So far away

I will be looking out of the window as the train pulls away into gushing oceans of green grass, dead trees snagging the overcast sky and plunging into icy Wiltshire. Everything will fog over and start wobbling as the rain begins to fall. All I will be thinking about is you. As the smooth frost night blankets everything, lying in a foreign country in a bed that isn't mine, isn't with you, the rain will fall harder.

Come to me in my dreams with velvet touch and cottony whispers that I might be with you as I sleep.

Stay. I cannot do this alone.

But I've learned to cry very quietly.

Sleep

I've been having trouble sleeping recently. It could be the lack of alcohol. It could be Mike's snoring, sweating and flailing. But I think it's mostly down to a severe lack of medication.

About once a month, or on Valentine's day and birthdays we get to sleep like this:

Peaceful, cuddly, perfect.

Most of the time there's lots of jabbing, sleep-punching, kicking and accidental strangulation. We will wake up, toss and turn and fight for the centre of the bed. But most of the time, it just ends up like this:

:(

You sit not ten vertical feet from me, under some illusion that I'm not curled up in the dark crying. It is as if you have rejected every ounce of my being. Do you even know how much it fucking hurts or is that all part of you? Blissful ignorance. Surely even you can see that this happened before, and I know you didn't like the six month outcome of that little venture. I can't even have a torrid affair because it would break my fucking heart all over again.
I guess some things are better left untouched. Right?

I don't blame you. I look fucking disgusting. I wouldn't want to fuck me, so why should anyone else. Right?

Melancholy

Because I have nothing better to do than sip vodka at 3pm and fuck around on my shiny new laptop, today's post is about my cat, Melancholy (answers only to Cat). See, I thought it would be funny to call her Melancholy because she looks a bit like a Border Collie, and I like puns. She is also the happiest, most retarded cat I have ever met. This morning at about four A.M I stepped on her tail, she looked up in horror and then rolled over for a tummy scratch.

She runs into doors at full speed.

 It freaks me the fuck out when cats do that stretchy leg thing. That's not normal. And the sound is what I imaging masturbating with glass paper would sound like.Scratch. Sccrraatch. Scccccrrrratch.

My cat dribbles when it's happy. I've checked online and I'm still pretty convinced my cat has brain damage. We like to fuck with her by sticking random shit to her to see how she will cope. Most of the time she hunches over and creeps around before giving in, accepting her fate as doomed forever and rolling over for tummy scratches.

And at 5 A.M she likes to wake you up by jumping up on the bed, kneading any exposed squishy bits with her claws out and then sitting, wet cat nose on no longer sleeping human's nose. This doesn't go down as well as the cat thinks it should.

But despite being retarded and dribbling a lot, we love her. We do.

I really can't get to grips with drawing using the touch pad. I could plug a mouse, or even a drawing tablet in. But these are my shitty pictures, and they're worth a thousand equally shitty words.

Just

What a hectic month...

I've been pregnant, miscarried and have a birthday to "enjoy". I'm turning 20. No more teenage angst, just plain, slow and flat depression :D

I'm fucking exhausted.

Oh melancholy me.

Erm

                       For the past week my boyfriend has been like this

and my cat has been like this

Weed does strange things to people

(and cats)

Olanzapine Dreamers Are All Secret Schemers.

I was looking for you,
Lonely.
Stuck between the ceiling
And the cellar door.
Conflated emotions
And deflated notions of
What would be in store.
For my prince among thieves
Will go where e'er his heart takes him
Foolish boy-
He believes in his
Redolent dreams.
I called out for you,
Lonely
Underneath my umbrella.
Almost begging for the rain
To bring something more.
Myriad droplets fell, gentle
As tears go.
Unraveling me to the core.
And my naked boy wonder
Was far from my calling,
Heard the rain
And nothing more.




RHYME LESS RHYME LESS WHY DO I WRITE LIKE A CHILD THE CAT SAT ON THE FUCKING MAT AND GOT SO FAT WE.... ATE IT. YUM.

