Daisy Mayy.

Good Morning.

2008-12-06T03:35:00.001Z

I wish this keyboard were a million times quieter so I could hammer words across it like they’re going out of fashion. It’s 3.35am and I have not been able to sleep a single, solitary wink. My throat is feeling better, but I have just taken three mouthfuls of Benylin and gargled salt water, so it could be a deception and I might just have a lung inside my chest that is slowly decaying along with my windpipe. Sexy, I know.

Clarity.

2008-11-29T15:45:00.002Z

It's been a beautiful week. I've grown unaware of the coldness and focused my attention on that glow in my heart. Oh yes, I am resorting to cannibalised cliché to verbalise my feelings. Such abstract feelings can only be deemed feelings if I can really rub a bit of metaphoric content into them. At least in my view, that is. Gah, I'm such a romantic, no?

Anyway - I had a really long sleep last night, which felt quite nice: waking up to find that I wasn't late for anything whatsoever. Later on today I got a text from someone I share history with and it's really angered me. He thinks there is something "[I] don't want to tell [him.]" Arrogant, much? It's bad enough that firstly he thinks I am deliberately avoiding him for the above reason, and secondly that I'd be ashamed to tell him that I have found one single boy who's worth thousands of hours more time than he is. I have wasted months of my life being jealous, paranoid, infatuated, belittled and messed around. I don't care if it was unintentional - common sense would surely tell you to put a stop to it.

I've needed release from that ever impending strength he had around me, and the prized feeling of relief and realisation is something I never want to let go of. Why should the skin around my heart be attached to what he thinks and says to me? Why should I let him govern everything I do, even if he's not actively governing me? My dearest friends have tried to drag me from him, tried to make me give him up like cigarettes but I wouldn't because I couldn't. Now I can. Now I have. I did weeks ago. I was sick of being belittled; I was sick of being chided.

I am not a seventeen year old girl with no experience of anything dangerous, anything difficult, anything stupid. I tired of being treated that way. Am I not allowed someone who'll feed my soul? Am I not allowed someone who'll talk to me for hours about interesting things? Evidently I'm not - seemingly all I need is one person making me feel twelve years old. Substantiation of the entire situation makes me gag: the levels I took things to make my eyes itch with sickness.

I despise what became of it all. My ability to sit and write anything I wanted to just died inside me. I yearn for words again, and they were stolen from me: I was a shell. Why do that to me?

I am ashamed of nothing: judgement passes over me like clouds in April. I do not care for his thoughts. I do not care for his emotions. I do not care for him. Why should I? If anyone can find one simple reason why then go for it. Sam has a firm hold on me though: so I highly doubt your point will be of any significance to me anyway.

Revamp.

2008-11-21T19:09:00.003Z

I'm deleting several hundred posts tonight. I went through them all and they're utter bullshit. All of the pointless ones are going.

Today a little girl on the bus kept staring at me, and I don't know why. She was pointing too and saying someone's name. I guess she thought I was someone else. I was jealous of her. She was free to run around staring at people as intently as she wanted. All I could do was avert my eyes so that her mother didn't beat me senseless for staring at her child.

Lucky Number Sleventeen.

2008-11-10T16:46:00.001Z

So, it's my birthday. The date of my birth. The anniversary of my existence. My birthday.

And it sucks. It sucks. So. Bad.

Latter.

2008-11-03T19:19:00.001Z

I take back everything I said in the previous blog. She's a spiteful, conceited, self obsessed, vile bitch. She's dragged me through shit and back: she doesn't deserve anything.

Downward Spiral.

2008-11-01T22:19:00.003Z

Yesterday I got in a spot of bother with the police for 'aiding and abetting' a theft. I told my mother, because she knew plainly and simply that there was something that was bugging me. She's now spitting rivets. She's not angry at me, she's angry at the person who actually committed the crime. Actually, angry is probably the biggest understatement this year. I've stopped her from going to the person in question's house and telling said person's mother. She's angry because she thinks the parents should punish her, as well as the police.

I have absolutely no idea what to do. I don't regret telling my mother, because I knew she wouldn't be angry at me, and I despise lying to her about serious things. But I'm so, so, so... I don't know what to do. My mother is significantly doubting the company I keep. As is everyone. In fact, they don't understand why I keep this kind of company.. She's my best friend.. I've known her since I moved here. Yes, she'd kicked me in the teeth thousands of times. Put me down far more times than she's picked me up. I'm not worried to let her know that. She has made me feel like utter shit. But she's still a close friend who's opinion and feelings I take into consideration.

I do love her. I really do. She's not vile, she's not spiteful, she's not horrid. And if she's reading this she really should know that I wouldn't ever just turn around and cut her off.

My mother tells me I'm far too nice.
Steppy tells me I tolerate far more than I need to.

I just don't know.

All night long.

2008-10-18T14:30:00.001+01:00

Originally uploaded by cecilia p (in a manner of speaking)

I keep sitting down in front of this computer, willing myself to write something. Begging my fingers to trace keys in an orderly fashion to form words I can't actually verbalise. Yet all I can find them doing is explaining that I honestly don't know what to say any more. I don't want to make excuses for it, because I don't have any.

I want my birthday to hurry up. As materialistic as this sounds, it's not meant that way; I have a feeling that this years presents will be awesome. I think they'll be the best. Seriously: I feel like this year my parents will realise that I don't like eyeshadow the colour of six year old girls' birthday parties.

I want to write today, but I feel too lazy.

One - Nothing wrong with me

2008-10-16T15:22:00.001+01:00

I don't like feeling like this. I don't know if I'm up or down. I don't know if my feet are too cold, or if my body is just too warm. I don't know if I feel numb, or if I feel scratches. I don't like feeling like this. I really don't.

Two.

2008-10-14T18:13:00.001+01:00

I miss all of you.

2008-10-02T11:48:00.001+01:00

Inside.

2008-10-01T13:45:00.000+01:00

My head is in nine different places right now.

There is a Hole on the Back of my Hand.

2008-09-29T19:21:00.005+01:00

September 29. 9.15am.
"I've not written in months, so please forgive me. I'm sitting in the furthest corner of the library, wishing I could turn the world around me into fiction. Exaggerate everyday occurrences to make living more interesting. That's what fiction is though, right? Exaggerating everyday occurrences to make living more interesting? Why can't my surroundings be mere playful fiction; a book I can put down when I'm too tired to read it?

It's strange writing again. I'm waffling. Before, I had someone to write about. Now I don't. Now I can't. I can't. I can't.

I feel empty here. As if there's nothing to me. Nothing. I feel like I'm missing parts. Huge parts. Irreplaceable parts. It feels like tiny ants are creeping their way behind my eyes, nestling inside the sockets - masses of ants all just waiting to be poked, hanging their washing on my retinas.

The world offers perfect reason behind this state I've worked myself into. Contributing factors dance before all our lives; who's grabbed theirs and twisted it until it bled?

I want to rip open the sky and inhale the stars. Feel them tear away at every crevice of my insides. Feel them burn through the teeth in my mouth. Do you think window panes are enough to hold the glass in place? Do you think eyelids are enough to hold eyeballs in their beds? I don't. My eyes want to be free. They want to be."

WHAT!?

2008-09-22T20:34:00.004+01:00

You fucking cunt. I fucking hate you and the pathetic waste of space you encompass. I seriously fucking hope you get hit by a fucking bus tomorrow morning. You're absolutely pathetic - all you do is copy other people, looking like a tramp in the process. I could never fucking stand you - you're worthless. I don't understand why people waste their precious time on you: seriously, Public Services? Are you fucking kidding me? The only service you can offer the public is prostitution - you've got the face for it, as well as the vile hair. One day, you AIDS ridden slut, you'll realise just how ridiculous you are, and how fucking ugly you look. I'm shocked to the core that you don't know already, but give it time: people can be vile to cunts like you when they really want to be.

It's alright though, sweetcheeks, wipe that eyeliner-painted frown from the area your eyebrows used to be - I'm sure one day a freak will think you're pretty and take you under his wing as his gimp. Oh, wait - haha, I forgot you already have a lad to own you. Actually, forget the reference to his gender: it's difficult to tell exactly what he is, given that he obviously has no fucking balls whatsoever.

Cunt.

Dear Friend?

2008-09-16T19:29:00.006+01:00

I want to talk, yet at the same time I have no words for anyone. I just drown my own voice in lumps at the back of my throat. I don't care for kind pats on the back, or sympathetic smiles. I fear the pitying eyes. I run from comforting cuddles. I turn my face away from hands that want to wipe everything away. Even the word 'vile' does not sum up this feeling. I don't know what I feel. Nothing feels solid.

Like a game of snakes and ladders.

Slag Count: Off the Scale.

2008-09-15T19:30:00.001+01:00

My chest feels tight. I've felt like this all day. Like my heart's been skipping beats while being put into a plastic bag.

Decomposing Wires.

2008-09-08T19:16:00.002+01:00

Okay, I've written around twenty sentences already and have backspaced them all. I can't think of a reasonable way to describe my day. It feels like nothing has happened. I left the house at 8.45 and was in college dead on 10.30. I then left at 12.30(ish) and got home at around 2.30. I went upstairs to find my cat, cuddled her for a little bit telling her about the ear boy's clenching jaw and fucking fell asleep mid sentence. I wasn't even tired. Now, I feel like I'm floating. Like I'm not here. I don't like it.

This bit's not about you: She's a Whore.

2008-09-03T19:25:00.002+01:00

The last three days have been wonderous. I think I've been more content sitting with my best friend listening to Rezza for hours on end than I ever could be sitting in my room with a cup of tea and Bright Eyes.

"It makes me want to sort my life out."

There was this kid who tried to steal pennies from his guitar case. He was an innocent little child, and he saw the shiney coins looking so easy to take, and he went straight for the two penny coin: the biggest one. He went past the lollipop, the twenty pence pieces, the silver. Two pence. His mother shouted at him to put it back. The man who stood over the money merely laughed. In other countries you get your hands chopped off for stealing a loaf of bread, yet here one person out of however many hundred will just laugh and tell the child that he's not going to chop his hands off. Well, not quite. Makes me scared of the world.

