I have a cold. No, it's not an excuse as to why I haven't been updating as often as I should, and now that I think about it, it might not be a cold so much as an allergy or the result of poor sleeping habits and smoke inhalation (it's a wonder I haven't keeled over yet). Either way, I am now the proud owner of red-rimmed eyes and a nose that runs like an Olympic athlete. Every now and then, I go into impressive sneezing fits that leave me reeling and unable to decide between collapsing where I am or running to the nearest box of tissues to mop up my nose.
It's not like I can say I didn't see it coming: the first sniffles started weeks ago while I was revising for my finals, and I tried to ignore them. I was a busy person, after all, I had my exams to worry about, and once those were over I had to go about celebrating both their end and my birthday in style. But did my sinuses care? Oh no. They just clogged up like nobody's business and left me exhausting my supply of Kleenix and eyeing the toilet paper as a substitue when the former ran out (Note to self: buy more tissues, and generic toilet paper is the absolute worst way to go, no matter what you may use it for).
Currently, tissues are scattered around me as a garnish to the clutter in my room (by the by, Gerald McStackerson has been banished to a trolley bag under my bed, where he lives a quiet life of collecting dust and painting watercolours), and because I stubbornly refuse to take any medication unless absolutely necessary, I am trying to cure myself by getting lots of sleep and drinking liquids. Sure, it's easy for me to stick by a somewhat natural approach to sickness when I'm healthy, but right now all I want to do is shovel pills down my throat until my nose stops its impersonation of a faucet and I can get out of bed without wanting to crawl right back under the blanket and hack up a lung.
All right, fine, it's not that bad. It's just a case of the sniffles, not the Swine Flu or the Black Plague. I'm not dying, but I will be hiding out in my bed reading all the books I bought at the Big Bad Wolf book sale, and I was healthy enough to be throughly embarassed last night. Twice. (Thanks everyone. I love you all. Really, I do. Just remember that I know where you all sleep next time you try pull this on me again.)
I'll probably be back to my moody, emo, weird state in a few days. Cause to celebrate? Fuck yeah.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Oh wow. This is awkward...
eh, update the blog lahbeen ages
In light of the fact that my last post was- Holy Crap.
My last post was over a month ago. What the hell have I been doing since then?
Interesting question, that. Here's a summary (in no particular order):
- Mooting Preparation
- Law Ball
- DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA
- Hid away to avoid further drama
- Stayed in hiding to study
- Pushed my body to its limits
- Started Finals
- Turned 21
- Celebrated, kinda
- Started dance classes
- Got screwed over for mooting
- Took too many Facebook Quizes
- Learned how to be happy
- Became a little more awesome
Don't worry, I'll be back. Soonish.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
nobody but you
nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly
inside.
nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don't, don't, don't.
just watch them.
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?
nobody can save you but
yourself
and you're worth saving.
it's a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.
think about it.
think about saving your self.
- Charles Bukowski
Antilamentation
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
- Dorianne Laux
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
High Heels and Gasoline
When they fight, it's with the familiarity of a practiced dance, screaming and stamping through every room. She throws things, and he tries to remember not to yell that he loves her after telling her how much he's regretted meeting her. In the morning, she will leave and stay elsewhere, and he will live as though he was the only person in the apartment the whole time.
That night, they don't sleep in the bed. She curls up on the sofa and he stretches out as comfortably as he can on the floor. In the morning, she wakes up first, and covers him with a blanket before stepping into the shower. Her bag's already packed, clothes randomly thrown into one of her largest handbags in between curses, and when he steps into the shower a few minutes after her she lets him wash her hair and closes her eyes at his whispered prompt, letting the suds wash down her face.
She can smell the familiar scent of his shampoo as his fingers gently massage it into her scalp, deliberately packs his toothpaste into her bag so that he has no choice but to use hers while she's gone.
She's standing by the door when he comes out, bag lying at her feet while she fiddles with the deadbolt. Sometimes she would ask him to carry her bag for her, he would oblige. Today, she leaves without a word.
While she's gone, he spends a lot of time with his friend. They watch sports and go out for drinks and he doesn't have time to think about her. He does, however, have time to remember that his heart is beating, and that he wasn't as aware of it as when he was with her.