Dizzy Fizzy Fluffy Love

I love you, I do. It was a dizzy, fizzy, fluffy love. It ate me whole. Time happened, and now everything has changed, but I still love you. When you ask me at night or tomorrow or in thirty seven years I will still love you. You can ask me in a starlit field or a Camden toilet and my answer will never change. Love tastes like chili chocolate, salty crispy fries and the taste of your mouth. Warm, comforting, perfect.

I know I act strange.


Try very hard to believe me.

Glow in, Blood out.

Tell me all your secrets. Kiss me when it's dark. Do not turn the light on to find your way out.
Send more backup. Make sure I can breathe. Use butterfly stitches.
Spread like a disease between a hooker's legs. Turn the volume up to eleven.
Speak in tongues. Speak without your tongue. Hushed whispers.
Silence.

Ignore this.

I don't really know where I'm going with this one. I wrote it and all the beautiful words are being mocked by my total incapability to not rhyme. It sounds like a fucking children's song. But I'm sure I can take it and re-write it, so I shall put the words here for safekeeping.




A night of virgin solitude
Abetted by some pain
With interlocking interludes
Of tears.
It starts to rain.
I watch the droplets streak
Because they don't watch back
And sing a song that has no words.
The window starts to
Crack.
One night of sultry solitude
Stays hidden from the sun,
Amidst frenetic symphonies
The darkness
Comes undone.



Aaaand that's all I have. I tried to draw something today. It went in the bin. It was terrible.

Everything sucks at the moment :(

These dreams are a nightmare

We kiss, cold skin and warm tears. I try to convince myself that you will never let go. Soft eyes. I wear your lips against my sin, nerves waging a war of static and dormant breath.

... left me somewhat disconnected
almost broken, always running
            never free ...

Your daily charm disarming my emergency alarm setting
Sun's aching, day breaking over me
spilled sunshine into all the pores
said she adores the heat
And once more kisses
so sweet.

Green eyes. Speckled with amber and slight licks of chestnut. Beautiful. I want to cut them out and keep them and never have to share.

Overwhelmed at my death. Underwhelmed by my life.

Sweet Cherry and Cigarettes

I felt autumn creeping in early yesterday, and I pined for days long passed. There were walks for hours, wine under a bridge and hot tea in dark cafes with the best people. My friends. Long gone. I've started to take my medication again, in the hope of resuming some balance in my life and lighting a candle in the cavernous gloom. I miss my friends, sometimes. They have lots, I have only them.

I'm on another diet again, yay. -_-
So far I've eaten a lot of ice-cream, chocolate, cake and jerky. Erm. Yeah, I don't know what happened either? PMS much... But I've been two days without alcohol, and over the last four days have not been drunk. It could be due to the tonsillitis (which has only been made worse by smoking far too much), but let's just call it progress for now.

I want to go for a long dark walk through the concrete woods, two A.M chill and shadows. Echoes in the streets   that entice you to walk deeper, deeper still and find new places to be calm. Walking at night, no need for makeup. The shadows will play new features across your face. Tricksy light, always shifting, never still.

I've decided I'm going to restart my creativity drive, and actually do something in my free time. Hopefully scans to follow. Too much free time, too much intensity, not enough outlet (or sex. More sex too please. Lots more.) I might even scan in some of my old stuff, I only wish my computer was good enough to support Photoshop without seizing and bluescreening on me. Eh, can't have everything.

Sugar

People seem to be under the deluded impression that there are no fat bulimics. My BMI is 26.7, and it's definitely fat and not muscle. So, there you go. We're out there. Don't get me wrong, bulimia works. It's the crippling alcohol problem that pushes me up into the lofty heights of borderline obesity.


You want to know the best thing about bulimia?




Nothing.


I have eaten an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting.


I have eaten a whole large pizza.


I have eaten my entire birthday cake, when no one turned up.


I have eaten way too many trays of Chinese food.


And several share bags of cookies.


I have eaten family sized buckets of ice cream in the dark.


I have eaten a whole chicken.


