Monday, 29 October 2012

that fucking feel

Drunk - got Mahler's Third final movement on.

Find myself beginning to type the URL of ex's tumblr...

Stop myself from doing so.

Get a single manly tear because I realise I've moved on but don't quite realise it yet.

Life can be sad. But it is life that is sad. Not me.

Like Syra. We will never know why.

We will never know why.

But it's so long ago now it doesn't really matter, and passes into legend, into myth, into dream.

Into narrative.

Mfw I'm writing a mfw story but can't be arsed to add arrows.

Last night

I had the two recurring dreams that I haven't had for a while but when I do have them it's usually not a good sign...

1. I'm alone in the house. Poppy starts growling, and I see another cat as entered the house. I have to protect Poppy but I can't get it because I'm moving really slowly.

2. Driving insanely fast down roads in some foreign place and I can't brake - but in this dream, there's a distinct moment where I go "why not just crash this time?" and I actually find myself split into two - the one who is trying to crash it, and the one who's trying to steer it. It got to the point where I was actually 'playing' myself as a third person character.

At one utterly random point I was inside some strange complex place driving around on a motorbike, and entering a weird place with FIFA 13 on the front. 'I' managed to steer the 'me' character out of there before I got arrested...

Wtf man that was some horrid shit. Kind of horrid thing viewing yourself from afar

Sunday, 28 October 2012

Should probably get my prescription from the doctor. Been spending last four days without them because either a) I'm not in need of anything or b) it's pointless because I'm already dead and nothing can change me

probably b. who knows.

i'm really fucking alone and i deserve to be because i'm a terrible cunt who pretends to be shy in order to make up for the fact that actually all i am capable of doing is sneering at anyone who manages to be happy in any way.

i'm a leech. not even man enough to exit. would do everyone a favour. who the fuck am i kidding pretending to be a fucking teacher, a normal person, when i can barely face people anymore? when all i want to do is be cuddled like some little kid and not have to think about bullshit problems that don't even

fuck just go to sleep you arse. sleep alone. wake alone. be alone. you're dead. so just live.


Friday, 26 October 2012

So Yeah

Caveman notions piling through the brain. Echoes of grievances now lost in black hole memory, sucked into the subconscious and spewed out through barely-disguised gestures. Told today that I don't realise that when I read kids' work, I smile at the good bits and wince at the bad.

Positive thinking: she said deadpan the students in a bottom set responded well to me. She also said deadpan how one kid's mum in that class killed herself from a heroin overdose and everyone in his family is addicted to heroin. Also said deadpan that standing up instead of sitting down would help me although I did really well to keep them quiet whilst sitting anyway. Also said deadpan that she dreams of being raped by

Jimmy Saville

or JS to his friends, but a man like him never really had friends, only stalwart admirers, designed to help propagate the false image he wrapped around himself. The smoked cigar: the symbol of a man expressing to society that he has used his cock in many ways, and that nobody could fucking do anything about it. A man who was an ogre, a narcissist, who genuinely seemed to think he was entitled to feel up kids because he fancied them and it was no-one's right to deny him that pleasure. People as objects. How can a man who fixed it for so many be such a monster? When remembering that programme, I was aware of viewing him as a caricature, a man playing a role, a sort of facilitator, brandishing a slightly wacky old granddad image that made him seem endearing. When watching Louis Theroux and realising that this persona was actually how he lived his life, I became aware of a disturbing feeling that he was a completely false being. All that cigar and 'now then' stuff wasn't a projected clown, a Bruce Forsythian adherence to expected values created by a blanket of celebrity, but was actually him. He was not real: he was entirely this artifice. Imagine Forsyth actually coming home and greeting his family with 'Nice to see you, to see you nice' every day for the past forty years. All of a sudden it would make you wonder about how such a man must view those around him. Imagining that creep coming up next to you while you lay in a hospital bed, murmuring 'now then now then' as he undid your fly, grinning all the while.

