late night - ish
in bed, a little yawny.
i love this song, god, i love it. my sister is listening to some sort of hiphop, it's irritating me, mainly because i can't find my earphones, and thus, cannot block out the irritating beat from the bass. also irritating is the fact i can't work out the equalizer on my mp3 player because i am too tired and it's all getting blurry.
smells. incense. strong as all hell, tibetan incense. made mistake of leaving sister's door open while she was downing about 20 cones with the boyfriend - and am now attempting to drown out the smell. i really, really hate the smell of pot. god, it's vile. she's been great - never smoked the stuff outside the room when i am around. still. doesn't make it smell any better. sickly burning in stomach from the smell of the incense, and the pot, and the cheap tacos.
it's n with a h's birthday party - i have to go over to her place soon, the mass cacophony of people around there, people surprise. depresses me. hat man and red head encounter. stop caring, god, stop caring.
but that is easy to say, isn't it. even easier to type when it's dark, when i can sit here rational and cold, rational and distant. you know it's never like that, everyone knows it's never that simple. i am becoming heavy- tired. words are still staying together, so i'll keep going. it has been a long time between diaries.
the last time i kept one was just after getting back from ny. the continuation of my plane rambles? i spend a plane trip scrawling away about the space between me and the ground, me and the distance, me and returning to here, me and him, and me and him. i remember it all with heartaching clarity.
remember that phonecall, on the train to the city, before my staff party at skincare store. mobile kept breaking up, kept cutting out as he ran out of money on the pay phone. i got into the city early. called him from a public phone in central station. that's the second last conversation i had with him. i turned up to work party, eyes red. i felt wired, slightly crazy, extremely jetlagged. i kept looking at the sky and shuddering; this expanse of sky, this colour, this presence over my head, rather than buildings and shade and grey and soft white shadowy walkways.
he called the next day. maybe i called him. i can't remember; it was over a year ago. we spoke for hours. i cried so much, that gasping, airless sobbing, that empty sort of desperation. he never fucking understood a fucking word i had ever said, i felt more alone than i had ever felt in my goddamn life. i remember the pile of tissues on the bench. i can't even remember what we talked about. i can't remember what his voice sounded like. i called her, and she came around. what did we do? i think we caught a bus to west end, to the city, i bought ani difranco cd's. she didn't want to talk about it. she'd end up breaking any chance of friendship with him. she make me hate him, and he i. she essentially shared truths she had no business to.
i remember the end of her and i. she came over one night. she was picking up a bag to take down to sydney; she was staying with his best friend who lived in sydney. she told me she was fucking him every weekend, between her drawing, he reading. she wanted more literature, he read books she recommended, because he wanted to fuck her.
you know what it's like when you realize the first person you dated, the first person you cared about deeply, the first person you say i love you too, the first person you fuck - when you realize every word was nothing? they probably were sniggering to friends about the 18 year old virgin they scored. funny little kid, funny little joke, all laughing away behind her back, because - how funny can you get. ha. i'd slept with one person, and i was - 19, almost twenty. so quaint. so desperate. such a fucking joke.
maybe i am saying those things to myself. maybe i felt desperate and poor and pathetic. maybe i felt as though people drank pity out of me. maybe i was desperation. little limp me, so small and cute and lame. so funny and trying so hard, at her sophistication. she says bisexual, and hasn't even fucked a woman. thats so cute. that's so adorable. awww.
maybe a part of me is saying this now. not enough notches. why is this? i don't believe a word of this. i'm staunchly proud of the fact i don't fuck strangers.
i guess i feel like a reject, still, still remembering hours of hearing about the beautiful people. of my man-status, of my oh so easy to talk about how pretty she is, how beautiful her voice is, her sexy legs, etc. me gangly acne ratty blonde hanging out, rat long nose, oversized teeth, over sized jumper and invisibly small breasts. scrawny like an overplucked chicken, underweight and gaunt from depression. and it's not self deprecation. i was an exceedingly awkward teenager. it sticks with you though. lamely. that boy who was your friend, but never even looked at you twice, that straight girl best friend minister's daughter, it's laughably poetic.
it all sort of sticks with you. and being with someone beautiful, clearly, clearly beautiful makes you forgetful. with a best friend who turns heads everywhere - deny it, you will, you don't see it, beautiful, but you are, n, you are, and a noog who all the indie chicks at the dresden dolls concert kept groping (aww noogie, and his spunky bum), they are both so beautiful (and i am still skin deep here, but it's obviously more than that). i can't make a big deal of it, neither need it, my beautiful people. i feel like i stick out like bluntness or something. - i am not hideous or defective or anything - but i know i am not anything to stand by next to those two. i don't actually care about this, now that i think about it. who am i impressing? who actually cares? the old man who lives two bus stops away? the orgasm girl from number 6 downstairs? who is looking? christ.
just overtired. a little unfit a little worse for wear today. i feel a little sullen. it's probably having no money, paying two lots of rent, passive pot smoke, achy and worried in advance about uni and the necessity of first class honours. of wanting out of this.
