Hubris.co.nz

For Kate (Kate, do you have another name? There’s already too many damn Kates!) and Noizy and Llew, and for me, since this is all rattling around in my head right about now.

Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy and Pride. Which (if any) have you broken? Give examples.

Lust:
The example that first springs to mind when I hear this word could probably very well also fall under ‘wrath’, given the history involved, and how in that stall in the men’s room in a skanky goth bar I used to go out with the guy who was there with me, and also how I’d also fucked his wife who was banging on the door, so maybe I should wind the tape back to about four years before that, when I’d only pashed two boys, and I went to the movies for the first time with the gentleman in question. Just sitting next to him, our arms touching was so unbelieveably arousing that when I went to the bathroom and wiped, I was so wet that my hand slipped and I nearly punched the back of the toilet bowl. That was very unexpected for the girl that I was then.

I think it can sometimes also be hard to seperate lust from all the other things going on in my life, like needing other people’s approval to feel good about myself, or drinking too much, or needing to feel alive to combat antidepressants, or confusing love with sex, or having an overly developed sense of irony, or whatever. I suppose another example that would be appropriate here would be the first time that I hooked up with my stupid flatmate Ben III, and the following weeks. He wasn’t my type of guy – I mean, when I say he was stupid, he was stupid, but one night, he just smelt really really manly (read: sweaty) and the pheremonal connection was like “badoinga!”

On a slightly less disturbing note (I think), the character of Evan on The Secret Life of Us is so exactly my type that it hurts to watch the show cos I want to jump his bones so much.

Right now my head is full of pretty much nothing but lust. I haven’t had sex in a very very long time. Y’all didn’t think that I got OOS from working at a soul-destroying job with a really really bad computer set-up did you? Oh wait…

Gluttony:
This one is probably most apparent to everyone as something I have a problem with. The question then becomes “why is it a problem?” Quite frankly, I can’t imagine anything worse than being the type of person who would become obsessed with denying themselves the pleasures of food. To not know the joy of wine and cheese (CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEESE!), or fillet steak, or fresh baked bread with butter, or even dhal with fresh coriander on top or avocado on soy & linseed bread is just freaky. I use the last two as examples of how food can be goooood and good for you at the same time, but I suppose gluttony comes mostly in the form of ‘bad’ food. The thing is though, if you’re going to eat the ‘bad’ food anyway, then why hate yourself for it? Why not enjoy it? I would like to stop mentally beating myself up for it. I have accepted the fact that I am never going to be thin – I was born huge, for starters – so I would like to enjoy my life. At the same time, partly because I so often don’t enjoy my life, I’m more than a little nihilistic – like, if I’m going to get hit by another bout of crippling depression and decide that this time I can’t get through it, then why should I have skipped the cake? And please don’t start in on the whole “but exercise and healthy food can make you happier” crap, because I know that. That’s why I went vegan, and that was great for a while, although half of my enjoyment of that was a big “Fuck you, dairy and meat! I don’t need you anyways!” defiance that wore off. There’s so much cognitive dissonance going on in my head at all times that I could easily present a seminar on it in relation to the LTSA ads. Oh wait, I did that already…

And of course, gluttony doesn’t just apply to food, cos there’s drinking too. I like to drink. I will probably drink more than you will if we go out together. I like the taste of the things that I drink. I like the social aspect of it. I also like the feeling of confidence it gives me, which is not even about the wine anymore, it’s about me. If one bottle is good, two bottles is better. And while I have a few friends who don’t drink, and some friends who aren’t very in to food, I can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable around them if I was eating or drinking, because while I get it in my head, at heart I don’t understand why they’re not indulging in the pleasures.

Sloth:
Have you seen my couches? It took me a long time to find ones as big and comfortable as they are. I am happiest when I am lying down fully stretched out. I hope that when I am lying down on my couch I am in my pyjamas, and that it’s cold so I can have a duvet to snuggle under. I have no idea how people find enjoyment in tramping, or running. A leisurely walk in nice weather with an iPod and comfortable clothing might be okay, but I have bung-ass knees due to the gluttony section, and flat feet so long periods of walking are no fun. I like dancing, if the music and environment is right, but mostly if I go out I want comfy couches to sit on. Part of my perfect week off plan would involve a day spent watching many episodes of a favourite show on DVD. I <3 the Sloth. I feel no cognitive dissonance about it at all.

