Sunday Suicide

Everyone avoids the question. I avoid the answer. It doesn't make it go away.

Psychosis

I'm not sure that even I know how I am still sitting here. Last evening I became so removed from reality that I didn't think I'd survive the night. I couldn't feel anger or sorrow or frustration, or my own hands on my skin. Everything was numb.
I had to test myself. That, I felt. Perhaps the most alive I had felt in weeks. I had to keep proving to myself that I was real, but somehow managed to stop before resembling a Virginia Ham.
It really does frighten me. I am frightened that so many decisions have to be my own and that there's no-one who can help me make them. I'm frightened that despite my best efforts, my days are getting shorter, colder and darker than ever before. I'm terrified that my nights are black.

I wrestle alone in the dark, in the deep dark, and that only I can know, only I can understand my own condition. You live with the threat, you tell me. You live with the threat of my extinction... I live with it too.

Sunday Secrets

Today, being Sunday, is www.postsecret.com day. Here is a secret from today's post:

Today

I have run out of distractions. I forced myself out of bed at lunchtime, after watching the boats on the harbour for an hour and a half. I took my time showering, painting, moisturising, brushing and straightening and told myself that I could not put off tidying the apartment anymore. I did the washing, put away everything that was out of place and cleaned the already clean kitchen despite it not being used since Tuesday when the last meal was prepared, and the fact that the cleaner comes tomorrow at 9am to re-clean it anyway. I tidied my room, removed all hazards from the floor, folded my clean washing and took extra care to pack my Chanel 2.55 Chain Bag away as recommended by the company.
Now that everything is just as it should be, I don't know what to do next. I keep moving from room to room hoping to find a purpose. I sat in the Living Room analysing the weather, partly angry that Sydney is mocking me with what may be the last summer day when I had no energy or purpose to share in it. I sat on the floor of the Library hoping to find sudden inspiration from the spines staring down at me. I took out the rubbish, avoided the reem of photocopied textbook pages the Happy Lady had mailed me, lay on my bedroom floor then wrote a shopping list for when I can force myself to the supermarket (toothpaste, red pen, moisturiser).
What am I waiting for? I have done everything my apartment has expected of me. I am dressed with shoes ready to go out. But I have no appointments in my diary, no phone calls inviting me out, no spontaneous activities that my heart is begging me to do. The clock in the foyer reminds me in 15 minute intervals of the time I am wasting.
I have another 8 days until my family return home. If I wanted I could throw a party carrying on for days and nights to come. I could invite the middle-aged Porsche driving creeps from the elevator to dinner and drink too much and do Karaoke. I could lie dead for days with no-one noticing.
But none of these are things that I want to do. I still want my cup of tea. If I were on the Gold Coast I would arrive uninvited and drink tea and talk with M. for hours and distract her from her dying mother and let her distract me from myself. I would feel partly human again. Instead I have my clean apartment to keep me company.

From My Perspective

It stands at my window, big as the sky.

I am so sick of listening to the inside of my own head. I am warping reality with my dreams, so that I don't know what really happened and what didn't. I stop for charity workers on the street just so they can ask me how my day is with feigned interest, and I can lie about how great it has been. I am sick of my own four walls. I opened a window despite the air-conditioning just to hear the traffic on the bridge; to remind myself that I am not alone and there are lives to be lived.
I need some company. I want to sit alongside someone and talk and think and feel and analyse and gossip and imagine, just for an afternoon, to break the chill and hollowness that has eaten my soul. But I'm not sure if there's anyone who would want to.

Someone found a way to say it.

www.postsecret.com

Tick, Tick, Tick

I am exhausted. Every inch of me aches as though I have run for a lifetime. I find it hard to do the mundane, everyday tasks; brush my hair, clean my teeth, go to work. Everything is an effort. Everyone intimidates me. Every second I want to cry.
I try to work hard. If I can distract myself from the increasing heaviness within, perhaps I may just make it to the end. But it always finds a way to creep back. The few minutes of searching through the storeroom, the break of silence between morning tea chatter, the solitude of making fresh sheets into a bed. It never really goes away, and I'm frightened it never will. How can anyone live like this?
And if there's anything I hate as much as this feeling, it's the silence when I just stop. It reminds me how alone I have become. Perhaps more lonely than anything, and I wish I could break it with a hug, a cry and a cup of tea like I used to. But things are different now, the void is deeper and more mature than before. I want to fill it up with people and parties to cover the silence, but no amount of champagne or entertainment will ever be enough. I don't know what will?

Out

I forced myself out of the apartment all weekend to break the cycle of monotony and frustration. I walked the city streets at midnight in the rain. I sat alone in a restaurant in the small hours of the morning hoping the NYC image would make me feel closer to the world. I stood in the rain on purpose. I got stuck in mud and didn't take my shoes off at the door. I showered with my shoes on. I ignored phone calls, didn't reply to messages and asked for apologies.
Does this sound like me? Not to anyone who really knows me, but I tried it on for size. I tried it on hoping, praying that I had discovered the answer to breaking free. Did it work? I didn't find an answer. If anything I discovered death within my shadow; creeping up on me as I run out of places to hide.

Today, I danced in the rain. Just that phrase sounds like freedom. Before today I would have said so. But having done just this, I don't feel any more liberated, or refreshed, or happy. The sadness imprinted within me can't be washed away. I can't dance the feeling out of me or scream it from my lungs. It sits in the bottom of my heart, poisoning my blood. To extinguish it would mean bleeding myself dry.

RIP

People die everyday. The hospital where I work is full of them. Some will go quietly, others in glorified religious ceremonies. Some unexpectedly, and others with scandal.
Celebrities endure the glamour of press releases and public memorials. The world tunes in and becomes an accessory to the final farewell, with every detail imprinted for years to follow. Last year it was Michael Jackson, Christmas; Brittany Murphy, today; Alexander McQueen. Who's life is on tomorrow's line?
Google is hot. Twitter is trending 'RIP'. I wonder if I'll even make the obituaries.

No matter how much Chanel, layers of make-up or sleep I accumulate, I can't lose the intensity building inside. I may be real today, but perhaps not tomorrow? I can lose myself at any hour of the day, and am gambling against myself as to how soon it will win. If only I knew what 'it' was. Is it failure? A sentence of unhappiness to plague the rest of my life, however long or short it may be? Perhaps death?

If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, it's timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

I do not have answers. I'm not even sure I'm aware of the questions I am asking. All I know is that I cannot continue to deteriorate as I am, and there is nothing more that I can do to stop myself. I need a miracle.

The Fig Tree

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

We succeed to make up for our failures. We love to cover the hate. We lie to hide from the truth. We create to destroy and smile to disguise the tears. We ultimately live to die.

Thursday Night

Having returned to my hometown for a single night, I have already returned to my since forgotten mentality. My room has remnants of the me I left behind splattered on my daffodil walls and now that it's confronting me, I am finding it hard to fight back.
I have already had my mother's expectations forced down my throat despite my diplomatic and rational protests. I have failed in maintaining my stance. I have gone to my room to hide from the troubles I can leave at the door. I still have the bags that I carry within. I can't wait to go home.

A Change in the Weather

If I asked myself a week ago, I never would have believed I would, but today I visited the Happy Lady. And I surprised myself. Nothing like others of her breed, I appreciated the overall visit. The antique plum walls, the suede couch, the tissue box on the coffee table as an unavoidable centrepiece, and of course the expected conversation. But for once nothing I said made me feel absurd. She understood my justification of living within society's conforms, she challenged me giving up what I believe in, and accepted my inability to explain what I felt because everything inside is a swirl.

Imagine torrents of thoughts confined in the tiny mind that you contain. Each one is presented through a sentence, some long and descriptive, others brief and pointless. Each sentence spirals, following the one before it, until they spin so fast it’s all a blur; but in an attempt of desperation you reach out, trying to grasp a hold of something with an answer, even if it’s simply a clue. But what is it that you receive? A word, and then another; random words from random thoughts, and in a frantic attempt for clarity you put them together - simply to get nothing more than what you started with, except now, you truly are mystified.

By the end, I felt an honesty within me that I had forgotten I had. I had pushed it away for so long and created a mask dictated my social acceptance and the parameters set by society. I had denied myself any opportunity to survive, because I'm not sure I could go on living without finding my truth within. I'm not saying I've found it, I'm not even saying I'm close. But I know it is there, somewhere beneath the layers of cover-ups and floods of un-shead tears. I will get to it. I just need to do some spring-cleaning first.

Hubble, Bubble. Toil and Trouble.

As I become increasingly aware of myself, I have become less in control. Having felt void of emotion for so long, I can now feel it within me. Once simmering, it has begun to boil and will soon take over unless I can find a way to stop it. I'm just not sure if I'm strong enough.

I Miss...

I miss feeling real. Like a real person with real thoughts, opinions and interests.
I miss dreaming. Dreaming of things we know are impossible but still fantasise about them coming true.
I miss having something to look forward to. I love the feeling of excitement that I cling to throughout the days and nights. It is the one thing I have to hold onto.
I miss the weekends. Where there are endless combinations of events and the days disappear as quickly as they came.
I miss going out. The anticipation, the wardrobe malfunctions and make-up disasters that never really matter when you get there, because the chaos and music and alcohol wash it all away.
I miss talking to people. Having a regular conversation about regular things without feeling like you owe them something you can't give.
I miss being invited. I don't care where. I just wish someone would ask.
I miss having real friends. Like the one you tell everything to and never once think you're being judged.
I miss feeling in control. By thinking logically and analytically, so that everything has a possibility of making sense.
I miss feeling loved. By someone; anyone. Because sometimes I just need a hug.

