A face with cruel intent
A smile so falsely bent
A face with evil eyes
A mouth with consecutive lies
A face so full of spite
The jaws ready to bite
A face i want to pulverize
For being so publicly nice
A face perfectly kind
To an untrained mind
A face with malicious intent
A smile so falsely bent.
*abbie*
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
No joy for the miner's boy.
There was a sorrow on the streets of the town. If you breathed deep you could smell it; the stench of fear and decay. If you swallowed a bitter taste would burn the back of your throat with a vengence. The thriving mining community was dead now and the 'backbone' of Britain was broken into a thousands pieces of shattered dreams. The pits were closed, unemployment rife and where there was once hope there was now heroin. The sign said, "Welcome to Hemsworth, West Yorkshire."
I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay, is what he thought with a sarcastic sense of humour that only he seemed to understand. In fact, sometimes even he was perplexed. His own thoughts seemed to confuse himself. The thoughts he was having at present, were perhaps the most confusing of all. Just why was he living here? He supposed it was because he always had. Thats when he decided right there and then, decending the stairs of the job centre for the second time in the same week; that this wasn't a good enough reson at all.
He would pack his bags tonight and leave at dawn. Although, this "irrational plan" didn't go down well with his mother, he had made up his mind. The exhilirating feeling of escape and freedom outweighed the convienience of staying at home.
*Abbie*
I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay, is what he thought with a sarcastic sense of humour that only he seemed to understand. In fact, sometimes even he was perplexed. His own thoughts seemed to confuse himself. The thoughts he was having at present, were perhaps the most confusing of all. Just why was he living here? He supposed it was because he always had. Thats when he decided right there and then, decending the stairs of the job centre for the second time in the same week; that this wasn't a good enough reson at all.
He would pack his bags tonight and leave at dawn. Although, this "irrational plan" didn't go down well with his mother, he had made up his mind. The exhilirating feeling of escape and freedom outweighed the convienience of staying at home.
*Abbie*
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
snail crossings in the night, part something
He rolled home, late evening, in a snake of red light on warmed tarmac. Irritatingly sober, rolled down his street and parked over the neighbours driveway. He would move the car in the morning, afraid that his wife would hear its adulterous growl. He shut the door softly, having laundered his clothes, padded, sock footed, up the drive and slid in the back door. Nobody steals from suburbia. Blind, he waded the darkness to his daughters bedroom, two flights up, four doors along. Her room was bathed in soft jade. She slept, foetal, thumb sucking child. Disney adorned the walls, carbon copies of a thousand children’s bedrooms, purged of originality. He gazed at the motifed wallpaper. Tigger grinned maliciously at him.
He pictured her when she was five, having climbed dangerously high into the fig tree at the wild, unkempt end of the garden, waving her soft toy Tigger at him, smiling, playing houses in the leaves and branches, building A.A. Milne cities eight feet off the ground whilst he paced, agitated, two feet below her on the earth. She told him to turn around for a second, to show him something, so he turned, faced the gravel pitted, ivy covered wall, and waited. He could hear her soft breathing behind him, the fig tree groaning, and then heard a sickening thud onto the earth behind him. He watched the ivy in the silence, breaking it with an ‘are you ready yet?’, but nothing came. “Tell me when you are then”, he told the ivy covered wall, and stayed there, for seven ticking minutes, listening to the music of his own heartbeat.
“Justin?” his wife had appeared at the hole in the hedge. “Oh FUCK! What have you done?”
He counted 11 leaves of ivy, and turned round, slowly. His daughter was lying on a bed of soft earth, her limbs at all the wrong angles, still as his breath. His wife had climbed through the hedge and gathered her child into her pale arms, then disappeared, breathing hysterically, back through the hedge and into the house. He had looked at the crater his daughter had created in the earth. He looked up at the branches she had been playing in. Tigger and his menagerie sat there, smirking at him. Sirens wailed in the distance. He turned back to the ivy covered wall.
Now, in the jade tinted bedroom, he gazed down at his other daughter, now nine, almost carbon copy of her sister, and stroked her ruffled, soft hair. He picked her sister’s Tigger from her arms and held it, softly, to his lips, and then hers, their faces buried alternately in its lurid, acrylic fur.