I think the rest of my life will be amazing. I'll make sure it will.

Cassanova Sophie.

2008-09-01T21:48:00.003+01:00

Today was most definitely the most amazing day I have had all summer. I've not had that amount of fun in ages: Soph is pure amazing. I love her endlessly and I'd be seriously lost without her. Today was a Happi Tour. (I Googled Happi Tours and got nothing, so I'm declaring that a day like today was a Happi Tour.) I walked on water; I met two lovely buskers; I bought sharpie and coffee and muffins; I walked like an Egyptian; I acted like I was in a music video in a bathroom; I bought the sexiest bag ever; I took picture pf Soph and 'POO'; I shouted at a man pretending to be a statue; I saw Soph for the first proper time in weeks. And I'mma do it all over again tomorrow.

Note to self: Remember Soph's present from Iceland.

(No Subject)

2008-08-31T15:21:00.005+01:00

"It seems somebody put out the moon, now the road is a minefield." - Lights: Drive My Soul.

I'm not entirely sure what today's post is really about. I have an urge to write something but I don't know what. It's worse than writers block: writers block is based on a subject - you know what you want to write just you don't know how. I don't know what I want to write. But I want to write. I'd update you all on whatever's dancing around the wires beneath my skull, but something's tipped water all over them and I'd rather let them sink and drown than try and save them. The thoughts I mean. Not the wires.

Maybe I should just waffle. I'm good at waffling.

I bought yet another new journal a few weeks back, and I keep going to write in it but resisting the urge, for fear of messing up the very first page. I probably shouldn't worry so much about such a trivial thing, but I can't help it. The first page has to be the best. The page I try to live up to with every entry. No one but me will read it, I know; but still. I don't want this one to end up like all the other journals I've had in the past year (around seventeen), half ripped up in a red box, drowning in milky tea. Two sugars.

My dinner will be ready soon. My brother gave me a load of old clothes he doesn't wear anymore, which included a studded silver belt with three rows of studs instead of your regular two; I was horrified to find it did not fit me. It was a large, and it did not fit me. Either it was a large for a small child, or my hips are bigger than I realised. It had better be the former. Also in this pile of clothes was the coolest red, tartan hoodie I now own. It's the only one I own, but it's definitely the coolest.

I'm waffling bullshit now.

I don't know what I've done with my summer. It feels as if I've done nothing all summer, promising myself I'd do something brilliant tomorrow. I wanted to spend hours in parks, and on trains and in coffee shops with Soph. Taking picture after picture of Kamaldeep looking like a cock hanging from random sculptures in Brindley Place. Smiling to the sounds of Wrapped in Plastic ripping a room apart with their explicit lyrics and perverse expressions, not sitting on the floor by the stage drunk, wondering why Rosie has just poured half a bottle of water on my head. I wanted to decide to take a bus somewhere I'd never been before. I wanted to have people stay over and write things on my walls until their hearts content. I wanted to do something. Granted, Iceland and Newday were something, but that was just two weeks. I should stop complaining. I 'relaxed'. At least I wasn't constantly bored. I just wish I did something.

Ugh, be quiet Daisy, you're even irritating yourself.

Written on the Body.

2008-08-25T19:40:00.001+01:00

"I cannot think of the double curve lithe and flowing with movement as a bony ridge, I think of it as the musical instrument that bears the same root. Clavis. Key. Clavichord. The first stringed instrument with a keyboard. Your clavicle is both keyboard and key. If I push my fingers into the recess behind the bone I find you like a soft shell crab. I find openings between the springs of muscle where I can press myself into the chords of your neck, The bone runs in perfect scale from sternum to scapula. It feels lathe-trned. Why should a bone be balletic.

You have a dress with a décolletage to emphasize your breasts. I suppose cleavage is the proper focus but what I wanted to do was fasten my index finger and thumb at the bolts of your collar bone, push out, spread the web of my hand until it caught against your throat. You asked me if I wanted to stangle you. No, I wanted to fit you, not just in the obvious ways but in so many indentations.

It was a game fitting bone on bone. I thought difference was rated to be the largest part of sexual attraction but there are so many things about us that are the same.

Bone of my bone. Flesh of my flesh. To remember you it's my own body I touch. Thus she was. here and here. The physical memory blunders through the doors the mind has tried to seal. A skeleton key to Bluebeard's chamber. The bloody key that unlocks pain. Wisdom says forget. the body howls. The bolts of your collar bone undo me. Thus she was, here and here."

I must read that book.

I lol'd.

2008-08-01T01:10:00.002+01:00

"Emo music: It's Britteny Spears for kids from broken families."

"Peirce it straight."

2008-07-24T00:58:00.002+01:00

It's quite an interesting feeling, when you take note of how out of hand one can get. It took an entire cup of tea completely ruining every sentimental object I held close to my heart to make me realise this, which makes me feel quite silly really. Everything’ll change soon. I think I've come to the conclusion that only like change when I’m controlling it. I hate change when I can’t make it how it needs to be. I guess that’s really, really selfish. Ugh.

One Year.

2008-07-19T11:42:00.000+01:00

"alrighty.
so, my old blog? Yeah, it got deleted. Dunno how. SO as a result of people getting pissed at me for using bulletin's as blogs, I have decided to restart this shit :) I'm not going to fill you in on shit that's already happened, if you don't know, then that's your problem. I'm not the kinda person who really likes telling the whole story if you havn't been there from the begining. I dislike getting other people involved in shit they havn't had any input in till when THEY want to make input.. if that makes sense? Nahh, it doesn't. lol. Ah well, hopefully this'll be an oppertunity to offend people with my bad language, and my thoughts.
I apologise in advance to anyone who feels as if my opinions are unfair and bias.
(Y)
bizzle."

Ew. I'm so glad I realised that English is better when it's spelt correctly and doesn't contain emoticon shortcuts or incoherent rambling. Oh. Wait. Haha - scrap the latter. I've still not realised this yet.

It's Not Important, Muffins.

2008-07-16T16:20:00.002+01:00

It's beginning to piss me off that my sister is taking the most trivial of situations so seriously: "Oh my God, he really said that to the dog?! That's really harsh!" And, "Seriously, I can't believe that! She called at you out of the window and he offered to catch her?" lefdknbakngbjkaengkrtaejkstngjvnljnrfvlahwe

It's funny - if you listen to how they're talking without listening to the words - just listening to the tone - you'd have thought they were discussing a Tsunami hitting London. Like, yeah.

Iceland.

2008-07-14T19:00:00.002+01:00

My mother just handed me the information I'll need to know about my trip to Iceland this August, and skimming through the ten page document has lifted my spirits immensely.

Day One (9th):
Arrive in Reykjavik.

Day Two (10th):
Hallgrimskirkja,
The "Pearl",
The sculpture gardens,
Harbour and Tjörnin Lake,
Hafnarfjordur.

Day Three (11th):
Free day to relax. I'm thinking I'll have a gander around the art galleries and museums in the town center.

Day Four (12th):
The Blue Lagoon. (Fuck yes.)

Day Five (13th):
Iceland's South Coast.

Day Six (14th):
The Golden Circle.

Day Seven (15th):
Relax.

Day Eight (16th):
Flight home.

P.S:

2008-07-13T18:48:00.006+01:00

Hahaa, no the title of that last blog was not in reference to the fact that today is Sunday.

I didn't go to church today; I'm feeling incredulously off. It's funny, because my mother had a big go at me this afternoon for letting so many people down, yet when I said: "Well maybe someone should fill in for me once in a while - it seems perfectly okay for everyone else to ask me to fill in for them every damn Sunday." she actually couldn't think of anything else to say. I found it hysterical.

Apparently, I have a 'reputation for being unreliable, uncooperative and a bit of a hand full'. This is probably true, but this 'reputation' has meant that one of my mom's friends is refusing to put in a good word for me at a shop where she used to work, who are looking for part time staff. She said that if I hadn't have bailed on church this morning then she would have considered it. This fact has made me sit up in my room all fucking day watching One Tree Hill, in the clothes I slept in with a really, really big headache, a scowl and an unwillingness to prove her wrong and try my best to get the job without her 'good word'. The only thing I've gotten out of this is the realisation that Lucas Scott is the perfect boy for me, that the clothes I sleep in are fucking ridiculously comfortable, I'm taking paracetamol way too often for a girl my age, and I'm stupid, lazy, and really annoying.

I did try and do something productive and apply for some other vacancies online, but after going through various forms in steps and being told that I don't even meet the minimum requirements fourteen fucking times, I gave up. It angered me, hence the decision to numb my mind with One Tree Hill (which, consequently, I'm now obsessed with). I mean, come on - how hard is it to operate a till? Or how hard is it to look fake for a bunch of people who want to buy overpriced clothes? I hate this all. It's all so trivial. Jobs are the same as guys. The thought of them scare me, and experience always seems so damn necessary and important. Someone please send me both a job I can get, and Lucas Scott. Seriously, I'll take care of both of them.

I'm in a vile mood today. In fact, I've been in a vile mood for the last couple of weeks.

Also, my mother has decided that yet another rule needs to be added to the list of 292828292894892421955800335 we already have. And this one is: You have to be in your rooms, with lights out by 10pm, and up, out of bed, dressed and fed by 8am. If you're found out of your beds after 10pm you will be fined. If you are found to still be asleep at 8am you will be fined. Steppy added that he will be checking around 11pm if people are in beds, by walking into bedrooms without knocking. He said the latter part rather firmly.

