To everyone I stole from, I'm sorry.

to fucking everyone seriously. what the hell.. i have been wearing this shit for more than two years. more. my body has been so tight, hunched, breathing painful, seriously, every noise setting a jackhammer off in my chest, wondering wishing that we could turn the light off and park in a dark hole, somewhere down and deep, somewhere away from everything. panic doubled by the fact that not even home is safe. that it brings the most nerve wracking pccurence of all, having to walk past the family stoned.

cannot

must not

world will end

etc

so i wait in the freezing cold, for hours, doing literally nothing but holding myself to try and stop the cold. and not daring to ask the time. what if it hasn't been very long? what if the truth is only 5 minutes? i just couldnt take that. my hearts already going to break from stress, any more will surely kill it. just wait it out a bit more. accept your fate. for 2 hours, reassure yourself that whatever happens happens. not in a relaxing icanletgonow way. in a, keep saying these words to prevent a sudden intake of breath, an explosion inside, an eruption from the eyes and screams and relisations that have been begging to fly out for so long, painfully scratching to get out, from the inside. keep ignoring it. for the love of god

how again? what again? what the heeeeeeell.

to my landlord that never got the rent on time, i'm sorry.

to centrelink and job networks whose appointments i never showed up at and never called about, i'm sorry.

to the people who came over to my house and were ignored by me because i was too involved in smoking, i'm sorry.

to the people who i met while i was stoned and forget their names the next 5 or 6 times we met because i was stoned then too; i'm sorry.

to my friends who i chose drugs over, i'm so sorry.

to my friends who came to hang out with me and i spent the whole time as-good-as vacant or absent, i'm sorry.

to my family who must have worried and cared for me more than they needed to; i'm sorry.

to jackson, whose own problems have no choice but to be magnified next to mine, i am sorry.

to everyone in the world; friend, family, stanger, family-in-law, friend-of-a-friend, dealer, buyer, straight-edge, too old, too young, animal, mineral and vegetable...

I am so sorry.

And to myself, for the brain I could have had, for the moments I cheated myself out of, to the things i made myself do and endure in the name of a score and all the time i fucking wasted being so fucking wasted;

I am so very sorry.

Alone again.

Feelings! All quiet but strong. Disappointed in myself for failing again. Relieved to let go of the pressure of expectations. Sad, so sad, to say goodbye. Oh god though, right now, I guess I'm grieving because the sense of loss is so deep that it makes me breathe differently. I wish I could have stayed by his side forever and smiled everyday but I can't! Sometimes I need to run with nothing behind me and he doesn't understand sometimes. It's always or never and that's fine but not for me [now]. I have plans! Plans to create and be, to grow and better, to be alone and be okay and to adore and be adored. I want to do exciting things all by myself! And I can't wait. Really. I'm looking forward to my future. But I took a chance and I fell in love and I just can't follow through this time and and and it hurts.
I am still confused and can't express this through words anymore. I just don't know what to say. Words aren't making sense. I need to cry.

Well my shoulders are just as skinny, but I feel they're able to carry a bit more now that my mind is no longer fading away. I feel positive about the new year, a little scared, but the memory of hitting rock bottom will remain a constant reminder to persevere with the plan of getting healthy and strong.
My much awaited housewarming was a few days ago. It was fun minus a few domestic dramas and slight overdosing. Have been having big fights with boyfriend lately and nearly decided single life would suit me more until I woke up without his skin on my own and realised it just wouldn't work. We both need to make changes and adapt. I will remain committed to improving my health. It's getting ridiculous. Dangerous. I'm not only dying but killing myself. Refuse.
Don't want drugs to get in the way of creativity anymore. Need to prioritise them both and retain better control. Confident I can.

My brother gave me a plane ticket to Tasmania for a week. Just me and him. I leave on Feb 7th. He wanted a way to say thankyou for my christmas present to him; a ticket to Tool's concert. At the time he almost had to cut it from my clammy grasp, but now a week with him in a beautiful, new place sounds amazing.
Anyway... I'll see Tool at Big Day Out on the 25th. Six days. Oh em gee.

Life has sort of been one big acid trip lately, vague and sometimes unbelievable, but I feel good and right now that's what counts.

My shoulders are too small for this.

My mind is too weak and tired.