He put Tigger back into her arms, his face curled against her chest and walked softly across the misted carpet to the door. He turned the handle, knife cold, and stepped back into the night of the hallway. He glanced back into the green. She looked like a sea fairy, swathed in a wave of dusky sheets. Undine.
He slid into bed beside his cream skinned wife, buried his nose in her exquisitely perfumed hair, and drifted into sleep.
Morning, his unconsciousness pierced by sirens, he sat up, gazing through half set eyes at the desert of sheets spread before him. He pulled his flannel robe from the floor and clothed himself, and, wrapped in its soft cotton, lurched towards the door. He took the stairs two at a time, past his daughters bedroom, the light emanating therein now fainter, softer, deadened. He reached opened front door and halted, silhouetted against the day. A hulk of an ambulance sat in the driveway, its back doors flung open, its blue hat of light a flashing, false dawn, the paramedics’ faces cerulean as they swam in their reflective skins around a lone little girl, beginning to wrap her quiet form in a whirl of white sheets, ocean foam, her blonde head a bubble in its surface. Swathed angelically now in a wave of powdered sheets, he wondered whose daughter this dead little girl was. She bore a vague resemblance to his children, but they were safely tucked away in bed, sleeping like carved angels. He watched a tall, blonde haired woman wrapped in a kimono bend over the frozen stretcher and kiss it. The kimono was a deep indigo, almost black, embroidered. It was almost identical to the one he had found and given to his wife as a gift on their honeymoon to Japan. The second day, morning, they had wandered aimlessly around monuments, craft fairs and markets, hopelessly in love, fresh romance warming their skin as they danced, silken footed, across lilied pools and market squares, a CGI masterpiece. It was when they stopped, and the spinning world had stopped its dizzying orbit, that they saw a shining length of indigo fabric ruffling in the breeze by the lake that they had rested at to have lunch. He had started towards it, pulling his wife after him as it caught the air and sailed away from them.
Waltzing after it at an exhilarated gallop, they had followed innocently in its midnight wake as it was caught on dying gusts of wind. Through the dead grass fields they followed it, their soft western skin torn by stems as thick as reeds as it cavorted, tantalising, inches from their polished fingertips. Pursued it, anxious, now obsessively dancing its rhythm of manic beauty and grace, he knew he was going to get it, catch its whispering figure in his hands, yet still it had eluded him and his feet beat hard on the earth and his wife, behind, fragile on the grass, until it snagged on a tree and he captured it, elated, and clothed his wife in it, now limp, muted, a ghost of elegance.
But the woman in the kimono was his wife, and the child was his daughter, and in an active unacknowledgement of this, Justin ran away to his whore.
He pictured her when she was five, having climbed dangerously high into the fig tree at the wild, unkempt end of the garden, waving her soft toy Tigger at him, smiling, playing houses in the leaves and branches, building A.A. Milne cities eight feet off the ground whilst he paced, agitated, two feet below her on the earth. She told him to turn around for a second, to show him something, so he turned, faced the gravel pitted, ivy covered wall, and waited. He could hear her soft breathing behind him, the fig tree groaning, and then heard a sickening thud onto the earth behind him. He watched the ivy in the silence, breaking it with an ‘are you ready yet?’, but nothing came. “Tell me when you are then”, he told the ivy covered wall, and stayed there, for seven ticking minutes, listening to the music of his own heartbeat.
“Justin?” his wife had appeared at the hole in the hedge. “Oh FUCK! What have you done?”
He counted 11 leaves of ivy, and turned round, slowly. His daughter was lying on a bed of soft earth, her limbs at all the wrong angles, still as his breath. His wife had climbed through the hedge and gathered her child into her pale arms, then disappeared, breathing hysterically, back through the hedge and into the house. He had looked at the crater his daughter had created in the earth. He looked up at the branches she had been playing in. Tigger and his menagerie sat there, smirking at him. Sirens wailed in the distance. He turned back to the ivy covered wall.