He actually didn't see what he was doing as being abuse. Like anyone indulging in acts that transcend the borders of acceptability, there is always that awareness of others. Presumably he went to bed at night saying to himself that he couldn't be wrong because he didn't rape them. Then after he raped them he said to himself he couldn't be wrong because they secretly wanted it. You can safely say he's a bit of a

Twat

Greg "The Potato Peeler" danced avidly about the sycamore tree, being sick a bit more, spewing up not only last night's curry, but somehow the curry he would have tomorrow. Biological time travel meant he was all too susceptible to suffering a million ailments linked to events that ended up either happening, not happening, or dishappening in the future. So today he shat twice, and it was presumably the second shit that was the one from the future, because he didn't shit the next day, which meant he had therefore stolen the second shit from tomorrow. Similarly, he took an extra breath, and then the next day he held his breath, which meant that he had stolen tomorrow's breath. Sometimes, though, time would fold in on itself and he would not only do things in the present, but also in the past and the future, such as exist. This meant that, for him, space and time didn't really mean anything and that spacetime was like a giant piece of toilet paper, and that God was the one taking a shit: sometimes it folds, sometimes it rolls, but it always ends up going down into a black hole and all sorts of

Shit happens

Both wore make-up designed to accentuate the delicacy of their features. Gymnastically sprinting across crooked lines of cable, both men fractured a bone in their tibia and breaking it in half, renaming them both tib as a result. And what of the ia? It went on to pursue a career.



Wednesday, 24 October 2012

Thoughts During a Random Wank

There are two pieces of pussy you get in your life: your first and your last.
- Richard Pryor

Women are basically louder than men in bed. For all twenty or so times that I've got laid, I can safely say that it's basically been like having a running commentary going on in your ear, whilst trying to make sure you don't also have a running cummentary going on down below.

Curiously enough, the only time I ever found myself being audible was when I was getting my cock sucked for literally three hours, on and off. Never before or since have I experienced such constant pleasure: compared to the high-level moment of male orgasm, this literally blew it out the water, being as it was three hours of constant medium-level pleasure that, when built up over such a length of time, becomes something so insanely good that you just forget everything, even the fact that by this point I couldn't stand the woman who was doing it to me.

Only that time did I accept that I just had to escape myself and submit to the fact that the person doing this to me had actually rendered me immobile with what they were doing. And that was the point I realised that this is part of why women are louder: they are letting you know that at this moment, they trust you so much that they are allowing you not only control over their body, but also their mind. If a woman is loud and not faking it, she is not thinking about anything else other than the pleasure you are giving. And, although it may be a hunch, the female experience of good sex is far far better than the male experience of good sex, and the female experience of bad sex is far far worse than the male experience of bad sex. Point being that when it is good, it is very good and this is why there is noise. Sure, this is obvious, but at the same time, it's kind of not.

Inevitably I am currently dwelling on notions of penetration and the difference between that and the penetrator, due to the strange realisation that whenever I wipe my arse, I experience a gazillion different pleasure/pain sensations from my rear end, which rocket through my entire body, causing my legs literally to give way. Honestly, if I didn't know that it was bad for me, scratching for half an hour like that would rank amongst the most pleasurable experiences I've had. Constant medium level - but the added novelty of experiencing something from inside as opposed to outside. The feeling of arse penetration - albeit from something as meaningless as a ball of tissue soaked in cold water - gives a different sense of pleasure from penetrating something. To enter a moist cunt feels like coming home: sort of cosy, and gratifying in itself. You are welcomed as a conqueror of the day to take the spoils at night. But to experience something invasive is surprising in itself, almost offensive; but the sudden jolt of pleasure adds to the interesting duality of autobuggery arsemonged shitgasm fuckstainery.

bored

sfdsfdsf

Hate how whenever there's a serious television item about Jimmy Saville raping someone he's always pictured doing something vaguely wacky, which just makes him look like the ultimate posthumous troll

Saville Troll - PROBLEM?

Monday, 22 October 2012

Alma Martyr

1 in 12 young people in the UK self-harm. My worry is about what the other 11 are doing.
- Harold Tronnish

A teenager sits in a room alone. They apply a razor to their arm, enjoying the pinch as the skin is punctured. Blood running down the arm provides visual stimulus. The syrupy drops trail down drooping fingers, and find their final resting place on the ivory bath side. Metallic tinge to the air, new ozone necessary when the heat is this intense. Now there is silence. Now there is reflection, and purity, and all is condensed. This single act: the only act left. The life led, its stresses and chaos, has soaked into the skin; noise runs through the veins, echoing in the ears, pulsing through the brain, throbbing against the skull. But now it runs out. Gates of heaven open and out spill the throngs, the sheep, the cackling masses devised of hostility and plots. Down the drain they flow. Now the body is clean. Now the future can be written once more. The battery has been changed, the mechanism reset.

