I long for cucumber sandwiches on pre-sliced, Braces bread. But alas, I have the misfortune of living with my mother who take offence if I want to eat anything that isn’t home baked! BUT YOU CAN’T MAKE PROPER CUCUMBER SANDWICHES FROM HER BREAD! I want the crusts cut off and the sandwiches cut into 4 little triangles. Perfection, you see =)
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Little sheep, little sheep
There’s simply no avoiding it
You’re all destined for the slaughterhouse
Maybe one of you could dress in a crows feathers and fly away
But none of you are that smart, are you?
One of you says run and the rest will follow
Don’t you see that cliff in front of you?
The strong of you will meet the end in an orderly fashion
The weak of you will expire where you fall
But you will all, in one way or another be left for the crows
Now don’t you wish you’d taken those feathers?
Little sheep, little sheep - By me
Ok, so I’m a little bitter. But he likes his girls plain, predictable, without risk of embarrassment and quirk free. He likes them to be exactly like the rest and that is boring. He likes himself a city sheep that follows the orders of the rest. Of course I’m bitter, I’ll never be that way.
I know I seem pathetic. In life I’m not, I get on with it. But this is a blog and what are blogs for? Personal thoughts, so get over it. I’m fucking lonely. I wish I wasn’t but I truly am. I want to hide away until the next day that’s scheduled to be a really good day.
How do you fix loneliness without having to be with someone?
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I’ve put myself back into the ‘anorexia’ state of mind. The annoying thing is I like it. It’s comfortable. But I have to keep logical about it or I will end up in hospital because I have an obsessive personality. I recently went through quite a horrible medical ordeal that left me stressed and ill so I naturally lost about a stone very quickly. I went from a 27.5 inch waist to a 24 inch waist in under 2 months with absolutely no effort, other than I’d lost my appetite. Then I started to eat again and my waist is 25 inches. My appetite is still very low but I seem to be settled on 25. However, I have just checked the size guides and I am not happy. Last year, size 6 was a 22 inch waist, 8 was a 24 inch waist, 10 was 26 and 12 as 28. Now the size has gone up. 24 is a 6, 8 is 26 and so on. So by all accounts I should be happy being between a 6 and an 8, but I know I would have been between an 8 and 10 a year ago. Which makes me very unhappy. Now I have to ration my food and do more exercise if I’m going to be last years 6 or between 6 and 8. I’m pissed off, I really am. I don’t feel good, it makes me feel fat. I don’t want your sympathy sizes. Keep them there and keep them constant, bitch. Don’t change it up because the world is getting fatter. I would have been FINE had the sizes stayed the same but now I can’t quite feel comfortable until I am LAST YEARS 6. 22 inches? It shouldn’t take long.
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The reason it’s so hard for to me to move on is because there were so many good things too. They just got trampled on regularly enough for it to all seem bad. But really, I don’t fall in love with just anybody. There are reasons why he was the only person I’ve ever pictured myself standing at an alter in a white dress with. I’ll write one of them down here and more as I feel the need to.
First time I met him off the train, he came to see me for 4 days. It wasn’t long enough. I went to meet him in my duffel coat, a tiny skirt and my wellies. It was supposed to be the skirt, a halter top and my favourite heels but it was raining so heavily that heels were just impractical. I waited at the station for about 20 minutes feeling surprisingly cold for June. The train pulled in to the station and off came hundreds of people, and there at the end he was walking towards me in a shirt and a jacket. His face dressed with a crooked smile and sparkling eyes. It was the first time I’d seen him in a few years and if my heart could have had it’s way it would have leapt out of my mouth and into his hands for safe keeping. I walked to him, getting faster as I got closer, he laughed at how cute I was in my wellies, and I’d planned on kissing him right away but I couldn’t. I threw my arms around him, buried my face into the collar of his jacket, the way he smelled was like a draw string on my body, pulling on my arms to make them tighter. I couldn’t let go of him. I felt at home with him around me and my heart suddenly seemed a little more at ease with us having connected. I guess that was the moment I was truly in trouble. I felt so at home and that never changed. His arms, his smell, his skin, his hands, his breath…. That is home to me. What a horrible realisation.
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If I can’t hold on to a scarf in the breeze, how can I expect to hold on to you?
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A shooting star can’t help you under Cassiopeia’s breathtaking, beautiful, selfish and narcissistic twinkling when you’ve already been stabbed in the back and left hanging. But it will lull you into a false sense of security.
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Someone who likes my smile, not just my face. Someone who feels an emotional (as well as physical) arousal when the light hits my body in the right way and feels the urgent need to be deep inside me because he can think of nothing but me. Not just someone who sees my body, gets a hard on and wants to blow his load to lesser the frustration so that he can carry on smoking and watching TV shows he’s downloaded. Someone who listens when I talk because I have interesting things to say. Someone who doesn’t try to control the things I say. Someone who, when I turn my back to him, feels like his heart is reaching an imaginary arm out to me, breaking through his ribs and ripping his skin because it wants to see my face. Someone who smiles when I pick up a grasshopper with a bad leg and kiss it better. Someone who likes that I won’t kill the spiders in the house and if they’re in the bath, I’ll pick them up and put them on a plant. If it’s too cold outside, I’ll let them stay indoors. Someone who glows when he hears my voice. Someone who makes me a cup of tea and kisses me when he gives it to me. Someone who holds me when I need it without asking. There are clear signs. Someone who doesn’t keep poking at an issue if it’s making me unhappy. Someone who loves the way I cry when I’m happy. Someone who appreciates me. I just want to be appreciated for the little things. I want to be important to someone, and have them not want to let me go. I deserve that.
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