The late night silence buzzes around me, only being disturbed by the intermittent beep from my Lapdancer. I place my phone – burning hot after hours of use – carefully on the floor and sit up on my bed, trying not to trigger any of the loud loose springs in my mattress. I admire the complete silence of my room, as if someone has placed a blanket over it and blocked out the outside world, cutting out the sounds of car chases and monsters and the snores of my mother next door.

I slip my earphones over my head, feeling the comfortable fabric cushion and envelope my ears, and open up WinAmp to listen to something relaxing before I try to sleep. I crank up the volume full blast, wanting the full, booming effect of the song to mellow out my thoughts. I press play.

The sound comes out distant, almost muffled as if it came from beyond the blanket itself. After a while I lifted off my earphones, thinking that I had not put the volume right or had messed around with the sound options too much. But it was only when I pulled my earphones off that I heard the song clearly, as though it were coming right… in front… of me…

The speakers of my Lapdancer blared the second minute of New Slang while the cord of my earphones sat a mere inch away, having being pulled out when I shifted position during the phone call. I scrambled for the cord, plugging it desperately back in before grasping for the mouse and silencing the music. I sat as still as possible, daring not to breathe as my heart pounded in my ears.

Silence, glorious glorious silence. I let out a sigh of relief and loosened my muscles before slipping my headphones back on. But there was a sound from the other room and I suddenly froze; the pointer hovered over the play button in horror at what was happening. There was a calamitous shout from the room beside me followed by thunderous footsteps and the booming pound on my door that threatened to burst into splinters with every shake.

My mum, fully wakened and fully cranky, burst into the room; ranting and raging on about work and sleep and how I’m always on this bloody thing. The one sided argument ended with the sickening sound of my Lapdancer closing and my mum marching out the room with it under her arm. I sat with my earphones round my neck and a desolate look on my face, not knowing what to do now and cursing my stupidity for leaving it unplugged.

I cried myself to sleep.

List of my most embarrassing moments:


Asking a fellow primary seven what ‘puberty’ was.

Writing a love song in first year.

Tripping and falling while smiling at a cute girl in second year.

Tripping and falling into someone’s food while smiling at same girl.

My first date with my first girlfriend.

My first kiss with my first girlfriend.

My last date with my first girlfriend.

My whole experience with my first girlfriend.

The day where we shouted “actual factual” randomly in Glasgow.

Playing DDR at one of the Halo events.

The day my mum met Marie and showed her my baby photos.

Meeting Marie’s friends at the Placebo concert.

Most recent:
Playing air guitar to The Shins for a full minute before noticing the window cleaner at the window.


>_<

It sits, perfect in its untouched innocence as it proclaims to the room that it is there. With its pointed corners and its padded leather cover, the rope weaving up and down the spine; protecting the fantastically smooth pages concealed in its embrace. A page with elegantly made paper that flips gracefully over to the page that follows, each whisper of contact screams to be written on. It begs me to feed it with thoughts and stories; to fill it to its very last page where it can lie completed on a shelf to be picked up on occasion and mused over, bringing to life memories that had long since passed. It urges me to write with passionate peaks and sorrowful curves, to pour my soul into it and to relish at my achievement. It is mocking me.

It lies on my bedside table, laughing at me as I look on it with longing eyes. It watches me as I type cautiously on hard plastic, inserting my mind systematically into a simulated page where it will be uploaded and displayed with harsh, unforgiving pixels. I do not know what the final result will feel like as it sits for the entire world to see, but I have a suspicion that it would be grainy and rough to the touch.

It would be nothing like the thing that sits on my bedside table, its glamorous pages begging to be stroked and its tactile beauty to be experienced. The very smell of it is one that entices me to pick up a pen and write and drown it in my very being. But I do not dare to even touch my plastic biro.

It called out to me, cooing me from its shelf and drawing me closer. It sang its siren song and I was lost under the spell, carrying it carefully to the counter, protecting it in the safety in my bag and resting it delicately on my bedside table. I found myself alone with it, marvelling at its simple beauty and already imagining what I would hold inside its keep. Yet I found myself at a loss of what to do.

This wonderful thing was meant for a single lamp to cast light over it as it lay proud and solitary on an ivory topped desk, strong fingers writing with an almost poetic style in heavy black ink. With my humble bedroom covered in posters, with numerous coffee mugs and yellow walls; how could I compare? My fingers are used to the steady rhythm of typing, an action fit for an unworthy room which contains such a majestic thing that keeps mocking me.

My muscles ache to reach out for it, to pick up a pen and empty myself into it. My chest squirms with tension that desires to be relieved, tension that will explode into complete content when I set pen to paper. I bite my lip, concentrating on the pain and focusing my eyes on the glow before me, resisting the yearning in my body.

