Just get it over with.

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Shut your mouth.

No, seriously, shut your damn mouth, you look retarded. That’s right, RETARDED.

Oh, London.

Friday Night Office Girls in Friday Night Office Uniforms; midnight tights running down the front of a leg. Nuggets and fries and half on the floor. Alcoholic grins, my new best friend, a slump, the sharp screen light, ‘are you OK? You left without saying goodbye!’, she’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, I’m getting off, she’ll be fine.

Oh, London.

With your Monday Morning People in their Monday Morning Gear; polished shoes, optimistic gym kit after the weekly conference call with the head office. Make up application from foundation to eyeliner flick. And emails, and emails and, ‘Yeah, I’m on my way in now’ and ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon’ and ‘I’ll see you tonight, love you, we need milk’. How was your weekend, how was your weekend, how was your weekend, how was your weekend, fuck, we are already here, how was your weekend.

Oh, London.

And your average and your underwhelming and amateurs and idiots and fuckers and drugs, prescription and otherwise. With your, ‘Doctor, I’m feeling stressed’ and ‘Fuck, I hate that fucking job so fucking much’ and ‘I’ve got a date on Wednesday… and one on Thursday’. Roaming the streets and ‘Evening Standard!’ and the smell of everything all at once and it smells of nothing, pointless nothing. And maybe a film and maybe beans on toast, I can’t be arsed to cook, can you? Not pizza again and cold hearts and cold hands and sorry, sorry, sorry, EXCUSE ME, sorry, (fuck off, cunt), thank you and I’m sorry.

Oh, London, my fucking London.

You fuck me and you fuck me up and you have killed me and given birth to me. You hold my hand and squeeze it too tight and you punch me in the face and I apologise. Your long, humid nights, your blanket of grey wrapped around the worker bees that work and go home to a home that’s not their home. And then the rain… and it licks my face and it makes my trainers wet and it makes you look so pretty and new.

Oh fuck you, London.

You’re not my friend, you’re not my lover, you’re not my parent, you’re me but not me. ME. You’re alone and ‘Sorry, love, that’s going to cost you a 50p charge’ and sing to me, you there, the cunt in the Mercedes, oh please do sing the songs of your people, because I’m sorry, I don’t care about you and I should.


The stars. Where are they? And get a tattoo and bye a t-shirt and suck my big fat floppy cock of loneliness.


What happened to you? To me? You are blue and you are red and you are black and dark and tender and never, ever sweet. Voices. Everywhere. All around me and under me and in me and above me and get me THE FUCK out of here and home to where I don’t live. The flick, the Standard, the screen light. And trains and planes and wheels and animals gnawing the bones of yesterday’s KFC bucket. Let’s get high and smashed and fucked and fuck. Let’s smash our teeth on the pavement and smear blood down our dresses and hang from the ceilings, swinging in our pointless, out-of-fashion ties. Grow up, grow out, grow into yourself. Put the shutters up, draw the blinds, scream in a stranger’s face in your mind. By GOD, headphones in, always.




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Nonsense flowers

‘So, you like flowers, then?’

‘Yeah, of course, they’re beautiful’

‘What’s your favourite flower, then?’


‘Come on’

‘I think the blue iris, it’s such a delicate flower’


‘I’m assuming you have no idea what it looks like’

‘I don’t, no’

‘Heh fair enough’

‘I once saw this lady in a supermarket, she was just putting endless bunches of flowers into her basket because they were on sale’

‘I do that, I buy flowers for myself all the time’

‘I guess a lot of people do’


‘So… if a guy got you the wrong kind of flowers, would you be angry?’

‘Of course not! What kind of question is that, it’s flowers, it’s always the thought that counts’

‘Haha, okay’

She didn’t plan on buying any flowers that day. The roses she’d bought the week before were still beautifully in bloom on her table, and the flat really wasn’t big enough to support two bouquets without the place looking a bit cramped.

