Blog like blob but different

Too much naughty.

2010-06-21T02:07:00.007+01:00

Ok do not blame me for the standard of grammar and clarity of my last few blogs. Google blogs has been fucking up for me recently and I can't figure out why. It would help if I knew some basic web development but alas, no. I feel like returning to compulsive listing to procrastinate. I'll do a proper blog in the future. Possibly a catch up? I was talking to GiGi the other day and she said she was completely unaware of something I thought everyone knew. Maybe I don't talk enough. Mr. Zebra often says I don't talk enough. Actually, I do but always about random shit, like The Moomins or situations I make up in my head or about the town celebrity. Oh actually the last point is quite exciting. Perhaps only to me though. He's a Goth kid who was on a BBC 3 show World's Strictest Parents, which was amazing. I know, I love trashy T.V leave me alone. He lives in Winchester and hangs out in the Asgard tattoo studio. I see him all the time and get really excited. He must think I'm such a weirdo. What was my point? Oh yes- that I should probably make a contribution towards showing what I've been up to recently. Pha to that now though. I'm in denial about the past miseries of the past year and the looming colonoscopy. FUCKING, FUCKING colonoscopy. Again.

I was in Sainsbury's with Mr. Zebra the other day. I have to admit I am fond of saddling him up in his PVC riding gear and trotting down to the shops on him. Whilst buying noms for dinner we bumped into another medieval history student from his course. The standard small talk followed:
Joe's history person: Oh I see you got the double chocolate chip cookies. Those are good.

In my head I imagined how the small talk would proceed if Joe had happened to stand in the queue waiting to purchase a giant dildo.

Joe's history person: Oh I see you got a giant dildo. Those are good.

I laughed at this on and off for a day.

The promised list must proceed. This is the worth of my degree.

What I have learnt at university:

War is NAUGHTY.
Colonialism is NAUGHTY.
Dualism is NAUGHTY.
Religion isn't naughty but patriarchy & Co. often entice it to be.
Patriarchy is NAUGHTY.
Hurting the planet (Gaia) is NAUGHTY.
Consumerism is the source of all EVIL.
Power is NAUGHTY.
Kababs are EVIL.
Jager is EVIL.
Mainstream porn aka the consumerist manifesto of sex(which could be classified as violent porn because it uses the same symbolism of: Men= worker, Woman= meat) is NAUGHTY.
Red Bull is NAUGHTY, does not stop being NAUGHTY and would possibly need sedatives to stop being NAUGHTY.
Adjectives are NAUGHTY.
Semi-colons are NAUGHTY.
Corporatism is NAUGHTY.
Disaster capitalism is NAUGHTY.

Plus:

Global warming is elitist genocide. Looooong story.
Science and religion are BOTH myth systems.
The future is seriously fucked.

Naughty doesn’t seem like a real word anymore.

BOOGIE

Urgh

2010-02-01T13:51:00.001Z

I ate too many raisins last night blogging and I didn't get enough sleep because I went off on a textual rampage. I should change the name of this blog. I have never said anything witty on it. Also why does google keep fucking up my blog? What's with the random text sizes and change of font before I post.

BOOGIE

Feminist blogs, the only place on the internet with grammer and spelling!

2010-02-01T02:11:00.007Z

I have to admit that I originally spelt the word feminist wrong in the title. I have an excuse though. I'm attempting to gather notes for an exam on death, which is the last taboo only because it is so mind-numbingly boring. I know what the examiners are expecting from my answers and I already know I'm on the way to possibly fucking up my degree. This sounds like melodrama but the exam is unfair. They expect us to write at essay standard, including a bibliography. In their omni-benevolence (that was sarcastic melodrama) they have allowed us 900 words of notes to take in. That is definitely not enough for the amount of research required for two essays. Plus the extra one they recommend just in case. Right now I'm on about 3,000 words for two questions. I usually do about 3,000 words in notes for one essay. As it is an unseen paper every single quote I take in could be irrelevant. My plots to destroy my university’s reputation are not hindered by my personal bias against one of my lecturers. They failed to help me with an essay, despite the fact I was clearly having a panic attack. Then to take the piss they sent me resources I sorely lacked, it was a specialist subject, after the hand in date.

That was a tangent about my current situation. What I wanted to blog about was one of the few blogs I regularly read:

http://blog.iblamethepatriarchy.com/2010/01/29/there-are-molecules-in-the-brain-called-neurotransmitters/

Jill's blog is sharp, witty, funny and intelligent; often I read each comment posted after the main blog. I find it quite reviving when I'm in a bad mood. This particular post I've linked to has introduced me to the term mansplaining, something I'm sure every female has encountered. My most frustrating encounter of this was with an art teacher who was female. This would usually eradicate any claims of mansplaining but it worked on a slightly similar power basis, in that I was a student and she was a teacher. Thus I obviously was stupid and needed to be talked at. After including feminism as a political theme in my art, she gave me a disgusted look and told me that feminism was defunct as WOMEN HAVE GOT THE VOTE. I was shocked to learn such a thing because I had only just found my true calling in becoming a suffragette and hiding in the House of Commons overnight to jump out on surprised MPs. She then proceeded to tell me the ancient history of feminism, from Mary Wollestonecraft's time despite the fact that I am a feminist and she clearly was not. After being set straight, I tried to explain to her the idea of sexism in modern media and advertising because this was the focus of my work. After this she interrupted me to reply, "Lots of women work in the media now, there's been openings for women for a long time."

I have never wanted to scream FUCKKKKKKKKK in some one's face as much as I did then.

I think this smiley suits the memory :-|

Luckily I haven't experienced much mansplaining as of late. When I was single I often found that a lot of men found my height a reason to mansplain to me or patronise me in different ways. Example:

Man (thinking all women like cute nicknames): I'm sorry to hear that little one.
Me: Please don't call me that.
Later by text.
Man: How are you feeling little one?
Me: Can you stop calling me that. My brother calls me that and that's because to him I AM little, I'm his younger sister by 18 years!

Yeah I find quite a lot of cutie couple nick names kind of incestuous.

One fellow mansplained to me in such a manner that when I corrected him he'd manage to turn it around so it would look like he had actually invented the concept himself. If I ever showed that I knew more information about a topic he would change the subject instantly. Occasionally I would bring up things that I felt added to the discussion, such as death sex or feminism but he managed to gloss over that. To be fair they're not every one's cup of tea, most people avoided me when I was going through the fascination with cannibalism phase. I doubt he ever had any awareness that he was doing it. He was deeply in love with himself and his love affair will be eternally happy, as no one will tear him away from his true love. Or even better eventually he'll find a meek, gracious lady to talk at.

The next blog I'm linking to is also about mansplaining, it make me laugh enough to cause worry that I had woken my flat mate up:

http://scienceblogs.com/thusspakezuska/2010/01/you_may_be_a_mansplainer_if.php

My particular favourite is:

"You may be a mansplainer if you have ever used evolutionary theory to justify the objection of women... 'But we have to look at teh boobiez! We EVOLVED to look at teh boobiez to find a mate!'."

This one I can particularly relate to:

"You may be a mansplainer if...

...when you are losing ground in a discussion, you divert the topic to your interlocutor's appearance. Tell her she's "not pretty when she frowns like that" or that she "looks like a dancer" or that you "know a real man-eater when you see one". Because you assume that for women, appearance (and your opinion of their appearance) trumps logic every time.

Double mansplainer points of you dismiss every point she makes as being illogical and then "thank" her for "challenging" you."

Triple points if you then go through a friend to ask for her phone number!"

Nothing is more insulting to me than having explained something with great care, receive a reply that dismisses me in every way, for instance, "You have pretty eyes." This reply is interchangeable with several others of a similar theme.

The most condescending mansplaining is clearly the classic female hysteria/hormones/menstruation ignorance is not applicable, unless they are somehow Victorian. Those Victorians sure did love their female hysteria. It is actually such a tired, sexist retort it's annoying because of its lack of originality.

Someone commented on the iblamethepatriarchy blog mentioning a passage in Franny and Zooey that Zooey has a breakdown in front of her boyfriend whilst he mansplains the whole way through. I had never seen it that way but she is right. I love that book by the way, more than Catcher in the Rye and I do not care that Joe (unicorn, zebra, boyfriend) is confounded by this. R.I.P to J.D Salinger. I had to do the obligatory clichéd mention.

I have had fun preying upon mansplainers. I met an open misogynist. He was unashamed and would announce this to anyone. If you're misogynist you might as well be racist and homophobic as well, the mindset and hate is the same. However it seems that misogyny is far more socially acceptable. After I told him that I am a feminist, he mansplained to me that feminists were Man Haters. I laughed in his face (oh I should mention I was drunk when this happened) and attempted to explain the concept of a stereotype. This appeared to shock him and spent about an hour trying to redeem him self by explaining his misogyny. The conversation went like this:

Him: I hate women because-
Me: You're a cunt.
Him: They always-
Me: You're a cunt.
Him: They've done bad things to-
Me: You're still a cuuuuuunt!

Good times, good times.

Today I was in a foul mood. The despairing sort where I want to brew bed for a week and not wash. These two blogs have given me high spirits as Sir Kate (spoon/ Field Marshal Kate) would say. Plus I had an impromptu chat with Beth, who is very, rather, rather awesome and who I'd like to be good friends with but y'know my social "awkwardness". We discussed sexism in Internet culture and where irony stops. She pointed out that the standard jerk on the Internet will use the most socially incorrect language possible. The two most common are anti-Semitic or homophobic. It's strange how I've never considered it in a broader way and worries me that people instantly proliferate this when there is anonymity available. Then we moved on to porn and then feminist porn. Feminist porn does not actually seem to exist we both concluded. Afterwards we pondered why. I have read about this for my dissertation but I won't go into that.

Ah bollocks it's late.

BOOGIE

Now with more pop culture references.

2009-10-21T01:04:00.009+01:00

I've started my third year of uni and currently I'm living in a little flat in the centre of town, which I like to pretend is a New York flat, as it has no windows in the bathroom or kitchen. Despite being by a main road and having no living room, the flat is superior in almost every way to my last house.
Reasons my last house was a shit hole:

None of my housemates where ever there.
It was freezing and I had to pay to heat it by myself due to the above circumstances. Most of the time I couldn't afford to.
I was ill all the time, partly due to the above circumstances.
There was a hole in the kitchen "hidden" behind some MDF.
The water that came out of the taps in the bath had black specks in it and gave me conjunctivitis.
Water leaked through the kitchen ceiling.
The water pipes in the shed burst and flooded it because my landlady could not be bothered to insulate them.
There was no furniture, despite being described as a furnished house.
My bed was a second hand child's bed that was incredibly small. My landlady claimed it was new despite the "Steve" that had been marked onto the headboard.
It was always dirty because I was the only one who did any cleaning and most of the time I was ill.
My landlady was . . . Dubious. Several different names, fond of lying and was a hairdresser.
The house had a creepy atmosphere.

I'm also endeavouring upon a 8,000 word dissertation and 2,000 word rationale. My chosen genre is prose poetry and my topic is violent pornography. To reiterate the answers I have given to a few people recently; no I am not writing porn, no I do not have to watch violent porn as research and yes reading Crash is actually dissertation work. I wrote about a 1000 words and then realised I wanted to rewrite them all in a completely different style. I want a manifesto to back up the technicalities of my piece(s), not just the content. Que severe writers block. What I want is only slightly out of my grasp but nothing I do fits the prototype in my head. I'll come back to this topic later on in the post though.

On a tangent; facebook is a wonderful thing if you're a student. As soon as you have an essay to write it's there to provide the trivial distraction you crave. It does mean that I have accumulated some facebook friends from my secondary school, who were generally The Worst People Ever. They all have children (seriously, what birth control were they using? If it's the same as mine I want something better, sturdier. Please. It's scary shit.) and hate men according to their many statuses, consequently my news feed is incredibly depressing. Babies and text speak, two things I'm not so fond of.

Facebook has other downsides, such as being caught in conversations with people you don't think are too amazing. This happened to me the other day, someone I used to be friends with a long time ago started talking to me as if the horrible barrel of shit, sewage, blood, vomit and chewing gum he had poured over me had never happened. That's metaphorical, he never actually poured faeces on me. He talked to me as if in the past we rolled down candy land hills, threw flowers from wicker baskets and darned socks for the scouts together. I talked to him, being polite, slightly out of morbid curiosity or perhaps the masochist in me wondering if it was some sort cunning trick. My side of the conversation went like this:
Me: Oh I'm ok.
In my head: You are a DICK.
Me: How are you?
In my head: You are a DICK.
Me: Haha I had completely forgotten about that!
In my head: You are an absolute DICK.
Etc.
I have such a strong impulse to commit social death, more so, and write a note called, "All the people I think are DICKS" then tag lots of people in it.

Afterwards I was considering why I had talked to him and whether I blame him for some of the problems I have. For a while I became angry more at myself than him. I hated that he had polluted me and his filth had been ingested to become part of my mechanisms. For my dissertation my tutor has recommended amazing reading, things that are important to me in an intimate way, not just in an academic sense. Today I was reading more of The Angry Women anthology. It compiles interviews by and with subversive, taboo-shattering, powerful, artistic, intelligent wommin. A quote from an interview conducted by V.Vale and Andrea Juno conversing with Lydia Lunch was fitting, "Also, people propagate their own abuse. They get stuck in that pattern, it's all they know, it's what they can respond to, it's what they know how to deal with." I identified with this because I am weary of being trapped by my own sexual formation. Often I find it frustrating because it is like I've only recently embodied myself. I've only recently begun to know my body personally and I'm still developing.

I tend to feel like a child playing in her mothers high heels, pretending to be some archetype then tripping over my theatricals. I feel occasionally like I used to, that I'm small in my head, that I am a fragmented being, stitched together by bad and sometimes cruel needlework. Yet, despite the 12 year old self that I envision appearing to restrain me, I now recognise that at least it is not a gaudy mirage of sexuality. The vulnerability is intimacy the two are linked. Love has changed me sexually, it is similar to being innocent in the sense that I am learning everything afresh in a different way. Before I was a red slash, a centralised cunt, wielding deceit and manipulations. Numb outside with a bruised lining.

Now I am not sure what I am except that I am whole and no longer fractured. Re-envisioning myself at first made me want to run to carefully place the snares back in their original wounds. I fight the urge because it is a process that will create a more distinct me, free from my own sexual self-destruction. Lydia Lunch says, "The first key is to forgive yourself and take back yourself, reclaim yourself, and to heal the self-hate that these situations have forced you into. Because that's the biggest plague of our generation anyway: self-hate." I don't care anymore about people in my past because they have no influence over me now, continuing things that have happened is putting effort into hurting myself.

That was a ramble and a half. Honestly, the stuff I exude at three o'clock in the morning. I'm a bit like a plant; giving out pleasant oxygen in the day. As soon as it's night all the crazy carbon dioxide comes out.

BOOGIE

Knife-spoons aren't real

2009-04-12T23:29:00.005+01:00

I became a joint honours degree student at the beginning of my second year. I am now a theology and religious studies student as well as a creative writing student. I found that I am much more happier taking both courses and not under stimulated anymore. Theology students tend to be open minded, in comparison to creative writing students that meet lecturers questions in silence and shuffle away from me when I'm giggling in the corner.

Recently my Chinese religions lecturer was moving office and our seminar was amongst plastic boxes of his vast collection of books and trinkets. His appearance is almost quaint and pleases me, he looks as if he should be in a sepia photograph. A casual 1920's look, a black duck lick combined with a khaki knitted jumper, corduroy trousers and smart lace ups. One draw in his office is completely devoted to Chinese snack food and various types of tea.

A lady from my group was asking about the spoon jammed in his window. She had wondered about it every single lesson and decided to ask before he moved office. After it was explained the spoon temporarily "fixed" the window (apparently he is told not to mend things with spoons as it is a security risk) she asked what a spoon sticking out of his penholder was. He pulled it out to reveal a it had a knife for it's end. To my utter confusion the lady seemed sated and said, "Oh it's one of those." What could she have meant it's one of those? Since when have knife-spoons ever existed? I did not want to ask what exactly the knife-spoon was or why my lecturer had it in his office, because everyone else seem to except its existence as normal. It's ridiculous; it's the most dangerous eating implement I can imagine. It's inventors intentions seem equally as dubious, its specific purpose eludes me. Perhaps a knife-spoon is something that only certain types of people have a use for and I am evaded by this fellowship. I swear my reality is at odds with humanity's. Well, if that is so then you can keep your fucking knife-spoons.

BOOGIE

It's poetry, deal with it.

2009-01-22T02:22:00.002Z

Making Love?

Scissor word, double pointed sound

Fucking

Crasser than the infestation

Tucked in flesh folds

It goes working slowly

From the inside out

Coating carefully.

The eternal battle

2009-01-21T14:40:00.004Z

Me: Here I have five pounds for you. Now will I be allowed to have a bath?
Metre:BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Me: Hurry up and except it.
Metre: 45p for debt, £3.55 for emergency, £1.00 for gas.
Me: What?!
Metre: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Me: No don't lie I checked you before I went out, you had emergency left!
Metre: Nom nom nom.
Me: You fucking bastard!

BOOGIE

Flash fiction.

2009-01-18T03:26:00.003Z

As he pulls her she unravels. Soon she will be sparse. Two pieces of string, will be the remains in his hand. Nothingness loosens her knots fast.

I might turn this into a poem. I haven't worked out what to do with it yet. It's ok as flash fiction, only most of it does not do justice to the first line. Maybe I should leave post it notes in my notebooks for guidance when I plunder them for ideas. Actually if I wrote what I was reading at the time of writing I would be infinitely more successful in deciphering my own discordance.

BOOGIE

Writing can be a bit like drowning in your own shit.

2009-01-18T02:54:00.004Z

I'm up at about three in the morning writing poetry. My portfolio has to be 900 lines and I've written one and a half poems at this point. I would have done more work earlier in the day but procrastination insisted I shouldn't. They are not edited poems, they are lopsided creations that need shaping. I'm trying to be post modern. Despite trying new ideas, I'm still too fucking abstract. I have a notebook that I use for inspiration, mainly for poetry rather than short stories. The little things I collect from life, I write in there. It also contains poems I'm working on or premature ones that I knew not to finish. Plus several completely dreadful ones that I've scribbled out or scrawled profanities over. This poem is one I wrote after Tom broke up with me. Reading it now the feeling/emotion recreates itself in a stilted form, I do not understand it though. Neither do I remember what it is about. I think it may have been influenced by some philosophical theory I was reading. Or one I was delving into. Fuck knows.

Mantras and masochism

Spiritual animal I am,
Seeking higher sensations.
We creatures wading
In mud to grasp a pure concept,
Through the wiggling legs
and arms and torsos
breasts, both genitals.
Hidden is my secret streak of feeling,
That I take out to examine.
A silk frayed ribbon,
Coloured and beautiful,
Like a bruise.

Actually now it vaguely resembles some of my thoughts on hedonism. I wish I had given it a title when I originally wrote it. Then I would have some clue to its origins and more importantly wouldn't have to give it a guessed title now.

Copious abstractions, I'm doomed.

BOOGIE.

I'm a naughty bisexual seahorse

2008-12-23T00:30:00.004Z

http://www.recessmonkey.com/2007/01/31/church-to-turn-against-gays/

I Found this whilst randomly browsing. I have to say it amused me a fair amount especially because I was considering getting a seahorse tattoo due to their gender distorting qualities. The males famously give birth. I've seen a clip on TV of a seahorse birth. He shot a stream of babies out of what would be a belly button on a human. The action was like someone squirting a water pistol, the daddy seahorse was very much firing his babies into the water and sticking his belly out for the camera.

Now I find I am rather like a seahorse in my more subversive qualities. It's relevant to me in another way. My boyfriend Joe joked that he was a pregnant seahorse and was only with me for the baby. He then he noticed that seahorses have mohicans like him and was highly amused.

