Hubris.co.nz

Wednesday, June 11th

Repeat after me: free stuff is good. Awhile ago, Clayton got a postcard in the mail inviting him to the preview of ‘About a Boy’ (you know, Nick Hornby & Hugh Grant type thing etc etc) which promised food and liquor before hand as well. Clay wasn’t home at the time, so I texted him with the hypothetical question “Hey, if you should ever get free tickets to ‘About a Boy’ would you take me?” and of course, he stupidly said yes he would, so I presented him with the card when he got home. Ha. It made me laugh a lot at the time, because just the day before, i’d explained to him that generally when girls ask for things, they already know if it’s possible or not (ie: “Clay, can I borrow a half a tomato?” “Sure, there’s one in the fridge” “yes I know, that’s why I want to borrow it” etc). So anyways, that movie was today.

But if we want to veer back in time, we’ll start at the start of my day, which was some time after noon, because my bed was just so damn comfy, and also I’d been up late talking on the phone to my Attention Seeking best friend in Chch (I swear, I’m so defensive lionness with cubs eh). I think it’s so important that there are people that i can say “I mango bleach” to and worry about The Hot Potato Syndrome and they know what I’m talking about. Plus our new insult for one another is “hey, stop attention seeking” which is funny if you know the context and potentially offensive if you’re the person I got it off, but hey it actually really offended me, so there. (And I think I tried to say that in person, but I’m always so much better at bitching about it after the fact). Anyways, so where was I? Oh yeah, day at home, doing housework. I cleaned my room! You can actually see all the concrete now, which is not necessarily a good thing. And I divided my notes up into their three topics, which is half way to starting studying, isn’t it? I don’t have an exam for a week though. Blah blah.

Around 5, Clay and I walked to Newmarket for the movie thing. He mentioned that Kara would probably be really pissed off that he’d taken me and I chuckled more that was polite but oh well. Then my arch on my right foot got really really sore, so I guess that was my punishment. The free food and liquor was at Lonestar, and there were masses and masses of people so it took ages to get a drink, meaning Clay and I only managed three each in the 45 minutes that we were there. The food consisted mostly of tortillas and dip. Waiters kept walking past with plates of ribs which we wanted, but they got put on other tables and we couldn’t be bothered getting up. Some nice ladies came along and tried to pick up Clay, and he felt all special cos he knew lots of people there from his work. I should stop laughing at him so much. The theatre was also really full so we had to sit too close, but the movie was really good. Hugh Grant is getting hotter as he gets older, which is disturbing, and the kid was so cute! I want a 12 year old son. (hmm, i should have been more sexually active in 1990 and not been concentrating on getting Mum to buy me Subway shoes and a peace necklace I guess).

After the movie, we went and got Burger King, which I instantly regretted and took a bus home. Bops and Leo were sitting in the lounge patiently suffering through Buffy because I was taping it (hey man, she’s coming back from the dead!) but as soon as it was over, Clay watched the soccer that he’d taped and I made lots of phonecalls to arrange my birthday dinner. I wanted to have it at Saigon, but they’re shut on Mondays so I’m having it at a Turkish place instead. Then I rang around trying to organise my friends, most of whom didn’t answer their phones – kate & kate, I’m looking at you here. I did manage to get aholdo Justin, who said he might come, and then we talked about Brand JK reliability, which is amusing. It’s where I do most of my shopping – so I put in a pre-order as well. Ha, fuck I’m terrible. And boring.

