MonkeyMoonshine » Life

Alice Mae Brickland

admin — Sun, 30 May 2010 22:37:35 +0000

Dear Alice,

I have carried you inside me for 34 weeks and they have been the best 34 weeks of my life so far.

I have been very lucky, I have had no sickness, a little tiredness and lots of good feelings since you came along, from the day I found out I had you I felt lucky and told people I had won my own personal lottery.

I was happy to stop drinking if it meant keeping you safe, luckily I had given up smoking too but for you any sacrifice seemed easy to make.

It was wonderful to have you at our wedding, Auntie Fashion made a beautiful dress for us, and yes you as a little bump were taken into consideration.

Everyone was so excited to see the little black and white scan pictures of you and my heart soared when I saw little images of you moving and heard your own heart beating.

When I first felt you move I was so excited and then when your Daddy felt you move I was overjoyed, some mums complain of being in pain, but you never really hit me that hard. I worried that this meant something but I think you were well cushioned in me and never needed to hit hard.

Myself and your Daddy are looking forward to meeting you and getting to know you, you are coming into a big family who are all looking forward to meeting you and getting to know you.

You are so special to me and I love you very much. I hope that you are always happy and that life is everything you want it to be. You deserve the world.

Tell me I’m wrong

admin — Wed, 26 May 2010 04:47:37 +0000

How often do you find a woman asking to be told she is wrong? Not often I bet.

I have been trying for the last two years to track down an old flame. I can honestly say that my intentions are not bad. at least I don’t think they are??
I don’t want to start things up I just want to talk to him.
I have found him, first on Friends Reunited in 2008, then on MySpace in 2009 and now this week on Facebook.
I have emailed him after finding him each time and never received a response, previously he has not been active on the sites so it would appear that he has not read the email. I sent an email yesterday on Facebook and checked his page today to see if he had been online and he had but no response from him to my email. Now I know I need to be a little patient and give him a chance to respond, also I can hear you all saying

“Erm hey stalker, step away from Facebook, leave the bloke alone!”

Well I’m sorry but I can’t. I will obsess over this until he has ignored me for a few months. At which point I will either email him again or give up.
I know one friend in particular would be livid with me and accuse me of only trying to contact this person out of my own selfish need for the adoration that others give me. But no that’s not what this is about. I don’t think??
Don’t tell me to let sleeping dogs lie; I’ll just ignore that advice.
Because I still have dreams about him every now and then. Nothing major, normally we just talk, he shows me what he’s doing with his life. And then I wake up and realise that things are still as I left them with him 9 years ago, with him either being extremely hurt or pretending to be extremely hurt by me. You see I was never sure how sincere he was, my friends scoffed when I told them that he had declared his love to me.
My mother whole heartedly disapproved of the match and in the pit of my stomach, in my head, in my heart I knew that what I was doing was wrong. It was wrong in the crucible, it was wrong in the scarlet letter, it was wrong when my dad did it to my mum. Having a relationship with a married man there’s no justifiable excuse for it really.

My friends didn’t like the fact that I was seeing a married man, half of them had read the same English texts books as me so knew that literally speaking it was wrong and as fiction consistently proved it would all end badly and the other half had fathers who had cheated on their mothers, I instantly became the wanton hussy that had turned their fathers head.
When I first saw him I didn’t know he was married, I very poetically let him know exactly what my intentions towards him were and he told me he was married and there it ended, for a few days. But then we started talking, then we started going to lunch, one evening we went shopping and he stopped me from kissing him. A week later he kissed my cheek, whilst we crossed a bridge and sometime after that we kissed properly.
At this time I was starving myself as I believed that if I lost weight my boyfriend would think I was perfect he had told me that he was sure I wasn’t the one and that when she came along I’d have to bow out. Also that his previous girl friends had been more attractive than me, he wanted me to know that he was clearly lowering his standards by being with me.
I was left thinking very little of myself, I hadn’t thought that much of me before him so I was quite a pitiful wretch, although I still had a good sense of humor. I only lose that when I’m spitting blood angry.
Someone else out there didn’t think I was fat, they didn’t think I was unattractive. I couldn’t understand that someone thought I was perfect, I wasn’t, I had been told so. It was nice to hear though.
19 going on 20 and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, I knew what I wanted and I knew that it was nice having someone be nice to me. On top of that I made him happy, he enjoyed my company, at least he said he did, again I wasn’t sure of his sincerity. He gave me the strength to end the relationship I was in and saved me from a lot of heart ache.
It’s funny how you can go from heady anticipation to dread when seeing a person. I had once been blind punch drunk in love with the one who said I wasn’t the one, and always looked forward to seeing him, until the night I broke up with him, however five minutes later I felt great, I felt free and I was happy.

