Robots Have A Heart.

Lost rosary beads.

2009-09-10T10:41:00.000-07:00

You looked at me sometimes and asked me what I wanted.
Couldn't spit out that word. Wouldn't. I tried that night though, and positively
choked on it.
youalways say to me,
"just talk to me. Just tell me."
and once I told you some truth,
"I don't want to let you in."
you would have smirked in my dark room. I tried not to fabricate your smothered reply, in my mind-- "you just did".
It's just such a shame that you look so wonderful on my pillow. inside my grandmother's sheets. Once as she drove me home from a day in Year Nine Nonna tried to give me some kind of moralistic/religious speech. She was never one with words, and I would never cease to correct her grammar and word selection very rudely back then,
something I regret now.
shesaid to me,
"young girls these days are ashamed to be virgins"
Being that difficult just-teen I was, I would have stretched my legs as far as they could go in that tiny car and claimed that I would never have sex anyway because it was dumb, and only horrible girls at school had sex anyway, but Nonna it's not because I respect myself OR my body, I just want to hate something else. Because I'm a rebel, etc. And, also Nonna, my skirt is way too long, I want you to take it up more, nobody has a skirt this long, I swear, it's not fair.
Short skirts bought us here, my grandmother tucked us in and you
wonder why I'm speechless.

50-words of sweet rejection.

2009-09-04T22:20:00.000-07:00

they slide into you composed longing claims fingers grope for drink find leg instead freshly-melted ice-blocks lend tepid
patches to burning whiskey don’t scowl as it goes down your denim-clad knees
separate knock little table and hers both rattle in protest a mantel-piece full somebody's love but stiletto-heel firmly hooked

I look good in stockings,

2009-09-04T22:13:00.000-07:00

and you look good most of the time.

I'm twennytwo.

2009-08-20T10:33:00.000-07:00

The Virgin and the Gypsy.

2009-08-20T10:12:00.000-07:00

I dreamed you again. They're always so fucking fleeting. I had all my fingers splayed over your ribs. Letting myself become overcome. Your stare later swept my mid-section. I feigned a cold cringe. I woke up screaming this word: "submit!"

Written for my best friend.

2009-07-01T08:43:00.000-07:00

To be sixteen again
in clashing denim
knee-high socks and
hi-tops
White Stripes guide us
we somehow manage to purchase
bottle of Smirnoff
in un-tucked sailor tops and
mis-mtached polka dots
old bus tickets and love declaration
Oasis, Beatles fixation
adorn our letters
when our mothers won't let us
be together after school anymore
Still feel sore

Yes, but is it honest?

2009-06-19T02:02:00.000-07:00

As I meandered home after work last week, I let my mind go for a bit of a bound off the leash I so securely wrap round my wrist. It returned panting and dribbling slightly with all kinds of useless crap. But then a great revelation- "drop it! DROP IT"- surfaced.

You know how people say that you can only be loved if you love yourself? Makes sense, doesn't it. After all, how can you expect somebody to love something you don't bear any respect for? You can't, can you? I came to terms with this long ago. But lucky me, I don't desire love. Not lately. So love and I are on agreeable terms for once.

But say you met somebody who you can definitely say would love you for who you are. And you had not been yourself lately. You're going to reject that love, right? And then, what kind of love do you attract? Who's loving you when you're not you? It certainly can't be an honest relationship.

What's the value of honesty, these days, anyways? Does "happy" appear before "honest" in that great list of things "people" desire in their lives?

A good friend of mine once had the misfortune of hearing about some sordid lover I once kept, in all sorts of sordid detail. Oh, not the type you're thinking of. My erotic detail leaves much to be imagined. Instead, I dwell on furtive glances. A remark he made about my favourite sundress. How he holds a wine glass. She interrupted my vague, sappy flow with a crisp query that shut me right up. She may have even banged her palm on the steering wheel, but probably not: "Yes, but is it honest?"

Implications of a lost passport.

2009-05-30T19:25:00.000-07:00

Planning to travel internationally relatively soon, and what is this girl's main concern? That she cannot get into any nightclubs, tonight. Somebody gate-crashed a small gathering (a Friday night thing, likely, with good wine but we are still missing substantial bulbs for each light fixture) and kicked a hole through my bedroom wall. Don't ask how- I know they're totally 1870s thick. My reaction? I'm there saying, "... I sure hope Dolores doesn't drag that dead rat in here via this hole."

Never mind landlords. Burglars. THERE'S A HOLE IN MY WALL, THIS IS TERRIBLE. Wait, what?

Immediacy. Immediacey? Is it an attractive thing, to be so seemingly consumed with what is frivolous. I shouldn't have attempted that as a question because I do know the answer- it's, "of course!" Wait, there is no 'E' in immediacy, except before 'D'- "of course!"

"I'm sure you can charm your way in," said my friend. Incidentally, I was totally charmed by the prospect of my character being anything akin to charming. Or, "prettier". Lipsticks lets a pretty girl look prettier. Lips like licked red candy are most pretty. I would attribute that candy line to Nabokov, only I think I misquoted and I don't want to insult my favourite Russian. I love a rose-stained mouth, and, apparently also (in accordance with my mobile phone's outbox messages of last night), "I love a fierce brow". That one I can pin securely on Christian Siriano, winner of the greatest season of Project Runway of, like, ever.

Why can't we look the other way?

2009-05-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

It's a bit difficult, when you are looking right at her.

This self destruction isn't about me anymore.

2009-05-19T17:07:00.000-07:00

you you you you you you you you you you you
are
the sun the moon the stars and I
I
would never run away from you.
bless you,
and the things that you do and it was all... yellow.
(Karaoke is a devil) and a simple prop. To occupy my time.
Stay home, eat apples.
I'm coming down...
with something
now.

Sunday morning. I sat outside my front fence in last night's dress. I don't think much of this number. Purchased on ebay for $10 ($5 for the dress, $5 for the postage), I had trepidation because alycewilson87 was the sole bidder for this item. What's wrong with it, exactly? What did everyone else on ebay see, that I was blind to? Fuck my bad judgement, this always happens. You know, I have two red dresses that I'm unsure about. I actually think I look shit in red, when I am pale as I am now. No, I am worse than pale right now. My tan hasn't totally faded. So I'm fadedy golden pink peach IVORY. It's non-commital. It's unslightly. Give it up, pigments! Let go, already. So, I'm sitting in the sun and I'm cringing because I'm hungover and emotional and want a Coke and I see Dolly rolling in some crunchy pavement. As she rolled she rolled closer and closer to where the curb ended and the road began. One of the old Greek ladies yelled something at me. I said, yeah, and kept looking at my cat who is just living for the moment. I am consumed with jealousy that I have to stand up, go inside and shower while Dolly just gets to Dolly around. She doesn't need me but I need her. She won't even let me hold her for more than five seconds without getting squirmy. Oh, and I was wearing my trench coat over the top of the dress. This dress is also stupid because I don't know if it's meant to be worn off-the-shoulder or not. I had my fur coat on the previous night. Dancing got sweaty... thankfully, I didn't do much of it.

you are falling.

