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Very very quickly...

HaPpY hApPy NEW YEAR !!!!

Enjoy yourself, be merry...or not.

I'm off to my gran's, my belly full of reheated spaghetti bolognaise (which I made myself). Feeling Okay. Feeling Okay.

Tomorrow, whenever I wake up - 2004: Well...

But I think from my blog, you can conclude that quite a bit changed: my life is fucked up: too much, too much my dear, has happened....

So erm, yeah. New Year everybody.

~ South East Asia - I'm so sorry ~

Can't help being useless, can I? But I can say sorry...
Gotta go. 2005, another year, awaits.

Hmmm

I told myself that I would do a politics essay just after I've finished this apple (which is gorgeous, but you can't see it, canya?). Hmmm, cos you see I've finished the apple and I'm still writing....

Darn, I wish I hadn't gotten so lazy. But I swear, when college starts I'm going to get so mad busy this holiday will be a dream. I've found this really cool magazine that is for young people and writes about hot, underground music and the latest fashion. AND they want people to work for them! The way they work is a sort of writing academy for young writers like me. I will work for them for free, and in return my work gets published, and I am able to build up my portfolio further. It's a good deal. It really is. I've found two mags like this already, my luck must be going up.

I'm also gonna be head editor for this feature on second generation young people, although that is moving slowly at the moment. And there's also the training gig with the 11 year olds. This time I'm going to teach the more technical points of writing for the internet, which I know almost nothing about. Should be fun!

What else? Oh, AS levels and Oxbridge applications, I'm guessing that should be like, top priority and take up all my time and all that. If only I cared!

Anything else? Alice, my amazing girlfriend. Things have been weird, but I'm better now and nothing else and nothing else is going to change that. And when was the last time I cut? I think it was Christmas Eve, but it meant nothing. It's a routine, unemotional, insurance cut to make sure the Big Day went smoothly and I didn't burst into tears or anything distracting.

Could life get better? Well, my poetry is going really well, and I'm really getting into my style. I went onto the BBC site for tips that didn't make my blood boil, and found some structure designs, including this french one called the Rondeau, which is simple, poignant, old, v. rhythmic and French. I love it. I am purged. And...I was talking to Ali last night about stuff and she told me a bit about this secret book. I can't tell you anything cos I don't know that much, but when she finishes her first draft I'm soo reading it. And as she was talking about her cult book project, I remembered my story from last April (April! AND I still dream about it sometimes), and I thought to myself I HAD to read it. And I did, making mini changes with my red pen (well, the most you can do at 1 in the morning) and I found holes - major ones in the plot, and I'm building them back up. I just need a proper, logical, almost emotionally blank outline. I need to know what I'm going to do, I can do it quicker and better that way, right? Can anyone help me on this? Oh well, but I think that's my *resoulution*. But its not really, or of course, I'll never get it done, like ever!

Christmas Cheer, Christmas Calamity, and Christmas Callousness

Babe, I'm just writing that for the title ;)

Today was a getting the turkey day. Of course, in Britain, as in everywhere else (as sure I am in my self-contained world) turkey is v. important. Brits eat 10 million turkeys during the Christmas season. There are guaranteed cat fights over the last Turkey in Tesco every year.

It started last night, when at 11:30pm, me and Dad left for Tesco. This was a good, but hilarious move for although it was better, it was only more slightly bearable than usual. Somehow we spent £126 on total crap such as chocolate and yoghurts and loads of good good cheese. I have to say though, that even at midnight in the corporate oasis you have crazy people, half asleep meglomaniacs or just poor alpha males whining "baby, I just want to go sleeeeeep! Sleeeeep!". I'm afraid to say that shopping, especially christmas shopping is a woman's and this is from experiences of a 10 year old girl writing the lists, signing the cards and begging the bro to wrap everything and getting none of the credit. We even had some mad woman nick our mince pies when our backs were turned! We finished putting everything away at 1am - to bed with me...

I couldn't stop thinking about eating. I hadn't really been eating properly since I realised I was losing weight. I'm not anorexic - I just don't want/deserve to eat until I fit into that shows off my flat stomach...but each and every year, for once in a blue moon (they come round once a year, right?) there is chocolate! and biscuits! and too much ice cream in the house! Red fucking alert, I mean the stomach's coming back with a vengeance. But no, so far I've been good, maybe I'll actually lose weight over the holidays...

That communist (nice ghosts that don't solidify) idea flew outta the window when I saw the turkey we bought. It totally fleeced us as nearly a cost of £60, and this was 28 pounds of turkey madness. I couldn't lift the damn thing, and I gotta help grandma make the stuffing for it tomorrow. Crazy drivers doing u-turns in a busy high street (Dad), rushing around with massive bags of rice, planning what to cook for my Boxing day dessert, I have a nice thin sheen of a headache now. Lovely.

But you gotta love Christmas! I just can't wait to see my family, and have some good good food with you know, good good people. I really shouldn't like, dislike hating christmas so much. I'm going off to write some good poetry and I'm never using the word 'good' again.
There.

