss - could you hand me that book over there?

No, the one further down... all the way down - yes, bend over like that. Bottom shelf, please.

No, not that one... further to the left.

What? No, I'm not feeling your bum, just steadying you. It's hard to keep your balance bent over like that wearing heels and all.

Why, the inside of your thigh is very smooth. Do you mind terribly if I put my hand a bit further up your skirt, miss?

Steady... yes, just hold on to that shelf. Doesn't this feel nice? It seems like I've found a rather wet spot up here. Let me just pull these knickers aside...

Really, I think you have a bit of a problem here. Let me see if it helps if I just slide my thumb inside... like this. And now I can just cup your pussy with my fingers, and keep my thumb in there nice and snug.

Miss, you've got to keep quiet... this is a library after all.

Come now. Straighten up. Look - see how wet my fingers are? Now what are we going to do about this?

- MON MOUTH

Ladies, here's a fact for you.

I learned something new today:

On average menstruation starts at the age of twelve and ends at the age of fifty two.

Let's think about this for the minute.

Forty years of periods means... Four hundred and eighty periods, times that by an average length of five days...that’s two thousand four hundred days of bleeding, or six point fifty eight years of blood.

After telling me this, Suzie turned to me and said, "think of all the people you could drown in nearly seven years worth of blood..." The thought of drowning in thick, gloopy blood made me gag.

This little man makes me smile loads (:

Maybe this world is another planet's hell?

I've been thinking a lot lately about heaven and hell.

We think of hell as some fiery dark place filled with hate and people who are horrible but isn't that what our world is? People constantly hating on each other, hating them selves, hating the things people do, hating the world around them... So, why wouldn't this be the hell of another planet? Because there’s sure as hell enough hate to go around.

On a less serious note, perhaps this could be heaven compared to somewhere else?

Happy Diwali

There's an Indian mother and daughter family who live a couple of doors down from my flat and I was walking passed them this morning as they were spray painting some patterns onto the floor outside of their door.

The mother smiled at me and said "happy diwali".

I learned that Diwali is the "festival of lights", and that it's a five day festival in India that celebrates the victory of good over evil. Today and for the next five days, Indians all over the world will be lighting candles all over their houses, letting off fireworks and firecrackers, sharing sweets, and worshipping the goddess of wealth - Lakshmi.

They invited me into their home to show me all of their home-made candles and decorations, and hanging on the wall above the fireplace was a large picture of this:

This is how India looks from outer space on Diwali night.

“If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2am, clutching a book to her chest, and weeping...make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while they always are. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colourful life imaginable. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.” - Robert Pattinson

1920's

There's a discussion going on right now about how my life would be like in the 1920's.

It's bizarre how much a lot of people know about the 1920's, and how much they're fitting me into that time period!

Here are some of the opinions:

"The 1920's, the age of jazz, you'd fit in perfectly. I imagine you'd watch silent films like Don Juan in bed, selecting songs on jukeboxes in ice cream parlours, and sitting under trees reading the classics that would have just been published: Lady Chatterley's Lover, Siddhartha, and Women in Love."

"You'd be like one half of the twins from 'Something Dangerous'; beautiful, rich, with a French home and husband in Paris."

"You'd have loved life in the 1920's for all of the art! Surrealism, art deco, Pablo Picasso and Rene Magritte, and let's not forget the opening of the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan (which you'd have so gone to!).".

"If you had a past life in the 1920's, i'm pretty sure you'd be part of a cohort - for something gritty like being the survivors of a bus crash - and you'd be well and truly a part of the 'Lost Generation'."

"If you can picture yourself drinking noodle juice whilst playing mah-jong or doing crossword puzzles, then you'd fit right into the 1920's!"

"Nah, I can't see you getting excited over the Egyptomania that swept the world in the 1920's as the tomb of Tutankhamun was discovered."

"Are you even asking this question?! You'd totally fit right in to the 1920's and there's no doubt that you've had a past life in the roaring twenties. King George the fifth, Albert Einstein, Alexander Fleming, F Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, T S Eliot, Charlie Chaplin, Harry Houdini, Alfred Hitchcock, Buster Keaton, Pablo Picasso - you've heard of these, yes?"