2009-05-10T21:52:00.000-07:00

I am in water. How did I get here. I don’t really question myself. That’s the trouble. That’s how I got here. That’s how. The water is cold. My legs are over my head. They find sand. Then it’s gone again. Is that my knee hitting my chin. It is. Whiteness. Then blue murkiness again. I could do without the particles scratching me. They’re in my eyes now. Sand or shell bits? My legs are everywhere. My legs are nowhere. I open my mouth. Dumb thing to do. I taste many flavours. None of them pleasant. Mostly salty. Some acidic. There’s a lot of time to think down here. I wish I could see some fish. Do they know that I’m panicking. I try to remain cool. I’m naked now. I think. Still in underwear hopefully. Where did my friends go. Did they get out. Are they around me. Can they see me. I can’t see anything. I’m tumbling forward and backwards. Bobbing up and down. For the violence that my body is undergoing my mind remains calm. I wonder what I will do when I reach the shore again. If I do. If I’m naked. I don’t really know these friends that well. Are they as drunk as I. If they’re not will they laugh. It’s important to remain calm. I swallow more water. This time on purpose. My stomach starts churning. I think it’s because of the water. Or the non-stop lurching forward and backwards. Up and down. Think about something calming. Am I still wearing shoes. They are nice shoes. Heavy too. If they find my body they’ll think I had a death wish. For a fleeting moment my head emerges from the water. My eyes are swollen. I can only see colours. I think that’s someone near me. I’m close to the shore. I thought I was far out. This is embarrassing. Something has me by the waist. It’s a man. I can tell by his hands. My flesh is exposed. He’s pulling me out. The night air is colder than the water was. I am in underwear and leather jacket. Ruined.

Sunday trauma.

2009-04-26T02:26:00.000-07:00

Bottle of empty vodka (red Smirnoff)
Empty paycheck pocket ($400.50)
Dazed and Confused magazine (somebody has scrawled 'CUNT' on the 'D' of the title)
Ridiculous amount of cups of water (bedside, mainly)
Optus bill (unpaid)
Orange texta (and a whole lotta other shades too)
Media, Culture and Society assignment cover sheet (Advanced Prose, mark received was a worrying 14/20)
Flower scraps (all dead)
Lady and the Tramp picture book (pages from, anyway)
Old, unworking iPod shuffle (ownership unknown)
Ocean Spray cranberry juice
Real disturbing fictional account of heroin addiction (Junk, William S. Burroughs)

Yours is Mine.

2009-04-16T22:00:00.000-07:00

I sort of want to own my own house. I finally see the appeal. I could paint the walls ice-cream colours and get wafer-ish carpets... just in one room though. You aren't allowed to paint rentals. Well, maybe the shit ones that don't have regular inspections. Not that we have ever really had one, except for that one time our third and no-longer housemate insisted we all be present and impeccably behaved. He whipped the two of us, and the property, into shape it has not been since and then proceeded to drink to excess the night before and come home mere minutes before the inspection was to commence (about midday)- still drunk and in possession of an ugly woman's belt.

I told someone about my ice-cream daydream once, and their face kind of scrunched up in an erotic fusion of "that is so you" and contained affection. He lunged at me with similar sentiments and it was nice to have something I wanted so validated.

Renting is a bitch, really.

You move out when you're twenty, thinking that Grant Street will be a fucking oyster of a whale of a merry maritime. Well, it was for a long time. Then the dynamics shift. Soon you want to push the boundaries. Soon you want to smoke an entire packet of cigarettes (25s) from the comfort of your own loungeroom-based armchair, or paint a hallway mural (5x5 metres) of you and all your bestest friends enjoying a seaside picnic. But, you can't. So you lounge in a daybed and try to remember to stub your cig out somewhere more discrete this time, and note all the broken glass peeking up at you through the crunchy dead leaves of the crunchy dead tree you didn't realise had joined the ranks of the deceased until your landlord pointed this out to you. You don't know a thing about maintaining a garden. Why didn't you rent one of those monstrous Italian concrete palaces guarded by lions and... harp seals, as big as Wellington and twice as intimidating? They might even keep the mosquitos away. Grant Street seems to double as a mosquito breeding habitat.

We could charge and use our newly-acquired Puppy School Skills to teach them fancy tricks. A Mosquito Circus, it seems less stupid than a Flea Circus somehow.

This place bores you now.

It's predictable and I want to live in lots of places. I spend so much (of my precious) time dissing domesticity and here I am, ripely twenty-one and sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of tea in a chiffon dress, conciously trying to make my prose prettier. I hope my cheeks are rosy today. I hope the landlord leaves soon. But he won't, so until then I have to pretend my darling cat doesn't usually jump in through the window howling for attention and thundering around as though she owns the place. "Bad Dolly! You live outside." Last night I tried to wash some dishes and, rather than attempt to clean two baking dishes (drunken chicken experiment & slightly more sober pasta bake experiment), I threw them in the wheelie bin. Thud. Somebody had actually put the bin out that Thursday morning so it was an empty, rotting cavity waiting to be stuffed with more awful smelling things. I am quite sure the dishes smashed when they hit the bottom. Satisfying. Thud.

I wish destruction wasn't so seductive lately. I've fallen in love with physical manifestations of how I feel. The quiver of my hand when I hand someone I shouldn't love something I shouldn't really give them. A tender inflammation on my neck. I mark so easily that everything that happens to me seems more wretched than it really was. Scars, the faint white ones that are visible only in certain light. He made me his more than any real partner could have, and for this I resent him. Falseness and reality don't merge well, no matter how I try to breed them.

Sheba Hart, Notes on a Scandal's deviant of a heroine, said something like, "What is love, but a mutual pact of delusion?" How true this is when you're not loved back, and how you don't care when you are. Why is delusion okay some times, and not at others? I loathe black and white thinking. I forget often though, to explore the greyness. Which is faintly ironic, because I live in slate shadows.

Where am I, now? Where were we? Oh, my house. Our house. Anything that enters this place is for the taking. There's no privacy, but thankfully I don't require any. I don't even have a doorknob, and in my old room some latch didn't catch so that door wouldn't close either.

