Why.
Just why.
Why.
Why.
Seriously, why.
WHYYYYYY!
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Proof God does not exist.
Eoghan Quigg has released a CD.
Why.
Just why.
Why.
Why.
Seriously, why.
WHYYYYYY!
Why.
Just why.
Why.
Why.
Seriously, why.
WHYYYYYY!
Watching the races.
Sat opposite my Dad as he watches the races and eats his toast.
He may be short, his hair going white (I tell him it suits him) and he may support Bolton Wanderers, but he's a truly remarkable man.
I love my Dad.
It's times like these where you begin to appreciate everything.
Apart from the fact that after yesterdays hormones and fireworks, today's day of gardening doesn't really appeal to me.
At all.
He may be short, his hair going white (I tell him it suits him) and he may support Bolton Wanderers, but he's a truly remarkable man.
I love my Dad.
It's times like these where you begin to appreciate everything.
Apart from the fact that after yesterdays hormones and fireworks, today's day of gardening doesn't really appeal to me.
At all.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Chemistry.
I have probably learned one of the most valuable lessons in life today.
I was walking about in Glasgow doing some shopping and I wandered into an Art Gallery.
I worked my way through and as I was walking about on the 2nd floor I noticed a security guard. He wasn't a typical security guard, he was basically some student in a uniform. He was tall, a little chubby, probably about 19, pale with head full of choppy black hair and tattoos just poking out from the sleeves of his jumper and an ear stretcher (probably about 20 mm) in each ear.
He was not at all the kind of person I am usually attracted to but I felt drawn to him.
He wasn't exactly unique looking, there are plenty of pale men with black hair, tattoos and ear stretchers; none of his features were particulaly distinctive but I could not stop staring at him.
And I think I had exactly the same effect on him.
He kept his eyes on me constantly, I could tell from his expression that it wasn't because I looked shifty or that I was going to vandalise the art that hung around us, he genuinely was staring at me.
I kept seeing him and catching his eye wherever I went, and he was everywhere.
It was then I realised that not only could I not stop looking at him, but I was attracted to him, this stranger who I had merely looked at from across the room. I felt an odd rush, my heart began to quicken and I felt a strange need to run over and talk to him, find out his name, find out anything about him, just to talk to him.
I put it down to hormones and walked away, but he followed me and seconds later we were looking at each other again.
As I turned to leave, he returned to where he had been when I walked in, but didn't stop looking at me.
It was odd.
But I have realised that it doesn't matter what anyone looks like, or even their personality really (even though they both contribute majorly in the long run). A relationship is nothing without that connection, that spark that thing that will hold you together even if your partner doesn't look how you want them to look or isn't as funny or kind as you want them to be. It really doesn't matter at all because you'll be willing to put up with it. You might not even notice it's there.
It was the weirdest thing I think I've ever experienced sober.
I was walking about in Glasgow doing some shopping and I wandered into an Art Gallery.
I worked my way through and as I was walking about on the 2nd floor I noticed a security guard. He wasn't a typical security guard, he was basically some student in a uniform. He was tall, a little chubby, probably about 19, pale with head full of choppy black hair and tattoos just poking out from the sleeves of his jumper and an ear stretcher (probably about 20 mm) in each ear.
He was not at all the kind of person I am usually attracted to but I felt drawn to him.
He wasn't exactly unique looking, there are plenty of pale men with black hair, tattoos and ear stretchers; none of his features were particulaly distinctive but I could not stop staring at him.
And I think I had exactly the same effect on him.
He kept his eyes on me constantly, I could tell from his expression that it wasn't because I looked shifty or that I was going to vandalise the art that hung around us, he genuinely was staring at me.
I kept seeing him and catching his eye wherever I went, and he was everywhere.
It was then I realised that not only could I not stop looking at him, but I was attracted to him, this stranger who I had merely looked at from across the room. I felt an odd rush, my heart began to quicken and I felt a strange need to run over and talk to him, find out his name, find out anything about him, just to talk to him.
I put it down to hormones and walked away, but he followed me and seconds later we were looking at each other again.
As I turned to leave, he returned to where he had been when I walked in, but didn't stop looking at me.
It was odd.
But I have realised that it doesn't matter what anyone looks like, or even their personality really (even though they both contribute majorly in the long run). A relationship is nothing without that connection, that spark that thing that will hold you together even if your partner doesn't look how you want them to look or isn't as funny or kind as you want them to be. It really doesn't matter at all because you'll be willing to put up with it. You might not even notice it's there.
It was the weirdest thing I think I've ever experienced sober.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Memory man.
My earliest memories are from around my 2nd birthday.
