Did you know that over four hundred and fifty children have gone missing in the United Kingdom alone, since the disappearance of Madeleine McCann?
I can only wish that I was one of them. One of the faceless mass that disappear unnoticed by media attention. Slipping off into the night. Yes, I wish I could die like that.
I'm going to take a picture of myself in a football shirt and send it to The Sun and The Daily Mail. That'll sign my death warrant. It always does.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Another Weekend
Another disappointment.
After last year, where it was as though someone found my letters and read each one out loud, this year's Eurovision Song Contest was won by a bulldyke whose prior claim to fame was that she bit through the hull of a ship in the Cold War. My mother kept saying that I'd only be happy when they do an Emovision Song Contest, but she's mean. I'm not emo, it's not true. I hate how commercialised music has become associated with the pain that people feel and therefore it becomes all to easy for obese people like my mother to dismiss the suffering, the genuine suffering of people.
I walked out, telling her I wanted to move to Helsinki because the people there looked more like my kind of people. They wear black and hide their faces with their fringes. Well, it looks like half of them do, the others chat on Nokia phones and dress like Santa Claus.
I put on my iPod that I've coloured black with a marker pen because I don't want to look like I like Bono, then I walked out and kept on walking, disgusted that a punch-faced dyke won over any of the songs about sadness and strife.
It got cold so I went into Chariots. Just because it was cold and I didn't want to go home unless home was Helsinki. So I sank into hell. I sat in the dark room, on the floor, but it was too dark and some guy came in my ear while I was trying to cut my arm with the key for the locker, so I went and sat in the main room and tried to cut myself while people were watching porn. I ended up trying to use a ring-pull tag thing from a can of coke I'd found lying around.
A guy came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I ignored him but eventually he wouldn't go and the ring pull wouldn't cut. I told him I was sad because Eurovision had been won by a pinch-faced bitch rather than someone who sang about pain. Turns out the guy is Serbian, so he was pretty pleased that the pudgy pug had won. He took a look at my arms - turns out he is a vet, too, he said. He said I wouldn't die from the scratches on my arm and gave me some advice about how to tidy up cuts after I'd made them and said that I shouldn't feel sad that mum wouldn't let me get a hampster because they're rubbish.
I also complained to him about my cow and he seemed so genuinely worried I felt I couldn't tell him that it was a cow in Animal Crossing, not a real cow. The guy left after an hour of me crying and pulling on his arm when he'd said he had to go home with his boyfriend.
It's so fucking unfair. I never trust men. Especially not vets in saunas.
After last year, where it was as though someone found my letters and read each one out loud, this year's Eurovision Song Contest was won by a bulldyke whose prior claim to fame was that she bit through the hull of a ship in the Cold War. My mother kept saying that I'd only be happy when they do an Emovision Song Contest, but she's mean. I'm not emo, it's not true. I hate how commercialised music has become associated with the pain that people feel and therefore it becomes all to easy for obese people like my mother to dismiss the suffering, the genuine suffering of people.
I walked out, telling her I wanted to move to Helsinki because the people there looked more like my kind of people. They wear black and hide their faces with their fringes. Well, it looks like half of them do, the others chat on Nokia phones and dress like Santa Claus.
I put on my iPod that I've coloured black with a marker pen because I don't want to look like I like Bono, then I walked out and kept on walking, disgusted that a punch-faced dyke won over any of the songs about sadness and strife.
It got cold so I went into Chariots. Just because it was cold and I didn't want to go home unless home was Helsinki. So I sank into hell. I sat in the dark room, on the floor, but it was too dark and some guy came in my ear while I was trying to cut my arm with the key for the locker, so I went and sat in the main room and tried to cut myself while people were watching porn. I ended up trying to use a ring-pull tag thing from a can of coke I'd found lying around.
A guy came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I ignored him but eventually he wouldn't go and the ring pull wouldn't cut. I told him I was sad because Eurovision had been won by a pinch-faced bitch rather than someone who sang about pain. Turns out the guy is Serbian, so he was pretty pleased that the pudgy pug had won. He took a look at my arms - turns out he is a vet, too, he said. He said I wouldn't die from the scratches on my arm and gave me some advice about how to tidy up cuts after I'd made them and said that I shouldn't feel sad that mum wouldn't let me get a hampster because they're rubbish.
I also complained to him about my cow and he seemed so genuinely worried I felt I couldn't tell him that it was a cow in Animal Crossing, not a real cow. The guy left after an hour of me crying and pulling on his arm when he'd said he had to go home with his boyfriend.
It's so fucking unfair. I never trust men. Especially not vets in saunas.
Friday, May 11, 2007
ARGH!!!
I am boycotting the new transformers movie. Like, I cried when I saw the new designs. WTF?