Something I love

A little project. I want to write something brilliant for my creative writing club in the New Year. Moreover, I want to write something happy:

I wish to write about everything that there is impossible to write about. I love to write.

You see, when I want to express myself all I have to do these days is put pen to paper. I don’t even have to write something substantial. And then all my crap, all my feelings are made into something useful, something that I can look back and call upon.

For me, writing puts things into such great perspective I almost get a feeling of vertigo, and I remember that there are so many things I love, though sometimes it appears to be so little. Maybe it’s a case of a “whoa!” factor of my Storybox. Its basically a file folder thing in which all my poetry, songs, stories and good random stuff I want to be remembered for is put into. Now, I’ve made one every year, in the second or third week of June for 5 years.

But you know something I would love to be able to do? Write Slash. It’s the most brilliant art form in a way, fanfiction for its does put your creativity to the test. Its not your baby, and you different expectations to the original writer, and you would have a different style that could ruin the whole plot. The writer of fanfiction cannot just put their head down and get to it. They have to keep all these things in mind, and write like a novel: lots of dialogue, development of character, maintenance of plot without alienating the readers who already have an expectation of the background, history of the characters and their assigned personalities. It’s a tough gig. But once you get into it, its magical because you already have a fan base and its always spellbinding to see what is possible in an alternative universe of a story such as Harry Potter, an what could happen in that alternative universe. Oh, just the thought of it makes me giddy.

Crawling out

I'll make this short. I've been at Oxfam, or partying, or studying. Now I'm doing none of these. Its my day off. Then on monday I'm going to become lead editor on a story about second generation young peeps, finishing a newsletter (yes, a newsletter. Journalism doesn't sleep-its on the CYB residential in Mancs I went to on the 4th/5th december) then I'm meeting up with Ria and we're going to Earls Court to see MUSE !! !! !! Ahem, should be brilliant - everytime I mention it someone else I know is going. People are begging for tickets, The Zutons, who rock, are supporting and I'm going to hang with Ria and give her a massive hug.

I want to be poetic, but I haven't got the time, for I'm tidying up the house to make Dad sweet for tomorrow, as I'll be away from home all day and night, and Ria will sleeping over. Then I have the GYUK meet, but I won't stay long and I'll leave with Alice. Then theres the Children's Express christmas party/showcase which I might go to...then I'm cooking some cakes and then there's Xmas...then Hollie's birthday party, then the new year, then College on the 4th. When the hell am I supposed to do my Classics coursework???

Relax?

PAH!

At least I'll get to eat. Eventually. I'll make it up on Christmas day...

I'd also like to proclaim that me, and Alice M.P have been girlfriend and girlfriend for a month. Today, the 19th of December, is our one month anniversary.

We met up at a party yesterday. We waltzed to the Spice Girls. I think I'm falling in love with her. She has made my life so much brighter, and she is my english rose. She literally gave me one yesterday. If you listened to Paul Weller, you'd understand.

Quote of the Day

"Excuuuse me, I'm conversating, OK? Con-ver-sat-ing!!"

Ah, bad grammar from a hiphop bunny in the library's computer room. Horribly funny, especially if you're trying to write the most pointless essay in the world...Doo be doo.

Get a Grip

I'm emailing my blogpost this time. Well, I've shook off my hormonal, self-pitying selfish weirdo of me last night and got a grip. I'm really glad for it.

I was listening my cutting CD (yes I have a CD, though not especially made), when Cry by Alex Parks came on, and I was reading my old diary. It had my original 20+ wishes. I had completed a lot of them - going out into Central london, getting lost in a place I can get unlost in, coming out to dad, getting a job, changing the world just a little and one of my favourite: "to write loads, reams and masses." Done that too. I also realised I had a beautiful girlfriend who I had blew off yesterday cos my mind was that fucked up; that I had been making myself throw up while my Dad was relaxing to jazz downstairs. I realised how bratty I had been. Yeah, I had hit a rock bottom of sorts, and I needed breathing space but it didn't mean I had to push everyone away. I'm better than that. And so, I got a grip on my dissolving grip. I didn't cut last night. And today wasn't too bad. But I have an essay to write and time too is dissolving (until thursday 17th when Xmas hols start)

2 weeks pre-Xmas madness

Woke up at 9:30, went to Oxfam for their re-opening in a bigger venue. Its freaky because the place looks gorgeous and looks so professional-linoeum floor, central heating, proper lighting, a jukebox the works! They even have this massive poster/painting/picture of Sgt. Pepper which erm Peter, em Blake! had signed. There was booze everywhere, of course and everyone was happy but I was just delighted I wasn't on the till cos the place was going mad. We must have gotten at least 2 grand, and all for charidee.