Now, in the jade tinted bedroom, he gazed down at his other daughter, now nine, almost carbon copy of her sister, and stroked her ruffled, soft hair. He picked her sister’s Tigger from her arms and held it, softly, to his lips, and then hers, their faces buried alternately in its lurid, acrylic fur.
He put Tigger back into her arms, his face curled against her chest and walked softly across the misted carpet to the door. He turned the handle, knife cold, and stepped back into the night of the hallway. He glanced back into the green. She looked like a sea fairy, swathed in a wave of dusky sheets. Undine.
He slid into bed beside his cream skinned wife, buried his nose in her exquisitely perfumed hair, and drifted into sleep.
Morning, his unconsciousness pierced by sirens, he sat up, gazing through half set eyes at the desert of sheets spread before him. He pulled his flannel robe from the floor and clothed himself, and, wrapped in its soft cotton, lurched towards the door. He took the stairs two at a time, past his daughters bedroom, the light emanating therein now fainter, softer, deadened. He reached opened front door and halted, silhouetted against the day. A hulk of an ambulance sat in the driveway, its back doors flung open, its blue hat of light a flashing, false dawn, the paramedics’ faces cerulean as they swam in their reflective skins around a lone little girl, beginning to wrap her quiet form in a whirl of white sheets, ocean foam, her blonde head a bubble in its surface. Swathed angelically now in a wave of powdered sheets, he wondered whose daughter this dead little girl was. She bore a vague resemblance to his children, but they were safely tucked away in bed, sleeping like carved angels. He watched a tall, blonde haired woman wrapped in a kimono bend over the frozen stretcher and kiss it. The kimono was a deep indigo, almost black, embroidered. It was almost identical to the one he had found and given to his wife as a gift on their honeymoon to Japan. The second day, morning, they had wandered aimlessly around monuments, craft fairs and markets, hopelessly in love, fresh romance warming their skin as they danced, silken footed, across lilied pools and market squares, a CGI masterpiece. It was when they stopped, and the spinning world had stopped its dizzying orbit, that they saw a shining length of indigo fabric ruffling in the breeze by the lake that they had rested at to have lunch. He had started towards it, pulling his wife after him as it caught the air and sailed away from them.
Waltzing after it at an exhilarated gallop, they had followed innocently in its midnight wake as it was caught on dying gusts of wind. Through the dead grass fields they followed it, their soft western skin torn by stems as thick as reeds as it cavorted, tantalising, inches from their polished fingertips. Pursued it, anxious, now obsessively dancing its rhythm of manic beauty and grace, he knew he was going to get it, catch its whispering figure in his hands, yet still it had eluded him and his feet beat hard on the earth and his wife, behind, fragile on the grass, until it snagged on a tree and he captured it, elated, and clothed his wife in it, now limp, muted, a ghost of elegance.
But the woman in the kimono was his wife, and the child was his daughter, and in an active unacknowledgement of this, Justin ran away to his whore.
*******
By day, she labours
beneath a monotonous reality
by night her mind twists around
what it is to be alive
carousel, in this not so soporific darkness
hansel's bone finger reaches out
and pushes against the white wall
in the dark, until his knuckles
crack, and fingers bleed
red as the old scarlet room
smiling and nodding, her speciality in the
transparent blue, other, anticipates drip, elsewhere fabric
cocooned in it. Reminiscing of shadows and spirals
and light
June 13th
13th June
and likes to pick back over
thirteen more
hey, i actually got round to posting something... dont you just love late night procrastination!
Mado
beneath a monotonous reality
by night her mind twists around
what it is to be alive
carousel, in this not so soporific darkness
hansel's bone finger reaches out
and pushes against the white wall
in the dark, until his knuckles
crack, and fingers bleed
red as the old scarlet room
smiling and nodding, her speciality in the
transparent blue, other, anticipates drip, elsewhere fabric
cocooned in it. Reminiscing of shadows and spirals
and light
June 13th
13th June
and likes to pick back over
thirteen more
hey, i actually got round to posting something... dont you just love late night procrastination!