Dreams

I have complained of being tired for weeks now. So many nights I lay watching the clock, counting down the hours until daybreak, until eventually I dropped off only to wake to a screaming alarm a few short hours later. Recently, with thanks to a pharmaceutical company I can now get to sleep without a second thought. Waking up is harder though, as my body struggles to function and my eyes rebel against the daylight.
It has to be a positive that I can sleep a full night away though? Then why can't I operate as efficiently as I did when I lay awake throughout the night? It is as if my increasing hours of sleep are directly proportional to my escalating exhaustion.
I go to bed tired, wake up tired, and am living every breath of my life tired. Last night I excitedly went to bed early, eagerly awaiting the Saturday morning sleep-in. Well, that I got. I slept for over 13 hours but couldn't bring myself to get up. Perhaps just one more hour?
So as I lay contemplating my options, I had a sudden flashback of my mid-sleep thoughts. The more I think about it now, the more I can remember from the nights over the past week and the dreams that have possessed me.
They are so vivid and intense that I think maybe they are the excuse for my weariness. Last night I was chased by friends possessed by the enemy. I have dreamt of the people around me turning into witches and deceiving me in the depths of the night. I have been held hostage in a haunted house despite my tearful pleads to be set free. I have re-lived events from the past with others filling in for the missing characters. I have run, flown, screamed and cried my way through the darkened hours and it makes me wonder if perhaps that is why I feel so haggard?
Perhaps things weren't as bad as I had thought they were? It is the nights that are worse.

A Step Away from the Wrong Direction

What do we do? What do we do in this life to make it worthwhile? Or to even just pass the time?
For the first time in weeks my head finally feels screwed on, perhaps not correctly adjusted, but it's on. I can manage a smile, the thought of potential curry puffs for dinner excites me, and I don't feel like I want to die. Not that I think I ever really wanted to die in the conventional sense, but perhaps more literally as death suggests a termination of ones thoughts and processes.
It made me wonder how one seemingly regular Friday could bring about such a change? I woke beyond exhausted, snoozed a few too many times and prevented being late for work by about 3 seconds. I felt sick to my core for the better part of the morning, became frustrated when my colleagues made pointless comments about my mood as if they really gave a shit anyway, and sat through morning tea listening to some random carry on about how she thought psych patients were worse than them all put together and that you can still be crazy beneath a seemingly 'normal' exterior. Seriously, shut the fuck up. So at lunchtime, which I was actually ready for today, I dragged my feet and my massive water bottle outside to avoid the mind-numbing superficial chatter of the tea room.
Mrs Boss said she thought I seemed better. I wasn't sure how she could tell. Could she see inside my head? I wasn't sure if she was right or if I'm just getting better at living it. Perhaps sometimes I am better? When Mr T called last night I felt my heart lift, and it remained suspended for a full half hour. That's got to count for something, right?
But lunchtime today, it made me feel a little lighter. Confessing my love for Chanel and all things classic made me smile inside and thoughts of tomorrow's potential sleep-in reminded me what I have to look forward to. How is it that I suddenly became aware of myself, and not this pseudo-me that I have become?
I have always thought of myself as an introvert, because I could pass the time with the words of Plath or my blog, but lunchtime suggested otherwise. I don't think I am extroverted as people have come to know the term, but I think I rely on the thoughts and opinions of others to confirm what I see in myself. I think the social exchanges of day-to-day life keep me grounded and make me forget about the universe of insanity swimming around in my head. Even if it is only for an afternoon.
I left work feeling closer to normal than previous days, and keep telling myself that I will have curry puffs for dinner and everything will be okay. So in the time between then and now I have paced. I don't feel the need to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty, I don't have to shut my door to avoid the lives of others or make up events to be excused to the local park in an attempt to avoid eating dinner. I can just be. But what is it that we do in those hours of just existing? I can't remember. So I'm back to being bored.

Raindrops

It is raining. Not heavily, and barely even noticeable, except for the drops that have grazed my window or spotted their glaze onto the tiles of my balcony. I can hear the echo of thunder in the distance and I hope that the storm will continue my way.
I like the rain. I like the smell of the earth and the sound the drops make colliding with the ground and themselves. I think it brings a sense of change and new beginnings. It makes me want to sit under it and not come in until it has cleansed my soul, no matter how many days it will take.

I am losing myself and I don't know how to stop myself from letting go. Every facet of my existence has shifted, so much so that I have no idea who I am, what I think or how to feel.
Today I survived, even if only just. I woke to swollen eyes and dark circles, which I would expect from crying all of the previous night, except that I didn't. I have a heaviness within me as if my eyes have so much they have to say, but have forgotten how. I believe that my core has finally emptied itself so that I have nothing left to feel. I don't care that I rely on drugs to sleep, or that I'm exhausted all of the time despite them. Who would notice that 5kg have evaporated or that I keep to myself to avoid a public outburst of anxiety? Should I care that my phone doesn't ring, or be bothered by the fact that someone thinks I belong in a psychiatric institution?
I should care, and I probably do beneath the layers of numbness and emptiness that encase my soul. But for now I cannot see it, I cannot believe or even accept it. I cannot feel anything.
Can I bleed it out like some 19th Century disease? Can I cut it away like the malignancy it has become? Can I fill the emptiness with a cocktail of drugs to make me better?
I don't have the answer, and maybe never will. I just have to trust in tomorrow being a little easier, a little better and perhaps a little more like I used to be. Until then I have the hours, the hours between now and then, and within those hours who knows what I will find.

Thought

I have come to realise that everything we do, think, feel, speak or imagine is dictated by the conforms of society. Since when did we stop listening to our own hearts and following everyone elses? Then maybe I wouldn't have to censor myself quite so much to fit in.

Today

What can I say? I survived today, as much as my anxiety didn't think that I would, and that's what it's coming down to: I am surviving one day at a time. I just wish it didn't have to be so much of an effort. Or perhaps quite so lonely.

Step One

I would talk and unrust the words and thoughts which stagnate in me from lack of verbal expression.

Your Secret

I saved this image from www.postsecret.com a few years ago. At the time I had felt inspired by this person's secret. Now I am trying to believe it.

#

My heart is full. It is full of lead; or at least that's what it feels like, compressing every inch of my fighting spirit so that I feel buried beneath reality. It controls every aspect of my being, so much so that there is no remedy. No music loud enough to cover the screaming of my heart, no poetry or prose, no 'right' time of day, and as much as I want to, I can't pick up the phone. I have re-read my memoirs from over 4 years ago and they frighten me. This is the re-birth of something big and I don't want to go any further, but I don't think I can stop myself. My mind is already moving towards the blackness and my soul is aching. All that is holding me back is the tiny piece of logic and fear I have left inside. I wish I could convince myself that everything will be okay, but I honestly couldn't believe it. I feel so isolated. My fingers are starting to slip and I just don't know what to do.

Lonely

An extract from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath:

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self -- like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion... I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.

PostSecret

I may be slightly obsessed, but whether I understand them or not, these secrets are all pieces of humanity that creates the world we live in, and the world that I'm a part of. So I suppose in a weird way, they are pieces of me.

St Valentines

Forget the Hallmark holiday, the wilted flowers and millions of dollars spent worldwide on a previously insignificant day until a greeting card company deceided that profits were down.
Love should be as Postsecret is - real.

Fear

Of all of the things that I am frightened of, I think the biggest is myself. I may not be able to justify this as I can with snakes, ghosts or the dark, but there's something within me that I am constantly fighting against, and I'm terrified it will win. I could never speak it out loud, even if in the safety of my room with only my ears listening, because once it becomes vocal, it is real.
Expecting a phone call from my doctor I planned to explain the intense feeling of claustrophobia and suffocation that has woken me every night since my visit. I would wake with the belief that something was trying to eat its way into my soul and ultimately killing the last flickers of hope and belief in my heart. When she called, I said I was fine. I told her that the anxiety from my days was dissolving, but when I began to explain my midnight terrors, I stopped myself. As the words formed on the tip of my tongue, I had a fleeting thought of how insane they made me sound. I was worried what she would think of me.
I hung up and thought. Perhaps my omissions are really part of a bigger picture; of the network of demons plaguing any chance of happiness? But I couldn't tell. Those unspoken words were pieces of myself that should never be spoken, because what others don't know, can't hurt them.
I know a burden shared is a burden halved, and that's just the point. Why would I want to inflict any of my pain on someone who is kind enough to listen? I will protect everyone from myself.

Boredom

Boredom is no excuse. Lazing on my bed staring at the imperfections of the ceiling, justifying my immobility with boredom. It's not that there isn't anything that needs to be done; no trivial tasks that have been put off for weeks due to my lack of motivation. Today adds to the list; my hair needs straightening, my legs need moisturising, my brain needs stimulation. But what if I choose to go back to sleep; to bank up a few more hours in addition to the long awaited ten I got last night? I was making up for the countless sleepless nights I spent imagining the ceiling through the darkness.
The city skyline never sleeps. Even the suburbs that appear on the horizon flicker as if the sleeping sun is sparkling on the gentle tidal movement of families snoring lightly in their slumber.
So what consequence would I pay by sleeping away this textbook summer's day? It's my day to do as I please. The only person it will ultimately affect is me. By avoiding life for just one day will that really matter in ten years time? Will I even remember? Perhaps not. But what if this is how I chose to live, and now is the catalyst for something deeper? Can I find peace by avoiding life?