Don't be fooled, just because I was very young does not mean they are all happy, like a birthday party. I can't remember any of my birthdays until I turned 6.
Cartoon network had just finished on the television, so it was about eight at night. I realised that the house was dark. I'm claustrophobic, always have been, so I started to panic and call for my mom. No reply. Then I started to call for Dad. I heard a slight muffled sound from upstairs and the noise of someone quietly closing a door. I began to stumble around our two up two down trying to locate the noise and my father. I crawled up the stairs and burst into my Dad's room.
I found him on the bottom right corner of the bed, with his head in his hands, his huge glasses just peeking out of the top of his fingers. I don't think he even heard me come in.
"Daddy?" I whispered.
I knew he had heard me. His back tensed as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have done but he didn't move. I slowly and quietly walked over to him. I knew something was wrong but it didn't even occur to me to try and think of what it was.
I removed his fingers from his face and he looked at me. His face was wet. It then clicked. He had been crying.
"Oh daddy." I said. Seeing him sad made me sad. It seemed to have a similar effect on him as he scooped me up into his arms and we sat, crying together.
Blank.
I'm in the overgrown back garden on my bright red little swing, I can see Mom in the kitchen, every now and again she looks up from washing up and smiles and waves at me. It's warm and sunny, I can see the rays shining from gaps in the cloud overhead.
I look down at my swing.
I try to stand on it, like all the big kids do in the park, I shout to my Mom.
"Look, Mummy, I'm a big girl!"
My swing goes upside down, with me still attatched.
I cling on for dear life, terrified, my face inchest from the hard-baked dirt beneath me. I begin to cry and scream, my fingers hurt but I will them to gold on, refusing to let go.
Then huge hands scoop me up and the sunlight blinds me, I never saw a face.
Blank.
I'm in nursery, with my friends Thomas and Jessica. We were eating cherry tomatoes, only I didn't like them, so I pretended to eat them and spat them out under the table.
It's now playtime and we are behind the climbing frame.
No one but us went back there because they were all too scared of the spiders and creepy-crawlies. We weren't.
We would spend all playtime back there, making mud-pies. I was the loud one, Thomas was the destructive one, Jessica was increadibly intelligent for the age of 2, and showed us how to make daisy chains. i could never get the hang of it and Thomas was too clumsy. When it was hometime we would always pat the rock wall behind us three times before climbing through the climbing frame back to reality. I still don't know why we did that, but we never once thought to question it. We just did, and that was that. My first two best friends.
Don't be fooled, just because I was very young does not mean they are all happy, like a birthday party. I can't remember any of my birthdays until I turned 6.
Cartoon network had just finished on the television, so it was about eight at night. I realised that the house was dark. I'm claustrophobic, always have been, so I started to panic and call for my mom. No reply. Then I started to call for Dad. I heard a slight muffled sound from upstairs and the noise of someone quietly closing a door. I began to stumble around our two up two down trying to locate the noise and my father. I crawled up the stairs and burst into my Dad's room.
I found him on the bottom right corner of the bed, with his head in his hands, his huge glasses just peeking out of the top of his fingers. I don't think he even heard me come in.
"Daddy?" I whispered.
I knew he had heard me. His back tensed as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have done but he didn't move. I slowly and quietly walked over to him. I knew something was wrong but it didn't even occur to me to try and think of what it was.
I removed his fingers from his face and he looked at me. His face was wet. It then clicked. He had been crying.
"Oh daddy." I said. Seeing him sad made me sad. It seemed to have a similar effect on him as he scooped me up into his arms and we sat, crying together.
Blank.
I'm in the overgrown back garden on my bright red little swing, I can see Mom in the kitchen, every now and again she looks up from washing up and smiles and waves at me. It's warm and sunny, I can see the rays shining from gaps in the cloud overhead.
I look down at my swing.
I try to stand on it, like all the big kids do in the park, I shout to my Mom.
"Look, Mummy, I'm a big girl!"
My swing goes upside down, with me still attatched.
I cling on for dear life, terrified, my face inchest from the hard-baked dirt beneath me. I begin to cry and scream, my fingers hurt but I will them to gold on, refusing to let go.
Then huge hands scoop me up and the sunlight blinds me, I never saw a face.
Blank.
I'm in nursery, with my friends Thomas and Jessica. We were eating cherry tomatoes, only I didn't like them, so I pretended to eat them and spat them out under the table.
It's now playtime and we are behind the climbing frame.
No one but us went back there because they were all too scared of the spiders and creepy-crawlies. We weren't.
