It's orange blossom season and so I have decided that flowers are the only thing my room should smell of; the sloany bitches from Saint Mary's wont mind if I go and sneakily steal some from them so haha!
Its such a lovely smell, like tea and fresh orange peel, but not as astringent. When not too much around you seems pretty just pick a few sprigs and put them by your bed, and the world will seem a lot more delicate, a lot less harsh.
Such fantabulous smellness could not possibly exist in a world of evil, thus proving angsty teenage musings about the world being cruel and pointless wrong.
Its a little bit like Vicks vapour rub, and polytar shampoo, and damp leaves, the way it all seems a little bit better, a little more tolerable when you smell them.
I think my warped mind is prevented from falling apart by an enveloping mesh of good smells.
The sense are the most basic, and some might say only, tools we have, so we should thus use them to bring our thoughts back down to an earthly and basic level. They stop us floatig away in a hot air balloon basket of muddled consternation.
*daisyfreak* is right, smells are very powerful.

I hold my cheek up to your face
And tilt it coyly,
confidently,
Because I think you are infatuated
And have been waiting for me
To do that for some time.

I am a soft fruit
A peach
The bitter stone I have cut out
And swallowed to my stomach,
Hiding it from you
Making myself softer for you.
Any discomfort to be soft for you
any any any at all.
The sagging skin of my persona I have plumped out for you, with sweetpeach flesh.
Filled with anecdotes,
Some true some not so,
to amuse you
Filled with the appearance of careless joy
to titilate you
Filled with a little cryptic sadness,
projected just at you,
to make you fell as if there is a window in me
that only you can look through.

But you are talking to someone else,
your hand is nonchalantly draped around my shoulders,
absently,
but you are talking to someone else.
And the open wound of sweetness that I have fabricated for you,
Calculated to suit you,
Lies raw and un-noticed.
My cheek grows a little harder,
And the fruitstone rests unneasily in my belly.

The arguements in this house revolve around turkey remarkably often...

Darlings! Do you not agree that this town is funny as hell? Where else could one find such a pit of promiscuity and sexual incontinence?
Now dont think I'm preaching, I'm just as bad, but I think we should all take a moment to reflect, meditate if you will, about whether its all very funny, or just a little bit tragic. It is fun duckies, its a bit exciting and it provides the most marvellous gossip on a monday morning, but hot damn does it get confusing!
And theres the whole emotional bubble wrap that enswathes it.
Now does anybody know why exactly so many of us choose to screw eachother over, and disregard The Rules that seem so pointless, so old fashion, so Nineties when in a moment of passion, and yet so appropriate, so fair and so compassionate when the person you are still in love with gets over you by fucking your best friend?
Are we just young and foolish, are we bored, are we just far too bloody horny or are we that bit colder, that bit less compassionate than we previously thought.

Oh dear, that got a bit deep didnt it poppets? Im very sorry, the next enstallment will be entirely about shoes.
Take care and keep your knickers up occasionally xx

To a very special person:
You make my days better, and you make me a better person. You are always there for me and you make me want to always be there for you.
I dot feel like I have to be anyone around you aparts from who I am in that moment, I dont have to entertain you and I know that you dont judge me for my many sins.
I am never bored when you are there and you make the time I have with you feel worthy and important. I feel lucky to know you. You have a talent for being yourself and helping me be myself.
Never change.
Love always.

Do I want to see you again?
Do I indeed?
But what if you are not quite the same next time
And the fabric of us has changed
What if there are loose stitches
That form holes
Because of poor observation?
What then?
Do We take that risk Sweetling butterflyby?
And perhaps tear ourselves?
Taste bitter experience instead of sour regret?
Or sleep a little less
As What Might Have Been heavies the heart and lightens the eyelids?
What indeed?

Oh you silly silly girl, dont you dare fall for people, its bad and wrong. Be cool and emotionless instead, you know its the right thing to do.

Just accustom yourself to the fact that it is sooo not going to hapen and book yourself that place in the damn nunnery!

Oh dear, that was a loong diary entry, unwise methinks.

I want people to start being more thoughtful and less angry. More compassionate and less idiotic.

Drama is not always good. It is possible to have an interesting and simultaneously pleasant and non disruptive life that doesnt hurt lots of people. Interesting does not have to mean dangerous and irresponsible.
To please yourself and others where possible, to create and to care and to love and to give. This is what life should be. Should.

