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[12 Dec 2006|03:37pm] |
Even considering how bad work can be and often is, nothing prepared me for quite how close it drove me to tears today. It was so utterly wretched that I just could not get through five minutes of cleaning that fucking floor without wanting to bawl my eyes out. I'm stronger than that now, I don't cry anymore. No matter how much I feel like it.
I cut my finger. Then I knocked a cream jug from the dishwasher, which smashed happily to pieces and scattered around my feet. Nothing went right!
Then I stepped on a piece of it and nearly impaled my foot on it. That was the last straw. I yowled in pain, screamed in anger and thumped the DW.
I am utterly miserable today. There is no absolutely no part of life that gives me any joy at the moment.
Fucking hell.
I got a lift from dad on the way home. He gave me a poetry book, by a young man called Simon, who wrote it during I think the seventies. I think he comitted suicide. I also think he lived in Minster. I'm not sure. There's a letter to his grandmother about his illness. He seemed rather unhappy, but in this book wrote some gentle simple and beautiful poetry.
I'll never commit suicide, no matter how bad I feel, ever. But I know how he feels, and I feel the words. Look at this introduction from the book, and one of the poems:
to my mother and father and my Torin and my Rikki
I love you.
I cannot endure the pain
You are good people
Please accept my apology
Please forgive me
Please campaign for a Christian burial
I am not of sound mind
Please remember my sensitivity as I treasure yours
I was not a bad man.
This makes my eyes tear up, because although i've never had the intention of doing this, I feel in these words the pang of wanting people to remember you for good. I empathise with this young man and his emotional intelligence, his use of words, his ringing sadness within.
This is nice..
'Sixteen and I couldn't care less'
a nervous kissing caress and
maturity all over her blouse.
Wonder feeling and the touch of her dress
so much in the first thrill of sex
in the sun she shudders
light whispers these lovers
I felt like this. You see, such heated subjects, treated with delicacy and intelligence. He reminds me of me.
This gentleman's name is Simon.
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[12 Dec 2006|03:41pm] |
Mark Kermode is bigging up Kes!
Good on yer. And he understands it completely.
I've got Family Guy. There's a little light in my day. Giggety.
Yes, Eva, you can squeeze my ass.
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[12 Dec 2006|03:45pm] |
I was thinking about dating again earlier. About how my old naivety could be used for joke making purposes. A bit like this, shitters:
Phylly: Yeah, I went out with a girl. (This didn't happen, which will surprise nobody) She was nice.
Dan: Wahey! So what happened, did she invite you in for coffee?
Phylly: Yep. And I obliged.
Dan: Nice one son! So?
Phylly: Well, we went upstairs, and she tried to have sex with me. I only wanted a fucking coffee. The stupid thing was when I was rooting around in her cupboard, there wasn't even any coffee in there! Lying chest eyed bastard.
Dan: Eh?
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[12 Dec 2006|03:50pm] |
Further on from the disease thing, a campaign for safe sex in UK magazines depicts a lady's panties with "I've got Gonarrea" written on it." This is meant to show that in real life a prospective partner may not tell you if they did or not.
Be funny if they did though. I might actually wear a t shirt saying "I've got knob rot", or "I have giant weeping sores all over my penis and genitals, so it's best not to let me near your naughty hole."
Come on, it'd be fun! We could confuse the UK, together.
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[12 Dec 2006|06:34pm] |
In one hour i'm back at work.
Sigh.
Never mind, i've cheered up a little. And I did it all by myself, because I know i'm all I need to do it. One thing i'm proud of is being reliant emotionally on nobody. That's why I use this journal. I never seek pity, I use this place to get it out, write it out and then get to writing about something else, like clip on clits. Because that's what I do, I write depression out of my head. And it works. I'm my strength, i'm my shoulder, and i'm my own fucking person.
And i'm getting good at holding my head up. I need no-ones fingers, no-ones hands. I do it myself.
I actually hope it's busy tonight. I want some people to talk to. Or to sit in amongst. Just listening to those scattered voices.....
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| Merry Christmas. |
[12 Dec 2006|06:43pm] |
Santa Claus had a small elf called Ben,
who drove him around the fucking bend,
he broke all the baubles,
and got drunk on the cobbles,
so Santa had him shipped to the moon,
but the moon is devoid of oxygen,
so Ben asphyxiated
Santa didn't think this one through.
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