I'm sorry - but that kind of parent walks into a teenager's room without knocking at night?! No way is he fucking walking into my room at 11pm without making me aware he is coming in. If I'm asleep, that's even stranger. I'd rather someone wake me up before coming into my room, than coming in and watching me sleep. I'm not even kidding. And another thing: I'm not seven years old. I am old enough to know that sleep is important. AND it's fucking SUMMER. THIS IS MY FUCKING BREAK FROM RULES AND ROUTINES THAT WERE INFORCED BY SCHOOL; WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU THINK I'D BE HAPPY WITH THEM IN MY OWN HOME?!

I can't chew gum in this house. I can't speak when I'm not spoken to during dinner times in this house. I can't leave a room without asking in this house. I can't join a conversation unless I'm invited into it in this house. I can't put forward my opinions if they clash with someone else's, in this house. Haha, oh wait, this isn't a home, this is a fucking joke. Shit - I'm in a book. I'm in one of those books with the evil step parent who tries to replace a dead parent by putting thousands of stupid rules and regulations in place and by making me feel like shit all the time. I should be called Cinderella, but I guess that'd be wishful thinking: no prince would ever get his paws on one of my shoes - I hate people going near my feet, he wouldn't get a chance to see if it'd fit and I'd never get the happy ever after. Plus, fuck that - I'm sure Cinderella was ginger.

I bet most of this makes no sense.

Amen.

2008-07-13T15:23:00.001+01:00

Click.

Haha.

2008-07-11T03:17:00.001+01:00

War is a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. This is proof:

Sleep Deprived.

2008-07-08T16:20:00.002+01:00

I need around six hours sleep a night in order to function smoothly. Six hours. That's all I need. I got thirteen hours of sleep last night (only once inturrupted b a phone call after eight hours) and I feel like I've not slept at all.

Someone, anyone, please tell me how the fuck I get a decent night of sleep. Please.

James McAvoy

2008-07-06T14:51:00.005+01:00

He was in Wanted, Atonement and Wimbledon. He is gorgeous. End.
Rosie, I dibs him. End.

Quote of the Week:

2008-07-03T18:26:00.002+01:00

"Sixth Form or College? ... I think its ridiclious that as 16 year olds who can only just legally fuck are thrust into a process where each decision can affect the course of life." - Kamaldeep Dhillon.

Even if he is a complete and utter tit, some of the shit that comes out of his mouth is gold dust.

Short.

2008-06-28T05:02:00.003+01:00

It's around 5am, and I'm loving the fact that I've missed the sun setting and rising, due to the longer days and my ability to ignore anything and everything outside the walls of a room. It makes me feel like I've not missed out on sleeping, because it's not been night time yet. I had my prom yesterday evening and, in a nutshell, it was... Well, it deemed reason behind the various mixed feelings I had towards the whole idea.

Prom is tacky, no? The whole lights, red carpet, balloons, everyone acting like they're happy to see each other thing can get annoying, especially when the lights look ridiculously strange. Or even when the people there aren't even ones I appreciate the company of for vast amounts of time. I think I'm being dramatic: it wasn't all bad. I just wish I didn't spend the entire night feeling as if I looked like a fucking drag queen. I asked most of my friends to delete most pictures of me because I looked hideous, even if I thought I looked okay. Maybe even passable.

Steppy wouldn't quit it with the camera clicking before and after I left, either. It was annoying as ever; I swear I was almost blind from light damaged retinas before I even got to prom. Seriously, next time I get all obsessive over wanting to look perfect, please someone stop me. Anyone. I'll only end up in tears in my bedroom as soon as I get home.

Mmmm. Pineapple.

2008-06-26T13:26:00.002+01:00

I love pineapple.

Monday evening was one of the funnest evenings of this year. Even though I felt sick from spinning around so much, and got called a pill-head, it was still lovely. Standing on park seesaw seats, trying to stay as balanced as possible in the golds and oranges of an evening, and playing catch with someone's tennis ball, and teaming up with taller people to jump on their backs to run after each other is wonderful. I can't wait to do it again.

Kurt Geiger:

2008-06-24T18:12:00.000+01:00

I love you.

Nature, Nurture, or Just One Really Irritating Kid?

2008-06-22T16:01:00.004+01:00

ADHD: Attention-deficit Hyperactive Disorder. It affects 3-5% of people under the age of 19, and usually presents itself in the form of several symptoms: persistent pattern of inattention and well as, or instead of hyperactivity, along with poor impulse control, an inability to remember simple things, or impulsivity, and distractibility. Sufferers are yet to be presented with a cure for this 'neurobehavioral developmental disorder', but there are several prescribed medications that the child would have to take in order to keep their disorder under control so that general life is made easier. There's generally a lag in the child's development of around three years, given their problems retaining things in their short term memory. Lots of help is expected.

There is a child at my church who, allegedly, has ADHD. I'm not really a doctor, but from what I can see, this kid is just plain rude, violent, loud and obnoxious, even for a child. He does not have ADHD. He is a very bright child - he is actually too clever for the group, which is probably why he is 'bored'. He's wonderful at remembering things for you, such as whichever bible verse we were reading from last week, or where the bible actually is, etc. He is top of his class in maths and science, according to his carer. Yet, I can't exactly turn to his carer (who brings him to church) and get her to tell his parents that he has been given an incorrect diagnosis, because I am not a doctor, I am merely his youth worker, but come on - he's not even on any medication.

I hate that every bad child that ever gets sent to a doctor by worried parents nearly always gets labeled as having ADHD. Doesn't any parent realise that kids aren't naughty because it's neurological, they're naughty because they know they can get away with it because they're not disciplined. This child hit three other children during Kids Work, as well as stamping on the toes of one, and kicking the chair out from underneath another, and the only reason I didn't stop was because he knows he can get away with it. We can't make him leave the room, because he needs to be supervised, we can't go and get someone to help because you're not allowed to leave one worker alone in a room with twelve children. We can't force him to stop, because we're not allowed to hurt him. It's ridiculous.

Nature, or nurture? It begs to be answered. This child is making me dread Kids Work. I walk up those stairs with such trepidation, I have to force myself to pretend I think that morning will be alright, and that it'll be an easy morning, but it rarely is.

Another thing: For the last four weeks I've attended church I've been on Kids work, doing my slot, and filling in for other people. Next week will be my fifth week in a row of Kids Work. That's five Sundays with the same child, doing the same things.

djfgfhgdhfdhgfhjgkjhghdfhgfdertgvcdertgyhjkiuygtfdsfalaebljhghchgxhgck.

He disrupts all the other children in such a horrible manner it makes me want to scream. The girls hate him. He's too boisterous, too loud, too heavy handed. One girl started crying because he was shouting so loudly and she couldn't concentrate on drawing her pictures. Ugh.

What I found mostly ironic about today, was what happened at the end of Kids Work. The group have a points system, where each week, based on behavior they get given a certain amount of points, and given this child's attitude and behavior he's been getting one point nearly every week, while others got three. Today, it became apparent that the accumulation of points had equaled up to six, so he qualified for a prize from the prize box, even after how vile he was today, he got a reward. It's fucking ridiculous. I hate it.

Ha.

2008-06-21T17:14:00.001+01:00

I can imagine myself doing that.

Got Milk?

2008-06-20T00:51:00.003+01:00

Is it utterly bizzare that I find this interesting?

AND:

Anyone who has not seen this film, REALLY needs to:

It's the best film I have seen in fucking ages. The best lines are:
"Jeff Kohlver: Who the hell are you?
Hayley Stark: I am every little girl you ever watched, touched, hurt, screwed, killed."
And, "Hayley Stark: I fucking hate Goldfrapp."

Bill Bailey.

2008-06-16T17:07:00.001+01:00

I say, Bill Bailey for Eurovision 2009. It'll work. We'll win. Everything'll be right with the world.

Bill Bailey FTW.

Download 2008.

2008-06-16T14:42:00.000+01:00

Click for pictures.

Sixty Seven Words. Eight Lines. One Response.

2008-06-11T02:03:00.004+01:00

Is it fair for people to know how others feel about them? Positive, or negative? People tell others how they feel towards them in terms of romance, if they have the balls to do it. People rarely tell others how they feel in terms of the level of how much they're hurting. People often tell others how they feel in terms of hate, if they have a justifiable reason to (well, most do). People seldom tell others how sorry they are for causing all of the above, and sound like they genuinely mean it. At least, in my experience they haven't. But then again, I'm naught but a sixteen year old girl with the mind of an 80 year old, so what do I know?

It's unfair that the first time I'm truly caught off guard is the time I decide to refuse to let anything make me feel like a child again.

Just now there are tears streaming down my tired face. Don't ask why - I won't tell you. It's not for obvious reasons. Trust me.

Question:

2008-06-09T04:55:00.003+01:00

Does anyone else think Hilary Swank looks like a horse?

Just Sleep?

2008-06-09T00:47:00.004+01:00

Sleep has always been a tricky business with me: I either never get enough, or get too much, and it's beginning to get pretty hardcore. I'm falling asleep in the early hours of the evening and waking up around midnight. What to do with the rest of the night? Recently I've just been watching my age in days worth of films, which is failing me, slowly but surely. Seriously, I'm starting to run out of good films to watch. I could do something more productive with the extensive amounts of time now in the palms of my hands, but there's only so much you can do without waking up the entire household.

Someone, please, please, please tell me what to do to make everything balanced again?

Sex and the City:

2008-05-31T23:39:00.003+01:00

I laughed, and I cried, and I sang. It's fucking brilliant.

Go see Sex and the City.

kthnxbi.

Comedy Genius.

2008-05-26T19:55:00.001+01:00

'Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.' - Bill Hicks.

RE:

2008-05-25T22:57:00.003+01:00

Behind my eyes you could see the liquidised, rancid fear. You could feel the immaculate sense of ice-like trepidation lingering in the air around me, as my fingers danced a linguistic reply to your coherent words across the American keys the next day. Knuckles, holly bushes, walls, trees, pavements, white lines, leftover raindrops, alleyways, unscathed palms coated in rain and dirt and red liquid. Do you feel? Do you see? Do you not realise the emaciated lifeless form in front of your eyes is me stripped bare? Look behind my eyes; I am blind with nothing left. Everything laid on a bed of ice, waiting to evaporate. Houdini's tricks revolving around my head: escape the water, it'll only drag you deeper into Hell; evaporated or not, it'll still fill your lungs until you can only feel what is lost to you.

