SIGH

That is all. I've had enough of this. I want to end everything. This blog, this life, this stupid, gnawing sense of nihilistic pain and grief and sadness. It's not even though I have anything to be bereaved for - no lost love, no lost love. I never had any. I want to die; the pain is just unbearable now. I don't even have AIDS, it was a cold. I'll have to do it all myself now. It's all down to me. I've got a stack of valium and some White Lightning. It will be a beautiful end. Mum's making pie.

Deptford Burns

I read the news today and it's as full as it always is with deplorable tragedy and suffering around the world. Millions of people are dying even as I type this. Wars fought over resources have a horrific body count just to make rich politicians richer.

Finally a voice is heard in the darkness speaking truth.

Apparently trains aren't working today because there's a major fire in Deptford. If only I lived in Deptford, I could have burned to death, along with all of my dreams.

Flesh is weak as sin.

The body is but a vessel for the soul,
A puppet which bends to the soul’s tyranny.
And lo, the body is not eternal,
For it must feed on the flesh of others,
Lest it return to the dust whence it came.
Therefore must the soul
Deceive, despise, and murder men.
-- A. J. Durai

Pain.

Give me a pain as pleasing as your sigh
So I can feel you all the day and night

I feel a failure at life, at times like this. Times when nothing changes. Times when angels dance. Times when lights are cast. Times when I realise that I am still the child I always was. A child inside of me, screaming and bawling at the vast uncaring universe.

I am so empty, and yet so very full, of sadness.

I'm still thinking of that boy from all those years ago. I failed then, but not as hard as I have failed now. So very much failed.

Death would seem like an escape, but alas even that is denied me.

I HAVE HIV!!!!1 :-(

I woke up this morning and the sheets were all wet. Luckily I got to put them in the washing machine before that fat bitch called the aneuresis nurse on me again. My body has always betrayed me. This time, though, it was sweat - I have a fever and a cough and there's this itchy patch on my arms that can't be because of the potato peeler self-harm thing because that was last week.

Mum says I have the flu, but I know I am SERACONVERTING. I guess it was only a matter of time before the dark gift would find me and take me into its embrace of oblivion. I looked it up on the internet. There was this survey I saw on this guy's MySpace page - and I answered yes to like three of the ten questions, so I must have it. I've injected drugs - there was that time when I had my teeth out. I've had sex without a condom - that old guy who looked like Gandalf wanked me off in Trash Palace last weekend and we didn't use a condom.

I am going to die. Can anyone help me?

Honey lemon and ginger is nice, so's having toast brought to me, but teh AIDS is FOREVER.

Sunshine would just dissolve me into light.

After the events of last night, this blog will be on hold for the foreseeable future.

Lies and Statistics

I'd read on the internet that loads of people read blogs, so when I set this up so you would all know the TRUTH about pain and understand that you all need to change and stop lying and being horrible to me. A single voice of eloquent words speaking out against the horrors of an unfair world, like a glimmering teardrop among the distant stars.

So I put up a web counter, which goes on the right. I don't understand what it means, though. One of them says I've had 84 hits, the other says I've had 2 unique visitors. I keep checking the page from here and from work to see if anyone's commented, but 84 hits is a lot, yes? It means people are reading! Eighty-four lost souls stumbled across my words of anguish, but only two of which are unique.

I'll keep checking from here and from work, but you 2 unique visitors, I love you. The 84 hits can fuck off, you nasty, perverted voyeurs. I bet you're here hoping for porn.

There's no porn here. I tried to take naked photos of myself so you could see my tattoo (which I have updated from saying WOO to saying WOØ which is sort of what I wanted, by using a marker pen) but I couldn't get the timer right and kept taking photos of my wall. I think it's a better portrait of me that way, though, one empty wall in darkness, assaulted by a snap of light.

I am a Sad Alpaca

As I mentioned before, I have a keen interest in the spirituality of other peoples, particularly Native American religions and paganism because they're so much more true than Christian lies. Christianity is just an illusion to control us and keep us from being in touch with our souls. Why would I worship some skinny dead dude nailed to a cross (although skinny boys with cuts are hot, but I don't like beards much and he never does his hair right) when there's Mountain Ghosts and Tree Spirits I could connect with much more readily? Trees don't lie. They REMEMBER.

So I found this quiz online. I'd put a link to it but I don't know how - my IT teacher hated me, fascist! It said I am an alpaca. It's like an Elan, which the sign at Windsor Park said were shy and elusive. I love animals; they don't lie. They bite you when they hate you and they walk away. People are full of shit. I was talking on thingbox to this guy and I really liked him and gave him my number and he didn't call me or reply or anything. His profile said he was looking for a relationship, so I offered him one and said the cool things we could do together and gave him my number. I checked on Sent Messages and he read it, but he didn't reply or call me or anything.

