don't say no

it's a patrick wolf song.

it reminds me of an utterly idiotic crush i once had on a boy named yorick. he was horrible, mean, but occasionally showed these sparks of kindness and beauty of heart that made me think he was worth it.

he was also extraordinarily beautiful. not in a sexual way, but in a painting, beautiful creature way. all i can compare it to is the idea of what an angel looks like. exquisite. none of my friends knew what i was doing. fuck, I didnt know what i was doing. i just bowed my head and ran in, arse over feet, mindless, mindless.

it was a very stupid few weeks.

there is a certain madness that's appealing in giving in to the senseless. i can't deny that. i do it often, or at least, admire the idea of it. i see others who do it, people who smoke, or who drink too much, or who substance abuse, or ... i dunno. there's a certain romance in it. but it's stupid. exceedingly stupid. sometimes i feel so embarrassed and pathetic for, i dunno, not smoking. for not going all Over The Top and swilling vodka and drugs, as a VISUALISATION of my PAIN. i feel like i am thus NOT in pain, and just faking it. i feel like the romance of intoxication of action, the madness of giving in, and my lack of it, is why i lost out here. that i should be the dramatic princess, OH GOD let me DIE IT's ALL TOO MUCH for me.

but i don't want drama. i want someone to cuddle me, and to knit a pair of socks, and to do a little painting. i have stages where i drink too much, and get high on staying out all night, and fucking senselessly to kill the pain. i hate it, and i have stopped it, and please, please, i can't ever go back there again. each casual fuck i have EVER had can be mirrored with rejection or abuse. i can count them all, and back them all up. the slut months were a result of being sexually assaulted. a lot of them were people i was in love with, who either didn't know how i felt, or who thought i wouldn't care. realistically, i hate this, intensely.

i want to cuddle and pat my bunnies, and making fucking doilies, ok, with someone i love to hold my hand, and tell me little stories.

that is what i want. i want to fucking save homeless animals and cuddle sad bunnies, and make booties and go to work and help little jimmy with his fucking assignment about volcanoes, and write a doctorate on the baby sitters club and knit in the evening and do stupid pointless paintings because they make me happy. i want to think about things intensely, but i don't want stupid drama and a drinking problem and misery at the end of the tunnel, and complicated bullshit excuses, and this pain, this stupid pathetic waste of time misery over someone so mean. i want a simple calm and happy little life, which i know will always be trapped in my pathetic overinflated intellect that twists around everything and wrecks too many relationships (you know, men get scared if you are smart? this is hard when you are quicker witted than most people...). but i can live with it. i can work with what i have, and you know, maybe i can have that. maybe i'll get a fucking little cottage (you can garden, i'd be terrible, we both know this, imaginary lover who'll never make promises they'll spit into my face) and i'll make origami to hang over every doorway (you'll not say it's such a beautiful metaphore, and then slam it back, oh, no, now i'm not laughing at her, i'm IN LOVE WITH HER AND NOT YOU) and we'll go from room to room, singing smiths songs, and giggling like children as we try and stop the bunnies eating oscar wilde (good luck, the little fucker can't get enough), and i'll hang my stupid little paintings, and we'll hold hands and it'll be good.

Is is utterly idiotic that i feel at 24, (25 in a week or so,) as though life is slipping out of my hands, and i've done nothing of worth, and i've wasted this, wasting everything, that each moment spent is another one where i'm failing to do anything worth anything? i am 25 and i am truly, pathetically, one of my stupid generation. i have blogs dating back to 2002 across the internet, and two pet rabbits. i have a near inability to cook well, and a few paintings. 5K debt, slowly diminishing, built up from buying shit i didn't need or want. a string of failed relationships that last between three years and three weeks, and more casual sex than i even want to recall. montage of clubs and bars and live music and cultural events, swinging from city to city, state to state... a useless undergraduate qualification, a workable partially finished post graduate qualification, and plans for another in order to stave off the boredom, and the inevitability of loneliness.

for all the words, for all the poetry, for all the ranting and the anger and the sadness and the fury, it comes down only to the fact that i feel back breakingly lonely, because betrayal negates any of that companionship, and i feel as though i may as well have been alone all that time, all this time, and what have i got? what have i fucking got to show for all this? we do almost anything to hide how lonely we are, be it television or bauldrillard, or poetry or singing songs. we are social beasts, and eating alone is miserable. bauldrillard talks about this. i'd rather live alone because i am shit at living with people. my house gets dirty when i feel like shit, and i need to nest my life around me, and fill it with clutter to make up for the fact it is actually really, really empty.

i am jealous of my married school friends. i am jealous, painfully so, of those couples that look so in love, so tricked into each others hearts that they the loneliness is suspended and together, they have something tangible. i have my little words, oh so pretty, like little glass beads all hoarded up, but at the end of the day, i curl up alone, around my favourite childhood toy because i am so so so hideously alone.

is it stupid to want to love someone who'll love me and treat me kindly? well fuck it, then, i'm stupid, because that's what i want.