I cannot carry this.

It is Friday the 17th of November 2006. To Phoebe and I, this means only one thing... PROM NIGHT! The night we've been planning and dreaming of since we first stepped foot in that hideous bitch prison known as High School, the distant event that acted as constant consellation through the agonising pain of the compulsary 5 days of monotonous and torturous routine, the comforting knowledge of what was to come; "It'll all be worth it on prom night!", is finally here. It's nearly 11 am, 7 hours before it starts, and Phoebe and I are already beginning the long and gruelling task of getting ready. An hour after we emerged from Phoebe's dark hermitage into the bright promise of the morning, we are sitting on the concrete ground of her partially renovated bathroom, crystal pipe resting lightly in my hand, razor held firmly in Phoebe's as she slumps over on the edge of the shower, furiously shaving her legs - crucial accessories in the process of transforming from pajama clad bogans to frocked up buxom beauties (of course the buxom part is mostly Phoebe's doing). Next step: Eyebrow plucking and champagne consuming.


To comply with my initial reason for starting this blog, I should give a breif update on my life at the moment.
It seems like all my years of searching and yearning and whingeing have finally paid off; after applying for hundreds of jobs and sitting back crestfallen as the corporate bastards failed to acknowledge my existence, I was just about to give up and had already started planning the rest of my life on the dole; I'd live in 24 hour McDonald's on george st, and spend my entire centrelink benefit on their products, while living a life of freedom and meeting new, interesting and overweight people in the macca's booths. I would never again eat anything except small cheeseburger meals, and every three days I'd make myself a new outfit made of food wrappers and saturated fat. I had accepted that this was going to be my life. But then! Out of the dark hopeless abyss that was my future, a small and local establishment emerged, and I aquired legitimate employment with the IGA in Newtown. I've been working there for a few weeks now, and although it's ergonominically disastrous for my 6 ft self, and the monotony and pressure could very well be the death of me, I quite like it. I got the hang of it quicker than I thought. Which was a very nice feeling. The location is conveniant, the people are tolerable, and the pay beats centrelink hands down. In other news, today is also the day Phoebe, Emma and I hear whether or not our application for a house in Marrickville was approved. Phoebe and I are chanelling all our positive energy into the hope that we get it. It's right near the station, second hand clothing stores, asian groceries and... MCDONALDS! But not JUST Mcdonalds, there is also KFC and Subway all within a 10 metre radius! So even if I lose my job and get kicked out of the house, my backup plan is just across the road. It's perfect. The house is pretty much what I wanted, small but not too small, shabby but not delapidated, quirky but not architectually retarded. My bedroom is actually a laundry! It's brick and tiles and conrete, and has big metal shelves. And a sink! A sink that, much to Emma's dismay, I will piss in. AGAIN AND AGAIN. Another recent feat for me that I've been searching for [admittedly, in all the wrong places] has occured; I've fallen in love. As in. Real, true, mature type that I wanted long before I ever discovered the destructive hard-to-break habit of throwing myself at guys with issues upon personality disorders upon abusive tendancies wrapped up in a fierce inability to commit.
He brings out the best version of me. This isn't like before. This isn't filling a gaping hole, it isn't based on rebellion or conquest or revenge, and it isn't some teenage punk rock fantasy. It's two people on the same path, going the same way, going forward and upwards together. If one of us falls, the other will help. Our eyes met and brought our bodies together, I initially planned on stopping it there. I wasn't looking for anything more than a reason not to sleep alone anymore. But I found so much more and I can't even begin to describe what this means and feels like to me. For as long as this lasts, I am confident it will be positive and beautiful, and that we'll learn more from each other than we had ever imagined. I could rant about his wonder for hours and hours... but this blog is long enough. And my nails need painting.

She steals me.
I said no and I said no again, but she always wins in the end and we both know that. It didn't take me long to fall desperately in love. And the desperation hasn't weakened. It is love, and it is a true and unchanging love. But there is pathos in the love I feel for her, I will not deny that.