Appointment Number [insert number]

Despite the events of today being pre-booked, conversations mentally prepared the night before and sufficient time between each event, it did not go the way I had expected it to.
I rose this morning feeling surprisingly serene (perhaps that extra hour of sleep was required), I showered and dressed in a pre-chosen outfit, complete with Chanel accessories. Upon leaving the threshold of the apartment I entered the churn of anxiety and dread. The day had begun.
Appointment Number One was the most pressing matter on my mind, so I was both nervous and pleased it would be over and done with quickly. Quickly, is not a word I can now use to describe it. My bottled nerves multiplied in the waiting room, and filled my arms and legs with a hot needley sensation, so much so that I feared weight bearing at the risk of my legs forgetting how to walk. My heart pounded in my chest and my respirations struggled to keep up the pace.
Kick-off. Small talk firstly. Not a fan really considering my undelightful personality and anxiety to get some fresh air. Floor opened for my awkward and disjointed chatter, thankfully rescued by some intelligence on her behalf. Hot potato successfully thrown back.
Questions. Many I had expected, but the requirement of numerical answers made them sit like peas in my mashed potato brain. Vague and sometimes guessed answers given and typing occurred.
History. Subtle at first and then more aggressive as the questions fed off my admissions. Perhaps some omissions, but I'm living for today. I'm not sure I could endure the recollection of past experiences as well.
Solution. Well, we'll soon see.
Appointment Number Two. Thankfully early, even with time to browse at the sale in Oroton along the way. No waiting this time. Straight in and success achieved with no questions asked (A nice contrast to Appointment Number One). No payment required for services rendered. I'm a regular. Thankful, as I will be recovering until next pay day for my former engagement.
Some aimless wandering and procrastination, then impulse driving to insignificant destinations, just to satisfy my restlessness.
A phone call and some further indecisiveness, a pit stop all-day-dreaded, then home again. Brush through my hair, re-spritz of fragrance and back in the car. Driving the longer way to allow my brain a few extra minutes of mental preparation before arrival at Appointment Number Three.
Inability to comprehend street numbers made a retarded start. Further small talk and Poppy-therapy. Chilled water and LED technology. More small talk. I didn't have the courage to divulge the events of the day.
Coffee with foam. A tasting plate provided. My stomach churned.
More questions. Thankful really. My mind could find the answers, but was unable to establish any form of directive, adult human chatter. Ice broken, guard slipped and my ears had filled with the sound of my honest, unbroken voice, apparently saying more than I realised at the time. Smiles exchanged, analysis of mutual colleagues, circle completed and back to the start, this time with a male perspective.
Wine time. Avoidance activated.
A glance at the clock and it was dinner time. Time to bail.
Home again. Safely in my room with the doors closed, dividing me from the outside world. I think it's been enough for one day.

My Wonderland

Kitty and the looking glass;
squints into the glare of the darkness.
A girl sits within, a darkening shade of grey.
Her eyes are overcast and chilling
as she looks up from her shuffling steps.
Her soul’s window flickers
as if a blaze is crackling within –
yet no smoke.
Just the ashes tomorrow leaves behind.

Missing Pages

Do you ever get the feeling like something's missing? Not in the way of misplaced car keys or one's virginity but something from deep inside that self destructs into its own hole of nothingness, trying to fill that spot where the missing piece belongs.
How to describe it? Tell the girl at the lost property office or God on your knees in church. No, best to bury it further as an ostrich does in the sand. Afterall, how is anyone else to comprehend if it's nothing more than an inkling, a suggestion of poison to yourself?
As I grow older I learn more about myself that I have always known, just never had the sense or the maturity to realise or accept. My acting experience has blessed me with the ability to change masks, personas, often on command as though playing all 6 parts of the Commedia Dell'Arte. I can be a well-adjusted socialite, just one of the gang, a shoulder to cry on and prop you up when you fall. I become all of these things in fear of my own inadequacies. Because I've never been good with change, never popular or had a copious amount of friends and never felt as I could truly be saved if I fell (again).
But those metaphorical masks, they seem to reduce the force. The weight swinging from my heart, pulling myself down lessens, until I let down my guard.
I become so affected by things. By what people say, this season's clothes and what happens to characters on my favourite TV shows. I let these things in so they bother my nights, eating themselves into my subconscious.
There is everything wrong with the dark. It is the most revealing thing I know. You cannot hide from your mind, yet the terrors hide themselves. I believe in the supernatural and the living dead. I believe people can come back as ghosts, or as babies. Some people have been here before. These are the deep thinkers, the worldly and cultural people who don't have a passport. Sometimes they know, sometimes not, that they have walked the planet before this life.
Me? I always felt so naive and empty that I couldn't possibly lived earlier than 1987. All of those holes of nothingness within my soul are waiting to be imprinted in this life. It is up to me if I have the strength or the courage to inscribe on my heart.
But today, an ordinary midweek working day I felt (not even thought) that perhaps I have lived another life. I have mistaken those empty pages as a lack of history. Rather they represent what has been stolen. My troubled existence is spelt out clearly in invisible ink, for it is those weakened links and lost fragments that show just that - they are lost. The missing pieces of me have disintegrated into the past, each time stealing a part of my 21st century well being. And the biggest space of all is vacated by the catalyst for the hurt. What mothers and fathers all over the world break up their marriages and live a life of misery for. And I don't know if I can ever be able to replace it.

Mid flight ponderings

There are odd moments. Not every day and barely every week, that you remember things from the past and the feeling that joins it is so vivid you transport yourself there. To that time and location.
I can hear my mother's voice correcting my "yep" as she drove my brother and I to primary school; the both of us in the backseat of the car.
As I listen to Missy Higgins songs I remember sitting as a senior in the school library struggling to devise a drama performance. My journal was full of clippings, pictures, lyrics and poems. As I listen to her sing them I remember the page as I glue it in, reading them back to myself.
Flying makes me nervous; not because of the journey but anxiety about the destination. Often the initial departure is bound for somewhere far from home, but after a near 1000 kilometre move flying home, and I mean really home, brings on the usual feelings based on pure habit rather than actual worry.
I makes me think that we don't change at all. Not really. We are born as a tiny version of our present minds, and if we're lucky will add some cognitive degeneration before we die to soothe the life long pressure we have built upon.
Leopards can't change their spots. Nor Kitty her freckles.

Without the Human Community, One Single Human Being Cannot Survive

I honestly don't know how people can exist without friendship. People share their secrets, hopes and dreams. Also people who will share humiliation, shame and loss.
People who will laugh with us over nothing, sing the same songs, read the same books or tell us what the rest of the world will not tell: that the new hair colour was a sad, sad mistake.
How do they live - the people who are happy and proud to be so independent that they claim they don't need a friend? Is it an act, and something born of necessity because they have found themselves friendless? Is it a fear of confiding, of opening up? A fear of being unashamedly natural in a world that seems to insist on role playing and acting as if it all was going well even when it obviously is far from well? Is there any dignity at all in being able to manage alone, in trying to be an island that doesn't touch anything or anyone else?

Maeve Binchy

What a Sorry Lot of Rot

The following article What a Sorry Lot of Rot, written by Robyn Wuth was in the Weekend Edition of the Gold Coast Bulletin.
I have an opinion - what's yours?