My particular favourite sentences from the link are:

“This is a major problem for the Vatican. There is nothing worse in the church than gay sex and the Pope is going to have to consider “casting out” seahorses as works of Satan rather than works of God.”

"The Vatican is set to hold crisis talks later today to consider how they can prevent gay seahorses from taking part in the rearing of their young."

Both are of such a comical essence. I'm not sure if this actually happened because if so the Vatican would be having a crisis almost every day. A vast amount of animals engage in homosexual sex. Some have heterosexual sex when it is not necessary for reproduction purposes, suggesting that they do it just for the pleasure of it.

Look at me shaking my smutty seahorse tail.

BOOGIE

Naomi Wolf rocks.

2008-09-14T00:16:00.009+01:00

It's a trait of mine to have a taste for the things that cause damage to myself. Perhaps I'm inherently self-destructive. My masochistic tendencies appear to be trespassing into the less furtive areas of my life; although the bruises tend to be blatant. For a large period of my life I've found the need to degrade myself, as if I do not deserve anything without a degree of suffering. Food is a pleasure I must earn. To truly enjoy a huge meal I have to be starving. Eating after depriving myself creates such a rush of blood sugar that I get high. After starvation a meal is an enhanced act. The desire for it becomes increased with the smog in my head and the pain I'm riding out. Once the fast is broken I am lifted at such a speed, that giddiness prevails.

Binary makes the craved opposition sweeter, though both sides are addictive. It is a controlling factor in most of my relationships. Either the person is someone I shouldn't be with and who treats me like shit. A strangle hold of degradation, they dominate you deciding which gasps you are allowed.You begin to rely on them for your air, as if they are the sole source of it. Or they are nice and caring, making me love them intensely. There is always a catch; a payment that makes it bittersweet. With Tom it was the distance. Being apart from him caused me to relish even the smallest amount of time spent together, until one of us would have to leave and the longing would commence once more.

Recently I'm suspended between possibilities. Essentially I've committed to waiting for a sign of confirmation. The fix ,when he appears to want me usually outweighs the misery of his apparent indifference. He turns me into a fetish; I am a symbol to him. An instrument for his development, a means in between plans. Not a person. Still the temptation of potential binds me.

The punishment is a deserved part of any pleasure. Drugs are happiness too condensed, concentrated to an extreme, they have a cutting keenness.
This holiday I've been trying to overcome my instinct to destroy myself. A book that I've found to be reassuring is 'The Beauty Myth - How images of beauty are used against women' by Naomi Wolf. I identified with many of the feelings she reports in woman, the low self worth we are encouraged to nurture. Talking about sexual imagery in the media and objectification she says, "The harm is apparent in the way such imagery represses female sexuality and lowers woman's sexual self-esteem by casting sex as locked in a chastity belt to which "beauty" is the only key."

After reading this book I've started to control my relationship with food, I don't obsess over it as much. I've started to accept myself, I've become weary of trying to destroy myself.

BOOGIE

2008-09-08T01:51:00.002+01:00

I wouldn't usually do a blog like this but this amused me slightly. Plus it's comfortably surreal.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26530713/

I'll blog properly some other time. Although everyone told me the world may end on Wednesday, so maybe I won't.

BOOGIE

Exposure

2008-08-12T17:27:00.007+01:00

They found him in a bad neighbourhood walking the streets. Headlights and tower block windows reflected off his pupils to such an extent they thought his eyes themselves where shining. When they got closer they realised that it was their own car’s lights bouncing out of his eyes. They came across him walking, soaking up the pollution from traffic, the smashed bottles and the prostitutes patrolling the end of the road with his black eyes. The man appeared to have no irises what so ever, only black absorbing pupils. Holes to take in his surroundings with perfect clarity. Prostitutes scattered into the night, fleeing from the police van as it pulled up next to him. His bare arms were left out to be victims of the cold, winter weather. Stopping to face them he sucked in bug gulps of car emission saturated air with his mouth, whilst sucking in the depravation surrounding him with the two dark whirlpools set in his skull.

Searching desperately for any clue of his identity they discovered it was if he had appeared into the world to walk the streets that night. Nobody knew him; nobody claimed to have met him before. He had no name, no nationality.

When they did the first overall check of his condition they found he was filthy, his skin stained with dirt and grime. In his malnourished state his protruding ribs appeared as if they were trying to escape from his body. He did not speak. His hearing sight and ability of speech were healthy, yet he never talked. He only made communication only through emotions. When they placed a plateful of carefully selected food in front of him he started to laugh. The sight of the food sent him into hysterics. He threw his head back and laughed, howling manically as if laughter itself had possessed him. They were so astounded at his reaction that they let him continue laughing. Eventually he forgot to breathe and was strangled by the emotion. Still whooping slightly in hysteria, he passed out.

They labelled him crazy. Insane. Not in touch with reality. No sense. What they never discovered was that he had sense. More sense than anyone had come close to owning before. Scaling heights was no problem for him; he'd climbed to the highest point. Clouds swirled at his feet rolling back at his whim to leave the view open for him to survey. From his vantage point he could see everything. Before his eyes it fell in to place, revealing the logic and he found that it had been there in front of him as long as he had existed. It simply made sense. Perfect sense.

They sent him to an institution for the mentally unwell. For a while they gave him the nutrients his body needed to survive through a drip, blindfolding him before they inserted it. As he felt the drip enter his arm he giggled but the manic laughter did not follow. The hilarity stayed away as he could not see the life entering his arm. After a while they managed to integrate solids, taking him off the drip and feeding him blindfolded. After that they moved onto meals without the blindfold. Only simple, short meals six times a day, instead of the three large ones most are accustomed too. It had to be plain food that supplied his dietary needs; luxury foods were dangerously amusing. Even with those measures taken he would still chuckle for a while afterwards.

Dr Knotts found herself fascinated with him. After observing him and a few sessions of trying to encourage him to speak she decided there probably wasn't very much they could do, so unusual was his case. The professional urge she had in her to find new things out from him was strong to such a degree it disregarded the patients well being. Justifying her actions to herself and her professional learning’s she wrote herself into a conclusion where by some sort of drug would help his current state. With mounting curiosity she placed anti-psychotic drugs in front of him. As she explained what the medicine could do to help him he examined the white tablets in great detail. When he finished his task he smiled to himself in a knowing way. Knotts, annoyed in a petty manner that he had not maintained eye contact with her during her speech broke the control which she always brandished in front of more "difficult" patients.

"Are you even listening to me?" She snapped violently I an attempt to wrench the infuriating, knowing smile from his face and get him to certify her. Surprised at her outburst and loss of discipline she found herself pouting like a toddler in a tantrum. When she noticed this she felt another jolt of anger at the unprofessional behaviour.

She had captured his attention and for once he seemed to be focusing, almost communicating instead of letting his surroundings reflect off his eyes; each image swirling in them briefly. It was odd, she thought, that very precise way he choose to stare at her, reminded her of something. The quirk of the head to the side made her think of her dog at home Bramble. Sweet, loving bramble waiting patiently at the front door, tensing up to bark as she fumbled for her keys. When Bramble was confused her head made cute jerking motions to the side. Ah Bramble. Before Bramble it was Jock welcoming her home from college. Using Jock she would show her achievements to her family, a little performance of tricks leant from the animal psychiatry part of the course. It was satisfying knowing she could twist his mind in order for loyal Jock to act human.

When Dr. Knotts arrived home that night Bramble seemed larger. Her paws made a louder noise on the kitchen floor, she seemed to be at her side constantly.

Sarah Knotts remembered being in college. She remembered what she felt then, she knew what she felt now. Neither of these reasons was officially given for her resignation.

They worried that he was not stimulated enough. Books were interesting for him, but not to read. He tried to eat Charlotte Bronte. Music encouraged them at first, but it was dangerous. Some pieces could have been weapons they set off such fierce reactions, watching him cry was horrible. Seeing him silently curled up weeping for hours made others sad. A poster was blue tacked on his door, “No Blues music allowed without consulting management. “

Perhaps, they thought, eating his special lunch with the other residents would give him something of interest in his day and a chance for interaction. In a way this was an accurate prediction. But then again it depends on how you define interaction.

Patti had many childhood scars. The majority others couldn’t see. Even her boyfriend who loved, “absolutely everything about her.” Couldn’t see. When it happened he left her. Patti still thinks about him sometimes. Talking stopped after her aunt admitted her, the shock somehow numbed her tongue and the sense of betrayal dulled her will. There was a lot of hope for her though, she was young eventually something would break through.

He was carefully placed at a table in the cafeteria his and trey presented to him. One concern was that he would find the many varieties of food on the surrounding tables overwhelming. But he showed no interest in them, or anything else happening around him. Patti was all he seemed to notice. Even her minor movements transfixed him, when she raised a fork his hand he twitched.

The member of staff next to him turned as a resident in the lunch queue dropped a tray. Patti leant across the table instantly; she leaned a hand off his neck and cupped the other around his ear to shield her whispers. He appeared to listen, then give a few seconds before he took action.

His chair smashed through a window to his right.

Residents fled from the room dropping their food treys and falling over each other. Cups turned the floor into a slippery chaos. Staff fell over trying to restrain him; some held back his arms but his legs still whipped furiously. He writhed on the floor, fighting against many hands, his face the concentrated projection of fury.

Patti was the only resident that stayed. She watched them sedate him and carry his motionless body down the hall. Never once did she look away or stop nodding in a slow, methodical way.

Later that evening a doctor checked him over, he remarked that although he had an array of violently acquired bruises he was smiling in sedation. Lying with eyes closed and body useless, yet smiling as if he was soaring far beyond the blank walls of the hospital room enclosing him.

Boogie

I wrote this when I was sixteen. I've only done a quick alteration of it and there's still a few sentances I really dislike but I'm feeling lazy today.

8/8/08

2008-08-11T22:23:00.011+01:00

Religious experience can be defined in many ways. One sensation people have reported is that of seeing god in nature. Finding him/her in the beauty of nature, like a watermark on a piece of paper. I've found enjoyment in nature but never such moments of sheer beauty as those that break their way into my everyday life. People have such edges to them, to find them in their pure elements is to be repulsed or to discover acts of sporadic kindness. When I was sixteen I lived in a state of euphoria. I fell in love with the world and was tuned to every ripple and molecular vibration. I felt as if the construction around me was thin and could flake off like paint revealing something marvelous beneath it. Picking up these moments and collecting them was earning a new vision, touching the divine that is hidden.

After having such a blissful existence losing it was a tangible loss. Whereas before I felt at the pinnacle of living, after being deprived of my insight numbness restrained my senses and encumbered my life.

On Friday my sight was restored and I spent the whole day devouring the bliss I swam in. The links between such small, unrelated incidents appeared like fine roots delving into the depths of everything. The day was sheer, its minor moments profound. I was on the edge of everything, verging on happiness and sadness at once.

The present and the future came to a point. The love based on the past from my two of my best friends and the potential of both of them meeting, to bring a heightened awareness of their importance.
GiGi and I walked to town, it is a special thing when you know a city so intimately (almost carnally, you know a side of it not many encounter) that places in it have been symbolised by former versions of yourself. There was a busker in the subway playing an unfamiliar song. The subway became a tunnel of frothing music, which took you in along with the shade of the underground place. After the music I felt elated and got wildly over excited when I saw a guy wearing a Jello Biafra t-shirt. Rosie and GiGi obviously did not share my hand clapping and jumping.

More exciting than the surprising good taste of a stranger was the accordion man playing outside of Waterstones. Accordions are such odd instruments that they make me intensely happy. Reading 'The Book Thief' also encouraged my obsession. As well as this Becky did nothing to deter their mysticism for me. I love her story of the coke lid she spent a year trying to scratch a hole into it. The day she managed to achieve this, in her excitement she dropped the lid. An accordion man's dog near by chewed it, then spat it out.

In the oxfam bookstore I did my usual indecisive dance (it literally is a dance, I jump from foot to foot and stamp my feet) about which book to buy. When in a bookstore I usually have to pick between five books. It's a very traumatic having to leave books. Behind me a lady was looking through the shelves and talking on her phone. Picking up a book she said, "I read this book when I was in college." After opening it's worn pages she realised it had her notes in it. She brought it.

The world hit us in waves. A whiff of Guns and Roses' 'Sweet Child O Mine', a feather nearly brushing our noses on it's decent to the floor. We took our picture inside a photo booth to commemorate us. Why do photo booths have such a romance?

On the bus Rosie and GiGi discuss their musical addiction. I ignore them and ease my boredom of they're meaningless trite by listening to my i-pod. A baby in a push chair appeared to be following their conversation. His head turned to whoever was talking and his expression seemed to be created by consideration of the actresses in 'Wicked'. As his mother pushed him off the bus he waved goodbye slowly.

The pestilence of Rosie and GiGi's 'Wicked' mania continued as we walked to the elms. The stable order of the pair singing some cult obscurity, coupled with me fiercely ignoring them was interrupted by a bee above them. Their singing stopped in unison to scream,"A bee!" then run down the street. The bee was obviously one of my loyal followers who saw that my friends where torturing me. This brave soldier risked his life to put a stop to my suffering. The insects are misguided in claiming me as their queen. Yet in this instance I was glad of their mistake.

The Elms used to be an institution central to many afternoons of our lives. Every Thursday we three would walk through green belt to have dinner. Then Harvester brought the establishment, violating the tradition.

Once there hysteria settled over us. GiGi ate sexily as usual, denying any knowledge of creating an alluring dance with her fingers. Rosie kept trying to persuade me to eat more, laughing when I took struggled bites.

Adam discovered us during a meal with his family, taking a table next to us to have after meal drinks. His family were completely unlike him in looks and what I could tell of their personalities. They were very bemused by our continuous laughing and my manic state. GiGi threatened to kill us in our sleep without completely realising what she had said. She then drew a cat with a very disapproving expression, which looked as if it was unamused at our behavior. She christened it the 'Rosie Cat' because it did not approve, such is Rosie's job in life. Then similar to GiGi's homicidal blurt, I accidentally muttered out loud a thought that had just occurred to me. Had I left my vibrator out? Thankfully, only GiGi, Adam and Adam's sister heard my fear.

We left The Elms a ridiculous amount of hours after we had first arrived. We enclosed ourselves in the wedge, an ominous spread of countryside in the dark. The presence of the wildlife was threatening in the night, birds made jeering noises that were alien. Droplets of water fell from branches reminding us of the movement and life sustained in what surrounded us.

We sat on the usual log and played 'I've never'. Rosie noted that perhaps the squirrels were playing the same game above us, to which GiGi responded, "Yes because a squirrel deep throated another squirrel." This was meant to be a comment of cutting sarcasm but came out in a GiGish way; misdirected in it's execution, it became surreal.

Words are too incompentent to completely describe a transient encounter, now residing only in the memories of us three. Defiled by our reproductions; the faint echos of it. I read somewhere that 888 is the number of resurrection. Life was fully present, each layer revived; even the minute illuminated.

BOOGIE

Things I think every single day.

2008-08-07T22:24:00.002+01:00

I'm so short.
Tee hee my hands and feet are tiny.
I'm so fickle
Josh Holme is bloody tall (and ginger).

Josh Holme has the hottest voice in the short history of my ears. Britney Murphey is a pretty astounding vocal experiance too. I could eat piles and piles of her voice.

BOOGIE

The whine monsters have my legs.

2008-06-04T20:41:00.004+01:00

In between finishing an essay for creativity on masochism and how I can justify making a whole piece of art about it, I've been reading Sir Kate's blog. It's an entertaining experience as she includes bright snippets of her life. Often they're quite funny, which smoothes the reading process along in a delightful manner. That sounded Mary Poppin- ish but I'm going to continue anyway.
Sir Kate is highly endowed with the ability to be an amazing person to whine to. Believe me I'm a whiny person and I know the many types of whine receivers. She manages, every single time to uplift me a little. Becky is the one I go to with my irrational fears. She is innately reassuring. The most rational reply from her mouth can calm me in an instant. For example, here is what happens if seek Alice with a worry:
Me: OMB,OMB,OMB!! Alice Ive got [insert random disease here] look at the symptoms I have!
Alice: Oh no Joy you must have it. Go to the doctors, you'll have to get a test which involves. . . .

This will then continue for a while whilst I get more alarmed hearing the many things I should do. Whereas:
Me: Beckyyyyyyyyy I think I have [insert random disease here] look at my many symptoms.
Becky: No you don't Joy, calm down. Stop going to Alice about things.

Things are not particularly good at the moment. They could be worse, I'm not self destructing like I was in my first semester. I'm merely hurting a bit. Perhaps hurting is a word too far; I'm smarting a little bit then. After a two terms of idle lusting, I finally get into the pants of the first guy I've liked properly since Tom. Not once but twice. Fuck, it was good too. I suppose I thought from the start I had no chance of getting anything more. It annoys me though, that he indirectly lied. Most guys make it fairly obvious when they are using you. He however, was rather nice, kissy and, "I'll see you again soon."
He confuses me. Why put in that much effort to sleep with someone, then act really weirdly towards them and stop talking to them. Especially if you lost your virginity to them. Supposedly. It's hard to know when he's being sincere. Either I fucked up when he sat in on my lesson with his 3rd year status and I was too embarrassed to make an logical decision about whether to say hi. In an,"Ahhhhhhh he's seen me naked!" sort of way. Or he was using me from the outset. Or he's found someone better, considering that his facebook status and msn names seem to be centring around love. Only one person hasn't left me for someone better.
I know its very melodramatic using the word "better" but I recognise how neurotic and annoying I am. People become infatuated with me because I'm introverted, yet loose interest when they get closer to me and realise there's not much there.
He did invite me to a party but I couldn't go because I would not have been able to find where it is and I had no one to go with. Yes, I'm a loser with no friends. Whenever I have to make a decision of such a fashion I drive myself insane thinking of my parallel universe self. She might have a completely alternative life, simply from attending that party.
This whole situation has been eating me; right now what remains of me is a torso and half a head. Look at him there, stewing in his online icon, ignoring me in his superiority. I reassure you I'm not making lewd gestures at the screen. No I'm not. Not at all.
It's triggered off my intense rejection fears. Hence lots of dreams about loved ones dying, two hour long cries over the possibility of losing people and cutting hearts into my leg. The last one fails to match the overall logic of the neurosis but I have the age old excuse of, "I was drunk." I was drunk, off wine as it happens. Despite these mental hiccups sounding bad, feeling something is amazing! Seriously, I'm getting off over my own sadness. I cannot remember when I felt something properly, instead of in a dulled kind of way.
I plan to spend the last two weeks of term painting, reading and abusing my prescription anxiety meds. Generally going mad for my own entertainment.
Yeah I'll stop whining now.

BOOGIE

Sporodic musings

2008-05-07T15:34:00.002+01:00

I'm dead but y'know I'll live.
Why does cheese taste better grated?
Why do farts smell more in the bath? Several people I know want to know this as well.
What the hell is sleep, as in the stuff you get in your eyes sometimes when you wake up.
I fear my mind will be murdered by poetry. Oh the razor sharp end stops!
I like smelling strangers. I've grasped my problem, I like strangers too much. They intrigue me. I want to know what their faces look like when they fuck.
Poetry is inconvenient and demanding it always turns up at the most inappropriate moment, like my uncle George. Or a lover that wakes you up at 4 in the morning for sex when you're ill. I still might say yes since I'm supposedly a passive nymphomaniac. I'm slightly disturbed by the words "Uncle George" and "lover" being in such close proximity. It's far too early in the morning for incest. Becky would get that joke; it is a reference to my one moment of wit.
I think he broke me. I seem to be constantly aroused.
My ex boyfriend taught me that; it is very human to be drowning in a swimming pool and be worrying about being found with out your swimming trunks on. He also taught me I could ejaculate, but that's kind of irrelevant.

BOOGIE

Little glimmers peeking through.