Holywood cares not if it rapes all that is hallowed. I will never get the autobot insignia tattooed now, and it would have been so cool. Everything ruined and wrong, even the comforts get all chewed up and shit out again in the end.
I must have like the minatour touch or something, only everything I touch turns to shit.
Is everything I love destined to be turned against me, dark barbs tearing at my soul? If I had a soul.
I shattered my DVD of Armageddon and hid the shards under my mattress. The OC is on now.
Holywood cares not if it rapes all that is hallowed. I will never get the autobot insignia tattooed now, and it would have been so cool. Everything ruined and wrong, even the comforts get all chewed up and shit out again in the end.
I must have like the minatour touch or something, only everything I touch turns to shit.
Is everything I love destined to be turned against me, dark barbs tearing at my soul? If I had a soul.
I shattered my DVD of Armageddon and hid the shards under my mattress. The OC is on now.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Even death would be preferable to this.
I sit and lie
To myself, I.
I sometimes cry.
A bruise appears, blooms like a rose
How I got it, god only knows.
Yes only he could know my woes.
Pity then that he's dead
Saw our broken world and smashed his head
Like an egg dashed into a wall
And now our dark world will slowly fall.
No grace, no grace, no grace at all.
Our fleeting lights to darkness fall.
To myself, I.
I sometimes cry.
A bruise appears, blooms like a rose
How I got it, god only knows.
Yes only he could know my woes.
Pity then that he's dead
Saw our broken world and smashed his head
Like an egg dashed into a wall
And now our dark world will slowly fall.
No grace, no grace, no grace at all.
Our fleeting lights to darkness fall.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Hit Counter
Hit counter is right. You sit there and hit me in the gut every time you tick over.
355 have looked at my blog have they? Do any of them KNOW me? UNDERSTAND me? WANT me? If there was a hit counter for the number of people that existed in those categories it would be covered in the rust and decay of a thousand ages past.
I'm so alone, so small and empty. I want my hit counter to flick over by one and finally land on the magic combination that will open up my vault of a soul so that everyone can see what a beautiful and considerate man I am inside. Why is there no-one to pry me open and see the glory that's inside??
Maybe that's why I cut myself - to try and let people see the wonder and light inside me.
355 have looked at my blog have they? Do any of them KNOW me? UNDERSTAND me? WANT me? If there was a hit counter for the number of people that existed in those categories it would be covered in the rust and decay of a thousand ages past.
I'm so alone, so small and empty. I want my hit counter to flick over by one and finally land on the magic combination that will open up my vault of a soul so that everyone can see what a beautiful and considerate man I am inside. Why is there no-one to pry me open and see the glory that's inside??
Maybe that's why I cut myself - to try and let people see the wonder and light inside me.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Animal Crossing
Down, not across. Wherever did my cow go? Everyone and everything I dare to love eventually leaves me. Thus sit I here, bereft of love, drowning in lies and hurt. I'd explain more, but it's the same old story that happens to me - that I dare to believe I have found someone nice, who might possibly respect me and treat me well, then it all comes crashing down around me. I think I might become a monk, only I don't believe in anything enough - especially not men. Maybe I should give up on any hope I had of finding love, that it's all a fucking lie propogated by profligate liars. I dared to dream. Alas; those dreams were more real than you turned out to be. Perhaps it is only in dreams that I exist truly, in the fevered imaginings and the visions that haunt my lonely nights.
Men, eh? Vile, loathesome creatures. I curse God every day that I was born an androphile. Cruel, harsh irony.
Men, eh? Vile, loathesome creatures. I curse God every day that I was born an androphile. Cruel, harsh irony.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
My Heart Is Broken, England
I read this website today which was talking about how to become a Muslim terrorist and I saw the photos of all the men with their faces covered with teatowels who were operating in little cells - like bees, only with different reasons for randomly dying - and it made me wish I had friends like that. Muslims wouldn't like me because I'm gay and I don't like the idea of killing people unless they're mean, but I yearn for that sense of camaraderie and shared purpose that they have. It must make you feel so good to have the sense that you are in control of your destiny - that you even have a destiny - like they do. To know your life is hurtling like a meteor towards that explosion of glory. To explode worse than that time when mum (fat, awful troll whose acidic womb belched me into this world of pain) shook the ketchup bottle so hard it flew out of her hand and exploded against the living room wall. That's the kind of death I could warm to.
The thing is, though - for that kind of death to have any meaning, I'd need to have something to die for. I don't. I don't have anything to live for either, so all I'm doing is treading water, waiting for the shadow of death to fall on me.
The thing is, though - for that kind of death to have any meaning, I'd need to have something to die for. I don't. I don't have anything to live for either, so all I'm doing is treading water, waiting for the shadow of death to fall on me.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
