Conf-Bem-Am-used.

Ok..so..I want you to look at this...




While listening to this...




Confused?
...Me too.
Welcome to Saturday Morning.
Come in, come in, it's cold outside.
Meet my flatmates.
They are odd, and no, you probably won't "like them once you get to know them".

Blatant Procrastination.

I'm addicted to Twitter. And Facebook.

The other night I chewed through an entire packet of blueberry gum. In fifteen minutes. Then I played with it and stuck pins in it. Disgusting but fun, the kind of thing you do and hope no one finds out about. And then tell everyone about anyway.

I start writing posts while I'm meant to be studying. But I usually forget to finish them. Or decide that I don't like them.

I am about to complete half a terms worth of coursework.

In ten days. I might cry a lot. Or I might be fine.

I own bunny slippers, they are not cute. They are old and raggedy. I love them.

I also own a fluorescent green dressing gown.

It glows, and gives my face a greenish tinge.

If my house was ever on fire..I would save my laptop, probably.

And my Rosie-bunny. I'd probably actually save her before the laptop.

Rosie-bunny has led a long and interesting life, she now spends the majority of her time sitting on my bed.

In her heyday she was an avid traveller, she once spent an entire year in Garden, getting to know the locals. I forgot to undig her after a slightly emotional game of "funeral".

But the Gardener eventually returned her to Bethroom. It pays to be friendly with the locals.

It also pays to bury bunnies in lunch boxes, so they don't rot.

The trouble with bus-crushes, is that you see them twice, do stupid things like drop books down the aisle, and then never see them again. However, life goes on..currently moving on to "real-people-with-actual-names" crushes.

Crush is a horrible word. It should probably never be used beyond the age of 14 and never written outside of a tweenie mag.

I'm feeling very pre-teenish though. So I get to use it. Crushcrushcrushcrush. I'm 12.

I don't really believe in time, but unfortunately my tutors do.

Really not wanting to start my essays.

Ooh, maybe I should spend a lot of time on weheartit.. looking for a picture to go with this.

Oh, that didn't take nearly long enough.

Love To Order.

I'm good at things, sometimes.

I'm good at making people laugh, sometimes.

I'm good at being slightly outrageous.

I'm good at being spinney-whirling-round-in-circles, until I'm dizzy and don't remember all the hurty things, and why would they matter anyway, when the world is moving? Like this.

I'm good at crying.

I'm good at being angry.

I'm good at making other people angry.

I'm good at making them cry.

I like making them angry, not so much the tears.

When people get angry, you know that they've heard what you had to say.

When they cry, you know that they've taken it to heart.

I don't like doing that to peoples hearts. Trespassing, and leaving little bits of poison.

Speaking things that should never have been spoken out loud.

But I'm good at that too, catching at thoughts out of air, the thoughts they didn't even know they had. The thoughts they caught a glimpse of, once, and pushed away in a panic.

The thoughts they hoped to god no one would ever know about.

I'm good at it.

Knowing them, and repeating them back in a moment of ugliness.

I'm good at loving people. Especially lonely people, who need love. And people who aren't lonely, but still feel alone. Or do I mean that the other way ?

There's so much loneliness in this world. It makes me sad.

So I send them some love, in smiles and words, or just an eyes-shut-pressure-building-in-my chest-who-knows-maybe-they'll-feel-it?

The quiet friend, the girl who walks quickly with her head down. The man with the tired eyes, on his way home, but not sure why.

Lonely.

Love to order. Tell me what you need.

I attach too quickly. And trust too easily, or not at all.

And it was my fault really. No really. Because I saw you, all of your unhappy places, the desolate stretches in your mind, the thoughts that arrived whether you willed them or not. And sometimes you did, you did want those thoughts.

I could feel your need. Desperation.

And I knew. That you were the kind of person to take hold, tightly. To suck another dry, discard them, move on. And never think of them, of me again. Except for maybe during three clock's,when you couldn't sleep. And wanted to hate yourself.

And so I've become a thought. A dark thought filled with self-hatred, when all I thought I wanted was to bring you some light, and love.

It's my fault. Really. Because I didn't think I could change you. I'm not that girl.

I don't tell myself lies.

Except, that's probably a lie.

I dreamed about you once, one dream, out of thousands. It seemed to matter at the time. You couldn't breathe, and I helped you and held you.

I found out the other day, that that's what you're meant to do, compress the person. Hold them tight until their heartbeat slows. I guess my subconscious knew all along.