Mado
Monday, September 12, 2005
The Adventures of The Unadventurous - Pt. 2
How dare she question his accent! He’d earned it in the city. It was rightfully his. He’d lived there for thirteen years you know? And thirteen years of living in the city changes a person. She felt embarrassed by his anger and wished that her last words had not been said, but they had and now he was upset, she could see it and he knew she could see it. And the clothes! He thought they suited him just fine. Yes - he wanted them to shout “I’m better than you!” at those who walked passed trying not to make eye contact, because they felt inferior and didn’t want to show it. So what if he’d changed! Was he not allowed to? He’d readily admit that he was ashamed of his roots; that they clung to him and not the other way around.
He left her at the train station knowing they would all hear of the big shot, big man, big faker he had become. He heard their sighs and felt ashamed. He hoped they would know that he earned it all. That after thirteen years there are certain things the city owes you, and there are also certain things that can’t be resisted. Yeah, he’d taken the big car and the big house, but the city’s a big place and you can often feel pretty insignificant.
- Rose *
He left her at the train station knowing they would all hear of the big shot, big man, big faker he had become. He heard their sighs and felt ashamed. He hoped they would know that he earned it all. That after thirteen years there are certain things the city owes you, and there are also certain things that can’t be resisted. Yeah, he’d taken the big car and the big house, but the city’s a big place and you can often feel pretty insignificant.
- Rose *
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Dark
I'm in the dark again
Literally, figuratively
What does it matter?
The absence of light
The presence of darkness
All this just appears to me
In some dark, dingy cavern
Do I even know what this is?
Words made into sentences
No sense or meaning
Literally or figuratively
I don't even know what I'm saying anymore
By Trish
Literally, figuratively
What does it matter?
The absence of light
The presence of darkness
All this just appears to me
In some dark, dingy cavern
Do I even know what this is?
Words made into sentences
No sense or meaning
Literally or figuratively
I don't even know what I'm saying anymore
By Trish
The Prom
You went to prom?
If I cut my fringe zigzag
And die it black,
Should I wear drainpipes too?
You went to prom,
Masqueraded with the macho kids,
Kids that are just that,
Young,
And didn’t realise what a man-fest the scene is,
You went to prom?
Alternative fashion-she diva,
You only hang with the beautiful,
I bet your parents don’t understand
Your version of ‘beautiful’
After all,
Your aesthetic is life,
Never touched a book or thought about politics,
Never thought about the music,
You should play an instrument she-diva,
And listen truly to the sound of life,
But how tight are your tee-shirts?
Do they restrict the blood to your heart so much
You forgot how to feel compassion?
You went to prom?
You went to prom?
You went to prom?
You infested my culture
With your old hierarchy
And you took it to the prom.
Pippa XOXO
If I cut my fringe zigzag
And die it black,
Should I wear drainpipes too?
You went to prom,
Masqueraded with the macho kids,
Kids that are just that,
Young,
And didn’t realise what a man-fest the scene is,
You went to prom?
Alternative fashion-she diva,
You only hang with the beautiful,
I bet your parents don’t understand
Your version of ‘beautiful’
After all,
Your aesthetic is life,
Never touched a book or thought about politics,
Never thought about the music,
You should play an instrument she-diva,
And listen truly to the sound of life,
But how tight are your tee-shirts?
Do they restrict the blood to your heart so much
You forgot how to feel compassion?
You went to prom?
You went to prom?
You went to prom?
You infested my culture
With your old hierarchy
And you took it to the prom.
Pippa XOXO
Friday, September 09, 2005
Not your background tune
Throwing out words
Hoping ears will catch
Todays not good for fishing
No hope in me wishing
Everyone has their own stuff to do
And I become a background tune.
*Abbie*
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The Adventures of The Unadventurous - Pt. 1
He walked the long road looking back occasionally to make sure no one was following him; because although he wasn't scared he was still cautious, and had always been this way. It was noted in jest that he was the first, usually the only, to ask whether what was about to take place was a good idea. Maybe it was his cautious nature that had seen him prefer the comfort of familiarity to the excitement of the unknown since the day he was the young boy - lost in a crowd. It wasn't that he had no desire to step into the unknown; it was just that his temperament had never let him. He admired those who went on great journeys, especially if they went alone, and even more so if they were unsure of where their travels would take them. However, he knew he would never belong to those precious few whose only fear was what they knew too well.