It will occupy my sleep, plaguing my dreams and destroying my rest as it burns a hole in my mind.

“So what did you do this weekend?” She asked me, still smiling from the last laugh that was uttered. We were exchanging stories about our weekends and I had already heard about an innocent street brawl and a young child’s adventure to obesity, my weekend seemed relatively boring in comparison.

“I spent the day at Marie’s house helping her with decorations,” I said, pausing in my work, “we we’re making these banners for her sister that took hours to make. But they were so nice looking that it was worth it.”

“Wow, that’s great,” the girl across from me said, feigning a huge yawn.

I scrunched up a piece of paper and threw it at her. “Then the party was the day after,” I continued, smiling at her annoyance of the paper ball, “and it was really good. We danced more than anyone else in the place and I met her family. It was a good laugh.”

But they had already moved on in conversation, talking of cheating father’s and step-mums and leaving my humble story of how after seventeen years of shyness I actually danced in public to something. I shuffled some letters on my desk and laughed as I remembered how I had met Marie’s grandmother and how I towered two stories over her when I stood up to greet her. They didn’t care about how the DJ was being a bastard with the playlist or how Marie’s brother was dancing with a hilarious drunken ass-wiggle.

Well, I suppose the topic of ‘who fucked who’ is actually much more interesting.

I like sitting in the back garden when it’s sunny. I sit back, relaxed in the comforting heat while squinting at the screen of my Lapdancer due to the light. Pleasant music flows out of my speakers and leaves me contemplative as I squash another bug under my palm.

If I look over my fence I can see a good distance away, so far away that the windows on houses look like pinholes on a poster. When the breezes swirls through the air and sifts through the trees it moves some branches out of the way, revealing a window on the far horizon that is looking directly at me, face on with my gaze with an almost peering look.

I wonder if there is someone looking through that window, trying to figure out the tiny, blurred figure in the distance that keeps moving a large shiny thing to get it in a good position to see the bloody screen. And I wonder if they turn round and kiss their partner, giving them a quick smack on the ass before they return to the TV.

At work I deal with hundreds of people a night, couples and singletons that claim tax credits and have problems filling out forms. I wonder; what are their lives like? Do they have kids, family, pets? Do they write in blogs? It makes me feel insignificant to realise that there are so many people in the world, and I am only one six billionth of them.

Yet I am important. Well, maybe it’s my ego talking, but I feel that I am important. If I wasn’t here then Miss D Swan would be receiving the wrong amount of tax credits, these bugs would have no one to kill them, and that guy looking out of his window would have nothing to ponder at.

Like I said, I like sitting in the back garden when it’s sunny.

My Life As A Bitch - Beautiful, Intelligent, Talented, Charming and Honest!
Tue, 13/06/2006 - 18:19 by JoziJozi

Hi everyone

Kissthis is my very first blog in which i am gonna start a kinda diary. Mi friends nd family are the most important things in the world 2 me. i recently got back 2gether with my boyf who I ADORE AND WHO LOVES ME SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH!!!!!!!! I CALL HIM EVERY DAY TO SEE WHATS UP WITH HIM!!!! I was adopted by mi mums new husband who mi and mi sis now call dad coz he woz SO much betta than mi blood rel8d dad who iz such a w****r and i h8 hiz guts! but id rather nt tlk bout tht. i hardly c mi uncle coz he lives so far away in a town tht i dnt know the name ov.

i wanna tell u bout wht happened on saturday 10th. i woz at mi m8z sis's parti. my ex woz there nd whn a slow dance came on nd mi m8 natalie dragged my ex DJ on2 da dancefloor for the slow dance coz she app fanCs him nd i went outside 2 get some air nd he came out after me nd tld me tht afta we split up he missed me so much. i tld him i missed him 2 nd we kissed nd mi other m8 helen came out nd saw us nd woz all spaztic. we went bac in nd natalie asked if she cud hav a quiet word wiv me nd i said ok. so we went outside nd she tld me tht afta we split up loads of ppl were at a m8z house nd he woz app all ova her. i tld her i didnt believe her coz he tld me he wudnt go out wiv her even if she woz da last girl on earth. also my m8 helen tld me tht he iz just usein me coz he DOES fanC natalie. i hav bin crying all day nd i h8 them. i dnt know who 2 believe and i am gonna ask DJ 2moz. but i feel like live isnt worth living nd i just wanna loose the will 2 live. plz e-mail me agt ****_***@hotmail.co.uk to giv me advice coz i feel like im at the end ov mi line. Kiss

Kiss Love u all Kiss

JoziJozi


My jaw physically dropped when I read this. I finger hovered over the touch pad in horror, not wanting to read any further than the first line, yet I was compelled to. I read line after line of this horrendous writing, plaguing the internet with its disregard for the English language. It was as if I was watching someone raping the dictionary.