I have washed it down with coffee. With warm water. Cold water. Soda. Tea. Beer. Wine. Guilt. Shame. So much guilt and shame.


I've done it in the dark, in the park, on my own and with my friends. I've done it in fast food slums and fancy restaurants. I've even done it in someone's back garden, and in an airplane.  


I have thrown up things that taste foul. I have thrown up a firestorm of spicy curries that burn and sting. I have thrown up sour, acidic, vile, watery, lumpy ... matter. I have almost suffocated throwing up a thick lump of condensed bread. I have thrown up curdled milk. I have thrown up rice so hard that it gets stuck in my nasal passages. Which fucking sucks. I've thrown up hot sauce, mustard, horseradish and wasabi. 


My teeth are eroded. My hair falls out. My face is dry from having to wash sick off it ten times a day. I've got cuts in the back off my throat from accidentally clawing at it as I shove my fingers too far down. My nails are chipped. My knuckles are always scarred from digging in teeth. Bite down.

Be angry. Punish. Destroy. Purge. Panic. Is everything out? It can't be. Dry heaving. Downing three pints of water to try and wash out every last little crumb and grain.More pain, more guilt, more shame. A filthy little secret that you hide away from everyone forever as you attempt to grapple control.


Not me. I'm sick of pretending every meal is fine. It's a race to see who gets to the bathroom first. Rational Khloe, or panic stricken anxious fearful nauseous Khloe, the fat little girl who feels dirty and ashamed and needs to be back in the driving seat.


And then blood sugar drops and the cravings return with gusto. Scroll back up. Repeat ad nauseum.

Caffeine

Yesterday was supposed to go well. I was supposed to walk into Chelsea and have my meeting. I was supposed to calmly explain why I didn't want to fill out another 40+ page form. I wasn't supposed to sleep through my alarm, have an anxiety attack and drink vodka for breakfast. But these days happen. Even the right words seem wrong on these days.
I ran out of medication. Again. I got so caught up hearing voices that I ended up pouring a pan of hot oil over myself. I almost cut my thumb off chopping things for dinner. I think I'll stay out of the kitchen until I'm medicated again...


Today I have my one-to-one with my substance abuse lady. I get to tell her I've managed to neck back however many units this week. It's actually pretty low for me. I might also get the results of my liver test back. Liver damage before I hit twenty? That'd be some feat.


Well, no results as it turns out. But I had some coffee and put my life into perspective a little. Perspective is always good.


Doctor doctor doctor. Must do. Ergh.


My porcelain queen with her long slender neck, forever keeping my life in check. I bow at the altar and hold my breath. One of these days, she'll be my death. My beautiful porcelain queen.

Candy

You pull an ugly face.

It's a face flare. A contorted toothsome retching. You twitch and buckle and dribble as I stare on in sick fascination. You sleep like a starfish, dribble on the sheets and break wind far too frequently. You always need a shower. Everything about you would make her scream NO. No way, no how, no thanks.
But there's eyes that make me melt like forgotten pocket candy, kisses that barely grace the edges of my skin. There's always a good argument to chew out too, and I was never one to back down from a fight. And who am I to be hypocritical, you've seen my sleep face, my orgasm face and my twelve cans of alcohol about to puke face.
You make me happy.

Dreamy :D

Hello. I'm glad you came. Please take a seat and tick the boxes that apply to you.

Taller than me
Overweight
Geeky
No, painfully geeky
MMO player
At the very least hard-core gamer
Spend way too much time on the internet
Like Marmite
Heavy drinker
Fuck like a machine

First Fuck

I think we have omitted
Certain twisted details.
How about that fact that
We never kissed,
Or that the zip undid
Under my soft hands.
The absence of caressing,
And that we
Never danced.
How about the inner sense
Of innocence? Was that a pun?
I just wanted to have fun
With anyone with a loaded gun.
No one but you will ever
Know. Everyone knows.
But not your name.
I can't even recall the
Colour of your eyes, but ours
Barely met.
I bleached you out of my memories
Until I felt pristine,
Clean and dirty,
And I've never been so
Perforated by some kid
Who squeezed and perspirated.
I think you were the rabbit,
Snagged and surrendered
And I was the snare,
Hard candy, jailbait.
Who would dare-
in their right mind.
Only me. Omitting
Certain details.

