Heartbreaker

Ever wanted to break someone's heart? I know that sounds bloody awful, and I think only someone who has felt their life to be utterly shattered for a little while by a broken heart will think like this, but I mean it. I think it would be cruel and vile but part of me, the dark side everyone has somewhere, wants to crush somebody. I wish someone would fall madly in love with me, utterly and completely head over heels, can't eat, can't sleep, country song kind of love. Pine for me, think of me more than once everyday involuntarily, and be annoyed when they realise they've forgotten something because I was on their mind. I want someone to crave my company, miss me when I'm gone if only for a day, and wish that I was as crazy in love with them as they were with me. I'd like to know I had the power to crush and devastate them, it must be a massive power surge, a dominating sense of control. I never have control, and unfortunately I have been cursed in life to be the one more likely to fall in love than be loved. I'm 20, if I don't have 'it' now while in my prime I never will.

Once, when I was still single but I'd perked up somewhat, I put on a killer dress and I went out drinking with some girl friends, no one I was particularly close to, and this was one of the nights I felt uncomfortable and wanted to go home from the moment the night started. But I stood at the bar, my group were at a table and a chap came and chatted me up. I was mesmerised and genuinely thrilled but I wasn't in the most reputable of places, I wasn't in a ladylike dress, and this wasn't a gentleman.

However I actually let him buy me drinks, and I enjoyed it because he looked at me in a way I can't recall someone looking at me since. Maybe it was just that particular dress and the heels! His eyes were sleazy, that sleazy slow all the way down look, lingering for way too long on my tits, but he was early 20's so it was more sexily acceptable than most old try their luck perverts. I liked the way he looked at me, it was vulgar and obvious but I liked it. It's looks like that, when they lick their lips subtly as if their mouth has gone dry that really give you a kick, you suddenly feel as if you have some sort of power over that person, you could get them to do anything because they want you, I'd never really felt sexual until then. It gave me that confidence boost I was no doubt craving, I was getting thumbs up from one of the girls and when I got on the dance floor I was by now tipsy from shots, something I never did and I was conscious the whole time of him watching. You know I'm struggling to remember his name while writing this, I'm sure the last name was Davies. Something Davies. We left and moved on after a while and I felt seriously bad for reading out my phone number wrong to the guy, especially since I'd let him buy me some drinks, the group of girls said that's how it was done but it didn't feel right. I'd panicked the moment he'd asked for a contact, I felt like a bright red sign was going to flash above my head reading "never had sex before!" and I cringed inside. Who knows if I'd given it to him he might have turned out to be a darling who fell madly in love with me, but somehow I doubt it. The girl he saw was fake with a slut dress on and a felt as out of place as a comedian at a funeral. However the look on his face all night, and knowing he kept his eyes on me for so long was the push of self esteem I needed and it probably did more for me than anyone would ever realise.

Broken Washing Machine

I'm so stressed out, I swear my brain is beginning to think headaches are a normal part of everyday. my eyes feel like they're too big for their sockets while my skull is threatening to split open.

I feel like I was 5, went to sleep and woke up almost 21, with two weeks left of uni, no definite grade and no job lined up. I feel sick in my stomach and lost. Truly honestly lost. Where did the time go where I told myself I had plenty of time to sort things out?

I always pictured myself being on my own at the end of uni, I have no idea why exactly but I genuinely always imagined the end of education and the beginning of real life being a solitary journey and perhaps if I was on my own at this particular point in time I would be a little more relaxed. I wouldn't be so hell bent focussed on getting that steady income to save and to move on, I feel an added pressure at the moment I could do without, just because no one around me is helping me to feel calm or helping at all! I just feel a sense of radiating pressure and I have a constant headache from it all.

The sodding washing machine broke today, that just added another bulging twinge to my headache, and reminded me how much I hate these awful four walls, there's a bloody curse on this place I swear, a black cloud always hovering. One day I'll have my own four walls and my own washing machine and it's that thought that pushes me but at the same time I need to relax before I give myself a brain tumour. Maybe I bloody am Bipolar! or maybe I'm just stressed and eventually I'll reach a point when everything is settled nicely and I wont be so stressed about the future because it will have already happened!

few weeks left

I don't know where my university grade is going to end up, but I've known since second year that it wasn't going to be a brilliant number to brag about, I have a few weeks of Uni left and I am putting everything I can into my last assignments, no one can say I haven't done my best. The truth is I won't be disappointed as long as I pass, I can't say the thought of failing doesn't make me feel sick, I just hope I pass and then the future is what ever I can make it with those three years, I honestly think were a pointless bloody waste of time, behind me.

