i love j with all my heart

the nicest thing she could ever possibly say in the moment:
(and it meant the world to me)

pippa

listen to me

you are so incredibly special that nothing can defeat you

especially not some pussy-ass boy that cant tell you his feelings

this week

1. Cops closed down. 2. Walking streets of Kings cross barefoot. 3. Coffee and no sleep. 4. Lucas PawPaw Cream

Sorry for the no posts in a while, but my life has been busier than I know how to handle.
But lets try and get back into it.
1. So the other night I was at a free house which ended up to be a rather interesting night. I wasn't drinking, so that made it all the more amusing as I roamed around the Santa party like a little lostie. But I knew a fair amount of people and people seemed to know of me, so i wouldn't say it was bad at all. When you step back and observe drunk teenagers, you realise how silly we really are. But wait, that's not even the interesting part of the night, what happened next was that the party actually got closed down by the cops. WTH?! I know, they pretty much had nothing better to do than pick on a free house where people weren't even making an excessive amount of noise. So the night consisted of:
-undercover cops, paddy wagons, uniform and several cop cars
-hidden bears in teh garden, and a persistance to go and retrieve them while cops where swarming the yard
-a park for a toilet
-several trips to McDonalds - fries, kebabs and eating someone else's bigmac =]
-trying to get back to the hosue many times
-cops swarming the streets, teenagers spreading out like shattered glass
-the owner of the hosue legging it up the street
-tactics and strategies
-hanging in a kids playground at midnight
and there's certainly more, but i'll save them for a personal conversation...

2. Sunday was my step-dad's birthday, and i nice day it was.
Small family outing to circular key where we saw a fabulous movie at Dendy, one that i recomend you all go and see. It's cute, clever, funny, witty and family-fun (yes, im a cheese i know).
And then to kill time we wandered up to the opera bar for a couple of birthday drinks, moving on then to Kings Cross where we had reservations for six at a small, neiche little wine bar.
But we got there a little early, deciding to have a bit of a stroll around. This was not my idea.
The whole day, i had been in gorgeous black heels. Heels that were now ripping into my skin with ever slight movement of my foot. FRantically buying a packet of bandaids worked for lets say, maybe 2 minutes? After which the pain immediately returned.
And im not talking cope with, I'm talking unbearable, blister-on-every-place-the-shoe-came-in-contact-with-my-foot pain. So off they came. And yes, I wondered around Kings Cross barefoot, holding my heels in my hand.

Dinner was nice though, and the cocktail was exceptional ;)

3. So yeah, I don't sleep anymore. My nights consist on several cups of coffee, quick msn conversations and working on ridiculous assignments on the floor of my bedroom untill 1 am in the morning... at least.
Coffee is my new survivor.
God knows what the hsc will do to me...
I'm going to be one of those nervous jttery wrecks that you never see without an extra grande cardboard cup clenched in her ink-stained hands. Charming, no?

4. Lucas has been my ABSOLUTE saviour this week. I honestly don't know what I'd do with out it. It is pure and utter genious.
I'm now known as the one who is always asking if anyone has pawpaw cream (if forgetting my own).
But really, sore/chapped/cut lips absolutely kill my life.
no exaggeration.
no hyperbole.
no play on words

Finally, i need a new wardrobe. as in clothes...

And this is adorable

staring at the sun

Her mouth gaped open in feeble attempts to force some air into her lungs.
She was trying so hard to breathe, to move on from that frozen moment , and push the pain away just long enough to move into the next moment in time.
Her eyes slowly focused and the brightness of the world hit her like staring straight at the sun for the first time.
Waves of life rushed around her but she was stuck, regimented to her place, mouth open wide, desperately trying hard to breathe.
The pain wound it's way through her body, clenching on like a baby to it's blanket, twisting all that it could.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, slowly smearing her face with the sorrow she couldn't handle. A single tear, filled with the intensity of emotion, greater than the stars in the black night, mirroring the shards that were her broken heart.

And then the wave crashed down and the sun blazed into life.
A short, sharp gust of air escaped jer slid lips and her lungs shrank under the effort and pressure of remaining so rigid. The world turned and shrank beneath her. She felt his body over her, pushing her through theses motions of pain she was forced to accept, because she could not longer hold it in.
The world spun around her, the tables turned, the compasses switched their points, and she collided with the sun.

It was time to release.
The brightness overwhelmed her senses and glared through her eyes, blinding.
She had to let go.


