something more than this; something more than me

Where do you escape to, when you are using your recent past as a refuge from a future you are terrified to face?

When you can’t hold on
to who you are;
who you always thought you were.

who won that round?

what happens
when you become

everything that hurt

and tore

and ripped at you.

when you became everything that destroyed you in the first place.

where can you go?
when you helped destroy everything you’ve ever wanted.

 

 

 

just further inside, baby.

you just gotta go further inside.

to where you really are.
all alone.
in those dark and scary places.
those places you’ve never been.
those places you’re meant to walk alone.

that’s where.

you’ll find

who

 

you are.

…. or if not who you are…

maybe,

 

who you want to be.

and you’ll still be sorry for the hearts your feet walked across. but you won’t let any of it be for nothing.

you will be.

simply,

you will be.

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Ya’ll wanna single say f#!k that…

There’s no escaping it. I’m a Nu-Metal girl to the core.

Preceding that, I lived my teenage years feeding on the grunge that reached in and tore the sadness out of me.

Metal, on the other hand, satisfied the anger.

I get frequent, vivid, violent images that flash through my mind, which calms me down when I’m angry.

It’s fine if I don’t act on them, right?

When I listen to metal, all that rage gets smothered. Give me a whiskey with that and I’m the happiest girl that ever did happy!

Take that whiskey away and I will hurt you.

Distract me with metal and all is fine.

Fuck surviving the Zombie Apocalypse. It’s Drunk Bri you’ve gotta watch out for!

Marketing the misguided

It hits with the panicky ferocity of that moment where the wave gets in your mouth, all salt and choking and dots in your eyes.
– That moment where your breath is wet and fatal and full of fish pee.

It feels like the seconds your fingertips spend digging into the ground, clutching at grass
just before your grip fails
and the sharp things dance in your feet

waiting for you

to plummet

.

And it’s in those seconds of suspension before your flesh hits the ground
and the crunching bones break beneath
a sky devoid of cloud.

That you realise
Your wings are purely ornamental

And you fell
for your own hype.

In which I discover I may have actually crossed the line and turned into an actual cat. In the head. I don’t have a tail (yet).

I love cooking for people.

Listening to very loud metal while I make salads or marinate all manner of delicious meaty things. People sit in the backyard, shifting chairs beneath the sun, the weather in that annoying stage of the sun being too hot but the shade being too cold.

People laugh, bubble-wine sparkles, and mini stories are told in small conversations between friends.

Autumn barbecues are the best ones of all.

bbq

After hours of hungover waiting, it all came together – the meat, the salads, the donated rice, that glorious centrepiece – Shan’s Terteh Behrk.

And then it happened. That warm, comfortable silence that descends upon a dinner table, declaring the meal a triumphant success. The delicate symphony of cutlery on plastic plates, of exultant sighs or declarations of pride at someone’s ability to eat their entire plate before anyone else (Maddie).

It was, she declared, her favourite day.

It even included Surprise, Chicken! from our neighbour-cousin. She was right. A favourite day indeed.

Who needs troubles when you have tummy-friends and heart-friends all in the one place, all at the one time?

It’s cold out there now. 24 hours after it all began.

Today is the day for a sunny-corner picnic, but I’ve already been into the leftovers.

Maybe I’ll just copy the cats and go and curl up next to the fence. Those weeds do actually look really soft.

New skills and old gloves

I have a rare talent.

No, not just my ability to make my feet so pigeon-toed that my toes literally touch each other (see picture).

My favourite pj's and my gumboots. Fashion lives here.

My favourite pj’s and my gumboots. Fashion lives here.

My rare talent is a result of lacerated nerves and tendons from one of my old Drunk Adventures.

I discovered yesterday, whilst trying to scrub ink off the outside of my left wrist, that I have the ability to tickle myself.

The nerve damage runs from the tip of my left little finger, down the outside of my hand and along the scarring, which stops 1/3 of the way down my forearm. It is along this tingly path that I can tickle myself, until the entire thing goes numb and I can no longer feel anything.

This superpower comes at a price, however. Mostly in the form of bullshit temperature-feels where I experience things 10 degrees hotter or colder than they truly are. Including the weather.

Winter is almost here and I really don’t think I can get another season out of my stripey skull elbow-length fingerless gloves. They are amazing, but also held together purely by the power of cat fur.

I really should finish learning how to knit. You can’t exactly buy replacements in this little town.

 

The Idiotic Messages We Send Our Kids About Violence

Forming The Thread

Ever notice just how wrong our authorities get things?  Specifically, I have been noticing the complete, nonsensical, total disconnect of any kind of reason or consistency between “school violence” and “bullying.”   We have been conditioned lately to think of “school violence” as Columbine or Sandy Hook (never mind that Adam Lanza was not a student).  What seems lost on these clueless administrators is the fact that bullying is a far more common and likely threat than guns or explosives, and can be just as damaging and deadly.  Yet somehow, an obsessive and frankly, idiotic “zero tolerance” even for pretend guns not only has nothing to do with school shootings, but does not translate into any kind of common sense regarding the severe physical and psychological injuries bullies continue to inflict day in, day out, year after year.

As for those administrators who renounce responsibility for actions that occur off of…

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Get in mah belleh

Sometimes there’s a real disconnect that goes on between the brain and the body, when just one too many things pile on top of each other.

That’s roughly where I’m at this week, after returning to work and the avalanche of shit that comes from an understaffed department that has multiple simultaneous deadlines, as well as support you’d relied on just… not showing up.

Stress is most definitely the order of the day in my world right now, and I’m having great difficulty doing all the things I should be doing to at least minimise the harm it is having on my body – I can’t change the situation, but I could at least help it, if I were able to eat, or sleep.

This is, I feel, one of those times where it’s perfectly okay for me to be taking one of those over-the-counter sleeping pills, even though I will be muddy in the head the next morning. It won’t be any worse than the way I start my day now – airy in the head, all light and slow and stupid and ready to break at the first sign of pressure.

5kg down in a week, and no appetite to speak of. Here’s hoping that finishing work on time today, cooking a healthy meal and finally drowning in sleep for a night will reset some of the changes that have happened to my body.

This was an accidental anorexia week – my usual way of losing weight. It’s been a diet of cigarettes and stomach acid. Tasty as fuck, but most definitely not required right now.

It wasn’t exactly the plan for this week and I’d really rather not have to go and buy new clothes again. The Target Kids’ Section doesn’t have anything I like there right now.

… now to decide what to actually cook.

… that I will actually eat.