Wrath:
I’m a pretty angry person. I’d like not to be, but I’m really really not good at letting things go. Now, I’ve just been to look up the word, to try and figure out if being full of wrath makes you actually do things, because my only reference point here is 7ven, and I haven’t killed Kevin Spacey any time recently. Mostly my wrath consists of me not getting over things, and steaming about them for years and years. I have strict moral codes of things like the Two Year Rule, and if people break them, I get really really angry. I think more people should just suck it up and be miserable instead of hurting people. I am very very angry about people who hurt me and get to have their happy endings, because where the fuck is the justice in that?

Envy:
I am extremely guilty of envy. I envy people with pretty shiny possessions like houses, and DVD hard drives, and then I envy people without few possessions, who can pack up their lives in a matter of minutes. Mostly when I envy people I try to belittle them in some way – the phrase “skinny bitch” comes out of my mouth an awful lot, or when I see couples making out in public I’ll be like “get a room” when I am really thinking “I wish that was me”. I am envious of anyone who gets to hear someone tell them that they love them. I am envious of my friends who are having successful careers in areas that I want to work in. I am envious of people whose webpages get more hits than mine when they’re not even fucking real, Natalie. I am envious of people that I look down on for appearing to be happy with who they are. I am envious of people who seem to have taken the blue pill if we were going to go all Matrix comparison-y – is the blue pill the ignorance one? Well that’s the one I want. In a way, and this is disgusting to admit, I am envious of people with real identifiable trauma in their lives, and that’s something I spent a long time on when I was in counselling. I would like to be able to say “the reason that I am like this is because ___ happened”, and have it be all nice and easy like that. And if you think that I actually think that other people have lives that are all nice and easy, then you’re a dumbass. I’m well aware that the grass is always greener on the other side. It’s just that it’s often very hard to see what people would be envy about me.

Pride:
Hello, have you looked up the definition of ‘Hubris’ lately? This links in to the wondering what people would envy me for. Being well-educated, raised upper-middle class and given the opportunity to travel the world before I was ten and having parents I can rely on to back me up? Sure, that’s lucky, but I don’t know if it’s something that I can take pride in, because it’s not something that I’ve achieved – unless we go “yay little sperm, nice work on hitting that egg”. I would like to take pride in overcoming depression, having friends, being a good writer, but it just seems like those are all things that come naturally, or are things that I have no alternative but to achieve, so that seems dumb. But yes, I am condescending. I am snobby. I can cook well, and sometimes am capable of carrying out a good stimulating conversation. I used to take pride in giving really great head, but since the throwing up on someone’s cock whoopsie, my confidence in that area has been shattered. I would like to think that Hubris the site is really interesting, and I’m proud of that, but it’s not like I’ve got a book deal or anything. So meh. Perhaps pride is my least sinny of the sins. Rock on.

I’m not going to tag anyone – when you presume that people want to do things, you make a press out of you and me! – but please feel free to riff off your own if you like.

EDIT: whoops, I forgot
Greed:
I think this is pretty much covered by all the other ones, isn’t it? I’ll just go with the Hole quote to sum this one up, cos I’ve already wasted too much time: “I want to be the girl with the most cake”. Chur. But actually no, let me change that to say that I’m well happy to pay as much tax as I do, because I want to live in a world where the people who aren’t as well off as I am can still have things like oh you know, housing and healthcare and education…

I’m now writing this almost two weeks later than events, which is strange cos I didn’t realise that time went by so quickly. Nevermind, let’s plunge into my last couple’o days in the Auck town shall I?

Monday 6th December
I finally managed to have myself a merry little sleep in, tucked away in Oratia, which was certainly very pleasant, even though I felt terrible cos I got a text from Martina going “Okay I’m ready! Meet me on K’Road” and I had to reply going “umm I just woke up, see you in an hour or so?” But eventually I made my way into town and picked her up, and since it was a gorgeous sunny day we drove over to Devonport and had lunch at Manuka. Then, because it was so very nice and because we both found ourselves being the only other people we knew who wanted to do it, we set off to look for a beach. Now, you’ll of course recall that I once spent the summer working for the North Shore City Council and that my job then seemed to consist of little more than driving around all day getting suntanned. However, that was a long time ago, so we went for a rather extended drive up the motorway to Greville Road and then a long way back down East Coast Bays Road (which pretty much doesn’t go past the sea at all!) trying to find a nice little beach, before I took drastic action and found our way to Milford Beach.