I don't know why I bother. I'd give up on men and sex if I could. But I need to have some to prove I'm giving it up rather than because no-one wants me. If that guy had replied and said he wanted that relationship with me, I'd have said no. I wouldn't want to go with a loser like that.

The heart is a lonely Alpaca.

Mon coeur est un alpaga isolé!

My nemesis.

Dido spews across the hall. The sounds of a bland balloon slowly deflating to music. Her songs are depressing to the extreme, but in all of the wrong ways. She does not understand me.

Mother finished my crunchy nut cornflakes again. She always eats my food, even though I buy it with MY OWN POCKET MONEY. No wonder she is so fat. A fat, thieving, lying, child-abusing whore. I can never believe she spawned me. Never. Perhaps it was like when Jesus was born. Something more beautiful, more brilliant, passed through a human body and out into the world.

Pity then that Jesus is a lie.

I only wish for the mellifluous sounds of silence to echo sonorously through these halls. Noise is terrible aggravating to persons of sensitivity such as myself.

It's been one of those awful mornings. Coffee tastes like rank piss mixed with shit and nobody on gaydar is interested. I complimented a beautiful man on his spelling and he said to me, he really said "sorry man your not my type". Was he mocking me? Was he? I can't tell.

I feel so alone. Oh! How I wish that man had not replied in such a way and instead wrapped me in his strong arms in an embrace so tight that he might never let me go. But alas, unhuggable.

Dear Diary...

...nothing to report on today. Just thought I'd write something just in case anyone is listening. Which you're not, I'm sure. LOL. This sucks. Why do I even bother writing? Should I give up?

School Slaughter

I well wish something like that had happened at my school. Nothing interesting ever happened at my school, other than that kid who had leukemia and died and he was jealous of my fringe. Stupid emo dead kid. 30 kids killed by the grumpy korean kid. Oh.

It was at a university. Still. Nothing interesting happened at my university. Not that I'd know. I never went because they were all très mean to me. Said I wasn't good enough to pass a degree in French, even though I'd go there every summer and everyone there understood me all the time. Well, as much as anyone ever understand me. La tristessa durera.

I wish there had been a massacre at my university. There was, of sorts, as the kids were brainwashed by the staff into giving up their sense of Truth and instead submitting to their lies. Teachers lie. I'd love to have seen them gunned down.

I wouldn't do it myself. I mean, I would, but I'm a pacifist. Except on my DS, where non-violence doesn't get you coins or mushrooms like it sort of does in the real world.

Cho Seung-hui, we fringed ones salute you.

Oh, Cho. Cho, Cho, Cho.
I'd loved to have been your classmate.
Although.
Cho. Cho, Cho, Cho Sueng-hui.
I'd really rather prefer it,
If you had killed me.

A poem, copyrighted to me, 2007 on this sad day. Kill me, Cho.

Je doit mourir.

So Unfair

So, she - the fat tyrant I live with, right - she forced me to leave the computer today. Again! It's so not fair. There was this cute Japanese kid at the restaurant we were at, but I was hung over and sad 'cause the guy I met at Ghetto last night didn't reply to any of the texts I sent him. I was sending him more under the table in case he had network trouble and hadn't got the others - there were only ten or so - since I went into the restaurant. So this kid, she got her ice cream and managed to get some of it on her face, all cream and raspberry sauce everywhere. Then, she tried to wipe herself clean and missed a bit. It was like she had shed a little tear of blood. Blood and spunk, maybe, but mostly blood.

I felt sad and I didn't finish my mango sorbet. It can't refresh the parts that I need reached.

I got home and my cow on Animal Crossing had left. I hate my mum.

Still no texts from Mr. Last Night. Sigh. Another £15 in credit down the drain in my futile search for love. "Y dont U luv m3?"

So, cowless and loveless,
alas, to bed, alone,
once more must I.

I wrote this for you, whoever you are.

...and for you, Pale Derision With A Crumpled Horn, where'er you are now. Mon vache, mon amour, ma woe.

Unmuggable?

I walk down the high street every day. Everyone else I know has been mugged.

Am I sending out some kind of signal?

:-(

Sometimes I dream of ancient machines...

There is a darkness within me that I cannot fully explain. There is a darkness within me that threatens to consume all, like choking smoke, and that would leave me cold, dead, without redemption.

Redemption is what I seek. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Someone once said (I think it was me that said it, actually) that redemption can only be sought and found through others. Which is why I need others in my life, even if they disgust me.

