Lessons In Symmetry

ALCOHOL.

2011-01-04T00:16:00.001-08:00

hello, boys and girls.
i have a confession to make
i DRINK.

in keeping with the spirit of everybody else's blogs.

yes bitches, i drink alcohol.
i enjoy being around people who drink alcohol.
i have a bottle of mango wine in the freezer.
which, yes, i intend to drink.

but that doesn't mean i get flat out drunk.
or fuck every boy at the party.
or any boy.
i've never even been properly drunk.
exept once.
with my grandma.

i don't like it when people say:
'i hate alcohol'.
or judge people because they drink.
i'm sorry guys, i respect your opinions.
but, personally:
i only ever drink in moderation, and if i act drunk, it's because i'm a naturally silly person.
and i hate it when people are like oh she's so drunk, she shouldn't be drinking, blahblahblah.
whatever.
i dunno.
i'm sorry guys.

i'm seventeen, and i like a drink.
that doesn't change who i am.

OH HEY LOOK, IT'S LAUREN.

2010-12-28T02:01:00.000-08:00

WELL, SHIT GUYS.
I haven't blogged here in like five million years.
BECAUSE I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY.

WHAT HAS CHANGED SINCE I'VE BEEN GONE:
- I have graduated high school, hoorah for me.
- I SPEAK IN CAP LOCKS A LOT.
- I don't care about things as much as I used to. Like, no shitting. I used to be hyper emotional like all the time, and then I think my pool of emotions ran dry and now I'm like 'eh, fuck it'. It's terrible haha. I feel like something's wrong with me. Oh but I'm more emotional when it comes to animals. I like, freak out about them. I'm like, OH MY FUCKING GOD, IT'S A POODLE. OH SHIT. THAT'S THE BEST THING I'VE SEEN ALL DAY.

THAT'S, THAT'S PRETTY MUCH ALL I HAVE TO SAY.

2010-04-22T00:11:00.000-07:00

you are so terribly oblivious to something that should have smacked you in the face a long time ago
wise up buttercup or the world is going to eat you alive
though i dont think you would notice if it did

if she's the closest you've got then baby you aren't close at all

2010-04-18T23:56:00.000-07:00

I know that you don't think you're worth anything, even doubting your standing with me. But babe, know that you're my closest friend, my most trusted confidant, as well as being the best boyfriend I could ask for.

I love you.

You know that I do.

:)

swallow

2010-03-27T05:49:00.000-07:00

God, if you're real, you'll make this communion taste delicious.

I dipped the bread in the grape juice. You know, like cake or something.

I placed it in my mouth, hopeful, yet it seemed like little more than savourysweet mush in my mouth. I swallowed it quickly with an inward grimace.

And then, the gentle voice in the back of my head.

Following me is never easy to swallow.

It is always there, that voice. Sometimes so loud I weep, but often it is a gentle whisper in a deafening darkness. So easy to ignore.

When I concentrate on the voice, take pen to paper, and words flow from my fingertips that I could have never written myself. It is then that I know He is real, so real, His weight pressing down on my soul. But then I forget, caught up in whatever passion takes my fancy in the fleeting moments.

I am sixteen, young and therefore prone to mistakes. Is forgetting You a mistake that will last a life time? Or will I mature into adulthood and return to You?

2010-03-12T18:00:00.000-08:00

Apparently I now have comment moderation on my blog. I don't quite understand how this happened, but hah, Chinese spammers, I am now untouchable.

I've been neglecting this lately, I guess. But Ben's back! -excited face- I mean, he never exactly left, considering I see him everyday at school, but it is exciting none the less.

My sister got back from Canberra today, looking strangely fresh faced as if she did not just have a 14 hour bus ride with about thirty other children. I mean, like what? When I got back from Canberra I stumbled out of the bus looking like shit. But I miss it, the strange thrill of school camps. Like, intensely miss it. A week with your classmates in various places doing various educational things is, surprisingly, the most fun in the world. I guess if I go to Flinders I have O week to look forward to but it won't be the same, not quite. You won't be there, the Ignite class.

I feel boring today. Nothing to say. But this is just to check in, to reassure my numerous worried readers (ha!) that I'm still alive.

oh lordy

2010-02-20T23:35:00.001-08:00

2010-02-10T03:12:00.001-08:00

I can't handle this, and everything it implies.

'i've got to be near you every night and every day'

2010-02-08T00:08:00.000-08:00

I could be doing Classics. Or I could not. Whatever. Today was a good day, I think, even if it was horribly, unbearably, oppressively and most definitely depressingly hot.

There's a group on facebook called 'You're not best friends till you've spooned'. And I was like, wut? I've never spooned any of my best friends (aside from Bennifer, obviously) and I sure as hell don't want to. I mean, I love you guys, but spooning is just dirty. Think about the proximity of bum and vagina and hands and boobs. Just no. Wrong.

I am bad at singing and dancing but I love them, my voice hitting the wrong notes and my body bouncing to the wrong beat but it's me at my truest. I can't play an instrument (Dear parents, you may or may not have wasted thousands of dollars on piano lessons. Keep the money rolling, Lauren. xx) but I love to hear music, letting it flow through me, letting the lyrics speak to me. I love it when you find a song and it means something to you on such a deep level that you cannot stop listen to it. Over and over, until it's engraved on your brain, a part of you.

I used to be really jealous of people that could play well and sing and dance and write songs. But then I realised, that they're the musicians, I'm the writer. We all have our unique talents. And isn't the feeling of writing something that means something to people just as good as writing a song or singing the right notes? Not being able to write a song shouldn't make listening to music any less special. I want people to enjoy the fruit of my labours so I should enjoy theirs. Sal said 'Sometimes others can find the words we can't. It doesn't make them any less real, and it doesn't take away from the epicness.' She's right.

I've found a song that could totally be sung from Ben's perspective:

My girl's mad at me
I didn't wanna see the film tonight
I found it hard to say
She thought I'd had enough of her
Why can't she see
She's lovely to me?
But I like to stay in
And watch t.v. on my own
Every now and then
My girl's mad at me
Been on the telephone for an hour
We hardly said a word
I tried and tried but I could not be heard
Why can't I explain?
Why do I feel this pain?
'Cause everything I say
She doesn't understand
She doesn't realise
She takes it all the wrong way
My girl's mad at me
We argued just the other night
I thought we'd got it straight
We talked and talked until it was light
I thought we'd agreed
I thought we'd talked it out
Now when I try to speak
She says that I don't care
She says I'm unaware
And now she says I'm weak

Because I can be like that ~~most of the time~~ occasionally. But, to him, this song:

I never thought I'd miss you
Half as much as I do
And I never thought I'd feel this way
The way I feel
About you
As soon as I wake up
Every night, every day
I know that it's you I need
To take the blues away

It must be love, love, love
It must be love, love, love
Nothing more, nothing less
Love is the best

How can it be that we can
Say so much without words?
Bless you and bless me
Bless the bees
And the birds
I've got to be near you
Every night, every day
I couldn't be happy
Any other way

"come on now try and understand the way i feel when i'm in your hand"

2010-01-30T22:18:00.000-08:00

I feel like blogging but I really don't have anything original to say.

'i'll be with you darling soon, i'll be with you when the stars start falling'

'take me now baby here as i am, pull me close try to understand, desire is hunger is the fire i breathe, love is the banquet on which we feed'

'have i doubt when i'm alone, love is a ring, the telephone, love is an angel disguised as lust, here in our bed until the morning comes, come on now try and understand, the way i feel under your command, take my hand as the sun descends, they can't touch you now'

'with love we sleep, with doubt the vicious cycle, turns and burns, without you i cannot live, forgive, the yearning burning, i believe it's time, too real to feel, so touch me now, because the night belongs to lovers'

'i, oh, must go on standing, you can't break that that isn't yours, i oh, must go on standing, i'm not my own it's not my choice'

'is it me, for a moment? the stars are falling...'

Because I define myself in another's words, find my identity in a life that is not my own.

'they come on like they're peaceful but inside they're so uptight'

2010-01-30T00:24:00.000-08:00

I think before any young girl embarks on a relationship, they should be required to take a TAFE course or something on boys and all things related. And there should be a class on 'How To Not Completely Fuck Yourself Up When There Is Something Out Of Your Control And You're Worrying And Stressing Yourself The Fuck Out'.

Relationships are great, don't get me wrong. Having someone know you inside and out (insert dirty joke here) is amazing. But when it comes right down to it, you're handing another person a piece of yourself, then standing back and saying 'for the love of God and all that is holy do not BREAK THAT!'

I love him so much. Hear that, Ben? Ok? I LOVE YOU.

Also, the tennis commentator said 'she just needs to come in with a bit more penetration fron that angle'. And I was like 'yes bitch yes'. :D

oh crap

2010-01-25T20:23:00.001-08:00

I've been talking to quite a few uni students lately, so Year 12 doesn't seem quite so much like the end of the world. I mean, they all got through it. And most of the people who read this blog are in/were in Ignite, so we're smarter than average (just), so we'll get through it too, right?

Promise me, please.

To be honest, I don't think I'm that scared of the workload. I just have to study like a bitch. I think I'm scared of high school being over. For the past four years, it's been my world. I know the people, the teachers, the school layout, the best places to go and make out (behind the scout hall, if you were interested :P). I've laughed, cried, screamed, fought, wagged, loved, hated and learnt there. Going there five days a week, forty weeks of the year has made it the centre of my life. So many of my best memories have been made there, or on school camps, or doing things with people from school. I've even come to love some of the teachers.

And this is the last year, the last year we'll be able to buy stuff from the canteen, scrawl on the desks, count down the minutes til 3:15.

Yeah, we hate it sometimes. Maybe even all of the time. But, shit, what are we going to do without it?

Uni, tafe, the work force, I guess. But will anything ever mean as much as the five years spent at high school, will any period of our lives ever be more pivotal to our development?

Or maybe I'm just uncommonly attached to Staberfoyle (I know that nickname is so Year 8, but I love it ;D). I get that way sometimes. When moving to Australia, I sobbed over the fact I couldn't bring one of those things with me, you know, those things where you get like a stocking and fill it with dirt and seeds and draw a face on it and water it and it sprouts green hair? Yeah, those things. So maybe none of you care as much about high school as I do, maybe you'll be fucking glad to see the last of it. Or maybe not. I don't know.

And I am excited about Uni. To be honest, I'll probably thrive better there than I do at school now. My reception teacher told my parents that I'll enjoy school more and more as I get older, and she was right.

But I don't want to leave school any time soon. Not yet. I'm not old enough, not smart enough to start Uni. Maybe I will be in a year or so but I probably won't be. The funny thing is that I'm not even required to go. I could just live at home and mooch off my parents. I could go to tafe, become a hairdresser. I could start working in retail for a few years then go travelling. Holy crap, so many options.

Honestly, I think I'm stressing far more than I should be. I should be getting ready for school. I haven't showered in what seems like forever. I actually can't remember the last time I did. Fuck.

Off to make myself clean.

PS. Oh my God, I clearly haven't blogged like that in forever, because I feel like a whole weight has been lifted from my chest. Note to self, less pretentious prose, more venting blogs. It's time like these when I don't care about what other people think. Though I'm sure I'll go right back to caring when nobody comments.

Shower time, bitches.

this is our world

2010-01-25T09:11:00.001-08:00

This is our fucking world, where cancer takes away a son a husband an uncle a brother a father, where a plane crashes into the ocean and takes it all away, where an earthquake wreaks havoc on Haiti, the 'poorest country in the Western Hemisphere'. Already, 80% live below the poverty line* - 80%! - and then this happens.

This is a world where it will all become a statistic.

An Ethiopian Airlines plane blew up and crashed into the sea, minutes after it took off. 90 people are feared dead.

How can we stand in the face of grief like this?

I don't feel comfortable posting those pictures, because that there, staring out from your computer screen is grief, pure grief, at its most raw. But it's a reminder that this is what's real, this pain, this loss of life. Wrapped up in our internet and televisions and school work we forget that some people cry so hard that something breaks, something breaks inside of them that cannot ever be fixed. We forget, maybe we don't even know, that a baby's sandal was amongst the wreakage washed ashore.

And how can we ever understand the pain of the man whose wife and two young children died in a car crash? Whose entire life was wiped out yet he still has to go on?

I don't know where to go with this, what to do with these words, but this is our world, and it's fucked up.