As if in defiance of whatever the outcome is Grace has finally come back, idea's for my book, conclusions and answers are flying around my head and spilling out at every opportunity. I know if I can reach a moment of free time without any serious worry or stress I'll be able to knock out chapters for my books the way I used to. If I'm screwed after this absolute waste of three years at least I'll only be 21 and I'll have the only thing that's ever mattered: My books. Grace and I will be fine. No one else will understand this, and all those people can sod the hell off. If I'm still writing, and I'm writing Grace, I'm fine.

Grace.

Grace,
 I know I've been waiting for you to come back to me for over a year now, I know I've been bipolar with my moods and I have seriously neglected the book. Now you're back like an avenging tidal wave and your suffocating me under the pressure to write, I need to finish my coursework, I need to sort out a job with a full time income and then we can finish what we started. Don't go anywhere, just wait a little while for me. I've missed you. I'm ready. Be patient.

Brick Wall

I have hit a solid brick wall where my uni work is concerned, I actually feel an upset lug at the back of my throat. I have had no response from my lecturer for a week, and what I've had previously were pathetic attempts at advice composed in single short sentences. I am uninspired and empty and the stress is making me feel sick. I actually feel sick. I am going to go for a walk.

Dreams of Failing

I had a dream last night about my uni results, so it's started then, towards the end of every chunk of my academic life I start having my nights sleep tormented by dreams of my results and the future. I'm the sort of person who hates change of most sort with a passion, which makes me rather boring I suppose. I dreamt that I was trying to get hold of that brown paper envelope and for a long time it evaded my touch, always just slightly out of reach, and finally when I did get my hands on it I was forced to open it up in front of everyone! a lecture theatre full of people with judgemental looks, even my old favourite teacher from school was there watching me and I failed, a big fat blood red F.

Emily was in the dream with me, Emily is my friend, I have sadly neglected her lately because I am buried under work. Once it's over I intend to make it up to her with a day outing together, the dream reminded me of this.

I feel awfully sick, I have little appetite and that's always a bad sign.

Please don't fail.

bath poem

The bath water is very near cold
and a few warm tears drip from her nose
The steam that rose and covered the mirror
didn't linger long, already it's disappeared ...
and there’s a dissolution between her and the reflection
an austere expression of resentment
that crumples from the attention

The Gatsby Dress

It happened again didn't it. It was an accident, a bloody awful accident. I just ducked in because I had 20 minutes until the bus came and I thought I might see some inspiration for this years summer fashion, but as soon as I walked through those glass poster plastered doors I saw it: I can only describe the first glance as full of sparkle and daintiness, I was drawn in, only to this, this dress that hung on a hanger in the middle of everything else, hiding shyly behind a different one but I noticed that one. It was floor length, sweeping like an enchanted lake tightly in a silhouette but ending in an almost fish tail, I was sure I'd seen this dress before, as the shimmering metallic tail of a mermaid, I thought for a moment that surely this had come from a water-nymph of some Celtic river in a long forgotten legend. It was green, almost green, almost blue but most definitely more green. So demure with its capped sleeves and modest high neckline, it struck me as being rather Jane Austen, regency with its length and cut but the generous flood of beads and sequins making the slight lace heavy was much more 1920's...where? where in time am I thinking of? What moment has this piece captured?
and then it hit me...The Great Gatsby! well of course, that movie has inspired the fashion lines everywhere and this one beautiful creation had made its way here. I almost died when I read that it was £120. I have never in my life spent so much on an item of clothing, not ever! I walked away depressed, I looked back like a lost lover in war time and I felt like the dress was glaring resentfully back. That dress wanted to leave with me, it wanted to be carried out over my arm. It was the sort of creation one can only appreciate face to face, hand on fabric. I was truly very rather blue as I walked out of that shop. That was my Gatsby dress and I walked away from it, and I won't feel the same for a while.  