I got cornered by the lovely Hilary and I went raffle-ing. First prize was a signed Eric Clapton LP (who, at the launch party, hardly anyone liked!) and each raffle was £1 each, and I sold over 100 tickets. Feeling quite proud of meself, methinks. Then I managed to escape that around 2:45pm (its soo hard to sell raffles half-pissed, lol. There was no orange juice-anywhere), and went to Grandma's where I had a hunky chicken soup and did a quick gasp of Christmas shopping in this great £1 shop and bought plenty of christmas cards, and other stuff (can't say cos Ria's present is involved and she reads this.) and by the time I got home my feet were screaming. I had pretty much been on my feet from 10:30am to 17:56pm. Oh, the aarghness of it all still reminds me how much life I'm living at this moment, and how I need to use it properly (ie: all the charity work I'm doing, the new friends I've made, my writing).

I also decided to keep SG. . .

It turns out, I can't look after myself for more than a week. 6 days was the longest I was able to last without having to...I don't know. But I knew I had to. One of the things I liked about myself was that my hands and fingers were warm whatever the winter and I've always liked that because it made me seem cuddly, and approachable. (Ria) would always ask me to warm her hands because hers are always freezing. But since I've started cutting, my fingers are always cold and so its harder to type than usual which is particularly depressing. I decided to look on the web to find out if this was normal with "prefects" (my brother's in the room), and they've actually compared it to heroin addiction, that "prefects" apparently get the same rush when they er, "discipline" themselves as a heroin addict. Some "prefects" even get prescribed the same medication, its nuts and quite scary. I remember emailing a friend why I couldn't give SG away: I'm addicted. If I was a drunk I'd have lost all my friends and I'd be in spiralling debt, not at least stinky and scratchy. If I was a crack/heroin addict (how appropriate) I'd be careless, in some descript blank walled house begging for more, half dead. I'm not there yet. And I don't wish to be.

When I wasn't disciplining myself last week I was completely numb, which is so much more dangerous than the burning version of depression. People with numb depression plan suicide perfectly, and execute it perfectly. I know this because my plans were beating inside me and would not go away. Death didn't scare as much and that fact didn't scare me. I couldn't cry, at least properly. Tears would just come out of nowhere, and it wasn't a release, it was just a fact of life in Betty's life. She cried, and it was nothing to be worried about.

My life is (was?) nicely organised, but I was just falling apart on the inside. Now I feel I have to cut, slice away all those slices of dust on my mind. Dust used to make me happy. ("remember that there are little squares of light rushing around to make you happy" - blog post I made in June), but now they are demons. Everything is out to get me and everyone, almost everyone is killing me. Their "normalcy" is killing me. Its so unfair, and I'm crying again. It feels painful, not a release, not yet. I still have a few cuts to go before I can feel everything again. I'm stuck within my own madness.

I Have a Plan

^Last words written on me paper diary.

Maybe, not all hope is lost. Is it possible that the last bits of creativity have thought up a great send-off, my salavation, perhaps?

I thought it up yesterday, decided it was a crazy, mad, folly idea and why hadn't I thought of this in the first place?

I'm going to spurn my SG. Literally. Physically. I'm sending it to Ria, and I won't cut (we only have disposable razors and I can't get the blade out) cos I literally can't.

I got to this conclusion because Mancs was so much fun, and interviewing all those people, the four hour train journey, Lazerquest (think paintball, indoors, in the dark, with lazer guns) gave me much needed breathing space. I able to look at my problems from many miles away, for I didn't bring SG (scissor god) with me in fear of sharing a room and losing myself. But I had my own room, and at night I walked around in a strappy red top which I hadn't worn for months. I wore long tops instead at night in fear of being caught. I hadn't worn short tops since February (!!! February !!!) and I felt so, so comfortable. The idea came there.

This may/may not turn me mad, but this is my last chance. I can't relive being 12 again. Its made me the fucked up piece of shit I am, and I can't survive that. Never. So, thats the plan, and I'm sticking to it.

Quick post before manchester

I'm going round in an emotional circle, I can feel it. I'm 12 again. I'm all moody and hunched and psycho depressed and I'm thinking about death way too much. Is this what happens when you totally give up on yourself? Or is this a circle of depression?

See, I was wondering why I had been so honest and that I managed not to scream at my patronising doctor this morning when I swallowed my pride and asked for a psychiatrist. And I wondered why I gave Richard that 'story'. And I wondered why, only a week ago, I was almost free. I felt normal, like happy, crazy, beautiful, angsty normal like any other 16 year old. And then the depression is back and I'm near tears but I'm not surprised because the depression is back and my Salesmen have got down on my knees, on the fucking edge and I don't know if I really want to live any more.

I just, can't believe I've given up myself. I just assume I'm hated and that I'll always hate me so why bother...

I just believe I'll cut forever so why be nice to myself. Why be nice to anyone?

And I know the meaning of life. To figure it out, to search, to travel. So I'm done. I'm never gonna have children, I've fallen in love (once with Ria, now Alice), I sort of understand the truth about love and I've given back to the world. I just haven't had sex or had my works published, but I'm sure that can be done when I'm dead. Whats left?

I can't believe I've gotten this far, and that I was close, and that I've just soo lost it. Almost, crying, I bid you goodnight. I'll see you on monday. I'm going to Manchester to do journalism stuff. (I'm living my dream, but so fucking disconnected. Exactly the same thing I would have written four years ago. I'm back where I started. I have nothing left.)