What I Miss

I miss the days I would wander round an empty house aimlessly, crying my little heart out. I might have had money in the bank, but it didn't even enter my head to buy a binge round. I might have looked old enough for alcohol, but using that wasn't a shadow of an option. I remember the desperation, what the fuck am I going to do now, I feel like I have reached the end, and my body respected that, it cried for that, it wailed and convulsed and dribbled for that. Now I just have a bunch of poor substitutes. And I miss having nothing. I miss having nothing but the fluids my body would afford me. And maybe it left some scars. But I feel like I'm making bigger ones now. They're just not visible to the public eye. Woop di do.

Visions of the future

A modest sized flat a walking distance from the city centre. A stylish yet comfortable bedroom - bedding is VERY important, where weekend papers are read. A second-hand piano in the lounge area so I can reprise my youthful talent (ahem, I wasn't that good actually). A bath where I spend dull-weathered Saturday afternoons, sipping a glass of wine, surrounded by bubbles, listening to Matt play an instrument (he can play many, clever). Thinking about what to have for tea. Plans for holidays, visits to see friends, keeping fit, eating well, sleeping regularly.


Site I currently love: http://mycatisadick.com/

Nothing else

Just having a browse through some crime scene photos. Looking particularly at pictures of victims of serial killers I've read a lot about. It's strange to see what you've read described time and time again. They may not be real. They look real. Some of them catch my breath. They're not horrifying in themselves. Not in the way I expected - some sort of indescribable vision of the results of evil that transcends this world as we know it. They're just meat. The kind we see hanging in butcher's shops, just human shaped. There really is nothing else. Just blood, gristle, flesh. And that's not the human with something missing. I'm not suggesting that when you see the ones with the faces still attached it's like a person but not quite. They're still entirely recognisable as people, whole and complete. The ones that haven't been butchered just look like they're sleeping. The ones that have been butchered look like the ones that are sleeping, but bloodier. And this isn't perspective building either. It is what it is. Just meat. Just me. Nothing else.

http://vanessawest.tripod.com/crimescenephotos.html

Meet Henry, the newest member of the family

Soooo, I got a tattoo yesterday. I decided to get one Saturday afternoon as I was walking home from seeing Angela and Sean in Teacup (fantastic pork and fig sandwich). I felt blue so thought a bit of retail therapy would go down well during which time I figured, you know what I really need? What will really cheer me up? A needle scoring through my skin at a mega fast rate. So I went, picked a design, booked in et voila. My tattooist was Steve, a very pleasant and talented man who took the time to make sure I was happy with the design. Once it's healed I'm going to go back and ask for some shadows to make it look more like he's climbing on my shoulder.

Sorry about the dried blood, it was too fresh (read, painful) to wash. And for the record, it IS on my shoulder, that is not my breast for anyone who may be confused.

Next up: The Queen. Alien I mean. Not your royal 'I pay more attention to my nails than the GB team walking out during the Olympic opening ceremony' highness.

This lady's dome and body:

This lady's head and mouth:

This lady's colouring:

 

 Beautiful ain't she?

Diary

Monday - tidy. Work.

Tuesday - Gym. Thesis. Work.

Wednesday - Gym. Appt. Work. Lucy?

Thursday - Gym. Thesis. Work.

Friday - Gym. Pack. Home.

Monday - 4:15pm

Tuesday - 5:00am (interval) 8-12pm. 2-4pm (library).

Wednesday - 5:30am (superset) 8:30am. 11-2pm. 2:30pm.

Thursday - 6:00am (cardio) 9-12pm. 2-4pm (library).

Friday - 7:00am (interval) 10-12pm. 12:54pm. (laptop, film theory text, memory stick, trainers, sweats, gym tops, underwear, pjs, straighteners, meds, oilatum, moisturisers, make up, 3 outfits, toothbrush, angela's book, train tickets, keys, purse, phone).

Shit shit shit

I went to a coffee shop to reward myself for having got out of bed and going to my therapy. She said that I needed to reward myself for achieving things rather than telling myself off for not doing other things. She wondered if drinking was a reward. I said no, it was so whatever you have to do that day you can do it slightly separated from it. Like the psychoanalytical theories of the horror film, you are regressing from a safe distance. With alcohol you are interacting with your daily duties but from a safe distance. Of course more often than not you do not complete your daily duties, or you do so at subpar performance, and you binge and you go to bed feeling sick and wake up feeling worse. But anyway. A reward it is not. A coping mechanism it is. A bad one. But an easy one.

I had to check something for someone today and the result is not what they deserved. I'm devastated for them. So I'm drinking. So maybe it won't hurt so much. Wonder how many of my daily duties I'll get done today. When something shit happens to someone you love it seems to hurt that much more. The feeling is keener, more raw. You cannot temper it because it is not yours to temper. You want to help but the futility of your actions and/or words glares so bright it distracts you from your intentions. So I'll just sit here and cry and drink and cry for what good it can do. And hope, and through a drunken haze it seems fairly possible, that it will not hurt this much for very long.