But these were on sale. They were £3, down from £10. Yes, the majority of them were daisies in various shapes, sizes and colours. She didn’t care too much for them; grandmother flower, too old fashioned, too… densely boring. And there was some weird, green leaves right in the middle of it that really didn’t belong anywhere, except maybe on a bush. But… but, you know, there were a couple of lilies in there as well. Some roses. It was pretty. And so she bought it. For herself. Like Mrs Dalloway. Like the lady at the supermarket. There aren’t any wrong flowers; there aren’t any flowers that make you angry. Just the wrong people, who don’t buy you flowers, even after asking what you favourite kind is.

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The Red One (a fuck affair)

I wrote something today. I haven’t done that in a long time.


After a while, he’d make the coffee himself. Not before giving her one last fuck, though. Hard. Cum. ‘Good morning’.

Then he’d get out of bed, stroll naked to the kitchen, still sweaty. Put the kettle on, plug his phone into the charger hanging from the table. Cupboard, mug – always the same one, the one she’d first made him a coffee in, the one that meant the least to her. Coffee powder, 3 teaspoons of sugar, boiling water, fridge open and then, ‘Jeez…the red one. I’d forgotten about the red one’.

Once, a long time ago, she’d tried to explain The Red One to him. But he didn’t listen. He never listened. He wasn’t able to listen, or care, about anything, or anyone. Maybe that’s why he was such an incredible fuck. He fucked like nothing else mattered, because nothing else did matter, to him.

Like so many men before him, men that she knew and didn’t, he’d set to work, building a frame. It was gilded and ornate and made of pretend and air. It was a joke. And he’d reached out and shoved a woman into it. There, I’ve got you now. And he’d made a baby with her, to seal the deal. Too late, of course, he’d realised the frame was as much of a naive idea as it was now a trap. A lifetime of responsibilities he did not want. What a joke. He didn’t bother painting the picture first – fuck the picture, that’s just the soft gooey middle of the strong, manly frame. But of course that was a mistake. It’s always a mistake, to build the frame before the picture has been painted. It’s a mistake that is repeated, endlessly, by broken boys brought up with silly notions of ‘doing the right thing’. It’s a mistake to even think about contemplating trying to explain to these broken boys that their lives are a scam, they themselves the scammers.

Scam, scam, fucking scam. Take the fuck and don’t kid yourself.


Yeah, it’s not great really. But you’ve got to start somewhere. And I have got to start, full stop.

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some things last a long time

I want an outdoor shower. Driving back from a long, lazy day at the beach, hang the wet towels and the bathing suit on the washing line, jump under the cool stream of clean water, rinse off the sand, the dust, the salt from your skin. The warm wind and a clean, white cotton towel will dry the little drops of water, your hair won’t even have time to drip down the back of your neck, your feet stuck in a pair of old leather sandals. Scorched earth. Early evening burning sun. The suggestion of a breeze. Glass of white wine. A thin, loose dress. And the smell of lavender. And rosemary.

I have another writing gig in two weeks time. And I’m working hard, both inside and out, to get ready to take the big plunge of jumping from the cliff, out, out, down and into the unknown. Ride the wave of passion and adventure. Leave behind the uncomfortable comfort zone. And I have no regrets. Not about the yesterdays, not about tomorrow that I am slowly heading towards. It would make me so insanely happy if I could spend my life typing stories and interviews and portraits and whatever words I’m required to write. I have an idea for a Guardian article but I need to wait until next year to pitch it. I’m going to write it anyway, someone else can buy it if they don’t want it. I have some goals. They are humble, all things considering. They’re also private. But they’re there.