Next day comes and the dirt of days clog up the pores once more. The cycle starts again. I shall never be clean, not truly. Knowing this makes me want to cut even more. So I do. Nobody bothers to ask me to roll up my sleeves and show them my scars. My parents don't because they assume I wouldn't do anything like that. Teachers don't because they know it's weird. But, even if they did see the scars, and asked me about them, I would refuse to speak - because it's my secret, my coping strategy, and it's not hurting anyone except me; and, in this world, I'd rather hurt myself than anyone else. Confronting me about it makes me feel put upon, and singled out. Offering sympathy makes me feel offended because I'm not looking for your sympathy. Don't insult me with your platitudes. I know what I'm doing. I'm in control. You don't understand.

You show me the scars on your arms. I gawp. Of all people, why would you do it? You aren't going through the same things I am. What a stupid thing for you to do. You tell me you might do it later on tonight, and I ask you not to. It doesn't make sense for you to be doing it. You're alive, and well, and I am dead, and problematic. Like my music and my books, cutting belongs to me, and for you to enter into that world disrupts it and makes me want to push you away. But at the same time I really want you to keep trying. Ignore the outer layer. See the part of me I've hidden away, the part of me I don't even think I know. I'm too young to cope with all of this. Take me out of myself. Listen to my confession; do not comment, and do not judge.

Take these words, for they are my blood.

Sunday, 21 October 2012




This is what she's done to me. I look like a stoner, my eyes are so red.

And I look balder than I thought I was.
Time has stopped, space has stopped, and it feels like I no longer exist. I am utterly alone in space, typing into an empty vast void. Where once was caring and emotion, there is only dead silence. I am floating in a sea of grey meaninglessness where nobody and nothing matters.

This is how it is to live in Barnsley.

This is somehow beautiful but I don't know why

I'm crying because... she was one of my favourite people I'd ever met.

I just want one more day with her. Just to talk to someone who seemed to get me.

But anyone who gives someone the silent treatment for no reason whatsoever is just too mean. It would have to be a REALLY good reason for me to be OK with it but I can't for the life of me think of any bar the possibility that she still has feelings for me but I really doubt that. And even if that were true, why on earth would that be the way of dealing with it? "I'm going to be mean as hell to you and not talk to you anymore because you still mean something to me." Wtf.

Instead I think she just decided to cut me off, which would have been bad enough anyway but is somehow unbearably painful and upsetting considering she had said she really missed me too and wanted to be friends a week ago. What am I missing here? Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe friends spend their time ignoring messages from each other. Especially ones who are just trying to reconcile after a hard time not talking for months. Yeah. That's how normal people react. That's how you build bridges.

Goddamn. I really need to see you guys. I really need to remember that the people from uni like me. And that I'm a good teacher.

And that for the past three months I've been a Civ addict who has barely left the house.

I would kill myself, but I would never know how this horror story ends.

She posts this on her tumblr yesterday, a reblog from someone else.


 I DO BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN FEEL YOUR HEART BREAK.

When your throat tightens and your pulse quickens. You feel like you’re going to be sick to your stomach. The tears build up but they just won’t fall. When you bite your lip just to feel the pain somewhere else. It’s breaking.

What? Seriously, what the fuck? If she's 'in love' with someone new, at least then she could have the decency to tell me and explain that this is why she can't talk to me anymore. Instead, no. Just cut me off a moment after I'd got some hope that she still cared.

Her heart is not broken. Who would have broken her heart? Certainly not me. How could I? All I've been doing is telling her I need her. My heart has been ripped to absolute shreds and, as much as I'm over being out with her, a heart can also be seriously wounded by friends.

My biggest fear is? That you'll stop caring about me. And this is the kind of shit I need to talk to my therapist about because it means I'm relying on you to make me feel alive. I don't know why.

Maybe I'm just being a typical paranoid thinking everything she writes like that is about me. She's cut me off, and that's all I need to know. I am banished, and there is no rhyme or reason to it.