New life theory.

2009-04-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

It is harder to get into trouble if you don't leave the house unless it is strictly necessary (i.e university commitments, or work) because trouble has to come find you.

Of course, the kind of trouble that shows up at your doorstep is going to be of the absolute worst variety. Think of the effort that trouble would have to go to, and how intent on messing you up that it must be, to come find you at your home!

Stream of consciousness.

2009-04-06T09:01:00.000-07:00

I climbed into her toy chest, but why? More importantly, whose Little Brother sat atop that wooden crate? I didn't scream though, did I? Was it possible that I found comfort there, then, at that tender age where children are unaware of how the grim things that they sometimes do, can qualify as morbid and Wrong in some way? I still seek dark, silent places. I used to make difficult phone calls from the built-in wardrobe in the bedroom of my parent's house. My two Best Friends and I, not-so-early-teened, sat inside a cardboard fridge box. Was it a lame thing to do? Somebody's brother intevened then, too- kicked on the box. We screamed, feigning pain. Surpressing mirth. I found myself trapped in a phone booth several years later, with one of those Best Friends barring the exit. Bottle of Something in hand, she sneered at me- why, though? Intoxication absorbs essential details, yet again. Yet these images remain for me to play, to make new truths with. Or was it Fever that burned at my mind that particular night? Delirium can make me feel far drunker than alcohol. Two years back I became lost in a hospital ward, because my legs wouldn't go where I needed them to and I regained "consciousness" halfway through a shouting match with a girl about my age who was heavily pregnant. I hid in a disabled toilet for forty minutes with the lights out.

My earliest memory.

2009-03-05T02:49:00.001-08:00

seven years old
Nonna's front lounge room
my best dress that I hated
four pastel squares sewn together
a sack !
stiff and too tight under the armpits
or so I claimed
itching to take it off immediately
could not accomplish this alone
it had -
to be lifted above my head
returned to a dry-cleaning bag

Things I Don't Remember.

2009-02-19T18:35:00.000-08:00

a terrible headache complete with nausea, two bottles of white at a discount of $10 (one far too sweet), writing a single word in a beautiful red notebook for a beautiful girl, red wine, repetition, smoking Camels from an Altoid tin in a beer garden lit from a tea light candle at our table, a car trip, a skipped heartbeat, not vodka, any conversation, getting out of any car, failing to recognise you, a desperate look in his eye, desperation everywhere in that night air, disgusting best friends, more beer, another trip in a car, a noise that shook us both, repetition, open French doors, coldness, an inevitable inability to sleep.

When to reach for the self-destruct button?

2009-02-19T00:58:00.000-08:00

Now
or
later?

"I cannot see what flowers are at my feet / Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs"

2009-02-19T00:31:00.001-08:00

Uninspired

2009-01-01T02:17:00.000-08:00

Um.

2008-12-28T08:43:00.000-08:00

Recently someone asked me about this here blog. They wanted to know whether I used it to bitch and moan and talk about what's wrong with the world. Now, I know I would never do that intentionally, but I'm going to make a personal outburst:

It's getting pretty fucking hard to keep my chin up. And not just up in the sense of, I'msosadIamkeepingmyeyesdownandthus,mychinhaslittleoptionbuttorestuponmycollarbone.

I mean, I may need a floatation device soon to keep me from sucking in water and drowning in some body of water somewhere.
Again.

This year, thus far, has been the craziest of my life, and I'm lashing out at everyone I know. If I update this blog, this bitterness will manifest itself in my entries, making it an absolute drag to read (and write, trust me). My internal pain is such that I cannot channel it into a creative pursuit. This has never happened to me before.

OKAY, YOU'VE GOT ME! I AM WHINY AND BORING.

The proof is in the pudding.

2008-12-20T22:43:00.000-08:00

Backyard Blogging.

2008-12-20T20:22:00.000-08:00

At 6:15 a.m, I wrote you a non-love letter. I wrapped it in some old lecture notes (Creative Writing 111), and an actual love letter (my ex). It went into a yellow plastic bag with squirrels all over it.

Only then could I get some sleep.

This was then.

2008-12-10T17:57:00.000-08:00

Unrealistic expectations of love.

2008-12-10T06:32:00.000-08:00

I spent the morning in bed with Leonardo DiCaprio. Oh, snap! I should have written for Dolly's movie review section in the mid-90s. See, what I was actually doing was watching Romeo + Juliet. Get it? Only back then, my mum wouldn't let me read Dolly, let alone be a staff writer for the publication*.

I am not someone who cries in films, and this one is no exception, despite it being marketing as a tear-jerker (probably. What am I going to do, order back-issues of Dolly?) A single tear did not streak down my cheek, nor did my bottom lip quiver at any point. But I will tell you a secret: I choked back at least one billion sobs. I am a skilled non-crier. You see, I developed this skill when it became apparent that my innerdisgustinglygirlygirl is a fucking crybaby.

I would see an advertisement for Neighbours. Some characters I have never seen before are tackily tying the knot in a tacky little garden somewhere. The guy says in a quivering voice, "I didn't think I would ever love again, not after my first wife died of falling into the ocean off a jetty a few episodes back." And I had to stand up and walk out of the room into the hallway before the waterworks hit. Wah, wah, wah.

Luckily, it goes as fast as it comes. Sometimes I like to wallow, though, which is one reason why I love Romeo + Juliet so. I just lay there and I sob. Oh, it's so amazing, my insides are positively exclaiming. They saw each other and they just were in love. Could there be anything more beautiful than this, ever? As I watched Claire Danes and Leo** embrace in that elevator, all I could think was, "Fuck, is this why my ideals of love are so unrealistic?" Sure, I only saw this film for the first time last year, but I read the play when I was 10. I distinctly remember my age because the librarian made a big deal about how young I was to be borrowing Shakespeare. I said it's only because all your Where's Wallys are on loan. Kidding- I just burst into tears.

Love at first sight. It's taken me long enough to reach my point, now marvel as I fail to explain myself sufficiently. My heart is holding out for someone who I want from the get-go, and who wants me back just as desperately. Whenever I meet a boy, I (subconsciously) expect them to follow me home. Or at least call me within the hour to declare something akin to love.

Huh? What's wrong with me? Firstly, I'd have zero respect for any man who did any of those things. But then I freak out and imagine the worst- they must have realised what a douchebag I deep down am, from that twenty minute encounter in which we discussed how we both went to Paris last year. Or that he's made assumptions about me based on how I unwittingly presented myself. I don't usually display cleavage, it was an accident! I was nervous, so I squeezed my elbows in. I'm not a whore! I hate breasts, ask anyone!