When they fight, their movements are in time, even on opposite ends of town. It's a series of complex steps held in smoky bars and dark alleyways while the dust from their crumbled hearts and wills settles around them. They think it's to rub it in the other's face, to show that they're above the other, even though they are so close that they could touch, in the exact same position, even though they can't see it.
He buys a girl a drink, she lights a cigarette. The lighter is engraved with initials that aren't hers. Three hours, two drinks and a phone number later, they leave with swollen lips, napkins in pockets ready to be thrown away in the morning. It's about pain. It's about domination. They aren't sure whose, though. She knows that she could break him, he revels in the fact that he could make her come back anytime he wanted.
When she stumbles into her sister's house, the woman takes one look at her. Places two aspirin next to a glass of water on the nightstand. She doesn't say anything. There's nothing to be said.
She calls him first thing in the morning, reminds him to take his vitamins. She doesn't say hello or goodbye. Just reminds him to stay healthy. Her phone rings later that night, the sound of familiar breathing making its way down the line before a whispered Goodnight.
When they fight, it's violent, each letting the other fall, catching them at the last minute, holding them up only to let them go again and turning away so that they don't hear the inevitable splat made when a body hits the cold ground.
She comes back a week later. She cooks his favorite dish for dinner, adds chilli so that he can't eat it. He does the laundry in the morning, rips her favorite T-shirt after taking it out of the dryer.
They're watching a movie; she says you smell like smoke, then lights a cigarette. He replies you look like a man, whispers I would go gay for you.
It's another week before she starts to sleep in the bed again. He joins her the next night, pulls her close to him, tries to wrap his arms around her. She kicks him away, then quickly rolls over to cling to him. He rolls her over so that she lies on top of him, but soon after that they slide to opposite sides of the bed. Their heads are on the other's pillows. It's the best sleep they've had in weeks.
The next night, he wakes up to the bed dipping next to him, but when he tries to touch her, she pulls away. She tells him to fuck off, he responds by wishing he didn't have a girlfriend who was so cold. Later on when her breathing evens out, he leans over, whispers I've always loved winter better than summer, returns to his side of the bed, and waits for sleep to come again.
It's hot the next day. She says she hates the heat. He says he hates her.
They fight again, this time to the beat of their sobs and breaking hearts. I'm not sorry, he mutters. He neglects to mention that he can't even remember why they were fighting in the first place, so why should he be sorry? She can't remember either, but she does remember how much of an asshole he was, how he could fill her heart and break it in one move. It doesn't matter that she's done the same. I'm not sorry either, she grits out.
There are so many out there better than you, she screams. (I would have chosen you over them every time, she thinks to herself)
I wish we had never met, he shouts. (Only so that I could find you again, he adds silently)
She throws him out of the apartment that night. Instead of going to a friend's place, he decides to sit on the cold sidewalk, a cigarette in his hand burning down to the filter. He only realizes that he had fallen asleep when she sits next to him, arranging a blanket over their legs before laying her head on his shoulder.
When they fight, they're synchronized in their heartache. She knows that he makes her feel things never felt before, pain and sorrow included. He's fully aware that she has him wrapped around her finger, even though the string may be a bit loose at times.
I don't forgive you, she says as she sips her coffee over the sink. She turns around, tries to touch his arm. He moves away. I don't forgive you too.
She sets her mug down, starts to leave the room, but he turns and pulls her into his arms. They say nothing, they just hold each other in the stillness of the kitchen.It's beautiful. It's fucked-up. It's what they are, and that is how they always will be, never forgiving, never regretting. But then again, when no-one apologises, what is there to forgive? They just continue to dance their dance, holding the other up, breaking them down, and pushing them away before returning to their side. When the music stops, all that is left is silence, the calm after the storm. This time is no different.
Inspired by this dance:
That night, they don't sleep in the bed. She curls up on the sofa and he stretches out as comfortably as he can on the floor. In the morning, she wakes up first, and covers him with a blanket before stepping into the shower. Her bag's already packed, clothes randomly thrown into one of her largest handbags in between curses, and when he steps into the shower a few minutes after her she lets him wash her hair and closes her eyes at his whispered prompt, letting the suds wash down her face.
She can smell the familiar scent of his shampoo as his fingers gently massage it into her scalp, deliberately packs his toothpaste into her bag so that he has no choice but to use hers while she's gone.