The affair went on for a bit less than a year starting sometime after Valentines 1999 ending sometime after Christmas 2000, we went to lunch every week day and talked for an hour. The whole office suspected that something was going on; we were both spoken to by our managers. We broke it off about three times the last time with me telling him a lie to make him hate me.
I thought it was best he hate me and I didn’t think I would live to regret my lie. 9 years on and I haven’t counted the dreams, with the hate filled accusations, the silent stare as I yell my apologies to the wind, the fact that he is always just a little out of my reach and I can’t explain, I can’t say sorry no matter how much I want to.
Tell me I’m wrong to want the chance to apologise, to find out what he’s done with his life and tell him what I’ve done with mine.
Tell me I’m wrong to keep trying to contact him.
Tell me I’m wrong.

Leaving Home

admin — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 14:05:02 +0000

Well with 34 days, 11 hours, 15 minutes, 05 seconds until we fly to NZ, time is ticking away. People keep asking me if I am going to miss my family and friends. Yes, it seems like a rather obvious answer to me.
Why am I going? Well 6 years and 53 days ago I met a man from New Zealand and we have spent the last 6 years and 53 days learning about each other, learning to live with each other. With the exception of a few business trips and late night drinking sessions we have hardly spent a night apart or out of contact. We talk every day at work over messenger like we did in the first six months of our relationship. We spend most evenings and weekends together. There’s not been a lot of time apart, but when we are apart from each other for a long enough time I can’t function. I lie in bed desperate for sleep but it won’t come, I make food and put it in front of me but the desire to eat wont come, I see his face when my eyes close perhaps it’s because he’s been with me for so long. We have a good time together, we like the same things and we make each other laugh allot and we care about what happens to each other. It’s not always perfect and it probably won’t ever be, but who wants’ perfection?

I sometimes feel like I’m failing, that my life is running away in front of me yelling “come on we’re going this way” and I’m in the distance panting thinking “I can’t keep up”. Sometimes I think why should I keep running I’ll never make it and I look around for something to take my eyes of the goal, am I trying to prevent myself from getting old? Am I trying to avoid making decisions? Am I scared of committing myself to something that seems so far off I’m scared I’ll never make it there?
Most people don’t really worry about things the way I worry about things, I have been told that I am a worrier and I worry too much. Well I have tried very hard to change that, but I like the fact that I’m there to care when someone else doesn’t and sometimes worrying to the extent that I do makes for very good forward planning. So I worry, think and plan and see what happens and I like being a bit off the wall, who wants’ to be boring? People like me for my mental ways.

I was googling mental illness as I am fascinated in why humans do the things they do. I wondered if I could find a good label to stick on me and I found a pretty apt description. The word to describe the mental illness is erotomania, now just to be clear I’m not saying I’m mentally ill, just a little crazy perhaps and the first definition of this word doesn’t exactly sum me up. It’s says “a rare disorder in which a person holds a delusional belief that another person, usually of a higher social status, is in love with him or her.” I’ve never been one for thinking anyone could love me so that’s not quite me, but further down the page I read the following sentence and I had a Eureka moment.