2008-02-28T18:59:00.002Z

When out walking I noticed an abandoned doll on somebodies wall. It was small in size and fixed into a sitting position, its legs splayed out. I placed several pennies from my pockets in between its legs; as an offering.

Two girls approached the post box. They talked and laughed but I couldn't hear any sound through the glass. One posted her letter and walked off, the other paused at the post box's red mouth. She smiled then kissed the letter, even though she wore no lipstick to mark it. She had to run to catch up with her friend.

BOOGIE

Other uses for straws.

2007-10-18T20:43:00.000+01:00

University is certainly educational. My knowledge of varying aspects of life has broadened, its shocking to admit, ever so slightly. When I go home and see my friends I can now claim to be an expert in the following areas (if I wasn't already that is):

Gay sex
Drugs
Alcohol
Straight sex
Virgins
Burlesque (although no one can beat my hall mate Becky's knowledge)

As sarcasm does not transfer well in text sometimes I'd like to point out there is a hint of it in the self appointed 'expert' title.
For the first few days of uni I despised it, I wasn't homesick it was that I did not like the Uni I had picked. I'm still not completely certain whether I will last here or if I made a mistake choosing a creative writing course. At home I was unhappy and my condition has not increasingly improved except that I find I am less anxious because I'm not longer living with my mother. The two hall mates I have become friends with are really great but I laugh less here without my friends and I find I can't remember what my personality is supposed to be like.
Since arriving here I have three great worries. One is that I won't be able to do the work and they will kick me out of Uni, which I really don't want. Another is the possibilty of running out of medication and having to go into hospital. Again. The last is that I lock myself into my room, loose my keys and have to shit in the sink. I manage to misplace my keys at least once a day, a ritual of rummaging through my room shouting to my hall mates, "Wait a minute I've lost my keys. Shit shit. Fuck. AHA FOUND THEM!!"
Every do often I get a bit bored then I get pissed and/or high then do something silly to keep me entertained/miserable for a while. If I'm lucky this could involve sex of some sort. Since coming here I've missed Tom more and haven't found anyone I like as much, another relationship hasn't occurred. My sex drive is pretty high and I still want sex, casual sex has solved to a degree my desires. Since being with Tom it hasn't been as good, this might be because I actually cared about Tom, I do care a lot about Becky though. In a friend-I- had-sex-with-drunk/high-once way. Ever since he broke up with me a sort of emptiness set in and gave me a desperation that drives me to want to fill myself with people in the most intimate way. I'm not using him as an excuse, mostly its just I really enjoy fucking, especially penetrative sex. This activity was in discussion between me and Claire today on MSN. After giving her some advice the following exchange took place:
Claire: That would work.
Me: I'm a genius.
Claire: Yes, yes you are. Or a sex maniac.
It made me laugh extremely loudly and I'm sure the guy who lives next to me heard and thinks I'm even more of a loser. It doesn't help he saw me run into my door when I was drunk because I thought it was open. One day I may divulge some of my many adventures but until then I must leave you to continue my sophisticated student lifestyle.

BOOGIE

Can't sleep, future will eat me.

2007-09-04T22:58:00.000+01:00

It's still slightly unknown to me why I'm going to uni in two weeks, leave I must though and the departure has brought out the strangest of symptoms in me. I have such a compelling urge to do the next few posts in cheesy sitcom clip show style. I'm even nursing a relapse into lists. As I lie shaking in a crumpled heap on the floor high off a heavy dose of bullet points the camera shot fades and earns its flashback yellow filter, genre conventions scream of nostalgia and old incidents shoved alongside one another in a cheap manner, each one slimmed down to please the forgetful or those among you who are highly emotional.

To start I must revert to lists.

Things I will miss at uni:

The obvious gaping hole will be my friends. Peachy was worrying about me the other day, "I'm worry that you'll forget to eat and there's going to be no one to catch you." My nature means that I tend to forget to do the small ordinary things that actually do a great deal in keeping a person together. I rely on my friends in quite a scary way because I'm only just starting to get used to having good friends who actually care about me and prevent me from doing some of the more stupid/dangerous of my ideas. Living without my friends seems impossible because I miss them and pine after a week of not seeing them.
My brothers- Mad and Pootle are like my best friends, I tell Pootle pretty much everything that's suitable- aka not disturbing or a bad influence- for a younger brother to hear. Mad is the funniest person I know after Sir Carol and I'm going to miss watching Neighbours with him and laughing at the unrealistic plot lines and general surreal drama of Ramsey street.
Neighbours- The only T.V program that I watch regularly and won't be able to see repeats of. No more of my dear sweet Sky, who is my character in my comic strips as my lesbian girlfriend when I'm asleep. Yes, I am aware how sad that makes me but no one can deny our fictionalised love! She is the best character on T.V apart from maybe, Abby from NCIS who is marvelous goth creation and amazingly hot . . . . erm I'll be quiet now.
My cat Dulcie- Without her sweetness I will probably have to go on more cute animal binges where I search for pictures of baby animals on the Internet and spend half an hour going, "Aaaawwww" getting more and more high pitched with each image. My friends were so worried about this phrase that Claire gently said to me, "It's not that we have anything against you doing it, we just think you should tone it down a little." My very own intervention!
Bad habits- Things I do at home which I probably can't do in communal spaces. Which means goodbye to all of the following; sitting on the PC with my hands down my pants (it's a comfort thing OK?), walking around in my PJ's with a motorcycle buff on my head, walking around nude, singing to myself, putting cereal in my mouth then drinking from the milk carton, masterb- I mean picking my nose, yeah that's it.
Knowing where I am- It's not the same deliberately getting on the wrong bus when there's actually a real danger you might not be able to find your way home.
Being with a familiar washing machine- This is actually my biggest fear.
Having people to bribe to make phone calls for me- I get anxious on the phone, I may have to recruit some new people.
Never having to go into a supermarket alone- It's my ultimate hell, a place full of thousands of decisions and crammed with lots of people staring at me with their beedy eyes! Last time I went in a supermarket alone I walked around it twice and then left crying because I was panicky.
Getting drunk with my friends- "Joy you are really offensive when you're drunk." Who else will understand my fucked up love?
Coventry- This city and I go well together. Places that aren't a shithole I feel messy in. Where else will I find such oddities as the man in town who never has a shirt whatever the weather and is never without a bag full of bananas.

BOOGIE

Fuck Prose

2007-08-06T17:48:00.000+01:00

Double Wince

It runs wild, boundless, free
Slipping out of reach,
Defying my authority
Betraying and degrading,
Hello Judas body.
No, those treacherous kisses weren't meant for me,
They were only for a purpose of my anatomy.
Shallow kisses that never penetrate deep,
Outside obstinate flesh, inside I shrink,
Repulsed.

The last two posts were marathon long and since Peachy is on holiday for the week I can post poetry.

BOOGIE

Love u i sex 4 so long.i lojue u bastard

2007-08-04T18:44:00.000+01:00

There's a moral to be found among the hacked up and sewn back together memories of last night. One is that I think Sir Carol and I are bad influences on each other. The other remnant of last night is not a moral but rather a ostracising of Sir Carol and myself, we are both social outcasts. More so for me. There's poor Mark to think of who made the mistake of inviting both Sir Carol and I into his lovely home with alcohol in the vicinity.
I didn't realise what a long journey by foot it was to Mark's house so I agreed to walk with Field marshal Kate and Sir Carol. Both the good Marshal and myself complained most of the way there and to increase our disgust at having to walk Louise drove past us, beeped the horn and waved yet didn't decide to pick us up. Kind of like, "Ha ha bitches!" Louise is wonderful though and most likely did not mean to torment us. Walking is enjoyable, however I did not appreciate getting sweaty, only my forehead sweats and then it makes my hair curly, which I knew would annoy me for the rest of the night.
During the getting drunk period Burnie told me about anal bleaching, which is ridiculous. What's the point of dying your anus when you can't see it anyway? Several suggestions weren't brought up but I don't think I should philosophise over them. A few of us had a conversation about a made up person called Donna. I found myself saying, "I want to meet Donna." When I noticed the pun I pissed myself laughing, the sad person that I am was very pleased that I had managed to make a connection with the two words.
Sir Carol's taste for false claims is one that I've acquired. Shouting, "I love women!" entertained me for a while, Chloe asked if I was gay I said I was not. She asked if I was bi I said I wasn't. Sir Carol interjected that I liked souls. This lead me to grow bored of, "I love women." and replace it with, "I like souls!" My finishing claim was that I invented oral sex, I raised my glass to Sir Carol and the rubbing of body parts; people actually joined in my toast. Chloe later said that if she had to go with a woman it would be me because I'm very attractive. Despite the fact i am now scared of her boyfriend I'm extremely chuffed, it's a very flattering thing to say.
Another compliment came from Louise who said she liked how I do my eye make up and that she could never manage the same affect her self. I offered to do it for her some time, we swapped numbers as well because somehow I wrote down the wrong one in her leavers book. Louise has such nice hair it's perfectly straight and blonde, she let me put a little plait in it and I found out it has a silky texture. No wonder Sir Carol is in love with her.
Later on Sir Carol and Louise had a talk alone in private, they both like each other the frustrating thing is they won't get it together. There's an ache in my testaments (heh) that I may, in my drunken state, have interrupted several times to give them an order something along the lines of, "Just get it on for fucks sake."
The rest of the party is presented in an unclear way in my mind. I'm not entirely sure in what order events happened. At some point i discarded of my tights and shoes, running bare legged and tattooed around the house. Once people had seen Sylvia they were interested in the other inking; thus both tatts got an airing.
Sam was at the party and it was nice to see her again, the last time I saw her was at the Colly when I went off on a ramble about how I respect her greatly as a woman and miss her. Outside, before Mark herded us inside to spare his neighbours from the noise, I had a little handful of grass that was unique compared to other grass I've touched. Bringing it to Sam's face to show my discovery to her she put it in her mouth and tasted it. Apparently it was surprisingly dry; to find this out for myself I tried some. She was right, it wasn't juicy like we expected the texture was like dry glass noodles. Sam, Sir Carol and I found Marks electric shaver later. Sam and I shaved some of our arms; I was very impressed with how smooth the shaver felt in use. Sir Carol must have felt left out because he let Sam shave a patch in his leg hair that he kept forgetting about then remembering. Each time he noticed he would lament, "I have a bold patch on my leg." Further antics of Sam and myself were carried out in the kitchen. The pizza arrived (which I probably owe everyone money for, I owe everyone money but I'm really skint) and I was really impressed with how much of it Sam managed to eat. We both had a whinge about putting on weight in the holidays and how much we loved the sauce that came with the pizza. We loved the sauce in such a devoted way that we pinched some from the pizza eaters in the living room.
I told Sam about being caught by the police having sex in a car, which she found quite amusing. How she heard about it I have no idea, it's slightly disconcerting. Upon opening one of the drawers we discovered a collection of bowls, these were magically the perfect shape for our heads and we took photos of us trying some of the delightful collection on. The photo I took is now my phones screen saver.
One thing that completely confounds me about Sir Carol is his love of yoghurt. At Mark's his cravings got so intense that he stole a yoghurt out of the fridge with the cunning plan of eating it then throwing away the evidence. No one will have to know, he said. Eating it he made noises that are not natural for a man to make experiencing the simple enjoyment of taste.
The inappropriate force that is Sir Carol and I united camped ourselves at the top of the stairs and had a marvelously rude conversation about sex and masturbation. What always disappoints me is that we have these conversations then I can never remember them, it seems an awful waste. Coming back to our territory after getting drinks I found Sir Carol was having a conversation on the phone. It seemed very interesting so I asked who it was.
Me: Who was that?
Sir Carol: I phoned myself off your phone to talk to myself.
What was slightly worrying was that he was having a serious conversation.
Mark's walls were very appealing, drawing me in with their bright colour. They drew me in to such an extent that I licked them, following by example Sir Carol did the same. Our lick prints disappeared meaning we would get away with out crime, I went in once more for a last lick; I licked my name onto Mark's wall.
The thing that lingers today is the pain. See I had an accident last night. Slipping on the stairs I landed straight on my arse bone which fucking well hurts. Although suprisingly after a few minutes it become pleasurable. In the process of doing so I spilt my drink absolutely everywhere, which I helped to clean up but I still feel guilty about. I'm sorry Mark.
Sophie went up the stairs to use the loo when she cam out we recruited her to join us but alas we got evicted from the stairs by Mark because it's right next to the neighbours. I should probably mention that we managed to piss Field Marshal Kate off because we apparently have no self-control. Sorry Kate.
Once downstairs we decided to phone people on my contacts list in my phone. I'd already text Peachy this:
Love u i sex 4 so long.i lojue u bastard.
We then phoned Ian and left what was probably an abusive message on his answer phone, actually the next day he said it was mainly just 'some guy' talking. Thank Bob I don't remember. Claire got a message as well, she text me the next day thanking me for it though. She said that I told her I love her for being my agony aunt and then Sir Carol went, "I LOVE HER MORE!!" Despite the fact he's never met her. I expected GiGi's phone to be turned off but unfortunately it wasn't and she wasn't amused I'd woken her up to tell her I loved her.
At three Sir Carol and I decided that we'd out stayed our welcome but didn't want to pay for a cab. No one seemed to care that we'd had a loud conversation about pretending to get a cab then walking, a few people seemed happy to believe Sir Carol's faked cab call. It was very impressive though he remembered to say the address and everything, I would have forgotten and gone, " I want a cab please, thank you. Ok our taxi's coming guys." I think everyone was so pleased to get rid of us that they merely said bye when we announced our taxi had arrived.
Walking home seemed ten times faster than making our way to the party. During our travels we met some drunken people who asked us if we were drunk which probably got the response, "WOOOOO YEAH WE LOVE YOU!!"
On the way home I think I obsessed about the pizza dip and told Sir Carol how I'd wished I'd stolen some. Sir Carol walked me to my house and then phoned me when he got to his, to let me know that he hadn't got killed. . . . And that he'd turned the buglar alarm off.

BOOGIE

Sir Sue the inappropriate and the company of monday night drinkers.

2007-07-31T22:27:00.000+01:00

My friends have re-named me Sir Sue the inappropriate because of my behavior whilst drunk. Although sometimes it does have repercussions I rather enjoy my title as being extremely crude makes me laugh. I find it hard to resist when two of my close friends are self confessed prudes, it pains me that you could not witness their expressions as me and Sir Carol Tush Tush had an in depth discussion about circumcision in the back of a cab. Last night my inappropriate behavior was only reaching the moderate scale. Let us delve deep into the underworld as I take you back for an over view of our drunken celebrations.
We went out to celebrate Mark's 18th and it was very nice of him to invite me. Although my friends had already suggested I gatecrash. I'm always that added on thing that turns up extra at a party, like a hand bag somebody brings that drinks a lot and sings. First we went to the Wallace (a pub) where I tried to convince everyone I'd applied to become a nun, "The application form says do you like drinking and you tick no. Then it says do you like fucking and you tick no. Then it says are you catholic and you tick yes." Everyone gave me weird looks. I apologised to Daniel for biting him last time we were drunk together, he had actually forgotten and seemed slightly offended when the memory refreshed itself. To redeem myself I'd like to say it's how I show affection. We moved on to the Colly (a club) where several interesting things happened. Sir Carol Tush Tush decided that he was going to tell everyone that he owned the establishment and spent the whole night repeating it over and over to everyone. Example:
Sir Carol- I own this establishment
Sir Sue the inappropriate- You don't
Sir Carol- I fucking do!!
Sir Carol- I own this establishment
Sir Sue the inappropriate- Stop saying that
Sir Carol- Well I FUCKING DO!!
What you have to learn is a marvellous thing occurs when Sir Carol is drunk; he becomes the funniest person in the world, a sort of comedic personality takes over. One of Sir Carol's favourite things to do intoxicated is make false claims and repeat them. His current ones are that he:

Invented Strongbow
Invented sex
Owns this establishment
That [insert any name here] lives next to him and/or is his mother
Is going to masturbate for a whole day

We will go back to him for the resolution of the night. After becoming more drunk I got pissed off that guys kept stroking me. Eventually I got my reactions together enough to slap someone's hand and swear at him; then I felt guilty about it. After much dancing and drinking I completely embarrassed myself. I don't know what set me off but I started to cry, I hardly ever cry and once I start crying I find it really hard to stop. The worst shame for me is having anyone see me cry and loads of people I know saw me. Bollocks quite frankly. Peachy and Field-Marshall Kate were very caring and hugged me then took me to the loos twice to try and get me together. On one of these trips a girl asked if I was alright and, "If it's about a boy." I wanted to argue and redeem myself slightly by saying no but my friends confirmed it, she then informed me with something along the lines of, "Don't worry because there's loads of boys here tonight." It's pathetic to become one of those girls crying in the bog over a guy.
Returning to the dance floor holding hands in a line to prevent us losing each other I felt a hand slip into my spare. The owner was an older guy who I was merely holding hands and having a friendly conversation with when my friends decided to interrupt and tell him that I was on the rebound, when he wouldn't leave they made him. Obviously he was an arse, that's beside the point though! Reassessing it I'm quite thankful to my friends, my old friends wouldn't have looked after me like that. They only did it to protect me because they love me.
At 3 in the morning Field-Marshall Kate decided to organise us into getting a cab home. Her and Peachy rounded up Sir Carol, who had spent most of the night hugging and kissing everyone including giving me a sloppy one on my cheek and dragged me out of the club. I was only protesting because I thought it was still early and I couldn't understand why people kept showing me the time on their phones, "Yes your phone is lovely so is the blurry clock on it." In the taxi on the way home I complained about leaving and my friends getting rid of the guy, I think I talked about sex and circumcision and ended the night in the traditional way by saying, "I hate you all." over and over. Both Peach and Sir Carol commented later that whenever we go out the ending note is me telling them I hate them. When I say it however, I certainly do not mean it, in a way it's me showing that I love them. I've decided that I will watch my slovenly tongue in future and stop myself from saying it.
What still makes me laugh now is what happened when I had departed to fall into my bed without taking my makeup off in that comfortable drunk patten. On the way home Sir Carol was still saying, "I own this establishment." to himself and laughing after each reinforcement of the statement. The cab stopped at his house and he couldn't open the door. Finally he managed to stumble out of the cab, he then decided to run down the street shouting as loud as he possibly could, "I OWN THIS ESTABLISHMENT!!" The taxi driver turned to Peachy and said, "I think he's gone mad." Peachy replied, "Yes. Yes I think he has." Once at home Sir Carol was immensely proud that he managed to turn the burglar alarm off and he text Peachy twice to tell her this. The texts were unreadable. He then phoned Peachy to tell her of his achievement and that he was thinking of making noodles, she told him not to as he would probably endanger himself. Once this had been done he proceeded to go on MSN and myspace and tell Peachy a forth and fifth time how proud he was to have turned his alarm off.
Sir Carol later admitted to me that he was still saying the phrase to himself once he had got home. A good night had by all.

BOOGIE

Scraps imply rubbish

2007-07-22T21:24:00.000+01:00

Peachy is nagging me to blog despite the fact everything has gone to shit and I fucked up like I knew I would thus resulting in the loss of a boyfriend, said casually like a cold, unfeeling pro.
Hark! Do not despair my cherished pixie offspring, enough of this stale emo warble and forwards with the drinking! Since the present is currently unpleasant let us look to the past, sift through my 18 years worth of scrapbook pages looking to when things where even more crap. Or yearn for when they were slightly improved.
First off a poem I wrote around 13 or 14 when I was inexperienced at losing my mind. Damn madness was good back then, I loved my eureka moments of, "I can see how the universe works!!" Look at my sweet, naive self leaving myself post-its of remarkable things to remember and presumably change how water runs or something. Bless. Of coarse I still find those notes and have no clue what any of them are referring to, "Soul leave and I'll have nothing but my hands to keep me company." is one I have a fondness for. Nope it's not the same now, it's getting dressed to go to bed again. They don't make insanity like they used to.
A poem I wrote, don't worry Peachy it's not serious.