There weren’t very many people there, which was great, and there was a changing shed with showers and an open-roofed area like an Italian courtyard which was great, so we got suited up and tried to get away from any boys on the beach. The water was very very cold and it made me hyperventilate a little bit (“sorry Martina, I know I sound like I’m heavy-breathing at you…”) but it warmed up a little, at least enough to frolick and try to do headstands in. When I started trying to do yoga poses and pretty much ended up nearly drowning myself, it was time to call it a day. The showers weren’t warm, but at least they weren’t salty. We headed back to the right side of the bridge to Occam for some more food and a perusal of Civic’s video sale (Cruel Intentions, Far from Heaven and umm something else for $12) before Martina left me for a ride home. I was waiting for Iva to call me so we could meet up, so I found myself a park to sit in and cuddled up with The Dirt. It’s soooo good. I wish I was in Motley Crue, for serious.

It turned out that Iva was trapped on the shore, so we decided to see each other the next day instead, and I eventually made my way towards KateH’s, via a phone call to La to see if he wanted to come along to the party we were going to that night, for a girlie website that I won’t name – which, after I uttered the magic words “free booze” of course he did, so I told him where the party was at and he said he’d meet us there. At Kate’s I believe we probably watched Shortland St together, and got poshed up, me making the last minute decision to switch from my party frock to my cleavage top (and of course SHRN yellow scarf), which I think in hindsight was quite fortuitous, and we set off to pick up her friend Olly, who is British but edits a certain ‘lifestyle’ paper. Haha, that’s me exercising my ‘get out of jail free’ card again. I get to say “but” because we all know that I find British accents ridiculously hot, BUT I try not to waste my time hankering after boys if I know straight away (as opposed to at Ruby on Friday) that they’re gay. Y’dig? Yeah. Anyways. We had to trek around and around and around The Secret Garden looking for La, cos the entrance isn’t actually on the street that it says it’s on, but eventually we kind of gave up and went in, keen to get started on the free liquor. Or at least I was. Given that KateH was driving, I imagine that she was a little more restrained. I got severely fucked off because Horrible Gay Jonny (and let me point out here that the ‘gay’ tag is used because before him I’d had another Horrible Jonny flatmate) was serving drinks and grrrrrrrr he makes me so mad with his theiving and then his fakeness. Bah. I’ve vented about this already. But I am setting the scene for what comes later by giving a partial reason as to why I downed so so so many glasses of bubbly very quickly ie: I was angus and also a little bored until La showed up. KateB was at the party too, but she left pretty early, so mostly I just talked to Olly and KateH (although they knew lots of people) and La, until much later in the night when we were out the back adn the bubbly had run out and I’d switched to beer and was talking to a whole bunch of random guys and a couple of other people I knew. Now, in further stage setting, let me tell you about the toilets at the Secret Garden – they have shower curtains for doors. Yuck! I’d had one piece of cheese that went straight to my bowels and I was like aaaaargh, but then I thought “Well, you know what? These girls here jostling for space to adjust their makeup, I don’t respect them, why should I care about what they think of me?”. Later though the toilets were all floody and still really crowded, so I couldn’t have a quiet puke, which meant that all the beer and bubbly stayed in my stomach. Foreshadowing.