“The term erotomania is also sometimes used in a less specific clinical sense meaning excessive pursuit of or preoccupation with love or sex (hypersexuality).” Wikipedia

Don’t put too much emphasis on the sex part, I like sex but I love love, my name is Elizabeth Marie Chapman and I am a loveaholic. Anyone who knows me very well will think, yes she’s the living embodiment of Venus (well I’m writing the story now and I say that’s what you think).
I love to read books with a compelling love story the most famous being Pride and Prejudice. I have found myself associating lovers and myself to the characters from the books; imagine my dismay when they don’t do what they did in the book. Silly girl I tell myself and move on. I have had a few Mr Collins types, a few Wickham’s and about three Darcy’s. Thank god I never really got into Tess of the d’Urbervilles (I was too busy being in love to take any note of this book, God knows how I passed that A-level, and he’s keeping that information to himself.) I felt so strongly for Abigail Williams from The Crucible, although I felt sorrier for the Proctors by the end of the play and admired Mrs Proctor for standing by her philandering husband. “To err is human, to forgive is divine”. Sometimes though I didn’t give the poor guy a chance, I was too rash in casting off lovers, not so these days.

For most of the start of my adolescence I was obsessed with falling in love, being in love and love. Even now I have a collection of heart shaped boxes. It was all hearts, roses, love, poems and sighs. I wanted someone to keep me warm like my lumber jack shirts did. I wanted someone to wrap their arms around me and hold me so tight it would hurt; I wanted someone to adore me. I admit I used to fall in love very quickly, sometimes with people who reminded me of people I loved, sometimes with people who had a sob story, sometimes with people who just touched my heart and more often than not these feelings of love would grow into an obsession.
I’d imagine the perfect picture of how I wanted the relationship to be, someone to call me, someone to worry about me, Someone who wore a leather jacket and seemed dark and mysterious, someone who wanted to be with me, someone to offer me simple love tokens like ” I got you this can of diet coke because I know that you are thirsty in the morning” and then continue to leave one on my desk everyday (this did actually happen to me but he was a Proctor type so you can see why I cast him off) . I spent a lot of time day dreaming about how perfect love was and more often than not was disappointed. I blame Elvis. God I love Elvis songs. When I say obsession though I don’t mean stalker; I was once obsessed with a man when I was 19. He was a Levellers fan, had been to Glastonbury, he had a goatee (mental note I need to Google facial hair, attractiveness) he was older than me and seemed to know the score. In short he was what I saw as perfect, he was the one, and he was a God and could do no wrong in my eyes. Ha, all changed later.
To be honest he wasn’t that great a catch, he had been fired and escorted from the building in a strong armed manner, literally a big man had his arm twisted behind his back and I couldn’t see then that that was a bad thing. As I watched him go I sighed and said out loud “there goes my happiness” (how great to be 20??). I worked for the company admin dept, so imagine my joy when I found a letter addressed to his address. I am somewhat ashamed to admit this but I wrote down the address and sent him a gift, some amethyst, something else which I forget and contact details. Surprise, surprise I didn’t hear from him (well to be honest if someone sent me a bit of purple rock and I didn’t know them that well I wouldn’t contact them). A few months later I bumped into him on a train platform, no I had not been scoping all the local train stations in the vain hope of bumping in to him, I was actually waiting for my train to work with two friends. My heart went up into my mouth and I could hardly talk to him. We exchanged pleasantries and off he went and I became a moon eyed freak. About a year after this I found him on friends reunited, I contacted him and he replied, I started day dreaming about what it all could mean? I should have been working (or sectioned) but day dreamed away and made various mistakes at work then went straight to not doing work, how I never got fired I do not know. The day dream all came to a rather abrupt end when we agreed to meet up for a drink. We got drunk, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him and I was over the moon, I had finally pulled someone who I thought was better looking than me (he wasn’t). I didn’t realise that I should have been worried when he said “I have a lot of Spanish friends” what he meant was “a lot of my friends are drug dealers” Then he asked me if he could spend the night on my sofa because he had no where else to go, he was essentially homeless.
You would have thought that alarms bells would be ringing in my head at this point, no. Why? Because I am obsessed with the dramatic love story and the tortured soul, I bought him a kebab, sent him on his way and I went mine. I phoned him a couple of days later and he seemed somewhat confused when I told him I missed him, he said he had to go do something and would ring me back later. After four days of waiting I deleted his number from my phone and decided that I should forget about him, it took some time to get over him but a change of job and a change of scene brought along many other potential love stories.
There were more tragic love stories, some equally humorous, some rather one sided, but me and my heart kept on bashing away determined that there was someone out there who would fill my days with endless wonder, or something else equally sugar spun. (Seems to be a clothes washing and sexual favours these days, his eyes though, you can’t write expressions like he has.)