This is what goes on in my head... every fucking day... the moment I wake up. The only time it stopped was during uni when I could talk to other people and feel sane. Now, that Elysium is gone and she is back.

Or maybe literally just trying to reach out to her meant I invested so much emotionally again, in ways I hadn't for a couple of months, that I got burned again. I felt hope. I felt like she actually felt human feelings like I did, that she really did miss me because she said so.



Who, if they miss someone, then proceed not to talk to them? Someone who is beyond comprehension, who is a borderline waif with no thought for anyone they leave behind because they have such a tunnel vision view of everyone and everything. In those fleeting instances where they display signs that they care, they might see the light for a moment and comprehend that other people matter too. But then, for whatever reason, those moments pass and the banishment begins with no sense of empathy or caring other than their own, eternally tortured souls that, were they given all the love in all the world, would never ever manage to feel like they were loved.

And anyway, all that's said and done, maybe I did find her queer thing and extroversion a little much to take. And it's like, I get it. You like Sarah Brightman. You want to fuck her. I get it. You're bisexual. Good for you. And yeah, maybe even some of her friends were kind of irritating.

To be honest... wtf am I actually missing out on? I was never loved, so I'm not missing love. Friendship? I don't think she ever really felt like she cared about me. She only cared about a possible version of me. The constant pressure to match up to her expectations was actually kind of stressful. The feeling of being tested. Maybe I was the same for her without realising I was. Who knows.

If she wants to be a friend she has to be a friend. This see-saw of power and control is nothing like what friends do. I don't know what the fuck it is.
Well I attempted another call and she didn't answer so I've deleted her number from my phone.


Felt nice feeling like everything was normal for a while. Now I'm back to square one and I don't know why.


Now I'm wishing I'd never bothered.


I feel unwell.

Saturday, 20 October 2012

Fucking horrible mean silent but deadly noxious poison, depart my head at once!
Stupid ex appearing in my stupid dreams again. Left a stupid message on her stupid mobile which, whilst not rude or angry, was hopefully assertive enough in getting across the message that if she doesn't feel like talking for whatever reason, it would be helpful to let the other party know.

Nobody in their right mind treats anyone the way she treated me. I'm starting to realise that. I'm not used to taking this position that something isn't my fault, because things usually are. It's actually a strange gear shift for me and I'm not sure if I like it.

This blog has become a paean to self-pity.

Friday, 19 October 2012

Swear Down Bruv

Dave was not normally a betting man. It was only when Cecil, his landlord, stopped by to demand last month's, next month's, and this month's rent, that Dave realised he would have to resort to desperate measures. He grabbed a measuring tape and began to measure Cecil's height whilst eating cow pie. Inevitably, this did not go down well, because the mechanism of the tape seemed to have malfunctioned after a beaver's teeth became lodged within its crevices one day when it was bored and had decided not only to bite down on some measuring tape apparatus, but come to England over a ferry, find his way to Gloucester, find Dave's house, and set up shop within his sink. The only customers were the mice under the kitchen sink who traded with the beaver for cheese and ham and biscuits and occasionally bleach just to fuck with Dave when he was looking for bleach.

Cecil was a man who thought he was a loner but he had an accidental wife. Justine was her name, and in her spare time she liked to look at spare tyres and ponder the gap between when a tyre becomes spare and when it doesn't. In those millimoments between the tyre being off and being on, did it undergo a spiritual experience? Were we, she would ask Cecil of an evening, all wandering around being spare tyres, or are we all gripping the road of reality whilst carrying the weight of the car of morality? Cecil, being the uncivilised gentleman he was, would grab a slice of Dr. Pepper from the frozen fridge and jump up and down on the bed as some sort of attempt to arouse her. For some reason that Cecil could never fathom - simply because he had never attempted to fathom  it - Justine had a fetish for jumping on beds and so would instantly shriek in delight and join in the jumping on the bed game. Sex, needless to say, was fairly challenging under the circumstances, but eventually they managed to get there sooner or later. But, during one particularly bouncy session, the floor gave way, exposing the dusty jawline of the house's skeleton, where surprised spiders and vampiric woodlice crawled away from their heads as they gazed around them at the chaos and rubble. The ceiling was now made up of a hole, and for a brief second they were as blank and newborn as victims of an absolute disaster such as the Troglodyte Fiasco of a few years ago when a local unicorn sold his family hen to a captain of badgers who hassled and bought loads of fish but Ryman's in the end had to sell it all off to a conglomerate; the 'con' part of the glomerate should have been a sign for all concerned, for the conglomerate scandled everybody out of a Benylin saturate worth over billions of dollars in expected tax-free ridiculous.

