Monthly Archives: February 2012

Journal

So yesterday was Ash Wednesday. That’s the start of lent for you heathens out there. Went to church pm rather than am and at least this meant I didn’t have people coming up to me all day saying, ‘you’ve got dirt on your forehead.’ Yes, thank you, wankers.
Last night didn’t water the garden. Obviously sane enough to not go through the ritual. Plants will probably die now out of spite. Dog looked at me with weird expression and just knew he was thinking, ‘come on, come on, we need to go out the front, yeah, yeah, so I can wee on the trees, and the neighbors yard, and the letter box…’ Memo is on a never ending quest to block out all other animal scents in a sixty meter radius of our house. It’s quite a hard task, actually as there’s many a tree across the road.
Thought of something today. Thought happiness would come with a Louis Vuitton bag. Actually did. Thought I’d open the brown box and be smacked in the face with it. Do you know what? Is not the case. Happiness is not in handbags and to admit that to myself is like admitting you have an addicts or some other such monumental event. On monumental. Why isn’t there a word monumentous? Doesn’t that word sound more, well, monumental? Do you think I could start it? Maybe if I start using the word monumentous than people will think it actually is a word.
Today is so,not monumentous. It’s not even monumental.

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And now today. What has changed? Nothing. Have two cats staring at me, thinking if their eyes bore into my skin for long enough I might give up and feed them. It’s a batter I lose every night.

Garden watered again. Why on earth is that the highlight of my day? Seems so strange, really. I saw ‘garden’ like I’ve this extravagant horticultural bonanza. I do not. What I do have is a half-dead lawn and half-dead plants. That’s pretty much what you get in Australia. My current battle is to prevent the cracks that have appeared in my lawn, or should I say, the ground below the lawn to open up any further. Dry soil in these areas have created such large cracks that I worry about my animals losing limbs. Monumental.

I spent another day talking to people I don’t like and doing work I don’t do. I ate Ikea meatballs for dinner because I couldn’t be arsed actually cooking.

So, you know, another day.

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I’ve decided fuck it; I’m just going to put a post on here no matter what the fuck it’s about. Have realised that if I was to wait for something worthwhile to happen in my life before I could write about it, than I’d be waiting a very long time indeed.

Weird thing is, highlight of day is currently watering my garden. This is an oxymoron indeed, because normally any household chores which take me away from writing are viewed with a pained frustration bordering on anger which is normally taken out on the cats, the dog, and sometimes even Mr Thomas himself. Feeding the animals is another task which I deplore as it always seems the most momentous of hassles for me, when in reality it normally takes about five minutes of my time; no big deal, the same amount of time it takes to have a wee. Actually, have just seen why I’m having so many problems in that area. Always put off weeing because in my mind that’s five minutes away from my pen or my keyboard which I can’t afford to do when I’ve a full time job, husband, family, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Normally end up in agony due to non-weeing issues and thus the result is fifteen minutes on the loo rather than five so when I think about it time management is my biggest issue at present.

Basically, everything I hate in life are things/people/situations that takes me away from my writing, which is why you’d think I’d hate watering the garden. I hate work; time away from writing in which I spend most of my day wondering how fucking stupid the human race really is. I’m not sitting here on my high horse saying I’m the smartest person in the world and that’s why I find everyone else annoying. Not the case. In fact, if those online IQ tests are anything to go by, I am rather stupid. Like, really stupid. Which kind of explains why I’ve made a lot of the decisions in my life; stupidity. Thing is, if I’m stupid, than the majority of people I deal with every day must be really, really, really stupid. Like, should be on a disability pension stupid. Sometimes I wonder what on earth it is that I did in my life to deserve it. Sometimes I realise that people like me, ie; people who hate people, should perhaps not be in a position where they have to deal with people for a living. Eating; time away from writing but seeing as though I’m a massive food addict there’s a conflict there. Animals; time away from writing. Yes, I’ve explained that feeding them is actually only a five minute job but what I haven’t explained is that after eating normally comes the regurgitation thanks to a particularly bulimic cat and the cleaning up process adds at least another ten minutes to the mix. Family; time away from writing. Thing with family is, they actually want to talk to you. They want to see you. Fuck it, they actually want to go out and have dinner with you, and that makes me so fucking angry you wouldn’t believe. Relationships; time away from writing. Poor Mr Thomas, he doesn’t expect much, but, you know, the occasional glance in his direction or ‘hi honey, I’m home’ is warranted but I can’t help rolling my eyes when I do it because I think; that’s time away from my writing, there.

Thing is, and here’s the ironic twist; what writing? I have finished, thrown out, re-started, re-edited and basically fucked about with the same fucking story for ten fucking years. Can I write it? No. Do I think it’s any good? No. Why do I continue? Because it has to end. I have to write, it has to work, I have to get out of this fucking life some way or the other and the only way I can do that is by writing. Goodness – all I want to do is finish something and get it out there and never have to worry ever again about finding time to write because then I’d have all bloody day.

Want more irony? Finding that I cannot write because by the time I get home from work all creativity and depression that comes from living a life I never wanted and never asked for has turned me into a creative mute. I’ve nothing in me. I’m a dry, manky sponge that has been left on the sink for too long and has started to smell. So I’m in this weird zone because I cannot write because of my work and I have to work because I cannot write.

And right now, at this very moment, Mr Thomas is talking to me and I’m like, stop talking to me, can’t you see that I’m typing feverishly, can’t you see that I’m trying to think about what to write, don’t you know I’m on the stupid end of the scale so I find thinking in the first place more difficult than you’ll ever know?

That’s where I am at the moment. Basically fucked up. No one said journals had to be of happy thoughts and bunnies and flowers and all kinds of cutesy shit. Maybe that’s why I don’t often post journals on here. Because, you know, it’s fucking depressing.

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