Silence haunts those who wait.

For Lack of a Better Word.

2008-05-19T19:43:00.002+01:00

Today was Math and Dance. Tomorrow is English. Friday is Science. I only have a few weeks left. Only a few more weeks.

2008-05-16T10:03:00.001+01:00

I love finding dead photographers. As strange as that sounds...

Pudding Thinking.

2008-05-16T09:04:00.003+01:00

'Imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, 'This is an interesting world I find myself in, an interesting hole I find myself in, fits me rather neatly, doesn't it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!' This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it's still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything's going to be alright, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise.' - Douglas Adams.

Where is the need for our existence? Obviously, there has to be a reason. Recently my brain has just equated to mush. It's horrible, I can't think straight anymore, I'm exhausted all of the time and I'm sleeping during the day. I'm losing friends, I'm wasting money, I'm getting confused, I'm crumbling. So what's the point in it all? Why do I have to endure all of this?

Most people would say that the sanctity of life is far too great to throw it all away. 'Live your life to the fullest', etc. But what if the fullest is not as brilliant as it seems? What if the fullest is too much? Do you leave things out? Say, if I were to start living my life to the fullest, would I continue to do my exams? Because time wasted in exam halls could be used to do something worthwhile, something to make my life all the more exciting. What about revising? If and when I do it, I just get stressed. That's not living my life to the full.

Personally, I don't understand how people can measure life based on wonderful experiences. I could go sky-diving; I could swim with sharks; I could learn how to speak Japanese; it's not going to make my life worth living. It'll make me happy for a short amount of time until I find something new.

Life is shit.

/Rant over.

Sweet Dreams.

2008-05-15T00:23:00.003+01:00

When I was little I was always baffled by how I can never remember going to sleep, or waking up. To me, the concept of sleep just equated to a mass of time you seem to forget when 7am comes around. In essence, I suppose this is true, but what I didn't, and probably at the time, actually couldn't comprehend was the fact that you don't just forget this vast expanse of time, you lose it. You don't live it. You do virtually nothing for several hours.

I remember as a child I used to try so hard to remember what I did with those wasted hours, because I refused to believe I slept. I was too different to sleep. At least that's how I saw it. I needed to be awake. Alert. Always aware. Always watching out.
I was always terrified of the darkness.

The claustrophobic feel. Blackness engulfing your eyeballs. Your average childhood fear: the dark. It wasn't just the idea of darkness that scared me, it wasn't even the fact that I could never see in the dark, it was because the darkness brought nightmares. Chilling ones of dead bodies crawling up the sides of my bed, and dragging their rotting nails along my face. I hated the dark. I used to drag the door open, and hold it there with my doll's house if it got too dark. I lost so much furniture moving that house to the other side of the room, every single night.

In the mornings I'd find the doll's house back where it belongs. I know now it was probably my mother moving it, after tripping over it when she came up to check on us at 10pm, but at the time I was scared as to who could have moved it while I slept. I could never bring myself to open the closed door. Never. In the mornings I'd scream at the walls for my mother to come open it: I was terrified something would be behind it, even at 7am.

So many years were spent submitting to my stupidly cliche fears. Darkness. Monsters in my room. Creaking floorboards = ghosts. Etc.
I am still scared of the dark. I can't sleep in pitch black. I need light. I need a break in the darkness. I need light.

Do you feel? I feel.

2008-05-13T23:38:00.004+01:00

And I'd give up forever to touch you
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know your alive

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

In Short:

2008-05-12T06:36:00.000+01:00

Brilliant weekend.
Tummy is bruising beautifully.
I only have £12.54 in the bank.
Mother is not angry at me.
I have new shoes.
My skin is awful.
Sophie's presents are the bomb.
It hurts to laugh.
I am, effectively, worthless.
Nice people say nice things.
Nice people say horrible things.
I am contemplating deleting this blog.
I am now no longer moving house.
I need new glasses.
I don't like not having my phone.
These bullet points are beginning to annoy me.
I still miss him.
Irony is a bitch.
One of my best friends probably drank himself to sleep yesterday evening and I didn't get a chance to wish him luck with his exam today; I am worried about him.
Apparently I have a secret admirer. This fact saddens me: I would like to know who it is.
/flngabkjnkjadbnva;kbgakjbgakbjg

No smoke without fire.

2008-05-05T18:31:00.002+01:00

I can't quite figure out if the room is full of smoke, or if I'm just tired. It smells like party poppers... So I'm guessing something isn't right. Headache from Hell. I'm missing a white ring. I say missing... I know exactly where it is. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do. Everything is launching itself at me so quickly, it's not even fair. Someone pull me out of this whirlpool.

(Insert witty title here.)

2008-05-01T19:10:00.001+01:00

I really want to do this.

UPDATE:

2008-04-30T20:30:00.004+01:00

I've still not been able to fully recover my iTunes library.
My clothes are still blue.
Mother is angry at me for agreeing to redo my English Lang.
I could barely walk last night and this morning: I have injured my back. What's that I hear? The rolling of eyes from sceptical friends? Don't worry your little heads, I'll be back tomorrow, drugged up to my eyeballs with antiinflammatories and other painkillers.
I don't think my friends believe me, nevertheless. Charming of them, I know. I don't care that they're 'not angry', I care more that I was crying in a heap on the floor this morning, unable to move.
I sat in a doctor's surgery for nearly an hour before being told it'll take 3-4 weeks 'till I'll have pain free movement.
I have let a multitude of people down today.
I've been advised to try and see if I can reschedule my drama exam till next week, given that I'll be throwing myself about the stage quite often, and it could make matters worse. I am not even going to attempt to do this: they're not going to reschedule it for buttons.
I gave my art coursework folder to my mother to give to school, and it wasn't complete. I'm fucking screwing.
I have my dance exam on Friday now. I'm hoping the painkillers'll accumulate within my system and I'll be able to do it pain-free.
The above is highly unlikely.
I'm having an awful week, and so it's only Wednesday. I don't want to know what Thursday and Friday'll bring.

(No subject)

2008-04-28T17:10:00.002+01:00

I'm having a dreadful day:

iTunes has deleted all my music; I'm having to drop the albums back into the player manually and it's taking forever. 9 days worth of music. NINE.
My maid washed my clothes today. Being the freak that I am, for some reason most of my clothes from Topshop were all on the top of my washing basket, and she washed those first. Some would say this is a good thing, no? Not when the stupid twat puts brand new denim jeans in with everything and turns most of my shirts blue.
My coursework folder's been remarked for English, and apparently my English teacher didn't mark it fairly, and it all deserves A*. I'm having to retake my English Language exam this year. So, I have two extra exams to worry about.
Apparently, if someone tries to open my legs you hear a creaking noise, and everything is dusty. Sometimes, I despise the few people in school I call friends.
Ha, I had to walk home today because I forgot my bus pass. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but I was late home, and my mother had another rant about how selfish I am.
I found out that my drama exam is this Friday. I'm fucking screwing. I thought it was the Friday after next.
My art coursework is due in by the end of Wednesday; initially I was going to spend three hours in art, on Wednesday, adding finishing touches with acrylics and silk paints, but I fucking can't because I have a dance exam ALL day.
My math teacher mentioned that I'm only just scraping a C. Something I really hate to hear.
Overall, this is just getting me even more scared I'll fail.

Happy Morning.

2008-04-28T07:16:00.000+01:00

Being awake this early and not having anything to do is utterly vile; I really, really wish I could go back to sleep, but I know I'll regret it. I was going to make this entry last until the car got here, but Alice wants to use the computer. Typical.

Dear You.

2008-04-26T12:04:00.003+01:00

Isn't it just fantabulous when someone thinks that getting hooked on a "new band" is brilliant, when you know damn well that you saw said "new band" over a year ago? Haha, I think it's fucking brilliant. It gives me a sense of pity for them. Poor them. Twats.

On a lighter note: I'll be going to Derby today to talk crap to my grandmother and to eat her food. Oh wait, that's not a lighter note: I might accidentally blow a gasket and want to shoot her. Oh well.

My art exam is over. Done. Finally. I ended up coming up with this load of shit:

I despise it.

FaceSpace.

2008-04-23T23:01:00.003+01:00

Why doesn't MySpace and Facebook just submerge and call itself FaceSpace. OR MyBook? MySpace is adding Applications. "Truth boxes" are appearing everywhere. I might be sick. Nerimon sums up my distaste for Facebook and MySpace wonderfully, even if this video is a little out of date (given that he deleted his MySpace before they started doing Applications), but it still stands as a plausible excuse to hate MySpace and Facebook: Both are stupid. I might just delete both.

EDIT: I take back the merging idea: I hate both websites, why the fuck would I want to combine them?

I don't like..

2008-04-21T08:00:00.001+01:00

..Being awake so damn early.

Happy Birthday, The Queen...

My Lost Weekend.

2008-04-19T01:06:00.003+01:00

Right, I finished editing the pictures from their band practice about an hour and a half ago, so here they are.

Mine start from the fourth row down, second across.

Now, I'm going to BED.

Tired. So very tired.

2008-04-18T15:59:00.002+01:00

I spent half the night awake. I hated more or less every second of it. Hopefully this evening will take my mind off everything: being behind a camera + live music + the thought of the weekend + my new shirt = happy Daisy May.

The last two days have been pure shit.

Overview.

2008-04-16T09:31:00.003+01:00

Been ill since Wednesday.
Will be back in TOMORROW.
No study leave this year is making me feel even more nervous about exams.
First exam is on Wednesday.
Bricking it.
I'm actually panicing quite a significant amount.
Done my revision timetable.
Don't have a lot of time to revise.
Help.

Update.