I had clicked on to this blog after reading another one similar to it, hoping that my senses would be less offended than before. I realised my terrible mistake when I stumbled across this blog. Of course, I had to reply to it. I had to take up the flag and start a jihad in the name of the dictionary.

“Hiya Jozi! I read about your problem and oMg! How could he do that! I mean, if he kissed her then that is totally way wrong! I mean, you guys were broken up right? He should totally have known that he shouldn’t have kissed her! She is such a biatch! You should just 4get them both gurl!
But what about your bf? Whatdoes he think about all dis? Does he think that you’re a cheating cow that doesn’t speak English?

Stop plaguing the internet with rubbish and read a dictionary. Or if you want to kill yourself, then club your head with one. A thick one. Then at least it’ll be getting it’s revenge.

Love and kisses, -Joe”


If she chooses the latter option, the world will be a better place.

Ever since the World Cup started, the sale of Mars bars in Scotland has plummeted due to Mars’ support of England in the World Cup.

Patriotism is a powerful thing indeed…

It’s been a while since I’ve picked up a really fantastic book. It’s also been a while since I’ve voluntarily picked up a book due to school and the short period where Advanced English made me hate every form of written word (apart form my own). The best book I read in the past year was Stevenson’s Weir of Hermiston, but that came at the cost of the destruction of Northern Lights and Ruby in the Smoke which I know I can never read again.

But I digress. Angela Carter’s The Magic Toyshop is the book I’m harping on about. It is a truly fantastic book, recommended to me by Marie and the wonderful people at Glasgow University (I’ll be analysing this wonderful book next year); it is one of the best things I have ever read. The characters are deeply intricate and compelling. Melanie, who is trying to cope with being thrust into a strange and harsh life while wallowing in self pity; Jonathon, who has retreated into his own world of model ships and beaches; and Finn, the ugly, unkempt boy who is the most graceful romantic in existence. These are only three of the compelling characters that are immensely interesting in this story.

And don’t even get me started on the imagery.

The dark night swirls around me, my mind sleepily stumbling over thought after thought. I land in the soft cushion of my bed and lie – eternally awake these days – staring at the ceiling with a hundred thoughts caught in a current, screaming out to me. The thoughts appear in front of me before disappearing into the night, plaguing me with unanswered questions and infinite distress. Eventually a thought stops before me, lingering in my sight a few moments longer than the others. I reach out and grab it, gripping it tightly with the constant fear of being pulled into the river of black thoughts. I clasp this one thought in my closed hands before peering through the cracks to examine it. There is a sudden pain in my chest, as if my dark insides are going to explode into the darkness of the night. I writhe on my bed, letting out a silent wail and clutching my chest in a desperate attempt to stay whole.

The thoughts around me swirl faster, many breaking off from the rest and flying into me, adding thought after to thought to the already painful one. I convulse and twist in my bed covers, trying to force the thoughts out of me. But they keep coming. One after another pounding into my chest, causing me to huddle in a snivelling heap, ready to give up so that everything would just fucking stop.

And then I hear a buzzing. It’s like a bee high on pollen, humming intermittently in a cheery tune. I look to the floor and see a multicolour flashing that urges my hand to reach out and grab it. It murmurs and twinkles happily in my hand, waiting patiently to be answered. I open it and the dark thoughts are dispersed by an almost blinding light.

“Hey there. Sorry if I’ve woken you up.”

“No, it’s ok. I was up anyway.”

“Is everything ok? You sound upset.”

“Just the dark night brining dark thoughts, I’ll be alright soon. So what’s up?”

Yeah, I’m pathetic in an almost emo way. So shoot me.

Current score:

Spyware, Malware and other affiliates – Several billion

Me – One

Yes, unfortunately due to lack of paying attention to what I was stealing downloading, I acquired a virus. Within seconds of my download being completed I received numerous pop-ups, emails and flashing warnings that basically stated “Omg! Trojan totally 0wns j00!”

So started four hours of blind panic where I ran three security checks before reinstalling Norton and running another scan. After doing everything short of performing an exorcism on my Lapdancer I clicked the system restore button, waving goodbye to my free hours as I spent them installing key programs once again, but I literally jumped for joy as I realised that my computer could be restored to last week.

So I sit with my Lapdancer, once again clean viruses. I feel as if I should raise my arms and proclaim “I am invincible!”, but I am worried that I would die in the following three seconds.

I think I’ll just whisper it quietly then…

Early morning psycho babble again. I’m thinking of leaving my Lapdancer downstairs so I can’t reach it and write obscenities.