"Early 1920's fashions would have suited you, not the horrible bob though. You'd have hated that fashion! I always thought you had a Norma Talmadge look about you."

"I could see you being a 1920's secretary or some sort of journalist reporting on the womens right to vote, not the average housewife. However, coincidently, contraception for women was invented in the 1920's so maybe you could have been a prostitute in a past life? They had a lot of those!"

"I used Google to try and fing you the perfect 1920's life but then got side tracked by the phrase 'flapper', which you should add to your list of 20's slang. A flapper is a young, fun loving woman of the 20's who is usually associated with the film industry. I think you'd have just been like Clara Bow."

So, basically, in a past life in the ninety twenties, I could have been either of the two:

1) A rich young woman in her twenties who is beautiful and dressed like Norma Talmadge who likes doing the jive to jazz music, playing music on a jukebox, reading classical books, and visits the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan.

2) A middle class woman in her twenties who looks and dressed like Clara Bow and is resembled as a "flapper" and has a job as a journalist whilst moonlighting as a prostitute.

My day today:


Period: WAKE UP, ASSHOLE, YOU GOT CRAMPS.

Period: How bout an entire chocolate cake for breakfast?

Period: How's that back pain? Feeling better? Let's fix that.

Period: Find a cookie as big as a house and eat it.

Period: Where's your Tic Tac box filled with paracetamol?

Period: Got things to do? Don't care. Sleep.

Period: For dinner you're eating an entire 12 pack bag of crisps.

Period: Breeze blows by. Instantly horny.

Period: You didn't like those brand new pair of panties, right?

Period: Yell at a puppy.

"I had the most amazing sex dream with Giancarlo Esposito last night. It all happened because I watched the new episode of Revolution. I just want him to man handle & be rough with me. Dude. That shit is hot. Why is he so hot? Dude had his shirt off in this episode… I just want him."

The e-mails I get from Adam are almost always sex related. Think he has a problem. Heh.

Sliding Doors

Have you ever had one of those moments where something is just relevant to how you're feeling, a situation in your life, or even just your personality?

I watched 'Sliding Doors' last night.

Relevant to my life in that I feel like I am living two separate lives: one happy and one sad.

Maybe there is some truth to star-signs and all that jazz? It is said that a Gemini lives two lives at that same time that coincide with each other at random points. Same girl, different decisions.

The story goes a little something like this:

Both halves of the Gemini get fired.

One misses the train home, gets mugged, her boyfriend cheers her up, she works part time jobs as a sandwich delivery guy to support her boyfriend's novel-writing-career, gets pregnant, discovers her boyfriend is cheating on her and as she runs away she falls down a flight of stairs and ends up losing the baby.

At the same time...

The other half catches the train, meets a handsome stranger, discovers her boyfriend is cheating on her and leaves him, builds up a PR company, dates the handsome stranger and becomes pregnant but shortly after telling the stranger the good news she is ran over by a car and loses the baby.

In the hospital, the first half survives but the second half dies.

The cheating boyfriend is elated and the handsome stranger is heartbroken.

Their lives merge into one again.

The Gemini, in her hospital bed, tells her cheating boyfriend to leave. She is then discharged and takes an elevator to the ground floor where she meets the handsome stranger.

This is my bathroom.
Like my "get naked" sticker on the bath?

Final Exam by Claire Miller

Deep breath in, letting it out slowly.

"Come in."

Door opens. A young man's head pokes around the door.

"Erm...I have an appointment with Doctor Lawson...my exam..." He's so nervous; he must fear going to the doctors. I can't blame him.

"Ah, yes," I manage to smile smoothly. "You must be Anthony, am I correct?"

"Yeah. But everyone calls me Tony."

"Tony." My tongue feels too big for my mouth when I try out the abbreviation. "So you're getting out of here today, yes?"

"Yeah," Tony smiled shakily. "I can't wait to see my mum again. There's so much I need to tell her, and so much I need to catch up on. I want to tell her face to face how sorry I am, and I want to start afresh."

