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Sigh. So I thought I'd bore you all again with my pointless drivel.
In the month I have been away, I have: tried to do coursework; taken two exams; decided on my A-Levels; and, of course, cried a lot.
It seems like time has gone too fast. I feel like it was only yesterday when I was fighting in the sand pit at first school. Now I'm filling in forms and taking exams that decide my whole future.
Photography, Sociology, Psychology and English. Expect burning out almost immediately, followed by laziness, denial and failure.
Always consult your pharmacist before use.
I used to love winter. That feeling when darkness closes around you like a blanket, the arms of long departed lovers. When the night time chill sets in, leaving you wrapped in nothing but a huge duvet, staring at nothing but the stars. Ice on the window, footprints in the snow. It's waiting.
I don't want it any more. If I could shut myself inside, never seeing the outside world again, I would. I've changed. Two cruel, selfish people have changed the way I think, perhaps irreversibly. I no longer enjoy things. Because all I can think about is him.
It proves that you have to be beautiful to receive affection from the opposite sex. Well, at my age anyway. You have to be the kind of girl who always has a boyfriend, and who has a near perfect body.
They don't know how it hurts to be on the outside. When not even your best friend shows any affection towards you in front of other people. When your boyfriend asks you why you put yourself down so much, and you can't seem to tell him that even though you think you can be pretty sometimes, nobody else does.
You think you know what my problem is. You think you know the full extent of the pettiness. But you don't, because you're not like me.
I crave affection. Not attention, although that is nice. I expect my best friend to show affection towards me, and it simply isn't so. My problem isn't that I've got a boyfriend; it's that he's so far away I can't have what I desperately need. That is my problem. I can't kiss him, or hug him. I can't hold his hand when I'm scared.
And that I hope you won't have to go through.
Ten Bunsen burners turn into a hundred will o' the wisps there. My face becomes warped, melting glass reflecting some new internal pain never felt before. Blurred visions flit in front of me, blue and black and pink all at the same time, all melding into one. Echoing sounds as I lose myself in what I can see. I smile; the world becomes a little clearer. I frown, wondering at this. It blurs again. A shout breaches my walls of 100 miles; a shout directs me to the real world. I turn my glasses around and put them back on.
You know, there are these song words. They kick ass.
Life is for the living, so you gotta live it up
Not enough people have listened to this song. I don't listen to it enough either.
Live your life. Don't give a shit what other people think. Do what you want, but don't hurt anyone. Have fun. Smile. Try your damned best to do the things you want to do. Don't procrastinate; get on with it. You'll feel better for it. Don't leave things to fester, get them out of your system, fast. Don't dwell on what was. Just live.
My mother told me something that made me so happy today. She told my father something I'd done.
On Thursday, Z called me and I came into the living room without my glasses on and with my hair loose. She told my father that I looked exactly like her mother. Since then, I've been thinking to myself the thirties and forties styles were so amazing. I think I might start dressing that way. It'd be (shock)
Women then were so beautiful. They had figures, and a full woman was seen as beautiful. Not a stick-thin imitation of a woman.
Strap yourself in for: Colleen's Train of Thought. Leaving platform three in 30 seconds.
Burn. I love that song. I always think of David when I hear the line ‘I burn for you here'. Well I do and I will for as long as he wants me to. God that sounded so bad and corny it's unbelievable. I have to stop being so down all the time must listen to lots of happy music. He thinks the stuff I say is confusing well he should read this and see what runs through my mind all day. This is my brain.
They are always trying to change me. Maybe they only want to make me more feminine. Give up swearing, wear a skirt, and don't think those dirty thoughts! Don't think about death, and smile more often! On second thoughts, just don't think hon. You'll be more like a girl without thinking about torture methods. Hey! Do not burp; it is not ladylike. And don't talk to me about throwing up. That's not the kind of thing a girl talks about. You know, maybe you should be seen and not heard. Yes, that would do.
Sometimes I wish I were male.
Okay. So, I do have a point to go against that last entry. Sometimes I'm so un- feminine it's gross. I can't help what goes on in my head, but sometimes the strings of expletives that come pouring out of my mouth are unreal. And when I purposely tell people what I'm thinking. Not necessarily the sex stuff, but the… torture things. Some of them are sickening.
But I can be girly. Like when I see a certain person. And all intelligent though seizes up, leaving nothing for me to do but grin in that inimitable, goofy way of mine.