So

The walls are shifting beneath my feet. Which way was up again? So many different pills and different times of day. But I was barely awake. What happened? I can't find anything to take away the screws that take away the pain. So frustrating. How am I supposed to be dealing with this? I just want to fuck and sleep. Each cut marks another hour passed without air. Never breathe again. Kiss on the wrist. Fingertips around the jugular. So romantic. Deeper. Who am I again? Let's dance.

A theft of the living, he'd stolen my heart.

Am I growing up?

When did buckles become laces? When did I swap lollipops for cigarettes? When did I start to prefer coffee to hot chocolate? At least I know I've always stayed up late.

I'm so sick and tired of proclaiming that I'm... well, sick and tired. Don't they know it's hard enough being this way without having to explain every detail with their exact words and stitch together my own little profile. There's nothing to blog about because I'm always either coming or going to hospital or doctors or nurses. My life has managed to become some bizarre caricature. I'd like to get off the Ferris wheel now please.

These entries will mark my decline into madness.

I bid you all adieu, for what follows cannot be resolves by man or beast.

Oh, and bear,

You broke my heart.

It's a good that there's a puppy trying to fix it again.

unravelling somewhat

GODDAMN 

No one is anywhere. I want everything. Now. 

Tears. Tears=Weakness, and they burn, and I'm cold. I want a hug. Weakness cracking my skin. Stop now now now. 

So.. if I can shoot rabbits... 

being so young... and being so vain. 

I hate you for going to sleep. Why are you so special that you get sleep... I don't. I need you. I want to deprive you as I have been. I want you to think as I do. All I want is to never be alone again. 

But I'm always alone I HATE YOU I HATE YOU. 

I hate men. I don't want a daddy. I don't have one. So don't give me another. Or another. 


Bastards. All of you 


You burn. 

Cold fire. 


I love one note. It is my sorrow. I can't read music. Or else I would know and be wed to that note. 

I DRAG BEHIND. Don't you know? I do. I scrape along in everyone elses shit. Why can't I drag anyone through my shit? 

NOW THE drugs DON'T WORK. And they never will... 

I'll be hiding somewhere high. 

Jump down spin around pick a bale of hay. 

 WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? 

WAKE UP... I need you.. no one else works magic. Some just hurt. You are selfishly selfless.... And I love you. That's it. I DON'T BELIEVE IN YOU LOVE. LOVE IS NOT REAL. SO SHUT UP KHLOE SHUT UP 

I'm waiting for your healing hand.. one touch could bring me round.

NO MORE WIRES

DO NOT RESUSCITATE.
_________________
But you see
That's contradictive
Why on earth would anyone practice
Self-destruction?

Try hurrdurr.

I'm thinking. About you. About the whole world. I let my thoughts drift as the rain scatters meekly through the trees, and I let myself find peace without you. I lie naked and wet on my bed, wondering when I should answer your silent call. I know I have not prioritized you, but I can. I will. I want to scoop you up and reassure you that everything will be ok now. Now that I'm free. But I can't lie to you, and I think there's going to be a whole lot more grizzly snapping and flailing and bite. If I see you on the other side of it, that's enough for me.
Don't get me wrong. My heart is still. It ceases to beat in time with the rhythm that you play. You have to twist the strings or it will never work properly, and I'll just make sure it doesn't stop.







http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=If_BpSJehSw&feature=feedf

Go

Again in my dreams, you come to me, come to me again. Mind pieces together each fragment of you still snagged in my soul, purges them into one. They say I am coping so well. So leave now, away from my night visions, and bring me no more shards of peace. I cannot bear the pain of waking.