He had been walking for almost two hours and the back problems that had accompanied him through the latter part of his life were starting to cause a small amount of pain. He had fallen from a tree in his early twenties, landing awkwardly and never fully recovering. Knowing full well that he was lost he felt sad that he was not further from his house; because only reaching the outskirts of your own town could hardly be called an adventure, and getting lost after only walking for a short while could definitely be seen as a failure.
- Rose*
He had been walking for almost two hours and the back problems that had accompanied him through the latter part of his life were starting to cause a small amount of pain. He had fallen from a tree in his early twenties, landing awkwardly and never fully recovering. Knowing full well that he was lost he felt sad that he was not further from his house; because only reaching the outskirts of your own town could hardly be called an adventure, and getting lost after only walking for a short while could definitely be seen as a failure.
- Rose*
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Entitled
Most of the world is black and white
Either you are wrong or you are right
I didn’t mean that to rhyme
It’s true
No, saying ‘gay’ when you mean ‘bad’
Doesn’t make you trendy or cool
Means you have a limited vocabulary
Stupid
No, it’s not ‘PC’
When you say that I’m ‘PC’
I don’t keel over and die
Stupid
No, feminism isn’t ‘outdated’
It’s not ‘silly’ or about ‘hating men’
It’s the reason you can vote
Stupid
No, gay people aren’t ‘unnatural’
Or ‘immoral’ or ‘ick’
You’re bigoted
Stupid
You are wrong (and stupid)
Entitled or not
By Trish
Either you are wrong or you are right
I didn’t mean that to rhyme
It’s true
No, saying ‘gay’ when you mean ‘bad’
Doesn’t make you trendy or cool
Means you have a limited vocabulary
Stupid
No, it’s not ‘PC’
When you say that I’m ‘PC’
I don’t keel over and die
Stupid
No, feminism isn’t ‘outdated’
It’s not ‘silly’ or about ‘hating men’
It’s the reason you can vote
Stupid
No, gay people aren’t ‘unnatural’
Or ‘immoral’ or ‘ick’
You’re bigoted
Stupid
You are wrong (and stupid)
Entitled or not
By Trish
Friday, September 02, 2005
Tampons
Do
You
Pay
To BLEED?
An ugly death-breeding money pharmacutical
company
Profits from our childgiving resourcefulness
What
Do
You
Pay
Tax for?
BLEACH
BLEACH
BLEACH
A dead disposable landfill?
And the MEN who run these companies
MOCK
OUR
WOMANHOOD,
THEY
RAPE
OUR
STATUS,
What do you pay for?
Do you pay to BLEED?
Do you pay to BLEED?
Do you pay to BLEED?
http://bloodsisters.org/bloodsisters/
Pippa X
You
Pay
To BLEED?
An ugly death-breeding money pharmacutical
company
Profits from our childgiving resourcefulness
What
Do
You
Pay
Tax for?
BLEACH
BLEACH
BLEACH
A dead disposable landfill?
And the MEN who run these companies
MOCK
OUR
WOMANHOOD,
THEY
RAPE
OUR
STATUS,
What do you pay for?
Do you pay to BLEED?
Do you pay to BLEED?
Do you pay to BLEED?
http://bloodsisters.org/bloodsisters/
Pippa X
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Writing is difficult
Writing is difficult especially for me. I sometimes wish I was one of those people who can just sit down with pen in hand and write. I have to make a conscious effort. I have to be in the right mood or else I write absolute rubbish or I can’t write at all. It is at these times, during the writer’s block apparently unique to me, that I appreciate how difficult the career of ‘author’ is. At these times I wonder how long JRR Tolkien sat pondering his writing ability before writing The Lord of the Rings. Did he write it in one go? A chapter a day? A line a day? Did it take him decades to get it just the way he wanted it? And then I wonder why I’m even subconsciously comparing myself to the writer of one of the most successful stories of our time.
