Just thinkin'

First up - dinner is lamb koftas with raita, warm lentil and bean salad and red pepper compote, served with a side salad and warmed flatbreads. Don't be so jealous X_x (I can make it vegan if you want to come over)

Now that I know what I'm eating, my head is clear for thinking about reality. I ever flail around in life, screwing up where possible. Even now, on a course I enjoy and turning thoughts towards grown-up things like a job, a flat and another diet, I am plagued by my own pedantic sickness. Sometimes I know that the price of clarity is too great, that I cannot bear the burden of my own sins and the world's virtues. It's all too much and I think I might snap. Now, instead of cracks blossoming over my skin as tribal scars, they bleed behind my eyes. The fruition of my anti-labours is my own loathing. I hate this life, I hate myself, I hate food and drink and dance and sleep. I hate this self-centred ego screaming "I!I!I!I!I!" yes, me, I'm snapping.
Don't cry, little Alice, it's only a garden.
This existance is a very lonely one. I do so miss myself.
In other news, relationshipwise everything is O.K and not K.O, which is... good. The usual stresses and strains that make a couple love (to strangle) one another are present and persistant. We fight, we bitch, we cry, we sulk, we ignore eachother and eventually we fuck. Such is life. I'm still dizzy and druglessly in love. Does it cloud my judgement? Of course. Does that make me weaker or stronger? Who knows? Who cares?

Vanity, you broke my heart while I was still young. I ever dreamed of eighteen years and legs that ran into the sky, and of cigarettes and bubblegum hair. Something let me believe with infantile purity that I would become all that I admired which was, I suppose, the Twiggy that is now all I see around me as the horizon is blocked by protruding gut and extreme laziness.

British. Not English.

I am inherantly British, both in my customs and cooking. Although I may make many a bowl of communal curry and flatbreads, sit around back garden fires chanting, and probably won't greet you with a 'How do you do?', there's nothing a cup of tea and a chip butty can't fix.
Which is odd. I'd much rather have been raised en France with an ocean of vineyards and fresh baguette and chouquette, Roquefort and Boursin. Ah well, life is a romantic dream of the unobtainable. Perhaps I will indulge the epicure within one day.
Though quite tempted to go with another meat fuelled breakfast based around bacon *slather drool* and leftover meatballs (which were so good even Mike at them in their pool of tomato sauce :P), I opted for a modest cup of tea and a plate of fruits. Fruit? For breakfast? WTF! I'm chaaaaanging.

Movies that if you haven't watched, you should..

Mysterious Skin

L.I.E

Wristcutters: A Love Story

Boy A

Between The Folds

Yes, Virgin.

I'm thinking about fucking. Rough sex, fast sex that leaves you glistening with sweat, flushed with anger. Fucking. Hard and dirty and beastial, violent and twisted. Constantly craving what never sates, a drug of obscene proportion lying unseen in my fingertips and lips. I'm anticipating tearing, claws that maul and cradle as the gyroscope dizzies and I fall. Exhaustion.

Skin. Skin skin soft skin warm skin. My skin. Your skin. Flesh. And fucking. Flesh and fucking, skin on skin, teeth on lips on necks and skin.

Sex and violence.

Flesh and fucking.

Skin on skin.