And then
         the angels
         flew downy wings
                  clouds in their
                      eyes
           could not explain
               what was becoming
                   this 
          in every breath
    and their hearts
       beat
  us all down
      in flames unmerciful

Blah\Blah\Blah|Whine/Whine/Whine

I feel totally drained of everything. Normally I would be in a frenzy of awful AWFUL poetry (see previous posts) and confusing art. But at least I'm numbing everything out with my number one drugs and squashing any hurt into a very dark place no one will look ^_~. 

There aren't enough people like you these days. Everyone wants to make love. That's why I liked you. You just wanted to fuck, and that was perfect. I didn't need kissing and petting, just a few buttons for instant satisfaction. I come, you come. Whatever. Do something else until I want to fuck again.

Now I'm purloining hearts on the opposite end of the scale and it's a shock to the system. This isn't tear-your-goddamn shirt off and go like a pump action shotgun until the inevitable becomes unavoidable. It's slow, calculated fucking that already knows all the secrets. There's a whole new language, I forgot I was bilingual. But there's something to be said for excessive knowledge, I guess. This is good too. 

I don't exactly lack for company. Whore it up, little girl. 

Well

You weren't worth it.

You weren't worth crying all day over.
You weren't worth getting pregnant for.
You weren't worth all the different pills I took.
You weren't worth the AA meetings.
You weren't worth all the hospital stays.
You sure as hell weren't worth all the faked orgasms.
Or the real ones.
Your mother didn't like me.
You thought I was fat.
You thought I was ugly.
You are still in love with your ex.
Fuck off to uni.
I'm going to whore myself out to anything with a dick, tits or both.







Why are you still making me cry?
Fucking cunt.

Oh Dear.

It's just one of those nights. Everyone is swarming in my head because I haven't had enough alcohol to become wrapped in a comatose sleep, and they're being bad little girls and boys. Putting their fingers and itchy teeth into my doubts and worries. Concentrate hard enough on writing here and keep focused. This is the way. No one's going anywhere. Oh god now I don't know if that's good or bad. Oh dear. Another anxiety attack. Even the bear gave me one today, I mean... urgh. Talk about getting worse. I'll probably see him and throw up and have a spontaneous nosebleed. Anxiety girl, she stays in her room, in the dark, hyper...venti...laaaaating.

You know how I know I'm tired? My brain just referred to ellipses as prolapses. *snark* Oh you, silly brain. That's not how grammar works. Spend less time trolling forums :)

Hurrrmkay. Let's see. What can I think about that isn't:

a) The next alcoholic beverage dispensing human

2) The fact that I need a haircut and earrings... and a wash.

four) The stomach fat resting on my thighs.

potato) The acne which has decided to sprawl across my cleavage and up my chest to attack my neck. Of all the fucking places acne, why be such a dick?

You know what, I don't feel any better. That didn't help. Please don't let them take me to the detox clinic O_O

I want to stay here and be a fat depressed alcoholic.

All alone in a corner.

And never get fucked eight times a day by the bear until it's almost like surfing a constant wave of ... Where was I? Right. Eternal misery ^_~

I'm sure I'll be fine once they stuff me full of pills :)

I love pills.

www.quest.i-poon.com

Do these! I'm on level thirty-fucking-seven.

Queasy

Dear anxiety attack, please go away. I don't like you.

I was minding my own business pouring over countless food blogs when you decided to strike. Suddenly I was thinking about having to go to a funeral and see all my family, and then I started thinking about trying to navigate home alone on a train and whether or not I would have to change trains and maybe I would miss the connection or get lost or end up on the wrong platform and what happens if I run out of money and have to walk home from Victoria and oh god I don't know how to do that. And then I have to go to the doctors, waiting for ages and maybe I'll have to go and pick up a prescription and I only have an hour before going to the alcoholics meeting and it's going to be full of people I don't know and they're probably all old and they might make me talk and introduce myself and everyone will be looking at me, judging me and wondering what the fuck I'm doing there when I'm not even twenty. And I still haven't gone for the fucking heart scan because the hospital is big and I'll get lost and I don't want to go alone.

Everyone in my family keeps asking if I'm ok since my uncle died. You know what? I'm fine. Maybe the funeral will make me not fine. I don't really want to find out.

