Love will tear us apart, again.
I’ve not written in awhile. I’ve been a wishin’, wishin’ my life resembled a multiple choice. I would be comfortable with that. I’m not comfortable.
on the couch with the dog. Freezing my socks off.
I like it. It makes me weak but satisfied. kilograms.
I’m off, again.
Potatoes in our kitchen.
He cut the crusts off my sandwiches. But he didn’t hold my hand or see me on religious holidays. He was precious about sunlight on his skin and the fact he would never move in with me. I don’t miss him but hope he has found someone equally neurotic.
I get bored. Not enough to enjoy this rubbish on TV but still quite bored. It is a recurring theme. Procrastination. It’s what I do well.
” Could it be that it’s your illness that is flaring up? ” He said. His head wasn’t in his hands but it could’ve been. I would’ve thought that was a reasonable response.
Schizophrenia equals delight. At times. At very random times. Fran discloses. That was casual wasn’t it.
Ok back to watching robots on TV. And potatoes in our kitchen.
sausage. sizzle. vomit. today you are home. And our forbidden family. Gush gush.
The cold gets to me. numbness from the Lithium. But I don’t let it get in the way of having a great time.
Do you remember when track suits would do? “should be cool” you typed. You held me tight on my 20th birthday. Tight and then goodbye. I loved you then.
I want to sleep. But I’m consumed by football and pouring out my guts onto this keyboard. I’ve married into knowing about ladders and conversions.
This is so very unpretty. sleep, sleep, sleep.
I hate it when the seasons do this. Spring upon you..but not before the calculated chill of Winter.
I have never wanted this. Thought it was just for women. Bitchy women. I guess it’s everywhere you go. She however rises above it somehow. Smiles to the core. Pajamas when she’s sick. I used to think the industry was cliche but you’re not even an inch.
And the gorgeous being I call my husband is off ill. I’m swimming in the cold with a pretentious cackle. Like a crazy woman pretending it’s not hurting everything I am. And he’s consumed. Consumed by terrible things. At least he’s got his own room. A fancy new hospital. Despite your flashy carparks you don’t fool me. You are still the same disorder. The same diagnosis.
And so I ache. It’s probably my favourite word. And I ache. Over the still cold air. Driving so far. And telling you all my secrets. Unwravelling the bandages that hold me together month to month. You just listen and nod your head. Then when I’ve spilt my beans you write some classified code on a tiny piece of paper and I am on my way. 4 weeks. I manage to keep it together. I’m a puddle on your office floor.
Kids are chattering outside my parent’s house. Traffic too. I kind of feel annoyed about it. I don’t know why?
I’m listening to The Lucksmiths. This can only mean a few things.
I’m at my saddest. I’m wondering hard about life and how mine is turning out. And you (could mean a handful of people and I’ll never tell) and how you’re breaking into my heart or into my head. I wish you wouldn’t do that especially when you stay so long. I can’t even get a look in.
Sunday afternoon. I never guessed it would be like this. I should be so lucky-a boy who loves Kylie Minogue!
washing machine won’t let me think.
And I’ve not thought of it all day…well until now.
And I don’t like this damn cold weather. And cleaning the house. And when people say my skin is beautiful and it’s just makeup-the imposter!
And I have been thinking of it for minutes maybe hours…..maybe days.
My pets live in mansions!! At the bottom of my body!!
I am worried too much. Too much said. Too, too much. Regret that I don’t care much for.
What should I put on the stereo.
This house is suddenly crowded.
‘..to give you something to go on when I go off back to the middle of nowhere..’ Hot Hot Heat
I am singing songs that make my insides ache. All for you, all for you.
And he cooks for me. He does anything. I smile and know love.
My secrets=Her ears.
It’s too cold for anything much. Confused thoughts and such. I want you close.
HURRICANE KNEW YOU WOULD faker.