Bellezza

We all see that photo of your current with that ex. That you never knew nor met, yet heard so much about. So what happens if when you see that photo and to be honest, you're not really impressed. She's not a beauty, she not even "a roide". Yet she is pretty, and there is something...

What if your current once said (long, long ago) that he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen? But you know you're "prettier" than her right? Or at least you conceive to be.

True that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that love is blind...but we still have common sense. We know the difference between pretty and beautiful, and average and gorgeous. So, what is it that our emotions do? Do we still look back and see the person we saw once before? Or, do we see a new person, someone you almost never knew.

What also, if your best friend who you'd confess this sort of troubling yet trivial matter with is overseas, leaving you with that plum-sized pit of sickness at the bottom of your stomach. Bother, that.

But of course, these questions are all rhetorical...

Casa.

Home: the place where a person, family or household lives. (North American Encarta Dictionary)

It's not the most interesting or eye-catching definitions, however it is true. I know the saying "Home is where the Heart is", a house is not a home until there is heart...or just a shitload of your stuff. Mine, is awesome. Simple as.

It's nice to click the "refresh" button, after a stressful, unproductive year I'm hoping I won't fall into bad habits again. They (whoever "they" might be) say that it takes 28 days to make or break a habit (much like the film I guess, the Danny Boyle one. I haven't seen the Betty Thomas one yet.) So hopefully 28 days later I'll have good habits running all over the place. Good habits dominating my world. College, work, savings, rehearsals, reading...the list goes on and on. Maybe writing up lists could be a new good habit, we'll see.

I was just handed a bacon roll, my day has improved vastly.

Dolore.

"Fuck the pain away."
Fuck the pain away
Fuck the pain away
Fuck the pain away
Fuck the pain away
Fuck the pain away
Fuck the pain away
Fuck the pain away.

Oh, Peaches you pleasant woman.
Which is not what I'm doing, no. But it is a nice thought though. Imagine if it were that simple? Fucking pain away. I'm feeling so hollow I can hardly type. Fuck it, I'll write about it later. My hands are too shaky.

Paura

I'm hoping this change will be for the better. September is coming; I know exactly what that means so I better get used to it. It'll be good in some areas, in one area though...well I'm not too sure but I have an idea of how I'll feel.

To have a hold on someone, for someone to be able to control you without them knowing it. What's going to happen once they find out? It's a terrifying thought.
People, friends, loved-ones; they can make you happy with a click of their fingers. However that means they can make you just as sad just as fast. So to those who have "the hold", is it better to have them in your life; have you living in fear yet with the benefit of their presence, or is it better to temporarily suffer and cut them out? The latter seems smarter and so much more sensible. But...people are selfish.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it's a fucking train. It's going to smash straight into you. And it's going to fucking hurt.

Falling

"I guess I've always been deeply terrified to really be someone's wife. Since I know from life one cannot love another, ever, really."

That's what Marilyn Monroe wrote after secretly reading a passage from her 3rd husbands diary. He wrote of how she was a disappointment to him and of how she embarassed him in front of his "clever" friends.
I believe the same, not because of being a disappoinment. No. But because I don't think it's possible to truly love someone who isn't your blood and/or best friend. There is no "in love", I believe. There is companionship, not wanting to be alone, lust, sensation, affection, passion, caring and yes love but not "in love". You can love your friends, your family, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your wife, your dog, your children. People love games and drink and food; hotdogs and nachos! (No Lanelle, put them down.) People love people. People love things. It all seems to get used up. So there is no real love left. Tethered swimming I guess.

I've been pushed out. I'm outside a locked door that is to my own house, in the rain. And I guess I'm okay with that. I won't try to get back in, there's no point. People just get hurt. (How emo of me.) Don't take this the wrong way, I mean I'm not upset. Not one bit. It kind of makes me laugh at how fickle emotions are, bringing a smile to my newly pierced lip(which I hope doesn't make my lip fall off).

I don't think I'll emigrate to Scotland just yet. However I may go for a wee while. A holiday with the lads, hopefully. That would be awesome. I'll get them eating fried Scotch pies and drinking litres of whiskey whilst shouting "Och aye the noo" in no time. How very politically correct of me.
Maybe they'll beat my record of clearing 1 litre or gin, 3 ciders, 4 morgans and... I forget the rest (I wonder why?!)in two days. We'll see, it'll be a fun challenge that I'm sure they can beat.

"Do the revolution" man. Well why the hell not?!

up

So there's a man in a long black coat ( forgive me, but I definitely don't mean the song, sorry lads). He's wearing steampunk goggles, large PVC gloves and is staring at me. He is outside the kitchen window, and he just stares. He makes a move towards the window, slowly, thoughtfully. Hot steam is leaking out of his mask. Forward. One step. The body that I thought I owned is quaking. He sniffs. His hand reaches out and then black.
At least once a week I see this. It's fucking up my head and it's fucking up my sleeping patterns.


You go out, you drink, you fuck. Next day: you drink/work. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
For the past...I don't know how many months. Is this what student life is? No, really?
So, there's this person and this person. You know them, maybe even call them friends, heck why the fuck not? But they are practically meaningless in your life. And those who you do care an ounce of shit about are becoming vexatious to you. Because you see them every single fucking day!
So what is it I want then? I'm on the same path as Stevie, all I want to do is get happy. Not thrilled, not fantastic but just to be content. Well, it's hard. But a bottle of wine here and there seems to help, fucking seems to help, music helps, dancing helps, friends help, pubs help, money helps, people help.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

the

"Who do you love" by the lads seems like an appropriate song to be typing to, it's the beat.

I swear I have to use spell-check after every sentence just so I don't appear as an illiterate, ignorant beure. I just did it right there, it didn't correct me on "beure" so maybe this blog shit is working out. Finally, something.

I'm starting to think that change is a good thing. I used to stupidly think that it was a bad thing, I feared it. Spending all day asleep in bed because you're terrifed of what the next day would bring: change.
Yet now, a new start; everything completely new, it seems appealing to me. The whole "not knowing anyone". Yeah, of course I'm going to be horribly lonely and miserable for the first 3 months, but think of what'll happen after that. I'll be the new, "semi-exotic" thing. (An Irish girl living in Scotland, come on there has to be some appeal...drinking the men under the table, the accent-ish, and...
... feck it what else is there? ) Ah, it'll work.
So how do I break this to my parents? Well, my mam. You know the whole "Oh, I'm so proud of you because you're in university, you'll do well in life, blah-de-blah-de-blah." We get it mam, all of us 21st century college educates get it.

Imagine, I'd live on Haggis, well Scraggie because I think it tastes better. (Even though when I did try to cook it, it turned into little fire work explosions in the pan. It was only later that my Scottish dad told me that the only way to cook Scraggie is to boil it in the bag, like that rice shit with the Finnish-French guy in the add.) I'd live on alcoholic Ginger beer. Carlsberg that's 1.69 per pint in Dalkeith. Kilts. Sporrans. Cockburn street. Fireball whiskey. Fried food and gingers...eugh, no wait, no, just no.

Ah, but I would miss the lads an awful lot though.




Maybe...I should flip a coin. Leave it to chance.
No one can give out to me for that now, can they?