I swallow hard. "Right!" I clap my hands together, try to sound cheerful. "Shall we begin? We need to check you're fit and healthy before you're released. Prisons are nasty places after all." I presented a sample bottle. "First, I need a urine sample."

It gives me enough time to pull myself together. When he enters again with the bottle of dark liquid, I have pulled up my walls and mask that make me the obnoxious Doctor Lawson that people know.

"A bit on the dehydrated side," I note dryly when he hands me the sample. I hold it out ready for the nurse to take to the lab. "While we're waiting for those results..." I gestured towards the chair. The still blushing man obliged, taking a deep breath as he sat back in it. "I'm just going to run a few more tests. You don't mind needles do you?"

"No, not really."

"Good. So erm...what did you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I meant?"

"Oh. Right. Erm...possession with intent to deal drugs."

I frowned. "What type?"

"Anything really. Started off as just a bit of weed, then coke...eventually spiralled out of control; was taking heroin twice a day. I was caught dealing weed in an attempt to make enough money to continue my habit." He sighed regretfully. "I caused my mum so much grief."

"I'm sure she understands you're sorry."

"Still, I need to tell her face to face. It's not the same on the phone." I hesitated, the wire in my hand hovering just above his skin. "Is...something the matter, Doctor?"

I steeled myself and stuck the needle in, securing it with a plaster. "Nothing," I told him, forcing a quick smile. "So, ah, how old are you?"

"24. Got banged up in here at 16. I'm surprised I'm actually coming out."

"Yeah, most Class B drug dealers get 14 years."

The lad's face fell. "Erm...I wasn't completely honest with you..."

I know. "What do you mean?"

"I...ah... I accidentally killed someone. A girl at my school." I feigned surprise, waited for him to continue. "The reason we got caught - me and some lads - when we were doing the deal...because someone brought a knife..." I watched him swallow thickly. "Gabby had fancied me for ages," he laughed. "She knew I was taking drugs, and was trying to make me go get help. I'd told her I don't know how many times to just piss off and leave me alone. I was so horrible to her, yet she still stuck by me, tried to help me. She must've known I was in trouble, so she found me that night, and..." He didn't need to finish.

My eyes travelled the length of the wire to where it was connected to a cold metal machine. I shook myself out of my trance. "Okay, let's get this show on the road." How sick.

"How long will this take?"

"Not long. Then you're free to go and explain yourself."

The wide grin made his eyes sparkle and my mask slip slightly. I took the remote in my sweaty palm without another word I pressed the button. The shock on his face before he slumped over his lap was understandable - he hadn't expected that.

My name is Doctor Paul Lawson, and I am a merciful executioner. And the ironic thing is I deserve to be in that chair, head lolled forward, since I am just as much of a murderer as the people I kill.

Cass and D made up.
My work is done.

10 Honest Thoughts On Being Loved By A Skinny Boy

1.

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
hard.

2.

My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.

3.

On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.

4.

When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.

5.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.

6.

He tells me he loves me with the lights on.

7.

I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.

8.

The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.

9.

The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.

10.

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
hard.

— by Rachel Wiley

Instead of sleeping, i'm sharing poems that I find interesting with no-one in particular  

"Ten honest thoughts on being loved by a skinny boy" has got to be one of the most gutsiest pieces of literature I have ever read. It's almost Post Secrets-y. Hats off to Miss Wiley for publishing this to the world.

My favourite part of this poem is: "Fucking me does not require an asterisk, loving me is not a fetish, finding me beautiful is a novelty."

Yes, Please.

I legitimately do not understand the practice of men shouting and whistling at women when they drive by.

Do you expect us to run after your car screaming, "WAIT, COME BACK, I WANTED TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU!"?

Don't bother commenting on this, Chris, I know your thoughts already!

Three Thoughts for Tuesday

One:

Sometimes life sucks. Sometimes life gets so hard that you don't want to be put through it anymore. Sometimes life is so stressful and all you want to do is cry. But sometimes life is beautiful. Sometimes you just have to stay positive, and push through all of the hard times. Why? Beacuse life is worth it. You are worth it.