Has anyone seen that Facebook group about Disney films giving young girls unrealistic expectations of love? At least Disney doesn't favour the whole LAFS thing- or at least, not in the one I saw yesterday (can you tell how productive my holidays have been thus far?). Beauty and the Beast. Belle hated Beast at first! And he was equally a cunt back to her. But- worst!- FATE WAS AT PLAY. My secretgirlyromantiqueself lovvvvvvvves fate. Hey, it's cool that me and that guy threaten to have the other sent to the slaughterhouse and use the meaty corpse as a punching bag, because we are, in fact, meant to be. Why else would we be going through all this pain, this endless torture? It will amount to something rewarding. Some day. True love. And if it doesn't, I'll cry, and won't care who sees.

* It's probably the sole reason I'm absolutely awful at sex. Dolly Doctor could have also cleared up once and for all why I am so itchy "down there".

Perth.

2008-12-08T18:43:00.000-08:00

I finally understand why everyone wants to leave it, and move to Melbourne. Ten nights there and I'm in love. It was a whirlwind romance. I was standoffish at first. "Oh, everybody loves Melbourne. You'll love Melbourne, Alyce, it's so you." I am, of course, a cynic. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart. But it won me over, and might even make me (gasp) commit. Correct, I have joined the ranks of early-twenty-something Perth kids who fantasise about spending their Saturday nights not having their very identities stolen at Amplifier (I want my fucking fingerprints back!), but skipping down lane ways and writing openly in notebooks in cafes without someone giving you a strange look or, horror of all horrors, looming over your slumped form and asking, "WHATCHA WRITING?"

I need affordable coffee.

My Summer Reading List!

2008-11-20T05:31:00.000-08:00

... and why I probably won't crack a single cover.

Whenever summer rolls around I find that I have accumulated a small pile of reading material to tackle during all my leisure time. But, year after year, I also find myself avoiding the pile and leaving it to accumulate a small pile of gray dust. Ultimately, by the time uni rolls back around, I am unable to even see what the cover even is. So, in the spirit of honesty (which I am all about, especially when it comes to dealing with myself...) I've decided to share just why I already loathe all my summer reading choices for 2008, and divulge exactly what I'll be doing instead of reading.

Oh, and FYI:
RWR=Rating Without Reading.

1. The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing
Why I bought it: I liked the cover. Wait, did I even? I suppose I liked the thickness of it. It looked substantial. I like notebooks, right? I skimmed the blurb. Something about a woman who has a couple to several notebooks about various topics. Could be worse.
Why I have since decided against it: It looks substantial...
Why I really bought it: I picked it up in Elizabeth's and walked around with it. Then my friend wanted to exit and I still had the book and hadn't yet decided for or against purchasing it but they really wanted to go get sushi and I was like eerrgghhhhhh then before I knew it I had paid for it. The guy at the counter was totally not nice, either.
My RWR: 7/10. I'd probably really actually enjoy it.
What I'll read instead: Nurse Nancy, or just wear the complimentary pink polka dotted BandAids. Yay for $4 Little Golden Books!

2. Little Birds by Anais Nin
Why I bought it: I liked the edition. Yay for I 've read another Nin book, Henry and June, that was okay.
Why I have since decided against it: The woman's face on the cover really annoys me. She's got this really obnoxious hibiscus flower onto of a bob hairdo that I was sporting just last month- only on me, it looked good. This is budget burlesque, at best. I can't take this shit on the train to work! I have a reputation in 6007. Additionally, even those who know next to nothing re: literature knows Anais is one horny bitch. Bantam ain't gotta print 'EROTICA' on the cover, same size as the title.
Why I really bought it: I genuinely thought I would read this one.
MY RWR: 7/10 again.
What I'll read instead: I will view an episode of HBO's Cathouse, and ponder just why Isabella Soprano is so inoffensive, for such a whore.

3. The Captain is out to lunch and the sailors have taken over the ship by Charles Bukowski
Why I bought it: This one was a birthday gift. It's one of those new Bukowski editions- all spongey pulpy covered with illustrations by Robert Crumb. That's the guy who drew for the American Splendor comic series and dang, Charlie and Harvey Peker are the exact same person. How did I not notice this? Did everyone else know this?
Why I have since decided against it: I've flicked through this and it's not maritime themed. I wanted an honest sea shanty about an honest Captain with a seemingly honest crew who, while breaking for an honest sandwich with a side of lime juice, do a mutiny.
Why I really bought it: N/A.
My RWR: A dismal 2/10. Booooo. Boo for Bukowski in general. Bukowski would boo himself if he could, you know. I like my authors to have uncontrollable egos. And also, if he's so great, how come he's dead?
What I'll read instead: I haven't read what deleted scenes my super-deluxe DVD of The Little Mermaid has got yet, so I'll peruse that shortly. Thanks, Mum! That, or finally make out with Scurvs on Saturday eve and contract that stylish STD I've always dreamed of.

4. November's Russh
Why I bought it: I, or one of my housemates, gets Russh every month, or bi-month, whenever it comes out. It's just one of those things.
Why I have since decided against it: Now, this is just plain lazy. I keep picking it up and going for walksies with the mag. We've been to the lounge together, where I rolled it up into a telescope and tried to spot some land mass. It came to the kitchen with me where I cut some nice soft cheese on the Wrangler ad back. So I feel like we have bonded, and taking the relationship to the next level would ruin what we have.
Why I really bought it: The denim-clad girl on the cover has no breasts. I want to have no breasts. I have to uncover her marvelous secret.
My RWR: 1/10, it is unfair that she is boobless.
What I'll read instead: I shall Google "no boob diet" until 3 a.m, then fall asleep content an convinced that if bananas increase bust size, then lemons (clearly the opposite of a banana, being a citrus) will shrink my chest right down to dreamy proportions.

I'm Awake. I'm Always Awake.

2008-11-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

Pajamas one moment and then skipping down streets New Dress slipping some stop, swallow

"A good deal of foreign babble" onoffonofflovers, so tempting Can you "taste your fear"? air has a taste, too...

Where we sat, I glance decide on 'Uninviting', avoid 'Bathroom' though Addict dabbed on pulsing point is Poison, in memory

Regina's looking over You took care of me tonight, somehow

She's gonna be pissed when she wakes up, for terrible things I did to her in her dreams.

2008-11-19T01:24:00.000-08:00

I kind of hate dreams. My dreams. I don't know about yours. They're probably a lot nicer.

I know somebody whose ex-girlfriend used to get angry at him for dreaming about killing her.

