Splitting blisters

...nothing worse than 4.33am heartache and bored usual insightful delightful rant.

27 years old and heading in the right direction and all the roots stand me up straight and push me up, holding a paw to my back to say "yes, now is the time" and i meet you, i meet eyes, i meet bones and hearts every day. i see and am excited to be around for the best and worst of people.

being in love is the best and the worst of me at the same time. questo lo so.

That's not pizza. That's afterbirth.

Seems like my friends on here seem to blogging about their daily lives. I decided that as I have yet to do so, today may as well be the day.

I awoke to the delightful sound of my delicate ears brushing against the soft, downy flannel of my pillow case. I writhed back and forth for a few minutes pretending I was a human rolling pin, crafting some kind of pastry made out of a duvet. Might make a shit strawberry tart but made for a very enjoyable first few moments of waking...

...considering the disturbing as bollocks dream I had seconds before! (Which I have to tell you about cause it was fucking odd) The final moments of dream were as follows: I was a bloke, in a bedroom and in the room stood before me was the man who was about to kill me. All of a sudden, he was gone and a woman lay on the bed, her head resting in the crook of her arm, her legs tucked under her bum. I took a side step right and looked into the walk in wardrobe, and could see the face of my murderer staring out at me from a nook, smiling. I walked back to the woman, who had been talking to me this entire time. Before I knew it, the man had re-appeared in front of me, stabbed me repeatedly and then disappeared -- and as I lay dying, I was watching myself back in the same position I had been stood in for the entirety of the dream. I looked at the woman on the bed who now turned into a friend. She looked at me and smiled. Then each quadrant of her face slowly turned black, like the second hand on a clock (actually like the clock on Countdown, to be geek precise), sweeping around until her face turned bruise black, then another sweep removed her skin, and again, and again until all I could see was muscle and eyes staring, smiling at me. I turn to look at my corpse on the floor, and he is the same. I scream, and scream and wake up to hear that lovely sound of my pillow.

The description of my dream serves no purpose whatsoever, other than the wonderful dichotomy of emotion it represents in that I felt peaceful when I woke up. Bizarre as buggery, I felt joyous and excited to be awake and bounded downstairs for morning brew and porridge. I consumed both while reading my book, the latest Nick Hornby which is pacy, funny, insightful and true. I love it. The house was empty so I could have either romped about naked (such a cliche) or done my daily exercise without interruption. I chose the latter. I do enjoy a good bike ride as I get incredibly out of breath, sweaty and feel psyched up and ready for action. Usually when exercising I will watch a music dvd or listen to tunes, alas today was to be different and I opted for Mad Men season three. Can be a little difficult getting worked up and feeling healthy watching this show. Perhaps this is why immediately after 30 minutes of bike riding followed by 20 minutes of freeweights and 10 minutes of what I call "mat activity" -- I sat in the kitchen and had a fag. Eh, maybe I was trying to encourage an unruly poo. Who knows? It's highly likely as I am obsessed with bowel movements and how often I have them, and they are rated on a scale of satisfaction.

After showering, dressing and spending a considerable chunk of time berating myself and being quite negative about my appearance -- I left the house and headed off to catch the bus. I only mention my self-deprecating behaviour as it does take up a lot of my time and I am growing increasingly bored with it. I'm a 27-year old woman and I am hoping to find a smidgen more self-love to extradite such feelings. Possibly to Bromley, or somewhere else ghastly and provincial.

I had my hair cut. I am certain no-one will notice as it was a pre-emptive cut. Subtle changes were made to amend the outcome in the future. I had my last hair cut in June, in New York while under the influence of Jim Beam. From what my hairdresser told me today, apparently so was the woman who cut my hair. It seems both sides of my hair were different lengths, had varying styles of feathering (which to me, always makes me think of a barbaric sexual act involving fisting someone with a bunch of feathers -- also note, second time fisting mentioned in blog. Must take steps to ensure this does not happen again so soon), AND it was just a bit shit. I've never warmed to having my hair cut because it requires a static amount of time sat infront of a mirror and I do not like mirrors. At all. Long story. But, if you take a photo of me and immediately want to show me, and I get antsy, please let it go. It's the same thing for me.