* information found here

why i love my parents

2010-01-23T20:27:00.000-08:00

Mum: When taking she was me for a drive, an impatient guy was stuck behind me. When he had the chance, he roared past us, and she flipped him off then said, 'okay, now tailgate him'.

Dad: 'Something's happened to the car, it's not going forward!

...

It's not turned on.'

me

2010-01-21T03:28:00.000-08:00

A teenager, living in passions and dreams, swinging from one mood to the next with the agility of a trapeze artist, is me. Writing bad prose on a blog nobody reads won't fight off time or turn it back but I can always keep on hoping, hoping, and wishing I was a child again.

hot bitch

2010-01-15T08:18:00.000-08:00

I am in love with Pushing Daisies. I bought it on a whim from the wonderland that is JB HiFi, $20 for the first season - get in my pants.

Everything about the show is insanely adorable, including this:

That's Lee Pace, who plays Ned the Pie Maker on the show.

He is so pretty.

I love him.

To put this in perspective for you, I think he is cuter than Colin Firth, who I watched play a gay guy in Mamma Mia! yet still swoon over.

I think it's Ned/Lee's eyebrows. I love big eyebrows on guys. They're adorable. I dunno, the minute I see a guy with cute puppydog eyes and thick eyebrows I die a little inside (ie Ben). In a good way. I dunno. Fuck me, I'm at that stage where I'm bloody tired yet still can't get to sleep, and so I'm spewing out random crap. Whatever. At least I'm censoring myself. I was going to describe eyebrows as 'hairy crack' (because I'm addicted to them, or something, fuck you), but didn't because that brings to mind disgusting images.

But there, now I said it, and I'll leave you to vomit in your mouths a little and think I'm immature.

Good morning, bitches and hos.

2010-01-14T22:59:00.000-08:00

Dear Ho,
No one wants to hear about the many escapades of your vagina, which rivals only your mouth in terms of looseness. And regardless of whether you hate me or not, my boyfriend will never want to fuck you like it's 1999. He has too much respect for his penis.

Stick with batteries,
Lauren.
xox

i'm beginning to think there is something entirely wrong with me

2010-01-13T10:23:00.001-08:00

Last night I dreamt that a dead relative called me ugly.

I'm jealous of toddlers, with their snub noses, long eyelashes and ringlets.

Sometimes I can't leave the house because I despise what I see in the mirror.

My nose is too long, hair too gay, face too fat, face too long, skin too dry, eyelids too red and swollen, tummy too round, lips too rashy, lips too small, skin too dull, breasts too small, smile too square, smile too toothy, eyes too squinty.

When I think of how I look it makes me want to cry.

i'm a fat man at heart

2010-01-10T22:32:00.000-08:00

I'm fairly sure I'd be stating the obvious if I started complaining about the heat. But I can't help it. It's so fucking hot. Usually, I can escape the heat by becoming a recluse and only setting foot outdoors to swim for a minute in the pool. But now, I'm sweating in my room getting those cold shivers that you get when you're hot, too hot.

I don't want to do anything. I've been sitting in the house for most of the holidays, being as lazy as I know how. I don't have the motivation to write, to even play Facebook games. I feel stagnant, slow, sweaty - unbearably so.

I'm dreading Big Week Out, school, easter camp, the future. I'm dreading the inevitable.

Every time I pick up a book I feel like shit, because I could be writing, should be writing, should be creating my own sentences instead of living through somebody else's. But every time I think that, I then think fuck that and go play Wii. I laugh at myself for wanting to be an author, because we all know I won't. I can't. It goes against my intensely lazy nature.

I have to say, although the very idea of school makes me want to throw darts at a kitten, I am kinda looking forward to it. Having to do shit, and being punished if I don't, gets me motivated. I may stress and break out in rashes, but at least I get shit done, and done well. When I was pressed for time, I got straight As in Year 11 subjects, lost like four kilos and started a story which I actually like. When I have all the time in the world, I lie on the couch all day, eating whatever shit is the sugariest and gaining God knows how much weight.

At heart, I'm a fat man, I should just embrace that.

the beginning of the end

2010-01-03T15:19:00.000-08:00

It's coming again, that tight ball of hope, fear and anticipation. Year 12 is coming, a fact that I'm sure none of us could forget. Soon our bags will be heavy with new stationery and our uniforms will be neat and our shoes horribly, annoyingly, totally black.

What is to come this year?

goodbye, 2009 (or: lots of writing about me, sorry)

2009-12-30T03:39:00.001-08:00

The end of 2009 is drawing near, two days away, so close you can taste it. 201020102010 finally it's 2010. Not that, in the grand scheme of things, a new year will make much difference. In two days it will be the beginning of a new decade and I'll still be wearing my pyjamas, sunburnt and blistered, drinking tea in front of the television. But it means this year, this awful year, has finally finished - and things can only get better, right? Promise? Pinky swear?

Recently I've been looking back on what I was a year ago. It amounts to, sadheartbrokenabitchselfcentredreligious but ultimately, shockingly, hopeful, looking forward to the Year To Come. I wasn't quite expecting it to be so rough, but I think that somehow I knew that it would be a Year Of Difference And Change. And, for once in my life, I was right.

I'm different to I was then, in the final days of 2008. I'm different to who I was when I first donned the blue uniform and called myself a 'senior student'. I'm different to who I was when we fought, when all of us fought, when our friendship group was fraught with anger and tension. I'm different to who I was in the winter, the last winter before it all happened, the last winter when I did not know what grief was like. Grief, which rages like fire then cools, becomes gentler yet still runs through your life like a river, reflecting your loss when you dare look for your reflection.

Now, I'm calmer, not as ragingly self centred (although I will be the first to admit that I still have my moments). I'm not religious as such, though I still firmly believe in God. Maybe the Christian God? I haven't figured it out yet. But I believe that all religions worship one God, in all his infinite wisdom and grace, in all his different aspects, in his Truth and Love. I do not believe in Hell, nor would I want to worship a god that insists upon it. I believe in the validity of all religions, for there is as much truth in Buddhism and Hinduism as there is in Christianity (also, I can now spell Buddhism). I believe in ghosts, in the spirit world, in unexplained happenings and pictures and the shuddering feeling when one walks right through you.

I have a boyfriend. And a relationship that is actually lasting. A relationship that, ohmigod, I haven't completely fucked up. One that works in the best ways, one that can withstand an eleven month long conversation without at least one of us running for the hills. One where we live in each other's pockets, thanks to the miracle of modern technology. He knows everything about me, my hurt, my struggles, my pettiness and spite, my insecurities, my optimism, my ugliness and my beauty, the taste of my earlobe. It's the relationship I dreamed of, the kind of intimacy I've always been desperate for.

In 2009, I started two blogs. L is for... which was born in my lowest moments, when I wasn't sure who I was, when I cried myself to sleep. I ended it, a blog-girl relationship that was doomed from the beginning. Then I made this one, purely because I wanted an outlet for the wordswordswords that were desperately begging for a release. I gave it a nonsensical name, I mean, Lessons In Symmetry? What the hell? But words that sounded vaguely amusing have taken on a whole new meaning, holding my words, my thoughts, my life. And in case I'm starting to sound too pretentious or something, I'll just take the time to thank you guys for not shunning me when I post pictures of dildos and fat lesbian men and sodomise your childhood. I love you?

And somehow, it worked. Somehow, people read this blog (or, at least, I think they do. I haven't had many comments lately so I can't be sure.) For some reason, my friends are willing to sit through self centred posts such as this and other varying piles of verbal crap.

I'm honoured you're my friends.

Happy New Year, bitches.

burns victim

2009-12-29T03:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went out on the boat, catching both noms and skin cancer. The deliciousness of the fish that I caught (for the first time ever!! Yes, you have my permission to be proud.) has only been matched by the excruciating and unholy pain of my sunburn. My sun-kissed, healthy glow (by which I mean third degree burns) has erupted into delicious puss-filled blisters. I am clearly ecstatic by these latest developments, and am beginning to regret bringing only low cut, short sleeve tops and dresses to Port Lincoln. My only sensible shirt is my Spongebob pyjama top, and even I have too much dignity to wear that out of the house.

But

that fish was fucking good.

2009-12-29T03:15:00.000-08:00

About a year or so-ish ago, I acted like a fat skank towards someone I really cared about. I guess there were a few reaons for this, but mostly because I am a fat skank. And even though I'm sure that the person in question neither cares about me or my apology any more, I just wanted to say I'm sorry, that I've grown up, and that if I had the chance I would put right what I got wrong.

I doubt you even read this.

But, regardless.

I really am sorry.

strange how times works

2009-12-21T18:21:00.000-08:00

Reading through old emails, tracing back the steps of falling in love, then feeling it happen all over again. Feeling the familiar flutter of butterflies, the giddy hope of him loving me back, the shy blush when he said you are beautiful.

I know him so well now that it's strange to think of a time when I didn't, when holding hands and swapping texts made me want to jump for joy.

Of course, there was always something more, a current of teenage hormones running swiftly beneath the innocent smiles.

But when I look back, we seem so young.

2009

2009-12-21T07:03:00.000-08:00

Who am I but the vestiges of all who came before me?

Wide awake at 1:30 of the AM variety, my insomnia passed down like an unwanted heirloom through the generations of my father's family.

I like my windows open in the cool night air, because cold is a part of this world, being cold means I am alive.

I like my relatives alive, please.

I want 2009 to leave, to skulk off with its tail between its legs, because it has brought me bad news and death and new neighbours with loud toys.

But then, it brought me the boy who says you, I want you, I want you now and forever so surely this year cannot be all that bad.

But please, 2009, please give me back Pup and my uncle, please give me back Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett and Brittany Murphy. And then please give me back the people I never knew or have forgotten about, because they don't belong to you, they belong with the people who love them.

2009, you've brought me a lot of pain. And then, everywhere I turn, there is more sadness. An old neighbour's husband dying. An old daughter of a friend of a parent getting lung cancer then brain cancer (familiar echoes, anyone?). The long and sad story of the couple next door who moved away.

No one can deny that you have been a crappy year for a lot of people.

But then, the darkest cloud always has the brightest lining.

Because you brought me him. And you brought me growth. Because of you I can finally look back on myself and think, my God, I'm growing, not only upwards and outwards but inwards, too. And now because of you I am a stronger person, a bigger person, with still huge room for
development but the foundations are here now.

P.S.

Thank you for the B-cups.

They were greatly appreciated.

'all i want for christmas is you'

2009-12-19T19:31:00.000-08:00

juliet
when we made love you used to cry
you said i love you like the stars above
i love you til i die

Christmas soon, and I am excited over the thought of presents and food. I am completely sold onto the commericialism of the season, no matter how hard I try to deny it. My family never made a huge deal of the whole 'spirit of Christmas' business, or even the religious aspect (strangely enough). But then, we were never any good at holidays. We had the Christmas tree and the advent calenders and the presents and the Christmas dinner at the Grandparents, but I never believed in Santa. I always knew it was my parents giving me the presents, and I didn't care.

I just loved presents.

I know I sound shallow, for not making a big deal of the whole love and giving and charity etc side of Christmas. But, seriously? If you want to love others, to give to others, to be friendly and hospitable, why limit it only to a holiday?

And that's my rant for the year.

Merry Christmas, bitches. :)

only six chapters in and already planning my newest venture

2009-12-18T00:30:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was really little, there have been random periods of time when I think, what if this isn't real? What if this world is just a dream? An incredibly intricate, multi-layered dream, but nonetheless an illusion. What if I'm really a coma patient, or a cripplingly mentally handicapped child? What if this life is a means of escape from the truth of my existence?

I guess the fact that my life is, in comparison to others, quite great. I have everything I need - a home in the greatest country on Earth, married parents with a steady income, a good friendship group, a steady boyfriend, intelligence, passable looks, no deep-rooted mental disorder (although some may argue that existential crises at the age of five is, in fact, a mental issue), etc, etc. I try to put this down to luck, to positive thinking, to the blessing of God. But at the back of my mind, it all seems too good to be true. Either my mind is covering up the harsh reality of my true situation, or something devastating will happen to me in the future.