$orry, but I’m not $orry.
I don’t want anyone to apologise on my behalf, or for my relatives for that matter.
Crown me queen of the politically incorrect, but I have nothing to apologise for.
I’m with Wilson Tuckey.
Old Ironbar walked out of Parliament before the apology, saying it would do little for the Aborigines.
“Tomorrow there’ll be no petrol sniffing, tomorrow little girls can sleep in their beds without any concern – it’s all fixed, the Rudd spin will fix it all,” Tuckey quipped.
He’s right. It’s insincere, it solves nothing but it was a lovely photo opportunity.
We said it to make you feel better… did it work?
As P.G. Wodehouse said: “It is a good rule in this life never to apologise. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them.”
To be honest, I’m sick of all this namby-pamby boo-hooing about bloody saying sorry.
How much of this is hype and how much of it actually happened? Perception and reality have blurred.
For every Aboriginal child who was stolen, another was saved, some were given a chance to change their lives.
It’s a shame they refused to take it.
How many terrified white teenagers paid the price for their sins with babies ripped from their arms in the name of religion and political correctness?
But I have to say sorry.
Sorry for giving you free medical care, for giving you money, for building you homes which you vandalised and destroyed and treated with contempt and we paid to fix.
Sorry for developing large farms and properties, which today feed your people.
Sorry for providing you with warm clothing made of fabric to replace the animal skins you used before.
Sorry for building roads and railway tracks between cities and building cars so that you no longer have to walk over harsh terrain.
The fact is, we won.
All right?
We came in and we killed lots of them and we took their land and we’re not giving it back, unless the High Court makes us and then, frankly, the High Court will have to go.
They weren’t using the land for much. They’re still not, to tell the truth. This is what conquering nations do. It’s what Caesar did and he’s not going around saying, ‘I came, I saw, I conquered, I felt really bad about it.’ The history of the world isn’t about people making friends, it’s about cultures conquering other cultures, usually by force of arms. We had better weapons – end of story.
We built cities, roads, we made our homes here and we created a nation.
Can we move on now please?
This stance is not proving popular and led to a huge argument with my brother. This in itself is not unusual, because he’s wrong a lot of the time and as his brilliant, talented younger sister, I consider it my right, nay my duty, to enlighten him.
El Crazy, as I have come to call him, is what we might call one of this diehard political fanatics who prefers it when all people think the way he does.
I’m much more of your ‘what’s in it for me’ kind of girl – and there’s nothing for me in saying sorry except a giant payout my taxes will fund.
He’s all in favour of saying sorry for the wrongs of the past if it helps our nation move forward. I say why stop there? If we’re going to have this pointless political posturing of a National $orry Day, then let’s widen it – let’s take it international.
The British can say sorry to the Irish for that pesky ‘invasion’ and the IRA can apologise for blowing people up and shooting them in the kneecaps.
While we’re at it, the Brits should have stayed home instead of colonising the globe.
And the Romans – who did they think they were? Someone find me a Roman descendent and get him to apologise to someone.
The Americans – they’d better get started, there’s a lot to apologise for – for that whole revolution? That was just rude. Poor form, chaps.
The Boston Tea Party, a complete waste of perfectly good tea.
The treatment of Native Americans and slavery? Sorry about that.
The wars in Korea, Vietnam and Iraq? Sorry, sorry, sorry.
South Africa. The whole apartheid thing was probably just a misunderstanding.
The French should apologise for just being French.
The Russians? They should apologise for the pointless exercise of communism.
Check under every rock, there’s something to apologise for everywhere you look.
The tribal war in Rwanda, the atrocities in Cambodia, the Nazis, the Ku Klux Klan.
The Middle East. Uh-oh. For all we know, Mohammed and Jesus played together as kids.
But Jesus would have been the cool kid. Well, it’s true.
If we decide to keep up this grovelling, honestly, where does it end?
How far back do you want to go?
Harden up people and let’s just get on with it.

The end of a 10 year dream

Anyone who remembers me as a child will remember my obsession with the Spice Girls. Not only did I manage to learn all the words to every song, plaster just about every millimetre of my own four walls with their posters and get their cassette (that's just how old I was!) banned from the Tarago, but I had hysterics over their official T-Shirt I was wearing on a school camp.
Our sailing instructor told us that we were not allowed to participate unless we all wore our T-Shirts and lucky me happened to be wearing my prized Spice Girls splashed across my chest. W., my childhood best friend, convinced me that we would be great sailers and I didn't have to worry about getting my shirt wet so off we went... Until we capsized and - shock horror! - I got my shirt wet! Well did I scream and carry on... seriously, I wailed for the whole afternoon because I was convinced the Ti-Tree lake had stained my idols.
I loved those girls beyond words. I would watch their live concert in Istanbul and be so jealous of the audience and I told myself that one day I would be one of them. To me, the Spice Girls would be together forever and continue to rule the world.
When they broke up I was devastated, but 10 years later, they announced a Reunion World Tour. Naturally, I was estatic, and I told myself that I would pay as much as they were asking, because I owed it to the tiny version of me that lives in my memory.
Tickets were looking at being AU$750, and of course at that money, no-one was willing to accompany me. I was not phased - I was going to get there. The official website continued to state that the Sydney concert was yet to be confirmed into the last days of the tour, so I began checking daily for confirmation as I was paranoid that I would not get a ticket.
Yesterday, the girls announced that they were no longer including Australia in their tour. I don't know if I'm more upset or angry. As a child those girls made me believe that there was nothing in the world that could destroy girl power and that anyone could achieve anything. After the years of money, tears and support that I have given them I feel like a violated, insignificant piece of society.
Thanks shattering my dream... you pack of bitches.

Oh Come All Ye Faithful

So I am continuing to plod along with my not so spectacular life, thus no exciting tales of adventures and discoveries. I have however, made a new friend.
Arriving at work early the other morning I found myself in a deep and meaningful conversation with my manager, to whom I revealed a whole lot more of myself than I think I normally would - oops - but in concluding the conversation we came to an unspoken agreement of friendship.
It was actually timed quite well as it restricted her from giving me a big kick up the bum at the end of the day, which is exactly what I deserved for taking so long to do everything and doing it with an I-don't-give-a-shit attitude.
So I went to church with my tail between my legs and admittedly felt a sense of detoxification from the stresses of the day. The sermon was in relation to the Gospel reading of John the Baptist and was unbelievably thought-provoking, as was the article in the newsletter. The extract that really made me think was:

The Church invites us to be like the people who flocked to John in the desert to hear the word of God. We are invited to go into the desert of our hearts in order to hear God's message. The desert of our hearts may be an uncomfortable place to be, but it is the place where we will hear the love, voice and call of God.

So yesterday after work I joined my 2nd family for dinner. After the meal I remained at the table and watched as E. jumped on the trampoline just through the window. After a few minutes she stopped and lay just as Snow White did after she had eaten the poisoned apple and awaited the prince's kiss. There was a look of intense concentration on her face and I asked her sister A. what she was doing.
"Praying."
Well, it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She's only 10 years old and she knows how to talk to God, and has no shame in doing so as her family watched from the dinner table.
I suppose I was jealous. I may appear to be a good Catholic - I go to church, I try to follow the Catholic laws and I pray for others - but in all honestly, I don't feel close to God. I don't know how to talk to Him, and when I do I don't feel as though He is listening. I have not got the ability to empty my mind of the literal and open my heart enough to feel God's presence.
And in church when they talk about Hell and an eternity without God I fear that I will be there. I thought Hell was now, but there is much worse to come I believe.
Pray for me - because I can't.

Judy Moody

Yes, a distinct change in mood has been noted. Not just by me it seems, but also by others and there is some proof in my bank balance (or lack of).
Over the duration of the past week I have found myself spending hundreds of dollars on materialistic things that I really do not need, and at times emptying my purse with absolutely nothing to show for it at the end of the day ???
Yesterday I found myself killing time at Pacific Fair, so I anticipated a lengthy walk around the shops and possibly grabbing a few Christmas presents. Yes well, some purchasing did take place but the only person who will be receiving any of these gifts is me! Yes, I bought new shoes (!) and accessories as well as some new Chanel mascara.
So as I have floated through the past few days (and I chose that word as I have found myself not taking direction, rather flowing with it) and there are only two things that I have felt.
The first one is guilt. Although I really couldn't give a toss what I spend my money on, an element of guilt sets in when I can longer afford those shoes, that dress, those earrings... Yeah, I'm a bloody idiot but my taste restricts me to stores with a no returns policy.
The second, is feeling as though I can't breathe. I can no longer restrict it to a few instances, rather that I believe myself to have lost the ability to breathe deeply. I feel laboured with a tight feeling beneath my sternum as though I may never feel at ease again. At night as I am courting sleep, I wake up gasping for breath.
Sometimes I try and fight it. I tell myself that it's all in my head - that my lungs are fine and I can breathe as deeply as I wish. I resist the urge to gasp, and continue with my tidal breathing until I think I'm going to die and give in. (It's much like holding your head under water and trying so hard not to think about drowning or how badly you need to take a breath - until you cannot take it a second longer and emerge from what may have become a watery grave.)
So no matter how much I try and convince myself that everything's ok, it still turns out not to be. No matter how much I try and save, I still manage to spend. I tell myself that I will never know the person I was last weekend again, but I plan on misbehaving this coming Saturday night. And so I am torn as to whether I am actually my alter ego in disguise, and it is not until now that I have really surfaced?
I know this is not just in my imagination. I have had comments from those around me as to my shift in mood and outlook. It was only today that my manager asked me to have a sit down conversation with her in which she demanded to know what was happening. Apparently my previously effective "Nothing" is wearing a bit thin, so when she did not accept this I walked away mumbling to myself to cover the sound of her frustrated tone.
It was after this that I finally realised the abnormality of my behaviour. If my seemingly emotionless boss sensed a change of personality, the fact is that there is one. I hate that she's right and I hate that there's nothing I can do about it but most of all I hate that I'm even in this bother.
I just wish sometimes you could tear a page out of your diary and make it go away. Tear out a day to make that argument disappear, tear out a week to get rid of those appointments, or dare I remove a fistful in the hopes of finding the person I used to be? Or at least the person who was oblivious to everything that she's aware of now.

