Die every other day

When someone I've known dies, I think every now and then, "they've been gone for a week now..." and in that moment where I'm wondering how long it's been since I've seen them, since they've been around, I really never think of them as dead. That game never ends because people ask you how long it's been and you sit and think... "shit it must be a year now", and it's hard because you know with every day it's almost like you flow further away from them, not the other way round. I feel like a boat floating off into the horizon, as I stare off at the land on which I had stood on my whole life, the one that supported me, the one I knew I had to say goodbye to because the doctors told us so, well I stare at it as it becomes smaller... and smaller, and I think we're all afraid of the day we can't see that island, land, country anymore.

I think death makes all atheists think twice when it happens to them. I don't know where she is... but I just don't feel as though she is dead, she's just there. I don't feel like she has left us alone... yet I don't feel like she is watching down on us.

You know one of the hardest things about someone dying who lived with you your whole life is that everything they owned is still there. We gave away all of her clothes but now and then I find myself wanting to wear her dressing gown every now and then, I want to feel her wedding band twisting around my fingers, her ring fell off in hospital once her fingers had become too thin. I don't think theres much left in our home that she owned, my mum didn't see any point in keeping her things, she never does. You can throw it all away as much as you want but their room is still there and their unmistakable scent painfully lingers. Every now and then I use her old hair brush, I see her hair between the bristles and I can't bring myself to clean it out yet.

Two funny

Why we do the things we do

Is the reason I covered my face in absurd kinds of makeup last night because of the saddnest I felt after finishing The Great Gatsby or did I just genuinely want to know how I'd look with pink eyebrows and then got a little carried away?

Help us out BlogBear, why did you cover your face entirely in red lipstick that time?

La la

I'm going through my old files on my computer and have found all my year eight English work. It makes me laugh; the work themselves and also that it reminds me how in year eight Holi and I used to write so much poetry in class, it was what we wrote on the notes we passed which I find really funny.

Anyways here is one which I'm not bothered editing, excuse the bad grammar, it's in all my 13 year old glory.

Kendal is dead. I watched her too; crying, scratching at my floor boards, staring at me pleading with her eyes. Her eyes had way too much life left in them and were enough to make me stick another fork into her back. I did. I was tired once I was done and went to bed leaving her dead body marked by a lake of red ink on my floor. Staining my wood where the scratch marks were.
I entered my kitchen in the morning greeted by Kendal’s eyes following my movements like the Mona Lisa. I was hungry and too lazy to search the pantry so I grabbed some cutlery and a sharp knife from the draw which wasn’t as far. She tasted horrible like the smell of the off cold meet my mom would have kept in her fridge. I couldn’t help thinking of Debra. Kendal was mine from Debra; a present for my birthday. I would have hoped anything from Debra tasted better than this and maybe so if I had something better to feed the dog other than the shit I would find around. A few bites of Kendal did nothing to satisfy my craving for Debra so I wrapped her up in glad wrap.
When night came I draped a plaid picnic rug over myself and with the dog in my arms I ventured into the front yard, throwing Kendal into the green bin. The rug was tarnished. It had never been covered in scrumptious food like it was meant to be but still stained. Debra must have used it before she handed it to me. Who made those marks, whose juice was in the plastic cup which spilt? I wheeled the bin onto the verge. Where did those stains really come from? Was she not a virgin like she said she was? I rolled that night in bed. I never rolled in bed unless I was with Debra but that was a different kind of rolling. She would throw me, play with me, use me as hers. I was hers.
After a ragged night’s measly sleep I awoke by the garbage truck’s loud ways. Peaking through my bedroom curtains I watched Kendal fall from the bin into the pile of scraps, “Goodbye Kendal”.
I heard the phone ring. After two rings of it I cut the cord, disregarding the caller. It was the best thing I could have done because not only was I silencing the racket but an hour later Debra showed up at my door. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have opened the door but as obsessive as I am, I smelt her perfume through the gap of the door and the floor. She always smelt of roses and sandalwood. I’m not able to pick apart a scent but she told me one day that the roses and sandalwood was what made her adore the scent.
Debra looked amazing. She was wearing navy blue pants which began at her navel, a red turtle neck top which gave me a glimpse of her slim midriff and leopard skin platforms. Debra never got over the nineties. Matched with her intense make-up she looked like she had the kick-ass attitude and style of D'arcy Wretzky.
“I rang you forever Ethan.” This meant she wanted me and her voice only makes me want her more.
“Well you know how popular I am. The phone at my place is like grand central station. I must’ve been on another call to one of my many friends.” I tried to joke but she just pushed it aside.
“Ethan, let me in. My manager, Mr. Major-Jerk-Off, fired me. He’s got shit all reasons and I need some legal help.”
“You’re welcome to enter, but be sure to step over the dead rats.” Debra slightly laughed not realizing that I was serious. I politely stepped aside so she could pass through the door way. She led the way because she knew my apartment like her own and I let her because it gave me a full ten steps to view her ass. We got to the living room and she asked why there was a pool of blood on the floor.
“Kendal got her period.” I replied covering my actions with a joke which I liked to think was witty. Debra didn’t budge.
“Hmm” she looked at me suspiciously “where is Kendal?”
“I usually let her roam the streets. Don’t you worry she’ll be home for dinner.”
“I used to love how she didn’t care that we had food for her in our hands when we went out to feed her, just that we were there was enough to make her piss all over the pavement.” We both laughed. Debra pushed aside a pile of papers on the sofa and sat down. “I’m no lawyer. How am I meant to help you win a case against a guy who likes to masturbate a lot?”
“Your dad was though.” I’m confused by this.
“How do you know that? My parents died. I was an orphan at age 4.”
“Who cares? It’s nice to think he was. Just please help me.” I could never not help such a fine piece of nineties trash.
“fine.” She wasn’t expecting this.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yeah sure. But only if you move in again.” I decided to take advantage of the situation.
“Only if you can stand listening to a whole heap of Spice Girls.” She made me laugh. Debra was classic nineties trash and once again she’d be my nineties trash.