I put the wrong link in to my birthday wishlist last night, but it just occured to me that i have to say “Hey, if you’re my friend, and you’ve had a birthday this year, and I have been to your celebration, I hope you haven’t bought me anything, because I didn’t buy you anything and I would feel (a little)bad”. See, I do have a conscience after all. Last night while I was lying in bed I realised that when work finally DOES pay me, it won’t be the one week’s salary I was expecting, it’ll be FOUR weeks, and that’s kinda really cool. OH MY GOD! THEY PAID ME! I HAVE A POSTIVE BANK BALANCE! I haven’t had one of those since i left Foodstuffs. I can pay the rent, AND the phonebill now. I can even have a good birthday, and I can buy KateH drinks tomorrow night when we go out (except that you try so hard to not talk to me about reading my journal, so you can’t ask for them so HA!). And I can ring up WINZ and cancel the $50 a week they lend me which they’ll be cancelling in a couple of weeks anyways cos I will no longer be doing enough papers to qualify as a full time student, although apparently there’s something else I can be wot says I still qualify. Sorry. It’s just really exciting.

And that’s about me for the night, eh. My neck really hurts from that damn sitting too close to the movie thing. Maybe I should have a hot bath. I wonder if that’d help me sleep. It’s funny taking herbal supplements to make me sleep because they completely relax out my body so that it feels really heavy and sinks into the mattress and I can hardly move but my mind is still going a trillion miles an hour. I’m due for a bleed in a couple of days, and I’d know that even if wasn’t for the diane35 packet telling me. Midcycle I get mad protein cravings, and then I get sleepless and my breasts get fuller and look glassy and probably in two days time I will be really really sad and cry at the drop of the hat. It’s so interesting (to me anyways) watching myself change. Go womanhood. I bet you’re all just holding your breath until I get pregnant or some mysterious wasting disease and I write about that in great length every single day. Not that I’m thinking that any of you would wish disease on me, of course (because hey, everyone loves me, right?).

I thought of a new look for Hubris that I wanna do, but I have exams and secret things and charity work and momma’s site (still) to do first. But then maybe there’ll be a logo! And tshirts! And merchandise! And branding! Perhaps.

Is it ironic at all that I lay in bed reading about Victim Feminisim while Fiona Apple wailed away on my stereo?

Because of vomitting and long late night long distance phone calls and that sort of thing, I didn’t go into tech today. I did, however, get out of bed to give Clayton the converter plug, without which I can’t plug my modem into the phone lines. He hasn’t given it back to me yet, but that’s probably a good thing. I just don’t know when I’ll get to upload this entry. But that doesn’t matter all that much anyways.

I’ve done 1/3 of my intercom work, which is a good thing, I think. Yes. It’s astonishing how quickly I can actually do it, if I didn’t get distracted all the time. But I do get distracted, by Freecell and newspapers and thoughts and stuff that should all just be erased. Stuff. Ha.

Showers are where I spend an hour scrubbing the tiles because I don’t want to leave pounding hot water. The laundry floor is where I curled up last night after vomiting and we’ll just blame that on the gin at Shirley’s, because that’s easier.

And this is fucking victimism. I’m fucking suffering – pity me. Excuse me. And all that shit. No, I can’t write this. Or I can write this, but I can’t share this. Because I hate myself and I wanted to throw up. It’s like Bulemia chic or something. I wanted to eradicate him from my system. Why does that make me want to hurt myself? Do I want to make him guilty? Make him feel responsible? The hot hot shower was better than thinking about scalding myself, submerging myself in boiling water. I’d never reach for knives – I just want to burn. Burn his touch out of me. Burn his fucking memory out of me. I was lied to. I was just his fucking dalliance. His fucking whore. And I don’t know what’s worse - that he really did think that he loved me, or that he was just using me all along. So I feel total hate now, and yet I still love him, and I’d probably take him back, even if he was just going to be thinking of ’her’ the whole time.

And more scary, there’s Tony resurfacing when I was on the laundry floor last night. It’s not the memory of the night, it’s the memories of the subsequent nights where I’ve cried and I’ve screamed – of the motel kitchen, Abby’s lawn, Charlotte’s kitchen, my bedroom. And I can’t get over it. Not when the only guy that made me safe turns out not to care about me. And there are the bruises he left on me – and I enjoyed them. What kind of sick fucked up bitch does that make me? Is that my legacy? And when he pinned my wrists down to the bed, and his kiss was too deep, too much, and I couldn’t move, and it was just like Tony. I hate being damaged. I hate my jealousy issues. I hate how I can’t stand up for myself. I hate that I hate myself. It’s all so self pitying and pathetic. I want it to stop. I need it to stop. I don’t have an eating disorder but maybe I should develop one. And that’s just fucked up, but all I want to do is cram full of that icecream and then throw it up again, but I can’t even vomit properly. I need for this to end.