So Dave was shorn of cash and had only one day to pay it off. He thought about selling off parts of his body, and so shaved all of his hair bar the eyebrows, before wandering the streets of Electron offering people his hair. To his mild surprise, a man riding atop a horse punched him, but to his even milder surprise, the horse offered Dave a roundhouse kick to the gonads. Thankfully the horse ran out of KarateKredit an inch before it took his head off, and them went back to gallumphing and hallumphing and chasing ante-popes.

Antelopes, pantyhose, Soho hoes and a bottle of candy floss were all items that Dave attempted to procure, for reasons that even Dave could not understand. So he went to the betting shop, a place he had never before ventured into, bar the time he ventured into it but he didn't count that time because he was only two and hadn't learned how to. His father, a mixed machine guru, painted abstract potions of nicotine wastrels sprawled lackadaisically out on the suburban slums, ennui mixed with dosages of chargrilled arsonthoughts raging through the solar plexii of a million disaffected youths whose faces boiled with pustule hatred and pollen riches, scattered and wasted up the noses of the fortunate who revel in their pointillism and banishment lectures from the family trees of successive tyrants whose brows were as furrowed as their thighs were haughty.

Wounded from his rejection, Dave attempted to clone himself so that he could hide, but that technology didn't exist, so he wondered why he was feeling so low when in fact the bookkeeper was eyeing him with a gaze he usually reserved for coffee beans.
"I see you're a new customer," said the man as Dave approached.
"I see you're an Irishman," replied Dave.
"Irish through."
"And through?"
"No, just through. Failed the second test. Still manage to pass for Irish most days. Occasionally I'll wake up and I'll be from Japan, but those days are rare."
"No."
"Damnit. You could tell. It's the Irish days that are rare, I tell you. Sometimes I can't even make it a day. There'll be a sudden moment where I change into a Japanese person."
"Will that happen now, do you think?"
"No. I've packed my Godzilla Gum. It helps prevent Japanese people."
"Prevents them doing what?"
"Being Japanese."
"I'd like to place a bet."
"What - on me turning Japanese?"
"No. I'd like to place a bet that the Queen will die in the next week."
"Can't do that," said the bookie.
Dave grabbed the man's gum just as he was slo-mo putting it to his mouth. Dave then ate it and found that he suddenly felt 100% less Japanese that he did before. Curiously, this absence served to inform him that he was, in fact, one two-hundredth Japanese. But the absence was not particularly irking. It was the man in front of him that was the issue.
"I think I'm turning Japanese," said the Irishman. "I like me a pint of Guinness - it's grand you see, being from Tokyo - we serve the best sushi this side of the Clachten river down south in a land where nobody goes because they haven't heard of it you see - during the famine a million tonnes of potatoes were stolen by the foreign devils, who bring their nuclear bombs and try to destroy our culture."
"What did you do to stop the famine?"
"We found nuclear bombs. We bomb them. Americans come up to me, and I say, 'You want million dollar? Fuck you! Here's bomb!' and I drop bomb on head. I tell you, the craic that day was fucking hilarious. Old Pete McGovern - you know the guy, long hair, shaggy beard, tends to repeat the word 'carrot' a lot, unless he's drunk, in which case he'll tell you the funniest fucking stories about the time that he and I went drinking - of course, I can't remember a damn thing after I've had twenty Guinnesses but Pete, he's fine after going to see a horror film where a girl character with long brown hair over her face does something scary, and I tell you mate, nothing's funnier than tentacle rape on a Friday night in a Dublin pub. I got twelve black eyes in one evening, and that was just from talking to Dennis O' Donahue, a man with the ability to utter the word 'fuck' without opening his mouth. All he does is shut his eyes and the word just comes out of him. Swear blind."
"So can I place this bet or not," said Dave, growing impatient, like a Hula Hoop at the bottom of a packet waiting to be glamourised  by having a few seconds placed onto the end of a finger of a discerning school child whose name may or may not be Isabella.
"You want place bet? Sure, you place bet."
"How much?"
"Two."
"No. Not two. Four. Four thousand."
"You place four thousand bet? Jaysus, you're a pretty confident fella, aren't you? Will you look at that, placing your bet there. What are the odds of that?"
"You tell me. You're the bookie."
"I meant the odds of you placing that bet, not the odds of the bet itself."
"Want to bet on it?"
"Sure. I'll bet you a pound."
"I'll bet you two pounds."
"You win."
And that is how betting works.