I also think about JK Rowling. Before anyone says, anything, I won’t deny that I love Harry Potter. Wander off to my myspace profile and you will find that it is listed first in my Favourite Books section. (You’ll also find that I love Justin Timberlake and Romeo + Juliet, ooh-er!). I have just finished rereading the Order of the Phoenix, I blubbed all the way through thanks to its rather trangic ending and after wiping away the last few tears and closing the book I raced over to the computer, knocking my net-obsessed sister to the wayside and preordered the Half Blood Prince. I’m now counting the days until it arrives (25 at the moment) with tickers on my MSN, my myspace and one soon to be added to my LJ (that’s Livejournal to you). I’ve gone off on a tangent…I think about JK Rowling and half of me understands how difficult it must be to write a book that tops your last while being mother to three children under 12. Just finding time to write that isn’t 3.20am must be a godsend. But then the other half, the selfish self serving part of me, wants her to get to her computer and get to it now. And not only that, she must have produced the seventh book within three months of the release of Half Blood Prince. Right now, I’m feeling sympathetic towards her though. But I’ll stop there before I babble even further about my deep seated love for Harry Potter.
Back to writing, it took me ages to get round to writing this article. Attempts at all sorts of topics before settling on one that actually meant something to me. Not that the other subjects weren’t important to me in their own way, just that this one was truly the way I was feeling and hot how I thought I should feel in order to produce an at least partially interesting piece of writing.
It’s also a good topic because I am coming to the stage children around the world look forward to and then dread as soon as they reach it. Where I realize the ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ answers I gave as an eight year old. I am, believe it or not, choosing what I want to do with the rest of my life. And for what feels like the first time, there are so many options. If I really wanted to, I could become a doctor. But I don’t want to. But I could if I wanted to! That’s the scary thing: I can do whatever the hell I want. I have yearned for this throughout my childhood and now when it comes to it, I can’t do it. There are too many options and too many are appealing in their own little ways. I once read a book about a village in which, at age 13, teenagers of the village shuffle into a hall and are told what they will do. Nurses, teachers, doctors…they are all carefully allotted a career the elders (it was a strange book) think is best for them. At the time of reading I was horrified. These poor kids being forced into occupations they might not enjoy. That was a mere four years ago. Now, I would kill to take the place of one of those kids. Someone saying, ‘here Trish, a career just for you’ sounds like divine inspiration to me.
So maybe I’ll be a writer. Maybe I’ll spend my life writing about how difficult writing is. Maybe.
ADD-ON: This article was written a month ago, when roses were still red and life was still wonderful. Then, in the last days of the countdown to the release of Half Blood Prince (HBP), things went wrong for me. The pre order was cancelled mysteriously with three days to go. We (I roped my aforementioned net obsessed sister in on the deal) called the company and sorted everything out. It turned out there was a bit of a misunderstanding between us and the Terms and Conditions. Then on the day the book was supposed to be courieried to the house, they tell us that we live in a ‘red zone’ and that the book will only arrive on Saturday. To top the cake, I open PT and someone has posted the spoiler in a thread that has absolutely nothing to do with Harry Potter. I eventually got hold of the book at a local bookstore and had read it all by Sunday afternoon. Then I went to PT and condemned all those who spoiled the book for others to hell. Damn, that was fun.
Anyway, the book was extremely sad and I cried even worse than when reading OotP (Order of the Phoenix, duh!). But I won’t reveal what happens in the book because I am civilized. Good luck on holding back the tears to all that read it.
By Trish
I also think about JK Rowling. Before anyone says, anything, I won’t deny that I love Harry Potter. Wander off to my myspace profile and you will find that it is listed first in my Favourite Books section. (You’ll also find that I love Justin Timberlake and Romeo + Juliet, ooh-er!). I have just finished rereading the Order of the Phoenix, I blubbed all the way through thanks to its rather trangic ending and after wiping away the last few tears and closing the book I raced over to the computer, knocking my net-obsessed sister to the wayside and preordered the Half Blood Prince. I’m now counting the days until it arrives (25 at the moment) with tickers on my MSN, my myspace and one soon to be added to my LJ (that’s Livejournal to you). I’ve gone off on a tangent…I think about JK Rowling and half of me understands how difficult it must be to write a book that tops your last while being mother to three children under 12. Just finding time to write that isn’t 3.20am must be a godsend. But then the other half, the selfish self serving part of me, wants her to get to her computer and get to it now. And not only that, she must have produced the seventh book within three months of the release of Half Blood Prince. Right now, I’m feeling sympathetic towards her though. But I’ll stop there before I babble even further about my deep seated love for Harry Potter.