Brendon can go fuck himself

I don't know why.

The stars are lonely rangers in the night sky

That call to me beneath a thousand lullabies,

Drifting through the precincts of

My still-born eyes.

They alone know me.

Slipping into my half-beat frequency

To sing their misconstrued soliloquies -

A whisper of a shadow on

A moon lit breeze.

In the chasmic shrine of the blood breached night

Sleeps the star most divine with the brightest light,

Yes, the brightest light but the quickest soul,

Far too soon the night shall swallow her whole,

And I so besotted shall become so broken

Before ever a word her lips have spoken.

She sits up at night doing what??

I guess I'm trying to express the shock of not being in love. It's as if the heart must feel nothing to stop the pain of being alone, to build every emotion up from the ground all over again. Any way, it's a work in progress. The tone is a little off, I don't sound right.

Now we are not together

I feel the bleeding subside

And the pool in my heart congeals at last,

But now there is nothing.

It does not beat.

When I gave you half

You took it up in your arms and

Carefully placed in with yours.

But now we are not together.

You know me. I took a knife

and hacked away at it,

I sawed it in two and it gushed.

Not pretty.

And it hurt. All for you.

We are so far apart

That I feel nothing.

Now that we are

You

And I,

Waiting for someone

To make it beat.

The worst thing about not being single

It isn't that I miss sleeping with a hundred men, or running my hands over someone else's breasts (although it is a lovely feeling), nor is it the "independence" of being a free spirit. The worst thing about not being single is the unfillable late hours spend tossing and turning in an ocean of bed, knowing it should have warmth. There should be a bolster that snores and farts, scratches and pokes and takes up all the sheets in their arms. Something to snuggle against, and the reason you will only ever sleep on your half of the bed. You wake up cuddling a pile of pillows that doesn't even smell the same. I get nightmares. I hate waking up and crying. It's pathetic. But, I still need a hug afterwards. Yeah, I can go weeks apart in the daytime, despite having nothing to do. But not nights. Never nights.

I sat down and drank a cup of hot chocolate today, to get rid of my hangover. It was silky and delicious, perfecting my moment of being alone. I didn't care about the calories :) It was just nice to be by myself, peaceful and content as it washed away the nausea.

Sometimes, it's late and I miss the interlinking of our fingers.I lie in all the wrong positions and the bed needs you more than I do.

Haiku

I felt your heart beating against my cheek as I lay across you at five A.M, listening to the rain and feeling safe, enjoying the little blossom of moments before the storm returned, and the rain drowned out your heartbeat once again.

Haiku for you, haiku for me.

Behind your eyelids,

A silent war wages

That I cannot fight.

I don't like my coffee like my men.

Today I woke up feeling hungry for the first time in weeks. I missed it :)

I wish I was a guy. It's not fitting for a woman to spoil her man on Valentines day, is it? I guess breaking convention can't hurt, and besides, what am I to do with money if not spend it? My conveying of emotions is somewhat stunted, you see. Unless I've had a few too many or a little white powder... Life would be much easier if I could just type an emoticon and not use my big words.

Where is my shame, when all this is done?

The song that cannot be sung by these

lips, but forced. And echoing the sound

that works into the tremors of the

ground. The last dark day,

October dust, no shame in nature

So you say.

What is my name when

all this is done?

You cannot recall a better

day or time between the lines

of cherry trees,

That now in blossom gleam,

Infectious,

Ruthless in your disease

that filled their petals one by one,

No shame

When all this is done.

:/

It's hard to get away from guilt. It permeates every pore, seeps into every weeping wound and sore so that you can't escape it. You wake up feeling guilty for sleeping late, and guilt as you eat. After you have finished you try to erase your mistake and feel worse still for failing to meet impossible standards. None of your clothes fit, and you try to ignore this but sooner or later everyone notices that those grey trousers have to be washed. They don't ask questions, there's no point. You spend so much fucking time alone that you can contemplate your guilt for hours or days uninterrupted and it builds, driving you in circles, cycles of repetition you'd break if only... There is no reason. You start to obsess. You build fantastical days that are just lies, your dreams. Perfection. And someone has to fucking burst your bubble or you'll float away and forget all the guilt you had back on earth. No, much better to be here in the now.