Alter Ego

Well, what an intense few days it has been.
Let me start with Thursday.
My parents and brother went away to the Sunshine Coast (long story - don't ask) and thankfully I was excused from the expedition. So I started the day with a visit to my doctor to discuss the results from the variety of tests I had undergone. To be completely honest I was so scared that my legs were shaking as I waiting for her to confirm my diagnosis. It was almost an anti-climax when she said I didn't have what she was looking for.
Huh?
Seems my blood tests ruled it out but the other tests still showed that something was definitely wrong. Her next attempted diagnosis was laughable, and completely and wholly impossible, which just re-enforced that whatever the hell is happening is something way more serious than I first thought.
Damn. Now I'm scared. So apparently she doesn't have enough qualifications to diagnose me so I left with a referral to a specialist. Fucking hell I wish I never even bothered.
Afterwards I went to work with nothing occurring of great importance. At 6 I flew out the door and high-tailed it up to Pacific Fair where Miss Priss met me. The main purpose of the trip was to find a mask for the work Christmas party on the coming Saturday in which we had themed as 'Masquerade'. Me being me managed to blow $50 on one that I will probably never wear again.
Oh but that's not even the half of it! I spent about a month's pay in a space of 2 hours on 2 new dresses that I really did not need and new jewellery to match. I think it's because I was so preoccupied with my thoughts on the morning's events that I wasn't paying much attention to my bank account. Miss Priss decided to keep me company and stayed the night with me. It was nice to be distracted actually - and of all the people I'm glad it was her.
Friday was an early start, as both Miss Priss and I volunteered our services to the local Federal Coalition candidate. Much of the day was spent walking around the shopping centres in an attempt to prove to the voters the high risk that would be taken in not retaining the Coalition Government.
That night I went to Poodles' Christmas party at her house. I was quite glad to be given the excuse to escape myself for a few hours at least and I went to extra effort to dress in my imported Mollini shoes and new dress. It began to pour just as I arrived so I stumbled up the front path trying not to get wet or break my ankle in my freakishly high shoes.
Yes, and the first person that I ran into on the front veranda was none other than Bloke - the girl who bullied me into a state of deflated self esteem all the way back in primary school. Yes, very awkward.
I found Poodles who was already half drunk and she convinced me that I needed to talk to J who also went to my primary school. Due to his state of intoxication he hugged me like an old friend and dragged me around the back deck introducing me to people that I already knew and really had no desire to ever see again. Then I ran into W, my best friend from primary school. Honestly, I think I was more excited to see her than she was to see me but that may have been due to the minor fact that she was friends with basically everyone else there.
Conversation then managed to weave onto the topic of the following day's Federal Election and me being the passionate Liberal that I am had to loudly and proudly state my stance (It was also amplified by my blood alcohol level). I wouldn't call my response a very positive one - as the crowd started chanting "Kevin 07! Kevin 07!". Yeah, not happy so I sat on the sideline and drank.
Eventually I decided I needed to go home and sleep in preparation for Election Day, so I got out of making pasta bake (?) and drove home. On the way I believe I rang the delightful Mr T but all I recall from the conversation is me spilling the contents of my bag onto the ground, telling him about the cheese spread I was eating and being informed of the designer socks he had bought. Oh - and I was going on about lesbians??? Yeah beats me. I felt guilty about it when I woke up on Saturday though - and really embarrassed as I had no idea what I was dribbling on with.
Bright and early in the morning, I arrived at St Joey's where we were all set up for a day of polling. I was not in a very good mood though so when this arrogant, hippy, ALP lady who gave us Young Liberals a hard time at the last election starting carrying on with the corruption of the Coalition, I had to put a lid on my anger as I was running the risk of getting an assault charge.
At 11.30am I was shafted down the ass-end of the coast to Pottsville - despite my objection. Seems dickhead R.A didn't want to leave Banora Point as "I live here and why should I have to drive out of my way?". Yeah thanks loser, I'll just drive around all day. I just had to convince myself that it was for the good of the party.
I left Pottsville at 2pm and went home to shower and get ready for the masquerade Christmas party that night. A small group of us met as S's house as she was driving us to the party (which was in Brisbane's Fortitude Valley) so we could leave early if it turned out to be a dud.
Turns out the whole night sucked for a string of reasons - before we even got to the party I found out that the Coalition had lost government and the new Prime Minister of Australia is Kevin Rudd. Fuck off. What - are the citizens of Australia complete dumb asses or what???
I figured it was a good idea to drown my sorrows with a few cocktails (after all - they were free!) and of course that boosted my confidence - enough so to pick a fight with some guys wearing Kevin Rudd masks. I was lucky that I didn't get bashed - but I did punch one of the Kevin heads.
We left after about an hour and a half for an interesting trip home, in which there were 6 passengers, the driver was half pissed, on the phone and doing 140 kms in the rain. I think I may be lucky to be alive.
I got home at about 1am which was early, especially since the party was in Brisbane and I had to go straight to bed. I couldn't keep my eyes open.
Woke up prematurely today but got up anyway. Didn't go to church - I don't know why. Then I got this crazy idea that I should get a bit of a tan, so I lay out in the sun, still in my pyjamas, for about half an hour and now I have really retarded sunburn. Yep - I'm an idiot.
Then I feel like I walked around the house aimlessly. I was so bored and I had nothing to do, so I eventually killed enough time until the 3.30pm session of Elizabeth: The Golden Age. OMG - brilliant movie! Cate Blanchett had better get an Oscar for that. She was absolutely amazing.
I couldn't help but get a bit emotionally involved though - I really did feel so sorry for the Queen. It's like she was living this life that she really didn't have the strength to live, in which she could only do what was expected of her, and never what she expected of herself.
A small positive of the day is that I received a very uplifting text message from D:

The sky is a beautiful Liberal colour blue today my fellow Young Libs.
Hold your head high and keep in mind what our cause has achieved for this great nation over the past 11 years. Howard, a true statesman.

So I came home, felt unnervingly lonely, had a few drinks in front of Garden State and now here I am. Honestly, I feel like everything that I have done in the past few days is no reflection of the person that I am. Or perhaps it is now the person I used to be? People always say that it can take certain events to change a person's outlook on life but are my actions an outlook? Maybe I'm just losing the plot, or trying to prove something to myself and the rest of the world?
Oh seriously. I think if I can't sort my own life out, how can I expect anyone else to?

So long, Farewell, Auf wiedersehen, Goodnight

Probably one of the most frustrating things in the world is a failed attempt at sleep. Whether it be squeezing your eyes shut to block out the conscious, tossing and turning in frustration knowing you need a good night’s rest for that big day tomorrow, or just staring motionless into the blackness of night, I think we can all safely agree it is one of the negative’s of life. I can report on this matter as I believe myself to be the most difficult person to knock out – When undergoing surgery I needed two anaesthetics before they could put me out.
Ever since I was a little girl I have dreaded bedtime. Not only did I think of it as a waste of your life lying under a sheet with your eyes shut, but because I knew once I was there the lights would be off but with someone still home. For hours I would lay trying to switch off my brain and stop the constant chatter keeping me awake. And because of the God-awful hour at which the Sand Man finally came to me, it is no surprise that for the entirety of my life, I have not been a morning person.
However during the most difficult period of my life thus far (and I am hoping it will be the most difficult ever), sleep fought me and every weapon I had. No matter how exhausted or at what hour I climbed into bed, sleep would not find me until well past 2am, and would again wake me about 3 hours later. It was during this time that I perfected the skill of procrastination. I would distract myself with anything that could possibly put off my bedtime by another few minutes in the very least.
You all know the awful feeling of sleep standing you up. I used to toss and turn in frustration until I found it just as easy to lay quietly, with my eyes open gazing into the emptiness of my bedroom. Failing this? I would sit upright in the centre of my bed, hugging my knees... because it distracted me from the task at hand - the task that I was yet again, failing.
And so I am here creating this post for the mere purpose of procrastination. I have another doctor's appointment tomorrow in which I am hoping (and at the same time hoping NOT) to receive a diagnosis. I have this feeling of impending doom within my chest and I am continuing to relive the experiences of the tests that I underwent just the other day (let me just say that despite how brilliant the medical profession is, they still do some pretty horrible stuff to people). And so with these thoughts and feelings of worry and dread I know that this evening's slumber will not come without much persuasion. I think the only option I have left is to drink myself into a state of unconsciousness... but then I'd have a stuffed liver to add to the rest of me.

Back Post

If Blogger was not being the world's greatest prat last night that would have made 2 posts in 2 days. I think that's a little sad - even for me. Does that not say something about my state of affairs? I am on holidays from uni, have finished my exams and need not return until February 2008... and my time is being consumed with pointless posts.
Last night I had yet another argument with my mother (which is becoming more routine than spontaneous) and found myself in my room with no-one to call and no music loud enough to cover the screaming inside my head. So naturally, Blogger was my point of call and even this personified website was unavailable.
A long since abandoned remedy of mine in instances such as this was poetry. So yes, I got my Sylvia Plath out and wrote a poem which literally took no more than five minutes to whack together (and before someone finally answered their phone).
So in tribute to last night's lack of effort here is my attempt:

The world spins,
the force of its rotation grinding
into the blades of my shoulders.
Every physicality increases its weight –
Every stone, tree, every man, woman and child.
I feel my body ache with the burden,
my head spin with the torment.
A break occurs below the knees,
silent tears flow –
I will not cry out.

As yet another son is born
another of my bones breaks.
Falling to my knees I plead to my God –
Take away the sins of the world.
Take me Father, and set me free.