At the grand age of 22 after roughly 15 failed romances (they weren’t all sexual partners) I decided that my heart had been broken enough, that I was tired of ending up with people who I loved desperately, guys who were just too keen, had bad taste in music, and looked like they had been dressed by their mothers. I gave up looking for anyone. I packed my bag and went for a single girl’s holiday to New Zealand. I got massively stoned, I got massively drunk, I ate a lot of pies and then I met AB.
I was determined to go on that holiday and enjoy myself, I was also determined not to fall in love, I’d done pretty well, and I’d gone at least 3 months without meeting someone and falling. One week into the holiday AB came crashing into my friend’s garage with a crate of beer under his arm. He had on a leather jacket, he had a fantastic goatee/beard type facial hair thing going on, he was wearing a lumber jack shirt, he looked at me, our eyes met and the one thought in my mind was “I want to have sex with that man”. And so I did. The days that followed were filled with exploring NZ, nights of passion and then falling asleep to the gentle pit pat of night rain. He brought me lamingtons, he drove me to the Piano beech (one of my favourite love films) and we saw a depressed heron. He took me out dancing, he took me out to breakfast and then at the end of the week he drove me to the airport, and I have been told that he stood and watched until my plane was totally out of site.
The major difference that I can decipher from most of this is that I finally had a fabulous love story all of my own (because it is all about me), that and our relationship has stood every test thrown at it, I did let him go once and I’m very lucky that he found his way back to me.
He sent me my first proper bunch of flowers and continues to send me flowers. He keeps in regular contact with me, he looks at me like I am the most precious possession he has, he loves me, he cares for me and sometimes he holds me so tightly that it hurts and I laugh. He see’s the all too familiar look in my eyes that tells him I’m sad and he knows I won’t always tell him what’s wrong and that sometimes there doesn’t need to be a reason other than I am his tortured soul. I know that he will take care of me.

So yes I am sad to leave my family, I am sad to leave my friends, and Emma who is more than a friend she’s my soul mate (it’s ok AB knows this), I am even sad to leave my job, that I have suddenly realised I love too. I am sad to walk away from England, the bars I have drunk in, the pavements I have walked and the train stations I have arrived at sometime in the morning after a night of amorous passion. I love the train stations, the bus stops, the buildings, bus tickets, cinema stubs, love letters I have written, places I have danced in, the various first kisses that I can remember and the many memories of things I have done whilst in the pursuit of having fun. Sentimentality gets you no where. (Mary Poppins has so much to teach us all)

AB loves me and my future lies with him, one I perhaps can catch up with, a future that I can make. Will this love story have a happy ending? Who knows? I wouldn’t want to know, but I’ll give it my best shot, because I love him.

Lost Chance

admin — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 14:30:44 +0000

Here follows a not so typical boy meets girl story. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy, girl starts to write boy letters at the rate that most people breathe, and boy’s not too sure what he should write to girl in reply, girl panics and thinks boy is not interested in her or her feelings. She was impatient and far too eager and for her sins she dashed what could have been a perfectly wonderful love into something that was difficult and uncomfortable.

