Dealing with Dicks

x. You've only met a few times but he's showing blatant interest

"Hey my names Bob, I wore braces until I was 21. Ok now that we know each other wanna go out some time?"

What to do:
Tell Bob to go back to the corner he was leering at you from earlier and come back when he's evolved into a man. If he laughs you off in an attempt to salvage his ego laugh with him then say something to the effect of "my boyfriend would love your sense of humour"


x. Comments on your outstanding beauty and says a lot of things ending in "forever"

This is my ultimate favourite just because there are a lot of lazy men out there. Commenting on how the sunlight draws out your natural beauty is the oldest trick in the book. Most men are born knowing women like hearing about themselves and the future. This could be a dating Achilles heel for women, but not if you don't let it. You know you're beautiful; do you need to hear it from buck-toothed Joe from the pig farm? Probably not, does it hurt to let him say it? Again probably not. Will it hurt to believe he's "never seen anything as radiant as your smile, as stunning as your eyes or as warm as your laugh"? YES!

x. Agrees with everything you say and laughs at your lamest jokes

He wants you to think you've found your soulmate. The one person who truly understands you. You could be a Neo-Nazi-flag burning, orphan murdering harlot. But as long as you have a "sweet rack" he'll be more supportive than a sports bra. Sometimes however you may meet someone that shares the same views as you, to weed out the sheep from the intellectuals I suggest saying the most extreme and random things you can. If he disagrees and can state a reason other than "that's weird" then you could actually have a functioning person on your hands.

x. You've rejected him and now he's pointing out all your flaws

This kind of guy is the worst to encounter! I find for every insult, take an inch off his penis because bringing you down is the only way he'll ever feel big. This is by far the lowest act of them all because he was so arrogant to assume you would want him and when you didn't he wasn't man enough to accept it quietly and move on. He has to now, not only childishly shriek "WELL I NEVER LIKED YOU ANYWAY!" in an attempt to salvage his 'reputation' but hurt you in the process to feed his primitive ego.

This guy will either be obscenely good-looking and not accustomed to rejection or just plain obscene and not accustomed to human contact. Either way you don't deserve it, you didn't break any law by rejecting him. Now while he's spewing out insults trying to break your self-esteem the best thing is to spread the word of his horrendous ways. TELL EVERYONE. Leave no person unaware of this pathetic excuse for an individual, it builds up your support system for one thing and lets others be weary of him the next time he tries to pick up.

Sisterhood

Qualia - "The felt or phenomenal qualities associated with experiences, suchas the feeling of a pain, or the hearing of a sound, or the viewing of a colour.To know what it is like to have an experience is to know its qualia."

Remember when we were kids? When happiness was a text message away and we had the opposite sex all figured out? I remember when we spilled secrets on dog eared edges of textbooks, solved problems with prose and wore big sunglasses to hide red eyes (before Paris Hilton).

& now that we're older and 'wiser' we've realised that 'I love you' doesn't come with the gaurantee of forever and the opposite sex aren't just there for procreation (occassionally they've been known to hold and open things). We've realised we're the ones with the problems and that's not such a bad thing. We scrawl fears on lecture pads, hide bruises with foundation and try to laugh away whatever the vodka leaves behind.

But then there are those moments, when cliched silences and our histories collide. When empathy moves one step further and becomes a shared wound. It's in those twilight moments When we're watching the rest of the world that it all comes together.

We don't need Kesey's LSD for this.

Es-Ki-Mo

Involuntary Memory

It's cold. Correction, it's fucking freezing. I look to the blonde next to me, this is definately a suicide attempt. Slowly but surely he's going to kill us. We're sitting on a wall above a courtyard. Looking down I consider the drop and immediately tighten my grip on the rail behind me. 'What do you have against my general happiness?' I ask breaking him from his thoughts. He wraps his arms around me tighter.

'I told you darling I'm just finishing what Hitler started, if you like we can share a special cigarette to warm you up?'

He waits for a response.
It's neither a yes or a no when I nudge him.

'Have you ever--' he pauses, 'fuck what am I doing to you?'

'Finish your sentence.'

'Have you ever, you know, before? I'll assume not and tell you to swallow as much as you can. If it comes out of your nose you're doing it right.'
I give him nothing and watch as he pulls a matchbox out. The same one he wrestles off me every other day, I always wondered why it got him so worked up.

'I still don't know why we're here.'

He takes a drag and passes the joint over to me. It stays in his hand for a moment too long, he withdraws his offer.
'I shouldn't have done that to you' his breath is heavy with tobacco and something more, taking me back to my childhood. I shift closer wanting to immerse myself in the scent.