Could you?

If I told you that last night I was dead and walked the earth amongst the living, murdering; that I reached into my victims' chests after a clawed punch to pull out a blood red pear that resembled soap; that I proceeded to cut this pear with my invisible knife and that despite the pear being so hard and like dry soap, there was juice running down from my mouth and also down my arms, there was juice too that had dripped from my knife's blade and ran down my leg; that I rubbed the blood on my leg into my skin and added to the blood on my face by licking up my arm, kissing my palm and sucking on each finger, would you listen to me?

If you were there the night I had to go on trial would you listen to my defence as I explained the girl had asked me to dement her, to hurt her deeply and render her hideous; that we were in love and both of us cared for no one and nothing more than each other; that in the moments that I beat her head into the ground and cut off entirely both her ears with scissors, she looked at me with the most loving eyes I or anyone had ever seen or ever will; that after I had transformed her body and the 'healing' had left her face as a little patch of struggling life peaking from behind a gape in the crinkled fabric which, with its pink corrugations, covered her skull as if wrongfully glued there, she was the happiest sole alive; that we walked together up the street and she touched her body and face with the most pleasant caress, looked up to the night sky and smiled; that when we heard I would be arrested she told me it wasn't fair and she would dispute it because she loved to feel pain and what I had done to her made her feel alive, that for once she felt meaning and for once felt complete?

If I told you all that in a language you didn't speak would you still listen?

Or if I were a piece of bark that fell from a tree right as you walked past it and I fell in such a way and got carried by the wind in such a way that I ended up hitting you and then you were to look at me, would you realise I were talking to you, would you hear me even though I clearly spoke no language, that I even made no noise, would you know I was talking to you?

Maybe if I were a tree and you were you and you sat in some 5 story library doing exam study during which you took long stretched breaks which involved nothing but you leaning back on your chair and staring absent minded, thinking absent minded and you saw me stand up as though the main gigantic purpose of me being a tree, my bustle of leaves; the green ball structured by all my branches, were my back and I had forever been crouched over, would you see me communicating with you and would you, despite feeling purpose (whether or not you actually did or didn't or do or don't) would you at least show me the purpose I deserve?

The Strawman

The Strawman appears very normal but the truth is that he is the greatest gentleman. He even once always wore a hat but when a big gust stole it one day he sort of didn't mind, he sort of thought it made no difference, and so now he is sun burnt on top.
Unlike a Scarecrow this Strawman goes places. And being the only Strawman known to still exist, he always comes back because he is loving and caring and wishes not to worry anyone and as well as that, the Strawman lives in a beautiful kingdom so he loves to come home.
The kingdom is like no other and while it was built because of him and continues to grow as his life progresses, the kingdom is also where the Strawman goes for inspiration, to be taught. The kingdom is his family, for the relationship between them is incredible: they each nourish one another and this is possible because they have these common roots and these roots run deep.
When you are invited to the kingdom the Strawman walks so near with you and the air which has once caressed him and now caresses you never retracts from your skin, all of you muscles and cells are lifted and you are able to live forever because no matter how hard anyone should try in the future to put you in a hole in the ground, you'll just float away and find your way to the kingdom.
The Strawman will walk with you on this most aesthetically perfect pathway until you reach a door and the door leads to the outside, to life outside of the kingdom. Nobody has to be sad about leaving the kingdom though, because the Strawman stands with you at the door, very closely, and he speaks to you about everything you want to speak about and everything that he wants to speak about. While the two of you are speaking he looks so deeply into your eyes and neither of you ever look away.
When you have walked through the door and walked into life outside of the kingdom you finally learn of the Edel all the while still looking deeply into his eyes. You learn that the Edel is the second part of life, sort of what everyone had thought to be death but also nothing like death.
When you reach Edel you don't end Life but rather live the two in parallel, fully conscious of both your 'lives'. Edel consists of you staring deeply into the Strawman's eyes and he staring back while the two of you carry the most important conversation and Life continues with you outside of the kingdom.

Dear big forehead

Where does your hair begin

where does your eyebrow begin

Nobody knows

So much space

So much space to think

Love 'em and leave 'em

The words have been leaving our mouths for the past month, a last squished up against another last:

Finished.

Done and dusted.

End of an era.

Finito.

Now that's the end of that chapter.

Freedom.

So here we were told not to lose momentum (which is so easily done) over exam time but I've got a feeling we bloody lost our momentum for the sadness of leaving and finishing as well! With so many lasts, a party to celebrate the end of each subject, a party to celebrate the end of form, a breakfast, another breakfast, a last day, a muck up, a graduation, a lunch... I don't feel finished and yet I feel I finished more than a month ago because those class rooms and that last week where we ate cake and wagged studies to all just hang out in the quad was the finale. So basically, we didn't realise that... this was it because the tears had already come a-flowing weeks ago (well for a sad girl for me at least). Today has been one of those long days where you think back to something you did in the afternoon and it already seems to be something of a distant memory.

