Suicidal, Suicidal...Beautiful Girl

This New Year is more like that weird guy with the hat and all in Daddy Cool's Eagle Rock. You know the stoner silly bugger at the chippie? Yeah. I'm that for 2008 except everyone is more stoned and more fucked up than me. Everyone calls me nuts. But hey seriously, my world seems more sane.

2008 I plan to eventually become vego again. People will apparently quit smoking, cut down on booze. Fuck that. I'd rather do it for the cows. Poor angels.

Grumpy is blaming me for his obesity and blaming me for this and that. He didn't seem to pleased when I reminded him last time the bells were ringing, he was online chatting up his whores.

What do I care?

I plan to see out 2008 as the last God forsaken year on this planet. Time to return home methinks.

My good mates are suffering overseas. Oppressed. Bah so depressing. I wish I could give them the freedom I apparently enjoy or should, in this country. But what can I do? Put a bullet to the brain? No gun, sorry, Howard took care of that.

2008 will be just like every other year, worse than the previous. Flashbacks? My sister in a catfight, Dad drunk, Singing "I walk with a swagger" Tom Green on the Pier without realising the bells had been and gone, Dancing to "Numb/Encore" with my killer knee-high boots and halter top I got years previously from the US, Rowing myself about with a broom on a swivel chair with a ripped Cheezels box on my head proclaiming "I am Harry Pothead!" and then ending up in the bathroom slicing the backs of my thighs to bits with some guys razor, Messaging Tad the Wonder Dick of an Ex to tell him I'm glad Karma got him in the end and it turns out it never did he was just fucking me over again with his lies, Drinking alone watching Matthew Newton make a sillyhead of himself on national tv and have Grumpy eventually wander through to wish me a happy new year after the bells.

Most likely going to be a repeat of that. Happy New Year honey, you made me fat, you make me miserable but I won't let you fuck off this planet, you have to fucking suffer, he'll say.

At least this year I'll be making burgers and drinking like it's 1999. Except 1999 was fun. I think.

Tis the season to be Postal.....

Hope everyone had a happy holiday. Super on this end.

Went back to work today, seemed alright to begin with, after all, I didn't have my morning coffee or anything, I was super!

A co-worker was taking some guys order, I was coming up behind her, to get some drinks to give to customers that were coming up. Sounded good. Normal. He seemed to have finished ordering and the co-worker asked what kind of bread he would like. Normal. Not to this guy! He went NUTS. "THIS HAPPENS EVERY F*CKING TIME, I'M INTERRUPPTED THIS IS SHIT I WANT THE MANAGER HOW DARE YOU ASK ME THIS AND INTERUPT ME" *insert another super long rant*

She let him finish his order in the first place, she was just doing her job asking what kind of bread he preferred. Noooo this guy didn't care. We got the manager and he wasn't happy, he wanted the STORE manager, we were dispicable. He actually said that. He came up to my window but I refused to open it and ignored him. He went to the next one and the other co-worker refused to open it until 2 managers came down. If he went nuts over bread, he might have had a gun. He was obviously looking for a fight.

I don't care if he had a shitty christmas or whatever excuse is given. Try having christmases with an alcoholic father eh. Try having a christmas day like the poor sod on the train given a text to say his brother topped himself. This guy apparently has done it a few weeks ago too.

Bah. It's more understandable if he was asked if he would like Fries with his order!

Hotdawg, We Have a Weiner.....

Hello!

My ugly tootsies are saying hiiiiii. And a huge fudging OW. A co-worker accidently stomped on my foot a few hours ago, in an angular direction. (beach volleyball)

I know that bruises and stuff means more than likely it's not broken but that foot right there? It's seen at least one proper break in it's day. And I'm sure there are more wee ones that healed up awkwardly. I used to be a long distance runner, one day when I was 12 I felt something snap during PE and that foot was never the same. I didn't know it was broken until I was 17 and way too late. I thought and my mother/fellow students that I was a wimp and being stupid. Meh. Anyway this canes hardcore. The bruising is up in the top bit of the toe but there is this god awful lump in the diagonal lower right bit of that toe. And it kinda hurts a wee tad. I can't actually bend it at all without shouting out all manner of speech a demonic tongue would.

So after therapy in the morning I'm going to traipse off to the doctors for their opinion. Can't afford an X-ray atm but meh, just as long as I have some idea what is rocking with it and how to deal.

Oh and the deformed toe from teh accidentz when I was 12? Right next to the big toe. The bone was fractured below the second toe, so there is this weird deformity lump thingy happening. Hoo haa!

Seriously that foot is the worst of the lot. I had a foot test done recently to check my feet and what shoes I will need and the thingo showed that I have a lot of pressure on the other foot compared to that one. I told the guy doing it that it was because of that accident and I've made myself not rest on it whenever I could.

