Give Me One Reason To Stay Here

I've failed at being the one thing I was born to be. A struggling artist. Actually..I'm still struggling. I'm just struggling at struggling really. I am making a departure from struggling artist to tortured artist, perhaps I'm moving higher in the food chain. No no last time I checked my balance I was still down the bottom.

I was raised by wolves, I'm permanently off your christmas* 'card' list, and I've got a wardrobe full of crappy paintings and a bruised ego. I gave all my paintings to my little sister cause she's no art critic, she wont laugh at me. She thinks they are "mad'. I think I'M MAD. You think I'm a joke. And I laugh.

On second thought perhaps she is an art critic. She called my painting "kinda ugly". It's pretty depressing when the only people who want your paintings are little kids or disillusioned family members (keeping in mind I was raised by wolves.) And heck they wont even pay money for them! Maybe selling art is not about the quality of your painting at all, but your skills as a salesman. If that's the case then I have no hope. I'm too kind. I can't rip people off. I can't tell them it's a beautiful picture if it's really half arsed. And that is where my 2 academic years of painting have left me. With 9 out of 10 paintings half arsed or mediocre. And the special ones I'm keeping for myself, as a sad reminder that I have some talent, but not nearly enough.

*I refuse to capitalise christmas because it just aint that great so take that spellcheck!

The Curse Of Freedom

Descending upon my newfound boredom..i mean freedom I have decided to compile a list of reasons why I have not written a blog to mark this historic event. And like a naughty puppy I'll sit in the corner and cower while you read them, waiting anxiously for you to approach me with your clipboard and suspiciously smart looking glasses.

My reasons are as follows:

• Since I have not been out of the house lately my stock of material has been running dangerously low and I've succumbed to writing blogs about monsters taking over my soul. And for reasons I cannot explain I believe people may not care to know these things. Thus I shall withhold my demons in search of more meaningful material, like the annoying people on the bus..or the magpie invasion in my street..who do they think they are anyway? Taking over my street! This is my town and there aint room for the 100 of us!
• A direct result of my boredom has led to hours of playing solitaire on the computer which has numbed my ability to feel alive and functional as a human being. Thus freezing out any emotional feelings and musings I may or may not experience.
• My lack of ability to provide as a breadwinner has led to a deep depression. A depression that is even deeper than that in your couch. One would think being funnier than sliced bread would be sufficient enough to win some..
• It's cold!! I want the warmth back and until then I'm on a blog writing strike! Mother nature I'm looking directly at you. Or maybe I'm looking in the mirror at my windswept hair..
• I'm a strong believer in absence makes the heart grow fonder, hence my lack of blogs lately. You see I think that the longer I go without writing one the more people will want it. And when I finally write that magic blog I will be showered with confetti and praise and maybe a few fireworks cause I'm special like that. The point is you miss me! And I miss me too..just quietly.

To conclude I would like to announce that I am... back on the chain gang.

When The Dust Settles

I once got given soap in the shape of a slice of blueberry pie...needless to say, I never used it. Let this be a lesson to 'stupid people' we don't like soap! People who collect soap are sad and need a new hobby. Cause you know what? No one actually likes to get given soap that sits on your bathroom shelf and collects dust over the years then gets thrown in the bin. It doesn't smell nice, and it isn't useful! If you're going to collect things then collect puppies! With 10 puppies you'd never be lonely again. But with 10 bars of silly shaped soap you'd spend your lifetime in the shower trying to use them all up. And in case you haven't heard we are slowly but surely running out of water!!! *feigns shock*

Yes I can write blogs about soap and still have a credible reputation. I'm a busy nerdy person and haven't had time to observe real humans lately thus I resort to observing things around the house, like dusty bars of soap. Oh and another thing, no one uses hair gel anymore.

Let's Take A Train To Anywhere, I Want To Feel The Wind In My Hair With You

These empty walls bear no resemblance to you. To your love. My longing expression is cast back into my empty eyes. you are not out there, you are not in here either.

My soul slowly dies. I feel you slipping away from me. I'm looking for you, for your longing eyes to meet mine again. To enter my world. My empty world.

These people, these vacant empty people know nothing of my soul. Only that it is empty.

I yearn for you. For your warmth to fill this cold void beside me. I grasp the air desperately, but I do not grasp you. All I get is an empty reality. This world is empty without you. The warmth I crave is far. Your world is removed from mine. And I am cold.