Hippie gene

My mother phoned Father to say they'd found me drunk at school,
My Dad he said, "What you doing girl?"
He almost raised his voice, "Really how?!
At your age you should be on drugs by now!
What about family tradition?
Have you no respect for past generations?"
Afterwards my Mother said, "I hope your father taught you a lesson."
I flashed her a smile, "Mother I'll never drink again."

Do not worry I don't think my Dad has actually said, "What you doing girl?" ever in his life. When I wrote this I was probably hammering that 'Janis Joplin live' C.D when I couldn't sleep and in my mind I recreate everyone's accents and add in odd verbal mannerisms. This is what the verbal combination of my Dad and Janis Joplin might sound like, man.

BOOGIE

"Pervert magnet."

2007-06-22T22:40:00.001+01:00

Oddness seems to gravitate towards me. For a while I would walk past lampposts and they would turn themselves off until I had passed. Rosie and I seem to find parts of dead animals wherever we go for a walk. It is official a bunch of satanists must be following us around.
What everyone seems to notice about hanging out with me, is that strangers will come up to me and say the most unprovoked things. For me this somehow fits in with the weird stares everyone gives me but according to relatives and friends this is just paranoia. When I'm on steroids I do feel as if I know everyone including people on TV. The strange fact about people approaching me is that it happens in Coventry nowhere else. This must be proof that somehow they know me. They must know me, ladies and gentlemen, know me. What follows is the culmination of some of the unexplained things I have had said to me. Note, this does not include the many contributions from perverts including, "'ello beautiful." *kissy noises*. Or the man I thought was lost because he called me over; I was about to give him directions when he decided to tell me that I was an extremely beautiful young lady and-. I stormed off at that point, bendy metal bastard made me take out my earphones for nothing. Neither does this incorporate the rude things shouted out of car windows at me, although I do get less shit since I hacked all my hair off. Liberate your locks with kitchen scissors.

"She's polish!"- Thank you person I don't know for pointing at me and shouting this, my life is far more complete.
"SNUFF!"- I was slightly shocked at this so I turned around to look at the man who had said it. He had stopped walking and was grinning at me. I hope this wasn't his way of telling me my hipsters had slid down causing me to flash my pubes again.
"Have you seen the rainbow deary?"- I met a leprechaun.
"RRRAAAAAWWWRRRRRR."- A very animalistic rawr indeed sir.
"It might never happen."- This one annoys me. It did happen. Many times. Optimistic fucker.
"Ppppffffffttttt"- Why strange man did you blow a raspberry at me?
"Hippie"- I was with my boyfriend Tom when this happened, it was a sort of introduction to Coventry for him via the words of a tramp.
"Joy's gay."- How does this person I've never met before know my name?!

Added to these incidents is the day I was on a quiet road taking a walk. A lady I don't know slowed down her car until she was along side me at the same speed. For a few minutes she grinned out the window at me then drove off.
I can't complain though it makes life for more interesting and renews my faith in surrealism. So on so forth.
Lists are creeping in everywhere, stuffing themselves into inappropriate slimy orifices even, I swear this is the last one for a while.

BOOGIE
(hungover)

Nude poetry.

2007-06-22T15:30:00.000+01:00

A bold title to draw the perverts in I don't expect the poetry nature of the title to draw anyone in, I expect it may even put even a few of the determined perverts off, "Huuummmmm nudity, but at the price of poetry. Is it really worth it?"
The man who undertook my university interview inquired after samples of my poetry. I gave its general shitty quality as my excuse for it's absence, but as well as this my poetry has an obscene nature to it which it seems to gather from some unknown source *ahem* for some reason. Recently I've been venturing into writing poetry naked, not because I'm stealing Blake's idea but because whenever I'm nude I have sudden bursts of inspiration. What follows is one of my experiments in writing poetry after I got out of the bath and couldn't be arsed to get dressed.

Tattoo

I'm sorry Roger after the,
Initial
introductions I grew bored,
I was fickle then,
my infatuation couldn't last through custom.
two months then love,
my girlfriends ruled.
I cherished my ceremonious months,
then acquired the name I wanted,
Pin-
-point point my gain.
When striding into his,
(before husband had set in permanence)
room naked, approaching the bed, where eyes learning,
looking forward to-
he said, "Roger who?"
"The first boy I ever. . . ." I said,
when I should have told the truth,"I never knew." instead.

BOOGIE

Glorious return involving moderate fanfares but no chimps in coats, sorry.

2007-05-08T15:26:00.000+01:00

Yes my darling doves I have been separated from my mangled cyber letters. Ah don't worry I am back to bask in the love of the faceless public who don't read my bastardised version of a blog and spam me. Oh how I have missed the links to porn sites in my comments box. They give me the delusion that you read my blog, know that I'm a feminist and put them there to insult me.
In my absence, involving hospital visits and deciding to conveniently loose my old friends, I have secured an intoxicating stash of quotes. Here they are for you; my beloved children.

"I don't want foot floor pringles." - My little brother Pootle.
"What colour are your lady drugs?"-Pootle.
"Now I can tell a real girl from a fake one."- Parker.
"Earl this place is chaos, I saw a pig eating its own poo."- Randy from 'My name is Earl'.
"Velvet clothing is a sign of mental instability."- My older brother Maddy. He didn't notice I was wearing a velvet jacket at the time.
"My mummy says they're magic." - Doolan on 'those' sort of mushrooms.
"You can't see me tink! You can't see me tink!"- Small boy after being reprimanded for flashing his 'tink'.
"I can go home a happy man."- Ms. Brown. An art teacher.
"Sniffing glue is fun!"- Ms. Brown.
"I'm wearing cowpats."-My mother
"Is that even a baby?"-Me
"You have a perverted imagination."- My mother addressing me.
"I don't want to be associated with Abba."-Tom, rather randomly announced this in the midst of a conversation about something else.
"Communism is an octopus."-Ms. Williams.
"In milking bows ass."- Me slightly confused.
Were you Christened? He might know you from there."-Emma.
"If I was gay I would date him."- Pootle
"When the hobbits got married I walked out of the cinema."-Zaine
"Bum"- Dulcie. Dulcie is my cat so I think you should be amazed she said anything at all.
"My bobbins hurt."-Lady from hospital.
"If I was your pebble brother I'd look like a slab."-Pootle
"I've been carrying the bible round all day because it won't fit in my bag, I came up the B door stairs and I had a compulsion to shout "Praise the Lord!""- GiGi
"Hello cancer I grope you."- Daniel. He sends the most hilarious texts whilst drunk.
"They banned smacking and took away the only perk of motherhood."-Chloe (whose name is fucking impossible to spell)
"I like to harass people in toilets."-Daniel, possibly the most quotable person alive.
"Bendy metal bastard."-Rosie
"A bird dropped meat down our chimney."- Daniel.

Wallow in the goodness of these golden words. Can you hardly believe that my quote book is bursting with more of these? Alas I fear I cannot distribute as many as I hoped. You will have to content yourself, unbearably shy fans that you are, with these few favoured scraps extracted from the squealing litter of profanities and illegible handwriting excitably jumping over itself.

BOOGIE

A textual tour of Coventry

2006-10-05T21:32:00.001+01:00

Conventrian institutions/traditions/conventions.
Here in classy old Coventry we have a few age old traditions, breathe in you can smell the history rising like smoke off the streets. . . Actually no wait that's just smoke.

Buying a jacket potato from the stand then siting on the ledge of the fountain to eat it. There must be some magical drug like properties in the butter because they taste better than any other potato/beans/cheese jacketed constructions I've sampled elsewhere. It's also customary to burn your tongue every time you eat one.
Putting pink bubble bath in either of the cities fountains. Ahhhh those days when pink foam is overflowing, it's like putting a sugar plum fairy castle in a stagnant swamp. I love it. "They" do not approve though, apparently it's a pain in the arse to clean.
Goths hanging out by the lady Godiva statue. Many generations of the cities goths must have spent their teenage years around the, "Naked lady covered in bird shit." As my little brother puts it. I find it very comforting to see them all gathered in groups with their interesting clothes. They are my measuring stick for normality. If the statue isn't surrounded something drastically wrong has happened to the world. My other measuring stick is the boy in my English group who's always on MSN, his presence is always a comfort to me that the apocalypse hasn't started.
Coventry has the highest rate for knife crime and the lowest for burglary. Probably because we stab our burglars.
Being amazingly pissed and/or high. Nah I'm just kidding, it's a bit cruel to say that about my fellow inhabitants.
My tattooist. OK he isn't the best tattooist in the world. But he is a reasonable shrink. One that swears a lot and gives rather odd life advice. I'll admit I'm changing tattooist but I shall deeply miss him. He is the only weird old man I'd let touch my stomach.

BOOGIE

Drunken ramblings of the mind

2006-07-03T21:54:00.000+01:00

Reincarnation; horses continuing through solvent abusers. Im continuing the cycle, carrying horse bones letting them gallop once more in the blood stream, rear proud and furious in the mind. *sniff*
High heels- implements of restriction. Bloody hard to walk in. With a few experiments I discovered the method of walking on those thin podiums- alcohol. Either it distracts you from the perception of wearing shoes, meaning that you walk with ease or if you still stagger you can blame the unsteadiness on the booze. Or much more sensibly you could not wear high heels since they're pretty pointless.
It is actually disturbing that there's a period on the middle of the night, aka in the wee hours, when I find drawing a small smiley face on my hand hilarious.
Oh fuuucckkk . . . . For whatever reason I was rolling around near suffocating from laughter on the floor of the loo's in a bowling alley last night, it really wasn't that funny. Increase embarrassment and loss of dignity with sober(ish) retrospect.
A while ago when I was bored I let loose a rumor about myself and my sexuality. This is big gossip for the younger years who congregate in little clumps of children (our school esp. In the lower, in both senses of the word, can be a homophobic den. The lists posted everywhere providing the disapproved grounds for bullying fail to mention sexuality) the same groups one finds stampeding along the corridor's. Even now I get eager beady eyes looking up at me blinking with their queries. Usually I give my answer with a chararismatic wave of the hand an, "oh darhling." A stereotypical light 'feminine' laugh, a gentle pat on the head; then a quick retrieval of a dainty hand when their pointy teeth snap at the fingers.
"My name is Domino Harvey- I am a bounty hunter." Ever since I hacked off my hair I am, according to my bro.
I miss goths, what happened to them? Were they wiped out by the wave of emos? It's the red squirrel/grey squirrel thing all over again. Except instead the grey squirrels monopolizing the red's food it's the emos taking over the eye-liner supplies.
Impossibly tiny hands feet and ears. I stole them from baybees- welcome to the faults of a changeling.

BOOGIE

Remember the voice.

2006-05-15T14:32:00.000+01:00

"And therefore as a stranger give it welcome./ There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/ Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

As much as it shames me to admit that Shakespeare does nothing for me,no connection, no shiver of appreciation at the sound in the flow of the words, but by gum he hit the button with that one. In the space of two paragraphs Shakspeare and, "he hit the button with that one". I assure you Im slapping my hand against my forehead in a "What the fuck is hit the button about?" moment.
Yesterday another odd thing happened to me. Not only me but my older brother Mad too. How can anyone claim that life is boring rational process? Strange things happen in multitudes to me. Althougth they're not strange because, erm they happen in multitudes.
One of the simple pleasures in life; watching TV with Mad. We have our reserved program's thanks to the good people at Five importing such shows as; 'Prison break', 'House', 'CSI' and 'Greys anatomy'. As part of our schedule we sit down weekly to this comfy routine. Part of the entertainment is simply watching TV with Mad. He has interesting lines of conversation and sometimes near suffocates me from the laughter at hand puppet impressions of Jurassic Park. Or perhaps makes clever revealing comments on current adverts, "But Dad you're a fucking ant!" For example.
This Sunday evening it was only us adorning the sofa. 'Top Of The Pops' was providing some crappy music to debate upon, as is 'normal' Sunday evenings.
My gaze was on Mad as he had just spoken when this funny high pitched voice very close to us said, "Boom!" It sounded human and when it was established neither of us had produced the sound I searched under the sofa for its origin. Mad checked under the scarred coffee table (my Dad set fireworks off from it when I was little) where he had heard it coming from. Finding nothing we settled back to our regular positions on the sofa. Mad seemed very blase about the incident and when I asked him what he thought it was he replied with the above quote from 'Hamlet'. Or at least he tried to. He got as far as "There are stranger. . . . oh you know what quote I mean." At least I have an excuse to forget Shakespeare, Mad used to be an actor and that's one of his favorite Shakespeare quotes. He may be laid back about the whole thing with him saying through Shakespeares' Hamlet not to worry. But come on he doesn't worry about it! He can't he forgets everything.
Me:Loads of these strange things might of happened to you and you don't remember them.
Mad: Yeah.
I'm not worried anyway, unlike Mad I won't forget, it is a funny strange memory to collect.

BOOGIE

How I freed my hair from it's own tyranny.

2006-05-01T15:47:00.004+01:00

Lets just say, with a sly wink, that my health isn't fully rounded. In that it is far from complete; not near a wholesome well-being. For some obscure reason I decided to hack the majority of my hair off. Note, not attempt to cut it, no that would be far too fucking sane but hack it. This is why sobriety and I repel. Three-day weekend; enough space for you to peak under the sheen of constant occupation to find there is nothing there. A debilitating kind of dull death. Facing the harsh possibilities of the future, to see the smog restricting you never ending. A dangerous recklessness shrinking the fight, until it is too small to hold onto any longer. My affections; like images in an advertisement. Unobtainable, wondrous promising scenes, lurid shades of fake mediated happiness clashing with a void of colour, definition. Soul.

Being incapable of functioning, I am two interactions; staring and lying. The reality is packed around me. Under the bedclothes swims whispers of escape. Perhaps slashing myself up might provided some sort of activity. That is dismissed, it is an old enjoyment now and I need to heal, literally. Something brand new thunderbolts into my head. It seems such a good solution that I do not bother questioning it. I do not heed the blue stars warning me that I was wound up. Taking a pair of kitchen scissors chunks of hair fall into the bin, another part of me becoming detached. The pile of sawn off hair looks strange somehow, I cannot figure out why. It seems almost alive.

For a while the light feeling of being spent, released temporarily, resides. A state which, is familiar to how I felt after I cried when I was young. Now crying ends and the poison is not erased by tracks of healing salt water. Why oh why did I not defile my arms instead? That would be the sensible thing to have done. It's kind of ironic you can walk around with red raw arms and if anyone manages to

I never finished this and I can't remember what I was going to say. The misery that lead me to cut all my hair off with a pair of kitchen scissors, actually turned out to have a positive impact on my life. I felt more like myself with short hair and I don't think I'll ever have long hair again. Ridding myself of my locks was a ceremony, marking a new era of myself.

BOOGIE

Snippets of internal monologue.

2006-02-25T15:26:00.000Z

Technically, if you hold the traditional heaven or hell view, we're in limbo. Inbetween either final destination.
Im only lonely when Im around lots of other people.
What if in a parallel universe friends are items of food which go well together. This hypothesis falls short when you consider that which flavors mix well is a personal choice; for example some might find cold leftovers more inviting then actual meal or find gone off food delicious (not that I personally can relate to such preferences. Ahem.). Still if your not an atheist you could consider the possibility that maybe God likes certain mixtures of food. I'm really not presenting this as some answer to human questions or even a serious philosophical theory but what if I'm a piece of cheese and my friend a chunk of bread? What if?!
Why the hell do we have such a vast supply of poetry books on gardening? It really was an surreal experience searching through one of the many cardboard boxes of books that shape the cluttered landscape of our house. These books have been in their cardboard constraints since my parents moved here from Africa 25 years ago. There I was dusting off old jackets when I found these odd poetry books 'Green fingers'. There was two copies of Green fingers, I was wondering why do we have two, then I found 'Green thumb'. After that I discovered 'Green fingers again', this struck me as funny it was almost as if the book was saying, "Yes another one, another green fingers book." At first I thought they were children's books but in 'Green fingers again' somebody had underlined 'pollination' this poem delt with a spinster who decided to rid her life of sex by sitting in the perfect, smutless, garden world she had grown, only she was unaware that the pears were fucking furtively behind her back. It's an strange thing to find and I doubt I'll figure out the origin of the books or who they belong(ed) to.
Being slight certifiable isn't that bad because everything makes sense. Except fruit.
Fruit does not make sense.
Both my parents are writers/write.

BOOGIE

Tired

2006-02-18T17:16:00.000Z

There's plently to write about and sure there's loads of ideas winging their way around. It's impossible to write when you have a weight inside your head that seems to be only a burden of slimy squiggles that's unfamiliar suddenly. The scapegoat I've been using to keep me comfortable is sixth form. Disbolical sixth form turning my already dire spelling to piss, stopping me from reading by stealing my time. Sixth form- writing inspiration consumer. Despite being excellent at self deception sometimes the painful truth breaks through the soft wrapping of lies, when it does it's not pleasant. I can't read anymore what I used to find in books appears to have gone, something pulls me out of the words. Writing is an elusive figure that I am unable to understand.
I really can't remember if last winter was this bad, I didn't dwell on it in the happiness of summer I forgot the gloom in winter, thus when a new grey lifeless Autumn rolls around it hits me with such an impact as if I have never encountered this blow before. Nothing that gave me simple enjoyment is the same, something has corrupted it leaving it drab and useless. This change could be linked to one source- another thing that doesn't feel the same is me, I do not trust myself or rather what is left of myself. Instead of where I used to inhabit a dull death has taken up residence. It surely could not have been this bad last year? Perhaps it wasn't, I don't want to go out or see people I don't want to get up in the morning. Sleep would be a blessing to sink into but it grants me few such wonderful oblivious hours.
An explanation for my lack of posts, I'll be fine I have my brothers and a great Black Flag album. After all I've been through this before. . . . I think.

BOOGIE

That week.