And yet, I've never met a more beautiful woman. I've known a few. Some I sit with and think, my thoughts deep and unfinished, each running straight into the next. Some I run and dance with, I touch for hours and adore the beauty. I talk and moan and happy-sigh, feeling great and appreciating the beauty a woman can bring. Some women creep lazily but intently around, slipping further away from this and now with every moment, drowning surely into then and it doesn't matter because she feels so fucking good. Some women stand behind me, nails digging into my skull as I get angrier and angrier, flicking my disregard down on the rest of the world, sneering with red eyes at the people who before were my friends. When these women leave me and I am left with the heavy memory of their way, nothing seems this dark. I am certain; I will never feel joy again and all memories of the exquisite and seemingly inexplicable elation are lost in that moment, hidden invisable inside empty plastic. There are other women I have known; colourful bright maidens who run hard and intense, loudly so you cannot miss them. These girls paint historys and scenes in front of you with the notes of music, they turn the sounds from your stereo and from your mouth into moving objects you can hold in your hands. They turn distant thoughts into tangible reality, and leave it dancing in front of you, daring you to reach out and take your very thoughts from the air you breathe. All of these women run and crawl in and out of the lives of so many. Countless times, I've found myself falling in love with one of these girls, these parlour-maids, and smiled with comfort; I have discovered a precious lover and she is mine! And then. And then. The others rise and tell their stories, and their stories make you laugh at first, and then they make you cry. And then their stories make you sigh because you feel a little bored with the repitition of knowledge, she is not special and she is not yours. I start to see the imperfections in my women, I feel more and more tired and less and less revolutionised.
I am jaded.

Until one day or night, [I soon find time is irrelevant], we meet. And I know, that I've never met a more beautiful woman. At first I think beauty doesn't matter. But that was before I kissed her. Oh what a kiss this woman has! So smooth and strong, it must be poison. At first I laugh, I cannot believe I am actually doing this, with everything I've heard about her. Her and her type. Nogoodnogoodnogood. And minutes before this I was bending over, cleaning up someone else's vomit and wiping away unrelated tears. These women are strong, not like the girls we played with at high-school because television said so or said no-so. This was different. She was the one they all talked about. Whispers and headlines, rumours and accusations, false information. She was no stranger. I knew why, that regardless of warnings and faint intuition, I kept dancing. I admired her. She was strong and tough, she was sexy and she knew it. This woman, once so new, taught me how to speak to others and look into their eyes like I believed in myself. She taught me not to fall player to quick-judgment and social hype. She taught me to love; myself and bass - to drop my black guitar and facial metal stubborness and open my mind to quick beats and sound effects, and sparatic lyrics that don't come from too deep but seem to hit me deeper than the men who scream, and seemed to hold much brighter memories. This woman, this love of mine, she taught me how to dance. She taught me how to detach from consistant years of following eyes and whispers-loud-enough-to-hear, she taught me how to shed weights of built up shame and fear and doubt, and let myself get lost in the music, to stop existing in the superficial social labyrinth of highschool where I was worse than nothing; I was a fucking freak and I had to learn to subconsciously pre-determine every action I made and word I said in advance so that I ended up with the most unnoticable and/or ambivolent and/or socially acceptable outcome possible. She taught me to abandon that mindset; where anything slightly personal that could in any way make me vulnerable, or be traced back to me being honest and expressive enough to say something spontaneous or relevant, and therefore have enough confidence in myself to say something [ANYTHING] and know it was true, or amusing, or attractive, was criminally insane and basically unnacceptable. She taught me to reach inside my mind and remove this constant running self-sabotage. She taught me to freeze it and throw it against a brick wall, and revel in the smashing sounds it made as it shattered, and walk barefoot on the broken shards because my skin was thicker then. I learnt, from her, to ALLOW MYSELF to move my body in time with the music, to look beautiful and know it, and for the first time, to not give a fuck when I don't. This woman keeps me company when everyone else is dreaming, sheets thrown haphazardly over bodies, mouths singing monotonously with deep nasal snores, she sits with me when I watch then curiously, almost forgetting what it's like to sleep. She is mine, the stories don't reach my ears when I am dancing and creating. My muse and lover, she picks me up, up, up, she pushes me on and on and on and she stays with me always, moving airily around my warm body, from my hands to my mouth, I can almost taste her dancing down my throat and around me. With each kiss, I can almost feel her becoming part of me, going deeper and further inside, until she is running and dancing through my bloodstream. This woman is full bodied and infinate, she is fast and pleasant, this girl. My motivation, my mistress.