After leaving the hair place, I trotted towards the bus stop to catch a ride to my friend Rob's house. Feeling in a good mood (as someone wolf whistled me immediately after exiting the salon....hehe, brillo) I even crashed a 15-year old a cigarette, and spared them the speech I have reserved for this kind of situation (which most likely makes me sound like Mary Whitehouse.) Unfortunately I was on the bus at 3.30 which meant, a gaggle of horrendous school children boarded shortly after me and sat infront. I need not say anymore as everyone knows the offense which 13-year olds summon in anyone over the age of 25. They were the kids that bullied me at school, and hearing them mock and insult other kids on the bus (the goths, the punks, the me) I fought anger and traded it for humility. And for the understanding that this is children. They hunt in packs and forage for sustenance in each other's weaknesses. I, was not one of those kids at school. I was their plaything, and I had to stop myself speaking out because, how many times can you fight a continuing battle? And for me, it's a battle won recently.

Plus the language they used was of such a diabolical standard, I doubt they would have understood me.

The friendly bus driver failed to tell me where exactly the stop was I required. As I noticed the bus heading back towards town I exclaimed "cockfosters!" and leapt from the bus and began yomping in the direction of Rob's house. I arrived to find Rob and his wife being quiet as their beautiful baby girl was dropping off to sleep (I had interrupted by banging loudly and asking for beer.) I hadn't seen Rob in months, and it was lovely to spend a few hours with him and his family. He's besotted with his daughter and his wife, and it makes me proud knowing that a friend of mine is such a good man.

This evening I watched some Bottom, and a few episodes of Bones (season four -- brilliant, i think someone goes gay really soon! HURRAH!) during which my Mother fell asleep, and is indeed, still asleep. I am excited for tomorrow, two of my best friends are coming around in the morning for a brew and a chat. Then I head off to Bernard's to prepare the house, make food, bake a cake and drink entirely too much gin before anyone else arrives, for Pinty's birthday.

Tonight I shall leave you with this: remember that ad ages ago on tv wherein the little girl is asked "Daddy or chips?" I wish to ask you a similar question...

...donut or beard? One is a confectionary snack, the other, a facial adornment. Or is that what they want us to believe?! Who says you can't wear a donut on your chin and eat a beard? Fuck stereotypical behaviour. I'm off to eat a beard.

I could drink a case of you, and I'd still be on my feet.

Yesterday, I watched "Love Actually." I cried. I am getting older. The more time passes the easier it is for me to become emotional and invested in fictional characters' lives, their qualms and quandaries. I cry at everything. I like it. It marks a sense of age, the fact I care so much at all, I figure, it can't be that fucking bad can it?! As a film-obsessed teen, nothing bothered me (except poorly-executed denouements and watching Taxi Driver with an ex who didn't realise the genius of the cinematography...but I'm a snobby twat)and would drive me to a point wherein I had to turn off a film for I was upset at the sight of teens being stalked and killed, or sobbing relentlessly over the tragic situations lovers are faced with when they're unable to be together.

I have lived more of a life, and in that time traversed, love I have for humans and people has wound itself deeper. Like a scar in a tree trunk, or a tattoo on a pregnant belly. It remains, yet expands and lays more of a permanent purchase. I fit perfectly into a demographic, which sometimes still sits in that post-student state of daze not knowing what the hell to do with themselves, and then there's those who, ready with map in hand, know exactly what to do and have done it all or are on the road. I'm an adult dressed up in styles that make me look like you, and you like me, and with an inch of something golden squeezed from my experience of 27 years and its that tiny deposit, a jar of sap (thanks AIC) with a lot of room for the new, but JUST enough to make me weep like a baby when Emma Thompson discovers her husband has been unfaithful.