2005-12-04T21:27:00.000Z

It is a rare thing for me to do a blog entry on "and today I did this blah blah blah, the cat puked" so on so forth. This week however has been exceptionally good for a winter week. During the winter I curl up in my spine and hibernate. Yet this past week I've been, well, unusually happy. For the first time in a long while I feel safe.
Most of this happiness is connected to how much funny things have occurred. On Monday for example I turned up to English completely manic from lack of sleep, food and an interesting dose of yummy painkillers. It was a fun lesson. In our groups we had to cut and paste images which relate to our character from Hamlet. My group had been lumbered with Mr Complicated Hamlet from the beginning, it helped for this task as it provided us with a wider range of things to chose from. Louise had to do (not literally) trusty Horatio. I actually persuaded her to put a fish and some curry on her picture then she went wild. She added sideshow Bob from the Simpsons and a turtle. It was so funny thinking of ways she could link the images to Horatio.
Me: Well rice sticks together sometimes and that's what Horatio and Hamlet do.
Louise: Fish is good for the brain!
When she actually presented it to the class it was hilarious. Dr whateverhisnameis was like, "Hhhuummm yes very original." I thought hers was the best presentation. The only reason I convinced her to find a home for my fish was because my group wouldn't let me stick it onto ours.
Me: But what about the pirate ship he jumps on.
Group: Oh God don't start about the pirates again!
That pirate ship thing is funny I tells ya! I can just imagine him jumping on board with no one to back him up, shitloads (shiploads heh heh) of burly pirates scowling down at him. Then he gets out this tiny spoon and goes "I'll take you all!" It makes me laugh so much picturing it, but my group find my fantasy scary. Or just me possibly. Strange.
Then when I got home form school I dragged Poobelle to my house to help me carry a dustbin bag of shredded paper down to the recycling unit with me. We looked like a few pills short of a suicide Im telling you. The bag was immensely heavy so we were basically running and shouting things at each other through the falling snow. Then I had to take my shoe off and I was hopping around for a while trying to stuff my foot back in the shoe, Poobelle used the opportunity to slap my bare back causing me to shriek and her laugh in her evilly satisfied way then continue. Shopowners actually came and stood on their doorsteps to watch us.
When we reach the recycling bin its another problem facing us. The slit is far too small for the dustbin bag. When we try to pour it in shredded paper drifts to the ground and mixes with snow. The guilt of littering compels us to ask the near by florist for a broom, "To you know, just borrow." Unfortunately the florist only had a broken dust pan and brush which was most likely a bollocks excuse to stop us from "stealing" the broom. I may be an adolescent but I'm not going to get major kicks from stealing a broken broom; this time is my prime (apparently)! Im in the blossoming dawn of my-3 and a bit year- relationship with booze I have better things to drink than steal brooms. Unless Im wasted in which case it is very witty of the booze gripping my mind to do so and I thank you not to question it.
Dedicated to cleaning up the scraps of my childish handwriting from the mud we returned to attain frozen dirt to the underside of our fingernails.
Poobelle: They'll arrest us you know.
Me: On paper charges?
Confidently we laughed in the security of a joke. Then to reprimand us with the harsh reality of paper crimes a police car siren drowning the cockiness of the jest. Subdued, Poobelles face dropped into the infant expression of fright. It was silly of us to get caught up in our game. But on that main road in the dark with the bolts of machinery holding frames of curiosity forever moving; we felt guily. Like there was some odious crime committed and tell tale paper snowflakes lay in the mud crying out to the passersby in their cars. Incriminating me the unreadable snippets of ink- words carved into a gravestone, they will not be my eternal reference. Words of a girl sharing with me little else than a name, transition and writing. Those words won't condemn me, I will expand and like the bin-bag slope of paper in the recycling unit, I will try to accumulate. Her words are not needed I can discipline my own.
Before I go to out to dinner with my family, to sit round a table and laugh with my brothers, blotting the vacuous expanse of circular booby-trapped thoughts. Before I leave I announce inwardly to my room, "She/they are gone we are unburdened." Still guilt hangs.
Recycling. I ponder is "I" everything to come. In a few years will another me be shredding once again? The natural fear of being gone, present me raising herself up in self-defense. No this template is good, expand.

BOOGIE

For Hayley.

2005-11-22T16:38:00.000Z

This is a poem I wrote for Hayley as a birthday present, I typed it up neatly on Tabby then drew a picture for the front.

Meaning of life.

A loop of events in a blur of obscurity,

Without meaning,

Nothing more than carbon set into functions,

Existence as a sequence watched from a distance,

No interaction.

A tie solid and filled with purpose,

Does not cause this spinning rock to falter,

But draws you out from seclusion of carbon casting.

Seen only as a small jestjure but alters,

Shifts (perspective) one being. Moulds their definition.

Look at these links they belong to no chain,

See how they originate from the chest,

Strung in a web,

We're all tangled together

Caught up in each other,

When you observe these threads,

you find meaning.

Deep rooted dependency.

Friendship Stability Love Sanity.

Hayley has this beautiful way of making everything simple. She uncomplicates things and forces them into sense. She is a stable and loyal, I rely on her to keep me sane. When my heads coiled up in thoughts which have their own logic she comes and shows how irrational they are. She puts up with my obsessions and will happily come round at strange times to calm me down. She went away for a week and without her there I got so messed up that I grabbed onto a thought which implanted itself firmly into what I saw around me and into my thinking. I was scared which meant I couldn't sleep. She leaves for a week then comes back to find me sleep deprived and weary of men in bowler hats. That alone shows how important she is.

When she's here there is sense, I am secure. In the petal of the middle rose on my tattoo there is an 'H'.

BOOGIE

*Pissing Google blogging system won't let me place spaces where I want them. Alright, alright I'll use stars. Happy now?

Sour sixteen skin soiled.

2005-11-19T20:52:00.000Z

Interesting last few days. I got new shoes and a tattoo. Im controlling manic evil laughter due to the fact I stopped myself placing a exclamation mark at the end of that sentence.
True Im hungover it hasn't been the best day ever. But I have a tattoo! Two of my friends Hayley and Kyle had theirs done first however its not peer pressure or anything stupid like that. I've always wanted one and mine isn't flash oh no its custom. I designed it myself. Actually its more like its designed itself. I was sitting in the living room watching Saturday morning TV. Suddenly a design literally flashed before my eyes. "That's it!!" I blurted out.
"What's is?" My mum answered suspiously.
It stayed and refused to disappear. Thoroughly fucked I drew it out, it twisted in creation differing slightly from the original vision. Distanced somehow from the whole thing I watched its paper birth then I found my way into the tattoo shop. The tattooists kind of take the piss but it actually helps you relax a bit and for some reason one of them kept calling me Slim. The man who did it was actually pretty nice despite tricking me into saying that my roses where cabbages. Dammit.
It was a bit disconcerting that the tattooist asked me if I was sure when I told him I wanted it above my ankle. I had numbing cream on but it didn't cover the whole area. Hayley informed me that it didn't hurt that much, yes the pain is bearable and easier to cope with than peircing but still it hurts! Of course my tattoo is more complicated bigger and in a more painful place than anyone I know (obvious bragging) which exsplains why it hurt more than some other people with tattoos told me it would. The numbing cream stopped the pain at first so I didn't feel anything, then he moved onto do the swirls. Such innocent swirls the cause of such pain. Hayley's hand had-well I thought- the life squeezed out of it.
Hayley: You are really weak.
Me: I always was bad at PE- shitshitshitshhiiiiitttt
Hayley: Stop biting your arm.
A particularly bad swirl and I would pull out my hair bite my thumb or arm. I had even messier hair and bite marks all over me by the time he finished. The fact the numbing cream wore off didn't amuse me much either.
The shoes tie (Aha ha tie shoe lace. Not that the shoes have laces) in due to the fact I have to wear them until my tattoo heals (another shoe pun) because my faithful booties will rub it. The rest of the day has been spent running up to people I know in town and telling them the news.
My Mum and older brother never need find out, I've confided in Pootle my little bro whom I trust. He gave me a disgraced look;
Pootle: As the closest thing to a adult in this situation I think I should say that you are silly.
That kid always had a annoying amount of sense.

BOOGIE.

Shadows smell of malice.

2005-11-06T21:44:00.000Z

I brought a leather jacket. It's similar to my brothers old one which is a tribute to his years as a teenage pot smoking, metal head. Except its got more buckles and it's smaller and lighter, still a bit big for me on the arms though because its a men's jacket.
We have a Shining thing going on. Im beginning to think that the person (it feels to me like a man) who owned it before me murdered someone, or was killed. There's a few places where its lost its colour and one small rip. Where did it earn those jacket scars? It's really giving me the creeps I can't have it in my bedroom while Im asleep encase whispers ideas into my ear. A leather jacket isn't like any other sort of clothing, it's sort of like a person in that it sucks up what happens around it and who wears it. Ask anyone who owns a proper leather jacket with buckles and zips, its a monument to certain times and events, even if you grow out of it you don't throw it away.
It gives me a feeling which I don't like. The smell brings on dajarvous and the ambiance of some of my childhood memories. It gives out the atmosphere of some of my dreams; dark with an air or urgency like living in those few moments before the world turns upside down. Lingering on the edge before you tumble completely over it. Since I brought it the presence of a man has been hanging around the parameters of my sub-conscience. The first time I met him was in a dream, I was looking out of the windows in the front room when he walked past. He slashed at the fabric of the dream itself. The blurring and merging quality of my dreams came to a halt when they met him. The pink and orange sky behind him, the swirling houses they seemed faint and pathetic compared to his figure. He wore a black cloak and a bowler hat both deeply black and unusually solid. Turning, the walls obstructing us dissolved and he looked right through; I knew he saw right into me.
Ever since I brought that jacket the man entered my conscience, slipping in behind the reel of thoughts like a shadow.
Perhaps I should get my Mother to bless it with that portable blessing kit she has (no joke). At the least it would make it smell of that nice woody oil she uses. Actually what am I saying? It's always a bad idea to include my Mother in my life for the main reason it gives me that same sickly sensation I get when I watch musicals. Fear makes you consider strange things.

BOOGIE

Boredom nibbles at the edges and goes hungry.

2005-10-28T22:36:00.000+01:00

Going back to school I've become slightly bored to kick the boredom where it hurts, or at least feebly punch it I started a quote book collecting quotes from what I hear around me. Here is a pick of the best:

"Noel Gallagher geekfish." - My lil bro Pootle describing the lead singer of Phantom Planets, who by the way are shit.

"Nature in all its horniness." - Wise words from Poobelle.

"What he takes your clothes off and sucks you?" - Poobelle replacing the word eat with suck on the subjects of sweets leading to a dramatic effect.

"When Kyle's friends turn against him then he'll come crawling back to us." - Poobelle.

"It's OK he'll do it again." - Poobelle on the subject of one of our mates fuckup boyfriend cheating on her.

"I thought he only kept his cat for company and pleasure." - GiGi on postman Pat.

"I lover yjoy so much Joy." - Sam slightly intoxicated.

"Joy you are a demented piss head who needs mental help." - Rosie, disturbingly enough one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me.

"Where is my one and only spoon."- My mum when we had the spoon shortage crisis.

"Your little private world is unhealthy."- Mum talking to me.

"Stickmen are unappreciated."- Naomi we generally leave her and her jokes to themselves.

"Don't drink. Take drugs instead they're much more fun."- My Dad ironically enough it was said on the day when he got drunk and then told me not to smoke straws.

"Observe children if you cut it up you cannot see its evil heart."- Me, its better if you don't ask.

"Im a great actor. When Im by myself."- Typical Poobelle.

"Or when you're sober pretending to be drunk and everyone becomes abusive." - Poobelle very random, nobody knows what the hell she was on about. Deep emotional scars there.

"In love with God but perfectly sane." Nay-Nay on Joan of arc.

". . . then I got out the shower took my pants off and I was like 'oh they're still dry!'"- Poobelle.

Finally a conversation between me and Mad written down near the back of my quote book:
"Me: I came out with a book.
Mad: I came out with two.
Me: Yeah but you were eating one and using the other to brush your hair.
Mad: No I wasn't.
Me: You're weird.
Mad: You can talk!
Me: You're the one who thinks fetus can read in the womb.
Mad: You started that!
Me: Yeah but I don't know any better, you should."

BOOGIE

Observations from behind a cling film like layer of floaties dots and the occasional appearance of electric blue stars.

2005-10-17T20:21:00.000+01:00

If you say spoon in a certain way it feels like you're giving birth to one.

Hugging GiGi is like hugging a reluctant sausage.

A few have asked whether I've hugged a sausage before, take it from me nothing beats that warm glow in your stomach and greasy stain on your top after a sausage hug. Not that Im saying GiGi leaves stains on my tops after I hug her. . .

I've hugged a few spoons too recently. Some people might say this is because Im emotionally deprived or horny or something. Some people however could be wrong. Some people could be smart arses. And some people could be wrong smart arses.

There's nothing quite as satisfying as waking up and discovering you've drooled all over your pillow in your sleep. The delightful smacking noise your mouth produces sticking back together when you close it after hours of being open is also very rewarding. Its worth waking up in the morning in the hope you might find your cheek covered in your own saliva, the rest of the day will no doubt be shit but those few seconds of before reality gradually comes into focus where you think, 'Maybe just maybe I've drooled on myself' are worth all the shit you have to endure today.

The re-appearance of minty blue gel toothpaste in my life after a geless void of tens years has improved my life vastly. Oh yay I have another reason to wake up in the morning, that happy ray of freshness always there to brighten up my day.

For a while there was a certain devious crow following me around squawking whenever one of my feet hit the ground whilst I was having a scenic ramble through my home city ("And on your right you will see yes more concrete pavement with a impressive array of used condoms; a sign of the cities magical quality at night and enchanting pools of spit. One of the many attractions in this great city Im sure you'll agree along with the famous photograph opportunities of the pervert icecream man and of course the occasional lost postman."). I began to wonder about my baseball booties and considered taking them back to the shop and demanding a refund on the basis they kept squawking whenever I walked home from school.

Head of the tourist board at the abyss has recently released this statement in a bid to increase tourism, " The views of the abyss this time of year are its best. Miles upon miles of endless black sky are a breath of stale air. Come rent a room now its the peak of the season and this is when we have most of our customers."
Yeah I am going to run with the abyss joke for a while longer it's what minty blue gel toothpaste is to my mornings.

I am unbelievably mentally stable right now.

BOOGIE

For the love of Tabby.

2005-10-08T22:58:00.000+01:00

Last night I was up until one in the morning doing normal Friday night things- writing reading and listening to the punk rock show on Kerrang 105.2. Its fair to say that I was up in the middle of the night due to how worked up I was. To cut a long story short I've been pretty out of it lately, more out of it than usual. I have no idea why, it's just the way things are. Somewhere along the way in those slightly erm, yellow* hours the image of a typewriter presented itself before me. Rising (that's hard enough in itself Im not doing any fucking shining) in the morning the image remained like ink impressed on paper.
It stayed and jumped out of my mouth in the form of, "I want a typewriter." My Mother produced her ancient one, I had no idea of its existence. The machine is beautiful and has a moorish smell. Of course Tabby and I bonded, the clicking noise as you slam the letters is immensely satisfying, the ping at the end of a line friendly and as Poobelle would say, "soothing to the heart." Its very physical punching the letters it seems to push out more than words, possibly aggression? In fact typewriting I've observed is a lot like masturbating. Not that Im talking form experience here. Look at the comparisons though; you do it in your room all alone, it can get kind of addictive, you feel a little bit dirty (ink), other people who don't do it don't understand it and if you tell people how obsessed you are about it they give you weird looks. Plus if you do it for a loooongggg time fuck does your arm hurt.
I have noticed that our household has a PC, its not the same. It something about being in my room with something that belongs to me, something that no one can delete easily. Solid and reliable. Tabby is mine.
Im worried the Tabbys' ribbon will run out. I'd cry if I couldn't get a new one, please if you know where I can get some please tell me.

BOOGIE

*Refer to Joy's ultimate guide to clouds for explanation.

Recent contemplations.

2005-09-25T17:31:00.000+01:00

The reason I don't believe in ghosts is hospitals. If ghosts really existed hospitals- places which have thousand of deaths occurring in them a year, would have tons of ghosts to match. Strangely enough I can't think of any haunted hospitals. The only places which seem to acquire ghosts are old mansions and castles where a select number of people have died. Apparently only the aristocracy can afford to have ghosts.

You can tell you're becoming a recluse when you say good night to the radio. Trust me I know.

My auntie's dead but she still manages to phone now and again.

My motto for life: "I know its going to make me throw up but I'll do it anyway." Times that by ten to get a picture of lasts nights antics.

You can tell you're a stoner when you rate household objects out of ten for their "useability".

Is it only me who gets the cheesiest pop songs in my head when I'm sick?

After a brief period (or lack of one) of residenting in limbo I can safely say I much rather prefer the abyss. The view is way better and don't get me started on room service. . .

BOOGIE

"Don't stop me now Im having such a good time Im having a (crap leavers) ball." For fucks sake shut up.

2005-09-21T15:07:00.000+01:00

Forever the optimist I had been saying for months how crap the leavers ball would be. Not that I wouldn't go or anything, its a once in a lifetime occurrence. I arrived at the event with my levers ball date Sam who looked really cool in this black pixie dress. We're both drunk from drinking vodka and Budweiser in Sams' room earlier. I decided that if I was going down I was gunna take a load of inanimate objects with me.
Here is a list of things I have no regret in doing:

Stealing cutlary from the Allesley hotel.
Kissing everyone to blot my lipstick.
Stealing all the 'Do not flush tampons down the toilet use the bins provided' stickers from the bathroom.
Kicking the marble sink with my high heels and cracking it.
Being physically dragged out of the bathroom by my friends after doing the above.
Re-arranging the funiture.
Getting pissed.
Breaking out of the hotel for freedom with Sam to run down the road and pick flowers.
Calling everyone cunts.
Lap dancing GiGi.
Putting my feet up on the table and flashing everyone.
Eating confetti.
Spilling cutlary everywhere.
Doing handstands in the lobby.
Shoving leaflets down my bra.
Spending a fair part of the evening talking to Rosie under a table.
Almost destroying the photographers background by stumbling during a group shot.
Scawling "This sucks" on my arm in biro.
Ignoring any annoying patronizing comments E.G, "OOhhhhhhhh Joy you're wearing a DRESS with heels!!" No you don't say, so is everybody else in this hotel-except maaaaaaaybe one or two of the boys- I must say your powers of observation astound me.

I do admit to regretting the following:

Attacking a helpless plant. Poor thing never stood a chance
Getting everyone's genders mixed up.
Drinking other peoples drinks.
Dancing like a stripper. The shame.
Not drinking more.
Drinking questionable Barcardi breezer. Sam knows what Im on about.
Calling everyone cunts.
Giving Rosie an awareness talk about eyes, in retrospect deeply embarrassing.

Basically it was a pretty boring evening. It was one of those 'oh I love my year ain't they just the best' kind of balls and every one was hugging and dancing and sucking up to each other. Im sorry but, blughh. They played 'our years' songs' which has to be the most shitest collection of music known to humanity. The height of shitness being Queens 'Mr supersonic' or whatever the fuck its called. Queen fucking suck. Actually while Im on the subject of crap what the hell was with the buffet table? I mean I payed £15 pounds for no vegetarian options and KEESH. Seriously KEESH.What's wrong with these people?

BOOGIE

* After note: Hayley looked really pretty in her ickle pink dress and make-up which I did. Naomi had the most coolest dress there, very originall totally not the standard satin bridesmaid trash. My little baby Kyle looked all grown up in his tux, they grow up so fast.

Im sorry but keesh? As Sam would say "WHO HAS KEESH AT A FUCKING BUFFET?!!!" What do they really take us for? We should of hunted the leavers ball committeee down and force fed them the left over keesh. There was a lot of left over keesh I assure you.

Leaving the shithole.*

2005-09-16T22:28:00.000+01:00

As soon as my mum wakes me up Im out of bed. I don't bother with food, each mouthful sinks to my stomach in such a heavy fashion my body keeps threatening to make it resurface. Before I head out the door I carefully manova the heavy bag from my room to the door. Nothing falls out, nothing makes suspicious noises.
The air outside is so sharp that it cuts my throat. The hill leading up to Hayleys' is a fucking pain to climb, air floods into my lungs full of needles. When I reach the top Im in the same state I am every time I climb that damn hill. Out of breath sweaty and desperate for a drink. The bag nudges against my leg with each footstep, each nudge like a hint or reminder. A bag stuffed to the brim with things Im rather found of; baseball boots and booze. After that hill I defiantly deserve a drink.
Hayley opens the door to find me pacing the bag swinging at my ankles, nipping them making me pace demanding attension.

We walk to school. Poobelle and I find ourselves too edgy to wait for GiGi. We walk to school together, the alcohol leaks into my right arm numbing nerves. The booze cloud wraps itself around me and nicotine coloured wisps rest lightly infront of my eyes.

Hayley adds vodka to ribeana which we share on the way to school. Slashes of pain scrape against my stomach lining. "Hayley my stomach feels like its splitting. I shouldn't have drank everything so fast."

One can of larger is what I have left in my bag my stomach protests painfully- I leave it closed in a bin. The rest of the way to school I groan and clutch my stomach.

When we reach school the booze hits me and storms in blood I am a mini hurricane. Trapped in a spiral of growing excitement, alcohol storming through me shaking my limbs ever so slightly. The fire in my belly makes me feel like any minute I could wheel from excitement into destruction.

Poobelle and I burst into 2 door. We rush past some of out friends, I pat Rosie's head more hard than I intend to. We run down the corridor to the loos to add more vodka to the ribeana. "So long suckers" is still scrawled across the cubicle door where I left it I notice this with satisfaction.