Two:

Do you ever get to a part of the book where you get so angry with the main character because he just did something you specifically asked him not to do and now you’re going to have to sit there and watch as he tries to deal with all of the problems that his mistake brought about when, if he had just listened to you in the first place, it would have all been fine?

Three:

You're right. People do lie, and cheat, and stab you in the back. There will be people who use you, and don't love you even though they say they do. But you can't let that stop you from living. Because there are people out there who do love you, and would never hurt you. You have to find those people and keep them in your life forever.

You shouldn't be with someone because you have everything in common with that person. You should be with someone because you two are able to tolerate each other's differences. Having everything in common is for best friends. Opening each other's minds to new worlds is love.

"A marriage ultimatum." Liberty said embarrassedly, knowing in advance how Carter would take it.
Carter raised his dark eyebrows, his eyes flicking over her searching for a sign, he didn't say anything, he just slumped back in his chair, the jacket to his suit falling open slightly, and he drummed his fingers on the table. Liberty thought she should say something else, that she should get up and leave, but when she made a move, he told her not to go in a rather playful voice. She'd found that Carter had pulled her closer to him as she sat back down, she could feel his warm breath on her neck as he casually spoke, not saying anything about what she had just told him, and gently caressing the back of her neck sending her mind into a cloudy mess.
Carter, she knew, was a powerful man, knew he had taken a fancy to her from the offset, knew he wouldn't have been able to refuse the deal she had offered him, although when the words had left her mouth she had had some doubt . His hand dropped to the small of her back caressing it by tracing small circles on her skin with his nimble fingers - why, oh, why, had she chosen to wear a backless dress? Carter felt her shiver ever so slightly, he smiled (more to himself than to her), women who appreciated the pleasures of simple touches were very rare.

Instead of Killing Yourself

wait until

a year from now

where you say,

"Holy fuck,

I can't believe I was going to kill myself before I etcetera'd...

before I went skinning dipping in Tennessee,

made my own IPA,

tried out for a game show,

rode a camel drunk,

skydived alone,

learned the waltz with clumsy old people, 

photographed electric jellyfish,

built a sailboat from trash,

taught someone how to read,

etc. etc. etc."

The red washing

down the bathtub

can't change the colour of the sea

at all.

Going to bury myself beneath the bubbles...

Do you guys ever have sad nights where you just kind of think about sad things and listen to sad music that reminds you of more sad things and nobody really knows how to react because there isn’t a main reason for your sadness and eventually you just give up and go to bed sad?

Or is that just me?

Went outside and saw the moon and it made me think of you.

Really, America?

So...I picked up a magazine when I was at Suzie's and came this about American politics:

“Look, these people, they’re fucking retarded.

Rape can’t cause pregnancy? Breastmilk cures homosexuality? I caused a hurricane by challenging creationism?

Who can possibly take these people seriously anymore?

It used to be Republicans didn’t believe in global warming or evolution.

That was bad enough.

Now they don’t even believe in egg + sperm = baby.

Where does Todd Akin think babies come from? Does he think there are separate storks for people who were raped and people who weren’t?

'Hey look at me! I’m the rape stork. I drop off all my babies directly at the orphanage.'

He’s a fucking idiot. Just a plain fucking idiot. I’m sorry - I don’t say that word very often - but it happens to fit in this case. He’s just a fucking idiot.”

Bill Nye, the Science Guy regarding Todd Akin and the Republican Party

Confessions

Candy Chang is an off-the-wall artist that i've admired since I studied her work at college. I'm not into "street" art because for the most part I think it sucks... But Candy Chang's work is aimed at making place (paricularly cities) more emotional which is why I like her projects so much.

One of her most recent projects (which i've just read an article about) that took place between July and August of this year is called 'Confessions' and is based in Las Vegas - as they say: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

According to her website:

Confessions is a public art project that invites people to anonymously share their confessions and see the confessions of the people around them in the heart of the Las Vegas strip. By the end of the exhibit, over an amazing 1500 confessions were displayed on the walls and over half were about sex, love, or fears of dying alone.