I was reading something about comas today, and the idea struck me. I could write another story, one about a girl who leads a perfectly ordinary existence, until one day she begins to recall details of another life. She records them in depth in her journal, and ultimately dismisses them as strange flights of fantasy - until one day, she blacks out and 'wakes up' to a hospital bed and a blur of voices and activity, of loud machinery and the disinfectant smell of a hospital ward.

'Since that moment, I cannot rid myself of the smell. I shower twice a day, obsessively wash my clothes and hang air-fresheners in every room, yet it still follows me around like a shadow, a conscience, an ever-present whisper in my ear.'

Eventually the story progresses, with her awakenings in hospital and memories from another time becoming more and more frequent and her life becoming more and more nonsensical, until she finally wakes up in the hospital for good. She realises that her 'memories' were real, and the life she led was a lie. She has really been a coma patient for years and years, and her 'life' was a dream composed of her life before the coma and pure imagination, employed by her mind to keep her from realising her dire situation.

I could take it in so many directions. It could be focused on her eventual realisation of the truth, or on the mental impact of realising that everything you have known and loved does not actually exist. What would work best, a short story, novella or novel? Would I actually write it? Should I wait until I'm mature enough to handle such an intricate topic - because I know I could easily turn it to crap - and concentrate fully on my current story?

I know that considering you all already know the plotline, you probably wouldn't be too interested in reading it, if it is written.

But please, please, please comment back with criticism, ideas, anything! I wanna know if it's a good or bad story, compelling or boring, unique or generic. Please!

just a few facts about me

2009-12-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

I'm a insecure, needy, possessive jealous bitch.

I need constant reassurance.

I don't feel worthy enough to be your girlfriend.

I understand that everytime I open my mouth there's a 50% chance I'm going to spurt insecure nonsense that makes me sad, and probably makes you sad too.

I hate waiting for reply texts.

I love you.

"castles in the air i have a dream i want the world to share"

2009-12-12T03:51:00.000-08:00

I've previously been guilty of counting the days until I can get legally get married. I realise this makes me every guy's worst nightmare. I don't even know why I'm admitting it here, because I think this will assure that I'll never get married at all.

I guess to me, and so many other girls, marriage has been the ultimate goal, the thing to strive for. And yes, I've given a bit of thought to my perfect wedding. I'm thinking about the function center in Clarendon in the autumn - or prehaps an outdoor wedding in the Hills in spring. Colour scheme would be deep reds and burnt oranges - unless in spring, where it would be light pinks and yellows, with me holding a bouquet of white roses and jasmine.

Yeah. A bit of thought.

We're taught from a young age that marriage is the Happy Ending, where we've found the man who will complete us and be faithful to us forever. We fawn over movies like the Notebook, hoping and praying that our relationship will be as loving, as romantic, as beautiful.

But I guess that as I get older, I see that marriage does not guarantee love, does not promise perfection. And this scares me. A dream marriage could deteriorate into a divorce. What if I'm a single mother at thirty, dragging a trio of kids up to school each day, working hour upon hour in a dead end job to make ends meet, coming home and crying at how my life has turned out. It's a scenario that none of us anticipate, none of us dream of. We all think, oh that will never happen to me, but it might. It happens to so many people, so many undeserving people have crap lives when it all started out so promising.

And what if that will be me? What if my life turns into a massive disappointment?

But still, it doesn't stop me dreaming of my perfect life, my perfect wedding, my perfect romance.

"if i could fall into the sky do you think time would pass me by?"

2009-12-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

Because I really want to be a thousand miles away from here, in the sky, in America. In the land of Starbucks and New York, bagels and Krispy Kremes and all things delicious and diabetes. Maybe my impression of that country is slightly skewed. I've never really talked to an American, but the accents freak me out slightly, because everyone sounds like a movie star. But I want a change of place, a change of scenery, just for a while. I want to walk down New York streets, one hand full of doughnuts and the other on a huge can of Mace. Because I watched Sex and the City once and there was a mugger.

The USA seems to foreign to me, almost exotic.

But I'd only go if he was there with me.

kiss my shiny metal ass

2009-12-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

I'm sad. Sad for numerous reasons which I do not care to divulge, but one of them is that Ben's father found out that he'd turned the proxies off on his computer or something (to be honest, I don't know what that means, other than a parental lock or something. I dunno.) which means that he can no longer ~~watch hardcore porn~~ blog. I'm pretty devastated, to tell the truth. Now there is no one to shout out my praises to all of the internet, unless one of you wants to take up the job.

I'll miss it.

Also, apparently I'm 'clingy' just because I ask when people are getting to my house.

I don't know about you, but um, fuck that shit.

I'm sorry for wanting to be ready when people arrive.

Stupid people make me want to put a hole through the wall with my face, they really do. Especially people who insist on seeing numerous forms proving I am Lauren Ha****d and not a terrorist, then put Lauren Hu****d on my driver's permit.

THE FUCK, DUDE?

EDIT: For the love of all things holy, can this day get any worse? First all this crap, then THE SLEEPOVER CLUB IS ON TV. -killself-

miss schmartypants

2009-12-07T22:42:00.000-08:00

Now, bitches, I don't mean to gloat, but I GOT STRAIGHT AS IN MY YEAR 11 SUBJECTS.

-dance-

Yes, I am proud of myself, I thought that I'd get a couple of As max and at least a D in photography - considering I hadn't done any work. And that's only a very slight exaggeration.

But, yah. Woot! Now I just have to wait upon the results of Year 12 Psychology (when do our results get mailed to us?) before I feel right with calling myself a straight A student - for the first time since term one of Year 8 (ie. the term when none of us realised that Year 8 doesn't mean anything).

I don't really have anything to say, other than school is completely over for however long we have and I will not have to go inside that building until next year. Yes.

music vids for you

2009-12-03T21:51:00.000-08:00

You guys should all like watch these. They're amazing songs.

Always the Sun - The Stranglers

Got me through two funerals.

Duchess - The Stranglers

Really catchy, weird tune. :)

Golden Brown - The Stranglers

:)

i'm almost emo enough to start shaving my legs (coz i feel so deep when i'm dressing in drag)

2009-12-03T19:58:00.000-08:00

Hi ho, bitches. I bring good tidings. I have officially passed my driver's theory test, and have my Ls. :D Needless to say I'm all like excited and stuff. Schmone took me to get it, and I was doing that typical Lauren thing, ie. 'they're not going to let me take it, I probably don't have the correct identity stuff, and if they do I'll fail straight away and like press the wrong button on one of the give ways.' Needless to say, I passed the test with only one answer wrong.

Although my fears, for once, were grounded. Yesterday I tried to get it twice, twice I was turned back for not existing correctly.

But now today I have it, today I can sit behind the wheel of a car without spontaneously landing in prison. I am excited.

Also, I had tacos.

bored and boring.

2009-11-28T22:42:00.001-08:00

To be honest, I really have nothing to say. I've had a few relatively uneventless days, save for him coming over yesterday. :)

It was windy last night. Very, very windy. And I was home alone. Needless to say I did not have a fun time, with all the crashing and the banging and the loud noises.

I want to write, but the words won't come. I'm reading over my story, cringing at how stilted and boring it is. I'm a crap writer, it's all the same.

I made a tiger toast toastie (ie. marmite and cheese). It was delightfully delicious and decadent, bitches. Then I made a cheese one and I left it in there for too long and all the cheese melted out leaving me with two burnt pieces of bread glued together. Not delicious.

My sister went to play the ps2, only to find that our only ps2 controller was fucked up the ass and it therefore too traumatised to work, goddamn.

I can't even write an interesting blog post.

2009-11-27T04:19:00.000-08:00

It's official. I'm pretty great.

I managed to get my cat and dog to sit on the same bed without my dog raping my cat.

I understand if you cannot handle my sheer awesomeness. I even managed to take photos of myself that don't make me want to dry retch into the toilet.

I admit that I do look a bit like an emo tard, but whatever. I'm having a good night.

2009-11-23T18:46:00.000-08:00

It's finally over. Finally, finally, finally. Nine and a half months of waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for eight and a half weeks of pure, unadulterated freedom. No deadlines, no pressures, no homework. Just peace, sun, sleep ins.

Of course, there's Year 12 on the horizon, looming up larger than life. I have no doubt that it will take over my life, control it, choke the soul out of it for nine months. Year 12, like having a baby!

But I'm chill. I can deal with that. (I hope.)

I'm gonna get my driver's license, I'm gonna drive. One more step on the road to adulthood.

I'm going to write. I'm going to finish my novel. And, maybe, send it off to publishers. But probably not. The best novels are infused with life experience, which at sixteen I am slightly devoid of. But, someday. My next novel, my tenth novel, my sixteenth. Someday, I'll discover my voice as an author, and maybe turn my passion into a career. I'm lucky. As much as I choose to deny it, I am somewhat talented, no matter how conceited it may be to admit it. A gift, handed to me on a golden platter. But, I'm spoilt, lazy. If I want to make this work, I have to work.

I love words, the vessels which carry our inner most thoughts and desires. Morabund. Superfluous. Solitude. Verbose. The English language is so beautiful, when it isn't scattered with 'lol!' and 'ohmahgawd' (crimes which I am undeniably guilty of). It sings. Harmony. Rhapsody. Bohemian.

Bohemian Rhapsody. How beautiful is that? I've heard those two words together so much they lost their meaning. But look at them, listen to them, sound them out. Bo-hem-i-an. Rhap-so-dy.

Anyway.

To all Year 11 English students, congrats on finishing the exam!

2009-11-21T22:09:00.000-08:00

In the midst of grey skies and rolling mist, I find that I am still learning.

Even when each breath I take is laced with sorrow, when my life is tainted with loss, I can still find joy in the world. I am growing, slowly, surely, each step I take more certain than the last.

My life is like a thunderstorm. Terrible and unpredictable, yet beautiful in its majesty.

"i love your sister"

2009-11-14T16:35:00.001-08:00

I Love xkcd from NoamR on Vimeo.

Cutest thing in the world. I heart xkcd.

grief

2009-11-13T15:33:00.000-08:00

I guess it's fair to say that I haven't really been posting much lately. I suppose most of you didn't even notice. But to those who did, I apologise. I guess my excuse is that I've been busy learning. Mostly school-related things, such as what does a standard distribution tell us about the data? and define a trait conception of personality.

astandarddistributionshowsustheaveragedistancebetweenthescoresinthedistributionandthemean
scoreeysenck'straitperceptionstatesthattherearethreemajortraitdimensionthateveryonefallsinto

Answers that roll easily off the tongue yet are soon forgotten, worth two or four or eight marks each in an exam which will mean nothing in fifty years time.

And then there are other things, important things, things that will be even more so in fiftysixtyseventy years time. Because life happens, schooling and careers are not the be all and end all, and sometimes people die.

When I was younger, I didn't know what grief was like. I thought that it would destroy me. I used to lie awake bawling my eyes out into my pillow, scaring myself senseless with the thought of my loved ones dying.

And now my uncle and grandfather have died, and I really know what grief is like. Sometimes, I feel dirty for it, knowing that my sorrow is substantially less than other people's. Whenever I feel sad, I push it away. And then, suddenly, triggered by a sudden memory or andwhohasthefun?isitalwaysthemanwiththegun?somebodymusthavetoldhimthatifyouwork
toohardyoucouldsweatthere'salwaysthesun, it'll all burst through, uncontrollably, unconveniently, heart-breakingly.

Knowing that I can never see my grandfather again. Typing the words make my eyes well up, my hands shake. Knowing I can never see him again, that I can't share the Chinese buns at the market with him, watch him make his Sunday morning porridge, listen to his rough Dutch accent. That all that exists of him are memories and a small container of ashes.

It's funny how grief works. It doesn't all sink in, not at once. Not the enormity of it. You know what's happened but you don't know it. And then it happens, slowly. You see a picture and stare at it for ages. You see it and look at it and want to be there, when everything was okay. You see it and you look at it and it breaks your heart because time is a bitch.

It was Remembrance Day, three days ago. Not that I remembered, because it was both my Psychology exam and our nine-month anniversary. But then I was sitting in the library, reading and inwardly giggling at the innane sex tips in Cleo, when I heard it: the Last Post, the mournful bugle call spilling over the radio waves. Oh, shit. One minute silence. In a last ditch attempt to be a dutiful citizen, I looked up from the magazine and adopted a pensieve, thoughtful, reverant expression.