I think it's something of a hint that we've been let go when theres no organised mode of transport for us anymore. No more school bus, tear. No more teachers telling us off for talking (which we annoyingly did plenty of) before, after and during speeches, fat tear.

The main feeling I've got right now is a lack of closure, as a friend said. I left the school with some subconscious, yet obviously something drilled into me over the past 13 years, that this was not the last time I'd walk down that hallway, into that room that I never ending up having a class in but always wanted to, past those dirty toilets, past old lockers and new ones we'd never have. It was as if I had spoken to the school all day but had made no eye contact with it... only rudely looking and talking elsewhere.

I need to go back and say goodbye. I need to hug the red brick walls, I need to look at my old yet always so trusty locker once again and close it with the purpose of a knowledgable woman who came and conquered the role of a "Year 12" student, a senior, - when will I gain this level of respect (with all my many colours and badges... they shine respect into other students eyes...) again? Not for many years, maybe never, I mean my own children don't respect me as it is! Ahhh I won't get into my children right now, maybe later. I should have peeled all the post cards, photos, magazine cut outs off of my locker with care, and admired the darkened marks the blue tac had left of them. I should have strolled slowly through each building to look at it and know inside it an immense amount of knowledge was wedged into my brain.. Oh the coloured rooms, I want to remember the way we call you by your colour and not your number.

It's an open wound and it needs to be closed! Yet it hurts so good because I'm so fucking happy that I'm done, I'm done.

180mm

I always wished I was taller...

My favourite hours of the day

10.30pm-5.30am

Why? These are the hours my mother is most likely not mobile, or not enough to open her mouth.

5.30am-3.30pm

Why? She is usually working.

Issue? She can use a telephone to spread her wrath of evil.

DANGER ZONE = 3.30pm-10.30pm

Why? She is conscious and mobile. She is the human vacuum cleaner/trash dispenser, by this it means she can not identify what is trash from treasure thus anything that comes into contact with her is likely to be thrown out.

Issue? Just enough issues to fund the psychiatric business.

Sleep is a form of avoidance

Yesterday (because now it is 2.38am) I was the catalyst to my brother crying, he was more or less wailing about how he "fucking hated" everyone because he is the poor tortured one and nobody understands him. It all began with him remarking at two men kissing with 'ew' and 'that's disgusting', which in return makes me uncomfortable that it's making him uncomfortable. All in all we had a big argument whether he was homophobic or not and it was one of those arguments where my mind was never going change and he knew deep down he wrong because he was silent for so long festering in his all mighty anger.

I ended up going to sleep at 5pm because I was so pissed off with everyone in my family. I figured it was a good way to ignore everyone and pass time. I drew the curtains, let down the blinds and tried to fall asleep with the light seeping through the cracks of my bent blinds. I woke up at around ten and realised I hadn't slept long enough to see the next day.

So now I'm sitting in bed waiting for the sun to come up because I've got nothing better to do and have done everything I can for the past five hours.

A cup of warm milk awaits me. I should buy one of those baby bottles with the chewy tops. Mmmmmmmmmm.

Shit that is irritating me

So I noticed that we haven't posted in the past ten days, I wish I could say all that exam stress was getting to me but that isn't true. When I finished exams I felt close to nothing as everyone asks the "So how does it feel?" with their hopeful eyes which I presume have been looking over many notes, unlike myself, I just said something like "I think if I had studied harder it would have felt better...".

I am irritated right now by:

Itchy skin. I think everything is becoming too dry... and there's a part of my shins that is beginning to resemble images of severe desertification, which is really unattractive and I don't have an excuse cos it isn't winter.

Being hungry. I swear I am always hungry and there is almost never anything to eat.

Lack of loyalty. I'm pretty shit and I've come to notice other people are too. I had a funny thought tonight, how everyone commits "dog acts" because everyone is such a dawwwwg, and that was so fuckin' dawg, you know? Well aren't dogs meant to be fucking loyal?

No answers. When you ask a question and people dodge it, or they say they're too tired to answer, or they just walk into their bedroom and lock the door. Yeah that's directed at you, mum of the year. For once, give me a straight yes or no answer, because I know how much you love using option B.

To be honest, all in all, I am really quite happy right now. I was just thinking about the shit that irritated me which is sometimes easier to articulate than what makes me happy because I'm so good at complaining and then telling people about how much everything sucks because there are too many dicks (douchebags not the sexual organ) in the world and not enough time. I feel pleasant.

how could I not

Amen sistah

Shit I've learnt from not studying and watching 90210 till 5am

Reoccurring themes in teen dramas (I don't know if this just happens in life or whether writers can't think of anything new):

• Girl testing the waters of a lesbian relationship.
• Suddenly falling for your best friend.
• Suddenly falling for your best friend's ex.
• Cheating on a beloved one.
• Bad boy with mysterious and brutal background.
• Bad boy actually has heart.
• Bad boy, shock horror, reads!
• Girl reforms bad boy.
• Bad boy breaks girl's heart.
• Someone is secretly gay.
• Girl falls in love with crazy guy but girl doesn't believe her friends that crazy guy is crazy.
• Boy goes for older woman.
• Parent's get divorced.
• Girl's mum is hot.
• Girl's mum is a serial divorcee.
• Someone finds out that their friend's parent is cheating.
• Parents die.
• Girl is raped.
• Raped girl is upset for 4-5 episodes then suddenly gets better.
• Virgin girl loses virginity.
• People will always overhear your secrets as they happen to be hiding behind a wall/walking in.