It’s 3AM and I am sitting up with a wanting to write, but nothing coming out. The only thing I can manage is a very poor attempt to mimic someone else, which will never work seeing how I never buy Doritos. I bathe in the light of liquid crystals and contemplate my life to the mellow music that I seem to be getting into these days. Thankfully my life isn’t doing very much right now and my contemplation shouldn’t take long. Let me see; I’ve finished school, so there’s no stress of studying or homework anymore; work is doing fine, not much of a challenge and I enjoy the banter with good company; I seem to be successfully alienating myself from my friends, letting them break away from me bit by bit as I no longer become part of their lives; I’m starting to write more again, stories and characters coming to me quickly and at a whim, which (really) kicks ass; and my relationship with Marie is pretty amazing.

Ah, but now I have hit a snag. Marie. Cathouse girl. The love of my life. And I do love her by the way. A hell of a lot and as you see I’m not too shy to say it. When my thoughts land on her they fall through a trap door and into a wide expanse of thoughts that you don’t think could have ever been spurned from a single name. I love her, and think about her almost constantly. But I’m not going to sit here and write about the subtleties of love, I’m not going to write about its secrets, I’m not going to write about how no one else understands for they have not experienced a love like this. For one thing, the last one is a damned lie. If no one else experienced it then how would I know that it was love and not some strange kind of indigestion? No, I am going to talk about love in its most deep and primal form; how fucked up it is.

Of course this post may be lacking some substance, for this is a subject that contains many personal details and although I am willing to expose every centimetre of myself (above the waist) to the internet, I am not willing to share information of such a delicate nature. Wait until my autobiography comes out for that.

I am in love, I have been for quite a while now, and in the many months since I realised it I have experienced a wonderful range of emotions. The obvious ones are the good ones; the never ending smiles, the electrical touch, warmth rising in my chest, the fact that I just want to cry because this is so great and I am really not worthy. And then there are the other ones, the lesser wanted ones; the fear and doubt stricken face, the devastating loneliness, the paranoia sinking in your gut, the absolute knowledge that I want to die right now on my knees with tears running down my face. Yep, had them all.

I used to think that this was slightly fucked up. Love isn’t icky feelings and bad arguments. That only happens when they’re not really in love. Love is like a never ending hug. And if anything goes wrong (as if!), then everything is magically fixed in the end with a romantic kiss. It’s simple and follows a formula, occasionally involving Meg Ryan.

Wrong. All wrong. If I knew love would be anything like I experienced then I wouldn’t have bothered with it, I would’ve stayed naïve and young playing my videogames and singing along to emo. Ok, that’s another lie right there. If I knew what was coming, I’d do it again anyway, when things are going good I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Love is perfect. The ups and downs mirror each other with an almost poetic elegance. The good matches the bad, but we are always kept crawling back for more. It’s not fucked at all, it is perfect.

It seems like I’m having an early morning epiphany.

Now it’s 4AM and it’s becoming light outside. I think I finally realise that after everything that has happened to me, I am the one who is fucked up in all of this.

This is just some random thing that popped into my head. Check it out.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

The exam has mixed reviews to say the least. I think I’ve done pretty well in some areas while others would be considered the literal incarnation of a joke. My section on The Crucible was basically astounding bullshit, bullshit that spread over seven glorious pages that will ensure me half decent mark. The Directors Commentary was good, I included many features of people moving but alas, I forgot to mention facial expressions (<_>). My Scottish Essay on Tally’s Blood and Men Should Weep is terrible. The examiner has every right to my essay to the toilet, and not for some light reading. But if I keep my fingers crossed and hope against hope, I’ll get the A I need for Glasgow University.

I’ll keep both my fingers crossed, just in case.

Mr Mulvey cornered Emma and me as we jubilantly tried to escape the school and catch our bus, still high with the knowledge that we had finished our last exam and were out of school. He asked us the standard questions; how did the exam go, what are you doing next year, what about the summer. We smiled and laughed and exchanged pleasantries before the final farewell was said.

“Good luck in life,” Mr Mulvey said to us as he shook Emma’s hand, “and I hope you are happy in whatever you do.”

He turned to me and started to shake my hand. “Well sir, it’s been…” I said, trying to pick the right word to sum everything up.

“Fun?” Emma asked.

“A pleasure?” said Mr Mulvey.

“Horrifying.” I finished with a broad smile on my face.

Mr Mulvey laughed and let go of my hand, “Truer words were never spoken.” And then he was off, out of my life forever.

We walked outside to the bus, the sudden explosion of sunlight mirroring the explosion in my chest. We climbed onto the bus and laughed and smiled all the way home, whispering to ourselves the unbelievable truth. “We’ve done it. We’ve done it.”

I have a rising feeling in my gut, as if I am on the brink of the unknown and a great adventure awaits me. All I have to do is step forward.

I’ve done it. High school is finally over, and – by God – no one told me it would feel this good.