-_-

I think, for possibly the first time in forever, I don't actually want to be depressed. At all. I'm genuinely uncomfortable feeling like this, and have perhaps inadvertently taken "the first step" by not resigning myself to it. Well, whatever. It should make for an interesting discussion with the doctor tomorrow ^_^

Still... fuck me I feel awful.

It feels so strange having a room, a bed to myself. It's not that I don't like it, and in a lot of respects it's really not that different. Especially considering its previous inhabitant. I just want some social interaction. Or something. I don't know.

I'll do anything. To please anyone.

Who can distract me.

For a few hours.

But it's enabling me

To get

very

aggitated

with

you

stupid

people

who

make

me

feel

worse

Non-conforming as can be

There were ghosts that appeared through fractals,

There was silence that could not compare.

Darkness deep-ruptured and odious,

You were never even there.

Cold chasms blew zephyrs through tunnels

And through the stained strands of my hair,

Until they grew cold and rebounded,

And the silence stagnated the air.

You left me to write a soliloquy

As long as the days are fair,

When the words at last came, condensing your pain,

How I wished you were not there.

February

is no eating month. I might even sneak in some exercise. I can't look at myself any more, it just makes me feel sick. I think if I just stay naked and in front of the mirror I'll lose weight.

If it's not soup, black coffee, gum, fruit or diet soda then SLAP THAT SHIT out of my hands.

Whut

I just woke up from a dream, a little unusual and perhaps a little telling. I was staying in a mansion with two other beautiful women. We would sit by the pool, drink cocktails and go through an extensive wardrobe. I woke up feeling quite content, and promptly fell back to sleep. Then one day some guys came over and started filming and I realised we were all porn stars. When I refused to do double anal, they made me give a rimjob to the guy that was fucking the blonde pornstar doggy-style. Why do my dreams always take a turn for the worst?

Everything seems so hopeless at night, lying in bed in the dark with nothing but myself. I cry like a bitch. The last threads of colour merge with the grey and are lost to the drain. So, I was thinking maybe we could start fresh from the beginning, only less of a mess?

Hi, I'm Khloe.

I don't like chocolate. No one has ever taken me to dinner. I don't dance in the rain but I love being in it. When I find a song I like, I repeat it for days. And days. At the moment it's a toss up between Girlscout and A Praise Chorus. It's been ages since I put any effort into how I looked. I can't stand most extroverts. All my friends are more like drinking buddies. I'm vulgar, I spit swear and puke, wake up naked in unknown places, I drink whiskey, I'm narcissistic, I like riding those dodgy moving cow games, with whiskey in one hand. I bite, I hiss, I fight. I prefer showers to baths. I like sharing them. AND I can't sing but I do it anyway. If I was a man, I would run a mile.

I'm preparing for a Star Wars marathon. :D

Fuck you, NHS. Fuck you.

I just walked down to the hospital, waited for an hour just to book an appointment, and was told by the woman that saw me that they essentially wanted to stop seeing me anyway. I feel as if this is the world repeating endlessly, staggering. It's like reaching the breakthrough of actually trying to fix myself, and then being told I'm fine as I pop pills like candy and trace little red flowers over myself, all of this to go back to square one. Here's some placebos, call us if you need us. But you won't, you'll be fine. You're a big girl now, you know.

Fucking cunts. I feel like killing myself just to prove a point.

Or I could be over-reacting. She could have meant that they would transfer me over to some psychologist and such. Who even knows. God, I fucking hate their little mind games.

I need some serious fucking stress relief. And a glass of wine.

Aching

Seriously, I'm sweating sex. I can feel the pure fuck coursing through my veins, a delicious and intoxicating mix of chemicals that plunge straight down to make me violent and wet. I've been pulled and pinched and bitten and clawed. Everything is twitching. You are cruel.