On the brightside, an hour after this current problem arose, I could still do the chicken dance. Like to see myself do that NOW.

Boxes

I took this photo on the way home from therapy today. We were discussing how I have itemised different "Me"s into different compartments and boxes. Me from 1999, me from 1989, me from 2 weeks ago etc. It's like I am completely different person every day, or every hour.

And discussing my facade. People in real life think I am this happy, jovial, silly person. They say this to my face. It really angers me. Hello, I'm in pain. I'm angry, I'm incredibly depressed. I'm violent. I'm lonely. But they can't see because I hide it so well. I don't want to look like my father on the outside, someone to fear.

Inside it's like a bank vault, full of different boxes and safes and things. Incarnations of me jump out at random to dust themselves off, to stretch their legs and have conversations of the past and offer opinions on the present.

We also talked about how 'finely' tuned I am to my environment. How alert I am to percieved dangers. Are they coming to get me? Are they going to kill me? Are they going to hurt me and break me down again? Am I going to fall to pieces today or the next? Are my friends going to abandon me again? Will it be as hard or harder to make friends this time around?

Not only is my hearing and sight on high alert, it appears my smell is too. I hate walking into the house and have these foreign smells wafting about. Yesterday when I came home it smelled like a library. You know that special smell libraries seem to have? Right now, this instant, I smell blood. Old blood. You know, blood that has been sitting around for awhile. Stagnating. Maybe it's coming from miles down the road. I don't know.

Maybe it has something to do with the anxiety I felt when I got inside the house, when I saw one of the scary neighbours was walking behind me and gave me a funny look. Fucking bitch.

A Friend In Need...

Here is a serious question I shall pose at the end of this short 'story'.

A man goes off to war. He lives everyday with the knowledge that despite all his armor and weapons and bullets and skill, the very moment he lives could be the last. People want him dead. They want him dead. He kills men everyday. It's his job, it's his duty. He sees his mates get wounded. He sees things that he never wants to see ever again yet it haunts him every night.

He returns home. He finds his "loving" wife, whom he has thought of during his tour as his beacon of hope, in bed with an old friend. He breaks down. Within a few weeks a rumor runs through his circle of friends, his "support" circle. According to his old friend and his wife, he beat his children. He hurt them. Suddenly he isn't the "hero" or the poor guy who came home from war to find his beloved fucking their friend. He's worthless. He's a psychopath. He's a dog.

The truth is that he never laid a finger on his kids, given the time frame they said he did. He was at war. But funnily enough 'everyone' seemed to forget that, or not seem to care. They don't come near him again, cast him out of society into loneliness and despair. Leaving him to battle his PTSD and the day he found his wife and mate together, all alone.


Tell me, what happens to these people that makes things up for their own gain? People who end up socially and financially better off than those they kicked in the guts when paralysed with pain?

"All I Know Is That To Me, You Look Like You're Having Fun"

My red wine is a wee bit too warm. It was another hot one today. Last night I went for a walk around the lake with my partner and our friend and then had a barbeque and drank the bottle of 2002 Kiwi Fruit wine which was delicious. I have made a mental note to visit the winery one of these days. I would love to do wine tours. Wine and cheese, yes please!

Today in itself was a rather fruity day. I worked from 8 until 4. Been called "retarded" and mistaken for a male (honestly how does my voice sound male? I would understand if someone thought my looks were male, but sheesh). Maybe it's one of those things were people think they're being ingenious and witty but really they look like complete tossers. You know, instead of crying or whatever I usually do I sort of let it wash all over me again. Good sign I guess. Just you wait, tomorrow I'll fall to pieces because the milk is spoiled. Or I spied a silverfish in the bathroom.

I nearly went into a complete meltdown earlier when I couldn't find my ring. That familiar sickening churning, strange feeling came jumping down my throat and nestled in my tummy for a good 10 minutes. Can you be addicted to that feeling? I remember for a fair few years growing up I felt it so often and felt so odd without it. Like I needed that feeling to be on the ball, to be on my toes, to watch out for the daggers, to watch out for the volley of bullets. Yes, it was utter madness inside my head for 10 minutes but hurrah I found the ring again. Panicked over nothing really, I seem to do that.

I was messing around with a scan of a charcoal drawing I made years ago. Decided to put random words/lyrics on it to add oh I don't know, substance to it. Wonder what any one can make of it.

Again and again and again.

I don't know how many times I have to start over making a new blog with new entries. Yes, it's my problem and I have to get over it myself.

Just like when people knock at the door. That happened earlier and once again I froze up and went and hid in my room.

I wish I could send a mailout to everyone:

Oh Hi, yeah, just don't bother talking to Holly. You can't make any sense of a dithering idiot so why try?