Seriously seriously seriously how can you not even have the decency to respond to my emails?

700 quid now. Seriously. It's just fucking rude and it makes me angry and upset grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

A Rant

This is going to be very boring so I suggest you don't read it but I would like to have a little rant about some small personal things that have been bugging me lately.

First off, my ex housemates. Fair enough they don't want me to live with them, even fair enough that they wrote that stuff about me. But not cool- not replying to mine and my mum's various emails about letting out my room. It is costing my mum £78 A WEEK to keep it empty, so when they don't reply... well. So I put up ads, got replies and tried to organise a viewing cos I managed to speak to one of the housemates. But then they said that they had to cancel it because he hadn't spoken to the whole house. So I have done all the work (again), tried to book viewings, EVEN PICKED PEOPLE I THOUGHT THEY WOULD FUCKING GET ON WITH, and they haven't even got back to me. Like, they won't have viewings. And today, when I asked for an update about whether they've discussed it yet, I get a reply saying they're hoping to have more information for me in a week. I mean, what the fuck? That's ANOTHER 78 quid. It's been a MONTH AND A HALF since I moved out. And now they're being so obtuse and uncooperative and it really fucks me off because i'm trying to be nice but forceful and it's stressing me out because I don't want to wasting any of my mum's money. Ridiculous.

Then of course there's the classic my-dad-keeps-giving-money-to-all-my-brothers thing which is bugging me more and more. Not because I want money at all, nothing like that, but it's just he refuses to communicate with mum and then expects stuff off her that hasn't been agreed. And he is STILL financing my brother in Australia and letting my other one live with him at no cost, while continually going on and on at me about how poor he is now he's starting to retire and how he can't afford to do stuff. What is the point in moaning at me about it when i'm not the one using your fucking money? Oh, and he's also decided that he's a christian again, has a spiritual guide and seems to think, even said to me, that he has 'lived by christian morals and values all his life'. Hmmm. Right... SURE you have.

And I had an appointment thing with some random community care team lady for yet another stupid assessment, with my care coordinator/ counsellor there as well, and she asked me ALL the same questions I have answered a million times, and she could care less about me or what I would like. And she says that there's nothing they can do until the new year at the earliest and even then it's only short term and blah blah blah. And now they might make her my new care coordinator and I don't even get a say and I really don't like her because she seems to have no soul and looks a little bit like my ex headmistress and doesn't know anything about me, which means I would have to start from scratch and go through everything again, just to get the same level of support. It's stupid.

And my step dad. Meh. Bleurgh.

And grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr essentially even though these are not really big issues just frustrations.

In short, I am FRUSTRATED and a little bit pissed off.

Beginners

I want to write so badly. But I don't know what I want to write about.

Some days, I want to write about everything. About the past, about what's going on, about my family, about my friends, about how suddenly I can't listen to certain songs, about how people are, about what I feel I should be doing.

Some days, I want to write about how amazing every single one of my friends is, how I could spend hours talking about each one of them and still not have said it all, how much every one of them makes me feel, how any individual memory of them could make me laugh for hours, or how I could remember all I have done and how that relates to them, how much they have made me a better person.

Some days, I want to talk about my old friends. What I should be doing right now, where I could be, what I could be saying, who I could be talking to, what could be happening, how they could be helping.

Some days, all I want to talk about is TV. How Doctor Who changed my perspective on those who refuse to change from the past, about how they can't make anything from the lessons. About how I can be absolutely mindless when it comes to ANTM (understandable) and how great it is that it makes me feel nothing, how the potential of Heroes makes me angry or how, no matter how hard I try, I still don't get Supernatural, or the Vampire Diaries, or True blood.

Some days, all my head thinks over is shot composition in films, the symmetry, or lack thereof. The positioning of one actor, the removal of another. The focus, the composition, the lighting, their representation within the action, the music used to highlight their status or the silence to emphasise the fear.

Some days, all I can think about is music. The rhythms, the bands, how to listen to what without ruining the mood, what place it's easiest to think with a soundtrack in my head, the longest journeys I can take so I can listen to as many albums as possible, how I feel I should be analysing it far more than I am, questioning my ability to revel in the guilt of reliving a past Mcfly album, hiding my obsession with the new Ke$ha single, wallowing in the self pitying tones of Elliot Smith or Dylan, missing the songs i've lost and looking forward to the ones I've yet to judge.

Some days, I wish I could pacify my mother, return her to simplicity, control her naivity. Some days I wish I wasn't on tenterhooks, waiting on calls and questions about my health I can't answer.

Some days, I wish I didn't hope my life was like that of TV characters, where problems are resolved by two episodes, and everything underlying was brought out and confronted. That every move I make is controlled by my exact desires towards a specific goal.

Some days. I wish I could just say everything and not regret it.

Some days, I wish I could write.

TODAY

I got 'asked to leave' my Manchester house, lost what I thought were some friends and solved the times crossword.

But you know what, fuck them.

Because I'm gonna work my ass off, do internships, get a job, get better and stick with the people who love me.

Bonjour Essex.

SUCH A STUPID MO FO LALALA WELL AREN'T I JUST GREAT? NO.

Roast

The ash thickens in the throat and the choke is closer than it ever was before.
The mix of the kiss and the miss of what I meant in the roar.
The pounding heart and the thinking mind bound by the kind of hate I adore.

And the silence is louder than the game, me dragging into the now the forgotten and the names.
The clinging scheme, the precious dream of the never ending inner need, forever wanting more.

The useless mind, the long gone times where the worth is questioned to the core.