Then I saw them. Them, the two elderly men sitting nearby in the blue armchairs. Staring into space, slight tears in their eyes, mourning. Old enough to be the veteran of one war or another. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another man, standing in respect as the bugle wept its final notes. I wanted to go over to them, curl up to them like they were my grandfather, what are your stories? Why are you here? Where have you come from?

One of my deepest regrets is that I didn't know my grandfather as well as I could have. Because now, I'll never get a chance.

exhaustion, google and lesbian sodomy

2009-10-28T05:41:00.000-07:00

11:11 - I wish for a good day tomorrow.

Because I would really, really like it.

So, universe, God, stars, whoever is the diety that grants wishes wished upon the hour: please.

Google Analytics is a cool thing. Apparently four people have found my blog via the search engine, using the terms:
'only love can make it rain'
'pete townshend'
'sexyyy'
'suddenly i've found that i've my way in the city'

As glad as I am that I can help spread the joy of Love Reign O'er Me, Petey, sexiness and wrong Oasis lyrics, I am rather disappointed that I didn't have some more perverted search engine results. Like 'lesbian sodomy' and 'astro-boy being anally raped with a writing utensil'.

Because that would be awesome.

I feel myself slowly slipping down into the grip of procrastination. I have so much to do, and so little time and/or inclination. Like Photography work. I haven't even thought about starting that. I don't think I even will. What's a C, a D in the grand scheme of things? I'm too tired, far too tired, to even bother trying. I just want to get this year over with so I can sleep without fierce stress perched on my chest each night. I know, I know, Year 12 next year and all, but maybe by then I'll be repaired, rested, ready to be punched in the vagina by schoolwork over and over again.

I can't wait to escape, maybe have a gap year, relax.

Bikinis, mangoes, sunsets.

2009-10-23T02:32:00.000-07:00

I swear there are advertisments in my dreams, Futurama-style.

I used to hate netbooks. They defied me with their little screens and itty bitty keypads.

But then I dreamt about having one, a black one made of awesome, and suddenly I want one.

The book I'm reading at the moment is making me want to punch babies (I just love that saying. Don't judge me.) Every character is described as amazing looking. The author must believe she lives in a land of beautiful people. Even the ugly chick is described as 'gorgeous', with Celtic blue eyes and 'wild, untamed' flaming red hair, leggy and pretty. And this is supposed to be the socially awkward ugly chick.

And then she describes one character as not beautiful, then goes on to pretty much say she is made of all things made of sunshine and rainbows and pretty much sex on teenage legs.

And then another girl has 'Victoria Secret curves'.

And then the old woman is a graceful, 'bohemian' type dresser who all her students love.

Even the street they all live on is sexy.

All good characters have to have character flaws. But these people totally don't. Their character flaws are miniscule and easily overcomeable. Like, even the hard-working single mother who has no time for anything but her daughter still manages to pretty much run a successful company. Even though she has no qualifications. THAT MAKES NO SENSE.

And I hate it where stories drag out their big secret for way too long, dropping dramatic hints for like ten chapters, and the main characters are all like 'there is something really bad I did a long time ago, that I really regret, blahdyblahdyblah, I'm not going to tell you yet, this is an obvious ploy to keep you reading the novel'.

Like the main character for this novel, she did something she 'really regrets', something 'big', but I bet you anything it'll be something stereotypical like cheating on her husband or getting an abortion. Although it would be sheer awesome if it was something like, she killed someone. In the event of that happening, I would print out this page and literally eat my words.

All in all, this reads like a bad Maeve Binchy novel.

But then, why am I completely hooked?

cleavage cleavage cleavage

2009-10-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

'We conceive love as recreation and not as re-creation.' ~ Paule Salomon, Philosopher

*

I just cannot wait for this year to be over.

I know you're all sick of hearing it.

But damn.

I'm tired, stressed, overworked.

Grieving, anxious, unfit.

I want summer, I want bikinis, I want long hot days at the beach dreaming of a brighter future, no homework pressure, no friendship strife, no family tragedy, just me and him and my best friends and the beach and mangos and sun cream.

Summer in the city means cleavage cleavage cleavage.

Indeed, Regina, indeed.

This shit is making me tired is maked me tired is making me tired.

And one day I'm go out in fuckin' style, man; bikini, mango, suncream, and all. Visions of sunsets on the beach are the only things keeping me afloat at the moment.

I had a dream crispy crispy Benjamin Franklin came over and baby-sat all four of my kids.

I had a dream too, though not about my Benjamin but about Nick Jonas, who fell in love with me and kissed me and I was all like I um kinda have a boyfriend and he was sad.

Wut?

And then that morning, they were on the Disney Channel, and I saw him and my dream-self was all like, hey, it's my lover, and then again I was all like wut? I didn't even think I knew his name, but apparently I knew him enough to dream about him.

I, oh, must go on standing.

he died.

2009-10-19T05:39:00.000-07:00

When I was two, three, whatever, I used to wake up in the middle of the night saying 'Benny... Benny...'

I now find this highly prophetic.

*

He died. Not Ben. Pup. He died.

I don't really know what to say.

Except I know I'll never get to see him again.

And that my last words to him, 'I'll see ya, Pup', accompanied by a clumsy kiss on the forehead, are now lies, all lies, because I won't see him again, the closest I get to it will be another coffin in the same funeral hall, the same mourners, a different kind of heartache, gentler somehow - this was hardly unexpected like my uncle's death. But still, a tragedy, the death of the patriarch.

A whole person, mannerisms, accents, memories, have been lost. Like so many before him. I can't wrap my head around this fact, those people aren't statistics, they were living breathing people with people to love them and memories they cherished and an inclination to cherries over strawberries or whatever the shit they liked, they were real, just like he used to make porridge every Sunday morning, that's lost now, he'll never be here again.

Being the oldest person in the world just means that everyone you once loved has died.

This house is stained with his memory, a ghost of a different sort, a presence you can't shake off. His photos, his documents, the files saved on this computer, they are all a part of him and yet he is dead.

Memories I never knew I had are now my most precious posessions, my final grip on my grandfather, who I loved so much but never told because I was too scared to.

I never understood how people could live on in your hearts, not really, but now I know, a lesson learnt only by experience, because his life is imprinted on mine. My mum told the nurse that I share his sense of humour. A part of him, now me. The air I breathe is partially indebted to him, the heart that mourns him was once a part of him. I'm a part of his legacy, a small part, but here I am, living and breathing.

2009-10-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

so here I am at the airport, using what I assume is free wireless.

To those unaware of my present situation, I was pulled out of school (that sounds so violent) to go to Pt Lincoln, because my Pup is close to death. He might live, according to mum, for a few more days. Or it could be a few hours.

This is the death we were all waiting for, before the other happened.

This is it.

my life in pictures

2009-10-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

Right now you feel:

Something you want to say to/about somone you love:

Your life looks like:

If you could choose to look like someone else you would choose:

One thing you would like to live without:

Deep down inside you are:

just some thingssssss

2009-10-15T00:45:00.000-07:00

Before I begin, please note this is not a bitchy blog. I don't roll like that, generally. This is just a post of about how I feel, yes it is aimed at someone but I don't intend it to hurt their feelings. Maybe I should do this privately, maybe, maybe I'm a douche for doing it here but I guess this goes for everyone, not just the person it is intended for.

It's just, that comment you made, about me being too busy 'snogging' to pay any attention to my surroundings. I managed to force out something that was supposed to sound indignant, but it left me reeling inside, like someone had slapped me in the face. Because it's not true, and I'm sorry if it comes off like that. I'm not annoyed with her because she hasn't done anything to offend me, not because I've been too busy sexing up Ben. It hurts to have my friendship with her chalked down to that, it's a slight against both me and her.

I guess I'm more sensitive to it because of the past and everything that happened, so maybe I'm overreacting slightly. If it seems like I'm always too involved with him and leaving you guys out, I'm really, really sorry. I am always trying to be better, to hang round with everyone, to participate in conversations. But sometimes, I just want to rest, to cuddle him and be still for a while. If people see that and get annoyed, again I'm really, really sorry, but I can't be social all the time - it's against my decidedly anti-social, withdrawn (yes, believe it or not) nature. I love all you guys dearly, and I mean that. You're all my lifeline, my support group, me going out with him doesn't change any of that. Maybe this is point I should have made ages ago, not now. No use locking the gate after the horse has bolted, and yet here it is, my confession. I love you guys.

And the other comment, the one made after I joked 'apparently cum makes a good moisturiser!' I really don't appreciate comments like that. I know it was said in jest, and I'm not mad, even if I seem to be here. And yes, I know I have a dirty mind and mouth, I know I joke about sex and all things related, I know I'm not the most innocent of the cookies in the jar (there is no suitable metaphor for innocence, so I just made one up! Yay!). But stuff like that, stuff that's personal, I really don't appreciate it being made into a public joke. It's private, if anything is told to you, it's told in confidence, not to be convoluted into a joke like that. Again, maybe I'm just blowing things out of proportion. I just appreciate my privacy. I guess this is more a warning, because that joke wasn't overly offensive, I pretty much set myself up, but private stuff is private stuff. I know I'm just blowing this out of proportion. I am really sorry.

I love you, I really do.

it's a conga line of sodomy!

2009-10-14T22:38:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows that many kids in today's society are whores.

Like this chick. She's eleven. Fuck.

There are probably various reasons for this. The media and shit like that. But I believe the number one main reason is

Playschool, motherfuckers.

Playschool: whoring shit up since 1966

You know, that little kids show that was on everyday after school and I assume is still running? With those soft toys and the ever smiling presenters?

Whore.

Why?

There's a bear in there
And a chair as well
There are people with games
And stories to tell

Open wide...
Come inside...

That's what she said.

It's Playschool...

i heart miley cyrus (and i'm only kind of joking)

2009-10-10T20:20:00.001-07:00

I am ashamed to admit this, but the more I read about Miley Cyrus, the more I like her. Not because I like her tv show (although it is prety funny, in a childish way) or her singing, but because, for some reason, she reminds me of me. Not because I'm pretty or have a gaggle of preteen girls adoring me, but just... because.

Trawling through gossip websites makes me realise how stupid people are.

'A source close to 1/3 of the Jonas clan said: Nick goes all the way to first base and almost gets to second you can see his hand kind of going up her shirt. Theres even a little dry humping near the end. Miley is such a total slut!

The rumored tape not only exists, but will be sold on the Internet for $29.95 per copy.'

Ohmigod! Her boyfriend kisses her and almost touches her boobs but doesn't! What a slut!

If that makes her a slut, the rest of us must be dried out middle aged prostitutes. God.

Ohmigod! Miley, wearing high heels, walks near a curb and stumbles. She must be drunk!

God.

Who here can honestly say they've never done stuff like that? I bet the people commenting on her were just taking a break from smoking pot and fucking their sixty year old lovers, and decided to take it out on an easy target to make themselves feel better for the vacuous coked up sluts they've become.

...

I understand that none of you actually care. I just haven't had a rant for a while.

2009-10-08T15:46:00.001-07:00

Hey, if you guys were interested, chapter four is up. :) Also, you should go check me out on booksie. Mmmkay?

2009-10-06T03:48:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, Chapter Three is up. :)

2009-10-05T21:36:00.000-07:00

I should be doing homework. Or any number of things more productive than looking into space dreaming about hair. But that's so much more fun.

Ben's coming over tomorrow! This excites the crap out of me in a not so literal way. It's so good to be able to spend 'alone time' with him, even if alone time entails a house full of people. But it's so much better than nothing. :) And he gets along well with my family, and sitting with him cuddling whilst watching a movie with my parents isn't even awkward in the slightest. Awesome? Yes.

Last night I dreamt that through a, uh, series of unfortunate circumstances (-winks at Simone-), me and him weren't allowed to see each other ever again. Needless to say I woke up in tears.

I don't really have much else to say.

So.

Yeah.

Peace love and unicorns.

voices from the grave and footprints in the sand

2009-10-03T16:29:00.000-07:00

We had family up yesterday, my auntie and three of her daughters, and a boyfriend. It's weird that she's a widow. Widows are supposed to wear black, walk around wringing their hands and spending all day at their husband's grave. Or at least that's what I thought, but I do have some strange misconceptions of things. But she's a widow and I know her and she laughs more than she cries.