Dave, clean fresh from the bookies despite a bleeding ear and a disturbed groin, had placed his bet on the Queen dying within the next week. A four thousand pound bet, for reasons even he couldn't ascertain, although it was along the lines of he borrowed the money from his dad. Even though he could have just borrowed enough money to pay his landlord and then owe his dad. But that's not really important anymore. What's really important is that he placed a bet on the Queen dying within the next week and if he lost, then bad shit would happen. Like, there were premonitions already. Walking the streets of London, he began to notice a shift in the atmosphere. Troubling pollution arose in and around him. A sudden fart arose, and he realised that fart was London. Was it any wonder that Jarobe N'duff wrote in 945, "Luden bei ploone ang woorseten cum angebot athlaesten"? All was hellish. All was waterstoned and starbucked. It was time to make that bet count because the writer of this was getting tired.

Dave

actually I cba

tl;dr man places bet on queen dying then kills the queen and goes to kill for life but is nonetheless pleased he won the money

Thursday, 18 October 2012

copypasta from http://www.steadyhealth.com/Perineal_Anal_Irritation__burning__itching__mostly_after_a_bowel_movement____t88079.html?page=2

my perineum is very red.. and i dont think it really itchs me .. but the pain.. Right now Im sitting on an Ice pack...which seems to help a little. I dont know what to do about it... When I wipe.. it feels like im rubbing sand paper on my bum/vagina.. and sometimes.. I know it sounds crazy.. when Im wiping.. it hurts but feels good. not like sexually or nothing.. no way.. but like.. the itch.. you just cant stop scratching.. 

I know that fucking feel (apart from the vagina part obviously)
My therapist said she'd call me today and she hasn't.

When even your therapist can't be bothered with you, you might as well an hero.

Everyone thinks I'm a moany cunt. And I am. And I don't know how to be a moany cunt.

Tuesday, 16 October 2012

Therapist

Thinking about it, in light of a civilised world, I realise that the stuff I was saying to the therapist was possibly signs of a disturbed mind. If they weren't, then the world might be like me and that's even scarier.

Me: (in a strangely emotionless way) It's like, if other people in a conversation stop talking, I assume it's my fault, and so want to leave to save people from having to co-exist in the same environment with me. It's like, if people aren't talking to me, then I cease to exist and so can just depart from the society around me without hurting anyone.

Her: If you lived on a desert island alone, would you be free of these anxious feelings? Are they caused by other people?

Me: If I lived on a desert island, I'd probably kill myself.

Her: Okay, but if you didn't, would you feel anxious?

Me: (Trying not to chuckle) Maybe not. I'd feel like I'd stop having to be human. Just become part of the world around me. Be a rock.

That point where you kind of self-consciously sound a bit mental just to justify being there but then realise afterwards you were being awfully honest. This is the new redemption. I'm also aware that you've been in therapy and didn't feel the need to project it onto a blog. Maybe I need to share it in order to feel like it can just be another part of the narrative.
Hmmm... text my newest friend M and start feeling worried when she doesn't reply.

Actually, I don't give a fuck. Quite refreshing.

Although if that were true I wouldn't be writing this.

Mfw her tumblr had a reposted image of "if you're not cool with the thought of your ex sleeping with someone else, you shouldn't talk to them yet".

I don't care if she's sleeping with someone else :\ that means I'm free in ways she isn't because the thought of me sleeping with anyone else isn't ok for her. Then I think like, what are you actually thinking? You dump someone but then you care if they're sleeping with someone else? Which obviously I'm not, but still. You either dump someone and let them be free or you stay with them.

"You're dumped but it's not ok for you to sleep with anyone else". Right....

Crazy broad. Borderline.

Broaderline.

