mmhmm, I know this is very obvious, but I also know he won't see this :)

You are the reason that Hungary makes no sense to me,
Sixty-thousand, thirty thousand dead
in my eyes
and I wouldn't even notice.
You. Shall. Erase. Him.
Of that I am certain, I just wish you'd hurry up
and initiate,
Un-block the barricade Mister, please,
I've been a prisoner of war for far too long and
my blood is cruising black on black
down my bruises.
My long suffering battle scars I've been proud of for too many, too 
many years.
Now I'm ashamed.
Countless power struggles have ruined me
and I wish
I had the strength to start just one more.

You are the reason that Kazakhstan is in my vocabulary,
Education?
Intoxication. Predation.
Place names all seem rather meaningless
If they don't remind me of you
And my intentions that encircle my notes
On what it is that I should do,
As I'm underlining etiquette
And wishing you would notice me just once more.

You are the reason that I do not know where Cuba is,
You are the reason that I do not care where China is.
You are the reason that I can see the point to inhalation
Once more,
And not feel like I'm dragging out gases that would much rather be
Out in the open
Than in a future death home, rest home,
You feel like home
And the more you look at me, the more I look back,
Just. Once. More.

S

I wish you would pronounce your auxiliaries,
I wish you knew where to place your articles, your verbs,
Little verbs, little things, small talk, small things.
Do not underestimate me.
O disbeliever of great nations,
Rise up and stream and stand your spite.
Green army of ants
Run down my eyelids
And high cheekbones.
Staring into mud is no different from sinking into crystallized sugar,
Or so I’m finding.
You cancel out his lithium, his potassium in the blood,
Burning red-orange, red,
Again, again,
Again she’s drawn to steel,
Heavy machinery of the mind,
You clamped me down with your history, your mindset,
I cannot stop counting up every mistake you make,
I cannot shake my fascination among the inadequacies
That promote themselves to supreme,
In your eyes I am a bad
Dream.
Babbling sphinx of the underworld.
I am in your face,
Reciting names that you cannot bear to say,
Putting my heart and soul into that which you cannot emulate
But you dare not betray.
I am dancing on the spot, beating out my own tune,
Believing in the impossible just so you look at me with disdain,
Just so you look my way,
Just so you look
At this midnight sun
That would rather render you blind
Than have you ever turn away.

Hoorah for double-meanings.

Guess I just wasn't goodenough...and you know what? That's perfectly fine by me.

tomorrow it will be seven days

...this shouldn't still be so hard. I miss you. From the second I wake up until the second I fall asleep, I miss you. I'm fighting back tears every moment of every day and I'm barely eating. Whether I'm drunk as a fish, tired as....a tired person or just...alive. I miss you. And yes, sometimes I sit very still, close my eyes, scrunch them up and think "I love you" very very clearly and hope that, somehow, it reaches you.

I think, therefore I am. I love, therefore I live.

On the journey home, I think to myself, "What's different about this relationship is that you're *not* in love with him."
Hold up.
My defintion of love - being screwed around by someone you could never hope to obtain.
This new guy -I want to be with him night and day, whenever he's not with me I'm thinking of him, I hope every text I get is from him, whenever he holds me or kisses me it feels inexplicably "right". Oh, and from the moment I saw him, I just knew he'd be mine. Add to that the fact that when he does as little as touch me, an electrical current runs from the tip of my spine down to my toes.

If that isn't love...
what is?

Bah. Commitment. Bah.

I cannot organise a party for 2000 teenagers...it's far too scary a propsect. How do I even know it's 2000? That was just a guess! What if it's actually only 500? And I screwed that up as well! These people asking constant questions on the phone about numbers and times and prices...can't they hear me stumbling over my words and umm-ing and ahh-ing to play for time because "I DON'T KNOW" is the only answer I can honestly give but at the same time, it's the only answer I'm forbidden to give by etiquette's proprietor.


BAH!

Reasons not to be Ginger pt 1

Well I never ever thought I'd be hanging out with those 4 girls! One of them is the girl my ex, let's call him R, dumped me for (oh and *their* ex girlfriend was there too) another one was another ex's current girlfriend and then another girl who's caught up in everything but not directly involved. Complicateddddd much?


