Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Born Again Hooligan


This "blog" as I dislike to call it, was created to be read by strangers, a few occasional close friends or perhaps another bored soul as bored as mine. Recently, as in, very recently, a few people from school found this "shit".

When things go wrong with me I generally hit the bottle so hard I smash it on my head and bleed to my toes, and I do shit I regret and I whisper fuckfuckfuck for a few days.

So at first I though oh well fuck, now I have to censor myself, I have to restrict what I say. I can't talk about sex and hate and love and the fucked up shit people do. 


Sometimes I don't even know if I mean all the stuff I say, stringing words together like warts and wars and warlocks and wizards and whatever. This is not the inner workings of my mind, this is not. I'm like a rabbit on acid, hard horny and hella cute. No, not really.

I'm a girl, I want romance and I want sex but sometimes you can't have both. Sometimes you can't have either. But I love to talk of the twistedness of religion and about how fucked up it is how easy it is to convince people of the untruth.

But then I thought, this is the way I speak anyway. It's only different because now it's written down.

I mean I like white sheets and lace and roses and mirrors and soft light and tights and hotel rooms and tapestry, which I want more than just "a root." Yeah I'll do my best to pretend; I don't fit no gender roles fuck you guys, but sometimes I do.

When I was young I stole my stepmother's makeup. I waited for my parents to leave the house and snuck up to her bathroom. I loved the lipstick, just smothering it on, one colour on top of another. I then kissed the mirror, put the makeup back and left.


Sometimes I don't want to go to university. I don't want to finish my degree, find a place, pay my debts, find a boyfriend I will settle for then fall pregnant after 2 weeks and have to marry him to raise the child in relative economic stability, and well you know how the story unfolds after that. I always feel like planned living doesn't feel so much like living, but I suppose it must be.

I was caught because of that kiss, only to be king again.


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