My dreams are murky. I dip in and out of them as I slip from sleep to waking. Sometimes they don't resume. They are especially choppy when I'm falling asleep. When I'm meant to be waking up in the morning, (andmyalarmsoundsandanabsurdlytropicalassortmentofbirdiesarechirpinginthetrees), I can wake up, walk around some, get unconscious again and pick up where I left off. Good dreams happen in the a.m. Bad ones, the rest of the eve.

The bad dreams always begin with me insulting somebody I don't have any contemptuous feelings toward. All Hell breaks loose. There's fire a lot. Somebody pulling my hair, biting my ears, I can't see their face. I wake up sobbing. But it's a dry cry.

I kind of invent repressed traumas. My subconscious is an attention seeker.

I've never had a bad dream while sleeping next to somebody else. I can't take naps, either- I'm too anxious that something exciting will happen and I'll have to live with missing it. I like to watch Dolly take a nap. Cats are so funny. They can fall asleep anywhere.

I can't fall asleep on my back, but I can wake up there. I've slept with two people who I didn't want to strangle by morning. I like space to move.

Ever slept with jeans on? Blagh. Or a cocktail dress. Ouchies.

It's pretty much confirmed:

2008-11-14T05:49:00.000-08:00

I have no social skills.

I don't remember how I met any of my friends. I assume they just kind of materialised before me with entire histories pre-formed, because I couldn't possibly have approached them or even reciprocated when they attempted to reach out to me.

An AFH Classic.

2008-10-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

This foodstuff is best eaten on the Sunday morning after it was prepared and served, while sitting on a red bench on your back porch.

If you take the dip to Cottesloe, and leave it in your car for several hours, and then go to IGA to buy stuff to dip it in, and you get home and you sober up, don't eat the dip. That's disgusting. Really.

If you're still drunk, I guess, proceed. I won't judge you. Much.

Recently, I was told that this snack is not of Mexican descent at all! By some guy from California. Although I doubt if he's even been to Mexico, he feels that his proximity to the border of it entitles him to some knowledge of the country's cuisine. Needless to say, he was not invited to our next picnic. Or any, ever. Really.

What do you think?

Turn and face the strange Changes.

2008-10-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight I changed bedrooms with Lara. There's something weird about space. Even space you don't technically own is yours after awhile of living within in. Knowing every inch of it. Taking solace from it.

I felt a few pangs to the lower stomach when all her stuff was suddenly in there, and mine wasn't. When she was and I wasn't.

I'm such a pessimist. I really don't know why this whole thing has me so sad. I didn't love that room. It has a multitude of problems. Dysfunctional curtain that got pulled down one boozy afternoon and never sprung back up. Door that's unable to shut without doing up a rattly latch somebody's glued on.

"I can't get it in!"

"That's what she said!"

I can hang up my fairy lights up, in here. There's some very pretty French doors, in here. What am I complaining about?

I keep imagining walking through the front door and not going in there, rather than visualising an entrance where I found my way into the new bedroom, and am content. Maybe Dolly would be waiting on the bed for me. Probably covered in hay, as per.

My favourite dress.

2008-09-25T22:09:00.000-07:00

I have a favourite dress. Every time I take it to the streets or out on the town, I have a positive experience. No matter what I'm doing.

The affectionately nicknamed French Maid dress (it's black silk trimmed in white pleats) has seen better days. First wash I put it through, I totally ignored the 'Dry Clean Only' tag and gave it some Tough Love in hot water and the company of whatever else was currently carpeting my bedroom floor. It came out smaller, crisp pleats crumpled and not so white, and decidedly slightly transparent. Still beautiful, I thought.

And when my drunken friend borrowed French Maid and tucked a lit cigarette inside her pocket just before entering a nightclub (for later, you see), I didn't get mad, I just poked my index finger through the hole and pretended worms lived in Frenchie whenever I was the drunken one. Hello, little wormy. Oh, look at you just worming around, you invertebrate you.

I've done the longest Walk of Shame of my entire life with that dress (admittedly, I was wearing a borrowed jumper over, which was so long it reached French Maid's hem and made me look like I was only wearing a top), but it was still there, rustling about under all that acrylic and smell of boy.

I have to ask myself whether I can ever wear my favourite dress again. I get the feeling that if I ever wore it again, somebody would make a remark. A negative one. It is, after all, bordering on downright ratty.

Don't even steal my phone.

2008-09-22T08:47:00.001-07:00

Last night I walked home from work. As I do almost every night I work until 8. Nobody tell my mum, please. Everything was going according to plan. I was following my route. Walk in a straight line, intersection, straight line, right, intersection, little more straight line, left. I was really cold because I had forgotten to pack a cardigan in my hazy state I tend to leave for work in but you know, I was tough. I didn't look like that vulnerable, as far as I go. So I'm just after Intersection #1, and some guy stops me. I had my iPod on as I do and he waves me down, does the obnoxious "take your earphones out" gesture. Not cool. He was halfway through his sentence before I even make eye contact.

"Where's a phone?"
"Huh, I don't know. Oxford Street, I suppose."
"What's Oxford Street?"
"That... street down there."
"I don't want to go to the city."
"It's not the city. It's not that far."
"Well, I need to make a call. I need to use a... I don't know what they're called anymore. Phone cab?"
"Payphone... well, I don't know what to tell you. I don't know a closer one, sorry."
"Can I borrow yours then?"
"No, I don't... have one. Sorry!"
"You must..."

So this is where I broke into a quick step. Luckily, he wasn't blocking my path or use I would have really been concerned. Worst noteven robbery attempt ever. And as I skipped homeward I wondered just what in the hell this guy needed to do with a phone. He had no car. He was alone on a footpath. He seemed pretty sober. But he was fucking frantic. I'm a little worried, to be perfectly honest.

Then again. I suppose I'm not.

tree times.

2008-09-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

Can you come down from there?
I don't want to. I want to stay in this tree for, like, ever. At least another hour.
You can't stay in a tree forever. Fuck, do you even know how crazy you sound? Come down, let's go to bed.
No bed. Tree.
You said that if you came over we would go straight to bed and sleep. You said you were tired.
I would have never said that. I'm full of awake and good times still. Bed's boring.
You misrepresented yourself. This isn't fair. I've been up since five. You said you weren't that drunk. You didn't seem that drunk.
This isn't intoxication, my love. It's love. Love for life itself.
Is that right?
Totally.

did you know that, blogging while still mostly drunk is a GREAT IDEA!