The topic of conversation inevitably turned to reminiscing. Those old family photos, taken carelessly, unknowingly, are now pored over. Look at her outfit! Aww, look at little me! Look, it's him... Each photo a mere glimpse into the past, a bittersweet snapshot of something we can never have again. It is weird, strange, unreal, to see someone who died smiling out at you from the pages of your family album.

Even weirder are voice recordings. My mum has voice mail from him, before he passed away. The messages, whilst being perfectly normal at the time, took on an eerie feel after his death. Hey, just letting you know that I'm okay, that it's all cool here. I'll see you soon. Like an etheral voice from beyond the grave, captured on a mobile phone, I'm okay. Reassurance, hope, I'll see you soon. Like ghosting on Doctor Who (hey,whoturnedoutthelights?hey,whoturnedouthelights?hey,whoturnedouthelights?), except real and much less pants-shittingly terrifying.

Do you believe in ghosts? I believe in ghosts. Why? I don't know. How? I don't know either. But there's just something that seems right, real about it, and not just because I've been watching too much Ghost Trackers (although that show is awesome). But maybe, just maybe, we leave imprints on places, like footprints in the sand. In places that mean so much to us, places that evoke strong emotions in us. Maybe they're not visible, maybe they're not even ghosts in the traditional sense. But human life has more weight than a foot, the world is more pliable than sand. Why wouldn't we leave an imprint of ourselves, however faint, on the world?

I'm probably just strange. Not probably, definitely. But maybe I'm right.

paranoia and hair dye

2009-10-02T21:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to a friend's birthday party. As you all know, I recently dyed my hair (albeit temporarily), and even though I love it I was incredibly nervous about having my friends see it. And I was right. As soon as they saw me it wasn't 'Oh, your hair looks great!', 'that colour suits you', etc, which people other than me might expect. Instead, this being me and nothing I do is right, it was, and I quote, 'Your hair is red, and haha, it's not dyed properly at the bottom!' Not even one teeny compliment, nothing that would suggest I didn't look awful. Biting back tears, I gave my best nonchalant smile and said 'oh I know, haha'. My self confidence suitably crushed, we walked around the shopping centre, going in and out of game shops as we waited for others to arrive. I caught glances of myself in the mirror, straightening out my hair and clothes, the feeling come on again, that feeling, the voice that whispers in my ear and says you're fucking ugly. Why do you even try? Look at those girls, they are so much better than you. And what the fuck are you wearing, you stupid bitch? Why did you think you looked nice? I self consciously straightened out my clothes again. Why didn't I just wear a hoody? Oh, look, someone just glanced at you! That guy, that girl, another guy, that old man and his wife, another guy again, those group of girls. They're just laughing at your hair. Everyone is. You're fucking ugly. Your hair isn't dyed properly. You suck. And it's true, why do I even bother? Why do I spend so much time in the mirror, straightening my hair, choosing my outfit, fussing over my skin? Nothing I do will be perfect, or even remotely good. I'll always look messy, bad, try hard. Everyone looks at me. I've seen it. They all look at me and think 'haha, she's so ugly'. People who compliment me are just mocking me. He says I'm beautiful, but he has to, he's my boyfriend and he knows that if he said I wasn't I'd feel bad, so it's just a lie.

It all is.

i love you

2009-10-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

Thank you, babe. Thank you for yesterday, thank you for making me smile and laugh. Thank you for always holding out your arms wide to hug me, even when I threw the ball right into the gutter. Thank you for fitting so well into my family, and for listening to my dad talk about Once Upon A Time In The West. You will probably hear that talk again.

I know what it's like to mess up and feel like crap. I just wanted you to know that whatever happens, you will always have me.

NEW HAIR NEW HAIR NEW HAIR NEW HAIR.

2009-09-30T02:01:00.000-07:00

My friends, after years upon years of longing, I have done it.

I AM A GINGER!

No, that's a lie. It's too dark red for that, but yet it still looks like I always imagined it would.

I am a burgundy.

I am a pie.

And that sounds so much cooler than ginger.

And even though I didn't wash out the dye properly, and it's patchy in a little place (my dyer, though enthusiastic, was not entirely methodical. I love you, Louise!), I still feel sexy and wonderful. I've never dyed my hair before, so I had noooo idea how it was going to turn, but for the first time this is excellent.

After much stressing and near hyperventilating, I decided to do it. I am of fair constitution (wut?), with mild excema and a slight reaction to dairy products, so of course the next logical step is for me to fucking die when hair dye is applied. Don't laugh, it's happened twice. I swear.

But I'm happy, happy happy oh so happy.

And even though I have homework and my boyfriend and best friend are on angry terms, I feel kick ass.

And for my loyal fans (read: curious friends who probably just want a laugh), here are some very, very unflattering photos of me. Like seriously. I hope I don't look like that in real life.

And by way of comparison (read: I'm narcissistic!), here are some of me with my original hair:

Me at the Who concert. Could you tell?

2009-09-29T03:59:00.000-07:00

Oh bloody muddy suddy ruddy buddy juddy huddy guddy luddy hell.

Shit like this happens when I open my mouth.

I am also annoyed because I was going to dye my hair, but reacted to the dye. I even have that tight chest feeling. Though that may be more due to my hypochondriac tendencies. But I've pissed. Wahh.

mushy mushy mushy

2009-09-22T03:42:00.000-07:00

I did it. I officially 'met the parents', with only a smattering of awkward moments. Like the way I go tongue-tied. Or how it was his Mum's birthday. Her birthday.

Me: Leish, it's going to be so awkward! I'm like, crashing her birthday party!
L: It'll be fine, I promise.
Me: Okay...
L: That said, if you stuff up, it'll be even more unforgiveable.
Me: -shits self-

So after a couple of hours of 'omigodomigod', hyperventilating, convincing myself I was going to throw up all over their carpet, and freaking out at the last minute ('I wanna go HOME!!!'), I met his mum, who looked surprisingly pretty and friendly. I'd blown her up to fire breathing monster proportions in my mind. She smiled and said 'Hi!' and I felt like a fucking idiot for stressing out so much. But at least others could gain some amusement from it.

His brother is so cute. Like, adorable cute. Cuter than pie. Or something. But he's cute. Hehehe.

And I built a car. When I say car I mean lego car. And when I say built I mean stick little lego people all over one he'd already built.

I had fun.

And I had cake.

And of course, he was there. :) It was really strange to see him out of a school/youth group/friendship group context. Different, somehow. But it was nice. He is such an adorable big brother, even when little brother punches him in the balls. And of course, it was much fun 'snogging' (as little brother called it. Aw-kwarddd.) on his bed. ;D

Too much information?

Yes.

I thought things would be kinda sad, awkward with him the day after a huge fight/arguement/disagreement/call it what you will. In my experience, it usually is. But, it wasn't. He was still there, the same Ben. If anything, I felt like I loved him more, knowing that I can ride out the storm with him and still love him. :)

2009-09-21T03:56:00.001-07:00

'So you ladies ever been penetrated?'

2009-09-21T03:51:00.000-07:00

You know you need a fucking life when you know all the words to the Optus pengiun rap.

2009-09-21T01:44:00.001-07:00

I really don't think I feel like life anymore.

story time. ;D

2009-09-19T00:08:00.001-07:00

Just something I wrote for an English assignment, which had to involve a circus, a gardener, and a hold up. Some feedback I got was: 'You are twisted', 'That is disturbing', and 'Are you depressed? Do you need to see a psychiatrist?'

I'm not kidding when I say that I take all of that as the highest compliment possible. :)

The soft thud of the darts was the only sound that broke the silence in the dilapidated garden shed. They were aimed with delicate precision, before a quick flick of the wrist sent them soaring through the air. To onlookers, it would have been an enchanting sight, but Robert Duncan hadn’t had any spectators for years. He had been a local champion in his youth, the best at the pub. But his youth had long since passed him by.

Where he would have once aimed at the bullseye, he now focused on something completely different. He honoured the timeworn tradition of pinning a picture of one’s enemy to the board, and his darts carefully outlined the black and white photo of a man. And not just any man, oh no, everybody in town knew his name.

Dylan Harris. A highly successful bank manager, a family man, a pillar of the community.

Robert lined up his final dart, squinting in concentration, then drove it straight though Harris’ heart.

Dylan Harris. His daughter’s killer.

After her death he began to search frantically through her belongings, desperately trying to sort out the fragments of her broken life. What had happened to his baby girl, who had stolen his heart before she could even take her first breath? Where was that bright eyed child, who had whispered all her little secrets in his ear? When did he lose his grip on that beautiful young woman, who had so much to aspire to? How had he let her slip away?

He had stumbled across the affair in her journal. The charismatic businessman seducing the young intern: so cliché, yet so devastating. It had torn him apart all over again to read her entries. The first inklings of a romance began in early May, her first day at the office. Her writing shone bright with hope and wonder, and the page was filled with small illustrations of love hearts, daisies and giraffes – her personal favourite. The affair quickly progressed, with numerous office trysts and the occasional weekend away, all culminating in the fateful promise: he would leave his wife and children for her.

But, inevitably, he broke it off, claiming a newfound desire to rebuild his marriage. Her pages were tear-stained, and she neglected to even write the date. Gone were the hearts, the giraffes, the professions of love. Robert’s heart ached for his child. She was still so young, so fragile, easily broken by just one man. Her entries dwindled, until she penned her last haunting words: Is this what it feels like when life isn’t worth living anymore?

And then, nothing. A girl found dead in the local park, hanging from a tree, his baby girl, his beautiful Megan. All because of Dylan Harris, that bastard, using her for a cheap and easy thrill, then ditching her when it got too much for him to handle. He had blood on his hands, and yet for two years he had lived the peaceful life of an innocent man.

But for Robert, those two years had been hell. Two years of searing heartache, the pain clawing at his soul and ripping his life to shreds. First it was his marriage, which collapsed under the strain of so much loss. Next it was his mother, devastated at the death of her only granddaughter, dying of a broken heart at only sixty-eight years of age. The final straw was his fledging gardening business going under, leaving him with less money than when he began. And all the while the constant grief flowed through his life like a river: sometimes calm and gentle, at other times intense and raging, threatening to pull him under and mercilessly drown him.

And after two years, it was time for revenge.

He had kept his pistol carefully hidden away in the shed, camouflaged by his old gardening tools. It brought a tear to his eye to see them lying there, once so shiny with promise, now neglected and rusting.

He pushed away the tools as he reached further into the dingy cupboard, the stale air making him cough. After some searching he found the worn shoebox, gently lifting it into the open and placing it on the creaking wooden table. He removed the pistol and a stack of crumpled paper, each page covered in scrawling, glued on photographs and crude diagrams: his carefully laid plans for vengeance.

Robert absentmindedly reached for the pistol, toying with it as he contemplated the papers scattered before him. He had slaved tirelessly over the plans: tracking Dylan’s every movement, stealing his mail, hacking into his internet accounts. And finally, he had struck gold.

The circus. He could not suppress a slight laugh, which hung hollow in the air. Once again, he pushed away that persistent, nagging thought: he had not laughed properly in two years.

Robert did not like to reflect on what he had become: a mirthless shell of a man, wallowing in his misery, ruthlessly plotting his revenge.

He paused for a moment, recollecting himself. Yes. The circus. It was perfect. Armed with his pistol and the compulsory disguise, he would force his way into the big top. Amidst crowds of screaming children and frantic parents, he would seek out his only target: Dylan Harris, his wife, and three young children, together on a rare family outing. He would hold him at gunpoint, demanding an apology. And money, of course: he knew the man well enough to know he carried wads of cash on him at all times, and he may as well pay for the life he so carelessly destroyed.

And then, once the transaction was complete, Robert would murder Dylan’s children and wife with a single gunshot to the head, before turning his gun on Dylan himself. He wanted to pump the man full of bullets, and tear apart his lying, cheating body until it was a mere bloody pulp. It was all the miserable coward deserved.

And if he failed? He smirked, and gently pressed the gun to his temple. Well then, life just wasn’t worth living any more.

The vivid colours, joyous music and swirling scents were enough to send any child into a fit of ecstasy. They raced from one cheerful attraction to another, balloons clasped in their sticky hands and the taste of fairy-floss melting on their tongues. The big top’s candy cane stripes shone in the sun, looming majestically over the whole carnival.