2008-04-14T18:53:00.004+01:00

I rang the school and requested my teacher's email address. I got it. I sent my coursework off. Then I got a reply:

Click to enlarge.

2008-04-14T15:24:00.004+01:00

You ask your friends for one simple thing, and they turn around and bite you so hard all that's left is a shocked expression. What the fuck? It's my English coursework deadline today, I went home this morning due to fucking food poisoning, so I text a "friend" for my teacher's email address so I can get it to her by the end of today and they won't fucking give it to me because apparently I'm faking.

Seriously, the amount of times I've been the "mothering" friend, you'd have fucking thought I'd get a small favour in return. I've cleared up her sick. I've helped her with coursework. I've forced food down her fucking throat when she refuses to eat. I've given her lifts home. I've hugged her when she's needed it. I buy her food in the morning out of my own fucking lunch money, and when I ask for a simple email address she won't give it to me, because I can just hand my coursework in tomorrow? Who the Hell can get over food poisoning in less than a day?

Oh yes, my apologies: I can go into school and projectile vomit over everyone, just as long as I keep her fucking company because she doesn't want to be on her own. Right. Of course.

You spin me right 'round.

2008-04-10T14:19:00.001+01:00

Baby, right 'round.

Right, so it seems that everything for me is settling back to how it should be. This makes me very happy: for the last few months I’ve not really been the same in all honesty, have I? I guess that ever impending thoughts of exams, possible failure and how much I need the grades has just been getting too me more than it should. Luckily everything’s all gravy now. I'm talking more. I'm happy. Honest.

On the flip side: I’m covered in dust from the gym floor. It’s utterly revolting.

The Birth And Death Of The Day

2008-04-09T18:54:00.002+01:00

Does anyone else hear it? The sound of something familiar?

I wish I could scream loud enough to reach the heavens and shake the stars. I really do.

Is anybody out there?

2008-04-08T18:14:00.002+01:00

I'm not particularly pleased with people seemingly thinking I'm fucking invisible. Everyone does it. It's really upsetting me; can't you see me? Don't you recognise me? Don't you remember me? No.

Box of sharp objects.

2008-04-06T13:00:00.003+01:00

At the moment, I'm procrastinating: it's what I do best. I think? Anyway, I'm wasting my time considering any possibility. It's too late: I didn't run fast enough, I didn't cling hold of that little hope I had. I think I should've; other’s would disagree and say that'd be foolish. Pah. I'm not sure what I want to say anymore. I'm loosing my will to write.

Sort it out, Daisy.

All in one.

2008-04-03T19:27:00.003+01:00

This is an attempt, not an attack. This is a few select paragraphs about an all in one. A two in one. Or a nine in one? Who knows? Only I do. Or you do - if you're smart enough to work it out, that is.

This aint a scene, it’s a Goddamn arms race; how many times has that song been stuck in your head? Enough to turn you into what the scene wants. It’s funny; really, it is. Flesh stretched across your face makes you look even more like a- hmm. I won’t call you names. That used to be your trick – right?

While we’re on the subject of skin, may I just rightfully add that I never liked it much. Skin. It gets cold. It gets broken. It grows. It’s beautiful. It’s not to be wasted on the eyes of others who haven’t worked up the trust to earn it. It’s one thing I’m thankful for given the situations.

For some reason that’s a quality you both shared, one only had it as a fleeting thought given the mood: the other just because it was there. Just because it was there. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it.

Eyes and lips - two things that I see first: they make the face. I’m not shallow. I saw them both. I love them both. Cliché as it sounds: they’re wonderful, your lips and eyes. Pity they’re someone else’s to gaze at. Pity they’re someone else’s to rightfully touch.
Why is it that I spin in circles and ask for things to be simple? Circles are simple. You can’t cut corners in circles – circles have no corners. Simple. No? No. Simplicity is perfection; perfection is simplicity. People make people, people.

I shouldn't write to you. I shouldn't write to you, either. I should keep my post to myself. I shouldn't send the same text twice. I shouldn't. But I do; because I'm a FOOOOOOOL. As are all of you. Or one of you. Or two of you.

I love you all; I really do. In different ways. Different sights. Differently.

I can't be fucked with this anymore.

Today:

2008-04-03T18:19:00.001+01:00

Hah. I don't even want to talk about it.

05:08

2008-04-03T05:08:00.000+01:00

Insomnia. Hello old friend. I remember when- wait. I refuse to post yet another entry saying "I remember when". URGH. Can I not just write something that isn't to do with what I used to be like? Fucking hell.

2008-04-01T19:39:00.001+01:00

[Wanted:]
Single f, under 33, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea
[Sought by single m:] Mrs.Destiny, send photo to address, is it you and me?

[Reply to single m:]
My name is Caroline cell phone number here, call if you have the time
28 and bored, grieving over loss, sorry to be heavy but heavy is the cost, heavy is the cost

[Reply to Caroline:]
Thanks so much for response, these things can be scary
Not always what you want
How about a drink? The St.Jude club at noon?
I'll phone you first I guess
I hope I see you soon!

I never got your name, I assume you're 33
Your voice it sounded kind
I hope that you like me
When you see my face, I hope that you don't laugh
I'm not a film-star beauty
I sent a photograph
I hope that you don't laugh...

[Note to single m:]
Why did you not show up?
I waited for an hour and finally gave up
I thought once that I sw you, I thought that you saw me
I guess we'll never meet now
It wasn't meant to be
I was sure that you saw me, but it wasn't meant to be

[Wanted:]
single f, under 33, must enjoy the sun, must enjoy the sea
Sought by single m:
nothing too heavy, send photo to address
is it you?
or me?

Pointless.

2008-04-01T19:32:00.000+01:00

I have too many posts saved as drafts.

Hit or Miss

2008-04-01T13:46:00.002+01:00

Did anyone else ever have one of those journals by GirlTech that you could only open if you spoke the correct password and if it was said in your voice? I did. My dad bought it for me when I lived in Derby. Thing is, as much as I loved it, I hated it too. It was ugly, and lilac. I'm certain I only wrote in it once, because Alice/Jess managed to change the password and couldn't remember how they said it, so I couldn't get into it. Finally, in a fit of rage I threw it at a wall because I couldn't open it. It broke. It was no longer exciting because anyone could read it.

I used to always write in journals with locks on them for some reason; I don't know why, I had no secrets. Except that one that only three people know about. Ugh. Anyway, yes - journals with locks: why is it that even when I had no secrets to hide that I feared writing in a journal people could easily access, yet I'm now completely comfortable with spilling my secrets onto unlocked pages that ANYONE can get their paws on? It boggles me.

(No subject)

2008-04-01T06:04:00.003+01:00

I was awake all night reading. I've finished The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky, and I have to say it was utterly fantastic. The raw honesty was beautiful; the simplicity in the way it was written made me green with envy. It’s true that I probably try to load my paragraphs with too much imagery, fancy wording and general nonsense to give myself some kind of closure to the thoughts running through the wires beneath my skull – yet I’m so envious of writers who can say what they want to say so simply without claptrap.

I notice that that sentence was filled with ‘too much imagery, fancy wording and general nonsense’, but I’m claiming it as my addiction: I honestly cannot help writing in a more abstract style. I blame it on the books I read as a kid that were banned in libraries and schools for not being politically correct, and my general love for things that aren’t real. I’m not talking about ‘make-believe’, because as a kid I never believed that ‘make-believe’ was a proper term for the books I loved to read: I didn’t want to make myself believe that the stories could be real, because that let other people in, and I was a selfish child when it came to fantasy.

I wish there was a more fitting word for ‘make-believe’. Why not just call it imagination? Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? I could imagine anything I wanted to; it could be mine, I could own my own world inside my mind and not have to let anyone share it with me. If it was ‘make-believe’ then the kid next door could join in too, and she might ruin the story. I’m rambling now. Fuck off, Daisy.

(EDIT: I can't be bothered to proof read that, so any mistakes or poorly constructed sentences can go shag themselves.)

If I only could, be running up that hill.

2008-03-31T16:45:00.002+01:00

I ran until my calves burned. I ran until my entire body shook with anguish. I ran until every inch my of my mind was overcome with possibilities. I didn't think of any consequences; all I did was run. Through traffic, through people, through air, through any common sense. I didn't run fast enough. I had second thoughts too late: why did I even say goodbye when I knew I didn't want to leave?

I didn't realise how difficult it was to search for one single person amongst hundreds. I thought it'd be easy. Evidently, I thought wrong.

Midnight Coward

2008-03-30T23:56:00.001+01:00

I need a new journal. I've ripped too much out of my current one. I've got to stop doing this.

Reading Time.

2008-03-30T19:06:00.002+01:00

The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky.

Apparently, it's shit - it starts off being quite good then just gets cack. Well, it's fantastic to know this right after I bought it and started reading it yesterday; thus far, it seems quite good. I’m hoping that the rest is. I hate nothing more than getting into a good book and finding that it goes downhill the further on you read. Reminds me of another book that I spent most of my time reading. PAH.

Oh well.

Connection in Progress.

2008-03-30T13:17:00.002+01:00

Again, I find myself sitting at the computer scraping the inside of the tin to find something to say. I'm too impatient to wait till something comes to me - I had to force it. This probably is the worst idea I've ever come up with (actually, I doubt that it is, but nevertheless).

The night starts here, the night starts here, forget your name, forget your fear
The night starts here, the night starts here, forget your name, forget your fear

The pleasure part, the afterthought, the missing stone in the graveyard
The time we have, the task at hand, the love it takes to become a man
The dust at dawn is rained upon, attaches itself to everyone
No one is spared, no one is clean
It travels places you've never been or seen before

The night starts here, forget your name, forget your fear
You drop a coin into the sea, and shout out "Please come back to me"
You name your child after your fear, and tell them "I have brought you here"

The scary part, the aftershock, the moment it takes to fall apart
The time we have, the task at hand, the love it takes to destroy a man
The ecstasy, the being free, the big black cloud over you and me
And after that, the upwards fall, and were we angels after all?
I don't know, I don't know...