Inspired by Tv on the Radio's song, 'Staring at the Sun', as you can probably tell.

the case of the mysterious thongs

So for the past couple of months, there have been a pair of dark (brown/black), billabong thongs drifting around my home. First thoughts were that they were my step dad's, but they're too big for him so who's could they be?
they're not my brothers...
Mum suggested today that they may be tim's, but i didn't think they were, too big in my opinion.
So were they phil's?
I went on a quick investigation over the wonder that is the internet, asking any of the boys that have stayed over at my place in the last couple of months, if they were missing a pair of thongs.
Answers revealed that no they weren't.
Then my step dad claimed them as his own.
But then he backtracked and denied that claim. They're too big.
So the mystery continues...


In other news, i need new clothes.
i need a reinvention.
And not the little reinventions i keep seem to be having.
I mean the real sort that got me writing and turning my life around.
I need a whole new wardrobe to go with it too.

For now, I'd be content with a sick pair of killer black pumps.


I'm so inspired by these twins...

kelly the insistor

And when you rush I'll call your name

Like Harvard Square holds all inane

And don't you know I'll be your badger

And don't be terse and don't be shy

Just hug my lips and say good lies

And know that I will be your bail bond

refresh

today i bought a new diary.
a day to a page, with plenty of room to organise my life.
stuff the school rules, i need something that i can actually understand.
So i have this new, cheap diary that represents my fresh start.
It is my attempt to organise my life and get on top of things. If my diary looks like i've got things under control, and i can understand it, it will undeniably calm me down and help me sort things out.
Ok so sure, maybe at the moment this is just me pretending to organise myself, but hey, fake it till you make it.

And it's a push in the direction, with the things i want to do, and my inspirations coming out, moving up in my priority list to exactly where they should be. all with the very un-costly purchase of a hardcover diary.

i also spent half an hour sitting at the desks in officeworks today, waiting for my photos to print, organising my new diary.
Plastering my wall in my favourite photos is very exciting, its just boosting more unexplanable inspiration...

that's me

i am a spotlight whore.
i crave the limelight.
that is all i have to say.

plus, i am that girl who walks around representing the school in thongs with the uniform
who performs in band and performances with bright stage-makeup on because she's too busy rehearsing or performing in something or other to do it any other time.
yeah

a note

can make your day.

it can show that someone remembers, that someone cares.
it's that subtle support that only makes you feel good.
everything is just that much better.
because its a perk in your day.

kids on overload

boot polish.
schedules.
my room.
unorganised.
coffee.

how do all these things relate? quite simply actually.
It's that stage where all we can seem to utter are the words "busy" or "things to do". And sadly that's the apparent reality. I'm absolutely swamped with things to do that i don't even know where to begin. Four assignments sit there staring at me, willing to get done but always something getting in the way (both legitimate and not). All the various co-curricular activities each require my effort and input and then there's the intelligent homework load dumped on top.
I sit here with boot polish staining my hands, in a totally messy room, clothes piling up in all sorts of places and my desk punishing me with its random shit spilling everywhere.
It doesn't help that i can't work in a messy environment.
There's so much to do and yet still myspace uses its evil ways and draws me in.
WHY THE FUCK AM I ONLINE WHEN ALL THESE THINGS HAVE TO BE DONE?!

Families are starting to set in their schedules and with the new jobs come the new schedules and 'attendance required'. Who goes where, to which meeting and to which child's performance are the passing words at the end of the evening everyone goes over the events and problems of the following day.
communication is lacking its full potential and foul moods get in the way.
communication is lacking these days, in many ways.

My unorganised self is freaking out with everything i have to do, both school and personal wise, and the ambition of doing well in everything only leads to further frustration. I spend my nights up late trying to figure out how to get this all organised and it all just seems to lead to nothing.
it's time to put in the effort. The coffee stains on my crisp white uniform shirt only epitomise the state of me at the moment.
and that's fucking annoying.

we're all just kids on overload.

(or maybe its jsut me)

my brother came back

today, from South America.
I walked in the house and almost had a heart attack when I saw bags and items sprawled all over the floor, but then i remembered the good ole sibling.
It seems like only last week that he was here with us saying goodbye and now his big adventure is over.
But its nice to see him and I've had an interesting evening sitting back and listening to the various stories he has to tell. From catching pick-pocket theives, to getting stoned at a random Argentinian wedding, to buying a deck of cigarettes and a bottle of rum for less than $15, to attending Carnivale in nothing but tiny shorts and a white tie, to the filth of Bolivia.
I really think it's a great thing to do, it sounds like him and his mates had an amazing time, and it's really inspired me, got my thoughts and wishes sparked onto how much i'd love to go overseas again, preferably sometime soon.
Culture fascinates me to no end, especially one's so exotically different.