First day of real Sun.

It's a gorgeously sunny warm day. It's a strange one for mid April. I've already got tan lines glaring from my shoulders and I have that feeling of restless boredom that comes with the student free week days of long sunshine. I have work to do, but I've done so much my heads aching and I know I'll spend the night doing it too. I know that if all goes well to plan than this day is one of the last long summer days I'll ever have to waste away. Soon days like this will be a long ago memory and a bitter-sweet daydream, we really should have enjoyed last summer more, but I remember between the good days I was so terrified of that exam, that one that decided if I was to even to enter my last year, I still can't believe I passed it in the end. and now this year I'm stressed out about finding a job and settling into an income. Hopefully next summer will be free of stress and change, maybe it will actually be appreciated on the days I can spare for the sun.

It's day's like now that I really get focused ideas about my book, I can feel it beating like wings and right now I haven't got the time to pay it attention, my uni work comes first for just a little while, I hate saying that. As soon as it's over I promise I'll come back, and Grace is waiting.

Jeans have shrunk???

My favourite pair of jeans have officially shrunk in the wash, they shrunk! that's my story I'm sticking to it. Even the coat-hanger trick has let me down, so my new motto is: if moisturiser is on, the legs are out, damn the weather. Jeans are well out of date anyway! loose is the new tight and all that...Christ, I may just drown myself in the 8th lousy cup of tea I've made today. It must be the teabags, they don't look like Typhoo therefore they're probably P.G and I don't like P.G at the best of times. Or worse, they might be asda's own blend, lord! I'm usually not snobbish but teabags are teabags, they form the base of British life.

Even Jerome looks rather forlorn, fallen on one side, half buried beneath sheaths of paper and notes.
If he could talk he'd probably say "Don't kid yourself, you've avoided putting those jeans on until every other pair is in the wash box because they've been 'shrunk' a while."
I'm totally denying that.
My bra feels tighter too, can't decide if that's good or bad, probably the latter. I'd like bigger boobs yeah, I'd love the 32 DD to spill into a 34DD or a 32E that's small round the middle but larger in the cup and that's the best way to be, uncommon, but awesome. But with bigger breasts comes bigger everything else, I have a month around about until my birthday, I better crack on with some hard core heart racing fitness every day and then in a month I might have met a goal. If this heat wave that's rumoured actually hits I'll need to feel confident to strip off again or risk dying of overheating!
I'll do it. I promise. I promise myself.

Cat's died. Poem

I looked away a moment,
when I glanced up again you were gone.
You won't move again,
or open your eyes again
you wont look at anything, or anyone
You're dead.

You lie still
you will lie there and decay
Why are we alive?
if only to die?
to lie still and never look at anything again
I'm glad it was a sunny day
I'm glad you saw the sun in your eyes
you saw the sun again before you died.

Cat's died

I hate death, it's so awkward, death naturally leads to cuddles and soft words of it's ok and a pitiful attempt at conveying that love still lives for the living, I hate that sort of thing. I arrived home tonight to discover that the white cat has died. I can't say this has come as a shock as the animal has been getting thinner and scragglier by the day, she was about 17 years old, that's a good run for a cat who's been hit by a car twice and still managed to keep her tail and four legs.

A few unshed blinked away tears is what came from me, if it had been my own precious boy Dusty, the black tabby who sleeps at the bottom of my bed and taps at my window I would have been devastated. As it is I'm more concerned now for my mother, the white cat Frosty was her cat, and she's obviously upset. I think anyone who has a heart is upset by the passing of life, it's just knowing that they've been extinguished, they wont look at you again and recognise you. They won't move again. Just lie still, and that's the depressing part.

That cat's been around for most of my life, it's as if the end of university marks the end of my childhood, and everything that was a part of that is ending too. Even the sodding cat has died. I'll be 21 next month, and I have never felt time slip away so quickly before. If I take a minute to catch my breath or even to mourn the death of a family pet, how many months will pass by without me noticing by the time I glance back up?