I'll be back after more research.

And so it is just like they said it would be

So you ended up changing your name huh? Yeah that's alright cos I know you're the same scumbag that got us here in the first place. You're with another girl... I can't keep track really. You're seeing thousands, you've seen thousands, you'll see me to the end. You're really not as big as everybody says you are, my whole life has not been leading up to this moment. Today I found you on the desk, mine, all mine, all marked for me. I slid myself right in front of you and as I sat there waiting for you to come I didn't feel much, just thinking the same thoughts I've thought all year.

I've already mentioned this but I will again, my teacher said that the students who aren't depressed during the year are the ones that are going to be depressed when the results come back. So uh, I'll decode that, students who have been consistently depressed during the year will come out happy. Those that have been joyously riding along will be depressed afterwards. Well, well, here I come, I'm another fucking outlier. I've been feeling consistently shit all year and I have a feeling I will afterwards too.

Here's to still caring but not enough!

You knew it!!!

"You're in love. Don't deny it. You've been sighing all day."

I'm a "Citizens for Boysenberry Jam" fan

Soundtrack to exams? SIMON & GARFUNKEL!!!!!!!

These songs have practically been played on repeat from the week before mocks to now and without a doubt till my last exam (the date of which I do not know<----- my mum finds this a reason to rage at me)

1)Punky's Dilemma
Why? Because I'd without a doubt prefer to be a Kellogg's cornflake or an english muffin instead of a WACE student. Oh to be just floating in my bowl, talking movies, relaxing, living in style, talking to a raisin, casually glancing at his toupee...


2) At The Zoo
Why? because you know what, I do believe it's true that's it's all happening at the zoo. I bet it's all happening anywhere other than my bloody desk!

3) El Condor Pasa
Why? because during exams I feel like a nail being hammered and I really would rather be a hammer than a nail and I'd rather sail away from it all like a swan and I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet instead of the thousands of sheet of loose notes.

4) The Only Living Boy In New York
Why? because I wish that everything I needed to know I could get from the weather report. I wish I had nothing to do today but smile. Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da

5)Blessed
Why? "blessed are the sat upon, spat upon, ratted on... blessed are the meth drinkers, pot sellers, illusion dwellers... blessed are the penny rookers, cheap hookers, groovy lookers"... year twelves...

6) I Am A Rock
Why? because the lyrics are creepily fitting: "I am alone, Gazing from my window to the streets below. I have my books to protect me; hiding in my room. I touch no one and no one touches me. I am a rock, I am an island."

Seriously, what gets me through exams is wishing I was an english muffin about to make the most out of a toaster. I'd ease myself down, come up brown. It makes me feel so happy. Like a smiling Axolotl. :)

My island home

The first time I gripped the sheets. It was morning, the dawn of, not a new day, but an old day, those days. It wasn't two steps forwards, one step back. Nor one step forward, two steps back. It was twice around the world, to the core, to the moon, through a black hole and back. just back. to here. to where I am now. To where I am right now writing this. The first time I gripped the sheets and held on so tight. My heavy sheets, my heavy mattress, my empty but heavy self. between the sheets rested two weeks, the downpour of the night before. I couldn't leave my bed that morning. I covered it all. stretched out. rolled. hugged. I wrapped a chain around me and it. even though I was back here that night That Night and I shared it all, we pulled each other into the spiral of pain and life. Of what was and is. So even though I was here I couldn't leave my bed, I did. Somehow I broke my back and that's why I am still here now. Why I am
where I am
right now
writing
this
.

The first time I got the tiredness I got it bad. It lasted so long and it took so much of my time away from me. I remember this woman who I love so much and who I call my Second Mother when I really mean Other Mother, like she's a horrible secret of mine who I must hide from the real world, from society, from my family. Someone who I should feel guilty for knowing and having and for knowing and having these feelings towards. Other Mother knew something was wrong, said I couldn't hide it from her.

Other Mother most likely won't be here for me anymore. Not now at least. Not today. Not when Mother says, "why do you look so sad... why won't you answer me?" "I don't know what to say" "what? ARE you sad?" She is intrusive and cruel and a stone cold statue. She isn't living because she doesn't breath. Instead she huphs, in and out, no way like fluid, not like air, not like a person should. And she doesn't talk. She knows not of language. She half gasps. Once, twice then will launch into a pre prepared attack, however strategical, however not masterminded.

This is the second time. I am tired and sad. I feel like I was simply encouraged off but different things, different people, different like mother came and changed it, made it that I'd been spat out of a mouth when she meant to strategically encourage me. I don't want to be awake. I want to be in bed. Because I got out of bed prematurely will I forever be tired. Tired. every morning, everynight. Today I wonder if that's it now. The opposite of homeward bound. I can't even say outward bound because that lies too close to home.

Like Islands in an ocean. I find one, deserted soul and desert island. A comfortable crook in the corner. In one large large so very large home. As big as the ocean. with such capacity. I am an island. I am a castle with a moat. I am barricaded. There's a wall around me. walls. walls in the ocean? walls in the ocean. The lost city of Atlantis. The city that sank into the ocean in a single day and night of missfortune. sinking, missfortune. However someone told of the legend, someone made it a legend. This is my city. I am the walls'. I am theirs. but saddly today, I am tired.