She questioned what the relationship was, questioned endlessly what it meant, what she meant, where it was going, how soon it would get somewhere else. She asked why the phone didn’t ring, why there was a lack of correspondence from his side, why there was a lack of anything from his side. The boy didn’t know what to say or write. He had many things to do and had trouble fitting it all in. when they did talk their conversations were diverse and for her reassuring, she loved to look into his soft eyes and when he was near her she felt calm, excited and happy.

If she wasn’t questioning she was day dreaming up situations that were not perhaps suitable, but she was a lusty girl with one thing on her mind, the movies teach us to watch out for the adolescent boys but I tell you now she was the out of control, hormonal nightmare that parents fret about. Again the boy was unsure what the correct protocol was although perhaps he might have wanted to experiment with some details at some point in the future, who could say. Although some of her letters said that she hated what men wanted from her and that they could take it so easily.

She couldn’t think straight, she didn’t really know what she wanted, she thought she knew exactly what she wanted but looking back on that scared little girl who constantly demanded to be told her worth because she didn’t know what it was, and I feel so sad. I want to stop her and tell her to calm down, I want to stroke her hair and kiss her on the forehead. I want to tell her that everything will be ok and that she doesn’t need to panic so much. Love is not like the story we are told or even observe for ourselves from our olders and betters (ha ha) it is an ever changing part of life that moves and changes like a river. It can be sweet, it can be bitter, it can be hot and it can be cold. You don’t believe me do you that it can be cold, clearly you’ve never hated someone you love. Love can make you cry and it can make you laugh, it can give you strength and then knock you to the floor. It confuses and confounds by immeasurable amounts. Love whispers in your ear and then slaps you in the face.

In the end it was a very short romance with the exception that the girl never forgot the boy and never forgave herself for being impatient and the resulting feelings for her were difficult to put in to words, as love was perhaps too strong and like was definitely too weak.

What lingers after an affair…

admin — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 12:51:26 +0000

I should be able to listen to Christy Moore and appreciate the tunes, the words, the meaning; there are many Gaelic artists whose songs riddle me with guilt, shame and heart ache. I hear his words in every lyric and still feel his touch on me. Sometimes I dream of him, is this my conscious haunting me, reminding me, warning me? Although it is years since I was part of an affair, I still ache. I’m still shame faced, I hate some part of me that went along with him, convincing my self that I was being a friend to him and that he needed me, convincing myself that he loved me, when all he loved was the situation and what he got out of it, that sounds harsh, do I sound bitter?
I was thinking of myself, I wanted love, I desired love, I ached to be loved, at the time all I was getting from my partner was a straighten up and fly right platitude. I thought no one who knew me, would have me, and as soon as someone got to know me then they wouldn’t want to know me much longer. I was bad goods. Good for a fling, no good for a future. I hated the way I looked, I hated my personality, I was a husk, a shell, a vessel full of the ugliness that had tumbled from Pandora’s Box. Who could ever love me? Why should anyone care?
Well he said he did. He made simple offerings of love on a daily basis to show that he cared, he wrote me letters to read for when he was absent and he called me “angel”. I can still hear his soft voice in my head talking tenderly to me. He was the lotion to soothe the burns from the partner who had offered slap after punch and kick. I needed love so badly I stole it from someone else.
He seemed so free of cares, I was attracted to him, I wanted him, I didn’t know him from Adam, but it didn’t matter, I thought I’d give it a shot, I let him know how I felt, he told me he was married with children, I said I understood and didn’t want to harm that. I left it at that, It was too late and he started courting me. I had no intention of coming between a man and his wife, he said he needed a friend to talk to, I thought it was just talking…I was 19 what else could I think. I wanted someone to talk to too. I wasn’t in a healthy relationship; if I had stayed in it I doubt very much I would still be alive today.That a marriage could be so easy to step away from I never quite understood. He blamed his wife, saying he thought of her as a sister, I’m not saying I believed his stories, perhaps more chose to ignore some of the truths; ignorance is bliss so they say. I’ll be honest he made me feel good about myself; he made me happy, so why did I choose to end it? He wasn’t mine, not all of him, if it had kept going would it have lasted? Would he have left his wife for me? Would he have left me for someone else? He was pretending to be someone else. There was a smile that lingered on his face and these days when I think of that smile it reads as “ha, I’m getting away with it again”. He couldn’t live up to his responsibilities so he escaped into me and another world. It was a happy world but not a real world. I know about hurting and betrayal, I knew then so I had to say good bye. The goodbye came a little too late. His wife found out, a nuclear explosion in the heart and the head which left me wondering what now?
We met up a few times after to talk about what was going on in our lives. I remember the look in his eyes when he realised that he couldn’t kiss me like he had, I wanted to hurt him. I sat and listened to the stories of his family life, it magnifyed what I didn’t have and what I had lost.
It’s been about nine years, he was my cocaine, my lsd, my last ciggerette at the end of the day, that first sip of red wine at the end of a hard week, the thrill of a first kiss or first touch, the warmth of a really good hug, but not mine. After him I jumped from one boyfriend to another, with a few one night stands for good measure, for fun but I couldn’t love. I traveled 18800 km. And there I met someone who slightly reminded me of him. The far off look in the eyes and the half smile, the small tokens of love but no ties. And here I am.