I’ve got to go to Australia. And there, what’s going to happen? Am I going to throw myself at every possible guy? Turn myself into a whore the way he treated me? Maybe I want to be fucked while I cry, because it can’t be special. It can’t be like the way it was with him, because it turns out that I was nothing, I was a time filler. So maybe if I suck the cocks of everyone else, if I swallow them too, they’ll eradicate him from my system. Other hands touching me – sure, it makes my stomach churn to think about ti now, but maybe if I just let them do it enough, it’ll be okay. They can muffle me, and I won’t say no. Because how can I respect myself if he couldn’t?

I can’t hardly even read what I’m writing. I’m so sick of this self loathing, but I guess it’s better to purge this way than head over a toilet bowl. I must get clean. I need help. Or maybe I just need to drop the amatuer dramatics. I need I need I need to get a grip. Like he said. And I need to grow up. Because pretending like my problems are more serious than they actually are does not make me cool.
It does not make me glamourous. It only serves to fuck me up more, and that’s not something I really need right now.

My self esteem had been so good lately, and now it’s getting knocked back and I just sit there and let it. This is fucked. I swear, I’ve got problems. I argue with myself so much. Is this right? Is it normal to have such a nasty person at the back of my head, telling me how pathetic I am?

I don’t deserve this. I’m a good person.I try and suppress all the bad things I could do. I could say so much about him, expose him, attack him. I think I know him well enough to see where his vunerabilities are. He could probably do the same to me. I have to hope that he won’t because I’d just crumple. I’m so afraid of his scorn. I don’t want to have to hate him, but I can’t do it any other way. he
won’t let me. Why did it have to turn so bitter and nasty? For brief instances, I had paradise. but there’s always her in the background, her that he lied to me about. He said he loved me, and he was wrong. I just have to cling to thinking that he believed it when he said it, that he wasn’t intentionally taking me for such a ride. Surely all his concern for me couldn’t have just been a cover? No one could be that cruel, surely?

But then again, how could anyone love me? He wasn’t loving me for my face or body – no matter how many times he called me sexy. So I could make him come, that doesn’t make me jesus. That just makes me easy. And my personality? Insecure to the point of
neurosis, jealous, self centred, over dramatic, fucked up, pretending to be fucked up. There’s nothing there. I think that maybe he loved that I could love him. And that’s why he tried, for a while, to keep me. he needed me to feed his own ego.

Sounds like Morphine Matt. I really love my victim role, don’t I? Why the fuck can’t I trust my natural instincts? I’m like this fucking hopeless romantic, and maybe I love the abuse. That’s it. I feel like I deserve it. I need REAL trauma because the other traumas
I’ve had I made up or exagerated out of control. Give me life, give me pain, give me myself again and all that shit.

I’ve got to stop this.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with this entry. There’s the part of me that wants to put it up for the whole world to see. I want them to suffer along side of me. I want their false pity and their “awww”. And maybe I want more anger from him, so that I can hate him some more, so that I can sting. And then I’m so scared of what he could do to me. I’m not some stupid fucking suicidal twelve year old anymore, but I don’t want to risk it. I don’t want to be pushed to the edge by him hating me anymore than he already does. And I don’t want to be laughed at. Maybe I’m fucking terrified of that. I don’t want to be dismissed as melodramatic and pathetic, although I’ll do that to myself. I don’t want people to worry about me. Well, I want some people to worry, and others not to. And I don’t want to expose myself further, while I want to expose everything.

I will think for a while on these things. But oh god – I wish I could just turn off my mind. Six days till I go to Australia. I’ve got to hold on.