2008-09-13T22:42:00.000-07:00

it is. So anyway, blogging has this thing attached to it. It's like, to write a blog you need to have an idea. A GOOD IDEA. I'm going to write about getting stung by bees, every time I have been stung by a bee in my life is going to be included in this blog. By blog I actually mean, blog entry. Blog blog bloggggg is an ugly word. Kiss me just like a beesting. But my main point of contention here is I love unfinished unedited writing and this makes me suspect. My creative writing tutor said this week something like and no, he didn't word it better than me, he fumbled around too so bear with me. He said, do you think that Picasso didn't know how to paint perfectly realistic portraits of people, and that that's why he did Cubism etc? of course he could do a lifelike drawing if he had to. He learned the RULES, then he could BREAK THEM. Do I know all there is to know about writing? N to the O, I do not, no sir. In fact ]]
I'm totally shit at technicalities that's not to say I don't know where to stick commas I don't know all the rules but I break the ones I know is that O.K (okay) with everyone/
why would you make a flawless sentence, if you could? Would you? I'm sure we can make some robots together, you and I, grammar syntax Nazi MACHINES that can arrange shit just so, if we tried hard enough. Should we make robots? Would I make a robot if I could? My answer: yes. Beauty is in trying, stumbling, failing, being drunk and doing socially awkward things you will regret. I remember Saturday nights by falling out of trees, making out on median strips and smashing punchbowls. It's beautiful to remember. Sucks to forget.
I have anxiety attacks sometimes. Worrying I won't remember here and now.
I'm in love. I don't know they say you'll never die!!

Typical.

2008-09-04T23:54:00.000-07:00

you're alone on a dancefloor well not entirely alone your friends were here but now they're not or some of them are around somewhere and he smiles at you and you don't know what to do you shouldn't smile back but you do and then it starts he's holding your hands between his and you dance together for the better part of an hour slow and fast and you fall over as he spins you around and you laugh together and drink together and you think why oh why am I having another when I can barely stand and when you're dropping the glass the drink came out of and smashing it and the glassie is angry at you and then the lights come on and you kiss against the bar and faint disgust sets in it's all so sordid suddenly disgustingly distasteful and you're saying yes yes come back to mine to finish this conversation that is so good what are we talking about again it doesn't matter and you're on the street because you've been thrown out it's so late it's five okay that's not that late then and there's no taxis of course of course why do we need a taxi of course of course let's just walk hand in hand and it will be beautiful then before you know it you're home and in bed and you can't sleep with a stranger in the same bed as you so you go hunting for sympathy and crawl into your housemates bed and he asks why do you do this everytime why do you bring boys home and go sleep elsewhere you say it's a bit like sleeping in your parents bed when you were a scared kid it's sad you know but you have to just get away from it all sometimes

(Slightly) Better Poetry, by Nabokov and not me.

2008-09-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

Ode to a Model.

I have followed you, model,
in magazine ads through all seasons,
from dead leaf on the sod
to red leaf on the breeze,

from your lily-white armpit
to the tip of your butterfly eyelash,
charming and pitiful,
silly and stylish.

Or in kneesocks and tartan
standing there like some fabulous symbol
parted feet pointing outward
-- pedal form of akimbo.

On a lawn, in a parody
of Spring and its cherry-tree
near a vase and a parapet
virgin practising archery.

Ballerina, black-masked
near a parapet of alabaster.
“Can one -- somebody asked --
rhyme ‘star’ and ‘disaster’?”

Can one picture a blackbird
as the negative of a small firebird?
Can a record, run backward,
turn ‘repaid’ into ‘diaper’?

Can one marry a model?
Kill your past, make you real, raise a family
by removing you bodily
from the back numbers of Sham?

There's something I love about lily-white armpits and butterfly eyelash tips. Sigh.

get outta my face, I'm a POET!

2008-09-02T23:32:00.000-07:00

So I sit at the front of the boat
and I want to jump over and out and then I think
no
it's cold down there I can tell even now from here
I should stay here for now in the boat

I shouldn't even be allowed in Monday's poetry lecture.

Too bad.

2008-08-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

Telling bouncers that you need to stay at Amps after the lights have gone on because you have "chronic, severe dehydration that often results in a severe case of death" doesn't work.

Seriously, why do they kick us out at 5a.m now? The only other place open in Perth at this ridiculous hour is McDonald's on William Street. And they're serving breakfast, and may as well be closed.

I should be writing right now. But last night I (or somebody else, or multiple people) spilled vodka and orange all over my living room floor and today I keep getting stuck to the floorboards in places. It's seriously inhibiting my walking speed and therefore my productivity for the entire day. It's a Class 4 Sunday Write-Off.

In addition to this, Nathan, my housemate, decided to perform some much-needed ExitMoulding on our bathroom ceiling as soon as we all rolled out of bed at 1p.m this afternoon. Now my eyes are burning like I've just submerged my face in a bucket of undiluted chlorine. Does chlorine come like that, in a pure form?

Ugh. I can't even go to bed because my room smells like moldy hotcakes.

Weather.

2008-08-28T23:16:00.000-07:00

As much as I hate it, whenever it's that horrible, cloudy, you-think-it's-about-to-pour-with-warm-rain-but-it-never-does climate, I feel like my true self.

Isn't that strange? Maybe I have had a lot of really major life defining moments to the low, rumbling tune of distant thunder that never actually becomes a storm.

I can't stand humidity. I love crisp air, and cool breezes. I no longer think of weather as a boring conversation starter. I think hearing about people's favourite temperatures and conditions is beyond exciting. I wonder if anyone loves oppressive heat. Could I ever fall in love with somebody who loves humidity? Does anyone like this exist?

Taxi drivers have great observations to share about weather. Generally. I suppose it's because they have to make so much small talk. I feel bad when I discuss how lovely the sun's been lately with taxi drivers, because I'm so sincere that I seem fake. They don't know that I actually want to know about their favourite day of the past week, weather-wise.

My housemate likes to wear lots of layers to bed and wake up sweaty. I hate sweating. But that's because I'm always sweating. It's not a novelty for me. I have overactive sweat glands. Only it's a cool sweat.

Body temperature is so weird. One minute you're standing shoeless on somebody's front lawn, wet grass soaking through your stockinged feet, and then you're in a bed where somebody had been sleeping mere seconds earlier and it's just too warm and you alternate between blankets and no blankets and you can't get it right and you wish you just stayed outside where the air was perfect.

In summer I am going to sleep in a seashell kid's pool filled with either water or pillows in the backyard.

SMS sums up my world.