You know those days when you just feel drained. Like all of your energy has been sucked out through your feet. When you can't go to sleep, but you feel like you can't stay awake either. So you just sit there, like a zombie until it feels late enough to go lay in bed. Sleepless. Until finally you just want someone to shoot you with tranquillisers. Just so you can sleep.
When you do sleep, you don't notice it. Waking up as tired as the night before. But it fades. You ignore it, until you don't think about it anymore.
Some of the things that go on in my head are really horrible. For instance, once, I was thinking about (not on purpose mind you) tying someone to a ‘rack', slicing them open and pouring hot wax into their wounds. Or skinning someone's fingers with wire strippers.
I can't control my thoughts. I'm one of those people who have a thing about standing on high ledges, in case I lose my mind and throw myself off. If I'm sitting in my mother's car with the windows down, I can't hold anything in my hand. In case.
Nobody knew about this.
You don't know what I think and you better pray you never will. I don't always think about sex, not everything comes back to sex. You don't know me at all. I'm not transparent. You don't see me thinking about how I'm gonna make people smile, worrying and daydreaming about Boyface. You do not see the fights my imagination has to try and get rid of some of the anger I have, because I don't actually like directing it at other people. I'll regret doing this soon. But it's still going up. Like my brain. Still running on.
Argh! The spam, the spam!
Enlarge your penis three inches in three weeks! Give your woman multiple orgasms! Be harder, last longer! Enlarge your breasts the natural way! Never pay student fees again!
Get your facts right. I do not have a penis to enlarge, so it would be more than a miracle if that set of pills worked. I don't need viagra, and I certainly don't need breast enlargement. I'm not a student yet, I don't need a mortgage and you know what? If I want a university degree I'll work for it.
That be all. Damn the spam.
It feels weird you know. When they come in and get together, all pally in a way that I could never be. It makes me feel kind of ill and very sad.
I suppose it comes from being painfully shy. I can't talk to guys, and she can. Therefore, I will never have another guy. I'm trying so hard to move on from D, trying to patch the hole that his parents left me with.
I'm sorry I'm so depressing. I try not to be but most of the time it's all I can think about. Sorry all. I try.
When you just sit here and watch the world go by. When you sit at the window and watch the people below you. They can't see you but you can see them. Running in circles, and you feel like that's the way your life goes sometimes.
But then they run in straight lines, they meet up with their friends and laugh and joke and spend their time being happy. Then you feel that maybe your life is like that. Because at least you have friends, at least you have people that care about you and make you smile.
It's annoying. Sitting, staring at a blank page, willing words to flow out onto it. They don't. If anything comes it jolts, birthed kicking and screaming into the world. If I shook my head now it would rattle, the only thing left inside it a shiny penny and an IOU note.
The pen scritches against the paper, the only thing it produces is an abstract doodle of some cartoon lips. I can do better than this. But it takes time. My shiny penny hits the inside of my skull as I tilt my head forward. Closing my eyes, I dream.
Curiosity killed the cat
But satisfaction brought her back.
Inquisitiveness is a good thing. Well in my books anyway. But curiosity branches into persistence, and persistence into stubbornness, and I'm so inquisitive I'm stubborn. I can give up, but it's always itching in the back of my brain. I'll stop talking about it but I'm still thinking about it, it still plays a major part in my internal monologue. It's very annoying.
My monologue never stops. I'm always, always thinking about something, which is where my stubbornness springs from in a roundabout twisty way. Most things lead back there eventually.
You don't think it, when you are in the moment. You don't feel the pain when you are living it. You don't hear the beat when you listen for it.
You can be lying there all day looking for an answer to the question that plagues you, and not find it. Those creases in your brow will deepen as you search. Completely in vain.
But it's when you leave the moment. Then you begin to think. When the pain is over. You begin to feel. When you reach for the stop button. You hear.
When you stop searching, you find.
Damn those moments when words fall out of my mouth. Or dance their way from my brain down to my fingertips and onto the screen. They never come out right. They're always confused and messed up, never conveying the point I want them to. They confuse people, and make me especially flustered. I'm not confident; I can't just walk up to someone and say something to them. It requires careful planning and several deep breaths.
And then it comes out a garbled mess. A hundred miles a minute; by then I'm ready to pass out until I remember to breathe.
When you move out of the first year of school, it's always the same. ‘Set a good example'. You have to be good, to show the others. You have to work your ass off, not for you but for the benefit of some snivelling little kid you don't even know. I know we were all snivelling little kids, but I was too busy reading to pay any attention to anything or anyone else.
You can't go outside the lines. You have to set an image for everyone else to look up to. Why can't you just set a bad example?