However, Robert was oblivious to the overwhelming sense of glee. He rearranged his disguise in the rear-view mirror, pulling the balaclava firmly over his face and snapping on the latex gloves. His pistol sat neatly on the passenger seat, fully loaded and ready to kill. He reached for it and ran his fingers along the barrel, smiling as he felt the cool metal beneath his fingertips.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, impatiently tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He guessed it would be another hour or so until everyone was shepherded into the big top, but he could wait. He had been waiting for two years.

He was wrong. A loud screech rang through the grounds, catching the attention of even the most hyperactive child. A colourfully dressed man appeared at the tent flap, visible even from the car park. He bowed, then placed a megaphone to his lips, bellowing the familiar words: ‘Roll up, roll up!’ The crowd was herded into the arena by men perched confidently on stilts, much to the delight of the children. The blissful squeals and giggles were enough to bring a sad smile to Robert’s face. He had taken Megan to the circus once, when she was merely a small girl with long plaits and dungarees. Tears stung at his eyes, but he brushed them away. This was no time to break down.

Clasping his pistol tightly, he stepped out the car, tentatively looking around for curious onlookers. Seeing nobody, he smiled slightly and felt adrenaline flow through his veins. He was ready.

His body desperately yearned to run, to shoot anyone who crossed his path, but he remained composed. He had to avoid attention; he didn’t want the police to take him down before he could reach the Harris family. His fist clenched the gun tighter, and he envisioned the chaos and the mayhem, Dylan’s blood spilling across the dirt floor, a life for a life. A family for his Megan.

His pace quickened as he got closer to the big top, and soon enough Robert was sprinting, running headlong into fate. His composure was broken; he just wanted to kill, to avenge his daughter, to spill blood. He threw up his arms as he entered the tent, waving around his pistol and firing a warning shot. ‘FREEZE!’

As expected, a bloodcurdling scream arose from the crowd. Frantic children clutched at their parents, shrieking and crying, whilst a handful of circus performers leaped at Robert, desperately trying to bring him to the floor. He brandished the gun at them, and they shrunk back, faces pale beneath the colourful makeup. ‘Get out of my way.’ His voice was low and intense, and the manic look in his eye caused them to back away slowly.

A deathly hush fell over the crowd. He brushed past his would-be assailants, and sought out his target. They were in the front row, which was to be expected; Dylan would have purchased the most expensive tickets, always leaping at a chance to show off his wealth. Robert grinned, and slowly stepped towards them, pointing his gun towards Dylan chest.

‘Remember me?’

Dylan pulled his wife and children close to him, visibly shaking.

‘Oh, you don’t recall? Well, then.’ He pressed the gun against Dylan’s throat and pulled back the safety, smiling at the satisfying click. ‘Let me remind you.

‘Megan. Remember Megan? The girl you promised the world to? The girl you used for your own gain? The girl you shagged,’ he spat the word into his face, ‘and then left for dead?’

Dylan nodded slowly, all colour drained from his face.

‘The girl that killed herself because you broke her heart?’

Dylan shook his head, complete and utter shock distorting his features. ‘I didn’t know…’

‘SHE WAS MY DAUGHTER.’ He withdrew the pistol from Dylan, and exhaled heavily. ‘You destroyed her life, and you destroyed mine. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to lose a child…’ Robert reached out to the eldest Harris daughter, a small girl of seven, and drew her to his chest. He slowly brought the gun up to her temple. ‘But now you’re going to find out…’

The man crumpled to the floor, the bullet wound in his back already blossoming into a deep red stain. Police poured into the big top, struggling to make themselves heard above the screams and the loud sobs. ‘Relax! The situation is all under control! Please remain calm!’

The man lay, still and silent, in a rapidly growing pool of blood. Officers rushed to attend him, searching for ID and some sign of a pulse. The shrill cry of the ambulance pierced the sky, yet all knew it was futile: the man was dead, and nobody cared to revive him.

Shrill wails led the sergeant and his officers to the Harris family, crouched behind the bleachers. ‘Are you okay, sir?’

Dylan Harris raised his face to meet the sergeant, unable to speak. He clutched his fainted daughter to his chest, stroking her face.

‘Sir? Can you tell us what happened?’

He raised a shaking arm to point at the body lying on the floor.

‘Was he threatening to shoot?’

Dylan nodded slowly, tears forming in his eyes.

‘Could you and your family get up, sir? We’ll escort you to the hospital.’

The five of them slowly got to their feet, supported by the officers. Trembling, they were led out of the big top to the embrace of the police cars and ambulances. But before he stepped out of the tent, Dylan shook off the officer’s grip, running back to the man lying on the floor. Pushing past officers, he crouched down at his ear.

‘I am so sorry.’

"how much is that doggy in the window WOOF WOOF"

2009-09-16T03:43:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago, I dreamt Ben was a dog.

He was still Ben, he was just in dog form, and could still talk and love me. But he was a dog. And we were waiting til his 18th birthday when he could get changed into a human. But then this random fell in love with me and tried to seduce me, but I was all like no, I have a boyfriend! And then he was all like, He won't know if you sleep with me and then I was all like yes he will, he's my boyfriend and then he was all like BUT HE'S A DOG.

And then I told him to fuck off.

Because the only person I love is Ben, whether he's a human or otherwise. :)

"stand by me nobody knows the way it's going to be"

2009-09-15T04:11:00.001-07:00

It's strange how you can still feel the aftershocks, even though it's been months and months since you were first torn apart.

The earthquake's over, the whole incident smoothed over by time, and yet you still feel the tight knot of tears. It all still replays in your mind: the first nasty comment, the first smirk, the first time you felt isolated from everyone you loved. You know you held part of the blame, that somehow this was all your fault, yet even now you don't know what you did. You deserved it though, of course you did, it'd been coming at you for a while now.

You still feel its sting, paranoia nipping at your heels. Everytime you're alone with him, apart from the group, you can't relax. Even as you cuddle into him, you feel guilty, some part of you wanting to play it safe.

You feel stupid bringing it up, it's in the past now, why drag up the painful memories? Lay it to rest, my dear, the past is past. It happens to everyone, it's happening now.

But you know that you can't leave it all behind just yet, yet who can you confide in? Not them, you love them dearly but it would be painful; not him, he doesn't understand how someone can be angry at you, let alone hate you... bless.

So you just do the stupid thing and pour it all out for anyone to see.

You're a douchebag.

2009-09-14T03:24:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like sharing a part of yourself with a stranger. You are of no consequence to one another and yet you slip each other a secret, creating a tenuous bond, fragile yet so beautiful. The shared smile lingers as you both turn to leave, knowing that you will probably never meet again, yet sparkling with the knowledge that for some small moment you touched another's life.

"i'd gladly lose me to find you, gladly give up all i got"

2009-09-14T01:45:00.000-07:00

I know you've all probably been overloaded with the mushy stuff the past week, mostly due to Ben getting his own blog. Ironic, isn't it? I didn't tell him about my blog because I was embarassed about the romantic stuff I wrote, and then as soon as he gets his own, nearly every post has been mushy in some degree.

I digress.

Just... ignore this if you want to, ok?

Because I'm going to write it anyway.

Fuck you.

(I love you guys!)

Even now, seven months on, it still feels strange to have someone who reaches for my hand, who kisses my forehead, who says I really love you and isn't afraid of who might hear. It's strange that I have someone who knows all my secrets, who shares all of his, who'll even voluntarily get down on his knees to tie my shoelaces. Strange to have someone who loves me with all his heart.

Strangely good.

I got back from Lincoln on Friday, our seven months, feeling more than slightly vulnerable. I saw a few of my best friends at youth group that night, most memorably Leish, who came running up and hugged me and said 'I MISSED YOU!' I'm not used to receptions like that. I'm more the, flying under the radar sort of girl. When somebody, even a very close friend, tells me that they love me, miss me, appreciate me, it rocks me to the core, and its near impossible not to feel deliriously happy.

But, yet again, I digress.

As soon as he saw me, he was there, walking swiftly up to me with a smile and a tight hug, kissing my face for the world to see and saying I missed you, so much...

And even though a piece of a world had been broken beyond repair, I started to feel okay again.

2009-09-12T22:51:00.001-07:00

Holy shit, a cat just literally jumped on my ass and scared the crap out of me.

2009-09-12T03:39:00.000-07:00

This homework is making me want to punch babies. Not only that, but I fell off my chair and nearly poured boiling water on my foot.

But on the bright side, I have a new USB and summer is coming, oh-so-fast, and the jasmine is in bloom.

skinny girls need love too

2009-09-12T01:58:00.000-07:00

Just one dress. Please, someone, anyone, find me a dress.

It has been brought to my attention that every single bloody dress on the shelves has either been made for a. brave people or b. girls with more weight than I.

All those dresses, designed for being floaty/hiding excess weight MAKES ME LOOK PREGNANT.

IT IS SO DEPRESSING.

I found the best strapless dress. This is significant as I am flat chested. However, my small boobs could actually fill it up and make it look awesome, and when I stretched my arms over my head I didn't even show a nipple. (Too much information?)

But because it was a high waisted dress, I looked 156 months pregnant.

I am so fucking depressed. It was the best dress ever, and I couldn't get it. It's like every single clothing manufacturer got together and decided to make skinny girls cry. I wanted to smack myself in the face with a brick.

Am I being melodramatic?

Yes.

On the bright side, in Ice they were playing a song that went:

I love myself I want you to love me
When I feel down I want you above me
I search myself I want you to find me
I forget myself I want you to remind me

I dont want anybody else
When I think about you I touch myself
Ooh I dont want anybody else oh no, oh no, oh no

Youre the one who makes me come running
Youre the sun who makes me shine
When youre around Im always laughing
I want to make you mine

I close my eyes and see you before me
Think I would die if you were to ignore me
A fool could see just how much I adore you
I get down on my knees I do anything for you

I dont want anybody else
When I think about you I touch myself
Ooh I dont want anybody else
Oh no, oh no, oh no

I want you I dont want anybody else
And when I think about you I touch myself
Ooh, ooh, oo, oo ahh

I dont want anybody else when I think about you
I touch myself ooh I dont want anybody else
Oh no, oh no, oh no

The End.

"love is holding back the darkest night"

2009-09-08T16:56:00.000-07:00

My thoughts are spinning almost out of control, as they would be the day after a funeral. I don't know what to think. I don't know how to grieve.

I can do many things, but I don't know how to grieve.

Mum's hopefully buying me Sweet Chilli Philli today though she'll probably forget. I hope she doesn't.

The first time I ate Sweet Chilli Philli was the last time I saw him.

I was reading through old posts, thinking about how much I've changed and matured and how much more I need to grow up. I found the not-so-merry-go-round, three times, round and round and round and thank god it's stopped now.

I read his post, his post about me and loving me and it made me feel so happy when I was feeling low. Happy because there's someone who would willingly say that about me, I only want her, forever and ever. Happy because he actually feels that way. Happy because for the first time I've found the romance I envisioned when I was five.

Some people hold back from romance, scared they're going to get hurt. I don't. I work on a system of trial and error. If that one doesn't work, whoops! Move on to the next one. Doesn't work? Silly, silly Lauren. Move on again, it works, finally it works and finally you love him and he loves you. Third time lucky.

Does that make me sound like a man eater?

I don't think I am.

I'm just a silly little girl who makes a shitload of mistakes.

I just got lucky.

:)

Chapter Twoooooooo

2009-09-07T19:47:00.000-07:00

To those who may care, Chapter Two is up. :)

"i've travelled the world and the seven seas everybody's looking for something"

2009-09-07T03:04:00.001-07:00

I had that dream again, where I perform a strip tease for the entire school. Last time they laughed at me and booed, this time they cheered me on. What is with me? Maybe its prophetic. Maybe one day I'm going to become a stripper. Or maybe not.

Remember that dream, the one I had about performing a strip tease for the kid who lives next door to us in Port Lincoln? It's probably not too far from the truth, considering there's windows everywhere and I'm in the habit of walking around half naked. Yeah. Thanks for sharing, Lauren.

2009-09-06T22:15:00.000-07:00

I want to beautify this blog. I love the lightning but I want yellow, orange, love hearts and swirling song lyrics and my blog name in cursive font, lessons in symmetry, but I have no creative talent of my own.

Who wants to help me make things?

No one?

At all?

Fuck you. :(

maybe she's born with it...

2009-09-06T00:11:00.000-07:00

It's so nice to be with family, even under difficult circumstances.

