perhaps jean grey wasn't a total cunt

didn't you ever wonder if the phoenix was really jean grey just snapped? she was sick of the fake and the wimpy and the dictation and the lame sweetness and just fucking flipped and went on a rampage? that the whole suspended animation thing was just a flimsy cover up?

because scott wouldnt put out and the professor wouldnt let her use cerebro and the team shunted her to recon and research. that she fainted at every breath and constantly had to fend off logan. that 20 years in that school and she was still just an assistant. that she had to wear nude colored cargo pants. i'd have done more than a poorly executed apocalypse, that's for sure.

today it feels like that.

like the well of frustration is running over and this tub of me has no overflow drain.

i feel in a rage. or rather, like in the very near future i soon will be.

granted, part of this will be it is the morning of my last day of vacation and i have done absolutely nothing. and part of me is still a whinging toddler who hates the end of things.

but it is seriously more than that.

i bit liam saturday. hard. he was mad at me for something i hadnt done and stormed out of a party. i left soon after in a drunken rage of disappointment and libido. i ran into him on the street, my mind too fuzzy to know if it was on purpose. i didnt have words. i had what equates to pg angry sex. standing on a street corner. hot and fast and rushing and a little bit violent. i felt caged. and it felt great. and if fucking scares me.

sometimes he is so terribly frustrating. harsh. cruel. cold. and most the time i am yoga-goddess weatherer of storms. but every once in a while he gets in and tears me apart and i flood like the hoover dam. and it makes me hate both of us. and i dont know which frightens me more; that we got ourselves here or that when the chips are down and i've lost control, i hurt him.

it also doesnt help i was in a mood that whole night because it was phils goodbye party.

and for all our mess and his silliness and everything we have ever screwed up between us, he was so easy. to be with and not be judged or used or feel compelled to talk. he was a guy in the very best of ways and i will miss him.

plus, he gave me his return of the jedi pillowcase. i have no words for how much this means to me. he has had it since 1983. it was always the one i used. on drunk nights when i crashed on the sofa. on the infamous walk of shame morning i was too hungover to go home and lay around his all day, grateful he didnt ask. as a seat cushion for arrested development marathons. my arm rest for blue jays games. my pillow that one night we "napped". and he gave it to me. he was always a sentimental guy. and now it sits on my chair, and i dont have the heart to use it.

and of course there should have been a party to see him off. he always complained he had no friends but me and jack. and truth be told it was sarah's friends and my co-workers and random neighbors. girls he'd slept with and pub aquaintences. the party went on for hours after i waved goodbye to the taxi. but a little piece of me wanted to say goodbye to my boys - for jack took him to the airport - on my own. not with strangers passing a fag an armsbreath away and my own drama waiting for me upstairs. it felt rushed. cramped. amputated. and he was worth more than that. i hope he knows it.

sorry, i am just full on whinging now.

last night having to talk on the phone right before bed was horrible. which dont get me wrong, it can be lovely. but it can be so full of heavy silences and pregnant phrasology i rarely have the energy for much less sleepy hung over and lonely. plus, it is infinately worse when it is all just flippant chatter and errands i dont want to address from bed on a sunday. sometimes it only reminds me how far away you are. i know i am a freak about the phone, but it put me in a mood straight away today.

anyway, i should stop. cut myself off before i say something really horrid i dont even mean. just to feel it in my mouth. let me watch the dominoes fall. pick at the scabs and watch them bleed.

i am going to have breakfast and pay my council tax and play my violin and then i think take a bath. and hopefully this tar, this thick creeping bile, will be seeped away. gently excreeted from my every pore until my insides are clear again. i am clear again. i am clean.

does not compute

i have often, though not in these pages perhaps as regularly as elsewhere, referred to my silent scream. the unheard voice and ignored plea of my deepest darkest self. wordlessly raw and often violent.

but it is not her that plagues me today.

it is, if anything, more of a screaming silence. no, that doesn't fit. a deafening blinding quiet. a heavy Nothing.

an aching weight whose only relief is expression, and i am at a loss for words.

i don't want to talk about it or write about it or even really think in traditional terms, but i know of no other way to cope than words.

and i find they are insufficient.

his thoughts kept him from feeling. winterson may have been writing about atlas, but she got it right.

i don't know how to process this.

the wrath of babes

so i am sick of my twenty-first century whinging and endless lists. It's like those late episodes of a good sitcom where the premise no longer works and it wasn't clever enough to handle self-reflexive irony.

and like any true sitcom, i am introducing a spunky child to boost ratings and liven up a deadly saturday line-up. But unlike my 80s predecessors, through a twist of fate (and a minor time warp), the child is me.



doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo...

you know how your brother is totally annoying and scribbles on your bestest ballerina drawing with the red slippers? or that time your sister totally used the blue power rangers slurpee cup from k-mart even though she knew billy was your favorite? remember when mom forgot to call you in sick so once again you have to grovel to the principal about your family's minor mishaps and get him to unfail you from world history due to absence?

you know what totally is the best emotional release for this? and no, i dont mean counting to ten, yoga, volunteering with the girl scouts or making macaroni mecklaces for grandma.

concoccting poison.

just sneak out into the yard while mom makes spaghetti and gather a few simple ingredients:

- a strong stick stripped of leaves and twigs for stirring
- dirt
- water (if you can unkink the hose)
- leaves - especially maple since they crack and get gooey
- pine needles and/or twigs
- any flower petals available
- those red squishy berries often found on old lady hedg
- a brick

to prepare deadly poison potion:
- gather the berries into a pile on the pavement. smash them with a brick repeatedly until the sidewalk runs red with their blood. this sacrfice is cathardic and symbolic.
- add dirt and water until it is a thick nasty paste and imagine force feeding it to said sister until she chokes.
- add pine needles for texture and leaves if needed
- flutter flower petals daintily over the top to decorate
- then smash their pretty little faces with the brick, thus metaphorically destroying all that is pure and innocent in your wake

- scrape onto a big flat leaf
- visualize serving it either open-faced or perhaps rolled like a taco.
presentation is everything, use your imagination!


...doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo, doodle-loodle-loo.



this is something i actually used to do as a small child to curb my fury. i saw those berries today and wished i could again, but alas - no bricks.

sometimes i worry for little me and want to wrap her up and make her unpsycho.

and sometimes i cant help but laugh that i thought the geeky ranger was hot.

for fucks sake. you fucking mother fucking cunt. i hate you and hope you die a bloody horrible death. involving rabies and lacerations.

i have officially lost everything i have ever written on diary-x. 5 years of every honest confession and tiny dream and things i would never say outloud but needed to vent. its all my memories stored up since i couldnt hold them in my head. it is my first scotland. it was my seetha. it was my parent-proof daydreams and first dirty lesbian confessions. it was me.

i feel amputated.

i miss my sister more now because i cant hear her in monochromatic pinks at the click of a button anymore.

i miss my first forays into html.

i miss my most raw voice.

i miss me.

it's 2am on a friday night. i crawl in from a long week of work, completely stoned.

as a considerate and not completely devoid of sense flatmate, is now the time to ask me about our council tax bill, bewail your non-boyfriend "i just want to be mates" bullshit, and whinge about your twentysomething ennui?

do i care that we need toilet paper or if you talked to your mother on the phone?

fuck no.

i just ate a whole lavender cake and am trying to get to grips with my bobypins and the stench of grass in my hair before rising before dawn for work tomorrow.

leave me the fuck alone.

i hate women.

five furies of hatred and rage

top five things i hate right now:

1 - the groady hair in my bathtub so i cant take a bath. if leslie says she'll handle cleaning the fucking bathroom, i shouldnt have to worry about leg hair on my ass. stupid cunt.

2 - my method of dating. i have recently discovered i completely suck at this. my pinoeered method seemed so perfect, so brilliant, so novel.

i insisted from now on i would get to know them before shedding our clothes, thus negating my tendancy to run when intimate, since i will have built up trust caches in advance. i would be an adult about these things. i would not fuck strangers (anymore) or blow off those who are deserving (once i figure out who they are).

but no, this only lets me get to know amazing men who then so easily slide from safe lunch date to fabulous fallback plan while i am busy blinking. while my jury is still out, holding back put me in the "friends" camp too early. my rolex is fucking fantastic, but my bed is still empty. fucking hell, who knew trying to have a normal social life would be so ridiculously hard?

3 - how my joints always crack in the cold. and not that cathardic, tension relieving way, but that horrible old lady "oh god i need a wheelchair" way.

4 - i still dont have a visa.

5 - sometimes my job is utter bullshit and sometimes it is the most amazing thing i think i have ever done. i thought i was manic-depressive before, but it's giving me a complex.

6 - i know, i know. but if the girls upstairs insist of blasting "push it" on a sunday evening they fucking deserve to be on this list.


i feel much better. not.

and now i feel dirty for having used an outdated sarcasm catch phrase.

i am running on empty.

i have done 0 hours of family reconn, small talk and general "oh yes i care about you and your boring life" for about two years (one lunch with my grandma on the last visit home barely counts since i did all the talking) for years and i didnt miss it.

and i am out.

i just want to sleep for days and be left alone.

actually, i want to lay on the couch and not have the phone ring or people come over or anyone expect me to do or be or say or go anything or anywhere.

i wish i was my brother.

i should be better than this. i hope it is just pms and i can blame my body and stop thinking i am a horrible person.

the various unbelievable things: the unrated edition

for the pg version see my link on the right.

for the additions see below:

1- that fucker stole my wallet. i hate london. punk ass cunts stealing my shit from right underneath me! no amount of elgin marbles and king tut can fix that fact it is a dirty city of fuck-face conmen and wenches.
2 - of course it could have been worse. my one of a kind lulu guiness bag was recovered. and give me a break for name dropping - mom showed up to my office in a full length mink and pearls for fucks sake. my parents live on another planet. still, i really miss my phone. and my movie card. and my drivers licence. and my free drinks card for the pub. and the 200 pounds mom owed me. so in total: london sucks major ass no matter how fucking brilliant an empire it used to control.
3 - i know i am swearing a lot. i may have survived my mother finding my condoms, being open about dad's new hormone stuff (trust me, really you dont want to know), but somehow i still find it difficult to swear in front of the bitch.
4 - mom is lovely but more than a fornight in the same bedroom is driving me up the wall. its not the mess or the noise, but the libido (if you are surpirsed you do not deserve to read further). i wondered what the deal was until under the pretense of a "nap" yesterday i went back to the hotel and relieved myself of various forms of stress in the tried and true method. nothing is better than a couple of orgasms, a pint, and a long walk in the countryside.