I close my eyes and I'm 4 again. I've slipped out of the house to the backyard, the darkness envelops my tiny form and for a second I'm invisible. The ground is damp under my feet as I tip-toe towards the fence, it's freezing. Two arms suddenly shoot out from the darkness drawing me up and against a warm body.

'What are you doing here flea?'

I press closer to the source of warmth, laying my head on it's shoulder and inhaling a familiar scent. The body belongs to my godfather.
He shifts me slightly as he takes a drag of his 'cigarette'. Still expecting an answer.

'Not sleepy' I reply burying myself deeper into his chest.


'Darling?' his voice breaks me from my reverie, I glance up at him wondering what I've missed. 'Darling I've been terrible to you today.'

'I'm a masochist,' I can see the guilt in his eyes. Shrugging I launch into a story about my morning. To show him I really couldn't care less. I tell him about a little boy running through the train carriage and my imagining him falling between the train and the tracks at every stop.

'You're sick' he smiles. First one for the morning.

'No, I'm fucked.'

'You're sick, you'd be fucked if you hadn't thought of it. The mere fact that you did shows you had some concern for the childs wellbeing.'

I cast him a sidelong look, 'go on.'

'You're not as bad as you think you are. I mean, you might be a monster in your little suburb but compared to the people I know you're a fucking saint'

I can't argue with him, though I resent the comparison.

'You're still corrupt, just reasonably so' he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. 'Like a dirty angel' there's another pause and for once he doesn't fill it.

I laugh, more out of habit than anything else, 'you should write for Madonna.'I untangle myself from his grasp and slip under the rails, leaning down towards him I whisper, 'find a girlfriend, I'm cold.'

He ignores the comment. 'I was being insightful, really bonding with you.'

I shoot him a skeptical look, 'boyfriend then.'

He rolls his eyes, 'fucking iceberg.'

One day I'll be good to him.

I never let you in

Therapy is not found on this couch, not in this room and definitely not in hollow observations.

Therapy is in your voice rushing through my ears, our comfortable silences and a lust for something more.

It's an appointment that keeps me here. I have no compulsion to spill my secrets to a stranger.

You don't have degrees on your walls or even an imposing oak desk, but when my words are stuck in a quagmire of self-doubt and transitory thoughts, I turn to you.

He tells me to open up, like it's a cardinal sin to not to be emotionally promiscuous.

I never needed to let you in, you were here when I arrived.

He says I hide my loneliness by interacting with anthropomorphised objects. I let him know the lamp thinks he's a bastard.

The ashtray approves of you.

His diagnosis comes with a prescription, lots of -cides and -idiums.

Your diagnosis comes with a prescription too, all Nico and PJ Harvey.

He says he can't see me making any progress.

One day I'll send him your binoculars.

To the boy who lives 10,000 miles away,

why do you choose to visit me (half a world away) when I'm in no position to entertain? Is it just my dreams you visit or do you do this every night with someone else? I only ask because we've spent so many nights together lately that the others might have cause to worry.

Maybe I should take this opportunity to tell you that my dreams are not appropriate places to play and walking your fingers across my back is only cute when I can see you. Are you aware Sir that your nightly visits have left me entirely unsuitable for anyone other than your dear self to view? I hope you're happy.

Question Sir, do you enjoy entering my dreams? Will you ever tire of creeping up behind me to steal a kiss as i discuss ink colours with Neruda? or do you prefer to walk the desert with my hand in yours?

I suppose Ii can't blame you entirely for our nightly activities, perhaps its a playmate you seek. The girl that visits you late at night maybe? The one who hides your cds and flicks your ears while you sleep. You could do with spending some time with her, she could teach you to knock before entering my dreams (she is a lady afterall). But I doubt she'd spend very much time by me when all her favourite things seems to involve traipsing about your mind.

Maybe one day you could find a place for us, somewhere between your world and mine? Until then I'll close my eyes and leave the door open for you.

I publish very little of what i write on here.
The draft count is growing.


I have very strong feelings for ginger. I don't think these feelings would be well received by the threesecondrulerejecting majority.
I'm staging a revolution.


I miss my red hair.



Things I do not have:

Patience. noun.
Patience I'm told is the ability to explain something five times and not wish death upon the person you are talking to. Mama says patience is a virtue. I told her that her hippie beliefs have no place in my regime.


A compulsion to capitalize or maintain grammatically correct sentences.
I should but I don't, just like flossing and being nice to Jack. I want my pieces to look like me. Still a little bit immature, in that lovely space between ohh la la and omg. These are tangible places, don't let any one tell you otherwise. They're probably working for Xenu.