Sweet About Me

So there's this little old lady who lives in the area. Some may call her a sweet little old lady, I've always wondered though, if this term only applies to actual physically 'little' old ladies..I mean if they were round at the hips would they still be referred to as 'little' old ladies...I ponder this only because I've never heard anyone say "Oh look at that sweet big old lady", it just doesn't sound right.

Well anyway, there's this little old lady who is often found pottering about in her garden, pulling out weeds, planting seeds, saving the world..you know, that kinda stuff. There have been times where I've gone out of my way to be noticed by her when walking past. I mean, who doesn't want a sweet little old lady to love them? Maybe she'd take me under her wing, she could show me her stamp collection and then her old photo albums, we would sit back in our matching rocking chairs on her porch and sip on our chilled lemonade. Sighing and reminiscing about our golden years. Of course she would have known I was just putting it on, the colour of my hair is as close to gold as I'm ever gonna get. Anyway so the sweet little old lady would play along with my fantasy as not to hurt my feelings, I'm more fragile than her 70 year old bones let me tell you. Feeling sorry for me she'd politely ask me to wait outside while she ducked in to fetch me some freshly baked cookies to take home, for you know..an after dinner treat. Now if this fantasy sounds familiar to you it's probably because you've thought about it too!

We had a great friendship, me and her. We just had this understanding. She was the sweet little old lady who dug up weeds in the garden and I was the stray puppy often found roaming down the street. Well...it was a great friendship, that was until her bald creepy looking son started standing by her fence daily like a guard dog, but even the ugliest dog was still well..cute. This cannot be said of her 'son'. Maybe he was her new best friend? Had i been replaced? Maybe she feared for her safety and needed a dog with abit more bite, I'm alot of things but I'm not fierce. Not Tyra Banks ffffierce anyway. In fact, I think even ants silently mock me. I'd have to accept it though, I was no longer needed and that was just fine. I didn't need her anyway.

From then on I decided to walk on the other side of the road, the view was better anyway. And as I'd pass the sweet little old ladies house I'd glance over with a glazed look in my eyes. How could anyone say no to this cute puppy?

This had all been long forgotten and buried deep in my pit of abandonment until today. I saw her again. But this time not at her usual hang but at the bus stop! No weeds here. She looked very very conspicuous mind you. Like a secret agent..only she wore grey and a pretty hat. She looked excited, she was going somewhere, she was doing something, she was someone. And she had something in her bag...I wonder what it was. Dog food perhaps.

Hair's To You

Well it looks like she is back to her old tricks again. One day she is blasting molten rocks at our feet and the next, icy daggers at our hearts.

I should've expected this though. It never stays sunny for long in the ghetto, especially not the green ghetto. There's hardly a day that goes by that it isn't windy here. I have come to accept this and have even tried to make light of the living conditions. Maybe this is a good time to try that new hairstyle I'd say to myself as the fierce wind gave me a comb over that would make even Donald Trump envious. If only he had more hair like me..maybe then it would work.

While days like this leave me open to experiment with my hair, albeit against my will, I find that these are the only days I'd get away with the 'windswept' look. Had I attempted these kinds of young crazy styles on days where the sun was shining and not even Metro Stations pseudo rock song Shake It could get the leaves to rustle I'd have been laughed at, jeered, and made an example of.

Teacher - "Now class here's what NOT to do when you are going through a mid-adolescent crisis."

I'd hide my face in shame, I used to be cool I'd whisper to myself in the locked bathroom cubicle.

So while I usually curse and complain about these annoyingly windy days in the ghetto, I should really be thankful for them. Because without the wind I'd have a normal boring hairstyle just like the rest of you fish.

Ode To

Their actions do not depict a convincing truth, their easy words fall over my tired ears. What is truth. What are these words meant to mean. Your weak attempts to keep me by your wayside fail foolishly. I'm not that easily bought.

I saw you sprinkling your selfish words over my heart last night. When you left, I shook them all off. Shook them off so you'd never get to me again, never get in my heart. I can't have you in here, crashing into walls, cutting little holes in my interior. I can't breathe. I can't survive.

I will use you. Like you used me. I'll use the material you gave me, the pain, I'll use the pain to sew my heart back up again. And this time it will be stronger. It won't tear easily. I'll put a sign on the door this time. No YOU allowed. I'll watch from my perch as you lurk outside. I'll watch you consult the dictionary, looking for new words to win me over. But you won't. Your words won't. Not this time.