Our friends notice instantly we're pissed when we join them, they try and make me walk in a straight line-inevitably I sway to the side. They smell the vodka in the ribeana Poobelle's drinking. We discover GiGi isn't pleased for leaving her to walk by her self and she's defiantly not happy at our drunk apologies filled with laughter.

Our last ever registration, its a blessing that the powers out so its dark. Nobody will notice us. Mr Lloyd our form tutor is out of the room for most of registration. I try to control the booze spreading warmth up my belly, I control every word carefully but they still sound louder and harsher than normal.

Poobelle takes the orange plastic thing she found on the floor from her pocket. She christens it the orange bean and continues to make it talk to me and produce "aawwwwooooorrrr" noises. She bends it in half imitating a mouth, "aaawwwooorrr I love you Joy give me a kiss. Kiss me kiss me you know you want to aawwwooorrrr." We both laugh. Me in a whisper chuckle that folds me over on to the desk. It dawns on me the class is completely silent and all eyes are turned on us. From the back of the class room somebody says, "They're pissed." Poobelle doesn't seem to notice but I tell her shush, it doesn't stop me laughing though.

The last ever assembly is for awards, not serious awards. Awards for things like the best hair. Poobelle and I sit next to each other, my legs are completely numb and the noise and shouts coming form my fellow pupils annoy me. Every time a teacher mentions the name of someone in my year the hall is filled with cheers or occasionally boos. This is infuriating the whole thing would be ten times quicker if everyone would stop fucking screaming whenever they hear the name of someone they know. I shout this out and Poobelle punches me on the arm. Not realizing she's punching me for swearing I punch her back. The rest of the assembly's is spent mainly punching each other, I swear lots without noticing. Poobelle keeps punching. I punch back.

Afterwards we walk home with people we don't know they give us strange looks but don't complain. I sing loudly and Hayley talks to random people. I catch sight of the bin where I left my larger. It's such a waste I think, I stand by the bin and wait for 'our new friends' to walk past us. "Don't mind me." I say, "Im just innocently standin' next to this bin. Nothin' weird going on." Then I tumble the larger out of the bin back into my bag. Poobelle thinks this is hilarious and trys to shout out what I've done.

On the bus into town we overhear some girls talking about a boy who used to be in my year. This reminds me of the best fake absent note award in assembly. This boy not being very smart handed in this:

Daneil has been off school because I have been sick.

Signed: Daneil.

Poobelle and I giggle at the memory. The bus stops and I get up, somehow in the process of standing up I find myself sprawled out across the isle with my face embedded in a seat.

We meet Naomi and Kyle in town and go to central six burger king. I've always liked that burger king (its very desolate and has lots of ghosts, although that's a different story altogether . . .). Firmly I walk up to the desk, place my hands paralelle to each other, spread out my fingers and say, "I WANT THE ONE WITH CHEESE!"

The burger king employee finds this vaguely amusing and shoots me a 'I can tell you're drunk' look.

A brief argument with my friends over whether I want fries or not (I don't but they keep telling me I do) follows, I get very confused and wave my hands around loads to make up for lack of words. When we sit down to eat (turns out I did want fries and I regret not ordering them) only then do I sober up.

It was a funny day that Im glad was shared with my best friend Poobelle.

BOOGIE

*Yes I do realize that if my school is the shithole and I've left it technically that makes me shit, who cares. Stop being pedantic.

Katie's dilemma.

2005-09-13T21:07:00.000+01:00

AAAHHHHHHH nostalgia. Every so often one of my friends will wistfully say "Do you remember drama in year nine?" Our eyes simultaneously glaze over and for a brief few seconds we stare into the distance. Then we laugh. It was a legendry lesson. Performances would be split over two weeks- one week to write a script, the next to practice and perform to the rest of the group. The first week I would get stuck into writing the script whilst my friends found ways of amusing themselves. Most often Kyle and Louise, who where going out back in those old days, would have a "lovers tiff" which was very entertaining for the rest of us and we would sit watching them argue, asking each other for pop corn to make the whole fight a little more comfortable from our spectator seats. Roxanne would pretend to ignore the surrounding madness whilst Hayley Sam and Naomi would talk or add witty comments to Kyle and Louise's argument. The next week the script finished by me, was handed back to us and we would practice. This was hilarious as people would start freestyling and adding in lines. Script arguments sometimes became real arguments and once I recall there was a tantrum over what Rachel from friends reaction would be in the scene we where practicing. Fucking luvvies.
The script I am about to copy out from my diary at the time is the infamous script the one that when we practiced it together sparwned immortal quotes. This script provoked me to make some dangerous chest movements creating a classic memory.

Our soap opera: Katies dilemma.

Starring:
Kyle -Fred
Louise- Tracey- Kates mate
Naomi- Bar fly
Joy (me)-Kate the bar maid
Hayley- Piper the bar maid
Roxanne- Lisa- Kates best friend
Sam- Drunk doctor

[I will add in my own comments about the events which happened during certain lines in red writing. Stage directions are in brackets. Not that Im patranizing you or anything.]

Scene one
(Kate is at a shift at the pub. Lisa is talking to her while she is serving. Piper is working in the background and Naomi is drinking.)

Kate (pours drink): You wanna drink?
Lisa: No tah
(Kate drinks it)
(The scene focuses on the bar fly and piper the bar maid.)
Bar fly: Here lady get me another drink I . . .
Piper: No sir, haven't you had enough?
Bar fly: No gimmie another!!
Piper: OK no need to shout.
(Tracey enters Kate is drinking still)
Tracey: One pint please.
(Kate pours drink and slams it on the table)
Lisa: You've drank a lot tonight
Kate: So what??!!
Tracey: We're worried that's all
Kate (sitting down): Its Fred he's having an affair this time I swear it's over
Tracey: With who?
Kate (starting to cry): Margret
Tracey: Ahhhhhhh bless you. It'll blow over.
(Scene moves to Bar fly and drunk doctor sitting next to each other.)
Drunk doctor: When did you realize you were a man? [ This wasn't in the original script Sam said it on spur of the during practice. We thought it was so funny and random we kept it in. This is a quote still in our circulation today.]
(They carry on talking but you can't hear them. Attension moves back to Kate and co. Fred enters pub)
Kate: IT'S YOU NNOOOOOOOO! GET OUT! NOW!
Fred: What have I done?
Kate: 'Ere I saw you goin' with that slapper down the road.
Fred: she's better than you [At this point in the rehearsals me and Kyle started an actual free style argument as our characters. My friends accompanied each insult with oohhhhhs and aaahhhhs]
Kate (shoving bust forward): At least I'M not made out plastic. [Another unforgettable line. When we were rehearsing and I thrust my bosoms forward the button pinged of my shirt opening to revel my not so plastic boobs. We were in hysterics. No-one stopped laughing for ten minutes.]
Kyle: I don't have to pay her and your my wife!
Kate(Throws bottle at Fred):AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tracey: What have you done?!
(Everyone gasps as Fred hits the floor)
Drunk Doctor: Move aside people Im a doctor. . .er. . . g-get me an-nother-rrr pinttt. [Added on impulse]
THE END

Good times, good times.

BOOGIE

Angel lips.

2005-08-30T15:21:00.000+01:00

Just reading this is probably a mortal sin. Not really Im Kidding.

The small impersonal room was bare of anything remotely lively. The potted plant had become desperately thirsty and was shriveled into a twisted shape like a long fingered hand. The walls where a neutral beige. Machinery hummed morbidly.
Doras eyes where closed, but she could still see. Her lined lids did not flicker as she stared at the room she lay in. Through a large window she could look out into the corridor and see her family. They where holding each other tightly like at any moment one of them might disintegrate into dust. Their faces where stripped of colour. A lady in a white coat seemed to be explaining something to them. Occasionally one of them would glance through the window and stare at her, buds of tears distorting their vision.
Dora knew she was dying. She felt no pain. The pain that had for such a long time been coursing through her bones didn't belong to her anymore. She was dying alone. Her family where outside in the hallway. Inside her fear swelled up, the fear of leaving the world with no one to comfort her, no one to guide her through what was happening. She wouldn't have the chance of holding one last time her achievements the love she had collected the connection she had to this earth. The love she had put out into the world the suffering she had gone through amounted to nothing. She was dying alone.
Helplessly she stared at the strip flouesent light on the ceiling above her. Its oblong shape imprinted itself onto her weary vision. She looked at the off white ceiling tiles feeling tears run down her cheeks and onto her pillow, they did not soak the fabric as her tears had done many times before. Then from strip lighting begin to become more bright. Dora found that she could not tear her eyes from it, the light seemed to swell and fill the room until there was nothing except hot white light. From the light angels appeared. Dora saw them flow around her bed slipping past each other and resting their pure hands on her until her body was completely covered. Their robes brushed past her face and swirled in the air above her. Gently they combed her tangled white hair with their fingers. They licked her eyelids their saliva sealing them and Dora knew there would be no more tears. She felt lips kissing her lined face, they did not mind kissing Doras worn out form. The kisses where soft and light and the lips which gave them glowed. With each kiss Dora felt this glow join with her some how. As more glow entwined itself in her she felt herself being drawn to them. She was coming out of her body in a smooth stream from her belly button. Dora felt more of her became separated. It was similar she imagined to feeling like pulling two objects that have been stuck together apart. The glue in between forms strands between the objects. Then slowly the strands break and you peel the two objects from each other. The part of her which had been freed floated in the air loose and weightless.
They took her hands and she felt herself ascending, she saw her family drift away from her and she wanted to leave them with something. The further into the light she got the more thoughts of her family receded from her.
"I see-" Dora gasped. The sound travailed out through the open doorway into the hallway. The only thing her family heard was a gasp. Straight away they ran into the room where their beloved lay.
The angels carried Dora, she had wanted to tell her family more. How beautiful they where how the pain was gone but it did not seem to matter anymore.
The machine toned out death. The body that had carried Dora had its mouth frozen open in wonder. They could not ask her why she was not there anymore.

BOOGIE

And the salmons saved me from doom.

2005-08-25T14:32:00.000+01:00

Nah I didn't worry about my GSCE results. Mostly because I'd convinced myself I was destined to fail. Lately as well something may have happened which showed me that these grades aren't forever you can change them. In the bigger picture these grades are only a small bit of my life. They aren't eternal you won't carry them to your grave.
What a surprise I got when I opened the sheet of paper! Here's my grades:
Maths: E - Yep Im shit at maths. There's no way in a million years I could pass that test. Numbers and I aren't on friendly-ask them round for tea and biscuits-terms.
Media studies: C
English A Teir H: B
English Literature: B
Science: C C - Science is worth two grades. Pretty good huh? Considering that I had to learn in four weeks what I should of learnt over three years. That's a lot of missed science, I have excuses though! Like erm there was lots of lessons when I was stoned the first year. The second year I kept getting sick. And the third year I sat next to Kyle who's conversations are far more interesting than science.
Religious Studies: B- Im very pleased with this. I thought I would fail this for sure. In the test I ended up ranting because they provoked me with a feministic type question. The lure of the question was too much, I couldn't resist ranting.
Art: C - Fuck it I worked hard in Art. Compared to everyone else im my class Im enormously slow when it comes to painting mostly because Im picky I have to mix each colour until its how I see it in my head. A lot of my work therefore I didn't complete. Added on to that fact is Ms Cook is a bitch and hates my guts. Still a pass, Im pleased with it.
Geography: C - How the hell did that happen? Dear Bob I fucked up that test. Man am I grateful to salmon farming. Salmon farming saved me , the luck of getting a high marks question on it. Don't ask about how I know loads about salmon farming I just do ok?!

BOOGIE

A collection of caught fleeting thoughts.

2005-08-25T13:55:00.000+01:00

How come if chickens have breasts they don't breast feed?

When Rosie confided in me that she thought she had immaculate conception I really regret telling her that she was carrying the anti-Christ. Also I regret telling her she could of got up the duff by sitting on one of those chairs at school which people draw tipex penises on. Yeah it kept me amused for weeks but she must have been deeply worried about carrying the anti-Christ. Im sorry now I realize that if someone had said that to me I would have probably started believing it and I do not even want to think about what I could of ended up doing. Poor Rosie she must have been terrified.

If you could be a hooker that doesn't fuck anyone is it still a mortal sin?

It's true my sense of humor is getting more sick. A conversation I had two weeks ago with my boyfriend Adam brought this to my attention:
Me:2pac's been dead a while yet he still releases singles. Strange huh?
Adam: Yeah didn't kids like him because he never swore and stuff?
Me: I dunno.
Adam: Still releases singles though.
Me: Im sure he doesn't mind he's dead!
[I started to laugh at this, it's funny 'cause its true.]
Me: Sorry that's sick.
Adam: Yeah. He got shot in the face.
[This caused me to laugh really hard, Adam looked a bit scared.]
Me: Sorry I know that's sick . . . . HA HA HA HA. . . .
Adam (trying to regain a normal conversation): His poor family though they wouldn't recognize him.
[I almost pass out laughing at this point.]
Adam:What?
Me: Yeah they'd have tons of trouble at the family reunion.
At least I know that its wrong to still be laughing at it a fortnight later. If you think that's sick when my brother Mad was a teenager him and his mates had a party when Freddie Mercury died. In his defense he was young and honestly . . . I don't blame him.

Its not normal to have private jokes with your brain is it? And its not normal to laugh at them at random times is it?

BOOGIE

Account of the lepricon incident- minus comedy props.

2005-08-23T22:49:00.000+01:00

Coventry is where I have lived my entire life and let me tell you something this place ain't half weird. Im not sure quite what it is but the strangest things seem to happen here. Is it the people themselves; are we coventrians a few shots short of a piss up? Or is it this concrete landscape sending us over the edges of our sanity (and buildings roofs as the case may be)?
Whenever I venture out into this city I catch people doing random "crazy" acts that cause you to look back over your shoulder and think "did I really see that?"
One such incident was when I meet a lepricon.
It was early in the morning and I had started my journey to school. I had hardly made much progress in my travels when I came across an old man. He was quite short in height with a face so wrinkled that the wrinkles replaced the features in his face, great lines forming holes for his eyes and mouth. The slits revealing his eyes showed they had no colour. They where black. Automatically I tried to avoid him, my life has a engraved a weariness of old men into me. He stopped in the middle of the pavement and the wrinkles spread apart to accommodate a grin. He didn't seem to look directly at me still he seemed to want to tell me something. The itching in my legs when I saw his smile pushed them forwards at a faster pace than I was already going.
He opened his mouth. Shit he's talking to me.
Lepricon: I bet you haven't seen the rainbow deary.
(After telling my friends this story they asked if he had an Irish accent. My answer to that is this: I haven't a clue. He had a old accent. You know the accent old people have like the creaking of a squeaky door lying underneath their own voice.)
Snapping my head around I saw over the pebble dashed house lined down the hill; a rainbow swept across the sky. It was if it had suddenly appeared, the glint in the old mans black eyes confirmed it.
With a flash I was off, the burning energy in my legs not letting me stay any longer. Once again I turned my head as I sped off. He was still there facing the rainbow head lifted. His coat; it was a dark mossy green.
He truly was a lepricon.
Later after I re-told this story to various people. People a few times implied that this lepricon was infact a figment of my imagination. I can honestly say that he was not. Of course my brain a few times when replaying the experience has added a pipe and Sherlock Holmes hat, that doesn't not mean however that this lepricon does not exist. And if you're wondering I did mentally remove the pipe and Sherlock Holmes hat and place them in the trash bin in my brain.
This lepricon is one of the many strange events to be witnessed in this city. Maybe there is something in the water and not just mind altering drugs. Maybe the essence of this city in its fucked up glory drips from the taps and works its way around our conventrian bodies.

BOOGIE

Owner of the anorexic blog

2005-08-03T12:01:00.000+01:00

We have down sized people. My farza recently asked to read one of my short stories and I said yes. He then asked to put it on his blog which is hosted by my brothers site. Mad hadn't read it due to being in hospital which I mentioned before. This mourning he came into my room and declared that he had read 'Burnt Sienna'. He said he thought it was good and some bits where excellent especially for my age. Unfortunately for me I has figured out I have a blog and has made it his duty to read it. Now I really can't have that. My blog is read by my friends and has secrets which my friends know but my brother mustn't. EVER! Almost every entry I have written is secure in the loving arms of google's dashboard.
Mad if you read this (he threatened to search google until he came upon it) you have killed my blog.

BOOGIE

Summer of sadness?

2005-07-27T22:47:00.000+01:00

This summer has been bad so far. They say that troubles come in threes but tons of bad things kept happening to my family and friends in one big blow.
Here is a list of this summers troubles:

My little bro Pootle got beaten up and had massive bruises on his arms. The school I might add did fuck all about this.
My big bro Mad on the same day Pootle got beaten up fell of his bike and fractured one side of his pelvis and crushed the other side.
Susie the Suzuki (his bike) went to biker heaven.
A family friend died in a biking accerdent.
Sam my wife has been having a tough time lately I won't go into detail but she feels rough bless her.
The horrible attacks on London which have shocked and saddened everyone.

Lots of bad things seem determined to hurt my family and friends. To invading nastiness I say this- fuck you, leave the people I love and care for alone!

Number of delusions encountered so far this summer: Two - they weren't nearly as long or as scary as last summers. Not that Im complaining, at least it doesn't mean Im locking myself in the bathroom till five in the morning again.

Here's a list of things despite these troubles I am thankful for:

Mad wasn't more seriously hurt.
I have a friend like Sam.
I have a really nice boyfriend called Adam. Sorry gushing tee hee.
Im having the gals over this Saturday for a girlie sleepover, be afraid Mad be very afraid!

Hopefully the bad stuff will keep away from my family and friends from now on, hopefully saying that won't tempt fate. And hopefully saying I have a nice boyfriend won't tempt fate either! Im not suspicious and I don't believe in fate its only that Im slightly mentally unstable. Basically I can't count my blessings without saying something to make fate or whoever realize that I know that these blessings are easily taken away.

BOOGIE

One of the noble deeds done by Sam my ginger knight.

2005-07-26T21:38:00.001+01:00

I owe Sam a lot. Sam is one of the few people I actually do trust. An event that happened a while ago not only highlighted the amount of trust I have in her but also how lucky I am to be friends with her.
It was a Friday afternoon I recall, and thoughout week I had the longing to get pissed. It just so happens that this Friday was going to be one spent in Rosie's attic, with a rather large amount of alcohol. At the beginning of the evening (not all of us had arrived then) most of my friends went down to the chippie for some grub. It was at this point when I realized that I was going to be left with only two other people in a room full of booze. I thought the only way to fight the inevitable was to warn Kyle and Rosie; " Can you guys please watch me because I don't trust myself with all this booze."
It was completely in vain. A couple of minutes and red barcardi breezers later and Kyle in all his wisdom was giving me a "funny" bottle of wine to chuck down the loo. You think Kyle would know me better and realise that firstly that I have no shame, secondly I consider it alcohol abuse to waste booze. Instead of throwing the "funny" wine down the toilet I sat on the loo with my pants round my ankles singing and drank the wine.
After emerging from the loo- and flashing Hayley as she came back with everyone from the chippie- everything is, well, a blank. In my version of the evening the only booze which passed my lips was two red barcardi breezers and that "funny" wine. According to my friends what I drank was this; ten barcardi breezers, a bottle of wine, this spirit stuff which you're not surpost to drink straight -but I did, several cans of larger, plus more alcho pops which Sam brought.
After my few blank hours I remember sittingby the hatch in the floor of Rosie's attic. I had a vague feeling something was wrong, then it hit me. I couldn't breathe. In response to this I started to hyperventalate.
Sam: Joy are you hyperventalating?
Me: No! Erm . . . . I feel sick.
Next thing I know Sinead and Sam where holding a morrisons bag in front of me and a blissful bright red stream was flowing out of my mouth.
This is what my brain was thinking: Oh that bright red stream is new I wonder where that's coming from. This is fun WEEEEEEEE!
This is what my arms where thinking: Man we're tired who gave us this dumb old bag anyway?? Lets have a break.
This is what Sinead and Sam said when my arms where having a break: NNNNNNNNNNNNNOOO!!!!
I will now give a one word to describe what happened next: SPLAT!
After that I needed to be cleaned. Sinead who I haven't liked for a while and who I really don't trust one bit decided this was her job.
Sinead: Come on Joy take your top off.
Me: NO!!
Sinead: COME ON Joy you can trust me.
Me: NO!!
This cotinued for several minutes. Then Sam my knight in shining gold fish armor came to rescue me. She handled the situation perfectly getting rid of the first problem immediedatly,the problem being Sinead. She then locked us into the bath room for some privacy and undressed me down to my underwear. She ran the shower and automatically I got in it. "Wash your face." Sam instructed like a mother, so I did. It dawned on me that I was in the shower with my underwear on, I found this very complexing and promptly got out. Sam then turned her back whilst I undressed completely into some clean PJs. This took quite a while, I managed to get naked very easily but found getting dressed again difficult. This was mostly because I forgot what I was surpost to be doing. There I was confused, butt naked, trying to get dressed. I banged my head off the door but eventually made it into Rosie's PJs.
What would I have done with out Sams kindness? I dread to think, she looked after me that night even though she was feeling bad herself. Sam has always looked after me and been a excellent friend, without her Im not sure where I would be. Sam you rock, thank you for looking after me that night!