Save the life of my childhood

Ever since... well you know I can't really say when. The obvious point was year six but then I think of year five, year four, man year three especially I only fucked around. That seems stupid to say; an eight year old fucked around in school, but that's how it was for me.
My parents should have named me trouble because that's what I am to them, that's how they see me. Or have set a sign on my bedroom door declaring the inside land Trouble then they could answer when someone asked where I was most of the time, "she's in trouble". However most often I am in school. The same school in fact. This is my thirteenth year. Now, I don't remeber much about life before school- I have a few memories of kindy and other earlier ones which I must suspect only to be implanted from photographs, dreams, imagination and home videos rather than actually being my own. So School, in particular this one school, has been so far, my entire life; all that I have ever known. It is where I mostly am. Therefore I think it'd be in the best interest of my parents' humor to have enrolled me into Trouble rather than this other institution. I am in the institution, I am in trouble. That's my life. So since this is how my parents see me, I can only say to you and hope you understand that from my upbringing, from how my parents impressioned me, that in year three I really did fuck around.
Year two I just remeber comeing late from lunch one day and having to sit a fractions test that I hadn't studied for. I remember it so well, trying to wing and cheat my way through it. Year one I remember it was the spelling tests, searching the room for a poster with that certain word on it.
You see I cannot quite find the point in my life when I began slacking off in school. All I can see is that I am me through and through. Just then, I thought of all my school years and cannot help seeing me in it all. No shit. but I mean seeing the things I do now. It's like seeing my hands in photographs; I know they're my hands but why do they have to looks so fucking much like my hands!

Famguy1

Family Guy is one of those shows I watched the fuck out of a couple years back and then got sick of about two years later. It's sort of like the same way I treat whatever I put on my toast, I have favourites that are on high rotation Vegemite, Nutella and Peanut Butter. I always pick them up again though, so perhaps I will pick up Family Guy again. Other runner ups in choices of what to put on toast: pb and j, sugar and butter, honey and butter. Although sadly the days of jam and butter have just never quite had a strong enough come back. My oh my was it a good run though.

I'm hoping to open up my heart again... (I didn't intend to write about my eating habits)

"And it's not so much I want to "kill" her. It's just I want her not to be alive anymore."

Get back to me

I can't shake the feeling,
that you're still on my back.

All of you.
Fuckers.
Coming into my dreams

The first of many buts

She said to me with her eye brows lifted and glasses tipped low on her nose, "Boy, have I got a lesson to teach you." Both of her hands spread on the table - such stubby fingers for a beautiful girl.

I sat there butting into every second word. "But...", "... yeah but", "I'm sorry but". I didn't realise I was being rude. I could hardly help it, I don't think she even heard me speak. I didn't even have to be there. She was speaking for herself, a one man show, and no one had to be there but herself. These words they flowed as if she was coming to her own self-realisation in those very moments. But (I apologise that I have begun this sentence with a but, connecting nothing to this) her words, holy mother of god, holy mother of all things sacred and, and fuck, those words they had be going, they had be tearing, they had me. What I'm trying to say, I mean what I've been meaning to say is that what she said was too honest to have just sprung out of her mouth and arrived at my ears just then and there. I realised that she had known this for a while now, I could tell after that hour that each word had a weight.

She kept speaking as if I had no last name; untraceable in a world of Smiths.

Hairy situation

Alright guys check this out... WHO IS GOING TO BUY THIS? Come back here when you're finished having a look.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/57643101/a-lock-of-dark-brown-human-hair

Hopefully you had a look at that before you cheated by reading this you loser! I bet you bought it... just like when people buy full body...

Hold up 'em up

How sick are these electricity towers?

Hopeless romantic

The most annoying thing about Transperth is that I actually love it. Similar to how the second most annoying thing about it is that you have to pay and yet I can't bring myself to use the cheaper alternative to coins, the smart rider, just because I've grown to love buying myself tickets. "Hi may I please have a sixty cent ticket"
[fuck you now it's seventy cents. my life will never be the same. truthfully.]
But Transperth drivers and guards can sometimes be such big cunts, like today.

I won't go into it because everyone knows what they can be like.

But as I mentioned, what's annoying is that I love Transperth. I can't help it, I'm so dependant on it.

And I also can't help but think of those super cool drivers or the ones who let you on when you're chasing after it or the classic Australia Day experience.

January 26 2010 I was on my bus to the city and everyone was drinking beer. Not even secretly. Some guy even did somersaults around the hand rails and the driver just laughed. I mean it, he laughed!

ahh Transperth, what am I going to do with you or more importantly my ridiculous obsession with loving you or less importantly those fines you love to treat me with.

shall i ignore the irrationality of my emotions and devotions like I ignore your threats?

It's true, I call your bluff but you'll always make me blush (L)

Re: sluts, the results are in

Ever dropped you phone in the toilet? I never have but yet all I ever hear is about people doing it, they're so open about it, like it's no longer all the cool kids' dirty little secret. No more are there rows of cars up on the hillside with their windows steamy but rather cubicle after cubicle after cubicle letting slip a slurping sound. I guess I gotta get with the times and not be so frigid.

The thing about dropping an iPhone in the toilet, however, is that for some reason it results in you drinking your own piss.