Thing about that scene is the point of reference it makes to music, and in particular, Joni Mitchell whose music plays a pivotal role in that specific story arc. Thing about that. Joni is my reminder of when my partner told me they had cheated. Does that make me a selfish audience? That I can only emote to a scene which has currency for my past, from which I can see correlation, where I spot a shadow. A shadow spot on this x-ray of an old relationship. That's how cinema functions and how we viewers empathise and are drawn to tears, it brings us to a position wherein we can see the character in us, and vice versa (I wrote several assignments for uni way back about tears, and melodrama. Now, reading the fucking essay has me in bastard tears!)

To be honest that scene is pretty potent, the cinematography is wonderful (actually reminds me of Taxi Driver -- you know, where Travis Bickle is on the phone and the camera slips to the right and for the entire call we see a deserted corridor -- emptiness achieved brilliantly.) Emma Thompson stands on the left side of her bedroom, the remainder of the shot empty except for the bed, a bedside table, a lamp. She breaks down quietly for fear of disturbing her husband and two children in the adjacent room.

I was not so composed. I screamed and shouted and spat out the most vicious things down the phone. I then broke down, in my room, listening to Blue

Where the fuck would we be without popular culture? (I'd be in the pub)

Quando l'amicizia ti attraversa il cuore

....ah friends. Friends expect nothing and choose you, and will continue to, and that is why friendship does indeed traverse my heart. It stomps it's feet and asks nothing and still remains. Historically speaking I've been notoriously shit at picking friends who are worth their namesake. Since my early twenties I've managed to garner and sustain a couple and now I can admit that I do have an indispensable crew of mates. It's hard sometimes to spout genuine affection, as it is mistaken often for drunken necessity. I am in Generation Y and we like to profess every emotion and thought, transmit publicly our heart's desires. As if that could quantify or validate them. I am a child of this, and it removes potency I do believe. I wish to be able to keep love tightly knitted inside me, a cat's toy in my chest, a ball of brilliance that I know of and it is enough for it to be so.

I am in a wonderfully bizarre emotional entanglement with another at the moment, and every time we talk I hope an invisible goblin on my team, a little friend of my platelets, a silent partner in my blood, would intervene and prevent me from spewing forth my heart's intent. The sheer happiness and comfort and just plain fucking righteousness I feel for being a part of this coupling. I have no such friend on my side at this point, and cringe so many times at the translucent and obvious talkings of love. She too happens to be one of my best friends, and therefore gets it twice. Poor girl.

Then I kick back and scold myself for doubting my ravings of love and appreciation to my friends and my girl. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'll say it now laughing and I'll laugh in the future too. If you know of anything good then why not say it, and speak it. Give it a name, send it out into the world, a proper noun. Just fucking say it. The world is going to be better for it. And it'll come back to you; karma being the universe's milk. A boomerang with benefits. But say it without thought for discourse. Say it like you mean it and let that be enough.

Scrooge? No way! Merely giving a fist up the arse of convention!

Despite the Hundred Days project having only just begun on Dec 1st, since then I have managed to do the following: not post on Dec 1st due to being up drinking and writing my first entry after midnight therefore ushering my debut post into Dec 2nd, and B, didn't post anything on Dec 2nd proper as felt it might clog up some sort of chronological continuity I am attempting to encourage in myself.

Clearly, it's not worked. And it's brilliant! For me to even carry on in such a regimented way (which I will admit is self-imposed, as I WANT to write every day) is a disaster waiting to happen. It's akin to putting toothpaste back in the tube or trying to persuade me that buying superfluous soaps for family members at Christmas makes better financial sense than buying a round. Fucking impossible. Therefore I have decided to re-evaluate my mission statement, and now it stands that I shall attempt to blog for 100 days -- just probably not all of them.

Such re-evaluation has brought to the light the point of this blog too. I have no zeitgeist cool. I have no need to capture a sense of betterment in myself by bettering others. I hope that I am a conscious and generous enough person to already live by such rule. Often I am to be seen with a smile and an inappropriate joke, all in the hope that I can encourage such lightness in my family and friends. Now there's nothing I am more apathetic towards than false claims of humility and jest. Everyone sees themselves as the comic relief in others lives. All of my friends and my family fill that role to me. We interchange and high-five each other in the middle of a string of gags, and we pass the baton to one another, to see how long this ring of stupidity can last. In my life I am lucky, I am filled with jokers who I love and care for and who reciprocate.