The night starts here, the night starts here, forget your name, forget your fear
The night starts here, the night starts here, forget your name, forget your fear
You drop a coin into the sea, and shout out "Please come back to me"
You name your child after your fear, and tell them "I have brought you here"

The night starts here...

Jigsaw Youth.

2008-03-29T23:45:00.002Z

Everything's Gonna Be Okay // The Big Sleep.

This song brings out more in me than most songs do. I can think to this song. Cry to this song. Smile to this song. Breathe to this song. Dance to this song. Walk to this song. Scream to this song. Float to this song. Get lost to this song. Write to this song. Tear things apart to this song. Scrape my nails to this song. Sleep to this song. Drink to this song. Stare to this song. Remember to this song. Forget to this song. Type to this song. Break to this song. Rip paper hearts to this song. Throw things away to this song. Run to this song. Draw to this song. Waste paper to this song. I can do everything to this song. It's wonderful.

Lately it's being proven useful: thinking, crying, smiling, breathing, dancing, walking, screaming, floating, losing, writing, tearing, scraping, sleeping, drinking, staring, remembering, forgetting, typing, breaking, ripping, throwing, running, drawing, wasting, everything. I'm doing it all; most of it in less than a week. Nothing's new. Everything's the same - just heightened.

I am a fool; I am aware I am a fool. Try and see it from my perspective. Actually: don't. This is mine. This feeling is mine. I refuse to share it with anyone else... Except.

Fuck it. I shouldn't be saying these things. I shouldn't be. This is all backwards. I need to sleep.

Check him out, or die. Got it? GOOOOOD.

2008-03-29T20:59:00.005Z

Click here, or die.

Right, I think it's safe to say that Nathan is one of the funniest people I know (the fact that I'm yet to meet him is irrelevent). He's currently manning a Youtube channel, and in all fairness I think everyone should check him out, I can gaurentee you'll love him to pieces; if you don't, then you deserve a slap.

Font Types.

2008-03-27T15:13:00.001Z

Envy.

2008-03-26T21:18:00.002Z

I don't quite know what I want to say today; I have that stupid urge to post something, even if it turns out to be nonsensical bullshit.

I've titled this entry according to the band I'm currently indulging in: Envy are spectacular - thank you Alex, for kindly pointing me in their direction. It's times like these that I wish I had a wider range of music in my iTunes: most of the bollocks I have all sounds the same. So far today I have added an astonishing 1048 songs to my iTunes, and I'm still not done yet; I have 681 MB left to add to the collection. Again - thank you, Alex. Pretty soon I will be dependant upon you for everything; it's only a matter or time until I forget how to feed myself and need you to do it for me, my love; I jest, of course - I don't eat. I'm intrigued to see how much I'll have to remove from my iPod in order to fit at least 90% of my new music.

Oh fuck it - I can't think of anything else that's interesting enough to blog. Yes, I'm becoming boring. So, sue me. I'll buy a sombrero - THEN I'll be less boring.

Jeffree Star.

2008-03-22T18:36:00.009Z

Stars have a shelf-life, as it were, they burn brightly, then one day they explode - which usually only takes 100 seconds. Can someone please, please - for the love of all things human - tell me why Jeffree Star is still burning bright and hasn't exploded in a mess of blinding light and sound (and razorblades, if he had his way)?

Any song that he has made makes me want to throw up whatever I've last eaten. If you take the vocals out, they are decent songs - but unfortunately, I'm too much of an idiot to even begin to understand how you can strip a song of the vocals, even though it's probably really simple. Anyway: his voice is probably the most irritating sound you can hear; team his voice with shit lyrics, he really is a cupcake baked with cake mix containing excessive amounts of bicarbonate of soda: a complete mess.

"‘Cause I only suck dick, and to be fair - if you're not on the menu you'll never compare. You can't say no, so lets go, lets go." I can't help but cringe - because in all fairness he probably means it. I'm not prude; I just don't think the candour is necessary. Yes, he's open about his sexuality. Good for him, that's fantastic, but I have images in my head of him fantasising that Paris Hilton has a dick and he wants to suck her off - which if you consider it, is probably what he wants anyway, given that he's right up her arse anyway.

His voice is just a drone. An exaggerated drone, which is probably meant to sound sexy. It's dreadful. Anyone who says, "bitch" in every song they make needs to be shot. In addition, anyone who sounds permanently horny while they sing about eyelashes and plastic surgery needs help.

However, I indisputably admire him for the way he does his makeup - it looks difficult; I'd rather not have to listen to him go on and on about mascara wands and lipgloss, nonetheless. I remember when I first saw a picture of him, I remember saying "What an unfortunate looking girl."

Forget the trendsetters at Vogue ruling the world - Jeffree Star rules the world, evidently. At least he thinks so. Again, I'll iterate my pervious comment about the trendsetters at Vogue and furnish it to fit Jeffree Star: if Jeffree Star rules the world then at least we all have the reassurence that if the world were to end and he had a say on the visual theme we'd all burn in a haze of pink glitter and razorblades. Oh, the joy of that prospect.*

I'm not even going to touch on the amount of ridiculous clichés he holds so dear to his glitter infested heart, but I will end on saying that he seems to be the Queen of the Scenesters, which worries me – because I think that title should have gone to Audrey Kitching. Oh wait; they’re they exact same person. My bad.

This is poorly structured; I want to shoot myself.

The reason why I wrote this is because Jeffree Star asked me to:

Done.

*The trendsetters at Vogue don't actually rule the world - neither does Jeffree Star; I was being facetious; scene kids seem to depend on Jeffree Star like a Vogue addict depends on the Royal Mail to deliver their monthly subscription.

Ink and Paper.

2008-03-21T18:00:00.005Z

Saturday, March 1st 2008: Finally. 5.ooam.
How can a dark, purple sky that's throwing rain, thunder and lightening down on thousands of scared or ignorant people below still look so beautiful? The moon is hung so loosely in the air tonight that it looks almost magical. I feel that I could walk right up to it and take the man, who most imaginative children see sitting there, right up in my hands and throw him into the darkness and take his place, amidst the bright white glow.

I love how the city lights sparkle behind trees wracked with wind. The reassurance that the world is still alive, rings loud and clear. The knowledge that this city - like every other - really doesn't sleep, but keeps me dreaming at night.

Why is this the first time in so long that I've put pen to paper and written exactly what runs through the electric wires beneath my skull since Christmas? I'm almost mutated. You'd have thought that everything that happened would have sparked more writing, but all it seemed to do was suffocate my soul. January, February, now March and I'm stilll hurting. But I won't moan about it - it'll do no good. I'm probably being rediculously dramatic, but what else do I know? I'm an addict for dramatics.

The storm outside sounds beautiful. Everything is in perfect proportian. The amount of rain matched immaculately with the amount of sound; the deep colours in the sky draw a flawless parallel with the bright whites and blues of the lightening. I can't be the only person to think this: I can't be. Storms are rare. They're perfect. They're beautiful. I wish I were able to control the heart of a storm. I'd take it wherever I wanted - scattering the land below my feet with every inch of my soul: it's the most magical thought my tired mind is currently able to speculate upon. I want to write a book.

Head Pressure.

2008-03-20T18:07:00.005Z

If anyone has ever had a migraine, I'm sure you'll agree that they usually feel like you've got your head between two slabs of concrete that are slowly being pushed closer, and closer together. You can't sleep, you can't move, you can't even blink properly without feeling fire sear through your skull. What's worse is the heat moves. The pain moves to different parts of your brain the longer to lay on one side. It sinks to the back of your head if you lay on your back. The rest of your body just feel numb. All you can feel is the consistent, almost never ending, blunt pain. No mercy. It's like nothing I've ever felt before.

Natural light is the ultimate enemy; anything that moves too quickly must just die; sudden noises add an extra push to the concrete slabs. It's like hell within your very own skull; It's like a personal, exclusive view, right in the cage that is your own skin and bone.

Dry.

2008-03-17T16:11:00.003Z

My piano is out of tune. I've been saying this for the last year or so. Does the fact that it's out of tune change the way you hear it? I know, that sounds ridiculously stupid, but I mean does it sound differently, does it alter the way your ears hear it? I can't explain it. When I play my piano usually I can hear it quite well, but today it was really soft, but loud?

Shut up, brain.

I'm sick of it.

2008-03-16T22:18:00.003Z

All the numbers adding, and adding, and adding. I'm begining to feel ashamed. I'm begining to feel like I have a track record. Haha. "Everyone laugh at her." I can hear it now. I'm sick of it; no more for a long time. I mean it this time. I'm done for a while. I'll be like ice. I'll be like stone. I'll be dead. Only someone really worth it will withstand the cold, the grazed palms and wait for the dead to walk.

It sounds horribly cliche, but I really want to get drunk.

Let the rain fall, I'm coming.

2008-03-15T19:02:00.004Z

I set out for home at 5pm, but I didn't arrive on my doorstep until 6pm. The walk only takes 5 minutes, max...

The sky poured down on my warm skin, there's no other feeling like it. It sinks into your flesh slowly, taking as much time as it needs. Beauty melting into your body. I never feel more alive than I do when it rains. I found my kindred spirit, now she's with me as I sleep, And it's in her hands, up to her where she'll put my soul to keep.

Spinning circles of movement dapple the lake; the circles were so entrancing I wanted to walk right up to them and distort their patterns, I wanted to add corners. Every inch of the surface seemed to be teaming with movement. Ripples. Currents. Fallen leaves. This is beauty.

Backtrack. The gates are new, next to the old ones - painted with scratched paint. Red and green. And green. And green. It's all you'll see amongst the stone coloured graves. And dirt. Ivy reaching for the heavens, climbing up trees. Lost souls searching ways to paradise manipulate Mother Nature - trees scrape the clouds, punctures causing rain. Rain on me, they cry, God is in the rain. You can hear them.