2008-08-27T09:27:00.000-07:00

tell Colgate there is spew on the shelf
Okay pineapple is okay
Where yov at hater
Amps forevers
Love you long vine
Where bred jou
Grose!
Just going to smoke the whole packet
Pizza pockets now.
Alive
I am pure lost
Old friends,new drinks
My nose is running out
Is there another pinata going on
No way that's illegal
WHEREO ARE THEE
Only elephants allowed in this region thank you
Call of when you can
I love you and its not a demo
I inherited it from my daughter
areyou my friend?
Everywhere
Taximan denies existence of my HOUSE
lowdown
Music i live there
Youd love my outfit its pure eighties
zoo animals have more varied and nutritious diets than we do
artwol
Now now. Our hunger pains are sticking like duct tape.
accidental
laterssss7
Can we call our label oragami and cheesecake
Huh no playground hand clapping going down
drunk on two dollar peep show
that came out wrong
tupperware. Is. Satan.
Save some!!! Or i cry!
Haha stupid mouse i hope it got decapitation
Is pinata okay?!
I got mouse traps
robotlove
I got keys ham head
silly bun
Maybe a tipple

This just in...

2008-08-27T08:30:00.001-07:00

I'm, like, what's wrong with blogging.

Infinite loop much?

2008-08-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

Imagine if your subconscious thought it was a good idea to let (or even encourage, maybe even force) you to date the same person over and over again. I'm not talking about the age-old make-the-same-relationship-mistakes-over-and-over issue. You know, like seeking out a specific, soul-damaging type because you secretly don't want to be content bullshit.

Nooooooo.

I date the same boy in physical appearance. Do I think this is acceptable?

Noooooooooooooo.

There was a frog in my backyard on Sunday. It was dead and blue and dried up so Jonny stood it up against the steps and the position in which it died made it look like it was doing a Riverdance.

A confession.

2008-08-18T01:43:00.000-07:00

I liked my CIT lecture today.

It was about perspective in painting.

Thus far.

2008-08-14T19:37:00.000-07:00

It is 10:38a.m. I have:

Snoozed my 8a.m alarm until 9:50a.m, reasoning that I can be late to work and wouldn't get in trouble because it is Saturday. It's Friday. I have never before thought that being late to work is acceptable. I start at 8 on Saturday anyway.
Come close to tears in the shower because my urge for coffee was so intense. It's not that I had no access to coffee, but I was upset that I had become one of THOSE people. You know. Soon I'll have a tacky bumper sticker plastered to my... bike. "Don't you even talk to me until I get some caffeine in my system, GOD DAMN IT, people."
Dried myself with a towel I didn't realise was soaking wet until it was too late. Actually considered blowing myself dry with my hairdryer. By the time I committed to this plan, I had been standing around naked for a good five minutes and was long dry.
Dragged myself to the petrol station and paid with a fifty despite having exact change and several smaller notes because I didn't feel up to unzipping my wallet properly. Walked home with coffee in hand and anger in the blood for not even trying to fight this new addiction.
Noticed that I was wearing a 1980's (doing a lame impression of the 1950's) sundress with blue leather boots. Mourned my loss of style briefly.
Put on some Kanye.
Remembered that my shoes were from a pretty Parisian boutique and cheered up.
Become increasingly depressed thinking about how I left my bike at my parents place when I moved out.

An encounter.

2008-08-14T01:00:00.001-07:00

"Hello Alice."
"It's Alyce, you know my name. I see you like, every day."
"You're Alice to me now. And I'm the Mad Hatter."
"You are pretty crazy, I'll give you that."
"No, you see Alice, we're all mad here."
"Oh, very clever."
"When you look around, right now, do you see Wonderland?"
"No. I'm at a supermarket. I'm working. Certain customers are giving me a hard time. This is hardly my idea of Wonderland."
"Oh, Alice. You forget your own story. There were some horrible things in Wonderland. And how did you cope?"
"I guess she... I... got over it?"
"Exactly. Alice is strong. Doesn't let anything defeat her. Remember that."
"I'll try."

Who Am I?

2008-08-13T23:18:00.000-07:00

I think I've already touched on my (potential) answer to this largely unanswerable question in the WebCT discussion forum. On my blog(s), I am the proud owner of a fixed identity. I have very specific interests that I discuss. Nobody can doubt that I like to drink, put together crazy outfits, and write fiction. I'll play up to this, and even perform it to a certain degree.

Look at it this way. When you complete a profile for Blogger, Facebook, or any social networking site, you set up this identity you will endeavour to assume until you delete your profile. Whether you are actually aware of this at the time or not.

In creative writing classes we are taught that the more contradictions a character has (and calling myself a character in the blogging realm is very appropriate here), the more complex and therefore interesting they are. As it is a new audience that I am addressing, I feel the need to provide an exposition of my life, and my preferred online identity. Hence, my Blogger profile.

So, sometimes when I'm in a strange mood I like to view things I've written and analyse them as if I had never encountered the words, let alone given birth to them.

I am looking at this girl's blogger profile. She's 21, from Perth, and seems a bit quirky. Oh, yes, definitely quirky. What's with her response to the scarf question? She likes dressing up in costumes and fairy tales, yet reads highbrow literature? Young at heart. In her profile image she is baking pink cupcakes, wearing a pastel-hued dress.

What does any of this really say about her?

Hers isn't like one of those profiles that feature scrupulous lists. Every band whose CD you have ever listened to. Whatever the last 20 films you remember seeing and enjoying. All your favourite books. On the profile edit page there are fields where you can enter what music, movies and books you like. She has only filled out books, and vaguely.

Well, I read more than Nabokov. I rarely actually read fairy tales, I collect pretty editions of them though. I've been purposefully evasive.

Why?

In real life, my identity is totally fluid.

I know something can either be fluid, or not. There is no such thing as 'fluider' or 'fluidest'. The debatable existence of terms aside, I think my self changes with alarming frequency unknown to others. My identity is ultrafluid. Oh yes.

I wake up some days and I hate the things I loved yesterday. I move on from relationships, interests and projects at a startling rate. Contradiction is my middle name. I already have two middle names. It's getting crowded in there.

So in reality, I am a most complex and intriguing character. I used to be ashamed of how quickly I changed. One of my friends used to take joy in pointing out how I'd go back on my opinions.

When Lily Allen first rose to fame. I told everybody that I wanted to kill her. Her music sucked, her face was downright hideous, etc. Then I heard that she was touring and all of a sudden I was in tears because I would be in London while she was in Perth. I wanted to see Lily! I even named my new black kitten Lily. My family thought I was being ironic. Lilies are white, get it? Ha, ha. Only I knew that it was a tribute to Lily Allen's black hair.