The problem with humans is that they are all liars. Liars and thieves. They'll tell you what you want to hear and run off with another piece of your heart.

Like the guy I was fucking last week. I thought he was really incredibly sexy. But when I called him this morning (five times it took to get an answer), he told me, sorry, no, I can't see you right now I'm at work.

It's this kind of timewasting lying shit that made me hang up on him. I'll never call him again.

I want to be redeemed. I want to find love like that, but when all around me are liars, dishonest people and timewasters, then all seems for naught.

Pets win prizes. But hate me.

My fish Morrissey died today. He was the last, the other Smiths had floated up to the top of the tank weeks ago but he was holding on, I thought out of some kind of bitter refusal but it seems he actually had some kind of infection. He exploded while I was feeding him. Maliciously.

Then I got a text msg from an online number "greg. sry 4 dyin. u r 2 D-pressing 2 liv wiv. Luv Fish"

Why oh why did someone send me that and not even find out the fish had a name. WHY!!!!!

I think it was my sister. Her and her "friends" are just cruel enough to do it. Maybe they made him explode too. I'm going to read her diary and maybe masturbate furiously while weeping. Oh and find out about the fish msg. After.

It's my birthday. Mother flagrantly disregarded my attempts to ignore the crass, sickly procession towards wormdom that is my aging process and decided that in an attempt to be "down with the kids" she would pay for "something gothy" to keep me "happy". I do not know how the world still has any inverted commas left with that woman spouting words she does not know how to use in an order they should never have been attempted. I decided to get a tattoo.

Because I hurt inside already.

But the man in the parlour misspelled Woe. Trust me to have picked a drunk tattoo artist. I have no-one to blame but myself. And my mother for having me.

My shoulder now reads "Woo!"

WILL MERCIFUL DEATH NOT CLAIM ME NOW! WHY DO YOU MOCK ME HECATE!!!

Another Sunny Day

It burns.

I went to work yesterday, even though it was sunny. I hate it that I have to work. They should just leave me alone. I got home in the evening and when I was doing my hair and ignoring the fat horrible woman downstairs (mum) I realised that half my face is red. I should have a fringe that hides all my face. I'd be like a muslim woman. I'm just as oppressed. But gay. And not muslim. And not a woman.

Sigh. Even the burkha would reject me.

The sun... it burns.
I want to live beneath the moon.

Why Do Films Have Happy Endings?

Life isn't like that. I watched The Brotherhood of the Wolf this evening. Mum kept making too much noise washing up because she hates me and doesn't want me to keep my French alive. La Francais est la langue de la woe.

The film was all about this monster that someone who pretends to have one arm brought back from Africa to terrorise pre-revolutionary French people. I don't know why he bothered when the revolution was coming. I thought he should have read history instead of hiding his arm. But I hide my arm sometimes. Mum took all the sharp things out of my room and bought me an electric shaver so I had to smuggle a potato peeler into my room to cut myself after the film.

I wanted to show on my skin how I feel within. Like in proper films, where no-one sails away to Africa at the end of it with a box of the ashes of a Native American. I wish I had a Native American blood brother. My mum said I should have looked after mopsy better when I was younger and not left the hutch open. Like it was my fault she died. Like I don't blame myself enough.

If only I had a Native American Blood Brother, he'd have thrown an axe in her fat head for being so mean to me. Mais je seulment me faire du mal a moi-meme. Alors. Le woe infinette. So I don't have a spirit animal because my mother is stupid.

Sigh. It's friday night and no-one's called me and three people defriended me on myspace at once. I wonder if anyone will talk to me at work tomorrow. I will hide my arm. That starch really hurts.

Ma mere est un canard. Elle ne me comprends rien.

:'(

I got the bus today and was listening to Keane on the iPod mum got me for Valentine's Day when this fat horrible woman sat next to me and tried to talk to me, but I ignored her and looked at the window at my reflection, it was like a ghost on the road outside. I read the woman's paper when she stopped staring at me and asking me to turn my music down. Her newspaper told me that Sol leWitt and Kurt Vonnegut both died today. I cried a little bit, but I think my fringe hid it.

How can the world go on now? I nearly missed my stop with grief but the horrible fat woman got off at the same stop as me.

I hate her. How come she doesn't understand the shame I feel at being seen next to someone who still finds pleasure in eating? It's like she's not rotting from the inside like I am. Then she called me "son" and I nearly died from shame. She was wearing green. I hate when mum makes me help her with the shopping.

She said there was someone else called Kurt, like a million years ago, and she had cried when he died. I think he was probably in Big Fun or something if she liked him. Like you can blame it on the boogie when the world is so empty of joy and brightness?

I hope she makes pie.