Eventually almost all the people I knew had left – KateH with the oh so subtle “call my cellie when you get to my house – or if you should happen to be staying in (certain address implying that I would be in someone else’s bed), I can come and pick you up from there”. Aww bless her. I imagine I said something like “Well, I’d like to say that’s not going to happen but I’d probably be lying”. Needless to say pretty much as soon as she’d left, perhaps, I found myself making out with a boy, and soon we were in a taxi on our way to his house. Now, I’ve made out in taxis with three other boys before (oh hush, not all at the same time) and the drivers have always been the embodiment of discretion. This driver was an ASSHOLE. Okay, admittedly I can’t remember exactly what it was that he was saying, but I think it was of the nudge nudge wink wink “go on my son” type commentary which was really really unnecessary, and which probably contributed a little to my later unease. Anyways so I found myself in a house that is very familiar to me, and in fact on a bed that I’d been on before, peeing in a bathroom where I’d peed so many times before mid-coitally, and it was just a little bit strange. Before I knew what was what, he had a condom on, and I was like “woahhhhhhh, wait a minute….” I know that I’ve bitched for a year and a half about my total lack of sex, but what with it staring me in the face like that (so to speak, of course), and the feelings that being back in that house stirred up again, I suddenly realised I couldn’t do it, and I told him so. I’ve been without sex for so long I’m a second-time virgin, and I just think it’d be really wrong to do it with someone that I’m not in love with – or failing love then at least Ridiculously Hot wrists-tied-above-my-head, him-whispering-in-my-ear-about-all-the-things-he’s-going-to-do and then how-he’s-going-to-pass-me-onto-all-his-friends-cos-I’m-such-a-fucking-whore Dirty Passion Violent Fucking. Giggly-drunk-friend-scoring isn’t good enough, unfortunately. So instead, I went down on him (well, I would have anyway) but I was in much more of a hurry for him to hurry up and come so that he’d stop begging me to let him fuck me. He still had the condom on at the start, and that was strange, and of course, his dick was hitting the back of my throat, and I was still full of beer and bubbly, so what happened? Oh yeah, I started gagging and my mouth filled with vomit. Now, I thought I’d just swallowed it back (heh) but after he’d finally finished, he was like “umm, I’m going to go sleep in the lounge, cos you threw up on this side of the bed” and I was like “omg, wtf?” and then I got all offended and was like “FINE! If you won’t sleep with me then I guess I’ll go to Kate’s” (cos you know, I totally had the moral highground on my side – hahahaha) and after he’d left, I groped around in the dark (some more, haha man, how many fucking double entendres can one entry have? I guess this is like, a year and a half’s worth poured into one night) trying to find my clothes, since he doesn’t have a lightbulb in his room. I left without a skirt (luckily I was wearing pants underneath) but with pearl necklaces (haha, see previous-to-previous brackets) and hiked up to the main road to get some cash and find a taxi and hope that my cellphone battery didn’t die, which it seemed to be doing. Somehow though I managed to get a taxi, and the driver seemed much nicer when I complained about the previous one, and KateH got up and let me in and all seemed well in the world.

Tuesday 7th

I woke up around 10.30am, feeling pretty damn sorry for myself, let me tell you. Kateh had left a room outside the room that I was sleeping in with her worknumber on it, so I gave her a call cos I knew she was supposed to come home and turn the alarm on when I left. When I told her that yes, I had gone home with the boy, she briefly wondered why I hadn’t just stayed the night there then, but accepted my explanation that it was weird. I don’t know if I mentioned the puke thing or not – I probably tried to conceal it so that she didn’t worry about her flatmate’s bed. Who knows? Anyways, it transpired that she wouldn’t be able to make it home until lunchtime so I had a cold shower (like I should have had the night before, but nevermind) and settled down with my laptop to write the ‘Things Not To Do Whilst Sucking Cock’ entry that only my Hubrettes can read, and to contemplate how much my black and silver skirt meant to me vs the having to go back to the boy’s house and pick it up. Well, when KateH finally got home it was 2.30pm so I realised I couldn’t put it off anymore, so it was off to the boy’s house with me. Him and all his flatmates were all sitting out on the back porch in the sun. I had no idea what he’d told them, but I do know that the walls there are paper thin (and that the girl he shares a wall with is a prudey little virgin, hahahah). I tried to play it all casual, just “hey, how’s it going?”. He was laughing at me when I had to say “so um, did I leave my skirt in your room?” so I double-casualed it by saying “haha, that sounds really bad”. Yeah I’m going to pretend that your flatmates didn’t hear me faking an orgasm if I want to, okay? Sweet. They were like “oh what are you up to today?” which meant I had a trump card up my sleeve – I told them I was going to go see Iva, which was true but also I knew that there was bad blood between them all, so they started going blah blah blah which took the heat off me and I got to leave holding my head up high. Phew!

