If I Know You

I wish dancing in public was more commonplace.



SB xx

I know I'll go crazy if I don't go crazy tonight...

I'm not sure what Bono meant when he sang that; the lyrics don't seem to make much sense. It sounds like, either way, we're going crazy. I think I'm there already.

I feel that familiar friend is making its way back to my doorstep. I have been growing unhappy at work and now I have genuine desires not to be there at all. The same heavy cloud of doubt and disillusion is returning, and I fear it is to bring a lot of bad weather with it.

The fear that I am a mere moment away from disappearing into the place were things go when they don't matter anymore, dominates me. I don't know how else to explain it. I am sad, and I am frustrated, and even though I feel like I don't know who I am anymore - I know for sure that I don't want to be her.

I feel sick, and heavy with the pain of a phantom limb I have not lost. As if that limb is the life I do not have. In this moment, I feel pathetic and I wonder how I shall make this moment pass. I suppose most of 'this' shall subside by morning, like a bad headache - but the fracture in the skull still lies beneath.

The same patterns are revealing themselves. I seek distraction to overcome these feelings, but experience tells me this will be short lived and futile. This time, there is no one to confide in.

I want to pour my poor heart out to John, so that he may see some worth, pick me up and piece me together again. But what if John has been a long, exhausting distraction and nothing more. My sisters wedding was once this very thing. What if my feelings are overblown and misplaced? Fuck, what if I really am crazy? He could just be a scapegoat for all the things I have made up in my head.

Do you suppose crazy people 'know' they are crazy? Is it in the knowing that makes it real; or worse, in the not-knowing?

SB xx

what is that love but a glorified screw, that doesn't hold nothing together...

SB xx

Anything you can like, I can like better

I'm in the midst of a very intense love-hate relationship with facebook. I love that it allows me to peek into other peoples lives, but I generally hate what I find, when I'm looking. I also hate, that facebook has become this whole 'highschool' playground, where people manipulate information - about themselves and others, to create a 'mask' of what they want to present to the world. It's not true...the photos are posed and pouty; status updates are usually poorly executed examples of people trying to verbalise thoughts beyond their mental capacity. It used to be good...now, it's evil.

It's not often I glance at Johns page, sometimes I just like to know if he's made any changes, put on any photos (changed a certain relationship status...even though he's not one to 'wear his heart on his face' so-to-speak). Usually my visits to his page end in an emotional eating binge, because I have witnessed some tarts attempt at being cute; more irritating is when he responds. When he puts up photos, like he did today, sometimes I want to comment - but I usually don't. There's been a terribly attractive, but equally obnoxious hoe-bag hanging around his page for a while now and it drives me crazy when I see things like her comments on his pictures. Like this little jem "EPIC jealousy" written on one of his landscape pictures. What the fuck does that even mean? Go back to the 90's, when you were probably born and find out the way 'epic' is supposed to be used. Dumb. Ass. She 'likes' things here and there - I don't 'like' lightly on facebook, but when I saw a beautiful photo John had posted I 'liked' it, even though she had bet me to it, and commented. I pondered for 30 minutes or so, after stuffing my face with Easter chocolate. Fuck it, I thought, I'm going to comment too. So I did. See, it's a sickness.

Worse still, facebook has bridged generational gaps. I can scarcely attend a family function, without someone talking about facebook. Just today, my 73 year old Nanna asked me if I would be putting a photo of her cookies on my facebook page?! It's disturbing to reveal a piece of news and have to admit that I found out on facebook. No Mum, it is not appropriate for us to talk about who wished me happy birthday on facebook. God, when did life get so complicated and fraught with awkward?

Most of all, I hate that I can get worked up about this stuff; that it can consume mental energies and dominate conversations. It should have been called IN YOUR FACEbook. It's like a bad accident scene, where you know you should look away, but you can't bring yourself to do so.

SB xx

A Royal Pain

Since Australia is part of The Commonwealth - we are being subjected to the media's hype and intense coverage of all things Royal Wedding at the moment.  It's starting to get on my nerves a little - being reminded I'm not actually going to be a princess is slightly depressing.  The real thing is one week away - here's hoping it looks a little like this:



SB xx

hook, line and sink-her

I'm so emotionally lame, it's disgusting. I hang on every word that boy bestows. Why? Is he magical, evil, possessed, criminally cruel? He has so many female friends, and they all adore him - how does he get to be that way, and why are there so many girls who feel that way about a seemingly ordinary boy? Does he play us all? Does he know what he creates?  I am undecided.