When I got back from the trip, I wasn't interested in hearing about how the concert had been. It wasn't a return of my initial, irrational hatred. I just didn't care anymore. I never listened to Lily again. I kept the cat though.

My friend cites this occurrence every time I claim to dislike a musician (or anything). He, and others, might see my constantly altering viewpoint as weakness of character. I argue that I show integrity by admitting that I've changed my mind. A weak person would pipe down and pretend to keeping hating Lily, or whatever, forever.

I don't classify who I am by the things I like for this reason. Many people do. Instead, I know my self by my characteristics. I'm unpredictable. I'm fiercely loyal to people I love. I'm overly sensitive, and very emotional.

Depending on how, or on what physical grounds, you define identity, mine can be fluid or fixed. My online self is very much stable, stating her loves and hates in ways I wouldn't bother doing in offline life. Strictly because it's too much of a headache to literally stand around explaining to people my feelings on certain British pop singers.

My blog self is a solid mass. A representation of the person I sometimes wish I was. Clear, strong, witty.

My nonblog self is a mess. But I like being this way. That's why I keep it to myself and stay evasive. My self, my true self anyway, is too special to share in such a public sphere.

Where?

2008-08-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

When I tell people I live in Perth, they don't understand. Of course I live in Perth. Everybody lives in Perth.

"Where do you want to go?" - My taxi driver wants to know. This is typically followed by a heated exchange, often resulting in me having to put down a deposit before he moves a metre:
"Just Grant Street, thanks!"
"Where? Where's that?"
"Just in Perth. Ummm. Like up the road from here."
"What suburb, but? Don't waste my time."
"Perth! PERTH!"

"No, Perth Perth, as in my postcode is 6000. Kind of, Highgate, Mt Lawley. Off Bulwer Street? Yeah..." - To customers at work. These are mostly sleazy, middle-aged gamblers who I don't have to heart (or quick wit) to lie to. Hey, I'm still largely unstalked.

This confusion is all I could think of when trying to write a Concrete Dialogue. That, and the fact that my first love has a piece on that site, and it's quite possibly the most pretentious thing I have ever read.

A thought.

2008-08-11T10:33:00.001-07:00

My header image is way too big. I feel like I have a bigger ego than I actually do.

Anyway tonight my best friend asked me if I worried that my tattoo would some day turn around and be angry at me for not giving her a face. This is actually a deal of great concern. I thought about it for ages and it really distressed me. As incredibly stupid as this sounds. For the record, Lara has the White Rabbit on her left wrist. His face is facing Lara.

I remember my father asked me why I chose the back of Alice. I said something like, well, it's the picture where she's looking up at the Cheshire Cat, and I always thought her dress looked cutest there. But now I feel like I've violated Alice. Misrepresented her somehow.

Yesterday morning I woke up with the biggest hangover of my 21 years, and that is making a statement. I awoke on my back (I can't fall asleep on my back although it is possible that I can awake on my back) and saw my light fixture. It came with the house and our landlords told me to feel free to change it if I wanted to because it's hideous. I suppose it is- in all it's 1970's pearly glass halfbeachball glory-but it's grown on me. Anyway, it dawned on me that the full Victorian skirt of Alice's dress is identical, shape-wise, to the light fixture. Was I subconsciously inspired by this horrible object? There are so many Alices to choose from. I hope I didn't choose mine for the wrong reason.

Maybe getting the back view of your childhood heroine on your left wrist is a dumb idea. Does it have bad connotations? Am I telling people that I'm actually far removed from Alice to ever relate to her again, when all I wanted to do was be close to her forever? Am I ashamed of what I currently look like to someone I once modeled myself on?

I'm going to bed.

21st Birthday Party.

2008-08-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

Love letter, love letter.

2008-08-10T07:41:00.000-07:00

I have stuck by you for almost an entire year. My loyalty to you is fierce, and nobody can argue with this. You are not who you were when we first met, not even close, my darling. You were practically naked. I wanted you from the moment I saw you, but did not entertain any realistic notions of us ever being together. Two days later we had an intimate encounter. In the week that followed, I waited. And you did call. Just as you said you would.
I changed too. You've met all my friends, of course, but you have also seen my enemies. At the time you treated them as you would my closest friend. Never questioned my judgement. When I
I covered you in things that were mine. Found objects that I knew, just knew, would enhance your natural beauty. When I dressed you up, you never refused me. You merely stood still while my mind turned cartwheels, made me slur words. I always was too easily excited to say you were mine. Sometimes you accused me, always with silence, that I was using you as some kind of trophy. I worried about this, too. After all, you helped me win friends, I am sure of this.

First post.

2008-08-04T06:22:00.000-07:00

You know what I cannot stop thinking about?

How much I wish I had a desk. I see now that I took my old desk for granted. Oh, it was a hideous thing. I salvaged it from a secondhand store. People laughed at it, and so did I. It was actually made of two parts, a bookshelf and a desk component. The shelf sat on top of the desk and wobbled whenever I hammered my laptop keys too hard. Considering all my worldly possessions lived on that shelf (mostly hardcover books), I was slightly concerned that one day- possibly during an online argument with an ex-boyfriend- I would be killed when the cheap wood finally gave out and everything I loved crushed me.

It never did though. Here I am, in my new house, with no desk. I was too embarrassed to take it with me when I moved. Now I type at my vanity table, seated on a chair the Brass Monkey was mysteriously giving away one evening when I meandered past, on my home after an alcohol-fueled night of utter mayhem. Hence, I'm an ergonomical disaster. My chin is resting on my bent knee, and I'm sitting on my right foot to hoist myself closer to the screen. My wrists have no option but to rest on the keyboard. I'm in pain.

I want my old desk back. I don't even know if it will fit in this bedroom. It probably won't.

French for 'Alice'.

2007-08-12T07:51:00.000-07:00

Lewis Carroll is my hero.

Okay, that's going a little too far. 'Hero' implies a desire to emulate, and I have no interest in writing anything for the express intention of entertaining children. However, he is very important to me.

For my birthday last week I was lucky enough to recieve a lovely, hardcover (I'm not even sure whether it comes in soft) copy of 'The Annotated Alice'. My friend apologised in advance, in case "it runs it for you with all the academic bullshit". He didn't have to, though, because it was a very inoffensive Annotated '(Insert Text Name)'- that is, it merely provided interesting commentary regarding Victorian customs, what Wonderland creature was intended as satire of which long-dead political figure, and a whole lot of other stuff I could have lived without but can now live with without having the orginal text basically destroyed by some guy with a PhD in Pretention.

... Hooray!