Back to writing, it took me ages to get round to writing this article. Attempts at all sorts of topics before settling on one that actually meant something to me. Not that the other subjects weren’t important to me in their own way, just that this one was truly the way I was feeling and hot how I thought I should feel in order to produce an at least partially interesting piece of writing.
It’s also a good topic because I am coming to the stage children around the world look forward to and then dread as soon as they reach it. Where I realize the ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ answers I gave as an eight year old. I am, believe it or not, choosing what I want to do with the rest of my life. And for what feels like the first time, there are so many options. If I really wanted to, I could become a doctor. But I don’t want to. But I could if I wanted to! That’s the scary thing: I can do whatever the hell I want. I have yearned for this throughout my childhood and now when it comes to it, I can’t do it. There are too many options and too many are appealing in their own little ways. I once read a book about a village in which, at age 13, teenagers of the village shuffle into a hall and are told what they will do. Nurses, teachers, doctors…they are all carefully allotted a career the elders (it was a strange book) think is best for them. At the time of reading I was horrified. These poor kids being forced into occupations they might not enjoy. That was a mere four years ago. Now, I would kill to take the place of one of those kids. Someone saying, ‘here Trish, a career just for you’ sounds like divine inspiration to me.
So maybe I’ll be a writer. Maybe I’ll spend my life writing about how difficult writing is. Maybe.
ADD-ON: This article was written a month ago, when roses were still red and life was still wonderful. Then, in the last days of the countdown to the release of Half Blood Prince (HBP), things went wrong for me. The pre order was cancelled mysteriously with three days to go. We (I roped my aforementioned net obsessed sister in on the deal) called the company and sorted everything out. It turned out there was a bit of a misunderstanding between us and the Terms and Conditions. Then on the day the book was supposed to be courieried to the house, they tell us that we live in a ‘red zone’ and that the book will only arrive on Saturday. To top the cake, I open PT and someone has posted the spoiler in a thread that has absolutely nothing to do with Harry Potter. I eventually got hold of the book at a local bookstore and had read it all by Sunday afternoon. Then I went to PT and condemned all those who spoiled the book for others to hell. Damn, that was fun.
Anyway, the book was extremely sad and I cried even worse than when reading OotP (Order of the Phoenix, duh!). But I won’t reveal what happens in the book because I am civilized. Good luck on holding back the tears to all that read it.
By Trish
Stereotype
White bleach teeth
Eyes like TV's
Zombie-face stare
Smile family
Driving oversized
Pick-me-up trucks,
Running circles
Around good luck.
Pippa X
Eyes like TV's
Zombie-face stare
Smile family
Driving oversized
Pick-me-up trucks,
Running circles
Around good luck.
Pippa X
Fuck
Fuck
Dear life not intended to be mine,
I hate being alone,
In the cinema,
When your friends,
Are someplace else,
And that boy,
That cannot be bothered,
But your mother,
Knows exactly what's wrong,
When you don't want her to,
Because you're afraid you'll turn into her,
But deep down,
You know that kids like you,
Create problems for yourself,
So you won't die,
Of utter boredom,
In your perfect life.
Pippa X
Dear life not intended to be mine,
I hate being alone,
In the cinema,
When your friends,
Are someplace else,
And that boy,
That cannot be bothered,
But your mother,
Knows exactly what's wrong,
When you don't want her to,
Because you're afraid you'll turn into her,
But deep down,
You know that kids like you,
Create problems for yourself,
So you won't die,
Of utter boredom,
In your perfect life.
Pippa X
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