It makes it worse, somehow. When the song plays, or your name shifts across my eyelids. Not blaming you. Because I get angry at myself, and I make myself cry. You were such a bad idea.

This has taken too long to write. Because all of the spaces, between the lines, are filled up with words. They are distracting me.

I'm a little bit lost. And tired. And sad.

And I stopped taking the pills again.

Last time you were there, to pretend to care.

And you told me to be careful. While you picked over my broken parts.

I think I'll just lie here. And refill myself, ready for the next person to reach out and grasp me. Empty me, while I lie, passive and all knowing, in their hand.

Ramblings About Coffee, Birthdays And Kate Cooper.

I'm listening to An Horse again. And drinking coffee with a lot of marshmallows...possibly, actually, eating marshmallows with a small amount of coffee...Mmm gooey, sticky mess. My heart is happy.
An Horse...I think Kate Cooper might be my new favourite person. I'm resisting the urge to go all Fangirl and find out everything about her though. Partially because I'd feel creepy, but mostly because I don't want stuff like "how old is Kate Cooper?" to show up in my Google search box every time my flatmates borrow my laptop. Because then they would think I was creepy.
Also when we meet and become best friends for ever, she might find it creepy...Ha, sometimes I think I'm a bit funny. But it might just be the caffeine or the copious amounts of sugar/ red food colouring.

I'm already excited about my birthday...even though it's still over a month away. I'm EXCITED!
I feel like I have to make up for my lack of excitement last year.
I was away from my family..and it was during the first week back at school...and I was broke...
and I'd only been in Wellington for a few months....so I hadn't met many people...
and ALL of the new friends I'd made had left for the States a week before. Words of advice, by all means, befriend the international students, but make other friends as well, because they leave. And then you're just a loser with two friends. Yup.
I'm pretty sure I cried the night before, in anticipation of the suckiness to come.

In the end my birthday didn't suck though...mostly because Fran is Best Ever.
When I miserably emerged in the morning our teeny little lounge was full of balloons, and she gave me birthday cake with candles, and a tiny music box.
And when I went to take a shower she'd taped bits of paper with "Happy Birthday We Love You" all over the bathroom...And later we got drunk and played the "Drink Every time My Mother Would Be Shocked" game watching The Breakfast Club and Heathers...and Skyped our Gaby in Germany during her lunch break.
Actually, when I meet Kate Cooper, she might have to be my almost-best friend for ever.

Anyway this year's is going to be amazing. I've decided. I'm making lists. Even present wish lists, which is weird because I don't actually like birthday presents.
I like presents, especially small, weird ,unexpected, but it's not even my birthday presents (like rocks, and chocolate, and crayons, and look I drew you a pictures) but I don't like birthday presents.
They always make feel awkward and but, I didn't get you anything-ish...also nervous. I think the nervous part is because of my mother, she buys strange gifts. Which are sometimes awesome...and sometimes not.

Once she gave me a bike lock. I didn't have a bike. And for my 15th birthday she took me to "Owlcatraz"...lots of owls..fun if you're 6...or like animals.
She also (recently) went through a pottery class phase, I have a glazed plaque somewhere that says "Jesus Rulz" (thanks Mum)
Awesome presents = A bike...so I could use the bike lock. A Tibetan dagger (which the antique dealer swore was authentic and had been used for chopping off peoples' ears, but I think he was lying, I hope.), a set of old leather binoculars ( that have "le club de courses de chevaux de Paris" stamped round the side) and the year I turned nine, I came home from school and she'd squished an old piano into my bedroom, because she'd decided that I should have lessons.
The awesomeness outweighs the less-than-awesomeness really...but I still get nervous.

Maybe I should send her my wish list...since I've been making lists.
Wanna see my wish list? Yes.

Beth's Birthday Wishlist.

A Kitten.
Drawing pencils.
Books.
Shoes- Of the impractical hard to walk in kind.
- And the sparkly sneaker kind.
Ribbons and sparkly things.
Woolly stockings.
A teapot.
A snuggly coat.
Cook books.
A singing toothbrush.
Vivids...for graffiti-ing.
A typewriter ( I have one, in a box somewhere, maybe someone could just bring it to me?)
Groceries.
Stickabubbles.
Zebra Finches
Miniature people to live in shoe boxes underneath my bed and come out when I'm bored.
A Unicorn.
Someone to write my assignments for me.

But mostly I just want a unicorn. I'll probably ask for groceries though.

