if next to me is all that you need to be would you settle for fantasy if it's the best you could do?
2005-04-17 - 11:31 p.m.

About 3000 things to tell you, so it's going to get mesh-y. Yeah baby yeah.


I stalked the boy (aka the "not-quite-so-ex" or NQSE for short) to one of his soapie starlet shopping centre gigs and we had macadamia ice cream cheesecake and kisses and it was simple but perfect.

And then I woke up. Thank you, subconscious.


In the past 24 hours I have been to two 21sts; or at least one 21st and the day-after-21st-where-they-watch-the-video-of-the-21st-and-eat-the-many-leftovers.

Anyway, the former was for a close friend: like me, an eastern suburbs girl; and the latter for a cousin I see every 5 years: a westie boy.

Culturrreee classsssh.

Eastie girl party consumes: sushi, cocktaily type thing peachschnapps-champagne-andetc
Westie boy party consumes: traditional greasiness, beer skulled from yard glass

Eastie girl party entertainment: humorous trivia game about the birthday girl
Westie boy party entertainment: dj, stripper*

* ahhh, my people, they take pictures at funerals and tape strippers (my god, is once never enough??). Oh and I watched the tape, and I have urges to blab random things at you like "...And THEN she took out a fake penis and put it on my cousin's lap and pretended to give him a blow job!" but I'm holding back. Mainly.


I don't want a 21st. I am getting pressure on all sides about it currently.

If I have one I know I'll be unhappy -- I don't want to be unhappy. Especially then.

Thus I don't want anything resembling a celebration.

If I have the funds I may just skip town even. Hmm.


There is something outside the window. Please be an annoying cat. And not a serial killer. OR an annoying cat that also happens to be a serial killer. Although I would like to die with some irony.


I got given an extremely early 21st birthday present today. By one of those relatives I don't ever see or speak to. But apparently, she loves me and I'm her girl.

I suspect her illness and related drowning in self-pity brought those feelings on.

But anyway, it is a gold bracelet, aka, wog bling. It's almost pretty and the thought is nice, but the materialist in me screams "pawn it! pawn it and buy things you like!" I suspect I'm too nice to listen to it though. But not nice enough to omit these thoughts.


I was standing in between two friends last night, one talking about her upcoming nuptials and the other about her upcoming moving out.

All I could do was nod.

I went to look at my parent's investment property today. My father has just finished doing up the kitchen. I haven't seen it in years and remembered it as being vaguely crappy. It hasn't changed that much but now I think it's gorgeous.

As I stood in the backyard, the urge to nest was something like how I imagine a car driving over my spine would be. Unmistakeable.


In context the nesting urge doesn't make a lot of sense though. I ought to be building a home, here, where I really ought to be taking care of things, because they so desperately need taking care of.

But I can't manage it. It's not mine. For all the things I do, I'm still the child here. You can't run a household when it's members still think they run it and you.

Mum's worsening. She wanders further and further out into the dark; lost. Dad and I always get frustrated because our logic can't hold her here, no matter how we present it.

And the lies she makes us tell to cover for her are seriously pissing us off. Because everyone knows they're lies; we're liars. I feel like telling her "My counsellor said you have no right to put us in this position," but admitting to counselling would be a whole new can of worms.


That's about it.


It occurred to me that I don't actually write much of what happens in my life, more what I think, and I regret this. Because good memories happen which aren't written down and bad thoughts happen which are. And this imbalance, frankly, sucks. When I'm too old to remember my life I'd like to see parts I'd forgotten here and be pleasantly surprised.

So In the spirit of this, below is a memory I hadn't thought of until it randomly sprang up in my head today. It makes me smile.


A perfectly sunny day in October.
We are sitting in the backyard.

I have brought his acoustic guitar outside and proceeded to hold it the wrong way. Before he corrects me he gives me this incredulous look as if I have just announced an intention to live a quiet, boring life. I chuckle.

I put my fingers on random strings and frets, eventually hitting an actual note. G minor, maybe? I've forgotten.

Holding the guitar, chilling in the yard, wearing jeans and a happy yellow top, he says I look like an ad for Sportsgirl.

Laughter bubbles up in my chest, and I think I deny seeing any such connection.

I am mystified as I find myself staring at his ankles. Then, rubbing his left ankle with my big toe. You have sexy ankles, I tell him, and he scoffs - asking how ankles can be sexy.

The puzzlement can be heard in my voice as I reply I don't know! but you do.

Before I continue torturing the guitar I plant an apologetic, affectionate kiss on it's side. I don't think he notices my slightly insane gesture; I smile.

The sun shines on.

<< >>