Things that go bump in the night

Without being sexist or stereotypical, I believe it is fair to say that as a general rule: Women cannot read road-maps. From this, I may even go as far as saying that they cannot navigate all-together...
Well, maybe that's just me.

Apart from my childhood cats, I have never met anyone who had the ability to see in the dark. Despite the bucket loads of carrots I ate in the hope of un-locking this super power, it never did eventuate. I could however, navigate myself around my own house quite comfortably without running into door frames or poking my eye out with antiques - as I imagine most people could probably do themselves in the comfort of their own home.
More recently though, I have found this seemingly concrete ability is fading. No I have not relocated my furniture, moved house or smoked illegal substances - I just cannot for the life of me move around quietly without breaking anything. I shuffle about, arms flailing, eventually stumbling to my destination with loud clunks that echo throughout the silent house.

Why? I'm asking you - Am I slowly losing my mind as I am my taste buds?* Or is it normal to lose consciousness of your surroundings (even though they've remained unchanged for 18 years?)

*Update on the taste bud situation: I can no longer tell the difference between chocolate and caramel Paddle Pops.

And you're targeting me because...?

• For dinner last night, my brother ate 12 Dim Sims and half a bowl of salad.
• Dad is complaining that he cannot fit into his old racing leathers.
• My mum is frequently asked if she is 'expecting'.

And apparently I'm the one who needs to lose weight?

Losing life in a motionless queue

Next time someone asks me why I don't go out - I swear I'm going to give them a slap in the face and tell them 'Because of you!'

No, I do not drink, gamble or be seen dead in bars; yet I found myself at Conrad Jupiter's for a friend's 18th birthday.

First, I had difficulty selecting a present... What do you give someone for their 18th? I thought back to my birthday and found that was no help - my birthday went un-noticed by most of my friends and I heard a Happy Birthday all of twice.
I decided on a bottle of Midori as I'd heard her once say that she liked it. I spent my whole month's allowance (as I'm living on what I had saved before I realised I had no work) and bought her a huge bottle in a collectors tin that flashes different coloured lights - I did not think that was a shabby present at all!
Oh, but when I gave it to her, you would've thought she could have looked a little more excited... A fake smile and an obviously fake thank you - I wanted to snatch it back and make her beg for it.
When her family arrived we sat in the Atrium Bar (basically the old people's bar of the casino). I watched as Fish ripped at the paper wrapping her family's presents as if she were in fact a dog digging a hole - and when she got through it she threw it on the floor; reminding me exactly of the little girl in the movie Babe who burst into tears when she didn't get what she wanted. Only, Fish didn't cry; she made high pitched squealing noises that I assume were out of excitement. You're 18 - act it!
Progressing to dinner in an entourage of an already tipsy Fish and her weird family members, I sat down one end of the table and communicated with nothing but my baked pumpkin - I was still nursing the offense I felt whilst giving the present.
Throughout dessert, one of Fish's friends - too insignificant to me to name - continued to complain that we should hurry up and get to the PA Bar, before the line got too long. Apparently, it was Uni Night and the bar was very popular.
When we arrived at the Bar's entrance I was astounded at the length of the line - it was at least 20 metres long and 4 people wide. It was 9.15pm, the bar was full and the only way to get in, was for people to leave.
I rolled my eyes. Great. I love going out so really I don't mind standing in a queue to get into a pathetic bar, waiting for people to get drunk enough to pass out. I waited in the line with my face as emotionless as possible.
But Fish had other ideas; she and her two 'favourite' friends began to flirt with the Bouncer - as I waited in line - and begged in high pitched and slurring voices, if he would let us in on account of her birthday.
10 minutes later, the trio had disappeared. I asked the security guard if he'd let my friends in.
He said yes.
I asked if he'd let me in.
He said no.
I told him that I was with them.
He told me that he could only let 3 in. He said he also told them, and they said that was ok; that I was willing to wait.

I left the line after an hour - after wasting an hour of my life on someone other than me.

Driving home in angry tears I vowed that I would no longer do things because it's the right thing to do; instead because it's what I want to do ~

Why not? Everyone else does.

Calendar Years

I was flicking through my day diary this morning and admiring all of the blank spaces during my holiday period, then stumbled across the due dates for a number of University assignments.
I dreaded the thought, but then convinced myself that soon it will be mid-year break... and then with perseverance it would soon be Christmas.
I find solace in turning the page in my diary or flicking to a new month on my wall calendar. Then I thought, but why? Because it's taking me further from the start, and closer to the end. At primary school we counted down the days until holidays and cheered with the final school bell; but as I grew older and became terminal with this disease, my comfort lay in the security of my school. I dreaded weekends and holidays, adored Mondays and was always the first car in the student car park without fail.
So that's where my counting came from - but what for?
I'm now counting down, not in anticipation, but for something to do.

It gets lonely when your friends are alcoholics and will deceive you just for something to do...

Goodbye MySpace - and good riddence!

Yes, there is now a real reason that I have left MySpace blogging for dead.
After posting my farewell blog I received a comment from Miss Priss saying that the reason no-one comments on my blogs is because I offend them all in the process.
Apparently I put so much of my heart into creating a post that I over-step the mark and shy readers away from commenting, as they fear I am writing about them.
This is just so stupid. It is my blog, my opinion and my right! If you get offended my what I have to say, don't read it. It's not my fault that you find truth in what I say.