Dread Falls.
This makes me sad. But not sad enough to get the real things. That would just be too glamorious for suburbia and I'd like to keep the charade going for as long as I can.


Any reverence for Ken Kesey.
Once again I probably should but I don't. I'm not a huge fan of writing someone off just because I personally think they're wankers but if I ever encountered this man I would beat him up something savage. Now I realise he's dead but I've also seen 'Thriller'. This is a warning Mr. Kesey.

Notes from an encounter

28/05/08
Somewhere between her spite and my superstitions the words stopped flowing from my fingertips. They course through my veins, filling every part of me with an undeniable urge to write. but I can't.

1. His hands shake. I take them into my own and continue watching the movie. I know these hands, I've held them for so long that it's no longer a conscious action to hold them. Sometime later I'm not sure when exactly I find his arm around me, I lay my head on his shoulder. We're accustomed to each other. His fingers are definitely numb but I'm almost asleep so he remains unmoving. I know I don't have much time left with him and it breaks my heart. So I ignore the inevitable for now and enjoy the moments we have left.

2. I'm brushing her hair, she wants it braided this morning. Itry to keep them neat but her patience (if she ever had any) is running out. I can't even pretend to be mad though, I don't think I ever had any either. There's silence between us for once, I wonder why. Looking up I see her frowning at her reflection, I give her a nudge.

'Why am I darker than you?' it's not curiosity in her voice that I hear though, it's annoyance.

'Because you were born at night.'

She seems satisfied.


3. It begins based on mutual infatuation, grows into love, & remains with trust.


4. She stretches out infront of me tanning herself (& she calls me the cat). I scatter my cards over her chest and pick off the ones that land face up. Temperance. 2 of cups. death. I tell her she's starting a new phase, she's going to meet someone, she'll connect with him immediately, they'll be inseparable. 18 months later and I wish I was wrong.


5. I can feel his eyes on me. I gave him a polite smile as I entered didn't I? He's circling and I notice I'm the only customer. Running my finger over the spine of David Copperfield I sense him behind me. He's leaning on a shelf,

'Do you like Dickens?' he sounds excited.

I can hear him breathing. I imagine him hacking me to pieces and withdraw my hand.
'Uh yeah.'

When did I get so fucking paranoid? The answer comes quicker than I'd have liked

To my Bipolar Bear,

The best writers have said very

little

and the worst,

far too much.

When I work out which one I am, I'll stop writing.

I wore colour today.
It wasn't that bad.

I feel like an agoraphobiac bragging about making it to the mailbox.

The homeless manic depressive tunnel dweller whistled at me today. I've walked past him almost every day for a year and a half and he chooses today to whistle. Not sure how to take that.

Frank says:
Welll, It's Not Me Dear. I have become a Mature Man, One of Reason And of Science

One of these days i'll write something coherent.

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'intrate

She's beautiful. & he'll never truly realise. She wants to believe they'll get past this. She wants to believe he's still hers.
I know her, I know how she is.
I was her.
He always dates the same type, but he can't help that.
I know him, I know how he is.

She told herself she wouldn't give him the time of day. So did I.
She ignored him that first day.
even moreso the next. The days passed and he stayed. So she gave him a chance. Second guessed herself and let him in. & now she's falling, hard and fast and she can't stop even if she wants to.

He doesn't mean to be the way he is. He fell once, just like them. He fell hard and deep and nothing's ever come close since. He won't let anyone come that close. So instead he says the right words, does what he has to and tries to recreate the memories with someone else. But it's never good enough. So he tosses them aside.

& there she lays, broken. I want to tell her she'll be ok, she'll pick herself up and never fall again. But she already knows this. I want to tell her he doesn't have someone else, just memories. But she already knows this. I want to tell her that he loves her somewhere in his misguided mind. But she already knows this.

She'll walk away.
He'll find another.
I'll stay a memory.

Just Write

'it's a blog, not heart surgery, just write in it.'

...who says i wouldn't write on a heart?

This could be one of those days when the weather alone is reason enough to write. When the wind and rain whisper secrets through the trees tempting me to join their conversation. Where the lightning displays her wit, never failing to amuse the thunder pursuing her. His laughter shaking all around him in appreciation. They're beautiful together. And finally the clouds, always the first to arrive and last to leave, within whose domain our guests hold their conference.

& so my fingers relent to sate their request. In that moment the whispering dies down, the lightning and thunder move elsewhere to play, the sun is allowed a glimpse of the goings on and I am left with silence to contemplate my words.