BOOGIE

P.S If you're wondering I did get a fright next morning when I woke up in someone else's PJs with no underwear on.

Happiness! And not a manic depressive high.

2005-07-21T15:57:00.000+01:00

I feel wonderful. Sleep, for once came easily to me last night. I have only been awake for four hours and its four in the afternoon.
I had the most beautiful dreams last night, in one I had this glowing sensation inside of me like every part of me was radiant and when I woke up it stayed with me. Its like I have been drinking loads of liquid stars and they have covered my insides with a layer of glowing warmth.
In my head I was comparing how wonderful today is to what it is like at school.
When Im at school I am dead.
Someone scrapes life out of me and leaves nothing but stale air and dust. For several weeks I have been free of school and its like Im regaining what leaves me whenever I enter those dark, beige carpeted corridor's. For some reason I have a notion my brain is extending out long strands and testing what's around it. You learn when you're out of school as well.
Bad thoughts I've had in the past don't even make sense now, whereas before they came with their own sort of logic that twisted the mind cutting it off from its surroundings. The person that carried those thoughts around with them seems only like an old black cloud, I can imagine swimming though water and kicking that black cloud away from my body. Until I am left in a clear sea floating and free.
With out that black cloud the warm water would not be as amazing and refreshing. Because of this I am going to savor today's radiance until it leaves me. Today I am happy and I would not appreciate it with out the darkness that sometimes worms its way into my life and dreams.
I'd like this to be a record to say that when you catch something wonderful if only for a brief moment; the memory will come back to you when you have sunk into sadness; like your own personal black pool and it will be line into the future. A shining white line of hope.

BOOGIE

Bathroom wall blues.

2005-05-22T00:13:00.000+01:00

You know I spend a lot of time in the bathroom. It must be a genetic mutation, my fartza was a hippy but I like bathing. Whilst lying in a boiling hot tub I talk sing and laugh hysterically to myself. Afterwards when I join my family in the living room a silence descends and Mum Mad and Pootle, my two brothers stare at me. If this happens it means they have over heard me talking to myself. When I ask if they have Mad gives a 'witty' reply along the lines of, "The whole street heard you."
My bathtime conversations with myself are now a family joke, Mad described the situation to my farza as, "You walk past the bath room when Boogie's in it and all you can hear is: mutter mutter tee hee hee la la la la."
Its not a surprise that my audience, the bathroom walls object to some of the songs the juke box in my brain chooses to loop. Up late on Friday I ran myself the usual scolding hot bath and whilst I waited I sat naked on the loo singing Bikini kills "I like fucking" a frequent number on the bathroom playlist. Half way through the much repeated song the tiled walls decided to challenge my choice of tune.
Immediately sparks began to fly of the walls, stars flashing yellow and black. They curved slightly as they slowly fell onto the carpet. More stars replaced the ones that had already fallen to the floor, lots of these minute stars where braking out from the mold lined, pink flowered tiles. I found this rather disturbing and after blinking and rubbing my eyes to get rid of them I realized they wouldn't go away. Then I did what any normal mentally stable person would do in this situation, I sat on the toilet whimpering until they finally disappeared. I continued with my bath but not a single Bikini Kill line passed my lips.
The walls in my bathroom have plently of right to protest, I do sing that song way to much and do not blame them in the slightest of getting bored of it. I will now extend the playlist of songs that I know the words to, to give a nice variety of music for my changing audience.
Walls cannot live on Bikini Kill alone.

BOOGIE

* Disclaimer: No illegal substances where used in the making of this blog. Scary huh?!

The day death wanted a piggy back.

2005-05-01T22:45:00.001+01:00

Now and again I seem to dig my nails into something and not let go. Eventually it spirals out of control until there is nothing else except for that thing. The thing will grow gain breath leading to a sort of climax.
Recently my life started to flash before my eyes, throwing up images, faces from the past I didn't realize I'd saved. The obvious explanation was I was dying. That could be the only logical reason. The day that I thought I would die the morning brought the heavy weight of death on me and a very British grey sky to match. I carried death around with me all day. Fucking hell death weighs a ton.
Eventually I came to terms with it and promptly did a lot of things to fill my last day on this earth I've got so used to. I can't fully remember what most of those things were except for walking the dog with the wind whipping my hair around my face.
Going over my funeral in my mind it occurred to me I ought to warn someone that I was unexpectedly going to pop my clogs. A few minutes later I was on the PC clicking the send button; an email telling Sam "HELP IM GOING TO DIE . . . .SOON!" lay innocently in her inbox.
Then death decided to give me a break and by the evening I'd almost forgotten about my impending death. Later when I came online for my regular evening chat with Sam I found I'd left her in a worried suspense. At first I was completely baffled at what she was going on about. Then after she'd kindly reminded me I explained the whole thing to her. Sam wasn't freaked out not even slightly. It turns out she's been through similar experiences and after talking it through with her I felt much better. Once again Sam managed to keep me grounded.
Another thing I sank my claws into recently was the ambition to become a nun, that however is a different story. . . .

BOOGIE

Perfume bottles.

2005-04-16T23:37:00.001+01:00

There are is one large window taking up the entire of the wall. It is made up of three different panes each pane divided by white plastic. Outside the window a storm is raging, a cherry tree sways in the wind almost peacefully. The sky is pink becoming a turquoise where the window pane cuts away your vision. The blossoms on the cherry tree are in bloom and so excessively big that the thin, ash black branches look out of proportion.
On the window frame that holds the view to this storm are perfume bottles, lined up next to each other. Each one a unique design, expensive glass bottles with jewels resting on their lids; slender tinted plastic bottles, small round containers with images of events and places calved lovingly into their sides. Some bottles have labels pasted over them; bright labels flaunting bold text that hides the bottles content. Other bottles are completely translucent they stand tall up against the glass, cutting into the picture behind them.
Inside each bottle you can see a similar thing, a whirl of changing colors and shapes constantly adapting and striving, the same movement runs in all the bottles. Even the ones with the insides hidden by labels, you can tell its in there twisting and turning.
The bottles emit an over powering smell. The smell in the room is like childhood, like a home you've never been to. Familiar but your not sure why. You don't know its origin, where it belongs in memory. It makes your insides yearn and twist like the perfumes in the bottles. Its the most smell that it makes you want to laugh but at the same time it spills out your throat making you want to howl. It makes you want to tear you hair out and also sing until you are empty. Every time a breath is taken in, all these things hit you together and you reel, crushed by so many sensations. Then sink slowly to the floor.
When you raise your head light is bleeding into the room through the window. The beams become brighter and whiter until they penetrate the perfume bottles. When the light travels through them it changes color.
Dazzled from lights and smell, you stand back and look at the floor where the beams have rested. On the floor is a spectrum of colors mixing and mingling, there are the darkest bleakest shades next to soft tones. They spill into each other and make new colors.
You stare down at the floor, the pattern spreads closer to your feet. You recognize it but you can't understand why, although you keep on desperately trying. Colors are now invading your senses along with the smell. Happiness and sadness spill into each other and mix in your insides.

BOOGIE

Don't leave me hanging on the telephone- unless you actually want me to start spouting bullshit.

2005-04-16T14:48:00.000+01:00

Its usually a bad sign when you start a phone conversation with "Who the hell is this?!" to the person you are calling, and to the person you expected to pick up the phone. I have no memory of saying this but apparently I did, those very words plopped from my mouth into the receiver traveling in wires and circuits to a male ear.
Fridays equal double P.E. and going round to your friends house after school to call a guy you like, even though you hate telephone conversations.
When I sat in Hayleys purple room on her double bed staring at the phone I backed out. I stared at the phone holding the only media homework that I've never lost even once. A number neatly printed on the back of homework instructions.
"No. I can't do it." I said. Two pairs of eyes looked at me expectantly. Then at each other.
A snatch was made for the folded piece of paper, Hayley called out numbers whilst GiGi dialed. Frantically I grabbed at the paper, Hayley held it out of attempts to reclaim it. She got off the bed, standing in the grapes with her back towards me. The phone was shoved into my hand and I heard a dialing tone.
"I'll hang up!!" I threatened my two friends who where watching me intenly. A voice at the other end took me completely by surprise. After a few seconds I realized that I wasn't speaking, and the voice at the other was going "Hello? Helllooo?" Then I opened my gob and the words "Who the hell is this*?" appeared. Im not quite sure how the rest of the conversation went. I was in such panicked state that when I started to talk and could not stop. I think he laughed, that's a good thing right? He said he was in a shop, I've got no idea how I replied. After Im not sure how long I managed to say "Im gunna go now" before I hung up and dived under hayley's duvet cover. I hibernated for fifteen minutes -yes count them, fifteen!- I was that embarrassed.
The rest of the evening turned out to be good. Hayley, GiGi and I walked down to the library talking all the way. Then we went round to Naomi's to tell her what happened, Kyle (who's Naomi's best friend and also best friends with the boy I like) was at hers. He lives at Naomi's, and is considered an extra family member.
We sat on the doorstep and told them what happened, or rather I let Hayley tell them because I had no recollection of the event. It was nice seeing them, Naomi tried to tune Kyle onto the local radio station (Kerrang 1o5.2) by twisting his nipples. She insists he can pick up signals.
Afterwards Hayley and I walked around talking for a while we went home.
I am likely to never be able to go near him again. If I do see him I will have to apologize to him profusely, incase I was rude and because I was such a lunatic. I was such a twat, and he probably thinks Im mentally unstable (just because I am doesn't mean he had to know) oh arse! He's such a nice guy too. I think I've really fucked up. Although Im laughing at it now, Im still deeply embarrassed.
Dude I am sooooo sorry.

BOOGIE

* I might use the "Who the hell is this?" line for prank phone calls, then hang up. It could be like a public service, adding a little patch of weirdness/rudeness into homes across Britain. What enlightenment your outbursts of absurdity bring.

Another class 'A' rant from Naomi.

2005-04-01T02:08:00.000+01:00

When Naomi is exercising or drunk she increases her volume, a lot. She will start stringing her sentences together in a high pitch squeal which is similar to the sound of a pig being tickled. She then inserts this constant flow of words with a giggle.
Two Fridays ago there was a springtime wave of heat, the sun lasted throughout the day making everyone at school more happy and relaxed. On Fridays we have double P.E. two hours last lesson before rushing home. On this particular Friday by the second lesson we where already hot and tired from playing rounders in the sun. Our P.E. teachers let us choose our last activity of the day. Most people went to do trampolining leaving a small group including me and my friends to play basket ball.
We divided ourselves into two groups the only boy being on the opposing side. This boy was Keith. Keith is very tall and good at basket ball, he lives a few doors down from Naomi. When he plays his drum kit on a Sunday she can hear him through the walls, her Mum used to babysit Keith when he was younger, Naomi knows lots about him. Keith smokes shit loads of pot, when he makes jokes all the girls around him titter, even when they're not funny. He also happens to be Naomi's arch enemy.
Here was Naomi tall aggressive and owning the skills needed to be a good basket ball player. On the other team was Keith. Sometimes it seemed like there was only the two of them playing head on. Naomi was getting red in the face from effort, and kept adamantly refusing the opportunity to sit on the substitutes bench. You could see that she had to beat him, hate rays shot from her pupils onto Keith. She squinted her lids in concentration
After the game she was like a madwomen. She began start one of her famous rants, trying to calm her down I mentioned that she was behavior was similar to that on New years eve when she spent an hour raving about how the "Buffy the vampire slayer" manual was nothing like the T.V program. When she heard this she laughed and continued her ravings from that evening, suddenly they where cut short as she became distracted.
We where passing Keith in the hallway. . . . a torrent of words sped from her mouth. Accusing him of attempted murderer because he tried to kick her in the ankle and saying he was a cheater because he had tried to kill our team, with her voice raced comically high. I have never seen anyone look so dumbfounded, Keith was truly lost for words. Even as I was pulling her down the corridor she was still screaming at him, "Keith you bar-stard Im going to throw you in the pool," pant, pant, pant "you should be tried for attempted murder, Im going to get you who wants to help me throw Keith in the pool?!" I saw Keith mouth, "What the fuck?" To his group of friends, each one of them looking as confused and scared as him. Our friends had abandoned us hiding themselves in the changing rooms so not to be associated with the crazed Naomi, but I was standing next to her laughing so hard I though my sides would split. Laughing so hard I couldn't breath. Laughing so hard their was tears in my eyes. It has to be one of the most funniest things I have ever seen.
"It must of been sun stroke." Naomi giggled as we burst into the changing rooms. After the bell rang signaling the end of the day Naomi flew from the changing rooms, "Miss have you seen Keith? I want to scare him again."

BOOGIE

Our genetics.

2005-02-26T13:55:00.000Z

She slips her small fingers in between mine, "What happens, if we run together?!" she says. Our fingers are woven as one. Then we run.
We run across that gravel playground. When her feet hit concrete mine join them. We are the same speed, our bodies synchronized, racing past those other children. Running is so fluid, so . . . . capable! I feel light, my clumsy limbs have left me and our shared gracefulness is pushing us forward. Limbs now flowing, speed soaring- a constant speed never leaving anyone behind. As we run with our fingers stitched together I can feel heritage relining itself, blood mixing, us sharing genes. Our bones liquidising, our arms are twisting round each other like two peices of elastic. Im missing my right arm. Instead there is this rope our jointless arms have created.
Then we stop. She says, "We run at the same speed!" We share the wonder of our discovery together, the other children unable to see or find the magic. By rearranging our genetics we have caused a mutation, we look at the shrieking children, and realize we're not like them. But its not a mistake, now we always have each other.
Her eyes glint with the same excitement as mine. Her pale skin and short white hair. Pure, real beauty radiating from her. The other children are unaware of what we have done. We link our hands together once more and the screams of playground games fade. We walk through those who are oblivious to the bond which our senses tingle across. The smell of cut grass becomes stronger and its suddenly quiet, we leave the noises and chaos behind, our world is alive and bursting with our secret. Sister.
Now Im scared. Her now? I want to find she's the same. Like taking a chisel and chipping away the exterior until I find the same girl. If she's not there, she's changed. Our blood has left her, our genetics have disappeared and the sister I knew is dead. The realization that shes gone would be watching life drain from her, losing her all over again.
I can never put someone in her place. I cannot rewrite heritage.
I wish we could of grown together.

BOOGIE

Auntie Barbara.

2005-02-13T05:50:00.000Z

Dressed in the only smart clothes I have. A school jumper a gypsy skirt and some wedges. All black. The skirt has a tear in it and the jumper is fading. My tights are laddered.
We make our way through the grave yard ancient grave stones line the dirt path, they slope and lean heavily at different angles. The icy morning light rests on stone crosses with names of the deceased rubbed almost beyond recognition. She cannot lie here there is no room.
The chapel is old too, hidden amongst graves and shadowed beneath a train track it is a gem. It matches the dates of the earliest gravestones and despite its beauty it too is fading. As the train thunders by over head hurtling a thousand miles an hour the chapel has been slowly eaten away by elements, stones being sculpted smoother, vivid hues weakening. Even in a place where time is so slow it still is heading towards some kind of end.
Inside the chapel its as cold and the air is moist. Serenity seems to echo through the alcoves, alcoves which hide corners in shadow, where angles could conceal themselves and stare forlornly out at the service. Chunk's of light stream through the stainglass windows, now and again a train passes over head breaking the silence with the rumble of journeys.
The coffin is made from a shiny gold wood. I can't look at it, my stomach renches if I even glance at it. I don't like to think of her being in there. Some one so ever-present can't be gone. The coffin is so final, staring it full on is like facing your own gravestone, and considering that fate that all humans eventually meet.
I turn to look down the isle and see my family quietly weeping, passing a packet of Kleanex from my Mothers handbag around. I wasn't crying, I bit back my tears. I gulped back sobs until they settled somewhere and left me with out need for them.

The night before the funeral I had a dream. I was in a bungalow. It was bathed in a orange artificial light. The room we in was filled with objects of a brown and orange color scheme. The tiles on the floor had a complex brown pattern on them. I moved around and felt the warmth, it was warm it was hot it was nice. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed my farther, but all my attension was focused on Auntie. She was standing using a walking frame, suddenly she fell to the floor. Her family (my cousins) surround her but despite the chaos I feel peaceful because some how I knew it was going to happen. I see her face, she is smiling.

There is one small window placed over the sink. What I see when I look out amazes me. Its a place familiar but I have not visited. The landscape is huge and almost flat. The night is large and bright with stars, where the sky meets the ground there glimmers a red hue. If I look upwards the sky is the deepest blue imaginable. These colors in the breath taking sky mix on the ground, vegetation, grass, dirt is purple.

It could be her childhood Africa. Or maybe its the place she always knew she was going to go.

BOOGIE

Smells like teen spirits, mainly cheap vodka.

2005-02-13T01:43:00.000Z

This year I had three christmases. The first being before the day itself at a sleepover with my friends. Everyone was there with their carefully thought out gifts. The hosts bedroom we discovered was an attic reached by a shakey ladder. I had a big problem with that ladder. The first few climbs I had to trust some carefully selected friends to hold it for me, and not look up my skirt.
The hosts attic is worth the climb up 'the ladder of doom' it is painted blue with fairy lights hung of the beams and a huge hammock suspended from the roof taking up almost all of the room. All of my friends soon arrived. Sam turned the volume up on the stereo and no one bothered to turn it down. Rum was passed around followed by a massive bottle of chardonnay. Chardonnay has a fancy glamorous name, but lets face it, its basically piss with the germs taken out and alcohol added. Finally me and Sam shared a bottle of the precious beer, Budwiser tastes heavenly after rum and piss.
Then there was a call for presents. Which had been left down stairs. Teenagers literally flew down the open hatch. When it was my turn I had to remove my tights incase I might slip on the metal rungs. Making everyone left in the attic turn their backs I slipped of those tights in double quick time.
"You do realize there's a mirror here." Sam called. Automatically I gave a male friend a bollocking, only to realize Sam was laughing her head off, because she was the guilty perve.
Once we where all down stairs we found there was a wood fire in the halth, it was immensly festive darhling. And the fact we where pissed was festive in itself.
Presents where handed round, although it took a long time for any of them to be opened. There's something very funny about watching a bunch of drunk teenagers opening Christmas presents. Blundering fingers slowly attempting to pick off layers of sticky tape whilst constanly being distracted whenever anybody makes a comment. Eventually we managed to find our presents, I became quite emotional (partly due to the intake of alcohol) when I saw my gifts. My friends had really thought them out. My friend to the right of me was also getting emotional but not as a result of the present opening. She was thinking of her grandad who had passed away, she told me of her grandads last moments which where very touching and sad. In an attempt to cheer her up I instantly shoved her face in my bosoms and patted her on the back until Sam gave me her famous raised eyebrows look.
The rest of the night was spent in the attic, except for frequent trips to the loo. Sam and I where left up there alone because the rest of our group decided to sing Christmas carols. I detest Christmas carols they make me physically sick and although I am coming round to liking Christmas again, I will never sing jingle bells willingly. Instead Sam and I swung on the hammock and screeched distiller songs. Which is a nice alturnative.
The rest of the night followed a chaotic blurry coarse after everyone came back up the ladder. They discovered Id drank a bottle of wine to myself, which they where none too pleased about. It didn't matter much, soon all was forgiven and we continued with our celebrations.
The next morning wasn't as nice however. When I awoke I noticed several things; I had covered my hosts bed with blood from a splinter in my foot Id earned the night before, the girl next to me had bit me in her sleep and that my mini skirt had revealed a lot to all my friends last night.
My friends around me peeled open their eyes and we began to slowly wash and dress ourselves.
Goodbyes where said and we flew down the ladder like experts.