Soul mates?

I think they exist.

Just not always as you might think.

I think there are certain people you will meet in your life who you just connect with more than anyone else and you just know it isn't a typical thing and you understand each other perfectly.

And this person won't always be your "significant other". I mean it could be your best friend or sibling or parent or teacher or the person you're dating or whoever...it could be just about anyone you've ever interacted with.

And sometimes - maybe - those not so typical people are not destined to stay in your life forever.

Anyone know the moral of the story?

A DEA officer stopped at our farm yesterday.
"I need to inspect your farm for illegal growing drugs."
I said, "ok, but don't go in that field over there..."
The DEA officer verbally exploded saying, "Mister, I have the authority of the Federal Government with me!" Reaching into his rear pants pocket, the arrogant officer removed his badge and shoved it in my face. "See this fucking badge?! This badge means I am allowed to go wherever I wish - on any land! No questions asked or answers given! Have I made myself clear? Do you understand?"
I nodded politely, apologised, and went about my chores.
A short time later...I heard loud screams, looked up, and saw the DEA officer running for his life, being chased by my big, old, mean bull.
With every step the bull was gaining ground on the officer and it seemed likely that he'd sure enough get gored before he reached safety.
The officer was clearly terrified.
I threw down my tools, ran to the fence, and yelled at the top of my lungs. "Your badge, show him your fucking BADGE!"

It's Just Sand

When things in your life seem, almost too much to handle... When twenty four hours in a day is not enough... Remember the mayonnaise jar and two cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him.

When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous ‘yes.’

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

‘Now,’ said the professor, as the laughter subsided, ‘I want you to recognise that this jar represents your life.’ The golf balls are the important things - family, children, health, friends, and favorite passions – things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, house, and car. The sand is everything else —the small stuff.

‘If you put the sand into the jar first,’ he continued, ‘there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls.’ The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

So…

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical check ups. Take your partner out to dinner.

There will always be time to clean the house etc.

‘Take care of the golf balls first — the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.’

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled, ‘I’m glad you asked’, he said. ‘It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.’

Sheer Abandon

She was crying now, out of control, hurting dreadfully. 'Go away, why don't you? Just go away and-'
'But - but what for?' His voice was genuinely bemused. 'What would be the point of that? We love being together. And I really do love you, Jocasta. It's very unfortunate for you that I'm an immature commitment-phobe. But I am maturing. There has to be hope. And meanwhile, why can't we go on as we are? Or - is there someone else? Is that what you're trying to tell me?'
'Of course not.' she said, sniffing, reaching for the handkerchief he was holding out to her. 'I wish there was.' She managed a half smile.
'Well, I don't. And there's certainly no one else for me. Never could be. Not after you.' He reached out tentatively, stroked her cheek. 'Please, Jocasta, give me just a little more time. I'll try very hard to do some growing up. I do want to, I promise.'
'Well-', she hesitated. He leant forward and started to kiss her; tenderly at first, then harder, his mouth working on hers. Against her will, against all common sense, something stirred deep, deep within her, something dark and soft and treacherous. He pushed his hand under her t-shirt, began encircling one of her nipples with his thumb. She shivered in anticipation, then pulled back from him; his eyes on hers were very bright, very tender.
'I meant it,' he said, 'I do love you. I'm sorry if I don't make it plain enough. Now - shall we go and lie down and recover?'
But all through the sex which followed, lovely and healing as it was, Nick gentle and tender, waiting for her a long, long time as she softened, sweetened under him, coaxing her body skilfully in the way he knew best, into a mounting, brightening pleasure; even as she felt her climax gather and grow and then spread out into starry, piercing release, she felt still wary, still hurt; and as she lay beside him, his hand tangling in her hair, his eyes smiling into hers, she knew however much he said he loved her, it was not enough.