Today, I attended a proper yoga class, the Friday class I used to love so much, for the first time in 1 1/2 years. I feel restored. And fucking sore. And I’m cooking. And cleaning. And compartmentalising. And sleeping. And it’s such a fragile eco system, it does not take much to make my heart beat like a demented drum but if I can just… just keep it all afloat; dodge the worst of the stress – people, situations, whatever – embrace the ease with which it is possibl to live your life, then I WILL learn to live with it. I’m already living with it. I live. I am alive. I’m halfway up the mountain, I’ve reached a plateau but I’m only stopping to reapply my lipstick and spray on some more perfume. A shower, a shit and a shave, as Tyres from Spaced would say. And tomorrow we’re off again. I’m reclaiming my body, yoga put me back in touch, and I promise myself I will not let that feeling go again. I’m reclaiming my energy, spending it on actions that make my life easier, better, more fun, more connected. I’m reclaiming my mind. The beast is lying dormant, I’m learning to step away from bad character traits – in others, in me – and embrace the strange. Turn and face the strange, ch-ch-changes. When your protective layer is stripped away and even the gentle flap of a butterfly wing causes you intense, corrosive pain, acid on your flesh, thunder in your cerebral cortex, then you suddenly see people for what they truly are. You cannot see or feel yourself but as you regain that ability, you also regain the ability to see those around you. And it is so sad to see that so many grown men and women are angry. And that their anger turns them into bullies. I can’t hug them all. But I can dodge and twist and turn and slither and avoid, avoid, avoid. Because I cannot absorb their anger. I cannot take the brunt of their pain. I used to think that I was supposed to but I’m not, that’s wrong. Because I have never had the guts to let anybody truly absorb mine. Which I guess is one of the reasons why what happened did happen. But I guess also one of the reasons I must, for the life of me, and until my death, never, ever do that to myself again.

Tomorrow I’m back in the saddle and up the mountain again we go. I can feel a tattoo manifesting itself at the end of the tunnel. When I reach the top of the hill. I’m not religious but I believe in the symbols, the marks in time, the notches in your timeline that you create yourself. I remember every time I did something symbolic. Right now, I remember the time at the airport where I ripped up the set list from one of the many gigs my then boyfriend has worked at after he cheated on me. That was the beginning of the end of a doomed relation that took so long to finish, to strangle, to kill. There are more but I can’t revisit, not tonight. But tattoos are a good, physical way of turning a corner, making a mark on yourself -this mattered, this should be a mark in time that should not be forgotten. You cannot censor the past and I wish to celebrate them. I keep the important tattoos hidden; the pretty ones on display.

I have no illusions. The beast was a beautiful cub for so long but now it is a full grown animal and it will never die. As long as it’s asleep, we can be friends. The tranquilliser darts took a while to kick in but there’s only a low grow now, an ever-so-often yelping roar, and once he is completely asleep – comatose, if I am lucky – I’ll climb the dusty stairs to my once so beautifully decorated room. Quietly push the heavy wooden door open and pray the hinges do not squeak. I will inspect him, as best I can, as much as I can without waking him. Pushing at his paw, the pads, the claws; checking his ear for infection. Maybe he likes a tummy rub, even if he might dream it’s something else. I imagine Coming To Terms will be snuggling up next to him, my head under his big, sleeping head, his furry front leg as a blanket. I’m not quite there yet. Fuck, I’m not even sure he isn’t still keeping one eye open.

We’ll get there, beast, I promise. And once we do, I’ll give you a name.

Posted in anxiety, depression, mental health, mental illness, random words, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,


Anxiety is such a cocksucker. Waves of it today. So I stuck two fingers up at adulthood and played video games for 7 hours. There’s something so deliciously naughty about being a 31 year old woman deliberately ignoring that pile of laundry that should have been done whilst shooting the face off various bad guys and creatures. But god damn, it makes you feel empty, too. I mean yeah, I consider myself a damn good virtual sniper but do I have any clean underwear? Do I fuck.


I’ve been thinking of The Cure today. Sinking, to be specific. For the unenlightened:

I just woke up with it playing in my head. Yes, it is an exceptionally depressing song. I can’t remember if I ever wrote this down, I probably did, but there was a point, I think last year, where I would wake up with a random new song in my head every day. For no apparent reason. It was strange. Not unpleasant. Just made me wonder what was going on up there in the old brain department.