They were lovely.


But their hair was better than mine.

I mean, someone should've warned me before-hand, like, God or someone. You know, "oh yeah, today's the day you meet the girl who ruined your life and 2 of their friends who have been gossiping about you since the new year"...if God existed, he would've warned me of this. But noooooo, I waltzed into town looking like a mish-mash rainbow scene-kid catastrophe thinking I'm just meeting up with one of my beloved girl friends.

Never Upset A Communist

Trust me, I learnt the lesson.
And, no, they're not all dead, just a bit rough around the edges and living on the brinks of society.
But they're there.
And deceptively nice.
Until you decide you love them.
.
.
.
Man, those communists have no fashion sense at all....baggy socialist-icon t-shirt, weird too-blue blue denim jeans and fricking toggle-grey-chequered-coat *thing* I don't even want to think about.
.
Yes, I fell for someone with no fashion sense.
And then I insulted them, (on an issue that wasn't the fashion sense or their political persuasion).
God Help Me, when will I ever learn?

Mmm...To Wear Lace Or Not To Wear Lace, *that* Is The Question

Lace is every designer’s new protégé. On the front of every magazine is a slogan such as “How to wear lace now” (Vogue, Jan ’10) or “Everyone’s wearing...black lace” (www.elleuk.com, Feb ’10)) but ask yourselves ladies, have you ever actually seen any celebrities, or ordinary women for that matter, look particularly pretty in lace? Just think for a minute. Lady Gaga, Taylor Momsen and Courtney Love all covet lace and they also have one thing in common, a shared identity - they’re the bad girls of the celebrity world, the exhibitionists that we hate to love.
The designers also have something to answer for, as they are the ones who conditioned us to think that lace makes us instantaneously sexy and desirable and so we do not stop to ponder the usual clientele of these great fashion icons who are pouring lace trousers, blouses and skirts down our brocade-lined throats. Alexander McQueen is the first to spring to mind. Isn’t he the one who trussed up the models for his Autumn/Winter ’09 collection as white faced clowns from the dead dressed in frumpy dogtooth-patterned sacks? Yeah, that’s the one. Now he, along with Miuccia Prada, Vivienne Westwood and Dolce & Gabbana is telling us to wear lace and like idiots, we all flock to the shops intent on Gaga-fying ourselves and becoming sexy, beautiful and mysterious with a touch of this magic lace against our newly marbled skin (because tans are so last season).
But here’s what they don’t tell you; lace is not your friend, in fact, it is quite the opposite. The only people I ever see wearing traditional black lace in the street are the 12 year old Goth-babies living at the bottom of my road. Lace is to be experimented with when young and skinny and life is not yet bitchy, and it is an experiment that usually ends quite disastrously, with us all looking like little rat-bag vampires. Or sometimes, if we carry this stage on to our early twenties, we just look like sluts, not unlike the poor women we see and feel sorry for at the nightclub who are under the influence of the “sexy-codicil” where they think that the clothes they wear are acceptable as they are alluring to men, because flashing the flesh is exactly what men want. Lace is supposed to be a women’s secret little twist on that theory, so she can act like she is being incredibly daring, whilst actually not showing off her body at all. Well, no, she’s not, because lace actually makes us all look just a little bit on the frumpy side. Take Taylor Momsen for example, who is actually a size O, when put in a lace dress not dissimilar to something I would imagine your crazy great-aunt would wear to Sunday lunch, actually looks more like a size 12.
And peachy coloured lace is no better. The other day I was just about to leave for a night on the town with the girls when my boyfriend stopped me, looked at me very hard as if I had slightly lost my mind and said “ Now Adrienne, I know that I don’t understand fashion, but why are you leaving the house in a nightie?”. What I was actually wearing was a peach/baby-pink lace skirt that had been a steal from H&M the previous week at just £14.99, not a night-dress at all. However, the amount of accidentally-wearing-nightwear-to-work etc jokes that I was the brunt of that night would seem to testify to the fact that my boyfriend is not the only person to hold that opinion.
Therefore, if you really still want to wear lace this season, I suggest that you organise a fancy dress party and go as either Morticia Adams or Elaine Carmody – who ever knew that following high-end fashion would get you banned from Tesco’s, eh?