Timeless

Well I will admit that although very little of my circumstances have changed, I do feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
After a rather painful day at work on Sunday, I met with the delightful Miss Priss for what was anticipated to be a cup of coffee. I swung by her residence then we headed for the beachfront Gloria Jean's in Coolangatta - although funnily enough, we didn't quite make it inside.
Whilst parking the car we had entered into a meaningful conversation about our thoughts, feelings and theories on the world. There never did seem to be an appropriate moment to step back into the world: the constraints of my vehicle not only provided shelter from the drizzling rain, but it released all inhibitions and for the first time in my life I found my exact thoughts pouring upon listening ears. I did not have difficulty choosing the right words, or fearing that I truly did appear screwed up in the head. I think that's because Miss Priss just accepts me for who I am. I need not conform into the parameters set by society or entertain her with gossip from former classmates; being myself is enough.
I think we must have sat in the car for nearing on 2 hours, but we both agreed that time had stood still. We were the axis of the universe, and the world surrounding us continued to spin (actually, that reminds me of a poem I wrote towards the end of Year 11... One day I may feel able to share it).
It was only in the last moments of our timeless discussion that I finally felt able to reveal the biggest concern that is currently plaguing my days and nights. I told her of my doctors visit, the exchange of words, the ordered tests and the bottom line - what she was looking for. It was not only the first time I had said it out loud but also the first time I had said it to myself. I think I was a little overwhelmed - I wasn't really sure what to think, how to feel.
Miss Priss cried - yeah that made me feel better!
Surprisingly though, I didn't - maybe I'm stronger than I thought I was.
Maybe I don't really care.
Maybe it's just fate - written into the script of life before I even took my first breath, because some things are just meant to be.
So I must have looked like a stunned mullet and Miss Priss couldn't believe that I hadn't told anyone before that moment. I told her I couldn't - not until I knew for sure, because I'm not the little girl who cried wolf. She told me that I shouldn't have to do it alone, and because I'd told her she's in it now for the long haul.
And in concluding that thought, we stepped back into the world and allowed time to restart.

?

Yes, it is still raining.
I swear I am in the world's worst mood ever so I have had to put myself into seclusion for the fear of committing murder.
Had an exam this morning - ironically enough, for mental health. Let me just say I am very mentally unhealthy after that. Was almost late too - had to leave at 7.30, and woke up at 7.22. Great start to the day.
Felt my spirits lift a little as I had coffee with Lil G, and sat in Gloria Jeans for well over an hour chatting about the insignificant aspects of the world. I helped her choose a dress for her sister's birthday dinner and dropped her home. Just as I was heading home myself, it began to pour. Great.
It wasn't until I got home at 4pm that I realised I hadn't eaten lunch. Now my tummy is full of a gurgly mess - What? Food? I remember that - vaguely...
That's what bloody stress does to you.
When I'm stressed I'm a completely different person. I fight with everyone and don't give a shit about the world. Even my posts don't make sense - no wonder no-one reads them.
Before I give the impression that I really am losing the plot, I'm going to sign off.
I'll be back when I find my sanity. (Oops - too late!)

Wet

It never rains, it pours.
Ironic, considering the weather has been wet for the past 2 days.
The start of my very long string of worries began last Wednesday when I, along with my Speech and Drama students had our exams through Trinity Guildhall. The difference being that the children were undergoing practical performance and theory exams, and I had my teaching exam. The syllabus required me to teach either an individual or a group via a pre-planned lesson for 30 minutes duration, and then have a viva voce (discussion) with the examiner for 15 minutes.
Well, at the conclusion of my lesson with A., I felt confident as I sat with the examiner to discuss various topics. My confidence was quickly diminished as this arrogant Scottish man felt the need to condescend my every comment until he felt the need to teach me, during an exam in which I was supposed to teach others.
I walked out feeling very self-conscious and then had to spend the remainder of the afternoon putting on a smiling face for the other children who had worked so hard and were confident after their exams. Gosh, it nearly killed me.
Wednesday night was spent with Mrs Borat studying for an exam the following Monday, and Thursday involved a trip to Uni, failing an assignment and going to work in an unbelievably bad mood that could not be justified to anyone as I feared an emotional breakdown.
Friday -
Study at Uni and basking in Mrs Borat's hangover.
Saturday -
Test-driving new vehicles but disappointment again as the car that I had formerly idolised turned out to be cumbersome to drive in the very least.
A visit to the Vigil Mass in an attempt to relieve my state of depression, then dinner with the delightful Poodles who has just returned from an archaeological dig in French Polynesia.
Sunday -
Another day at the office with an absolute creep for a manager. That is until home time when news was received of a double-fatal car accident in a fellow co-worker P. was involved. Thankfully she got out alive, but her friend in the backseat was not so lucky. Gosh did that hurt - I didn't even know the guy but it sends shivers down my spine.
One of the girls from work and I went to Emergency Department where P. still was but I felt completely useless - it's was that damn 'barbed wire snare'. My sentences were only short and uneventful for the fear of crying for all those involved, and because the lump in my throat wouldn't allow much else. We spoke with her brother who eventually choked out the graphic story, and explained that he was the first on the scene, as the accident occurred in the front of their house. Gosh did P. look a mess. It really cut me to see her so upset and the vacant look in her eyes haunted me for a good while after.
Returning home was hard because my family actually saw the accident only minutes after it happened, and my brother showed particular distress when he had seen the deceased motorbike rider on the road.
Study was completely off the agenda, despite my final Pathophysiology and Pharmacology 2 exam the following morning. My head hurt too much for more pain.
Monday -
Yes. Patho Phys exam.
Mrs Borat and I were late (oops) and rushed into the exam room minutes before it commenced.
Overall, the exam sucked and I have my fingers crossed for a pass.
The afternoon involved a what I believed to be insignificant visit to the doctor but has since caused me a lot of inner grief and worry. I should feel grateful that I have a really good doctor and she actually listens to what I have to say, but when she told me what she was looking for in the tests that she has ordered I had a silent freak out. I should be thankful that she's not treating me like a piece of meat and aiming her speech directly over my head but me being the worrier that I am; I'm stressed.
I then trekked off the do some delightful stock take during which I was inundated with stupid 15 year olds who didn't understand anything until it was explained about 10 times. Stress levels were very high in addition to my swirling thoughts on the afternoon's doctors visit.
Sleep was difficult but I eventually woke on Tuesday morning after a just plain cruel dream, in which my night mind was taunting me about this possible medical condition.
Tuesday -
Work.
Hours extended from 3 to 8.
Yay - money.
Stress levels elevated to maximum level with never-ending jobs, the dread of having to approach my manager over a work related issue, lack of preparation for exams and health concerns.
Positive of the day - small potential win on the Melbourne Cup. Don't know how to gamble so wouldn't have a clue.
Wednesday (today) -
Blood tests this morning and my God! I swear I have no blood left!
Appointment made for additional tests but due to waiting times will be forced to strew in a pit of my own worry for another 2 weeks.
Currently procrastinating by blogging and editing my Hotmail contacts.
Should probably study.
Probably.
Probably not.

Fingers to keys...

I feel like I have something that I either want to, or need to say. The trouble is I have no idea what it is. It feels like someone is sitting on my chest restricting all movement, breath and happiness.

I suppose there is nothing to but wait until my captor takes a toilet break??

90s

The following email came into my possession so here it is for anyone who wants to reminisce:

You're a 90s kid if:
You can finish this - Milk, milk, lemonade...
You remember watching: 'Hey! Arnold', 'Round the Twist', 'Ren and Stimpy', 'AAAAAAAH Real Monsters!', 'Rocko's Modern Life', 'Aggro's Cartoon Connection', 'Play School' with Monica, 'Sesame Street' for an hour twice a day - And you'd remember when it was actually worth getting up early on a Saturday to watch cartoons.
You remember reading 'Goosebumps' and 'The Baby-Sitters Club'.
You said 'NOT' after (almost) every sentence... NOT!
When everything was settled by: Scissors, Paper, Rock - There's a dunny on the hill would you like to come... - Nutcracker - Eeny, Meany, Miney, Mo.
When you played Tiggy, Stuck in the Mud, Hide and Seek, Sardines, Murder in the Dark and Catch and Kiss until your legs grew numb.
You used to listen to the radio all day long just to record your FAVOURITE song of ALL time.
Tazos owned chip packets.
Captain Planet - he's a hero.
You remember Sonic Hedgehog and Sega, and practically witnessed the birth of Super Mario.
Yo-yos were cool.
You remember the Where's Wally books.
You ate Warheads and Ghost Drops.
You remember Push Pops and Lucky Dips - and YoGo Gorilla.
Home-made birthday cards were cool. Especially the ones where you'd cut a mouth so into it so it opened and a tongue popped out.
You made those little paper fortune things and then predicted your life with them.
Tamagotchis were banned from school because they were so popular.
Furby.
Baby Born.
You didn't always have a computer and it was cool to have the Internet - and Windows 95 was the best!
"Emo" didn't exist.
You knew Michael Jordan was the best basketballer of all-time even though we had no idea who he played for.
Mattel's Barbie and Ken owned the shelves.
'World 4 Kids' came before 'Toys R Us'.
Play dough was the coolest stuff invented.
You understand when I say 'Cheez TV'.
Troll Dolls were cool and not just weird.
You listened to cassettes - and had no idea what a CD was.
Two words - Spice Girls.
The original Pokemon with Ash, Misty and Brock - before those try hards at the Yu-Gi-Oh production plant.
You know the 'Macarena' off by heart.
"Talk to the hand!"... enough said.
You went to McDonald's to play in the playground - and Happy Meals only cost $2.95.
When light up sneakers were cool.
When you rented VHS, not DVDs.
When petrol was 85 cents and Paddle-Pops were 75 cents.
Caller ID was new and mobiles were only for important people.
Before the MySpace frenzy... before text messaging... before iPods... before PlayStation 2 or X-Box... before you had an email address...
Way back...
Before we realised all this would eventually disappear...