I know that when I sat down to attend to my work emails - seeing one from him - excited me like nothing else. Double clicked in a flash, no looking back - I wasted 45 minutes pondering and replying.. and all day I hung for a reply, to my reply. He remembered my birthday. Over the weekend, I felt sick at the thought that I didn't matter enough for him to wish me happy birthday on facebook. I am such a joke.  Amongst a short email on my birthday-day, he followed up with some funny birthday pictures today; one being:

Does it matter where you find a laugh, or the skip of a heart beat - just as long as it feels real? I suspect the only thing at risk of harm, is me. Uh oh.

SB xx

Sometimes

A lovely video and song I recently discovered.



SB xx

age

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

- Satchell Page

It's my (metaphorical) party, and I'll cry if I want to

Happy birthday to me! Today marks my 28th year of existence... Ouch, that number is getting big.

I don't really have a lot to say about today. It was a nice day...except for when I was out to lunch with my family and my Mum started complaining of a nasty smell, and my sister cursed the piano player and my nephew was making weird noises that made him seem 'simple' - it was at that point, the room seemed to get a whole lot smaller and I felt like I was in a petri dish of awkward.

The gifts were top notch; nil complaints there. There still seems to be something missing. It could be the nasty taste that facebook bullshit leaves in your mouth. Why didn't they wish me happy birthday - what does it mean; how should I respond; why; I KNOW they are on here. Or, it could've been the phone call from the tight arse friend who currently resides in the UK...you know, the one that effectively left me high and dry on what was supposed to be our joint planned trip to Italy. It was a nice gesture that she called, and honestly, I haven't been a very good friend of late - but even from thousands of kilometres away, she managed to sucker-punch me like the good old days. When talking about my travel sickness issues, she mentioned a friend who is seeking treatment for her "anxiety issues" that stop her from travelling. I thought, 'dude, you know it's my birthday right - you're supposed to be nice to people on the day of their birthday'...and then I just moved to 'bitch, anxiety was never the problem - you brought your fucking airline ticket WITHOUT ME'. Is it me? Am I queer?

Another fail, nothing from John. Not. A. Thing. You would think I'd had my fill of disappointments where he is concerned..seemingly not. Apparently I have a flair for self-torture.

Life's great at 28, life's great at 28, life's great at 28, life's great at 28, life's great at 28...

SB xx

Send me on my way

A lovely song from Matt Corby. It's a little hard to hear his mushed-up singing.  While the video is not overly exciting the lyrics are as pretty as he is!



Love is like a letter wrote
And life is like an envelope
You can choose who you give it to
But you cant choose who will give it to you

And you simply can write back to everyone
Coz that will leave you so confused and harshly judged
And all of my dreams are in your hands
You hold all of my dreams and know my plans

So why dont you send me on my way

Love is like a letter wrote
And life is like an envelope
Be careful who you give it to
They might not give it back to you

And if everyone wrote back to everyone
The trees would disappear without oxygen
And all of my dreams are in your hands
You know all of my strengths and weaknesses

So why dont you send me on my way
So why dont you send me on my way
So why dont you send me on my way

SB xx

I don't like manic mondays

I knew today was going to be shit from the moment I woke up. I should've followed that impulse to ditch work. As it was, I didn't pay attention to the sense of foreboding doom, and 22 minutes into my work day, I wished I had the power to control time, just so I could go back, switch off the alarm, flip the almighty bird to Monday and roll over in bed without another thought. What a day. What a shitty, asshole of a day.

Days like today, serve as a reminder of two things:
1) you can't fight the flow of things, and
2) just when you think things can't get worse, they go and push through that ceiling of crapness and redefine it.

The icing on the cake of poo...going to bed with a continual loop of goddamn Sir Bob Geldolf moaning about how he doesn't like Mondays. I hate that song, almost as much as I hated today - now that's saying something.

SB xx

Take It All, take 2

SB xx

Take It All, take 1



SB xx

Things I learnt while sober in a pub

Lookout kids, it must be a blue moon tonight 'cause this little bird is escaping the coop for a little night out with the 'normal' people.

Before embarking, I looked upon it as a chance to prove to work folk that I am indeed normal-ish. I may or may not have helped this cause tonight.