Next up on my agenda was a visit to Wendy’s and then to the shore to see Iva Beaver. we sat in the sun and talked about Bernard, amongst other things. Ahh sweet sweet dusty cups. Then I went to meet up with OLIVIA and STEVE and KYLA, once I finally found her house, that is (stupid Americans saying “eighteen” instead of “seventeen”, or more likely stupid hungover not-awake&capable of listening me). After cruising Franklin Road to see the lights and marvel at the audacity of the house with a COFFEE CART in front of it, we went to Joy Bong for dinner, where I struggled to question how the tofu was done in a tofu and eggplant dish I was eyeing up (when I’m around vegans I eat vegan). I got a different dish instead cos I was afraid it’d be the squishy kind I don’t like, and as Olivia said of my tofu, it turns out i want it done like it’s a bouncy castle. It was so great to see them again, cos I haven’t seen them since umm forever, but they were tired from the flight, and I was tired from the debauchary and found myself only able to say “the thing with the stuff” and “so hot right now”. Whatever happened to Verbacious Joanna? We fought over the bill and I thought I won and paid it but the next day I found some cash in my bag so either they slipped it in or I am just terrible with money. Then we went back to Kyla’s to watch half of Harry Potter 3 and make dirty jokes about paedophilia. Have some chocolate little boy, and all of that. Of course the night didn’t last nearly long enough, but sigh, I guess I’ll get to see them again in a couple of years or something.

Wednesday 8th
Having stayed at Kateb’s again, I got up in time to do some research on a Certain Band Who Have A Lot of Members adn Wear Robes because I was interviewing their frontman. He was a little grumpy and the line wasn’t that good. Sigh. Then I drove back to Welly and Sebby was overjoyed to see me. The end.

Very early this morning, stricken with a horrible stomachache and the associated foodpoisoninglike symptons, I discovered it is entirely possible to vomit into the bathtub whilst still remaining seated on the toilet. Mmmm, lovely.

This evening I watched the final of Roswell. I’m such a sucker for “final ever” episodes – I think I even watched the final of Home Improvement despite the fact that I had never ever seen it before. I used to watch Roswell back a million years ago, but that was mostly only because Thomas did and it was nice to watch it together. I’m sure it used to be much better, and that they all had better haircuts. Either that or I was younger and foolisher. Nevermind.

Because I have to present a half hour seminar on Wednesday, I spent this evening writing out linear notes to a compilation album entitled “To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before” which doesn’t exist, although its tracklisting does. The album spans from age thirteen to age twenty one. 4/14 songs are by the Smashing Pumpkins. 4/14 are sung by females, and they’re all in the second half. 5/14 songs are related to boys that I’ve actually scored. 1/14 songs got quoted in two seperate letters to two seperate boys – one an “I love you” email, the other “I think we should break up”. I currently have 7/14 songs on cd. Clayton has 2/14 songs on cd. I have 3/14 songs on mp3, and I will have to download the other two if I ever actually make this cd. I could have started it from when I was twelve, but that would have meant including Guns’n Roses. If I do make it, I’ll be photocopying the bizzare linear notes as well. They include quotes from Barbara Kruger paintings and many dialogue snippets and occasional references to stalkings. If I produce it, it’ll be strictly limited edition, with copies going to closet friends, people who I’ve received mixes from before and also possibly any of the boys it’s dedicated to (oh yeah, the ‘love’ bit is just a loose concept, not a “I love you totally and utterly” thing, obviously) that I’m still in contact with who can correctly identify themselves. Bopha has been my little helper in the compiling of it all, agreeing with me that maybe I should make a seperate trauma album (although one trauma song made it on here, because it was a love trauma after all) and placing strict limits on the numbers of songs I could have per boy. Bopha kicks ass, although her fetish for green rice tea is somewhat disturbing.

And I’ll write my seminar tomorrow, really!

Someone drew a picture of me receiving deep dictionary action for me tonight. You can view it here. It’s splitmango, so that’s why I’m linking to it rather than showing it – viewer discretion is advised and all. Golly I have some strange (and wonderful) friends.

We;re in some bar douwn int he viaduct and there’s me making oi5rgasm noises not that I’d really know what ythey were because Briamn Molko is on the buig screen they were playing KJuice tv and oh my god how much do my panties melt at the site of him? Change your taste in men.