I am becoming like Jimi Hendrix. He saw things, envisioned things in colour. The whole world does really, it's just so few people notice.
Right now there is a white hotness of pure rage behind my eyes. It's searing me, destroying my sight. It makes me not know where to turn, makes me want to lash out blindly. I don't care who I hurt. Maybe a little red through the white would make it easier.
Green is there too. Tendrils of envy for those that can be with him every day.
But what do I know? I'm only a teenager.
He makes me smile. He's the only person that makes me smile by pestering me. He's not especially good looking, just…interesting. He opens the closet and drags out the devil girl, the girl who doesn't want to be sensible and fit in. He sees more in me than anyone else. He doesn't look down on me, he doesn't make out that he's better than I am. He's tall and intelligent, poetic and has a certain grace. I love him; I love the way he makes me feel. I live for our conversations. And no Daniel, I'm not talking about you.
Christmas Eve. The sister (who, may I mention, is 23) won't wake me at an obscenely early hour for once. I always wake up early, being the eager teenager that I am. I may act like a scrooge but I love to be spoiled. But I'm not like my sister, who will wake up at six and then get up and annoy everyone. Yes, I have restraint. I wait for an hour before becoming engrossed in a hurricane of frenzied unwrapping. I will squeal over every gift. For once it will feel like family.
Hey, I'm just like that.
My coat always flows around me. I walk in a certain way, making it happen. I love the sound of my black boots hitting the pavement, watching the purple laces sway. I like the way my glasses slip down my nose. Adore the looks when I walk around with them like that, not bothering to push them back into place. The way that no matter how tightly I tie my hair, tendrils and slivers always slip out and slide down my face like silk. I love it when you look at me like that. Like I can do no wrong.
Matrix time. My friend believes in it religiously. I didn't watch it until a month ago. He'd quote it at me fervently, leaving me wondering where he was getting these ‘pearls' from. His favourite, quoted at me when I go all soft eyed at his descriptions of who he's got his eye on, he likes to tell me ‘nobody can tell you you're in love'. He also likes to tell me he thinks that it's real.
"What's the best way to get people not to believe in something?" he asks me sagely.
"Make a film about it!" He enthuses.
Boxing Day is here. And with is it brings sickness, as usual. But now is not the time for such things. In the tradition of Americans everywhere (ok, so they do it on Thanksgiving but who cares) here are The Things Colleen Is Thankful For.
Having friends. Sometimes some of them slip up dreadfully but they're always there. Here's to B, I, Z and D. Having family, however much of a pain in the ass they are. To D, C, and G. Having music, and being able to dream. Knowing Ian, and believing in desire again.
Here's to being alive.
And now for the days of bloatedness finding tens of recipes to utilise that leftover chicken because countries are starving we can't let it go to waste taking out the last of the trash making places for the new packing away the old visiting relatives thanking them writing letters and notes making them pretty so you can show your appreciation having that last kiss blaming it on the booze and the mistletoe getting drunk copping a feel figuring out Auld Lang's Syne for New Year's don't want to look the fool not knowing words merry bloody Christmas one and all.
I seem to have lost motivation. I want to just lie in bed like a beached whale. I go to the doctor's this afternoon, an appointment made without even being asked. People think that I can't think for myself it seems. I'm in a ‘can't be bothered' mood. I have to redesign my horribly clunky website, and pluck up the courage to go to the doctors. Oh joy of joys. All I want to do today is go and see Ben and receive some form of sympathy, preferably in the form of a prolonged hug. My brain says ‘yeah, right'.
How can you resist a song that has the lyrics ‘Busy bee watch the world go by'? And, surprisingly, it's not an Osmonds' song.
I know a man that has music as a fix, something to rely on, to feel with a warm smile. I can't really say anything because although I know a lot about him, I don't know him. If you catch my drift.
Music reflects what I feel. If I feel like daydreaming, Pink Floyd. Angry? One Minute Silence. Happy? Red Hot Chili Peppers. Sad? Bon Jovi, one of their lovesongs.
It has meaning.
All of it.
Sigh. New Year's Eve. Hardly any point really.
I want to learn Latin. For something dead, it's incredibly fascinating. For something dead, when spoken, it sounds so alive.
Ex libris mortis, hic est vita vester. Or something along those lines. A line from a Terry Pratchett book. How can something so silly in English, be so…ominous, so spellbinding when portrayed in Latin? Everything sounds special; like it should be whispered in some high tower to the person you love while the moon rises.
And plus I can say weird things to people and they won't know what I'm talking about.
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