I don't quite understand how it works myself but this girl I know dropped her iPhone in the toilet. When she took it out she noticed a little hole which her piss must have gotten into and was probably fucking up her phone's insides. She then decided the only way to get the piss out was to suck it out with her mouth. mmmmm

The phone never ever worked again. soooo wooorth it...

SPRING CLEANING

I've just caught onto BlogBear's actions and am too endeavouring to expose all our little secrets which we thought we could hide in the closet, supress and hopefull never ever have to confront again. Here, let's expose those drafts which never got to see the light of day. They're not all dirty so don't worry, or do...

Less than < Sweeter than

Originally written on the 14th of April.

17 is arguably sweeter than 16. I like the solid sound that the word 17 makes when you say it.

I’m seventeen. Se-ven-teen. Young and sweet, only 17. Sixteen standing next to seventeen seems so young in comparison. I don't care what they say, 17 trumps.

I like where I’ve come from a year ago. I like what I thought I'd be like at this age when I was a kid. Sometimes we catch ourselves being exactly who we used to look up to, who we intended to be.

I wonder if we’re not living out our wild youth like we should.

Secretly sticking a strip of material on your shoes so you could strike your match to light your cigarette. Planting a doll face down in your bed before you sneak out. Draining alcohol into weird assortment of bottles.. of baby oil. That makes me laugh, who does that? I may.. or may not have.

Lost property

Originally written on 17/2/10.

Hey, my name is, and I am hot.

I lost the girl I'm fucking on the weekend.

I didn't emotionally lose her, I physically lost her.

You may see her in the gutter, and if found please return her to me.

She has the following:

- blonde hair

- a skinny body (but the kind of skinny fat that shakes when I slap her on the ass)

- a wardrobe that consists of non-generically skanky clothes (but must still be appealing enough for my friends to also find her attractive)

- a love for animal print

- a lack of spelling or grammar in her writing

- the right amount of cellulite on her knees

- lots of photography of herself

- long blonde hair (wait, shit, did I already say that?)

- a face that only looks good from one angle

- that angle must be birds eye view (cos i'm tall too)

- a deceiving personality

- a strong taste for tackiness

- previous experiences in parks

- a knack for photoshopping facebook photos

- a good lip pout or purse in photos

- a liking for excessive smiley faces and exclamation marks on the wide webular networkia

- nothing else

Actually, this is quite important as I was at a music festival on the weekend

and well I lost her amongst all the other girls that fill the descriptions above.

It's been two days and I'm quite horny by now, I mean I'm quite worried by now.

Be a lad and send her right back at me, or on me.

To all the deluded females out there:

Hello ladies and very gentlemen. I wrote this whilst in Vietnam. I wrote it on the 13th of January this year. I don't know if it's finished... I can't be bothered reading it but enjoy.

Yo gabba gabba,

This is a little perspective for those out there that think that they've got problems in their teenage relationships. My cousin who's a 16 year old girl happened to reveal to my cousin that she was being beaten up by her boyfriend of 21 years.

P.S. hi dirtbag this seems to be the only way to communicate with you. hope you're sick as a dick because i'm a vomitting vagina ;)

Foreword:

Some say that there is nothing like being in love and some others say that theres nothing else like being held by a noose in a relationship. See the thing with women is they take abuse like no other. Think about it, how many men do you know that come home to an angry toothless wife who meets his kiss with a wooden rolling pin? A law student once told me all about this, it's called Battered Womens Syndrome (BWS), and it's basically when a woman can not leave an abusive relationship. I kid you not, that is what it's called. It's meant to be because of two main reasons: numero uno is economic reliance and numero duo is threats made to the woman, the womans family, or friends. Remember on The O.C. when Theresa got hit by Eddie and she was all, "It's simple, your boyfriend hits you, you leave him." then Sandy is all, "It's never that simple". That really, really, really sucks. Why does it have to suck like literal cock for women so much?

Introduction:

Here in Vietnam I have a 16 year old cousin who gets reguarly beaten by her 21 year old boyfriend. She revealed this to us one night, we asked her why and she said common things such as not being friendly with his 21 year old nether regions or forgetting to hug him when saying goodbye (and women are meant to be needy?).

Prologue:

So one night her boyfriend is confronted by a relation to me who was drunk, he asked the boyfriend simply: Do you beat The Battered Woman? He answered simply: Yes. Funny thing is The Battered Woman was there as this conversation started but her boyfriend told her to leave and go back into the house as it was "a man's conversation". After she left things got riled up because the Woman Beater thought he and this guy were all buddy-buddy friends. Later enter stage left my uncle who, true story, once took on a group of men who were trying to steal his wallet but he was later beaten to a pulp and somehow managed to keep his wallet (I would just give the wallet).

Act 1:

Alright so this Woman Beater was being a "cheeky cunt" and throws a punch at my uncle who is now very angry and very riled up being held back by a group of men. The Woman Beater runs away as he realises he is out numbered.

Act 2:

Give it about 15 minutes of women running around being gatherers and men being hunters then enter the Woman Beater again except this time on a motorcycle. Now... what did he want to achieve by this I do not know, "eat my dust suckerrrrrrrrrrrsssssss" ?, anyway he gets sidekicked by the relation of mine as he zip zip zips by on his vehicle.

Act 3:

Now give it another 15 minutes of conspiracy of whether he will return and then he returns except this time with a friend and a long metal pole. I who at the the time was pretty chilled wondered downstairs for a drink of water when I hear all this screaming, I see these two guys with this pole and all that comes to my mind is the exact words, "What the fuck are you doing you fucking cunts?!". My heart was beating like a bazillion miles an hour, they'd sucessfully beaten up this poor old man who tries to convince us that he is okay whilst he bleeds prefusely from his head. Now... people are very angry.