I'm Not A Vampire, But I Do Like Music.

So oh oh oh oh...it's Sunday morning...Happy Sunday Chickpeas.

I'm not asleep, because before Twilight came out and ruined everything for all of us, I was a vampire.

But now..

Vampire = Lame (I am not lame) therefore I = Someone who cannot sleep, but isn't a vampire.

A little word math for ya...and some bad grammar.

I'm not actually going to write about anything in particular, because it's 4.30 am. And my mind most closely, at this present moment, resembles that of an A.D.D 7 yr old who's been drinking espresso...and possibly dropped a couple of pills while they were at it.

I know, scary thought. Poor child.

Also my flatmates (who coincidentally have been pill popping) are blasting horrible, ugly music, making it hard to hold onto thoughts long enough to finish a sentence.

Music, music, music...I wish they'd at least listen to good music.

Tempted to hijack their iPods and replace all of their "bitches and ho's down in the ghetto, yo yo crib homie shit" with music that I like..

Ooh look... I'm going to throw some music links at you (yes, at all 3 (?) of you).

You should click on them, and listen to the mellifluous lovelies... it's Sunday, what else have you got to do?

An Horse...I am in band-love, their music makes my eyes squeeze tight shut and my chest hurt..in a good way.

(and yes, I just quoted from my own twitter...maybe I am lame enough to be a vampire?)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJ42ilIcRBc

This one's stranger, I think they're still just a Youtube band..super-cute little Danish sisters. Aww. And they're actually really good...presenting Pil and Liv. (Sounds like a Disney Channel show, right? Cute.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Wjc7KSUsAo&feature=channel_page

Emily Wells covers Notorious BIG - Juicy.

Yes, I realise that I talk about her way too much..but um, girl crush.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv35AY_3Row

I only heard this Kimya Dawson song today (thank you Chesca dear) but I already love it..."I like giants/ especially girl ones/ cos all girls feel too big sometimes/ regardless of their size"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFvRe_Zk3VI

Also the video made me giggle.

Just because this is possibly my favourite song, ever...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74ezTBSuKy0

And finally, I have had this song in my head for about 5 days now...how embarrassing.

I keep catching myself humming along to it (while it plays in my brain) in public...foot tapping, yeah, yeah-ing. I don't even know if I like it. I don't think I do. But I secretly might.

Lady Sovereign http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dYxu2QVlpk blatantly ripping off

The Cure.

Good Night/Morning/ Whatever...I'm going to go and sleep forever. Or at least stare at the ceiling for a few hours.

Needles, Thread and Anarchy.

Look what I made yesterday...oh I feel clever.

After making it, I sat in McDonalds and ate a cheeseburger,

while Fran sat across from me finishing "Fuck the Patriarchy".

It's pink and purple and awesome. I think she should give it to me.

Also a Slight Incident took place...went something like this..

"Wow, this vending machine has condoms and perfume"

"I think it's been there since the 80's...probably"

"Mmmhmm, so, if you wanted to, you could have safe sex...um, in the school toilets.. and smell nice"

"Handy ..'Our version of a sophisticated ladies perfume' "

"Think the machine still works?"

"I don't know...it's $2..."

"I have $2!"

Update from Fran:

She's had two showers, and still smells like a hooker who's been fermenting since the 80's.

I also went late night grocerying, blew bubbles at cars and spilt glitter all over my carpet.

Best Tuesday ever.

In other news, my boy-flatmates are right at this moment, watching Hannah Montana. Again.

Girl, Seeks Understanding Of Herself Or Others.

Lately I have been feeling as if I have lost myself somehow, along the way.

This, I regretfully admit, is not an unfamiliar feeling, I am careless.

In the past I have been discovered sitting under trees, or once on a park bench, patiently waiting to be reclaimed.

However, this time I suspect that I am unrecoverable.

I fear I have fallen off of the edge.

I considered putting out a Wanted ad...

"Wanted: Complete persona, in good condition. Second hand acceptable, in fact pre-loved preferable".

Or something in the Personals, "Girl, seeks understanding of self".

But responses to previous, similar enquiries have proved quite strange.

Clearly not the path to take.

I am finding, these days, that the only time I understand myself remotely, is when I am explaining myself to others.

Hearing the words float from my mouth, I recognise them, vaguely. Reach out and catch them. Store them away.

I am re-learning me.

This is what I have so far.