Monday, 15 October 2012

Venus in Piles

Mfw shitting whilst you have piles is actually orgasmic.

Mfw scratching your arse afterwards is also orgasmic.

Mfw the itching that produces is horrendous; mfw a cold sitz bath afterwards is orgasmic.

Actual quote from a website:

"It is worth asking yourself whether you are deriving a perverse, almost erotic, pain/pleasure from scratching the itchy area, which is keeping the irritation going."

Sunday, 14 October 2012

John never won when he bet on anything. That time a few years ago he'd bet on England losing to Argentina turned out to be a disaster: Michael bloody Owen had scored in the last minute to win it for England. It was only a friendly but somehow it had meant the world to everybody watching. Everybody except John. He'd put a hundred quid into that, and would have won a hundred back; but no... they had to orchestrate it so that he wouldn't be lucky for once in his life.



will continue just really tired. i have a whole story in my head for this if it's worth doing
Wow. She actually texted saying she really misses me too.


I'm like... oh. What am I meant to feel now?

Saturday, 13 October 2012

What is wrong with me? Why can't I just function like everyone else?

If I have to spend every weekend feeling like this, I don't know how I'll cope.

I'm so fucking empty. It feels like no matter what I do, no matter how much I pretend, no matter how many other friends I might have made, there'll always be that emptiness there. A Mia-sized hole.

And it's a big damned hole.

Damn that delicious booty.

I don't understand it. Why would she just stop.

Why why why.....

How do I stop this going round my head? Distractions are just that - distractions. Then back to the emptiness of so-called self. As Shela pointed out, I must be tired. And I am. I'm really really tired of this now.

Getting you back was a big deal. Those three months without you around I felt like this, but at least I found out during that moment of e-mailing you that you still cared. Had I emailed you and found out you disregarded me as just some person you knew... that would have killed me. But she's done this. To her I'm just that person she knew. That crazy guy who never read the signs and couldn't get a hint.

I'm her Kristen.

ok so i succumbed agian and read her tumblr again and saw this


  • 13: Have you ever told somebody you loved them and not actually meant it?
  • No. This is a cruel and bullshit manipulative move, one with which I DO NOT TRUCK


  • 36: Who did you last share a bed with?
  • Probably my ex, actually. I’m pretty possessive over my bedspace, it takes a LOT of trust to let another person sleep next to me. Mostly because I’m a mad insomniac and if they’re sleeping soundly while my mind is racing at 3am, it takes a lot of love for that person to keep from smothering them to death with a pillow in an exhausted, envious rage

This is so torturous and confusing man. She's fucking impossible to read. Especially since she also posted this and her reply of "Word."

Word.

Shit I need to remember.


CAN'T WE STILL BE FRIENDS??
You'll likely hear this question posed in slightly different ways by your soon-to-be-X-Borderline. Take a moment here, and ask yourself what friendship means to you, and if you've ever been treated with such disrespect, lack of concern and dishonesty in any relationship you've come to regard as one you could trust. Friends aren't just acquaintances--these are folks we've learned (over time) we can rely on, to have our back, as we have theirs. The BPD Waif tries to keep you around to meet every little need she has, no matter how inconvenient it might be for you drop everything in your world, to respond to her frantic outreach--be it the middle of the night, or otherwise. The unfortunate truth here is, this has never been a reciprocal relationship--and it ain't about to become one now.

This woman could make self-aggrandizing statements concerning her appeal or allure to other males. She may tell you about men who've flirted with her during an event or outing when you weren't nearby--or she'll often reference a boss, friend or co-worker who's "got a thing" for her. This is a manipulation that's designed to cover several bases--but it's mainly about control.

First, it's a distancing technique that keeps you on edge--meaning, uneasy and off-kilter (the better to control you with, my dear). It's great sport for her to seduce you back--especially after she's angered you (make up sex is hotter). Her comments are nothing short of emasculating--and a conscious, sound female doesn't do that to someone she loves! Rubbing your nose in this stuff (whether true or not) is the equivalent of lopping off your balls. You'll resist feeling small and insignificant--but she generally hits her mark. Second, this behavior triggers your competitive reflex, because boyhood self-esteem issues get activated (along with abandonment concerns), and you're compelled to do something about that! This can take the form of buying her costly gifts, fawning over her, taking her on elaborate trips/vacations, etc. Her diabolical maneuvers are designed to make you feel insecure/unworthy, view her as more valuable than she sees herself, and manipulate your desire and emotions. That's just the beginning--but bottom line, we need to build your self-worth, so you're not susceptible to this crap in the first place.