So now he's lying restlessly trying to get over his jetlag, watching Pulp Fiction on Zelda (<- our massive Mac computer for those of you who don't know). I'm pretty bored right now, not much is capturing my attention so I could totally go with some pulp right now, but the boy's trying to get some sleep so I'm letting him be.

leather jackets & vogue cigarettes

Those days when you set out to break the rules - because that rush is new and exciting, the knowledge that what you're doing is wrong, but you're being a big kids like those cool kids now.

We thought we were fucking amazing. Backseat rebels. Being a badass just because it's wrong, and if you got caught you know you would be in so much shit.
But that's what we loved about it, because we're doing the cool things now, right?
We look for any chance we can go out and we go to the pubs, we sneak in for the music without paying, we plot about buying grog at vintage cellars, because that's what you do.
The real teenage initiation.
Forget all that stuff about turning your first '...teen' whatever, and forget having your first crush. This is where you really push to be that teenager. Not to get in with that crowd, or have those clothes, or have her hair, that's not what we're talking about at all.
We're talking about those first big bad steps where staying out the much-later is the much better and changing your views on cigarettes from shocking to so cool.

Taking those first Vogue drags at 1am in your backyard with your best friend in the cold. Then indulging in Lindt chocolate to hide the taste (partly because you don't even like the taste anyway).
And now we look back on those nostalgic memories with a bemused grin slapped across our faces and lost look sprawled in our eyes. See how much we've grown.

Yeah we thought we were fucking amazing.
We still do.

it never happens to you

You think that these things never happen to you. In fact your positively sure that they don't. Its just something that won't occur, you're simply not that person.
But then it does. And you think, how could you have been so unbelievably stupid to let that happen.
Back in the little child days when you're first given money that is not actually a piece of shrapnel weighing you down in your denim overalls, when you're mother hands over that valuable piece of paper and lectures you on how you need to put it somewhere safe, and make sure you always know where it is, being careful not to put it somewhere where it could get lost of fall out.
And you look up at your mother oh-so seriously and give a solemn nod before skipping out the door, reciting every word she's just told you.
You have a decent amount of money and you're going to treasure it with your life. It's simply a lesson you never forget.

You've grown up now, and that first lecture never leaves, its always there lingering around the back passageways of your mind. And just for the sake of going through the motions, you wonder about how annoying and devastating it would be if that situation actually happened to you, if you actually lost that money. But you shrug it off because it won't happen, it is simply just something that does not happen to you. No way.
Except apparently it does. Apparently you are that person to which it happens.
Being given a whole bunch of notes and a various collection of coins the other day to fetch lunch for everyone at work, i set off down the street, confident as all, strutting down the street in my Ray Ban sunnies with money stuffed into the small pockets of my denim shorts.
And it's when i reach the burger joint, all the way down the opposite end of the street, that my heart drops and my breath is caught in my throat because half of those notes are gone.
Missing.
Disappeared.
A frantic search sees me pulling at all the pockets vigourously, desperately trying to find some sort of rational explanation. There isn't one. The lady behind the counter offers a sympathetic yet really somewhat uncaring look before i dash out in a frantic searc h for the lost money.
Well you're not going to find it, because it has happened to you.
it never happens to anyone, more so it never happens to you, because you're simply not that person.

But clearly I'm much more of that person than i ever thought.
Not only do i lose $40 on a lunch run, but the previous day I find my bus pass is not in the bottomless pocket where it's supposed to be.
So i've lost that costly bit of cardboard a couple of times (yes i do have to pay for my busspass thank you very much), but that's normal right?
Wrong. Losing it twice a year is not normal. Having it lost to the point where randoms find it on the street and are nice enough to send it into the school 3 times is not normal.
Because clearly I am that person. I've lost it again and im pretty sure that my luck has just run out.
Evidence? you might ask, although I don't know why you would. Well just wait, I have it all ready for you.
An art student's art book is their salvation, it is their everything.
And mine is currently most likely sitting at the train station, on the pathway, in some random's house, stuffed in a bin, or waiting faithfully for me in lost property.
Because that one stupid idiot, movie-esque moment happened to me once again.
Sitting waiting for a lift, recognising the faithful silver puegot, jumping up, engrossed in the music blaring in your ears, and the artbook sits there, all alone on the concrete slab outside the station.
And when do i notice? Not straight away, but this morning as im rushing out the door and wondering why my art book isn't where i left it. Well it probably is where you left it, its just that you're a ditz who didn't realise she was leaving it where it was.
Who even does that ? !