- Penny Vincenzi

I'm one fifth of the way into this one hundred and seventy page novel about three women: Clio (who is locked in an unhappy marriage to a self-obsessed, arrogant surgeon), Martha (who gave birth and abandoned a baby in a cleaning cupboard at an airport without telling anyone she was even pregnant), and Jocasta (who's in love with a charming journalist); they're bonded by a secret that was made some fifteen / twenty years before when they all randomly met whilst travelling Asia and Australia.

My bisoprolols look like little hearts...kind of appropriate for heart  medication.

You know what's kind of beautiful?

In French, you don’t really say “I miss you.” You say “tu me manques,” which is closer to “you are missing from me.”

I love that. “You are missing from me.” You are a part of me, you are essential to my being. You are like a limb, or an organ, or blood. I cannot function without you.

You know what I am? A fatalist. My mind automatically picks out the worst thing that could ever happen in a situation and then starts preparing for it to happen. Not such a bad thing, I hear you think. But it is...because preparing for it is as bad as expecting it to happen - it's like brain can't differentiate between the two. It's taxing on my will power.

Lost & Found

Reeeeally love this part of the book:

He descended the plane steps, forward to seeing Gina. Trying not to look exhausted. Trying to look as if he was eager for this visit to begin.

Gina wasn’t in the small bunch of waiting people. Instead... His heart sank. Georgie. Georgie Turner.

He’d hoped she’d left town by now. What Gina saw in this...tramp, he didn’t know.

‘Hey, Alistair.’ She waved and yelled as he crossed the tarmac.

She was chewing gum. She was wearing tight leather pants and bright red stilettos. She had on a really tight top – so tight it was almost indecent. She was all in black. The only colour about her was the slash of crimson on her lips, her outrageous shoes and two spots of colour on her cheeks.

‘How’s it going, Al?’ she said, and chewed a bit more gum.

‘Fine,’ he said, trying to be polite and not quite succeeding. ‘Where’s Gina?’

‘See, she was expecting you yesterday. So today she and Cal are running a clinic out on Wallaby Island. The weather’s getting up so they thought they ought to go when they could.’

‘You couldn’t have taken her place?’

‘Hey, I deliver babies. Gina’s the heart lady. There’s not a lot of crossover. You got bags?’

‘One. Yes.’

She sniffed, in a way that said real men didn’t need baggage. She turned and headed for the baggage hall, her very cute butt wiggling as he walked behind her.

It was some butt.

Ok, that’s what he couldn’t allow himself to think. That was what had landed him into trouble in the first place. She was a tart. Somehow she’d gained a medical degree but, not matter, she was still a tart.

But even so, he shouldn’t have tried to pick her up.

Now they stood side by side at the luggage carousel, waiting for his bag. It took for ever. There were other doctors there from the plane.

‘There’s some other wedding happening here,’ he ventured for something to say, and Georgie nodded, looking at the baggage carousel as if it was she who’d recognise his bag.

‘Yep. One this Saturday, one next. Planned so those going to both needn’t make two trips. We were starting to think they’d be no guests for the first one.’

‘It’s some storm down south,’ he said reflectively. ‘That’s how I met these guys. The trip from New Zealand should have been cancelled. We hit an air pocket and dropped what felt like a thousand feet.’ Anyone who wasn’t belted in was injured.’

‘You got called on as a doctor?’

‘A bit. I was asleep at first.’

‘Off duty,’ she said blankly, and he winced. There was no criticism in her voice. It was a simple statement of fact, but she knew how to hurt. When he’d woken to discover the chaos he’d felt dreadful. He’d helped, but other doctors had been more proactive than him.

‘Look, I-’

‘It this your bag? It must be. Everyone else has theirs.’

‘It’s mine,’ he said, and she strode forward and lugged it off the conveyor belt before he could stop her. She set it up on its wheels and tugged the handle, then set it before him. Making him feel even more wimpish.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘My wheels are in the carpark.’

‘Your car?’

‘My wheels.’ She was striding through the terminal, talking to him over her shoulder. He was struggling to keep up.

He was feeling about six years old.

‘Hey, Georg.’ People were acknowledging her, waving to her, but she wasn’t stopping. She was wearing really high stilettos but still walking at a pace that made him hurry. She looked like something out of a biker magazine. A biker’s moll?

