( syncedoche, new york )

( valentine )

its may. i am 23 in 27 days.

like every girl, i only need to look up and a little to the right of me to see the hysteria that belongs to me, the one that hangs on a hook like an empty jacket and flutters with disappointment that i cannot wear her all the time. i call her my hysteric, and this personal hysteric of mine is designer made (although i'm not sure who made her), flattering, comfortable, attractive even, if yr around people who like that sort of thing. she is not anyone, my hysteric; she is blank electricity dancing around a filament, singing to kill. it's not that there are two majas; there is only one but she can disappear into her own tension and may one day never come back.

amy eleni gets it. when i first tried to describe the hysteric to her she snorted and said "you can't speak for all of us. my personal hysteric walks three paces behind me at all times, and when its all a bit much i kind of hang back and she kind of hurries forward and she jumps on my back and takes me down. then she stands up in my place." i said i didn't like that idea. i said it sounded like a denial of responsibility, a denial that amy eleni was underneath her hysteric. "i am underneath her" amy eleni said, "she has her fucking stilettos digging into my spine".

the author of the book from which that quote was taken from was born in 1984.

in this house i am sick doing or saying something even slightly unfavourable then hearing the fatal words "you sound just like yr father" or "aye yr yr mothers daughter alright". what a disgusting hybrid i must be if i am made up off all my parent's unattractive qualities.

( deborah wrote me this two years ago )

'love? an invention of men to make us bend to their will. believe me tasha, love or not, without money, a woman is at the mercy of men.'
'i don't agree, and anyway if you have an artistic passion, money takes second place.'
'does it? why shouldn't art be renumberated? love is, often.'
'yes, but only prostitutes..'
'by prostitutes you mean those amoral women, scorned by right-thinking people? but does prostitution not exist in every walk of life? doesn't the artist sell himself when he makes money out his talent? and the actor when he interprets someone else's text? the journalist when he writes what everyone wants to hear? even the bookseller, when he exchanges works he hasn't written, for coin of the realm?'
'are you refering to victor?'
'victor the vanquisher, that trips off the tongue. but be careful, his victory over you might cost you dear'
'no, ninon, you won't convince me. i love waking up beside him and having me hold him in his arms.'
'i like waking up beside a man too. as long as he gets up and goes away'

in my town in animal crossing today pascal was hanging about the beach. he asked if he could share some words of wisdom and i said yes.
he said "being in pain is natures way of telling you yr an idiot".

found them in the cupboard. i used to make loads of signs for my door when i was a kid. did anyone else do that? thats my own attempt at hieroglyphics. waaayhey.
i wish i was a 8 again.

when i say it's amazing i don't mean it in my normal everyday use of the word; i actually mean that right now i am amazed. it's worth the 8 minutes out of yr day. actually theres no point posting this i don't think anyone will care. oh well. sucks to yr ass-mar.

10 quid for a doctors note. 10 quid to explain to even more people why i am like this. 10 quid for even more shame induced panics at night. 10 quid to openly admit theres something wrong. again. 10 quid for 18 months of talkingtalkinglyingswallowing. 10 quid for the chance to be told its too late. 10 fucking quid.

( paris when it sizzles )

could fufillment ever be felt as deeply as loss? romantically she decided that love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fufillment, in the lack, not the contentment. love was the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.

i'm forever finding common identities with characters in the books i read. its comforting. my favourite people in the whole world dont even exist.
but now i'm starting to wonder if its all in my head and i'm just compiling a list of the people i want to be.

if we're having so much fun, how come i'm crying every monday? is it just to cancel out the laughter from thursday 'til sunday? i spend the next two days in bed and wonder what it's all about, and when I start to feel okay I know it's time to go back out. i've had the same look on my face for the last two lonely years. twenty-four months of bargain pills, cheeky lines and stolen beers. in all the pictures that i've got, my eyes are so black and wide, and if you look long enough you'll see there's not much life inside.
when I get home in the morning trisha's hosting a debate - if you don't like the fish you're catching then you've got to change the bait.

i need to get a grip.

Manifestations of instability of female body.

Wandering womb.
"hysteria".
Instability of mind.
Nervousness.
Madness/lunacy.
Eating disorders.

( makes me feel good )