Beginning from the beginning...a strange place really. To begin, I mean. My memories, so far as I can recall, travelled backwards., cycling rapidly in reverse toward the end. Or the beginning.

No matter, these first are not memories. Merely things I must remember.

I am born wrong.

Pale and small.

Limbs splayed awkwardly in all the wrong directions.

Fists clenched tight.

And I have scarcely the sense to breathe.

Entwined in tubes, placed in a box.

First breath, tastes like plastic. And saline.

To this day, I am a claustrophobe.

Here is a happy thought, the kind to fly with.

My father wheels himself out into the corridor, faces the expectant faces.

"It..it...it's a baby!"

"It's a baby". That was always my favourite bit.

This Isn't A Really Real Post

I just really love this song.
And watching her recording process is all kinds of amazing.
I'll write something real later, right now I'm missing my bus.
Monday, we obviously don't get on so good...why do you visit so often?
I think we need some time apart.
To grow, as people...or in your case as an abstract pronoun referring to a 24 hour period of time reoccurring on a scheduled weekly basis...
It's for the best.

In Celebration Of Slightly Unconventional Parenthood.

That's not my mother. That's Tina Fey. But my Mumma could be Tina Fey if she wanted to. She doesn't though, she doesn't even know who Tina Fey is.

And yes, even though I'm approaching the (not so) big Two Oh, I still call my mother, Mumma...

and intend to keep on doing it.

We argue a lot. But the rest of the time I appreciate that she did a fairly amazing job raising me.

She tells this story about me as a toddler...

She says that after my dad died, whenever I was tantruming, I'd shout at her and run away. Only to realise that there was no one else to run to, and turn around to come straight back for a cuddle.

I think that pretty much sums up our relationship.

I've got further to run now, but I'll always come full circle.

I love my Mumma...

I love... that when my playmate's snooty mother snootily said "Ah-re you ah-ware that there is a trah-il of socks down your gah-rden pah-th?", my mother said

"Oh, would you look at that! And look, there's a shirt under the trampoline...really must get the hang of that washing-line-thing"

...and called her an uptight cow after they'd gone.

I love that she swings between a vegan-sugarfree-saltless-non-processed-organic lifestyle, and oh-theres-a-pizza-in-the-freezer-defrost-it-would-you?

I love that she's a terrible cook and doesn't care.

I love that she can match me quote for quote, watching "The Princess Bride".

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya..."

I love that she took us to hippy-dippy, three day, bring-your-own-falling-to-pieces-tent festivals. The kind that have vegan pancake stalls, and "learn to play the spoons" workshops, and people who sit around drawing other people's auras.

I love that she filled my life with strong, independent female role models.

I love that she was incredibly strict about my television viewing, loosened up for my brother, and had entirely given up by the time my sister came along. And is now addicted to Top Model...and references Tyra in conversation.

I love that when I took her to an insanely loud, offbeat Wellington cafe for lunch, she loved it. And wanted to go back for dinner.

I love that she never thought to screen what I was reading... and only realised that I had moved on from Enid Blyton, and was reading all of her library books when I handed one back to her, saying gravely "I don't think you should read this one, it has Very Rude bits".

I love that the one and only time it snowed close to my hometown she piled us into the car and drove for over an hour, so we could see it. And stood at the top of the hill shouting "You're okay baby!" as I plummeted to my death, screaming, clinging onto a body board..

And apologised after I emerged, slightly winded, clutching the broken board...

"Oh honey, I just didn't see that ledge"

I love that we have screaming, loud, terrifying for all those around us, fights. Because even though we're angry, it's good, honest anger. It's unafraid, "because I know you'll still love me tomorrow, no matter what I do", anger.

I love that our house was always teeming with unusual pets...chickens, frogs, lambs, goats, lizards, crabs...as well as the expected bunnies and guinea pigs, cats and dogs.

I love that she's always respected me enough to allow me a voice. And encouraged me to use it, to be opinionated.

I love that even though other parents would rent movies and take us bowling, my friends always wanted to come to my house. Possibly because we were allowed to play with matches.

I love that she "borrows" all of my jewellery. And asks my opinion of her clothing choices.

I love that she took care of me when I first got sick. And never stopped researching treatments after I was finally diagnosed (with CFS, I should add -nothing scary)

I love that I grew up knowing that it was okay to fight for anything I believed in. That it was okay to challenge conventions. And I loved watching her do it daily.

I love you Mumma, but god forbid you ever find this blog. You will be receiving this in email form.