Who would have thought we'd miss the 90s so much?!

Life's Angels

For ages I have loved these little angel figurines from the 'Willow Tree' collection. They are these beautiful carved angels with wire wings and no face, each in a different stance to represent themes of life. I think the first one that really caught my eye was the "Angel of Patience". She was so calm to look at but so many conclusions could be drawn from exactly what she was thinking. She was for sale in this little gift shop I knew and every week I would go and see her. She was there for so long that she was reduced to $15. I felt sad for her sitting on that shelf alone, entertained by only her own thoughts.
I know what you're thinking - why didn't I adopt her? Believe me I wanted to, but I had developed this deep appreciation for the collection that I had convinced myself the eloquence of these creatures was the uniqueness of each, and that they could only truly uphold this if given as a gift. To buy one for yourself would be like buying a size 8 dress when you really are a size 10 - your self image is warped; it's how others see you that is the truth.
So I never did get the Angel of Patience. Soon after the shop closed down and she disappeared to somewhere beyond my knowledge. For Christmas however at the end of that year, my dear friend Miss Priss (I have previously referred to her in this blog in bad taste but no matter how much you love someone they can still give you the shits) gave me a delightful Willow Tree pair entitled "Sisters by Heart". There was no greater title for her and myself than this and I believed this gift to be one of the most sincere and heartfelt ones that I had ever been presented with. Sitting in a proud position in my bedroom, I still agree.
That same year Willow Tree released a Christmas collection. It included Joseph, Mary and Baby Jesus, the Three Wise Men and the stable animals. I had mentioned to my mother how much I loved them and suggested the starting of a new Christmas tradition.
You see, every year without fail my grandma gives my mum an ornament for the Christmas tree. It's something completely different every year - sometimes a souvenir from one of the various countries visited by my grandparents throughout the year, and others a collectors piece from Myer or David Jones.
So I thought it would be a great idea if every year I got another piece of the Willow Tree nativity scene - but Mum thought they were pretty lame and didn't jump on board.
Last Christmas I saw them again in the window of the jewellery store. I looked at them for ages then had to pull myself away. But I couldn't stop thinking about them and kept going back to stand in front of the shop window. After a few visits I realised that the only way that these precious characters wouldn't end up like the Angel of Patience would be for me to throw my theories out the window and put my money were my mouth was.
So I did - a whole $250 dollars of it. I lay-byed them paying as much as I could afford every week and the day that I paid the final dollars I rushed home and put them in the centre of our dining room table. I just loved to look at them and often found myself wasting minutes just gazing at their non-existent faces and their uniqueness.
I lingered in repacking them in their boxes after Christmas and New Year. I didn't want to shut them away until the festivities returned in another 10 months time. So when my birthday came around in August you would think that I'd be delighted to receive another angel from the collection. And I would have thought so too...
Miss Priss gave me one that truly is beautiful. She is the "Angel of Sincere Thanks" and with her faceless and wire winged body holds a wire hoop with the words 'Thank You' inside. I was told that she was the 'prettiest' in the shop and that she looked like she belonged to me.
So I took her home and sat her on the shelf with my Russian Nesting Doll and my Sisters by Heart. It didn't look quite right somehow so I rearranged my treasures until they pleased my aesthetics, and oddly enough my newest angel had found her place behind the Sisters at the back. I didn't know why but I wanted to leave her there; and it wasn't until days later that I realised why.
She doesn't mean anything to me. She does not represent an unbreakable bond of friendship, or clear my mind when she enters my gaze, let alone cause me to stop in my tracks just the absorb her true meaning as if that of a religious holiday. She has become an insignificant aspect of my room and life. She is not a gift of thanks, rather one of convenience, and for that she has taken the back row. It's not her fault, and I wish I could put it past me to overlook this unimportant detail for her sake. Sadly, I don't think I can.
Every time when I look at her I resent her more and more. Why could she not be an Angel of Hope or Wisdom? I know why - because Miss Priss chose her not to be. She played God to this unloved Angel and now it's up to me to right the wrongs. I will force myself to be able to look at her without negativity and unlove.
But until then, Christmas is just around the corner.

48 Hours to Live

This past week has been marked in my calendar as my 'Mid Semester Break'. However, unfortunately I had an assignment due yesterday and me being the procrastinator that I am didn't start until Tuesday. At this point I sat down to start and went 'Holy shit this is really hard!' so from then on, my holiday week was a stressful one.
Anyway, as I already said my assignment was due on Friday. Today is Saturday - which means I have 48 hours of freedom in which to dub as my 'holiday' so for once in my life I am getting off by lazy butt and doing something about it.
I woke up this morning at the delightful hour of ten to an empty house and an incredible summery day just abroad of the shadow cast by my own home. With every minute that passed, stealing another fragment of my already shortened time, I threw on my bathers and a cotton dress, jumped in the car and in no time at all tasted the salty air on my lips and felt the chilled water lapping at my feet.
There were quite a number of people on my formerly hidden-away-beach, but I put it down to it being a long weekend. There were families, creepy looking old men skulking around in the sand dunes, a group of male twenty-somethings kicking a football around along the shore line and the funniest would have been the bikini-ed teenagers taking MySpace shots of each other.
I stayed for about an hour then walked the long way back to our beach house, stopping on the way for some hot chips with chicken salt.
On my return I convinced my dad to come on an adventure with me to this cute antique shop in Coolangatta. I like second-hand shops when I'm with him because he can point out the significance of particular pieces and tell me truthfully if they are worth the price tag. I ended up with a very attractive purchase - a sewing box from the 1940s.
The other great thing about my dad is that he shares my sweet tooth. We visited the lolly shop and the world's greatest ice cream parlor - Cold Rock. By the time we got back it was about 4 o'clock (probably having something to do with my late morning sleep in) so I hurried home to shower and change for church.
Today's gospel was about Lazarus and his unfortunate life, and joy in heaven after ascending from the world of the living. Obviously it went a bit deeper than that but the theme throughout the service resulting from this story was "Practice one act of kindness every day" and in doing this, good will come to you both during life, and after it.
It made a lot of sense as I sat in the crowded church and it wasn't just this message that I pondered. Rather, that as seemingly unattainable the values are, that are preached for use in life, I accept them and strive to become a better person as a result. Days later it may all seem too difficult as my attempts are challenged by people around me, but as I sit with other Catholics in the rows of pews that we occupy, I believe it, I feel invincible. When I am there, both my body and spirit, I am home.
Rushing out during the final hymn I made it in time before the doors were shut to The Legend of Rain, this self-devised drama performance by a group of kids, directed by a young man who beat me at the Eisteddfod (and we are friends - not like see you all the time friends, but 'Hey! How've you been?' type friends).
So the performance went for just over an hour and one of the girls in it used to be a student of mine. I stopped teaching her at the end of last year and since then she's been having unofficial lessons with her cousin (who happens to be the director) and sad as it may be for me to admit it, she has progressed beyond words. She blew me away with her performance but at the same time I think I was a little jealous - I'd never been able to make her act like that!
But overall, the performance was like HSC Group Drama meets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. For me it was a bit slow moving and I thought that each scene needed to be linked together more, but apart from that it was an amazing experience.
Afterwards I returned yet again to my empty house, cooked myself some pasta, put on a DVD and had a Smirnoff. Now here I am!
But now, I think it's time for bed.
Until next time,
x

Patience is a Virtue

Let me go back about 4 hours:
I arrived at my dear friend Yass' house to pick her up as we were heading up the coast to watch the arrivals at my brother's graduation formal. I hadn't seen her since my birthday over a month ago so it seemed like a good opportunity for us to catch up. Yass and I have been friends for quite a long time, and I would label us as close. Admittedly we don't see nearly enough of each other as we should but there is a mutual understanding between us that we know we can rely on the other in times of need.
Small talk filled my little car as we dodged the peak hour traffic, consisting mainly of work, friends and life in general. Just over 2kms before our destination we passed a limo in which a fat little hand emerged belonging to my graduating brother... and with my navigational skills I lost the carpark, ending up on the other side of the waterfront therefore, we missed his actual arrival. Nevertheless Yass and I hurried to join the mingling crowd, craning our necks to see a familiar face. And the first person that I literally ran into was none other than Biolady (I don't think I have actually reported much on her but for completion she knows a lot of my darkest past - this of course makes me uneasy). She was there solely for the arrivals with her baby boy whom I had not met before tonight - and yes he is gorgeous.
So we consumed a few minutes through insignificant conversation in which I felt awkward for 90 percent of, then I escaped and Yass and I mingled through the crowd. It was so surreal seeing all of these people that I had hardly spared a thought for over the 2 years since I had graduated myself, yet when I found their faces, I felt as if no time had passed at all.
There were of course individuals who were frequent visitors in my mind. Yass and I were summonsed by the Head of Middle School (referred to by students as the 'Short Scary One') and indulged in a heartfelt conversation that I never thought we would again share. Her daughter was in our group and whilst at school we were often found at her house - she was the cool mum who hosted the parties (and by parties I mean a whole heap of teenagers swimming in their clothes at midnight and burning random things over tea candles). We talked about the good old days and she admitted how much she missed us all, and let it slip that we were her favourite grade ever seen by the school. I relished in the thought of being someone's favourite even if it's not as an individual. And I realised how much I had missed her.
And the evening would not have been complete without a brief encounter with the School Chaplain. He looked genuinely pleased to see me and I finally had the opportunity to share the label I referred to him as - Dumbledore. Just because no matter what, he made everything ok.
Afterwards, Yass and I ventured back into the world in search for a meal. Ending up at my dad's favourite Italian restaurant, conversation continued.
Yass revealed how sad she felt after seeing everyone from our school days. She said that she missed seeing her friends everyday, how the teachers genuinely cared about you and how she wished she could go back. I must admit, this confession did take me my surprise because I know Yass well enough to say that she does not readily expose the emotive side of her spirit. Much to her surprise however, I agreed. I had thought it for 2 years and I was finally pleased to hear someone else agree - it threw my fears of not being able to grow up out the window, because if anyone had grown since our graduation, it was the girl sitting opposite me.
Turning then to tales of university and basically how it sucks in comparison, Yass began to speak as though only to her own mind, and not me. She truthfully confessed her hatred for tertiary studies and revealed the anxiety it made her feel. She hates her classes, her course, the students; the whole kit and caboodle. Well, I didn't know what to say - and to tell you the truth I don't even remember. All I know is that I told her it was ok. Uni does not shape a person or even define their future, and we're only 20 years old. We are too young to know where our lives will be in another 20 years so how can we choose a path to go down now to get there?
Not only was that what she thinks she needed to hear, but I think it's what I needed too. Don't get me wrong, I think I'm steering in the right direction, but if that damn fog blinds me I need to know that it's ok to pull over - and I just gave myself permission.