Loss

admin — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 05:26:03 +0000

I hate losing things, I don’t remember the very first time I felt loss, I remember a million times of not being able to find something, the circle of frustration and the loss of myself out of that frustration.

I remember losing a ring that had been given to me for my eighteenth, to be honest I thought it was an odd ring, a huge black pearl surrounded by diamonds, but the ring itself symbolised something else. Funnily enough the ring was made out of a single earring, the other one had been lost by my mother. Maybe it’s fate was to be lost. I was scared to wear it in case I lost it, only because my mother kept on at me that i never wore it, I started wearing it. And then I lost it. Oh the guilt.

I had a friend who always pretended to be a best friend and then one day he just stopped talking to me. I was awakening to the fact that when someone says they love you, they don’t always really; they will only be your friend for as long as it serves their need. Having put my trust in someone, when my trust wasn’t the most stable…I was floored…for a while…then I turned into someone who refused to trust…which caused problems further down the line.

The loss of a loved one: someone who is your flesh and blood or someone who breathes your every waking day, or hangs in most waking thoughts to run with you in dreams. You can’t know until it happens, you can live in fear if you want but that’s a cold and broken hallelujah. All you can do is enjoy what time you have, save up the memories, take photos, bite your tongue, watch, listen, drench yourself in all you can and do everything you want to be done with that person. Have no regrets, say “sorry”, say “I love you”, say “come back” and be someone they want to come back to.

Cry all your tears, break all your favourite things, drink yourself into stupid ness, run away in the way you run away from problems but come the time where you pull yourself together, wake up and open your eyes to the reality of the situation.

When you lose you don’t always have to be the looser, be someone who can feel the golden sunshine in a cold, dark, lonely room and don’t be scared to smile, you have such a beautiful smile.

What the hell is love and passion?