Being the only sober person in a room full of intoxicated people is kind of a lonely place to find yourself. With nothing to blame my bad dance moves or poor behaviour on - it's a tougher spot to be in than one might think. There are of course positives to it... for instance, I will remember all the interesting things that dribbled from loose-lipped coworkers, and I can make logical, practical decisions; I can drive home - thus avoiding creepy taxi encounters and I will be able to fully enjoy the complete offerings of my Sunday.

Tonight was fun - I had a laugh, and listened to live music sung by a handsome man. I loosened up, had a dance and was the recipient of more occasions of bodily contact than my sober mind can recall. There was also a sadness about tonight... and if this, here, is the equivalent of (non-drunk) drunk-blogging then my secret to be revealed is that all I wanted the whole night was John. I found myself lingering in thoughts of what it might've been like had he been there. I miss him in many ways - especially on nights like this, where anything could have been possible. I find myself angry with him - because he was supposed to be here; he was supposed to be glancing at me across the crowded room as I giggled at the jokes of my drunken friend; he was supposed to innocently touch my back as we danced and sang along to karaoke; it was supposed to be you John, to offer to walk me to my car...not FreakyFriday coworker who always looks at me intently and makes lame jokes for my benefit. I was supposed to sing 'Mustang Sally' and fist pump to 'Livin' on a Prayer' with you and be around you; be with you. I don't want to meet some random in a bar... I just want you and I can't have you because you are 1000km's away and you do not want me. You couldn't even say goodbye. I hate you for that.

SB xx

Runaway

SB xx

just curious

SB xx

Writing the middle

I've come to realise that my life can be summarised in a series of poorly executed one-liners. I've been having trouble lately, writing entries - due to lack of inspiration, massive over thinking (me....never) or simply because I haven't had anything to say.

I used to think, that if I were to be expressed as a literary metaphor, I might be inclined to say I was a 'classic' novel, maybe even a 'cult' read. Now, I realise, I'm actually more of a MAD magazine.

Here is a list of blog titles I've considered using today:

- Dear God, please don't let me turn out like my Father

- What is wrong with me?

- What is wrong with my family?

- Remember kids, Facebook stalking always ends badly

- Confessions of a Compassion Fatigue

- I know what sequela means, do you?

- I can't BELIEVE it's not Friday yet.

- Who says you need sleep to function?

SB xx

99 problems

This past week has felt like an eternity (well, almost). After Monday, I was ready for it to be Thursday.

I am pleased to announce I did not sprout a second head, or any parasitic organisms, after using the lucky-dip cream on my face.  I guess you'd say that's a win.

My job interview went well (I think)... although I went through my answers way too quick.  Days after the interview, I started to question whether I even wanted the job anymore. I found some old documents shelved away - snapshots of a time when my position was different, and when it was morphing into the mess it is now.  Do I really want to sign on for that?  Am I strong enough to try and change it?  There are some days, when I think the answer to both questions is 'yes'.. but then, there are other days - when I just want to tell the lot of them to get fucked.  Today was one of those days.

It's difficult working in a place, where I am so stunted.  Most of us non-university educated, self identified plebs accept our place in the world, we get that we don't make as much money, we've made different choices, we are simply less important.  However, just like the I can poke fun of my family but you can't universal rule - it doesn't make it ok for outsiders to share these opinions; to infer these beliefs about me. On my drive home, I started to think about the changing attitudes around me.. about the hollow words that come out of my bosses mouth from time to time, token gifts about how amazing us support staff are - like I'm supposed to be grateful for that.  It made me sick - when will people learn: actions speak louder than words.  Actions scream.  Give me the quiet, gentle, behind-the-scenes creature over the showy shithead who achieves nothing - any day. Any. Day.

During the week, my highly expensive, almost brand new apple item died - this was a tense point in the week. I about cried myself to sleep the night it happened, purely because it was another thing added to my list of 'things I had to figure out'.

Some of the old patients I encountered at work this week were asking after John - they missed him.  I flitted between missing him and loathing him much of the week.  Still disappointed about the non-ending; torn between wanting to be reminded of him and wishing to forget he existed - everywhere I looked, were more tokens of John; everyone wanted to reminisce - I just wanted to erase.  Seeing his updates on facebook served as more reminders.  Like watching the part of a horror movie you know is going to damage you, but yet not wanting to look away for fear of missing something life-altering... I can't help but read the things I know will only upset me.

And, to top it off - possibly most devastating of all - it looks like I'm losing my hairdresser!  What a week.

SB xx