Two chirstmases followed, my family chirstmas and one that arrived in the post, in the form of brown cardboard box that had travelled over seas, from America. . . .

BOOGIE

Yet more random musings

2005-01-02T15:53:00.000Z

I was when cleaning my room the other day and I happended to notice all the dolphin stuff I have. I started to think about when you are little and you tell everyone your fondness for cats you recieve anything that is smothered with cute baby felines for you birthday. This continues for several years untill you are brave enough to tell relatives and family friends to stop, or untill it gradually fades out. How come when you get a little bit older and tell everyone your devotion to punk rock your elederly relatives don't go out and buy sex pistols or nipple erectors C.D's? Its just weird if you ask me.

Somebody told me that approximently eighty percent of house wives in Briton think of David Beckham when they are doing 'it' with their husbands. That raises one perfetly good question. Who the hell goes round knocking on housewife doors going, "excuse me, do you fanatasize about David Beckham when you are sleeping with you husband?" Whats more scary than that is some ladies must go, "Of corse I'll tell lots of my personal information strange, scary stranger man."

Wait a minute, its taken me three years to notice my whole bedroom is covered with dolphins . . . .

BOOGIE

Strange

2004-12-12T16:28:00.000Z

I think the universe is messing with me. I would say God but Im sure God has way better stuff to do than mess with a 15 year old girl's world. Obviously he or she ( personally I think that God is female) wouldn't do that according to my pious mother, and it makes more sense that God doesn't mess around with us. Also I really don't want to offend God or anything because in religious studies I think they made us commit blasphemy!! Our R.E teacher handed out these pieces of paper and we had to write anomously what we thought God looked like. All the time I was thinking, 'is this blasphemy? Im sure I remember someone saying something about God not having a form or was that about false idols??' Then I was like, 'This is quite funny if it is. Cause how ironic is it that we committed blasphemy in R.E.!!'
Then I stood up and posted my two answers on the board. Ms read out all the answers mine being, ' who said God even has a face?'
Which she said was good answer. The other question was, "If you had to ask God any question what would it be?"
I replied, 'What came first the chicken or the egg?"
Everyone seemed to find this hystrerically funny and Ms tutted like she was annoyed. But I wasn't being silly. I really want to know.
My fellow students asked the regular angrey teenager pissed off at religion questions about war. But the answers are fairly obvious, we are humans we have free will. I had to ask the egg question.
Sorry about that random sidetrack away from the strange events topic. Carrying on, firstly there was this box in my science class room saying; "Cold war and madness plus 13 days in October." that's just scary. What does it mean? Who wrote it? Why was it their? Has it something to do with forces unknown to us?
Another strange thing that has been happening recently to me is Im only happy before Im about to do a massive shit. That's crude I know, but its true! I think its because its near Christmas hence the Christmas misery. Bah humbug Im almost a carbon copy of scrooge if he was blonde with two tits and laughed non stop at his friends description of some dancing Maier cats. I really don't have any money to buy a crippled boy's family a turkey either.
Finally the tip of the iceberg of the collection of strange things happening is my pants keep disappearing. Let me explain in the morning getting dressed I remove my pants I can never be bothered to get up to walk to the washing basket so I forget about them. A few minutes later when I go to pick them up to take to the washing basket when visit the bog, they are gone. Its strange it happens every morning. Where are my disappearing knickers? I really haven't a clue, sucked into some pant eating black hole maybe? Then spat out the otherside onto my chair washed and dried. Its just one of those things not meant for the mind of man (or woman).

BOOGIE

Very, very bored

2004-11-20T21:47:00.000Z

Im very, very bored.
So bored I could eat my arm.
So bored I could become gay.
So bored you'll do.
Extremely bored I could lick my armpit.
Not bored enough to nurture an addiction, darhling that's so passe. Anyways Im skint.
Actually I don't think Im bored, more these sleeping tablets are weird, would exsplain why my curtains are piss coloured.

BOOGIE

Basically I have a tantrum and make it new year already

2004-11-06T22:10:00.000Z

Don't worry my devoted audience I didn't fall off the edge of the world, I crawled back up using the elastic of my knickers, some dinner napkins and a biro. Or something of that effect.
Much to my disappointment its not summer holidays anymore which means I have to go to school again. Ah compusary education. Comforting howling school girls in putrid bogs, listening to my friend's weird dreams about monkey training, scrounging food off my friends. Yet another year.
Right on to the hot topic, I don't particularly like Christmas- bah humbug, no Im joking I don't mind other people celebrating it, but its kind of wrecked for me. Therefore its not my favorite time of year. For me the new year starts on the new school term, so here is my polished knick knacky new years resolutions.
I WILL:

Remember Coventry and Califonia start with the same letter but are not the same.
Stop sleeping in my bed when there's is lots of pens hidden in the sheets. Lets just say there's been many a strange dream. Foot note for devoted audience of one -aka Sam-not in a rude way you sicko.
Be less mean.
Start flushing the loo again no matter how grouchy it makes me.
Stop picking my nose so when the regular family conversation comes around I can lie with a clear conscience, also they wont have footage this time!! Actually that's pretty ironic considering what I've just done. . . .
Try and cut down use of the course work/ shower cap.
Stop accerdently giving my knee hickeys when I get bored.
Never get drunk in someone else's garden and sing "F*ck the pain away" for hours in a row again.
Stop removing items of underwear in public places no matter how confining they are.
Possibly swear more?
Not watch as many horror movies because they make me jumpy for two days in a row.
Avoid the wet patch on the bathroom floor.
Stop saying to people who recognize me and I don't recognize back "Oh yes of course I know you I stalk you."
Write a lot less lists, oh man that makes me want to bite my hand its like taking away my safety blanket, and beleive me I sleep nakid.

Right, now repeat after me children; lists to stop us falling into the abyss, lists not to accuse, not to organize, not to assit, lists just for the heck of it.

BOOGIE

A rare open moment.

2004-10-04T21:23:00.001+01:00

I haven't written in this for a while, I suppose because things have been hetic for a while- ok that's a load of bull stuff has been hetic, but you know I feel kind of sad. Not angrey or depressed just sad. Its true what people say that you don't appreciate something until its gone. That thing or some one becomes part of your life, and you forget what its like to be with out them. Well what if person that has gone away has always been in your life?
To be technical he's still in my life, just now he's a computer screen or a mechanical voice at the end of a wire. I never thought Id be this sad. Ill forget about it then I think "oh yeah!! Im gunna see him tonight" then I remember Im not going to see him, and I don't know the next time I will. And its like a lurch.
For the record heart ache isn't heart ache its more like gut ache. A pain that is really strange and I don't think Ive had it before, I might of but I was little then and its just a memory now, you can't really tell if you had gut ache. But I still miss her, and think about her a lot- I should write to her but I don't have a clue what to say. What do you say to your only best friend who you haven't seen in ages "oh like Im writing this to say hi and erm hi!!"
I miss him so much.
But things pass, Ive gotten though harder and with out the dark one does not appreciate the light.
Actually this blog entry has thown up a random child hood memory of touching tongues with my female friend out of curiosity and both of us being utterly repulsed. Ah was now that was funny my darhling. This is why Im not openly honest about things I come out with stuff like that.

BOOGIE

Apologies to a goldfish!!

2004-09-18T13:25:00.000+01:00

I've done something VERY VERY bad and I feel really guilty about it. So I have decided to write a sorry poem to make things better and to cheer my goldfish up.

Im sorry Sam.

Im sorry that when we had a arm wreasle,

I accerdently pulled you muscle.

Im sorry I hit you with a badminton racket,

You had a long nail and I broke it.

Come like the piss under a bridge,

Let it slip.

For the sake of our friendship,

don't let this ruin it.

Im such a bad friend I can't believe I hit my darhling Sammy with a badmington racket. I mean not even George W Mush would do that, (well maybe he would if it would start a war that could give him oil) what sort of crappy friend does that make me. Love you lots Sammie my pinky poo, fluffy bunny wunny. Call me.

BOOGIE

More passing random thoughts

2004-09-14T21:18:00.000+01:00

" Cosmo says: Boy like girls better if they have long hair ." Yeah AND you can hang yourself with it.

Why do those six formers who smoke and walk rreeeallllllyyyy slowly. Fill up the pavement so I can't pass always choose to walk in front of me on the way home. I can imagine them like :
"Hey dude lets walk in front of the blonde girl on the way home, and force her to passive smoke."
"Dude that's a great idea since I am EXTREMELY sad and have nothing better to do."

Yeah and they always talk about greenday, I swear one day I will tell them just how shit greenday are. I don't really give a damn if the lead singer is worried about whether his eyes are green or not, JUST MOVE OFF THE BLOODY PAVEMENT.

Apples are scary. Once one pooed on me. I am traumatized.

Wow I can see the bone through the sore on my foot, curious.

BOOGIE

Bladder problems

2004-09-12T21:43:00.000+01:00

This blog is rather like my relationship with my bladder, I put it to one side until it all builds up and threes a warm, wet visitor at the gates.

My friend Sam who also has a blog says this on cheerleading: "Cheerleaders are often portrayed as air head bimbos who shag anyone off the 'football' team. That's wrong."- Well that's just put me off cheerleading. She seriously shouldn't say that I mean it must put off lots of people off. . . . she could at least LIE get them in the force and then not let them out.
Oh they should hire me as evil team planner.

BOOGIE

P.S I know cheerleading is a sport but its true that they never cheer at female games, only at games where the players are male. . . . also they where very very short skirts.

In retrospect I take that back because Sam has a anger management problem and all that cheerleading has made her muscly.

Insomnia

2004-09-12T21:13:00.000+01:00

Ok so I occasionally go mad. Esp. in the summer holidays, for example my insomnia got really bad about a month back. Then out of no where I went a bit mad on top of that. One night I couldn't sleep so I stayed up half the night writing crazed poetry. Now Im not a poetry freak I've only read peotry 3 books; which where acceptable.
However if you feel mentally unstable or are a insomniac I highly recommend it,it is a great way to pass the time.

Native Americans have names that they earn when they come of age and go out into the wilderness. Whilst in the wilderness they see a vision and whatever this vision is they are named after it. For example crazy horse would of seen a dancing horse.
My Native American name would be curtain whispers.
Its kind of self explanatory.

BOOGIE

Dabbling in the art of bitching. mmmm bitter.

2004-09-05T21:54:00.000+01:00

Now I know Im that it is very unpleasant to bitch but I need to get some things of my bosom(s). As I don't want to bitch to my friends because it would put them in an uncomfortable position. So I have decided in all my wisdom to bitch on this handy blog. Even though when she works for "Cosmo" magazine and hangs round with women like her who wear pink fluffy jumpers and talk about the three food groups- black coffee, laxatives and salad or whether next month their going to be senible about their diet and go back to good old-dead-doctor Atkins, she'll proberly slate me in her candy floss pink columns, darhling.
Im in a bit of a dilemma I have broken friends with HER, who I have known for a few years. I decided that unfortunately that she was extremely vain and although very smart only saw the surface of things and couldn't look beyond that. I know some of it was because of insecurities and I know why she has these insecurities. But I didn't like the person I was around her. Plus she always took little digs at me, which made our outings together horrible and rarely fun. I felt like I couldn't be who I am around her which you shouldn't experience when with friends. But I regularly hang around with her because my friends are her friends, which means that I still have to put up with her conversations about clothes, boys, peoples clothes sizes- any one above a 8 is FAT apparently.
Well I went back to school we're talking now because I wasn't mad at her anymore. But she obviously was never taught if you don't have anything nice to say don't say it, because after a week being back at school she's already insulted me. Bitch.
Isn't it all piss under the bridge now anyway??

BOOGIE

Diary of a mad women

2004-08-29T20:46:00.001+01:00

Slow realization that anyone reading this will know fuck all about me except I have a mate called Sam who thinks she's a goldfish. I decided to make my very own factfile.
NAME: Boogie
AGE: Fifteen
SEX: Male- Repressed female side watches "Judging Amy." Guys who stare at my chest get shown my leg hair.
DESCRIPTION: Blonde hair with red tints after friends egged me into "temporaly" dying it, green/blue eyes, wears brothers clothes.
PARENTS: MOTHER: Mu
FARTHER: Much adored hippy farzer OCCUPATION: Hippy/ works with expelled kids.
Pets: Dog- Lizzie,who craps on the pavement just to laugh at me, Cat-Dulcie-adorable. Identity confused Sam.
BOYFRIEND: A red machine that vibrates, oh that sounds rude. Erm her names Leila but on her birth citificate it says Lola. She's gorgeous, has two wheels and wears perfume ala petrol.
ADDRESS: Behind the GIANT cherry tree, in the blue room, my head.

Top six things to do in Coventry

2004-08-24T20:53:00.000+01:00

Being a teenager in Coventry can sometimes be boring, but don't worry I've come up with some boredom beaters tried and tested by moi:

When sitting on the bus full of old ladies talk really loudly about something gross enough for them to complain about the youth of today.
Go into virgin megastore and scream whenever you see a C.D. When they ask you to leave, crawl up on the floor and tell them about your "C.D fear". Demand compensation.
Hide on top of toilet cubicles and jump down on whoever enters. Funny if they desperately needed the loo.
Go to church . . . YES!! Fart quietly thoughout the service, when some one comments on the smell say its is the lords presence (is that a sin?).
Hug pedestrians and then hide, watch their bewildered faces from a distance.
Make rumbling noises in the lift in Alders whenever someone presses a button. If they look at you put on a surprised face as if you are innocence itself.

Boogie

American pie, don't be gross

2004-08-22T22:01:00.000+01:00

ARRHHHH me hearties. . . . sorry I couldn't restrain myself, I've always wanted to say that.
This is a spooky episode (EPISODE??!!) because something kind of strange happened to me recently. I was sitting in my room being recluse when I smelt something strange which made me think of my much adored hippy farzer. Then I felt a over welming sense of loss.
Later that evening my hippy farzer came round ours rather wine on the old tipsy. Saying witty comments too loudly, which are only funny when one is drunk themselves. When suddenly drunk hippy farzer says, "I've booked my ticket for September by the way." translation meaning that sober hippy farzer will be leaving on a jetplane from Britain to the U.S of A. Permently. The thing is at the time even though its all serious and my family are in shock, the only thing I want to do is laugh histerically. If I had I knew I would of ended up on "THE COUCH" and would've been extremely bashful. Its something I can't help serious situations make me laugh. I wouldn't last a day in the army Id be on the floor laughing at the army guy shouting at us scumbags.
So there you go a little insight into my world, I couldn't give you a big insight because it would disturb you, and believe me I know I LIVE in my world.

BOOGIE

There's a fine line between love and hate

2004-08-18T14:39:00.000+01:00

Random topics my friend Sam (I know this whole blog should be a tribute to her) is regally muddled about:

Her taste in music
Romeo and Juliet
Globerlisation

We start discussing these subjects when I kindly correct her mistakes. We then end up arguing for about a hour. Eventually the vain on Sams head bursts. She then smashes something, bites anything soft in close proximity or aims a punch at me, misses and leaves a hole in the brick wall. I then quickly apologize and we are very nice to each other for a month or so. It sucks that Im banned from saying "Juliet" in front of her.

BOOGIE

The two AAs-Anger management and Art. . . .

2004-08-18T14:10:00.000+01:00

You proberly have a gym teacher whose a bit of a sick twisted sadist, who ate all the pies and made YOU run round the track to burn off the calories. But aren't art teachers surppost to be nice?! I always thought art teachers where nice people who actually liked children and had a passion for art. But like always I seemingly thought wrong. My art teacher is slightly confused to say the least. Not only does she leave me wondering whether she actually appreciates the joys of teaching. She regally tells my art class to move classrooms but upon getting to the location she will find us, declare us "lost" and tell us off for moving from our normal classroom.
The slightly misguided lady has also given us homework for the summer holidays. Which is very silly because sadly half of my art class will be so stoned throughout the hols that by the time they remember their age and the list of art home work; they will sitting in the lesson.
My dear friend Sam (who has a anger management problem) and I where discussing this problem, when we came upon a conclusion. Next year Sam will use expletives in her work and I . . . . am refusing to paint.
Talking about my dear friend Sam she recently told me of a dream she had about graphically killing someone in my year. If anyone else had told me this I would feel disturbed and would have instantly dialed for the men in white coats; who are coincidently great friends of mine. However the person is not um. . . . nice at all so I can see where Sam is coming from. Id rarther she dreamt about it than did it.

BOOGIE

Random passing thoughts

2004-08-18T10:00:00.000+01:00

Blog is a weird word. It sounds like alien speak or something, uh oh this seems like some alien signal to the other aliens left on their home planet to came and invade us. THIS IS AWFUL CALL THE ARMY, THE POLICE, CHANGING ROOMS OR SOMEONE!!!

I wonder if the old lady who lived in a shoe ever decided she wanted a more rustic looking home and moved into a clog??

Do you think people who get one of these blogs fill it up with fucking swear words and nonsensicle fucking rubbish, I mean how fucking stupid are they.

I am a potato.

BOOGIE

Loss of a dear friend and the beginning. . . .

2004-08-17T21:15:00.000+01:00

Well I hate to start something new off on a bad start, but Id like to you know acknowledge someone close to me who has touched my life. Im not going to bore you saying all the cliches (although it would amuse me slightly) assioated with death. This is how our wonderful relationship started:
Are you sitting comfortably two square on your botty then I shall begin. Yesterday I was taking my annual bath when I noticed a beautiful grasshopper staring at me. We spent a hour talking about humanity, the world and philosophy. Even though I didn't know his name, and vice verser I learned so much.
Today to my dismay I discovered the wise, elegant creature on my stairs with the grip of death in his black eyes, twitching as life left him. These where our final words:
Grasshopper: Im dying.
Me (whispering): Im sorry I don't know what to do, Im sorry.
I started crying and my heart ached- no it wasn't heart burn you insensative clout.
Grass hopper: Take me outside I want to die in the sweet arms of mother nature.

So I did.

If I had taken him outside earlier I would have saved him, but that was my human nature. I was selfish I wanted to talk to him other bath times. Lovely way to start a blog, now your going to think Im mad talking to grasshoppers. So what? Quite frankly if you think that; fuck you, I am in grief and have reached the angrey stage which makes me want to punch cushions etc.

Sorry to write so much, I know large quantities of writing puts people off esp. the dumb people out there (angrey stage of grief).

Not that anyone will read this NO-ONE reads blogs (according to my brother) Im doing this for my own self gratification also its proberly a saner way of talking to myself.
Im going now to listen to bikini kill and talk to Sam my female friend with a anger problem.
BOOGIE