And so another late night diary entry...

Well it all seems to be a bit muddled at the moment... I seem to have gotten my creativity bubble back and it hasnt popped yet... Often overwhelmed with a sickening sense that the creativity is all just a bit of an illusion, its so fragile and tempremental. It sounds odd but just keeping the ideas in my head is such a tempting idea, to protect these delicate fledgling thoughts and notions from the destructive light of day. Maybe if I try and realise them they will fizzle away? But then maybe not.
I suppose the play I'm writing at the moment is a realisation of an idea and its going rather well. Its good when you find someone who you can work creatively with, who doesnt constrict your expressive ideas, rather helps to fine tune and develop them. And you can appreciate their ideas and help develop them in turn. Even if they do steal your baccy.
I love the idea and am in anticipation of how its going to turn out, how people will react... Its a big project, but not daunting as of yet. The presence of Biffy the cat does add some light relief from concentration by trying to sit on the handwritten single version of te play... Which will be fine once its typed up. I have grown quite fond of Biffy.
This project is a saving grace at the moment, not only is it incredibly interesting trying to represent and celebrate the dynamic of Sixth Form, but its good to have a focus on something that is entirely my choice to do. Most gratifying. And its a safe, neutral topic to think about when I need to escape from bad destructive mitherings.
Thinking about it doesnt make me feel guilty for wasting thought, as thinking about clothes or the pub would, as it is an intelligent endeavor that requires a lot of thought anyway; but equally it is an escape.
Its odd to think that my principal escape at the moment is directly and inextricably intertwined with many of the aspects of my life that I am trying to escape from.
I suppose taking a step away from it, interpreting it and playing god with it, as opposed to actually being within it is theraputic. The duality of the exercise is interesting to consider....

What is also interesting is trying to predict whether or not we will have any friends left in sixth form after it is performed... Its not meant to be spiteful or an intentional parody, far from being a parody its an analysis and a careful consideration, an ode to if you will. Yes an ode to sixth form. And if anyone is offended, which I cant imagine they will be, then that is their problem and their good humour deficit.

Its all rather fun. And distracts me from self consuming paranoia. Doing constructive things makes me concentrate less on how I imagine everyone to hate me and only tolerate me for the lubrication of the social group's politics.
Analysing it all in creative form stops me from drowning so much in it.

Anyhoo, lala, Oxfordness on Thursday, my liver cant take the punishment Sunny puts it through...

Random Tangent:
I need to find someone nice, who doesnt annoy me, who I dont constantly pick fault with, who maybe thinks Im a good person, who likes shellfish and hugs me as if doing it is coming home. Not being in love is boring. Its as if there's a huge inert part of you that really should be doing something, but cant, until you find the rare thing that activates it. Its like existing on the two top floors and the rest of the house is covered in dust sheets.
And I mean really love someone, not just want them, someone who late at night, when its just the two of you, when youve done your social duty and had a good time, when youre a bit post-coital and all curled up, holds you, and everything else disappears and its just that moment that smells like skin and linen and smoke and the faint trace of perfume thats left at the nape of your neck.
Its not necessary really, you can live a perfectly happy life without all of that... I suppose...
I dont mind being with someone and having a lovely time enjoying their company, you care for them and they turn you on, but to look at someone and only see violets.

Do we ever truely get to have that? Or is it just something that the Romantics dreamed up while fucked on laudanem?

Who knows, anyway, teehee I will look back and read this at some point laughing my arse off. Why is it that as a teenager that if you try and write about how you feel, these profound thoughts that you have, you automatically sound like a pretentious angsty wanker?
Their is an obvious answer there but its only for the cynical.

And on a final note, goodnight.

My hair is having an epileptic fit and it hasnt included me. We will have words, dont you worry. Ive got dirt on that motherfucker, I am going to destroy it...
*grapples with own hair*


Go to bed Beccy!
OK.

Is it wrong to steal from people you know?
What if you steal with honourable intentions?
For example,
''I steal this tobacco so they will not get lung cancer''
or
''I steal this valuable antique to demonstrate that materialism is wrong and as Bhudda said, 'attatchment is the root of all suffering'''
or
''I steal this item of clothing because it makes them look fat and me look good. All I care about is their dignity.''
or
''I steal a sip of this pint because not drinking makes me cranky, and I do not like being cranky around my friends''
or
''I steal the content of this essay and reword it out of respect for their intelligence.''