Not quite, for her hair was closely cropped and cute - almost classy. The gold hooped earrings actually looked great. She was just...different.

- 'THEIR LOST AND FOUND FAMILY' BY MARION LENNOX

All About Male Privilege

Someone wrote a post entitled "all about male privilege" - a post about "how guys have it easy", and I somewhat disagree with the main points of her post.

Not that I don't think guys have it easy... Biologically, anatomically, physically they do. In my opinion.

The male privilege is...
- Not having to have a uterus that refreshed every month.
- Not having to go through the love / lust ordeal of losing their virginity
- Not going through the skin ripping pain that is child birth and the horrible side effects that come before that when pregnant
- Not going through menopause and dealing with yet more hormone imbalances and hot flushes

But her points were ridiculous stupid.

Her post results in pointing out stereotypical characteristics such as: "Male privilege is feeling entitled to go up and talk to a woman about anything while anywhere at any time, even if they haven't expressed any interest, and continue onward despite a lack of a response."

Really? Is that what male privilege is?

Flip the gender roles around and the same can be said of women.

This is sexism at its finest, written by a bunny boiling mad woman.

I remember one of the "therapy" sessions that I had where my "therapist" asked me ten questions (in which I was obviously supposed to answer truthfully).

For some reason, they've popped into my mind again and I keep thinking about them (possibly because maybe I would answer differently know?).

The questions were (and i'm paraphrasing here since my memory is a little sketchy):
1. What is more difficult for you: looking into someones eyes when you are telling them how you feel, or looking into someones eyes when they are telling you how they feel?
2. Think of the last time you were really angry. Why were you angry? Do you still feel the same way?
3. You are at the doctor's office and he has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. Do you tell anyone / everyone you are going to die? What do you do with your remaining days? Would you be afraid?
4. You can have one of the following things: love or trust. Which do you choose and why?
5. Would you rather be hurt by the one you trust the most or the one you love the most?
6. What do you think would be the hardest thing for you to give up? Why would it be hard to lose?
7. Excluding romantic love, when was the last time you told someone you loved them? Who were they to you?
8. Are you the kind of friend that you would want as a friend?
9. Does love equal sex?
10. When was the last time you honestly told someone how you felt regardless of how difficult it was for you to say? Who was it? What did you have to tell the person?

Most of these questions were really hard to answer, some of them were easy. Most of them were just pure bullshit and relate to nothing, in my opinion, to my situation.

Thinking of these questions, and how I answered, I think I would change some things. Maybe 'cause I think i've mellowed a lot since that time, maybe 'cause I feel more like Eliza, maybe 'cause i'm just giving up. I don't know. It's just frustrating me thinking about these damn questions and how i'd answer them now.

I don’t understand why tampon adverts always show girls on their period dancing and wearing white skirts and making out with someone and stuff.

Surely a more effective advertising campaign would be a bunch of girls in various states of misery.

Like, curled over in bed going "WHHHHY?!" and eating chocolate on the sofa and sobbing at the end of 'The Notebook' and getting angry at not being able to open a jar and crying when the cat doesn’t want to cuddle.

Followed by: ‘We understand. We’re sorry. Let us make it a little less awful.’

And the wrapping shouldn’t be like pink with polka dots, it should be dinosaurs stepping on buildings and stuff.

A List Of Thinkings I Should Remember

1. time heals
2. the sunrise is constant
3. salt water stings
4. i am worth all of it
5. driving calms
6. the music will never end
7. books finish (sometimes happily)
8. locked doors can be unlocked
9. trees produce oxygen
10. i produce carbon dioxide
11. stars die all the time
12. the sun burns

The injuries I cause myself...

Bad Karma, Bad Dream

Yesterday, I had a bad experience with a smear test -- yes, I know, i'm cursed with bad luck and bad karma. But last night I dreamed about it...more like a nightmare.

Basically, in my nightmare, the gynecologist told me that i'll not be able to ever have kids and Chris broke up with me for that fact and everyone basically treated me like I was an outcast...

UGH, WHY DO I DREAM SO MUCH?!