Friday, 12 October 2012

Moment I Realised I'm Old

Two kids sitting in front of me. I was at the back observing. They start talking about Xbox. I lean forward and ask awkwardly if they've heard about Rocksmith. They're like "Yeah. It sounds cool" then a pause breaks out. I sit back, realising they must think I'm a weirdo trying to show he's still down with the kids even though he's not.

Eternal sadness.

And I can't be arsed to get Rocksmith.

Sunday, 7 October 2012

maybe use this for later


  • Some people were meant to drop out. Back a few hundred years those people became monks, explorers or wanders. These days others are quick to slap on the label of bi-polar disorder on them.

Thursday, 4 October 2012

I'm feeling too tired and lazy to bother anymore...

Woman bleating at me about levels and targets and standards. God, it's so staid.

But then also, I had that fundamental rabbit-in-headlights mentality where I just wanted someone else to do it for me. Everything.

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

socializing works like a market. People trade their time with other people if and only if they believe they're gaining something of greater value than what they're giving up. These "gains from trade" so to speak are then reinvested (e.g. meeting friends of friends, "networking"). It's pure capitalism. Unlike in a real economy though, none of this social wealth can ever be regulated or redistributed and therefore losers will usually remain socially destitute, as the gap between them and the winners widens with years.


winthread (nsfw so no link) from chanarchive, read if you cba. Actually don't, because you're happy :P

Monday, 1 October 2012

Just occurred to me that S & M would have been seen as an indication of an aberrant personality until fairly recently, and yet now it seems as though those who practise it are enlightened and cool.

Perhaps in the future abnormality will simply not exist and we shall all be free of guilt.

I wish I had been more forgiving. I wish I could end this on a positive note. I wish she could at least see me one more time. Just once. I don't know why.

Addiction is unhealthy, especially when you realise the source of it died months ago. Hope is the killer. Hope is what would have turned me into a slave.

Secretly that's all I want, though. These days slavery is the only real love left. Hence my initial sentence. And the loop goes round once more again.


Just occurred to me that S & M would have been seen as an indication of an aberrant personality until fairly recently, and yet now it seems as though those who practise it are enlightened and cool.

Perhaps in the future abnormality will simply not exist and we shall all be free of guilt.

I wish I had been more forgiving. I wish I could end this on a positive note. I wish she could at least see me one more time. Just once. I don't know why.

Addiction is unhealthy, especially when you realise the source of it died months ago. Hope is the killer. Hope is what would have turned me into a slave.

Secretly that's all I want, though. These days slavery is the only real love left. Hence my initial sentence. And the loop goes round once more again.

etc until die

Just saw Much Ado About Nothing...

... ashamed to say it's the first time I've seen a Shakespeare play performed. I knew nothing about the play at all, and was just fucking blown away.

Absolute genius. Unbelievable wit, and psychological knowledge so far ahead of his time he makes Bowie look staid. One scene nearly had me in tears, it was somehow so perfectly done. Every plot line was so beautifully woven in, and all the drama was played out in such a perfectly believable way. Sure, it was contrived, but it was so... perfect.

I can't actually believe Shakespeare wrote that. Just some guy from the olden days. You'd expect that kind of story to be written by a dozen writers. I laughed. I actually laughed at words that were created five hundred or so years ago. The innuendos. The slapstick.

I'm going to get into Shakespeare. I feel like I've discovered something that has confirmed my idea that God only reveals himself through genius. Haven't felt so awakened, so alive, so damn excited by a work of art since I heard Beethoven's Fifth.

The difference between reading a text and seeing it performed is just vast. I had the feeling I was witnessing something so awesome that surely I didn't actually see it. Surely it was just a dream. Surely nothing that beautiful can exist in a world such as ours.

And to think there are dozens of other plays just like it. How?
Ideas for getting students to create stories in class. 
Sarah: they can use pictures.
Johnny: they can gather newspaper articles.
Me: They can look at clouds. 
Class: :)