I am an honourable thief damnit!

I must start being more suitable. Right, constructive list:
Less alchohol. I am and idiot when drunk.
Less moping, being maudlin shouldt be ones principal weekend activity.
More work, it helps with the future and stuff.
Less gossiping, remember karma! Karma!!
Less smoking, death and emphysema are not sexy.
More cod liver oil, it lends flexibility to your joints and increases brain activity.
Cease to become dependant on single types of food. Eating only grapefruits, toast or gherkins does not make for a healthy diet.
More good, brownie type activities (helping old gits ect).
Less forming/ desiring/lusting after/ stalking people for, unsuitable realtionships.
More gardening.
More time actually doing these things instead of making constructive lists about them.

Euch, I smell like cider. I didnt even have the pleasure of drinking the cider that was spilt on me. Now that burns.

Not so neutral after all. Quite lonely actually. Meh.

Well I have dyed my hair, had a haircut and changed the way I use my nose expressions, but I still seem to be the same person. Damn. I am getting a refund back from loreal.

Oh dear, having one of those evenings. It all seems to be rather tiresome, things have exploded into a complicated evil mess and I have a horrible feeling that soon I will do something that will make me part of it. It will be a karmic comeback for gossiping too much.

Its nice to be able to float above social politics like an ethreal gossip machine, but rather like the moral highground, one doesnt get to stay at that altitude for very long. Meh.

Its time to collapse onto a comfortable sofa, cover myself in a blanket and wait for someone to bring me in a bacon sandwhich and tell me its over.

Let it all
slip slide
on a downwards diagonal
To be observed from a different less offensive angle
And be smiled upon
As the petal shaped tears dry
And leave a sweet scent
That over rides the bitter fruit
That grows and swells as consequence
To that night that seemed so insignificant,
Before we had time to think
And conclude the opposite.
These days these days
That blend and blur and sink and rise
Inciting sleepy resignation
But never suprise
Because those days those days
Have come and gone
Leaving only echoes to be thought upon
As we drift into unsettled sleep.

Well if one cant write angsty poems at the age of seventenn after a depressing evening, when can one write them?
Night night possums xx

Smile cos you know youre so damn pretty
Smile cos you know that your clothes have holes in invisible places
Smile cos you know that he's next door
Smile cos you know that he thinks youre a whore
And you are
But smile cos thats ok.
And dont forget that there is yoghurt in your fridge and you like that
Oh yes you do,
Its like tangy fruity goo
Oh yeah.

Thats poetry my friends oh yes it is. Where's my gin?

Huzzah for modern technology, tis unappreciated and most wonderful. Whoever could have thought of strange rectangles that tell music boxes to play the tune you want at the touch of a button, from accross a room? What times we live in.

Times when unwanted cats can be prevented from peeing in your house simply because of painful electric force fields. Mind mcBoggling. Times when meat can be turned from squidgy to crispy because of an advanced thermalkinetic heating technique. Brain bedazzling.

Ho hum, times when one has little else to think about other than times themselves. But then I suppose that's all there is to think about.
Totally poignant man.
All in a days work dude.

Blarghmalarg!
An old man nearly ran me over today and then stopped the car and tried to make me take his glasses. It confused me and only developed my sentiment still further that all people over the age of sixty should be euthanased (forcibly if necessery).
Hmpf.
Anyhoo I am quite upset because my pot plant has greenfly. He's called Beatrice and he's too young to die godamnit! Why does everything that enters my room die instantly?
Why do I have an overwhelming desire to draw a map of the London underground on Mr Gail's oh so shiney head?

God this is all far too confusing.

Rather like the mire of social-political complexity that is evil sixthform. It's getting quite silly. At least us arty people get to go and hang out in the art room being flakey... And avoid the common room, and the english room that smells like 'unspecified' fish (mackeral, BRAD you IDIOT!!!!- kiss kiss).

Right I will leave you all with the indisputable truth that Hanson rock everyone's socks even if they do not care to admit it, you know its true,
tata duckies xx