My cousin and I are two twisted peas in a pod. Somehow, we never fail to have fun together, even though I'm a lazy introvert and she's much more of a social butterfly. Last time, we made fun of 'maybe it's maybelline...' and blew kisses at the boys who asked for our numbers, then ran away from them giggling. When we were younger it was 'it's pidgeon boy........ coo coo!', and forcing each other to skull straight Ribena.

This time it's discovering the liquer cabinet (which we haven't sampled... yet :P), curling my hair (I ended up with a sprained upper arm... don't ask) and freaking out about the gas stove:

Me: 'B, can you turn the gas stove on?'
B: 'Sure...' (tentatively touches knob and backs away) 'I'm scared!'
Me: 'So am I...' (pokes stove)
(both back away)
Me: 'I SMELL GAS!'
B: 'SO DO I!'
Me: 'What do we do?!'
B: 'Try again?'
Me: 'There's a lighter there... do we turn on the gas and poke it at the thing?'
B: 'I dunno... you try.'
Me: 'But I've never even struck a match before!'
B: 'Nor have I! But do you reckon we should try it?'
Me: 'The whole house is filling with gas, we're going to die either way, so go for it.'

Precious, traumatising childhood memories.

I'm sorry if this bored you, but I wanna remember this shit. :)

"how sweet is to be loved by you"

2009-09-05T17:27:00.000-07:00

To those few of you who actually care, I am very sorry for the lack of posts lately. But, I'm back! Rejoice!

On the off chance you're interesting in adding another blog to your reading lists, he has a blog! He was obviously so enamoured with mine that he just had to start his own. Or he wanted to upstage me. Whatever. But it's here! Go read it!

I'm in Port Lincoln at the moment, only two short months or so since the last visit. Two months since I sat here, starting my own blog, burdened with troubles that seem remarkably light now. Things were different here, then, but not as different as now. There are flowers lining the sideboards, on the tables, all laced with sorrow and the words 'we are so sorry for your loss'. The funeral is set for Tuesday, the final goodbye. The second funeral I will have gone to, the first of which that means anything to me.

On a totally unrelated note, I haven't been writing much lately. But I haven't given up, I swear! I doubt any of you care, to be honest. But I haven't. I know what I'm going to write. It's just a question of writing it. Which I will. I promise.

2009-09-02T02:44:00.000-07:00

What is wrong with me?

It's like nothing has happened. Like I've tucked it away into the corner of my mind, like my hands are clamped over my ears, 'LALALALALALALA'. I can't cry, but I can laugh hysterically and kiss my boyfriend and joke with my friends and dance around yet I can't cry, the only thing I should be doing. Why did I not burst into tears when I heard the news?

'and here's a little something i whipped up earlier'

2009-09-01T05:54:00.001-07:00

Death is when the beating heart is stilled, when the rasping breaths are hushed. Death is when tears come crashing down like a waterfall, when pain is spoken not in words but gasps. Death is when we're left behind, in a world that has yet another hole that could never be filled. Death is the passing over, the rainbow bridging this life and the next, the light at the end of the tunnel. Death brings pain yet peace, sorrow yet bittersweet joy.

Death is.

2009-09-01T02:24:00.001-07:00

and he didn't even get to go home...

denial

2009-09-01T01:55:00.000-07:00

He's dead. Dead and gone. Diagnosed with cancer about a month ago, maybe less. Now he's dead. Dead. Gone. What, how? I saw him a week ago. I went to the apartment he was staying in, I ate sweet chilli philli. He gave me his Dutch Liquorice. TV pastilles, my favourite, gone slightly soggy. I sat and sucked them, joining in with the conversation. I'm a true V. I love salty liquorice. He and Mum agreed, while his wife laughed at us and said they were disgusting.

What, how? He has four kids. Fathers aren't supposed to die. The eldest, a beautiful girl, always ready with hugs. The middle-est, another beautiful girl, played with me and Plasticene when we were little. The youngest, twins, again beautiful but we're so shy of each other - last time we were together we sat round texting our boyfriends.

What, how? He has the friendliest smile. People that smile can't die. People can't die. Why is he dead?

2009-08-31T15:47:00.000-07:00

When, not if.

Your words fall like crystal raindrops from the sky, fragile yet so sweet. I catch them on my tongue, a child again, letting them fill me to the brim with hope and love.

becausealifetimewithyouiswhatidreamof

"we knew it was wrong but we couldn't resist"

2009-08-31T00:34:00.000-07:00

What's the point in setting a boundary if I'm just going to overstep it?

Not just overstep it. Spit in its eye, shoot it in the foot, set it on fire and rape its mother.

Edit: I said 'putting' instead of 'point' without realising it. This proves that I am slowly losing my mind. Or that I am retarded.

a mother's love

2009-08-30T03:38:00.000-07:00

I remember Tournament of Minds.

In short, kids must get together to present a play about a particular topic, centred around either English, Maths, or Social Studies.

It was Year 6, and I didn't get the group I wanted. I was stuck with my best friend and a few people I didn't particularly like (they were Populars, go figure). Of course, the Populars decided what our play was about, and none of us had the balls to stand up to them. We were going to be the Charlie's Angels of Maths who built a bridge and saved the day! Woo!

I cannot act. Add to the fact I was sick with pneumonia on the day, and you have one miserable child stricken with stage fright. Our play sucked, I only said one line out of the four or so that were given to me.

But I remember peeking out from behind the little backstage area, beaming at my mum. I'll never forget how proud she looked, how she grinned and waved back. Looking back, it was a lesson as to what a mother's love truly is. No matter how badly a kid may perform, their mother is always watching and smiling, waving back to them, making them feel like it all worked out okay in the end. They'll always be there with hugs and hot water bottles and a warm car, and last minute costume making skills.

Just recently, everything was temporarily turned on its head. My uncle was diagnosed with a brain tumour, and it was the first time I saw my mum cry, the first time she reached out to me for a hug. The first time I started to realise that parents are not put on the earth solely for our pleasure; a lesson that is drilled into us from before we can talk, but one we can only learn through life experience.

Lately I've been thinking about motherhood and childbirth. I will never ceased to be surprised at the depth of feeling that arose when I really considered a future having and caring for my own children. It was like a floodgate of maternal instinct opened and I was half-drowned in my own urge to nurture and love and protect. I am also of the paranoid sort, so as soon as I realised I really, really wanted children, I also started panicking about things such as infertility and whether or not a penis will even fit into my vagina. But I am always thinking of the worst scenario - I'm a virgin who is constantly worried she'd pregnant.

But what would happen if I was infertile? It's not like it definitely won't happen to me. Bad things can happen to anybody, as demonstrated by our recent tragedy. Would I adopt? Would I just not bring up children at all?

Would I ever be able to feel the same about my adopted children as I would about my own flesh and blood?

insight six

2009-08-30T01:19:00.000-07:00

'The best part about me is you.' - Sharon Crown

possibly the best facebook group ever

2009-08-30T01:07:00.000-07:00

http://www.facebook.com/janice.davidson79?mid=1042f5cG22254947G2763d97G1b#/group.php?gid=85239532921

It's called:

PLP is shit.

Yes. That's the Personal Learning Plan. The group has 2121 members, no joke, that is how much people hate the PLP.

(To those not in the know, the PLP was this thing we had to do last year to pass our SACE. We had to fill in worksheet upon worksheet, learning things we already knew. We didn't even get marked but we had to do it all. Damn.)

dear twilight fans: you suck

2009-08-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

' The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel must be intolerably stupid.' ~ Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen.

My sister is one of those ~~retardeddouchebaggy~~ wonderful Twilight fans. She read all the books, owns the movie and has a picture of Edward Cullen on her wall, all while insisting that she hates him.

Even true fans are ashamed of their obsession. You know I'm right, Louise/Leish/Serena/Branden.

I tried to enjoy the books, I really did. I tried reading the first one not once, twice, but THREE TIMES. And I gave up before I got to the actual plotline. Edward is such a dickhead. He's so mean to Bella. And then suddenly he gets naked and shows her his sparkles and is like OMGILOVEYOU. I dunno. Something like that.

I should think that only preteen girls and unfulfilled housewives would find this book riveting and scintillating etc, etc.

And I'm horrified to think that Stephanie Meyer has her characters quote Wuthering Heights. That novel is possibly one of the best that has ever been written. Meyer probably modelled on Edward on Heathcliff, because he's dangerous.

DANGEROUS PEOPLE DO NOT SPARKLE.

DAMN.

I HATE THAT CRAPPY BOOK.

Anyway. Back to what I was really posting about.

I got my sister hooked onto Harry Potter. And she actually says she loves it. Take that, Stephanie Meyer.

She was sitting there quoting it to me. 'Alas, earwax!' And I'm very unashamed to say that it brought tears to my eyes. I was a mad Harry Potter fan when I was younger, and still am today (the books, not so much the movies). I loved the first book, absolutely loved it. I would day dream about Hogwarts all day, imagining myself as one of them. I would pretend to make potions, using grape juice for dragon's blood and very little else. I was absolutely in love with Ron, as well. He started my mild obsession with rangas. I still want my hair to miraculously change to red. I used to scrutinise the books carefully, picking out all the romantic parts and feeling my heart skip a beat everytime something remotely cute happened.

I'm forever indebted to J.K. Rowling for giving me, and pretty much every sane child, something to dream about, something to add colour to my childhood. Dreams of magic and heroism are so much better than yearning for a sparkling perfect stalker boyfriend, no?

PS. Even Robert Pattinson hates Twilight:

"When you read the book," says Pattinson, looking appropriately pallid and interesting even without makeup, "it's like, 'Edward Cullen was so beautiful I creamed myself.' I mean, every line is like that. He's the most ridiculous person who's so amazing at everything. I think a lot of actors tried to play that aspect. I just couldn't do that. And the more I read the script, the more I hated this guy, so that's how I played him, as a manic-depressive who hates himself. Plus, he's a 108-year-old virgin so he's obviously got some issues there."

When I read it ... I was convinced that Stephenie was convinced that she was Bella, and ... it was like it was a book that wasn't supposed to be published, like reading her — her sort of sexual fantasy about some — especially when she says that it was based on a dream, and it's like, "Oh, then I had a dream about this really sexy guy" and she just writes this book about it, and there's some things about Edward that are just so specific that ... I was just convinced that this woman is mad, she's completely mad, and she's in love with her own fictional creation. And I sometimes ... feel uncomfortable reading this thing, and I think a lot of people feel the same way, that it's kind of voyeuristic ... It creates this sick pleasure in a lot of ways.

http://io9.com/5096763/twilight-makes-for-the-best-fanwank-ever

And from cracked.com:

"Edward, being a thirteen-year-old girl, thinks Bella has died and goes to Italy to commit suicide. He attempts to do this by exposing himself to the sun at noon in an Italian town. Since sunlight doesn't actually harm Twilight vampires, one must assume that Edward is hoping some macho Italians will see him in at full sparkle and beat him to death for being gay."

"Breaking Dawn: The One With The Vampire Fucking

The newly-married Bella and Edward embark on their honeymoon, where Bella spends a lot of time getting Edward to make love to her. We like to think that he is afraid of this partly because he is afraid of hurting her with his super-strength, and partly because he is still freaked out about discovering that he is supposed to be heterosexual. "If I sleep with a woman, I'll have to go home and smash my piano," we imagine him thinking. "Will I still be able to drive a Volvo? What about me and Emmett's 'hiking trips'?""

http://www.cracked.com/funny-36-twilight/

And if that wasn't enough:

Updated by popular request... Yes the The Vamp retains hot and cold temperature. Toss it in the fridge for that authentic experience.

JUST IN TIME FOR HALLOWEEN! Who doesn't love those dark and mysterious vamps on the screen and in the books we all thumb through lustfully? That's what we thought. For those of us who fantasize about being spellbound and tantalized by the forbidden comes The Vamp. We promise this vamp won't be the only thing coming for you in the night.

The Vamp is a realistic form dildo based appropriately on our Sire's design but with a deathly pale flesh tone reminiscent of the new moon's glow. Since it's a Tantus toy, The Vamp is made from Tantus' own unique blend of 100% Ultra-Premium Silicone. Don't be surprised if this toy seduces you, its long sleek shaft and deliciously ridged head calling to you in the twilight. But don't save this for just nocturnal escapades, try taking our Vamp out in the sunlight and watch him sparkle.

