Sick

I am sick. Head aches as thoughts clatter-bounce off skull and back into brain-mush. Pit of stomach sickness; bile rises, even in my sleep. Hurt sent thumping from frustrated heart to every cell.

Respiration.

Breath it out,

breath it out,

breath…you…out.

No. This does not work.
Amuse-distract with beautiful men, over and bend over, and over again. But beautiful men are not the answer, because fucking it out does not work either.

I want you. I don’t want you. I can’t have you. You can’t have me. It won’t work. It will work. You don’t want me. I don’t want you. You won’t have me. I won’t have you. I can’t forget you. You can’t forget me.

Let me go? I can’t!

Let you go? Impossible!

I am sick. You can cure me, and I think you may find I am the answer to what ails you.

Limitations

Current camera produces strangers in the night. But she (Canon EOS 400D) is almost here. No more fuzzy.

Fix ‘er upper

There was this man, right, he knew a lot, well, he knew everything: how to fix things, how to break things, all the answers; tucked neatly into his silk-lined pockets with confidence.

There was this woman, okay, she knew nothing, well, she wanted to know nothing. Spend any time with her, and you would see how well she knew how to loose things, how to break things, and how to waste time.

Boy met girl.

And, at the start the man felt good because he knew he could fix the woman. The woman felt good because it felt good to have someone want to fix her. But through the years and over time, no matter how he tried, the man could not fix the woman, and no matter how she tried, the woman, could not help breaking things, and break things she did: plates, windows, garments, will, promises, heart.

And hurt lives on, born from the best of intentions.

Phobos and Deimos

I fell downstairs and ate my shoe, the tongue, hard to swallow, repeated on me, churning my stomach as it spewed its malefic opinions,

“Red is not your colour! Everybody hates you! You can’t do your job! You look like a fool! And, everybody knows you’re an alien!”

I ate the second shoe (minus the tongue, which I salted (threw pinch over left shoulder) and fed to the cat) to silence the first, it protested only mildly as I chewed, the leather working its way between my teeth. To be honest, those shoes were worn and no longer comfortable, and far too knowledgeable for my liking. Oh yes, they knew too much alright.

Now, now, now…where is that minted floss?

It hurts

I can’t live his life for him, I can’t take away his pain. He needs to work through things for himself, even when he is this small. School is where we learn a lot about life, and some of the tough things it throws us. For some, those school-yard life-lessons are the toughest of all. I can’t make people like him, I can nowhere near stop his pain. Yesterday, I got the news he is hitting out in frustration at other kids. And all I can do is guide him, support him, and let him know each and every day I am here for him. Oh how I love him.

The unbearable lightness of…me

We leaned on one another and watched the sunset. Together we created lava spilling-spurting-spluttering into a distant mirror-smooth ocean. Together we made islands and ships float on the mirror-glass. We watched our creations in silence, my hand clasped in yours, as the sinking sun unfurled the canvas for us, only us.

It’s moments like this that maybe, just maybe, there is the possibility that I just might, could kinda, sorta love you…one day. But more likely not, because, “Holy fucking crap dude, who on earth still wears their shirt tucked into high-pants like that?!!!”

You’re Not The Only One

Peach from Peach, Sarah from He Loves Me Not, Ariel from From Fuck Up To Fab, Ms R from Woman of Experience and Vi from Village Secrets) are putting together a book for WARCHILD written by bloggers. They would like you to submit (to bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you’ve been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc. They’ve called it “You’re Not The Only One” to reflect the comradery of blogging.

For the full details go to Peach’s post on the project.

In summary:

• You must be a blogger with a live blog.
• It must be about something you’ve been through, amusing or serious or any style you like.
• You can submit in your blogname and remain anonymous, or not, up to you.
• It can’t be something previously published outside the blogworld, but anything from your blog, or something entirely new, is fine.
• Try to keep below 1500 words.
• You must pimp the book on your site and buy it if you make a submission to be in it!DEADLINE IS 29th FEBRUARY 2008 for submissions.
  
• Send your submissions to bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk

We laugh ’til we wet ourselves

It was my birthday. I got presents. I got flowers. I got phone calls. I got dinner (and more) with a hot man who is totally into me. I got lunch with my fantastic girlfriends. All very, very, very nice.

But the best, best, best present I got this year consisted of:

• a handmade card, scrawled on business stationery;
• a lolly bag, composed of lollies found around the house (probably down the back of his sofa), complete with party favours (of the innocent variety);
• a second hand book (Ben Elton’s High Society), and
• a bottle opener (which he’d gotten for his 40th)!

All wrapped with care in a really used plastic bag.

From a truly awesome friend.

Click, click, click

“Click, click, click, click, click, click!”

On the footpath behind me as I walk. I watch her as she passes in her black too-high heels. She has a horror-head, but she is Barbie incarnate bodywise, and I can’t look away. Lilac shirt, tightly fitting her waist, top three buttons underdone. Pants, well cut, caressing her arse and thighs, falling nicely to ankle.

“Click, click, click, click, click, click.”

Slower now up the slight incline, she is walking with purpose. As I watch her behind from behind, mesmerised by the roll of her hips and the lack of movement of her arse, I start to notice, I mean really notice, to the point where no other data is getting into my head, the minute details of that walk. And it is the detail that undoes the illusion of sexy for me. Her arms, with one hand clenched one flapping, swing out wide, far too far from her body. Her toes turn ever so slightly outwards as she flings each leg ahead. And in my head her click, click, clicks become “Clop, clop, clop, clop, clop, clop!” Even the nicest arse can’t make up for a horse-walk.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Why not have something to look at as I navel gaze? And before you suggest it, or even think it, no lower on my anatomy shall a needle be passed through. I have not embarked on a piercing fad, it’s just this one little amusement, for my amusements.