She's standing by the door when he comes out, bag lying at her feet while she fiddles with the deadbolt. Sometimes she would ask him to carry her bag for her, he would oblige. Today, she leaves without a word.
While she's gone, he spends a lot of time with his friend. They watch sports and go out for drinks and he doesn't have time to think about her. He does, however, have time to remember that his heart is beating, and that he wasn't as aware of it as when he was with her.
When they fight, their movements are in time, even on opposite ends of town. It's a series of complex steps held in smoky bars and dark alleyways while the dust from their crumbled hearts and wills settles around them. They think it's to rub it in the other's face, to show that they're above the other, even though they are so close that they could touch, in the exact same position, even though they can't see it.
He buys a girl a drink, she lights a cigarette. The lighter is engraved with initials that aren't hers. Three hours, two drinks and a phone number later, they leave with swollen lips, napkins in pockets ready to be thrown away in the morning. It's about pain. It's about domination. They aren't sure whose, though. She knows that she could break him, he revels in the fact that he could make her come back anytime he wanted.
When she stumbles into her sister's house, the woman takes one look at her. Places two aspirin next to a glass of water on the nightstand. She doesn't say anything. There's nothing to be said.
She calls him first thing in the morning, reminds him to take his vitamins. She doesn't say hello or goodbye. Just reminds him to stay healthy. Her phone rings later that night, the sound of familiar breathing making its way down the line before a whispered Goodnight.
When they fight, it's violent, each letting the other fall, catching them at the last minute, holding them up only to let them go again and turning away so that they don't hear the inevitable splat made when a body hits the cold ground.
She comes back a week later. She cooks his favorite dish for dinner, adds chilli so that he can't eat it. He does the laundry in the morning, rips her favorite T-shirt after taking it out of the dryer.
They're watching a movie; she says you smell like smoke, then lights a cigarette. He replies you look like a man, whispers I would go gay for you.
It's another week before she starts to sleep in the bed again. He joins her the next night, pulls her close to him, tries to wrap his arms around her. She kicks him away, then quickly rolls over to cling to him. He rolls her over so that she lies on top of him, but soon after that they slide to opposite sides of the bed. Their heads are on the other's pillows. It's the best sleep they've had in weeks.
The next night, he wakes up to the bed dipping next to him, but when he tries to touch her, she pulls away. She tells him to fuck off, he responds by wishing he didn't have a girlfriend who was so cold. Later on when her breathing evens out, he leans over, whispers I've always loved winter better than summer, returns to his side of the bed, and waits for sleep to come again.
It's hot the next day. She says she hates the heat. He says he hates her.
They fight again, this time to the beat of their sobs and breaking hearts. I'm not sorry, he mutters. He neglects to mention that he can't even remember why they were fighting in the first place, so why should he be sorry? She can't remember either, but she does remember how much of an asshole he was, how he could fill her heart and break it in one move. It doesn't matter that she's done the same. I'm not sorry either, she grits out.
There are so many out there better than you, she screams. (I would have chosen you over them every time, she thinks to herself)
I wish we had never met, he shouts. (Only so that I could find you again, he adds silently)
She throws him out of the apartment that night. Instead of going to a friend's place, he decides to sit on the cold sidewalk, a cigarette in his hand burning down to the filter. He only realizes that he had fallen asleep when she sits next to him, arranging a blanket over their legs before laying her head on his shoulder.
When they fight, they're synchronized in their heartache. She knows that he makes her feel things never felt before, pain and sorrow included. He's fully aware that she has him wrapped around her finger, even though the string may be a bit loose at times.
I don't forgive you, she says as she sips her coffee over the sink. She turns around, tries to touch his arm. He moves away. I don't forgive you too.
She sets her mug down, starts to leave the room, but he turns and pulls her into his arms. They say nothing, they just hold each other in the stillness of the kitchen.It's beautiful. It's fucked-up. It's what they are, and that is how they always will be, never forgiving, never regretting. But then again, when no-one apologises, what is there to forgive? They just continue to dance their dance, holding the other up, breaking them down, and pushing them away before returning to their side. When the music stops, all that is left is silence, the calm after the storm. This time is no different.
Inspired by this dance:
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Quiet World
In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
Jeffrey McDaniel
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
Jeffrey McDaniel
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