The Vamp is a web only exclusive offering through TantusInc.com for $39.99. We are currently taking pre-orders for this one of a kind toy. We will be shipping them first come first serve starting 9/1/09. Don't let this eclipse pass into the breaking dawn, place your order today.

That is all.

"in this silence i believe"

2009-08-28T22:01:00.000-07:00

My dreams are becoming increasing vivid and complex, often more mini-movies than anything. Last night I dreamt about two people I know. A guy and a girl, the guy who is in love with the very pretty and all-round lovely girl.

In my dream, they started to become very close, until one day the girl said 'I suppose it's time you knew everything about me.' She gave him her diary, very pink and very thick, and told him to read it. He did, and found out she was having an incestuous relationship with her brother.

I know right? That's like a soap opera, not a dream.

But then she ruined it all by turning into Hermione Granger.

"and if you don't love me now you will never love me again i can still hear you saying you will never break the chain"

2009-08-25T23:42:00.000-07:00

Photography lessons are a blessing. Not only is it a break from essays and orals and bookwork, but its fun. I get to take photos, accidently bleach my pants, and be with him. Also, if you have a camera in hand, no one will ask questions. You can wander as far out of the grounds as you like, even have a swing at the playground, and the teachers will turn a blind eye because you're nurturing your creativity or whatever the crap they would say.

There are also many Year 8s running around doing orienteering. You know, where you get the crappy compass then have to go round looking for the numbers painted everywhere. The green 69 is my personal favourite.

It got me thinking though, if I could turn back time, there would be so much I would change. I remember being one of those kids, stressing out when I couldn't find a number, returning to the class depressed and sulking when I'd only managed to find two in an hour and a half. But, what's even the point of trying to pass Year 8 sport anyway? 'Oh no, I got a D, now no university will accept me.'

So to all the Years 8s out there: stop. You just look stupid running around in those uniforms. Sneak off somewhere and play with dolls or dance or whatever Year 8s do.

Also, don't even think about guys, relationships at that age do not last, may not even begin, and will just end in "heartbreak".

Don't stress when you don't get a great mark. Don't even bother stressing about homework. None of your grades actually matter.

Don't crowd the hallways. We hate you.

And an extra note to those Year 7s, walking around the school like they own it and laughing at us: We hate you too.

And to those who may suck enough to point out that no Year 8s read this blog: Shut up.

'I am No Name', a story by yours truly.

2009-08-25T03:15:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, holy crap, I actually have written some story.

Hint.

GO THERE

2009-08-25T01:50:00.000-07:00

Again, it pains me that I have really nothing interesting to say. I wrote some story, drank some Chai, felt guilty at the amount of study I was not doing.

I can't wait until my life gets more exciting. Maybe I should have some near death experiences.

I've never really felt the urge to travel before but it's starting to hit hard. I want to get away from this place, if just for a few weeks. Breathe in some new air, eat some new food, relax without the constant pressure of homework homework homework. I really just want to get away. I don't want to have to sit here thinking about the massive essay I have to do for English, and how far behind I am. I don't want to shake when I remember the oral that I will possibly have to do tomorrow. I don't want to spend my weekend getting Tourism done.

I'm being whiny. My apologies.

I want to lie on a beach with him beside me in tropical warmth. That's what everyone wants, isn't it? Even I just go to Queensland. Or even just a nice beach here in summer.

Please let me get away, Lord, if you even care about my wish for a holiday. Am I being selfish? Should I be praying for the Third World? I would but Lord, I am tired of the dutiful 'God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy, take care of famine in poor countries and forgive me of my many many sins.' I'm sick of making promises I cannot keep, will not keep, will break with a smile and probably lustful thoughts. YES I KNOW I'M A BAD PERSON WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO I OBVIOUSLY CAN'T CHANGE FOR SHIT. Sometimes I wonder if You're even real and that scares me yet relieves a burden at the same time. And oh oh I know I shouldn't feel this way, I know I shouldn't expose myself right here and right now and risk the comforting scoldings of my friends, I know I think sometimes I don't hope that You're real but what can you do, I'm human and honest, this is what this blog is about HONESTY and dammit I'm being too honest for my liking and will probably delete this because I'm making a fool of myself, an honest fool but a fool nonetheless.

"the streets and the thousands of colours all bleed into one"

2009-08-23T03:20:00.000-07:00

Dammit. I have writer's block. After I created a story blog and everything. This is inconvenient. I know exactly what's going to happen in my story, I just cannot get the first sentence.

I don't know if I'm a good writer. I don't know if people say that just to appease me. We've all done it, 'oh yes, that's good. oh yes, i like that', when all we're saying are tiny lies to cover our arses and their feelings. So harmless, yet so damaging, when all we're doing is building up a delusion, placing them on top of a shaky pedestal that will shatter with just one truth. Will you build a smile, a story, a friendship on a lie?

Sugar coated lies leave a sweet taste in the mouth but destroy the soul; truth is the cod liver oil which revolts the senses, yet heals and strengthens.

A liar loved is still a destroyer.

"suddenly i found that i've lost my way in this city"

2009-08-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

I was considering erasing this blog from existence, as I do with most blogs and diaries that I get bored with. But then I realised that I would be deleteing a part of me, my thoughts and words and memories that I can never get back. I know I haven't exactly had this for ages, but in the month that I've been blogging I know that something inside has changed, that I am different to who I was. And I want to record that, my change from someone I like to someone I approve of and love.

And I'm going to start my ultra-awesome voyage of self discovery or whatever by making my blog pretty.

2009-08-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of revamping this blog and starting a new one for my story, simply because anything is better than study.

2009-08-20T05:20:00.000-07:00

He finally found out about this blog, which I had been keeping as a very badly hidden secret because I may or may not have wrote potentially embarassing soppy girly stuff about him. -cough- Hi. :)

BOOBIES SODOMY TESTICLES

2009-08-20T04:47:00.000-07:00

I think one of my teachers found this blog.

Leish asked one to get her blog unblocked from the school system, so the teacher in question said she'd log onto Leish's account, find the blog she had been viewing that was blocked and get it unblocked. I don't know why she didn't just get the URL.

But apparently straight away she went to the techie guys to get all of blogspot banned because of 'questionable content' or something of the sort. So she probably had gone to my URL, which Leish had been viewing that day. Because Leish doesn't have questionable stuff on her blog. I do. So my sincerest apologies if blogspot actually does get blocked.

And while I'm on the subject.

Dear Techie Guys:
fuck fuck fuck titties shit poo sex bum vagina penis penis penis.

"you can go your own way"

2009-08-19T00:29:00.000-07:00

My strong, manly bladder has disappeared, leaving in its place a bladder pussier than Tinky Winky. I had to pee TWICE. In TWO HOURS. Back in the day I could pee once in the morning and that'd be me sorted for ten hours. DAMMIT.

'don't stop thinking about tomorrow don't stop it'll soon be here it'll be here better than before yesterday's gone oh yesterday's gone'

I can never be depressed for more than a few days til I'm back, on top of the world, screaming shouting bouncing off the walls singing at the top of my lungs running round the house naked, you know, that sort of happy. I'm rubber, you're glue. I got my wii and it calls to me. My parents were like oh, well they haven't even been begging to play it early so let's just give them the fricken thing two months early, as you do. I love them!

I dreamt that I put metal in the microwave, that when I spread my legs my whole body split open, that my boyfriend and his male best friend had sex except one had a vagina.

'I HAVE A MANGINA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

"everything about you's so sexyyyy'

2009-08-17T21:25:00.000-07:00

Remember that your enemies are just like you.

2009-08-15T19:47:00.000-07:00

It's raining. I love it.

I was intending this post to be about how English people hate the rain and Australian people love it but that would probably be stating the very obvious.

Its back to winter again today. I love it how the weather can go from beautiful and sunny to beautiful and rainy in a day, an hour, a minute. I love this country. On one of our holidays over here, it was raining whilst the sun shone. I actually could not believe it. I went outside to the beach and stood in the water and yelled MUM! IT'S SUNNY AND RAINY AT THE SAME TIME! probably much to the amusement of the neighbours. But then I guess they were used to us, the strange English girls that must have seemed oblivious to the cold when we went to the beach in our tiny bathing suits and swum in the middle of winter at the ages of five and two.

And then when we moved over here, we saw EIGHT RAINBOWS IN A DAY. We were driving back from Lincoln, and both of us were pretty much hanging out the car windows. In England, I only saw one rainbow in eight years, and at the time it was such a rarity that Dad let me go get a Mars Bar to celebrate.

Its sunny now, while at the start of this post it was tipping it down. Seven years and I still haven't ceased to be amazed.

-sigh-

2009-08-14T19:04:00.000-07:00

The winter breeze has finally been replaced with something more lighter and warmer. It's definitely a Spring day today, with traces of the warmth which Summer uses to make you its bitch. Its hot, sweaty bitch.

'I'm so sick of your innuendo!'

'I'll inn your endo. ;)'

I don't even know where that's from.

But I digress.

We went to see my uncle today. I thought that maybe he'd be okay, he'd be like he's always been, but he wasn't. He couldn't even open his eyes while talking to us because his pain was so bad. Though I guess that's what happens when you have mutant cells crapping all over your brain or whatever tumours do. I forget.

I'm depressed. Here's something to lighten the mood:

image found at cracked.com
Pros: No risk of aids
Cons: Lead poisoning

Yes. That's Astroboy taking what appears to be a giant pencil up the ass. Whilst his parents gaze on lovingly. Because there's nothing quite like being sodomized with a writing utensil by your own parents.

"ooh let me have it, let me grab your soul away"

2009-08-14T00:35:00.000-07:00

I love finding new artists, new songs, new words to wash over me when I sleep. Kate Bush. She's fantastic.

This all I really have to say at the moment.

out on the wiley windy moors we'd roll and fall in green
you had a temper like my jealousy
too hot too greedy

how could you leave me when i needed to possess you?
i hated you, i loved you too
bad dreams in the night, you told me i was going to lose the fight
leave behind my wuthering wuthering
wuthering heights

heathcliff
it's me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold, let me in your window
heathcliff
it's me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold, let me in your window

ooh it gets dark, it gets lonely, on the other side from you
i pine a lot, i find the lot falls through without you

i'm coming back, love
cruel heathcliff, my one dream
my only master

too long i roamed in the night, i'm coming back to his side to put it right
i'm coming back to his side to put it right
i'm coming home to wuthering wuthering
wuthering heights

heathcliff
its me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold, let me in your window
heathcliff
it's me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold, let me in your window

ooh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
ooh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
you know it's me, cathy

heathcliff
it's me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold, let me in your window
heathcliff
it's me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold, let me in your window
heathcliff
it's me, your cathy, i've come home, i'm so cold

Those lyrics are so haunting. They make me want to read the book. Whilst listening to this song. On repeat. While singing.

did somebody say penis?

2009-08-12T23:38:00.001-07:00

I've always wondered how the hell bloggers get people to read their blogs. I was on some chick's blog and she had OVER 400 FOLLOWERS and that puts my five to shame, although it's probably safe to say that only two fifths of them read this with regularity. In fact, I think I am my most devoted reader. Yes, I reread my posts for fun when I'm bored. And sometimes when I'm not bored. Sometimes I go on the computer just to read my own blog. I'm narcissistic like that. Shut up.

Sometimes I feel like jumping up and down and crying 'I'm here! I have things to say! Look at me look at me!' which would essentially be an internet version of what I've been trying to do my entire life. People tend to not notice me. It's reached the point when I get twitchy when people do notice me.

But then I realise that what I have to say is just the most boring crap in the world. When I started this blog I was intending it to be serious, thought provoking, a D+M in blog form. But of course, this is me, and I spoil most things by yelling 'penis!' and swearing as much as I can. Slut fuck? Seriously, Lauren? Slut fuck?

So my once deep and meaningful blog has quickly descended into a place to post stories about sex and pictures of fat butch lesbians. This says a lot about my character. I also tend to wander off topic and talk about something completely different thing to what I was going to say. And by 'tend to' I mean a hundred per cent of the time. I do it in real life too. I start talking and then a few minutes later I wake up and realise that I'm still talking so generally I just sigh and say 'penis' and let the conversation carry on from there.

You may or may not have noticed that penis may or may not be one of my favourite words. This, too, says a lot about my character.

Yeah.

I'm just gonna leave it at that.