So then...twee sentiment aside now. What about today then?...It's half twelve in the afternoon, I spent most of the morning drinking coffee, smoking, reading my book and running to the toilet. When nature calls, it fucking hollers. Somewhere around chapter sixteen I sensed a creeping in my subconscious (wasn't doing a very good fucking job of creeping if I detected the bastard in my subconscious....stupid creeping thing) which all of a sudden sprang into my mind's eye and waggled it's festive todger in my face whilst screaming "YOU'VE GOT NO CHRISTMAS SHOPPING DONE! WHILE IT MAY BE FUN IN HELL PLAYING BRIDGE WITH STALIN AND HITLER, YOU'RE UTTERLY SHIT AT BRIDGE! THERE'S NO ESCAPE!"

I was talking with a good friend a couple of nights ago about how much Christmas has changed the older I have become. I recall distinctly pestering my parents to put the tree up as soon as Halloween was over. Now when the tree is up a few days before Christmas, it's highly possible I'm not even at home and suckling at the teet of that evil mistress, gin. The season to me now suggests a time wherein people aren't at work, and everyone joins together for celebration and catching up. I am of the thinking that I would prefer to spend an evening with my friends, than to surrender to purchasing redundant gifts (how many people ACTUALLY want those sodding texas hold 'em poker sets....now a set of pokers, I wouldn't mind so to storm the head offices of Boots with the hopes of threatening their Christmas Gift Dept for a) assuming everyone in Britain is a gambler and b) for schlepping out the same gifty box sets every year -- no matter how you jazz it up a Bath and Shower set for men is still just a Gillette razor and spare blade in a red and green box)

You could call me a cop out and that I am just too lazy to look for suitable presents to show a sign of my affection to my family and friends. There's truth in that, because I'm not keen on wandering about a mall for hours feeling further pressure mount on my shoulders like a pirate with a gaggle of ownerless parrots. Since October my life changed with joining the band and I've thought little of the approaching festive season. Now our first tour is over I've not got a lot of time. Anyone want a poker set?

Santa: Man or Woman?

Greetings and salutations,

I've been given a much-needed kick up the arse and decided that with my veritable talent for spouting hogwash, filth and general bollocks needs another outlet other than my mouth and the unsuspecting ears of those around me. I've kept many blogs detailing my travels around the globe (travelblog.org/bloggers/bobcat), a fake news blog (glassandbush.blackapplehost.com) and another private journal (ha! no url here!) however thought it might be a crackin' plan to investigate posting something which may possibly connect to my life as a member of a band, and of course any other ephemera which is regurgitated as a result.

The spark for this new venture was brought to me via a friend who told me of the Hundred Days project; a scheme to joust people into becoming better people over a hundred days and to document it. I'm not sure if I will become "better" (because how can perfection BE bettered?) but I know I'll feel a lot better for at least having written something everyday.

Are you likely to find introspection, insight and quirky aphorisms? Unlikely. And for that I can only offer to promise intelligent debate. Today's question being: is it possible that Santa is indeed a hermaphrodite? I could stray into detail concerning geographical restraints of genitals, and how much additional body mass one such festive stalwart would gain should he pertain to owning a cock and a minge. Sat with two friends we even explored the idea of a new line of Christmas cards.

I will leave you with this. Picture the scene: a sweet-faced, elderly relative eagerly opens an envelope which had been sandwiched between a Betterware catalogue and a leaflet for Freeview, almost thrown away! As they pull the card out, knowing it's from a grandchild or old friend, they pre-empt the gesture within and begin smiling. Which immediately disappears as the intricate electric internals of the card demonstrate Santa stroking a todger the size of a redwood while simultaneously giving himself a good fisting, below the glittering greeting "Have a Hermy Christmas!"

Oh come on! Smile for fuck's sake!