Boy I met last nightwas very very hot and then he said those goddam magic words “back when I was depressed” and I was like noooo I want so meone different. But hge aws still sexy, I imagine I will go stalk marbecks now. Thast qwas at dinner last night some thai place the Green Elephant w e went there for our big night out i remembre. But today is today and not then becuase yeah then was all differenyt and my toenail wasn’t broken then, and goddam I miss being in love but hey yeah ajnyways, stuff is fine this way I think and was I too obvious? I think not.

Ohb my god bbay it’s 3am i must be lonely oh fuck off maqtchbox 20, I am so un eloquent really but you are stil l reading me anyways. Clayton’s 212st was tonight,. I had soooo much fin. fuin. fun. IO was all grumpy and shit before hand. Ckay took my car. XClay took my stereo. I got basil garlic aioli all over my thai silk skiryt opn the way in and setting up. But I k nkiocked back a qwhole shitload of red whine. I HATE cklay’s relies. What a pack of bossy big dorks. wER HAD everythingm all set up and shit at the movie theatre he’d hired and they came and moved it all around. No wonder he’s so fucking pussywhipped, it’s not my fault that I boss him around.

there was a disco ball and that was fun. I slaved all day making mushroom pies and quiches. No hesitation no delay you come omn just like special k. Just like I swallowed half my stash. Lots to drink. Stuff was cool. I hadn’t seen maree in so long. Or shirley neither. Kate Benton told me I was having a good tit day. Clayton agreed. It’s so this tshirt. I love my stativc shirt,. I like my trits too. Tits, not trits. Oh god, I’m hideous, I should just og to bed but like, I’m niot sleepy. so ui will ramble, and you will read it. Suckers. you’re all pussy whipped too. Okay and Kate came into my room this morning ior was it yesterady, and said I smelt all nice like sleep. What’s up witht that? Where the fuck am I? this is SUCH a bad narrative.

Okay yueah, so I was all grumpyu this afternoon, especially when kate rang me at 6pm wanting rescuingb and I had to hgo pick her up even whenb we were supposed to be leaving at 6.15. And then in the process of getting to the theatre, the garlic basil dip got all over my skirt and oh my god was I giving everyone evil looks over that fuck I’m cold.

Talk about guilty conscience, although technically I didn’t do anything wrong. IUnless you count pyutting a shaker in my bag, but I don’t count that. UIt was from thej viaduct after all. At the back of the theaterette were a row of couches, and clay reserved those for us flatties and our signigicicant others (ie Morrison and Kara). I was sharing a couch with kate and a bottle of red whine. When I was in the bathroom, maree was talking tol me althouhgj U dunno how she knew it was me, so she came up and sat with us. But then I went and was throwing aup and I think she disappearefd. Human Traffic was the movie – it looked amusing except the chick looked like Tamsin gfrom Shortkland Street whicjh was just disturbing.

And then somehow Iwas at deschlers how did that happen? I don’t remember, butthere was live drum and base and simon w as dancing and ti was very amusing and stuff an do h my god was I really oh dear I worry me sometimes, and I talked to clayt’s frienmd Adrian who’s noce buit shy and also clay’s friemnd lucy who is a drunken slapper and his “friends’ romy and emily were there – nice look black bra dna white singlet fucking drunken sluts and they even called themselves that.

descblers became some walk downtownh after some big housekey scandel and i guess kate b let justin in after all unless he cli,mbed in our window whicjh would be easyt . some place downtown, was it providence? some name like that. $20 shakers, clay stole 4 shot glasses, I goty the shaker unbeknown to either one of us where hase si gone?: kate m dreove yus home. Providence had juice pla7ying on the big screen, but a different soundtrack. And yeah, we came home, and I was being tacky. Kate M was like “you’re on fire, we could ask you anything now and you’d amswer right? ” but the thing is I would anyways. Brad’s on lunch tomorrow, I hope it’s good.

I feel like a skanky slapper right now Only I am so muchb etter dressed. And my hair is better. As the flat would tease me, my hair is choice. a dn my nipples are amazing. etc etc. QWhy is it htat I let myslef be hassled so mch? I qwill keep my mouth shut in the fututre. Unless of course, I am having littl e black babies. That’s the rule kate m set for me.

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.