Food and being 10

I never used to eat as a child, I wasn't just a fussy eater, I wouldn't eat hardly a thing that my mother put in front of me, the best I could do were tins of Heinz pasta and turkey drummers, of course cake and chocolate were another matter, you can always eat sugary rubbish. The doctors couldn't understand why I wouldn't eat and mother was upset by how thin her 8 year old was, barely there really. Then at 10 I went on a week school trip to Edgemont house in the country, my mother didn't want me to go because she was worried I wouldn't eat anything and be sent home or risk starvation, but I insisted. and what nobody could get their head around was that I did eat. I stuffed myself! It's like I'd never eaten before that week, I ate everything. Because frankly, it's my mothers cooking that is inedible.

I remember the first night at that house and the tables sat 5 students and there was a huge serving area at the front of the room, squash was served in jugs on the table. They served hot steaming chicken and mushroom pie with potatoes and lashings of vegetables and gravy and bread rolls with butter. They didn't skimp on portions either, they loaded you up. I cleaned my plate. In the morning selections of cereal were served and you got to pour milk on it yourself (which is a big deal to me!) and after that had been cleared away hot breakfast came out, sausage and bacon and egg, and bread and beans and orange juice! Every day I munched my way through food for an army and by the end, when the coach drove us back to the school gates and my mother stood beaming and waving, I literally could have cried, I dragged my bag and dragged my worn out trainers on the floor and I sulked. Even my dad was there to meet me and walk us home but I was depressed. That's the first time I think I felt and was depressed.

I had been changed by that trip, it had been the best time of my life so far, and I was never again going to eat whatever my mother served me. Like the stew she tried serving that night, chicken legs cooked in a thin greyish colour gravy, with bits of mush and vegetables, the chicken was still on the bone, just sort of floating around the water like dead fish in a diseased lake, I still can't understand how one is supposed to eat soggy wet chicken drumsticks out of stew water, with a knife and fork or with hands that then get sticky? It was tasteless but the textures and appearance is enough the put you off eating that. I was transformed by that trip and its glorious meals. I decided I was old enough to cook for myself, and so just turned 11, I demanded that my parents give me the £20 a week they received as child allowance for me. (I had asked my brother how much child allowance was). I said either I bought and cooked food myself or I'd sit in my room and starve. So I got the child allowance every week. The first thing I did was walk to the supermarket.

Unlike my mother who insisted the 'good' branded stuff was better, I wasn't ashamed to buy the own brand items twice the size and a half the price of the 'good' stuff. I went into Iceland for the first time and then I lugged home bags of frozen pizza and breaded chicken strips, I bought mayonnaise! Ready made curries and bread! I bought butter, a tub of flora that would last forever, when my parents proper butter was untouchable and ran out after 3 days. I still had change which I used to buy a cone of chips that day and a cake to eat at home. My mother couldn't believe how much stuff I'd gotten out of a £20, but when you're not proud and you budget, even a skinny 11 year old who's bad at math can stretch money. I soon learnt I had to label everything with my name, and argue and get angry or risk it all getting eaten outside of my own mouth. Call me selfish or spiteful but I'd been hungry enough trying to swallow down my mothers grey dishwater stew for far too long, and I was a kid! They were adults. As far as I was concerned from the day I started high school, they could and should provide for themselves and as soon as I was an adult I'd do the same. If they insisted on buying small amounts of expensive brand stuff, never spending more than £20 themselves and so having next to nothing in a basket and living off chicken and rice stew water that was up to them and they could damn well be jealous of my pizza and chips.

At 14 I began to earn up to £20 a week babysitting my niece and nephew for my brother.
at 16 I went to college and got EMA.
at 18 I started uni, got a job and had loan money sent 3 times a year.

So you see, I have always planned for the end of one lot of money to spill into the beginning of another. Now Uni is coming to an end, and sometimes I feel like the only person who is worried about leaving on lot of money and having no other to slip into, I am job searching like a woman possessed, and I wont just lay back and 'go with it', I am dedicated. It's the thought of money that drives me and I'm not ashamed of that. Money buys food, and I hate being hungry. Food is my favourite thing in the world.