Some oddities: I get strangely manic and scared. Then I swallow some pills and it seems to calm it down. Not a bad system but the realisation is strange. Before I just felt horrible until it went away. Yay drugs, sure, but is this my life? For now, forever? Also, I still think I’m seeing things. Not big tangible things, I don’t have a shed in the garden where I pin newspaper cuttings to the walls and draw red pieces of strings in between nonsense in search for meaning because Paul Bettany is telling me there is one, this isn’t A Beautiful Mind, there’s nothing particularly beautiful about any of this. It’s just, like… something appears in the corner of my eye and I’m momentarily shook by it. I look, nothing’s there, I move on. I’m not scared, I’m not disturbed, I’m just curious as to what the fuck is there, if anything, and if nothing is indeed there, why the fuck my brain thinks there is. I don’t hear voices. But I do see things. I know nothing’s there. Unless it gets drastically worse, I guess I’m going to just accept it as a Thing in My Life Post Crash.

I can’t explain to people how I feel, now. There’s nothing to see and nothing to feel in my presence. It’s like it’s Over. I’m medicated, I’m back at work, I’m seeing friends again, I’m doing fairly normal stuff including cooking and being lazy about the housework and shit. But I went into town yesterday and felt incredibly, horribly overwhelmed and alone. Deep breaths, needed to get a few simple things, kept getting sucked into shops that were way too big only to realise that I had no business being there. It was deeply unpleasant.

And here it is. I don’t want to live this life. I don’t want to live in this world, in this society, with these people. I’m looking for people who are honest and good and true to themselves and to me. I don’t want an easy life because there is no such thing. All there is is LIFE and it is what it is what it is. I don’t want THIS one. And when I say this, I don’t mean the one I can change, the one I can’t. The government. The feeling of horror and injustice. The cruelty and pointless violence and hatred. I want love. Peaceful existence. Which might not exist. And THAT makes me more scared than anything else on earth.

I’m rambling, I’m mumbling, I’m not tired, I’m just fucking lost. I can’t tell if I’m getting worse. This scares me, too.

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A friend sent me this song today. Fuck, man. Listening to this feels like cutting your chest open and rubbing your bleeding, blood pumping, raw heart against unpolished wood.


I think maybe it’s despair that I’m feeling. I’ve been trying to pinpoint it. Despair and loneliness, but the latter isn’t exactly new. And the walls close in and it’s hot and humid in my tiny flat, ‘she’s so fine, she’s in my mind’ and I’m just. So. Bored.

I’m bored and scared. It’s a god damn terrible combination of feelings.

What are we supposed to do? All of us running around with bleeding hearts and lonely souls and this primal urge to confess your sins to a partner, an ally, a familiar. Where do we go? How do we find each other? And why are there so FUCKING many of us? We reach out for a piece of warm skin in the dark but there’s only the cold walls of our bedrooms and the sweaty sheets of our beds. We try to hold our own hands but it feels so empty to pretend, it’s not even worth pretending. The world is big and wild and dangerous and the more scared we get, the more we look out for ourselves and the less we see each other, the less we feel each other. I don’t know what I’m asking for. Something real, maybe. Sex is a wonderful shield but when that’s been drugged out of you, all you have left is loneliness. And love. Love to give, to pass on, to throw at someone else. And you throw and throw and throw and it just slides down the front of their shirts, they do nothing to catch it. At least give it back, you know, you didn’t have to let it fall to the floor. ‘Needing other people is not a weakness’. Such utter bullshit. Of course it is. Needing love is humanity’s biggest weakness. If we didn’t need that, we’d all be free. Hopes fulfilled, dreams accomplished, problems solved, freedom achieved. Sex a game. Sex is easy. And it’s easy to get right. Love is difficult. Love I never got right. Friendly love is wonderful. Romantic love is terrible. Love love fucking love, shove it up your arse.

Yeah, I wouldn’t date my depressed ass either.


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