I think what angers me the most is that it's ok for these people to get drunk, contract STD's and call me at all hours of the morning telling me how pissed they are, but I cannot have an opinion. God knows that they all have one about me.
It was only last week that Miss Priss told me that I was 'Miss Perfect'. I don't know about you, but with the condescending tone I received it in, I felt inferior and humiliated.
I don't drink because I respect my brain cells too much - I'll remind you of that in 10 years time.

Yes, I am sorry for my repetitive venting, but this is what I use my blogs for.
Word of advice - if you don't like it, then don't come crying to me because you won't get any sympathy!

[♥]

Moving House

Yes; I am a new-comer, having migrated from the pits of the MySpace blogs.
I have re-posted my blogs to give you a taste for what makes me tick, and will be re-visiting my blogs frequently in the future...

Sorry, nothing to report today. All of my brain power has been used on trying to get this to work!

x

Walking in Anna's Shoes

Just now, in one of my frequent visits to my cousin's blog, I read about this Anna character. Now, Anna intrigued me so much, that I paid her blog a visit. After reading her most recent post, I was a little confused about where this lay in her whole scheme of things. As I am a hermit and have retired to my room for the evening, I scrolled to the very bottom and began reading up.
Anna drew me in as I read her very first blog: lines of Plath emerged and other poets not yet known to me... I read on... And am I ever so glad that I did.
Anna reveals the deepest of things that no one would ever dare admit. She speaks of broken hearts, formal dresses and tears (and things I do not expect many of you to understand), without ever cliche-ing a thing... Because this is the diary of a girl, fighting herself to find her place and no human being could ever call that a stereotype.
Anna joins me in the army of the confused. The difference? Her network of blogs has in-undated her with comments of praise, encouragement and honesty. Her frequent readers give her advice, dry her tears and force her to write again. Her blog is her soft place to fall; it is home.
Anna need not wonder who is reading, because they give her their two cents, no matter how direct or blunt... She has a family across the globe, and now, I have become a distant cousin.

Ultimately, what my experience in Anna's shoes has forced me to discover, is that my futile attempts at MySpace blogs is not only wasting my time, but degrading myself to consider sharing my inner most thoughts with people who won't even admit to reading them.

I'm sorry MySpace... I believe this will be my last blog -

a new family awaits.

♥

Sylvia - share in one today!

In all the times I'd read, loved and appreciated Sylvia Plath, the time I spent learning, and reciting to the world, I could relate to all but one description. I knew the feeling of seeking solace in words, in hiding and in madness. I felt the eyeing of my scars, the suspended bell jar hovering above my head and the constant fear of its sudden decent: sending me back to

Ash, ash --
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there --

Around and around these lines swirled - blinding to all but me. Ah - but I am not alone... the ghost of Sylvia is with me.
And the lines that I could read but could not feel?

I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich.
I could hardly speak.

Sure, like everyone else I'd been at a loss for words, or forced the en-caging of my tongue, to prevent myself from telling some irritating person off. But have you ever felt as if your mouth is full of wire? Each word you stumble is like a pathetic cough, and each attempt slices your throat? Your chest begins to burn and each heart beat pumps pain?
Yes, I can finally relate... as that life slipped away.
I went to bring some comfort, but as I look back, it was to say my goodbyes. I had intended on breathing strength into her spirit and to tell her she was loved. But the barbed wire demons took my chance and permitted me to only choke, sob and eventually utter only the prayers of the rosary.
Then there was the passing.
I lost my voice and felt as if I were in a communist society. My thoughts remained simply thoughts.

This is yet another element of madness I share with my precious Sylvia, these actions and reactions, for she is living through me...

A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can
talk, talk, talk.

Yes my dearest, I am your creation. Share with me, what I share with her - the latest and greatest toy!

It's water-proof, shatterproof, proof
against fire and bombs through the
roof.

Sylvia Plath

I am not a child who has a toy for a mind

When I was a little girl, I had a pack of textas that smelt like different fruits. The pink was strawberry and the brown, coconut. These markers were my pride and joy and made my constant colouring much more rewarding as my experiences were full of such amazing fragrances.
As I used no other markers, naturally the ink in my pens began to run out. I decided that by licking the end of my favourite (strawberry) I would extend the life of the ink. When this action failed, that was when I realised that these pens may, in fact, be toxic.
I had asked my mother, "What happens if you lick a texta?"
She looked at me with an almost excited and amused face, "You die! You'll wake up tomorrow dead."
Well, as any regular six year old, the concept of death scared me and I tried to resist sleep as I feared the other side.
When I did wake up the following morning, I believed that it was a miracle.
And now I see, that in the exact same way that my mother played with my mind as a six year old, an association of mine is manipulating me at eighteen. I have been fed information that I can do nothing else but believe because of the trust that my heart has instilled.
When I woke up to the lie I had been fed at six, I felt hurt that my own mother had convinced me of my death. Now I feel no different as I have come to the realisation of my real relationship I share with someone I would give up my world for.
Maybe I should have learnt last time... After the incident with the markers, I would always scrutinise the information my mother fed me, and instead I would ask my father. Perhaps it is natural progression - I have stepped outside the boundaries of this relationship and woken up to reality...

I have been the victim of mind games: I would like to hereby prohibit any person or persons from using the mind of Kitty for recreational use from this date forward.

Because I have to live with your broken toy.