The walls around the corpses encage the life among the dead. Lost breaths hidden between the branches steal the sun from my eyes. The holly leaves spike my pupils, scratch my cheekbones: blood and blindness seep through the mud, through the moss; everything is stained red and black. What can I see? Nothing but misconceptions. The yards are full of so much life it sparks the sadness in my soul; all those lives are forgotten. No flowers grew there, just Ivy, Nettles, Moss, Conifers and dust. Everything glowed with a dull grey, green.

Six feet under or six feet above, everything rotting. Ice water burning holes in the earth moved the leaves; a single change in position triggered the paranoia that I was being watched. Walk slowly. Fast movements will bring attention to yourself. Change the tense - It's the present that matters more than the past or the future, this is now. This is not tomorrow. This is not yesterday. This is now. Six feet to the left, I'll plummet to their death; rotting bones twisted together with ropes of green will engulf my eyes, my heart, my lungs, my mind will cascade with the mud if I fall. I won't slip.

I felt so scared. That ridiculous childhood fear of graveyards sprang back into my chest. A hand will grab my ankle. An arm will choke me from behind. A body will suffocate mine in a fit of jealousy; I live, they are dead. I am the living, walking among the dead. Everyone is.

Swans pranced about the surface of that God forsaken lake like they own it - it was impossibly impressive. The purity of their appearance is too much for my camera to take, the density of their feathers blurred in front of my lens. Pity.

Spiders itched around my eyes; salt and water dripped down my cheeks. Down my neck. They Soaked into my shirt, not making it look any different, since it was raining. It's a good thing tears never show in the pouring rain. Flashes. Pauses. Clicks. Flashes. Click. Click. "Battery Low". I want to scream my lungs to shrivelled pieces - I have to go home, soon. Mother will worry. I was due home this afternoon, not this evening.

I miss you. However, at the same time I don't. Simultaneous thoughts of love and hate, is that even possible? Fireworks made the sky burn in my mind. Water drowned the stars. Loose dirt suffocated those last muttered words, burying them deep below my footsteps. I can't say them anymore; they're in a language my mind cannot translate. I cannot learn. I cannot speak. They must die. The words, the one language in history to be unfathomable, incomprehensible, illegible, impossible. Dead.

I need to stop taking forever to walk home. I need to find a better release; water from the sky can only do so much. I need... to stop thinking so much.

Home sweet home?

2008-03-15T11:12:00.002Z

Why is it that she feels at home in my house, but I feel at home at hers? I've been offered a trip to Paris, easter eggs, wine gums, chocolate cereal I've never had before because my mother refuses to buy it and had pizza bought for me. Her dad is playing on a Stylophone, he got everyone singing The Sound of Music. Her mother is the loveliest woman on the planet. God I've missed staying at this house.

I wish my family were more like this. She and her mother are so close it hurts. I'd never even dream of talking to my mom like she talks to hers. They talk about everything. She has her own life - my life is mostly controlled by my parents. Almost any decision I make goes through them from approval first.

I hate it. And I'm jealous. This is my second home.

Pieces of me.

2008-03-13T14:18:00.005Z

Can you feel it? I can. The beating. The blood. The beating.

Can you see it? I can. The beating. The blood. The beating.

I'm running parallel. I'm spinning downwards. I'm travelling backwards.
First, second, third, fourth- stop.You're doing it wrong.

My stomach is twisted around my bones,
Those blind eyes seeing what they choose to see; you're doing it wrong.
I can feel my scalp tighten around my skull,
Eyebrows pulled back, defiance etched into my flesh.

Can you feel it? I can. The calm in my heart. I force it there.
I put it there - I scrape it through my soul: make it me.
I float down, careful not to burn my toes.
I force the calm. I'll try again. Start.

Electric, spontaneous, improvised.
I feel the floor for once - it's sparking electricity beneath my feet.
This is not me. Edge and confidence radiating through my skin.
This is not me. I arch - my back cracks. Stop. You're doing it wrong.

I collect myself; my soul is scattered about the floor.
I pick myself up, piece by piece.
I can feel the water trapped in plastic calling to me. Dehydrated.
Rehydrate? Regenerate. Stand. Stop. Start.

Now, I can sense it. The inhibition overtaking my mind.
Hesitate. Don't fly. Just stop, I'm doing it all wrong.
Glances sweep across the room from behind the window,
The sky is falling on their faces, they're invisible.

They can't see me, because I can't see them.
Ignore her. Please. Just go. Just arch and spiral and balance.
I can't, can I? I'll never be that again. I never was that.
Grace, poise, perfect, beauty. I'll never be able to press play.

Now, I can feel it surging through my fingers, through my arms,
Through my chest, through my head,
Through my stomach, through my legs, through my feet.
Say it, you know I'm doing it wrong; this isn't what you taught me.

"You're-" dead.

Knock Knock.

2008-03-11T13:18:00.001Z

Being an outsider never used to bother me. Being someone who didn't fit worked for me. Why all of a sudden is it getting to me? The ever impending feeling of isolation is screaming in my ears; all I can hear is what I think they're thinking about me. Why is she the only one standing, when everyone is sitting down? Why, after everyone has stopped laughing is she the one who's still giggling? Why does she voice her opinions like she thinks we give a damn about anything she has to say? I'm probably just being paranoid, but how else can I interpret those ice like eyes staring at me? I'm sick to death of feeling like this, yet I suppose I'm a hypocrite. Those who know me will understand why.

I wish everything were crystal clear: black and white. Technicolor gives me a headache, and there's always another colour after the last. Maybe I'm just thinking too much. Maybe I need to start finding answers to all my questions, instead of asking new ones. Maybe I need to stop worrying. Maybe I need to stop filling my throat with vomit I keep swallowing back down with a smile and just express my disgust.

On a completely unrelated subject, Carol Ann Duffy gives me the shivers.

"With some surprise, I balance my small female skull in my hands.
What is it like? An ocarina? Blow in its eye.
It cannot cry, holds its breath only as long as I exhale,
mildly alarmed now, into the hole where the nose was,
press my ear to its grin. A vanishing sigh.
For some time, I sit on the lavatory seat with my head
in my hands, appalled. It feels much lighter than I'd thought;
the weight of a deck of cards, a slim volume of verse,
but with something else, as though it could levitate. Disturbing.
So why do I kiss it on the brow, my warm lips to its papery bone,

and take it to the mirror to ask for a gottle of geer?
I rinse it under the tap, watch dust run away, like sand
from a swimming cap, then dry it - firstborn - gently
with a towel. I see the scar where I fell for sheer love
down treacherous stairs, and read that shattering day like Braille.

Love, I murmur to my skull, then, louder, other grand words,
shouting the hollow nouns in a white-tiled room.
Downstairs they will think I have lost my mind. No. I only weep
into these two holes here, or I'm grinning back at the joke, this is
a friend of mine. See, I hold her face in trembling, passionate hands."

More tea, Vicar?

2008-03-10T17:00:00.002Z

My mother printed off a copy of Heartbeats and gave it to my Church Leader. For what reasons I do not know, and to be perfectly honest I hope he thinks it's shit.

Heartbeats.

2008-03-05T10:01:00.004Z

Has anyone every noticed how we don't necessarily notice change? As people we are constantly changing ever minute of the day, yet we don't notice it. Granted most of the time these changes are so small, they don't particularly need recognition, but nevertheless it's still change. It's our lives mutating into something different. We can't stay exactly the same for hours on end. We change when we sleep. We dream things we might not have dreamt before; we wake up feeling different to how we went to sleep. We change. We change during the day if we walk into a room full of pictures from out childhood we may feel nostalgic, we reflect upon how different we were then and we change. Not hugely, but it's still something different.

Imagine if we were always aware of every microscopic change within our lives. Doesn't that seem like a daunting thought? Being aware of even the smallest of changes that make us up to be people, that make us ever more the individual.

"I missed silent movies. The music was more integral, like a sound painting.
Emotions were not lost but heightened because of the muteness. When you read the actors' eyes, a secret language formed in your mind. If truth be told, more
often than not, I watched the audiences instead of the screen while attending
silent pictures with my Knight. As the light dappled across their faces, I could
watch them create inside their hearts each a different story from the same
images. I was ashamed the was the modern movies smothered their stories with
songs and loaded every moment with noises and words. Little was left to the
imagination." - A Certain Slant Of Light.

I think that as people, what makes us people is the way we are. The way we make ourselves, ourselves. The way we create our lives according to our attributes and our flaws. However, I guess in that respect my theory has a flaw - what about new born babies? Babies are not consciously aware that they have pro's and con's. Babies aren't aware that they have certain glints in their eyes and certain ways of smiling that make them, them. Babies aren't aware of making decisions and they definitely don't create their own lives around them, they're unable to do most thing. They're shaped by God, they're shaped by their parents, they're shaped by the way they are brought up. With babies, you literally have to build from the ground up.

If I were to label myself, looking back on my childhood I'd say my personality was probably that of your typical child; impatient, ignorant of anything that wasn't necessarily my concern, devoid of any sense of responsibility. It could be said that I had "a mindless existence"; I didn't really bother about working out who my friends were and who weren't, I tried to get on with everyone and avoid pissing anyone off, especially the children who bullied me. Looking back on it now, I think I was stupid to even attempt to become friends with them. The nicer I was, the more it pissed them off. I guess that shines through in my personality now. Bittersweet.

Schoolwork wasn't really something that worried me, I was attentive during the lessons I had, I read a lot, I drew a lot and I wrote a lot. I kept journals, I kept notebooks for doodling in, I kept letters from pen pals, I kept birthday cards from aunts, I kept money in glass jar and rarely spent it. My mom bought me Bunty and I got jealous of the girls on the covers for their pearly white smiles and lovely make up. I was your average "I want to grow up, NOW" kind of girl. Boys didn't interest me until I hit halfway through secondary school, when I was homeshcooled. I was average. I still am average, but at the same time, I like to think that I'm different. Although, everyone is different, so does that make us all very much the same?