-----

Previous many hours just got lost and that writing is what is shown for it. It just happened. Unedited, uncut. It sounds a little bit too obsessed but... it's art. Dig it.

This is a sort of personal letter to someone, I'm posting it here to have documentation of it. I will update properly with relevant updates about my present life when I feel the time is right. :)


Listening to The doors and dancing with tina. I feel like the ice queen. The ice queen. Why is she called ice when she spreads through my whole body like a warm blanket? Not like heroin. Not like that slow hand pulling and pushing. Like a friendly and beautiful woman, touching me and heating me up. Hot, sexual and sensual. It's not history. It's now. It's two hours from now when you know this feeling of power will not have left you. You know there's no chance of abandonment with this girl, she's not going to laugh at you when your makeup's running, she's not going to kick you out of the room because your expirary date ran out (24 hour time) and she's not going to keep you constantly out of reach, in the dark, hidden behind lies and excuses. Though she may steal from you, colours and weight and sometimes friends, she will give. And she will never leave.

Anyway. I can't stop thinking about you. That wasn't said with the connetations it would usually hold. It just is. It's nothing. Or maybe everything. It's something, it's just fact. I am very strongly attracted to you. In the sense that I am a person, and you are a person and this huge blurry world is covered with people, they're swirling in and out of everywhere and doing everything, and some of them I see. Some of them walk past and I'm still looking at the sky. But I notice you. I feel your presence if you're there. Even if you're not there. Now that I've met you, it's not going to go back. I'm not going to forget you in a hurry. You're a someone in my big [small?] life. It is strange and uncommon, but I feel like I am literally attracted to you like a magnet, like something just draws me to you. The sea and waves of eyes, and mine find yours. I want to touch you. I want to tell you, I want to hear you. I want to sit in silence and let Maynard's voice wash over the two of us, apart but connected by invisable threads of similar passion and feelings and thoughts.

This is a pretty elaborate and somewhat intense way of saying that I like you. I feel like there's a chance at a friendship that could be timeless. And maybe it wont. But the few breif moments we've shared; talking about art, experiencing spirals, our lips meeting softly and the rest of the world falling to stop, or sharing smoke between our mouths... it gives me hope that this could be something to make me smile and reference in years to come.


marnie says: (1:59:28 AM)
actually i had my sister in mind

marnie says: (1:59:42 AM)
but if you would like to think its about you then go ahead

charlie says: (1:59:47 AM)
Ha

charlie says: (1:59:55 AM)
you're so much like her its scary

marnie says: (2:00:14 AM)
WELL I THINK ITS BEAUTIFUL

charlie says: (2:00:26 AM)
HAHAHAHAHAHA

charlie says: (2:00:32 AM)
go to sleep little girl

charlie says: (2:01:23 AM)
I wish i'd never fallen in love with you

charlie says: (2:01:45 AM)
You've got alot more growing up to do

marnie says: (2:02:27 AM)
of course i do, what do you think im so excited about! my whole lifes in front of me and im not going to be alone! i couldnt ask for more

charlie says: (2:03:19 AM)
To quote you "I'm a very mature, insightful person"

charlie says: (2:03:40 AM)
Like i keep saying, stick to your story

marnie says: (2:04:11 AM)
mature compared to some? doesnt mean im ghandi. anyways. im bored of this now. cya

charlie says: (2:04:32 AM)
ok

charlie says: (2:04:36 AM)
soon as it gets to hard

charlie says: (2:04:37 AM)
just go

Charlie says: (2:04:39 AM)
bye 

Charlie says: (2:04:50 AM)
I hope you fucking OD

This is the worst comedown of my life ever. And even though I'm not definate that it caused it, I'm never having cocaine ever again. Yesterday, I felt miserable and exhausted. Today, I just feel nothing. Things are happening everywhere and I feel nothing. I don't care. Someone could come in and start cutting my skin up and I would merely give them a bored glance. I helped people in a way I thought I should because I felt it was my duty. Like it was my duty to wash up. Not because of the reasons i Normally would. I don't feel like I've been treated particularly well but I'm not going to talk about it. I had a very good weekend where just some bad things happened. So whatever. I'll go to sleep and hope that tomorrow I feel again. Just wanted to document this.