Hungry

I hate being hungry. The only good thing about being hungry is when you know you're about to stuff yourself with yumminess very soon. When there is no yumminess to be had, or even a stale cardboard like edible substance, well then being hungry is a torment. I'd rather hand myself than starve or die of dehydration. There's not even a tiny notch of butter or a slice of bread in these four walls to have a piece of toast. God I hate it here.

How do people live like this? I should have the answer to that question, I've lived here for the duration of my life and detested almost every moment that I can recall.

I remember the first time money entered my hand I knew I'd found the drive in my life. At 14 I was suddenly regarded old enough to babysit for my brothers kids and earn a tenner a night, once, usually twice a week and those two tattered and battered ten pound notes were like precious moonbeams captured and imprinted on paper, the first thing I did was go to the supermarket. I spent a little on food and stuffed my face with oven cooked pie and cake for afters. The rest I slipped into a money box and so I did every week, to save up an emergency fund. After a while I halved that emergency fund and took £40 shopping. Me and Jodie who were still close then went to Westbrom...my god the days when that high street seemed to have every shop a girl could want and a pair of jeans, a top and sunglasses came to £14.50! I brought home plenty of change which went back in the fund.

I gave up a high school social life for that babysitting job, maybe that's why I didn't take up smoking and drinking along with my old friends, while they were trying things out and hanging around Macdonald's like a second home, I couldn't afford to turn down the money. Every time my brother rang I couldn't resist what that ten pound would feel like in my hand, and if I did a double night even better! plus I got fed, allowed to help myself to his kitchen and the use of over a hundred DVD's. Peaceful and cosy and for what? taking care of a toddler and kid who were easy going and behaved for me no matter what mood they were in.

When I'm on the rough road of being broke again, which frankly comes and goes with the student life. I gave up the part time job to focus on my last set of studies, which isn't something I can regret even when I'm rubbing pennies because every spare minute I have to myself I am working, studying, researching, reading. I have a constant headache as of lately. I'll happily be poor for a while if it means I pass through this ordeal. But when I'm short on money I only really miss food. It's easily handled when you're cold without heating and running a comb through hair that's lugged without conditioner with two inches of brown root growth above faded red, but hunger, Christ hunger is a plague on the system. You can't ignore or forget when your stomach rumbles and feels likes it's ripping apart. I can't feed you yet because if I eat too early you'll only be starving later, the later you get something in the better you'll get to sleep. I get paid in a week, literally 6 days to go...then the first thing I will do is a supermarket run round for a weeks worth of glorious food and a trip to the chippy for a large portion of everything!

It's going to be absolutely amazing when I have a full time paying job and get a month of wages. No matter what it is, or if I hate it, when that money registers I'll think I have the best life in the world. I wonder how long that will last.

Tears.

Christ, I've just done my makeup and now I'm crying for the 3rd time since I came on. I had a moment last night of abrupt emotion, then I had an awful dream and woke up in floods of tears and had to calm down before I could get back to sleep. and now I'm just plain emotional from some stupid message! Get a sodding grip Siviter! Pull it together. Reign it in.
I suppose excuses are I'm in a heightened anxiety state with my upcoming end of university and deadlines and financial crisis but this is bloody over the top even for me. I always get worked up on my time of the month but this is extreme, its my first day and I'm a wreck! Seriously, pull it the fuck together or I'll slap you across the face myself!

Mood.

My mood this week hasn't been the best. I put it down to uni work stress overload, and on coming time of the month. The door knocked today and I said to my mother "If that's for me tell them I died...very unexpectedly" and slumped into my room. This is basically my attitude for the entire week. I'm glad my Mr Jones is taking me to a live comedy show tomorrow to see the T.V version of myself: Miranda! I am looking forward to an evening out and a date, it's been a while. Even though I'm penny poor and need to scav for everything at the moment, I'm due a payment from selling my DVD collection which I expected tomorrow but its not going to be sent until after the weekend, which sucks. I can't wait to get that last student finance payment, it's going to sit there and make me feel comfortable that I can afford some decent food again! My phone contract is finished soon and like hell am I renewing it! Stealing bastards! I'm going to switch to a virgin contract of £8 a month that gives me more than I get now for £24 a month. Then I am going to job hunt and I am going to stress and cry and rant and enjoy the last easter holiday ever, and hope and pray someone buys me an egg, and if they don't I'm getting myself one because I'll need it. I'll stuff it in my face while choosing a movie before remembering I sold my dvd's because I'm poor then I will crash into Jones' depressed and take over the t.v. and demand a Disney movie download, and I will sulk and pray that I pass my last assignments. This is the mood I am going to sleep in, I miss Jones, I am going to make an effort to look awesome tomorrow night. I wish I could find a spare few pounds so I could buy him some surprise donuts for after work. I must hunt and scav someone for a few pound. Hmmm.