I'm aware that the casual manner in which I approached schoolwork in Primary school is still within me to this very day, and the laziness makes it all the worse, but because I'm so used to adapting to the surrounding environment, knuckling down doesn't seem as daunting as it did when I was homeschooled. Maybe actually trying my best will cancel out the laziness and I'll become a more organised and will achieve the best of my ability. Like killing two birds with one stone. But will that loss of nonchalance effect the way I work? Will I question less and copy down more facts? Who knows.

I used to collect butterflies in a glass jar in my room when I lived in London. I'd catch them and put them in my pockets in the hope that when I went back to my bedroom later in the evening that they'd still be alive. I was always wrong. Silly really, that I never really learnt that they'd die. That obviously still radiates today - the refusal to learn my lesson until I've been taught it more than once. Maybe that's just me being stubborn, thinking I didn't need to learn the lesson in the first place, so why listen? I never really thought of catching and suffocating butterflies and cruel. I thought it was sad, but I didn't think I was to blame. In a way, it was all my fault, but in others it wasn't - I didn't know they'd die. I didn't want them to die. But again, that's just my stubbornness to make excuses for everything, which I've been doing for most of my life.

I've never been particularly ambitious, I've been mostly passionate. Are they the same though? Some would say yes, I'd say no. Ambitions are goals, passion is love. I guess the two combined is as important as gold dust, so does that mean that one without the other is fools gold? If that's the case then I'm all passion and very little ambition. I will admit that I am particularly lazy, but when I knuckle down, I know I can achieve whatever I set my mind to. I think in that respect stubbornness as a very important personality trait. My family call it determination. I guess that's a much better description, seeing as stubbornness can be seen as a negative trait within a person. It can lead to arrogance.

As humans we are, indefinitely, like sponges. Always absorbing knowledge and retaining it for the majority of the time. That's probably a very unoriginal way to describe humans, but it's probably the most true. I think I'm less ignorant than I was this time last year. I'm more aware of who I am as a person underneath the skin that covers my body, whereas last year I was really only aware of what I looked like, what I liked to do, what I didn't etc. I guess it could be said that as soon as I became more conscious to the fact that I was a person as oppose to just another human being then I stepped onto that "Road of Self Discovery", but I've not been a zombie from the day I was born up until the day I became less hollow. To be honest, the idea that "Road of Self Discovery" can't be all that much of a road, more like Mt. Everest. It's not impossible to get to the top, you just have to try that little bit harder to find it within yourself to keep going until you're on top of the world. You can't walk directly up a mountain. You have to go around obstacles, over rocks, under trees, next to rivers etc. You can't take a straight path up a mountain, where's the adventure in that? Where's the self-development?

For such a typical, ignorant child, I’ve turned out to be so anxious yet keen to experience the world around me; as a child I didn't even know places were bigger than where I live. I didn't know that the aeroplanes I saw take off were carrying hundreds of people to various destinations I didn't even know existed. I once went to Portugal and stayed in a hotel that looked a lot like a massive column tower with balconies and a roof. It was gorgeous. When we returned back to London I noticed a building several miles away whenever I looked out of my bedroom window that stood high and resembled the hotel I'd stayed at in Portugal, and was convinced that Portugal was only a few miles away. I was imaginative, yet very ignorant - so why all of a sudden have I developed this passion for the world around me and what it looks like? Where did it come from? I never really thought outside the box as a child, yet now I'm thinking thousands of miles outside the box. Where did it come from? What triggered the drive?

Being homeschooled gave me the gratification in realising that family is ridiculously important in life. Without family, we'd all be alone. I feel so grateful for the family around me, I'm not entirely sure who, or even what I'd be without them. My mother is a Godsend. She is amazingly talented in all fields of motherhood. She's attentive when I rant about how crap school can be, she's comforting when I'm scared, she's a wonderful cook, she's fantastic at helping me when I need it, she's been through a lot, yet still stands on her own two feet and refuses to be defeated by anything. My mother is inspirational. She helps shape me, she helps define who I am. She's passed on that mothering quality that makes me more than willing to help anyone in trouble, that quality that makes me want to tell all my friends exactly how much I love them. When I was homeschooled, the many emotional and social factors that I endured helped make me who I am and established the reasons why I act and think the way I do. I can be so passionate and believe in things with a grand amount of conviction, I sometimes even wonder where I got half the ideas and values that I have thought of and developed.

I'm one of the people that will face obstacles and still laugh at the end if I fall over. I think in most aspects of how we develop as people we still act like we do when we were tiny children learning to walk. We fall over. We get up. Try again. If we fall over again, we can still get back up again. Sometimes with the help of others, sometimes we can learn to pick ourselves up. Just like Thomas Alva Edison said when he created the light bulb.

"We now know a thousand ways not to build a light bulb”
Even though he was probably discouraged by the fact that he'd failed to create a light bulb hundreds of times, he still carried on. He picked himself up, on his own, just like a child learning to walk would be encouraged to get up on their own. So, as people do we become people when we make mistakes and find ways to correct them ourselves? I'm still not sure. A child cannot conscienceless correct their own mistakes, they have to be taught how to do it first, don't they?

“A person’s a person, no matter how small.” - Dr. Seuss.

Some people could say the answer to the controversial question "What makes a person a person", is non-existent. You can have an opinion but it can't be scientifically proven as fact. From a philosophical point of a view there are many arguments on when a person becomes a person, yet there are many counter arguments from a scientific and practical point of view. Also, there are hundreds of arguments from religious points of view. You don't have to battle arguments in select couples, any point can be made to anyone, and anyone can have an opinion on that point.

Those who say placing maternal rights above the rights of unborn babies often say that what makes someone a person is that he or she has “function.” The idea that a person is only a person when it can think for itself, move on it's own etc. But then does that also apply to babies born with genetic or environmental illness' who can't move on their own? Or what about people in comas? Does that mean that you can cut off any care for someone in a coma because their brain isn't reactive, therefore they have no "function"?

The debates about abortion are enormous. The idea that an unborn baby can't think for itself, the fact that the mother's womb that protects the baby and nurtures it within the mother isn't a person, therefore has no rights, the rights of the birth mother, etc. The argument could be said to be an explanation or justification for the substantial amount of abortions in the UK.

Lord Steel, architect of the 1967 Abortion Act, told the Guardian yesterday that too many abortions were taking place. He said an "irresponsible" mood had emerged in which women felt they could turn to abortion "if things go wrong".

According to the most recent figures, the number of abortions in England and Wales stood at 193,700 in 2006, compared with 186,400 in 2005. - The Guardian, October 2007.

A. W. Tozer said that what we think about God is the most important thing about us; C.S. Lewis quite disagreed. He believed, instead, that what God thinks of us is the most important thing about us. When we consider what makes us human persons, it would appear that Lewis got it right. Even if a human never has enough capacity to think about God, he or she is still the object of God’s unique creation and care, making them people.

Some people say that if what makes people, people the fact that they can think, act and function alone does that mean that animals are people too? Which then, in turn, sparks the arguments on animal testing and cruelty. I think it's wrong to be cruel to animals, as it causes unnecessary suffering, but animal's aren't people - God made the animals, but He didn’t make them in His image. So regardless of size, if we bear God’s image, we are precious in a way that the animals are not.

I think I'm going to stop there. It's 12pm. I have a college interview I need to attend. I'm not sure how I want to conclude, seeing as I'm still twisting and examining the ideas of what makes a person a person in my mind. But I'll try my best to come to one very soon.

An Update.

2008-03-05T08:40:00.005Z

Well, this week so far has been rather... rushed? Meh. I had to attend birthday party on Saturday, I was out all day on Sunday, I had a college interview on Monday which I didn't attend, but took the journey anyway. I had a college open evening yesterday, and I have a college interview this afternoon. Tomorrow will be the only day I can properly say I have nothing planned for.

My baby Montague died this morning. Jessica's in hysterics. Alice found him. I woke up to the sounds to shrieks from Jessica, something I'd rather not hear seeing as it sounds heartbreaking. She's doing okay. I'm upset. This isn't a good couple of weeks for pets. Sweet dreams, baby Montague.

How horrid.

2008-03-03T21:01:00.001Z

Everyone's walking on eggshells around me. I'm such a mardy twat.

SAVE NOW.

2008-03-01T23:05:00.004Z

The last three posts which subjects have been extensively written about have been saved to drafts. There's no real point to posting them... there's nothing new. Nothing old either though? I'm going to bed.

Run.

2008-03-01T11:32:00.004Z

A massive group of people just ran past my front room window. None of them were wearing what you'd normally wear if you went on an organised run, they were in jeans and shirts. I wonder where they're going.

I wrote last night. For the first time in a very long time, I got that urge to write. I didn't feel forced to. I didn't feel a need to, I just wanted to. Page one of my journal is now covered in messy handwriting I don't immediately recognise... Funny that it was written by me. For some obscure reason my handwriting has changed significantly. It looks nice. In a very messy, thoughtless way.

So, it's Saturday morning, I have a party I need to attend to later this evening and for once I know exactly what I'm going to wear. Which makes me happy. In a very lame way. I've not had enough sleep. I stayed up last night listening to the thunderstorm until it died down to a quiet roar, and then watched The Sixth Sense. Even though I've seen it a thousand times it still scares me. That one bit in the first quarter when he goes to the bathroom and the girl in the pink bathrobe walks past the door STILL makes me jump out of my skin.

The only two films that make me heart stop with fear are Sixth Sense and The Others and they're not even 18's. I hate that jolt of fear you get in the very centre of your chest. The only time I've ever had that feeling for something in real life is when that earthquake surged through the city.

These posts are becoming so fucking boring.

Blimey.

2008-03-01T00:06:00.000Z

Blogger is dying.

Internet Fame.

2008-02-29T13:27:00.001Z

Whatever happened to Hannah Beth?