Child's Play

I think two of the voids in my childhood was my inability to skip double dutch, and to twirl a hula-hoop.
Today, however, was one of the most fulfilling days that I have had in a very long time. Not only did I have a very deep conversation with M, the most deeply spiritual woman I know about sacred spaces and where to find God, but I returned to my childhood with the most precious children I know and we taught each other how to skip.
Okay, so we all knew how to skip, but there were of the course the little tricks and turns like criss-cross, jump ins (we got to 3!) and of course everyone's favourite, the old single rope jumping.
It was someones brilliant idea to get two ropes going and attempt some double dutch. Now I knew that this wasn't my area of expertise, so I volunteered to turn the ropes. And to be perfectly honest, no one started off too well.
Yeah, we were all that bad that we retreated inside and watched the movie that inspired us to skip in the first place, 'Jump In'. Actually, E. loved it that much she had a need to watch it 5 times since hiring it out the previous day.
Anyway, I resisted my severe need for down time (since being woken by E. at God knows what hour after going to bed only a few hours before) as the rest of the family went out, and A. and I attempted double dutch again.
We thought we were rather clever by tying an end of each rope to the end of the trampoline and taking it in turns jumping in. Our aim was to get at least 2 jumps each under our belt before the rest of the family returned home. So after many failed attempts we recorded one on my mobile and sent it off to my professional skipper cousin. Hastily replying, she gave us a few tips to work on.
The others returned home and did we practice, practice and practice! Soon everyone was having a go - even M. - and after little time at all, little E. got the hang of it and busted out with 34 jumps. Wow - talk about setting the bar high! This just made the rest of us want it even more!
G. got flustered after a while - said he didn't like things that he wasn't good at, but eventually he got 2 jumps in, as did A, S and M.
So I gave it another go and "By Jove! She's done it!"
37 jumps.
The record of the day.
And the feeling that I got is hard to describe. You couldn't say defeating your demons (that would suggest that skipping is something to be feared) or that it is achieving that 'sacred space' (because I know there is nothing more almighty than God himself) - but more like finding that bracelet you lost when you were 7, or coming across your old Barbies and desperately wanting to play with just to feel 10 years old again.
I felt like a child and it didn't frighten me. I have been so consumed with this idea that I haven't grown up and I never will, because my heart and mind are continuing that ongoing battle that began over 6 years ago. I figured that because I still felt the same, I still was.
Well, that battle has not ended - it may take something more powerful than skipping. But I have achieved that feeling of fulfillment and completeness. I have filled that jigsaw piece that I'd never thought I'd find into the puzzle that I never thought I'd finish.
Well - not yet. But I'm going to buy a hula-hoop tomorrow.

Don't stress the small stuff

It is only recently that I have realised how many things that we stress about in this world don't even matter. People are constantly worried about how they look, what materialistic aspects of life they are missing out on and how many eco bags are not being sold. It frustrates me to think that these are the only important things in some people's lives.
Everyday terrible things are happening to people, but most of the time no one bothers to stop and notice because of all of this other junk that is clouding our universe. People are sick, missing exams, supporting families, losing sight of who they are, grieving and dying; only last week a girl at Kingscliff High School gassed herself - The 3rd sibling of 4 to die before the age of 20.
This is the stuff that really matters. Her friends are trying not to feel guilty and to deal with her death without failing the HSC or wanting to join her.
This is what really counts.
I just wish people would see that.

Good Morning All

Yes it's already Friday morning and what a delightful day it will be...
I have two essays due today and I've had probably about two months to do them but sadly they are still sitting in my head waiting to be written.
Okay so they have to be in by 12 noon but do you think that I have the motivation to write about stuff no-one really cares about anyway? Cellular mechanisms of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and The Effects of Lavender Baths on Psychological Well Being. Ew.
So neither of them are finished yet and I'm still sitting here blogging about it to the world?
The art of procrastination my friend.
x

Thoughts

Reading the journals of Sylvia Plath is like listening to my own thoughts - except she says what I can't find the words for...

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

Placebo laughter. Real drug

In one of my classes at Uni the other day, we started to learn about administering drugs to patients and dosages etc. After the initial classroom work we were sent into the labs to take turns at the drug trolleys. All of the drug containers were filled with placebos of course, but the point was to prepare the drug and calculate the dosage.
The girl who I was paired with seemed to be having fun with the exercise and rummaged through the trolley looking for the most original drug she could to give me.
"Here you go love," she said smirking and shoving a medicine cup in my face containing 2 small green capsules.
Our tutor came over then willing to be included in the joke.
"What did you give her?"
"Prozac!" She laughed.
Our tutor laughed.
The class laughed.
My facade laughed too - but inside I was lethally cut.

It seemed that everyone in that classroom found the drug a joke - why? Is it the taboos of what it is associated to? What taking it means?
As everyone in that classroom laughed, all I could think about were the tears that I had shed taking the real deal only the year before. I felt that my pain was being sold out over those sherbet filled capsules.
Perhaps I was over-reacting a touch - but just thinking of that drug hurt as much as taking it did; even without the guffaws from the lab.
Why? That I do not know...
Because I'd taken the drug before?
Or because sometimes I think I still should?
Because it's prescribed, but never un-prescribed?
Or maybe, just maybe, it's because it still haunts me...

I've got your back!

At work we sell these coloured wrist bands with the proceeds from each sale going to Juvenile Diabetes research. I hate them; probably because I hate all charity bands and see many of them as an exploitation of the definition of 'charity'. Anyway, in today's five hour shift the law was laid down that I had to sell at least ten of these things.
Great.
I asked every customer; most declined politely, some made up excuses such as 'I have heaps at home', and there were twelve people that actually caved in and bought them just to shut me up.

There were two customers however, who had the most original yet offensive excuses one could possibly provide:

Me: Would you like to support Juvenile Diabetes and purchase a wrist band for just $2.95?
Customer: No - If the fat kids ran around more then they wouldn't get diabetes and you wouldn't have to raise money.
Me: It's actually Type 1 Diabetes - You don't get it from being fat. You get it from really bad luck in your gene pool.

Me: Would you like to support Juvenile Diabetes and purchase a wrist band for just $2.95?
Customer: No I only donate to Cancer ones - Because I actually have a chance of getting that.
Me: That's a rather cynical way of living life.
Customer: Oh crap - I hope I didn't jinx myself. Touch wood, touch wood!!

I had never thought of that analogy before - just because it can't happen to us personally; does that mean we shouldn't care?
Hmmm
Well, obviously being stupidly misinformed and an asshole gives you license not to.

Cold as Ice

Everyone constantly complains about not being pretty enough, how everyone is hotter than themselves and even to the extreme of 'I hate how cute you are!' But it wasn't until last week that I realised how under-rated unattractiveness is.
At work this sleazy old man came in and required assistance in looking for a jumper. After trying to not only crack onto, but also 'feel' two of the three girls who were working that day, he finally selected an item and approached the third girl to pay for it (yeah - that one's me.)
I was prepared for some polite but disgusted smiling at cheap comments... But they didn't come. Not an inkling - I can't say I was disappointed; but my ego certainly was. As I said, lacking in hotness can come in handy - but it still hurts like hell.
Is that my reasons for lacking in a significant other?
Waiting at the bus stop the other day, I was approached by a Down Syndrome girl who was worried she had missed her bus. She was going in the same direction as me so after I reassured her that it had not yet arrived, she decided I was her new friend and began to tell me her life story.
Sentence number two told me that she had a boyfriend. She then asked if I had one. I told her no and her reply was one with a look of sympathy: "I'm sorry..."
WTF - What just happened?? Cut by retarded kid?! Oh dear.
Oh but don't worry; it was made up for the following day as I walked down George Street and a homeless man asked me if he could "...make you pregnant tomorrow?"
HELP
But then again, I ended up a lot better off than the lady in front of me whom he remarked to: "Your mother must have been ugly!"

Catch twenty-two I suppose - hot or not?