Act 4:

The parents of the Woman Beater is called in but they really have no control over their son whatsoever, they aren't very apologetic at all to be honest. Enter two cops from the main alleyway, here to supposably "defend". Now Enter the Woman Beater holding a motherlickin' machete on the back of a motorcycle accompanied by a friend. He attempts to slice a cop but then zips away.

Act 5:

The morning after. The cops have stayed the whole night. Things must be dealt with at the police station. The funny thing is the Battered Woman pleas on the side of her abusive boyfriend going as far as telling the cops that it was her own uncle that threw the first punch not her boyfriend. The Woman Beater is in the shit and to be thrown into jail (you really shouldn't slice up the police because if you "fuck the po-lice" then you'll be singing "popo shut us dowwwwwwwwwn"). He now realises anal rape is not his thing and offers to apologize -"it's toooooooooo laaaaaaaaaaaate to apologize". Enter my uncle into the scene to straighten things out. Now the only thing left is for his parents to plea, and by plea I mean by giving the cops some dough, this is by no means a bail or a fine this is a bribe and this is how you escape jail in any system with a corrupt police force.

Act 6:

The Battered Woman stays with the Woman Beater. Happily never after.

Elude:

Oh my god she's an idiot... during this whole ordeal she was actually enjoying the attention. To me this is fucked, and if I were her I would be beyond embarrassed. My abusive boyfriend comes to my house, threatens my family, beats up a family friend, punches my uncle, attempts to machete a cop and all in all creates a fiasco all in the space of midnight to about three or four in the morning. It started off as a simple seek of condolence and attention which ended with her looking very dim. Fact: as Lulu, her and I were standing on the roof top admiring the situation below she asked me if I had any pills that could kill her. Yes... whilst I was packing my bag to Vietnam I thought, "Hang on, I'll pack some of my back up suicidal pills just in case communism really is as bad as they say."

I personally think that she should NOT be a sufferer of BWS because she's only 16 and really does have the choice to leave. She's not Allie and he's not Noah. She should think about what she wants, not what he wants, not what her parents wnt. What. Does. She. Want. As Allie said, it's not that easy. It's not just the physically damaging relationships that are like this, it's the emotionally painful wars that go along unheard. The thing is not only women but teenage girls are often trapped in the vicious cycle of a relationship thats gone to shit. When the ratio of happiness to sadness is overtaken by all the little things that frustrate you, that make you cry, that makes your blood boil. This is when you need to make a choice, I think, to either put your heart into working things out or exit before things get uglier, or choose C (popular with naive girls) stay in the relationship with the mindless hope that you can change him and that you are happy.

I guess when you love someone then the choice to break up is difficult because you've made that person a part of you and it feels like it'll leave this gaping hole in who you are as a person and your life in general which it probably will but you will realise you can still breathe and isn't that just amazing? "Desperate Women that will Believe Anything"- a possible headline written by Carrie Bradshaw, it's quite right though I think sometimes it can be desperation that leads women to stay in physically or emotionally abusive relationships. I have friends like this, you probably do too and if not there are many films made about people just like this. They say that love makes you blind but heartbreak does as well. People stay in relationships with the very people that do not understand the meaning of fidelity. People who make bad decisons or who hurt others are not bad people; that's a common misconception.

Now ladies, put your feet in the shoes of the Battered Woman and gentlemen put your feet in the shoes of the Woman Beater. Who are you and who do you want to be? All's well that ends well -do you want to be the tradgey or the comedy?

Sodomy is Between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Dirtbag

This one has been here since 11/11 in two thousand and the shining OoOoOOo. It was meant to be after this post: http://nictamere.blogspot.com/2009/11/sodomy-is-between-god-and-me.html that dirtbag posted. We have 70 drafts now... and 69 after I post this one ;) I was meaning to finish this... but that's what I say to just about everything I touch for the past seventeen years of my existence. So here's an unfinished post.

HOW DIRTBAG RUINS ALMOST IF NOT ALL 10 CUMANDMENTS WRITTEN BY BLOGBEAR

1) Thou shalt have no other Gods before me

Dirtbag has two different key chains on her keys, the first one is the World Trade Center key chain that someone left at her party, the second is a golden man wearing a cloak. At first I saw him from behind and figured it was a statue of Jesus and found it fucking weird considering she didn't believe in God and at her communion she only said every second word and also refused to confess any sins. Later I confronted her about this in which she answered, "It's Obi-Wan Kenobi". This shit is blasphemy, it looks exactly like a statue of a God except it's a ficitional character, only a figment of George Lucas' imagination.

2) Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven imagine

3) Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain

Yeah as she's trolling down the corridor do you hear that? Yeah that's Dirtbag calling for God.

4) Keep the Sabbath day holy.

Sunday is not for holiness. Sunday in Dirtbag's books can be for rowing, suffering a hangover, suffering stomach aches but it is not a day for prayer.

5) Honour thy father and thy mother.

If you knew Dirtbag, you'd snigger right now. You know how people say, "I was abused as a child?". Yeah well, Dirtbag's mum could say, "I was abused as an adult."

6) Thou shalt not kill.

Blogbear, "But at three months a baby has a heart beat!"