admin — Sun, 24 Jun 2007 00:52:35 +0000

I’ve loved men, some great men, some men that really deserve to be called men. But there has always been a confusion in my head as to what love really was. I gave my whole heart to men and women in sex and friendship and my whole heart wasn’t always valued at it’s worth, so I decided that no one was worth my whole heart, Surely it was better to keep a bit for myself?It seemed easier to give people what they wanted, suck a man off in a toilet, what did it matter, nothing to me, he was left happy, I didn’t stop to think what people would think of me, if it cheapened me, if it lessened me, if it made him think I was great, I carried on regardless. I still had my heart safe in my pocket.I gave love my very best, so I thought and got kicked in the teeth, so why the hell should I have kept pouring my soul into every relationship, men who couldn’t be faithful, friends just weren’t there, surely no one was worth that. Why the hell should I worry about purity and my soul, no one else seemed to care, all anyone ever wanted was what they could get out of me, they put up with the tortured soul for as long as they could and I kept them interested in me by using my feminine charms, or my eternal friendship, offered open handed and burned by those who couldn’t see what I offered up. And I didn’t even realise that the heart in my pocket was screaming at me.You can give everything but you will sometimes be let down, sometimes be made to feel second best, because people always have something they treasure above you, football, poker, work, family, other friends…it could be anything.People are inherently selfish; it’s all about self preservation. People think what is best for me in this situation, how can I win out of this situation?, I don’t care who I hurt, or even, I can’t think of who I hurt, because it’s all so mixed up in their head nobody knows.Well perhaps we should all take a moment to think, what are we doing here, why are we doing it and are we going to hurt anyone by doing it? We all have our secrets, there are things I have done that make me hang my head in shame, I apologise, how many go by thinking nothing of their actions?I think of every mistake, every fuck up, and every person I’ve screwed over. All I ever thought I wanted was love, but when it was offered up to me on a plate, what did I do? I turned my nose up at it, I wondered if there was better love, some person who could make me feel like I’d never felt before, but the better it got the more I thought I could find better. I forgot that all I had wanted when I was 14 was love, to be loved for me, for who I was and not to be what I could be if I tried a little harder. That heart in my pocket was covered in dust had grown so small I couldn’t hear it.Yes I have loved people who didn’t deserve my love, but there have been those who did and I didn’t give love the chance, I wanted to be loved so badly and I felt so strongly that I wasn’t loved I found it hard to believe that anyone could love me because I couldn’t love myself. It all became clear. I had to forgive my past, forgive my enemies, forgive myself and give the future a chance.I can’t promise I will be good, that’s not really the way I work, but I will give myself the respect I deserve and from there respect those around me, in my own way and I wont let anyone else’s judgment come into it, the fool can tell you what he thinks is right, and the philosopher, and the church and the theologian, whose to say what is right? I hate the government, the English royalty, am I Orwellian? Well I see his vision become more visual every day.The heart in my pocket tells me to give everyone a chance, to forgive and forget, the devil on my shoulder tells me to have fun and tell everyone else to go to hell…but then he would wouldn’t he?

one last time

admin — Sun, 10 Jun 2007 01:01:16 +0000

There have been times in my life where I have felt the dark night envelop me. I’ve loved till there was no love to keep for myself up.

Over the years I have learnt that you can’t love someone with your whole heart because inevitably that relationship will end, and if there is no love left, then there is nothing to keep you afloat.

There is nothing wrong with loving yourself, the great noel gallagher once said ” you have to love yourself, cos if you don’t no one else will” well I say you have to love yourself and let your love be your armour.

There may come a time when there is no one to love you, and even though someone I don’t know called Sally sends me emails on a daily basis trying to get my attention, trying to make me think that she will always be there for me, I know she is nothing to me.

Excuse me for being cautious with who I trust but I’m not about to let the world into the window of my life. If people can’t be honest, if people can’t tell you what they really think of you, for what ever reason they decide to keep it private. Then why bother telling them what’s going on. I hate fake people. If you want to be my friend stand up and join the gang, if not, I don’t give flying fuck why you think it’s important to pretend…so don’t pretend, be a man and drop the pretense, you are not impressing anyone let alone convincing anyone.

I’m not losing sleep over friends, I’m losing sleep over the choices I have to make, the life I have to live. And I have managed to get over worse things than working with someone who doesn’t like me. I don’t care if someone doesn’t like me, if you don’t like me, chances are you are a dick and you are not worth knowing in the first place.

Take your big bunch of “i’m so great, everyone loves me, I’m always right and your thoughts are not worth anything” and stick it up your arse, you arogant fuck !