My Dad

Talking to my dad is like squeezing water out of stone, it's almost impossible and when you get a result you look at it, pitiful as it is and think what did I waste my time on that for? Sometimes I wish I liked cars the tiniest bit, just so it felt like there's more between us than this massive gap and a trickle of a blood line.

But I don't care about cars, a car to me is four wheels and a motor that drives you to fetch heavy supermarket shopping, gets you somewhere dry when its raining and takes you on the odd day trip. I don't care what colour it is, or is its an oxford mark 2 or has an eight cylinder engine, I don't care if it has a double exhaust, or can hit 180 mph in a less that a minute. Chrome on the bumper or steel, British workmanship or Japanese tin, pinewood interior or box standard plastic. And it's this lack of interest and knowledge that alienates me from someone who should, by biological right, have an unbreakable connection with me and doesn't. It's like this huge oppressive void that is blank and unused and feels pointless.

When my dad's gone what will I remember?
There's the odd song we both happen to like, we both like the idea of robberies, I get my ability to lie well on the spot from him, we both drink tea scalding hot, and eat cheese on toast with pepper on it, and when I was very young I was gleefully terrified of 'The Claw' and 'the Full Nelson'. That's it. That is the entirety of my memories.

I can't recall a single conversation of depth, or meaning, or even substance that we've shared. I can't remember a time I felt loved or respected or even that I'd done something worthwhile. Maybe if I'd done my uni work under the hood of a 1987 Monte Carlo it would have gotten some notice.

Am I psychologically scarred? Yes most likely. Do I crave and look for a dominant masculine role in my life? Obviously. Do I know the person who my father is? Yes absolutely. Does he know his only daughter? No. I have distant neighbours who know me better, not just favourite colour and hobbies and when my birthday is, or how old I am...but the person that I am and the things I believe in.

I am not at this moment in time depressed and dwelling on my lack of relationship with my dad, I'm really not. Although not 'over it' and not denying that I fall into that category of 'dad issues' I am simply coming to the end of an era and I envy the people I see rushing home to be buried with pride and encouragement and a general sense of being looked after. I'm so sick of hearing parents all over the place praise their kids to the stars, and go on and on, when I've just sat here and desperately attempted to bring my father into the loop, to share my plans, to simply express some ideas and explain my most recent grade and where things are headed and I've gotten nothing! Nothing back. I don't mean a big handbag shaped cake, or a hug well done, I mean a conversation, or at least a few sentences, a question! Just an attempt at any sort of interest or emotion, I got nothing!

Now if I were one of my brother, and I had just blown a ton of money (that could have gone towards anything else of importance), on some piece of shit scrap car, and dumped it in the garage...well I would have gotten everything: Enthusiasm, fun, jokes, conversation, advice, hours of attention...... But no, I'm just a girl who is finishing her degree and is worked up to the hilt about passing or failing and getting a job or not being employable...and I get nothing. I've spent my life so far working towards this, struggling and fighting and working my ass off for a better quality of life but you'd think I'd just sat here with crayons filling in a colouring book.

I'll be 21 next month, and I have fully come to understand as I reach that final 'I'm an adult' age, that I have never 'fitted' with a man, I've never felt a wavelength or bonded or even really completely enjoyed myself with a man except Jones. It's why I like him so bloody much, because he's the only one who seems to have understood who I am, accepted it and remembers it. He has become the missing part. Oh yes I've spent time with lads but they don't fit into the category of men, they are boys, through and through in my mind, they were all boys. Jones is a man.