i love this song, god, i love it. my sister is listening to some sort of hiphop, it's irritating me, mainly because i can't find my earphones, and thus, cannot block out the irritating beat from the bass. also irritating is the fact i can't work out the equalizer on my mp3 player because i am too tired and it's all getting blurry.
smells. incense. strong as all hell, tibetan incense. made mistake of leaving sister's door open while she was downing about 20 cones with the boyfriend - and am now attempting to drown out the smell. i really, really hate the smell of pot. god, it's vile. she's been great - never smoked the stuff outside the room when i am around. still. doesn't make it smell any better. sickly burning in stomach from the smell of the incense, and the pot, and the cheap tacos.
it's n with a h's birthday party - i have to go over to her place soon, the mass cacophony of people around there, people surprise. depresses me. hat man and red head encounter. stop caring, god, stop caring.
but that is easy to say, isn't it. even easier to type when it's dark, when i can sit here rational and cold, rational and distant. you know it's never like that, everyone knows it's never that simple. i am becoming heavy- tired. words are still staying together, so i'll keep going. it has been a long time between diaries.
the last time i kept one was just after getting back from ny. the continuation of my plane rambles? i spend a plane trip scrawling away about the space between me and the ground, me and the distance, me and returning to here, me and him, and me and him. i remember it all with heartaching clarity.
remember that phonecall, on the train to the city, before my staff party at skincare store. mobile kept breaking up, kept cutting out as he ran out of money on the pay phone. i got into the city early. called him from a public phone in central station. that's the second last conversation i had with him. i turned up to work party, eyes red. i felt wired, slightly crazy, extremely jetlagged. i kept looking at the sky and shuddering; this expanse of sky, this colour, this presence over my head, rather than buildings and shade and grey and soft white shadowy walkways.
he called the next day. maybe i called him. i can't remember; it was over a year ago. we spoke for hours. i cried so much, that gasping, airless sobbing, that empty sort of desperation. he never fucking understood a fucking word i had ever said, i felt more alone than i had ever felt in my goddamn life. i remember the pile of tissues on the bench. i can't even remember what we talked about. i can't remember what his voice sounded like. i called her, and she came around. what did we do? i think we caught a bus to west end, to the city, i bought ani difranco cd's. she didn't want to talk about it. she'd end up breaking any chance of friendship with him. she make me hate him, and he i. she essentially shared truths she had no business to.
i remember the end of her and i. she came over one night. she was picking up a bag to take down to sydney; she was staying with his best friend who lived in sydney. she told me she was fucking him every weekend, between her drawing, he reading. she wanted more literature, he read books she recommended, because he wanted to fuck her.
you know what it's like when you realize the first person you dated, the first person you cared about deeply, the first person you say i love you too, the first person you fuck - when you realize every word was nothing? they probably were sniggering to friends about the 18 year old virgin they scored. funny little kid, funny little joke, all laughing away behind her back, because - how funny can you get. ha. i'd slept with one person, and i was - 19, almost twenty. so quaint. so desperate. such a fucking joke.
maybe i am saying those things to myself. maybe i felt desperate and poor and pathetic. maybe i felt as though people drank pity out of me. maybe i was desperation. little limp me, so small and cute and lame. so funny and trying so hard, at her sophistication. she says bisexual, and hasn't even fucked a woman. thats so cute. that's so adorable. awww.
maybe a part of me is saying this now. not enough notches. why is this? i don't believe a word of this. i'm staunchly proud of the fact i don't fuck strangers.
i guess i feel like a reject, still, still remembering hours of hearing about the beautiful people. of my man-status, of my oh so easy to talk about how pretty she is, how beautiful her voice is, her sexy legs, etc. me gangly acne ratty blonde hanging out, rat long nose, oversized teeth, over sized jumper and invisibly small breasts. scrawny like an overplucked chicken, underweight and gaunt from depression. and it's not self deprecation. i was an exceedingly awkward teenager. it sticks with you though. lamely. that boy who was your friend, but never even looked at you twice, that straight girl best friend minister's daughter, it's laughably poetic.
it all sort of sticks with you. and being with someone beautiful, clearly, clearly beautiful makes you forgetful. with a best friend who turns heads everywhere - deny it, you will, you don't see it, beautiful, but you are, n, you are, and a noog who all the indie chicks at the dresden dolls concert kept groping (aww noogie, and his spunky bum), they are both so beautiful (and i am still skin deep here, but it's obviously more than that). i can't make a big deal of it, neither need it, my beautiful people. i feel like i stick out like bluntness or something. - i am not hideous or defective or anything - but i know i am not anything to stand by next to those two. i don't actually care about this, now that i think about it. who am i impressing? who actually cares? the old man who lives two bus stops away? the orgasm girl from number 6 downstairs? who is looking? christ.
just overtired. a little unfit a little worse for wear today. i feel a little sullen. it's probably having no money, paying two lots of rent, passive pot smoke, achy and worried in advance about uni and the necessity of first class honours. of wanting out of this.