And now the broken face, the reduced ways, the need to speak of what we waste.
The crisis team, the heartless teen, the perfection of what I see.
The black and white- no time for my selfish self absorbed cries- only the wait,
the endless gray, the change, coming to the fore.

(500) Hours of Cinematography

As much as I am convinced that I know life isn't like the movies, it still feels strange when it doesn't work like that.

There's no emotional Hugh Grant running up to perform in a school concert to save the day, no magic life changing moment where I run through London in a montage powered by a Coldplay song on a winter's morning, stopping by Big Ben and realising that 'YES! This is it! This is life and i'm living it!'

In the same way, there's also no magic ever supporting and faithful Doctor who holds all the cures. There's no two minute recovery shown by a change in seasons. And there's no instantaneous forgiveness, no sudden normality.

If there's anything i've learnt in the last two weeks it's that. That, and the difference between what is my fault, and what wasn't.

For me, there's no Morgan Freeman voiceover explaining why I did it, no warm tone defining my thoughts and motivations.

That would help because fuck me I have no idea

I wish I did so I could deal with it head on, accept and work on that part of me, like the protagonist who runs out to meet his fate, or works his ass off to get the girl.

In Amelie the shy pale faced girl with the estranged childhood falls in love with the ghost who puts together the passport photos. Essentially a giant game of kiss chase. Life in rose tinted reds and yellows. It's not that. It never will be.

I am the stupidity and the foolishness of the lovesick fool who let himself be floored by the blatant obstacle- that moment half an hour before the end when everything falls apart. No matter how well I know the story- how many times it's been told by every version, in every different scenario, I still have that moment of worry- 'ohshitnoyoucan'tbreakthemupbecausethat'snottrueSHEDIDN'TREALLYCHEATONYOUit'sobviousjusttalktoherbrothercomeoooonnnn'

And then ten minutes before the end it's magically fixed. That's not how it goes in real life, and dear lordy I moan about how unrealistic it is- but I still want it.

I'm not particularly fine. I'm not, but as long as i'm working on getting there, then that's ok. I'm stuck in the obstacle- that moment when Damien Rice or Adele plays in the background and there's a shot of a huddled shadow on a bed in a darkened room, interspersed with flashes of bright memories and huge grins and sunshine and friends and all that stuff. When the lead character realises, I've done it all wrong. I've fucked it up. And now I don't know what to do. They wake up in the night and drink and mope. And then the sassy wise cracking friend or sibling comes along, slaps them round the face, tells them to man up, get over it and deal with it.

That's ok. That's all very well. But that's not quite how it works. I want Doctor Cure-it-all's magic one time fixorama pill, guaranteed instant good health and piece of mind and minty fresh breath. Because I can't change what I did. I have to get over it.

Enough of doctors. Just give me decent sleep. And you to know i've seen how stupid it was, how much I care, how sorry I am. No matter how long. Just that.

The movies always say you don't know what you've got til it's gone. The worst cliche, the cheesiest load of crap since 'he's just not that into you'.

I wish it wasn't true.

Lippy Kids

I'm bored of thinking of something to say in rooms full of unspoken words and hidden thoughts.

The fakery has disappeared in a mess of alcohol and holding sobbing bodies in darkened rooms, hiding them away and listening to the stream of broken record thoughts again and again. The warmth of each other in the midst of the struggle but the conflicts and the seeping anger biting through the bullshit and the ridiculousness of the overdramatic. The kind words of friendship growing unimportant in the wind and tears and complications that litter the city that once we controlled, but no longer kings we live under the towering landscape that swallows us up with all the other noises. In between the buses speeding past and the birdsong and digital cries of clubs, the whispers of fragility are lost until everyone screams silently to themselves. Maybe then we'll make sense.

Giving in and giving up because the gravity of others' needs is tearing apart the weight of what's important, and stamping it into the ground under the feet of the seemless masses that huddle in the filthy streets like a confused crowd at a gig, and things are about to kick off. Everything you knew is changing, but this time unexpectedly and what was your hold, your handlebars, has gone.

At The River

I miss your breakfasts. Warm croissants and raspberry jam with orange juice (NEVER from concentrate, god forbid) with bits in, proper coffee and white plates with red and orange round the edge. Radio 4 when it's being put together, and then finally, as we sit at the wooden table on white seats that aren't as white as they used to be, Radio 3 and Brahms and Chopin. Never ever Classic FM (That's just for plebs darling). The four of us, and the Saturday paper (Guardian of course. We're all Labour and Lib Dem round these parts. Middle classes enjoying the frivolity of it all). He takes the news, and she takes culture. Ben has the Guide and I take the magazine, pretending to care about it more than I do, not really reading anything unless it involves full picture pages and a comedian. And it's all frightfully civilised and we tut together at the greed of bankers and laugh at the idiocy of politicians and some Radio 3 presenter introduces another piece and we listen and shake our heads as some fools in a concert hall clap between movements (the horror, the horror of it all). The sun shines through the huge windows and the ducks sit on the dock waiting for some five year old to shower them with breadcrumbs. Ben'll talk about a gig or a band and he'll pretend to know who that is, and then, when all the coffee's gone and i'm bored of pretending to read the magazine we'll disappear off into the house or the city and ignore each other until dinner. And the pastry flakes will fall on the floor and the jam will stick to the plates and the coffee grounds will clog up the sink and the buzz from the radio will give us all headaches but it doesn't matter, because this is the civilised way to do things, and eating cereal on our laps at 3 in the afternoon with a crushing hangover just isn't quite cricket.