He's the ultimate: wrestling champion, teddy bear cuddling, porn star, best friend, top chef, brain genius in my life. It's as if God has repented for all the times I've felt let down by the men who should have been there for me and given me this miracle that makes up for all that loss. I know I'm not an easy person to deal with, and I can talk for England and I know I have up's and down's like a bipolar bear that isn't sure is it's a killer grizzly or a teddy, and I know all this is one big explosion of personality that is suffocating especially on an everyday basis, but he seems to take it all in stride and isn't put off by it. I think I talk so much to Jones because for 19 years I was subdued and couldn't get anything out, and if I did I knew no one was interested or could even be bothered to pretend to care. Whether he cares or not is irrelevant, the fact that he spins his chair round and listens to the cascade that pours out of my mouth the second I walk through the door is wonderful.

I feel like I've become rather like a child now in my current state of mind, maybe because I'm making up for previous years, most days are rather like: "Jones look at my drawing!" "Jones look at the blog page I made pretty" "Jones I baked a cake" "Jones I cut my own fringe!" "Jones look at what I made" "Jones I saw an angry man on the bus and I snapped at him today" "Jones I'm hungry" "Jones I neeeeed some icecream." "I still neeeed icecream Jones."
If I didn't speak to him everyday now I'd probably end up talking to the wall! or Jerome.
or everything would build up inside my head and after a month or so my head would explode...stranger things have happened!
Am I yearning for approval? Probably.
Is all this weird on some psychological mental level? I wouldn't be surprised.
Does Jones suddenly mean everything to me and I can't imagine life without him? Well, yes...Begrudgingly yes.

Jones eyes

Puddles like sharp dark chocolate,
the colour of fresh coffee,
just a few little flecks of almost gold
and I cant remember, no matter how long I try
what I used to think about, before I met those eyes.

Torment notes

If it was described with one word, I guess others would say 'Obsession' but I say ''Torment'. Obsession is surely self inflicted, and self curable, torment is imposed by an outside influence, and you want it to stop.

I watched the hands a lot, that night in bed I'd lie awake wondering what they felt like, and how on earth I was going to get them on me. When they finally were I was sure I'd never breathe properly again, I thought that feeling would wear off but it didn't, it's still like burning from the inside out, every time.

dehydrated.

It's like...dehydration.
You wet your lips with a tongue that tastes of nothing,
your throat is scratched and brittle,
the water fountain is before you,
and yet you can't approach it and drink.
You rather lay down and die,
than suffer for another moment.

That's how it feels,
every single time. Like nettles brushing over your skin
relentless, and unkind.
Breathing seems impossible, a heartbeat is a forced effort
and the damp of your palms and everywhere else
reminds you of an involuntary reaction you'd give anything to be rid of.

I'd ask for nothing else again, if I could just have that.
Because I am dehydrated, and the water is so thinly dripped onto my tongue.

Direct Path

Finally seem to be dreaming more easily now. Last night I dreamt a series of dreams featured around potential future careers, all far fetched and dream-like. I was an apprentice to the designer chap in the hunger games, and we were making clothes out of extraordinary fabrics. Then I was in a bakery, decorating cakes, there was more, a lot more but the more I try to focus on them the more they slip away. I dreamt of my Mr Jones, but again I cant remember specifics, only that he was there. I dreamt of doing well in my poetry collection, now that was a fabrication, it was at this point I realised I was dreaming and woke up. I cannot see a way around the harsh marking of my poetry assignment, if the essay doesn't let me down surely the narrow personal taste of my marker is going to drag me down. I wish I had a direct path that I just had to walk along.

funniest thing I've heard at uni

Funniest thing I’ve ever heard at uni….

"I hear my flatmates having sex a lot,
I can tell that none of them are as good at it as I am.
I'm pretty fucking good."
And here he pauses and seems to inwardly wonder
perhaps what I am wondering too,
and his friend turns to him and answers
"If you're so fucking good,
why are they fucking and not you?"
"Gotta get someone into bed for them to know,
and that's the hardest part of the night."
They both exchange a childish look and laugh
"Not quite."

 

Poem.

So, this is the calibre of my poetry

for the final deadline.

Forgive me, if I precede to drown myself in my rather large mug of tea.

me and my giraffe will find some other income, we do not need your pity.