We would spend all playtime back there, making mud-pies. I was the loud one, Thomas was the destructive one, Jessica was increadibly intelligent for the age of 2, and showed us how to make daisy chains. i could never get the hang of it and Thomas was too clumsy. When it was hometime we would always pat the rock wall behind us three times before climbing through the climbing frame back to reality. I still don't know why we did that, but we never once thought to question it. We just did, and that was that. My first two best friends.
Emily.
Your lips are still moving,
But I stopped hearing,
The silence is soothing.
You shake me, a picture of panic,
Your once soft touch is burning.
I don't want you to touch me,
Not anymore.
My heart is in my stomach,
Burning in the acid.
It's dissolving.
It hurts, and my battered soul takes it all.
Burning in my eyes until salt tears fall.
I am young, a picture of youth.
I feel old, immobile, fragile.
Get your fucking hands off me.
The blistering heat overwhelms me,
The anger and hurt bubbles,
Concealed in my pulsing chest.
I'm an angry rottweiler on a chain.
The relief in me is amazing,
When I unleash the hounds of Hell.
As you fall I float away.
My smiling retreat,
Your painful descent.
How does it feel?
But I stopped hearing,
The silence is soothing.
You shake me, a picture of panic,
Your once soft touch is burning.
I don't want you to touch me,
Not anymore.
My heart is in my stomach,
Burning in the acid.
It's dissolving.
It hurts, and my battered soul takes it all.
Burning in my eyes until salt tears fall.
I am young, a picture of youth.
I feel old, immobile, fragile.
Get your fucking hands off me.
The blistering heat overwhelms me,
The anger and hurt bubbles,
Concealed in my pulsing chest.
I'm an angry rottweiler on a chain.
The relief in me is amazing,
When I unleash the hounds of Hell.
As you fall I float away.
My smiling retreat,
Your painful descent.
How does it feel?
Strongholds.
This was written a while ago.
Back when I actually cared.
You may be pretty,
Extremely pretty,
More pretty than me,
But I had the strongest hold of his heart.
You may be thin,
Small long and trim,
But my curves and me,
We had the longest hold on his heart.
You may cry to him,
Tear after tear for him,
I think you can see,
You can't have my hold on his heart.
You may love him,
Slay all for him,
I know he loves me,
Although I have let go of his heart.
You barely see him,
Anxious to speak to him,
While he's calling me,
No one will take my hold off his heart.
Back when I actually cared.
You may be pretty,
Extremely pretty,
More pretty than me,
But I had the strongest hold of his heart.
You may be thin,
Small long and trim,
But my curves and me,
We had the longest hold on his heart.
You may cry to him,
Tear after tear for him,
I think you can see,
You can't have my hold on his heart.
You may love him,
Slay all for him,
I know he loves me,
Although I have let go of his heart.
You barely see him,
Anxious to speak to him,
While he's calling me,
No one will take my hold off his heart.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Right, well
Not been on here in a whiiiile.
I'm in Scotland at the minute, seeing my family.
There is absolutely no signal in this fucking house and I never get a minute to myself so I've resulted on hopping on buses for hours on end to get to Glasgow and Edinburgh.
Edinburgh art gallery is immense, especially when you're on your own and you can take your time, I would really suggest going. Plus the gift shop is amazing, I bought Tracey Emin's book Strangeland for under a tenner there and it is probably one of the best fucking books I have ever read.
In my boredom here I have written some poems and I'm working on an ongoing personal novel (I dunno if I should call it a 'novel', makes me sound a bit up myself but it's hardly a book. It's on A4 sheets of paper, it looks like a script! It's not about me either) as well as revising my little arse off and cramming as much art in as I can.
Things are pretty hectic but it's alright.
I'll put the poems on here at a later date when I can be bothered/when I have the time.
I don't expect you to understand them, though.
I'm in Scotland at the minute, seeing my family.
There is absolutely no signal in this fucking house and I never get a minute to myself so I've resulted on hopping on buses for hours on end to get to Glasgow and Edinburgh.
Edinburgh art gallery is immense, especially when you're on your own and you can take your time, I would really suggest going. Plus the gift shop is amazing, I bought Tracey Emin's book Strangeland for under a tenner there and it is probably one of the best fucking books I have ever read.
In my boredom here I have written some poems and I'm working on an ongoing personal novel (I dunno if I should call it a 'novel', makes me sound a bit up myself but it's hardly a book. It's on A4 sheets of paper, it looks like a script! It's not about me either) as well as revising my little arse off and cramming as much art in as I can.
Things are pretty hectic but it's alright.
I'll put the poems on here at a later date when I can be bothered/when I have the time.
I don't expect you to understand them, though.
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