Dirtbag, "Yeah so what? You'd kill a person. Why can't you have an abortion?"

Blogbear, "I wouldn't kill a person..."

Dirtbag, "What?! Since when?"

7) Thou shalt not steal.

There might be more than one example I can use here but simply: She has more than one copy of every lit book. May I ask how you got these, Dirtbag?

8) Do not lie

9) Thou shalt not commit adultery

10) Fuck... looks like I didn't even find the 10th cummandment, but I have a bigger worry in my mind which is: WHERE IN THE WORLD IS CARMEN SAN DIEGO?

Yeah Dirtbag you are disgusting, you're bound to "GOOOES TO HADES" and you know what? I've loved you so long.

Library Follow-up

Blogbear note: In an effort to clear up our drafts, here's something that's been lying around since 9/8/09. Dirtbag doesn't know I'm posting this but uh, she probably won't mind... would be awkward if she does. This post is in relation to this post: http://nictamere.blogspot.com/2009/08/vibe-at-libe.html

We were at the library and decided to checkout "The Place". Seemed pretty cool you know, it had it's own five year old spokesperson who i found really relatable to, speaking as a library frequenter. She seemed happy and so her personal message of "i found my place at The Place" enticed me to go see what called for this rave review.

It's pretty sick and we had the whole mazzanene level for ourselves; un solied by those with the soiled pants. There's all these cool kinds of chairs there and a mass stack of books, like double my height, it made BlogBear feel really paranoid- insecure prick.

We also picked out all the best places to have sex, a thought process which is often opted as a form of distraction to work. That's the beauty of The Place, best form of procrastionation in the best place for it. Anyways so there's a small cubby house which would be perfect and this ledge which runs across the whole outside wall so you could be beant over and be able to look out the window to ;). The best place would be this small room which is like an interogation room. It's got a display set up of paper houses which kids have made and invites you to contribute to this city. Yeh you bet we will.
Coming soon: Dirtbag and BlogBear's own installments to their current Shitville. We're gonna daunt them so good with our motherfucking towers!!! yeh okay so we'll get onto that.

After playing dressups we hit up the old colouring in table. That was when Mrs Grown-up approached, asked us where our "little ones" were. i told her we didn't have any. Aarrrrghh and so we met her red lazer eye beams of pedophile suspicion. "oh, you've gotta have kids to be here" she says. "we are kids" i tell her, "we're only like thirteen anyway". she kinda then backed off hell wierdly cause i don't think she wanted to start anything. I then continued with my colouring in.
BlogBear started to kick up a fuss being all like "leeeet's stuuuuudyyyy. i wanna strain my brain. i wanna learn shit. come on. Dirtbaaaaag, knowledge caaaaalllss me. I wanna conform to my motherland's stereotype. cooooomeeee oooon" and shit like that. Some whiny bitch isn't gonna pull me away from my distractions and so i continued to keep within the lines.

check it out

[I'm assuming Dirtbag intended to post something here]

The chick is hell cool with her blue hair. There's a really good story behind my artwork. The girl is clearly a girl but the monster behind her actually represents a sexual predator and the fire depicted on his flesh is the fire of his sexual desires. His nose thing resembles a penis and he's chasing her with it but she's smiling, ya know, and blushing, so although she's running from him, she secrettly wants his warmth. and that's that.

All About My Mother

We have just finished dinner when she stands up and leaves, saying nothing more than "Okay, I'm off to babysit"

Who?Where?

Tonight in her button up blouse with the very safe collar she is slouched in her chair, arms on the table and laughs across from her parents. She'll lean forward up to them then to her boyfriend, giggle, look down and simply smile.

It's like Marge without the up do.

Suddenly I'm at dinner with the fourteen year old girl who, hidden by the table cloth, wears her old jeans with flower embroidery rather than the $10 Levis she desperately needs. In spite of this, mother and child are enjoying each other's company beautifully.

She can't stand (without) him

What I'm going to say shouldn't have to be written like this. I shouldn't be awake right now and I shouldn't not have to write this. I want to say He Is, not He Was but here it is.

Amongst chasing all of my passions, fast pleasures that burn like dry leaves, here lies the last of my memories with him.

"What are you going to do?" he asked me.

"I don't really know." I said truthfully.

"A doctor?"

"No..." I laughed. "I wish, I'm not smart enough."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"No really, I'm not."

"You can be whatever you want."

I can't remember what he was doing but he knocked over a level of a shelf and letters flew onto the ground one after the other. He laughed at myself and I laughed at him. Only a few moments later I did the same thing, cartons of cigarettes fell onto the ground. He told me not to worry about it. He picked them up, fixed the shelf. There's more but I'm too tired to write. He was good. There's not a stronger word. Just believe me, he was good.

I don't know what to say to her.

If she cries, if she holds onto me, if I see in the flesh what I already know, I, without any doubt, will begin to crack from my chest and only further fracture like a broken vase. I don't know what I will do. All I want to do is hold her for a while and mend her back together, without any scars but I know like everybody else that scars are permanent. It reaches it's hands over your wound and it holds as tight as it can and then it hardens. You want to touch it, you watch to itch it, you watch to pick it off and start the process all over again. Feeling the pain. Yes, it almost always hurts so good.

I know this sounds like an ongoing cliche but grief and loss are all cliches in life. It happens over, and over, and things don't change. It's repetitive and it continues to hurt. I hate speaking in past tense; it's the most miserable of all tenses.