Everything seems to just remind me of how I am not her. Not someone good enough to splurge on a vacation for. Not someone from the same place, speaking the same language, knowing the same code. Not someone to experience new things together with. I'm just a tourist, just a foreigner, just a visitor, never a resident. Not good enough.

jesus, etc

If you take one knockout pill and a whole lot of cough syrup, don't expect a dreamless sleep. This is no Hans Christian Andersen. This is no Michel Gondry. This is strictly anti-aesthetic, anti-conduct book.

It is a hodgepodge of Sims 3, Wilco with an ivory grand piano in a makeshift concert hall filled to unpleasant proportions with heartland types, a dead friend still alive and not yet a friend. Chaotic? Completely. Poetic? Not really. I'm not sure that this is a pleasant combination. The seamless harmony is not so seamless and the layers of surrealism are lost on me. What happened to good old dreams of witches dancing around a fountain while you go after a giant Lizard as an Asian version of Lara Croft with about 300 percent less sex appeal?

I'm uncomfortable with my dream life. I've always liked to believe in naivete that the dream mes go on living in a parallel universe. Parallel universes full of dream versions of me, often slightly nightmarish in appearance (this is faithful to reality).

The irony - let me interject to say how much I hate the incorrect application of this word - is that I would rather be in one of my dream universes than in real life with real feelings and real disappointments. Real hopes dashed, real desires carelessly battered to a drop of microscopic dew, real dream vacations becoming nightmarish (dream destinations at this point become your top hated place on Earth, even if travel magazines will tell you how beautiful and exotic and - wait for it - romantic they are).

Excuse me, I seem to have gotten carried away by my real reality-induced (I rue reality) feelings. (In an ideal dream universe, I'd like to be a numb android. Please?) I was actually writing about...cough syrup. Barely a month and I've already gone through the bottle. Maybe I should try a different flavour this time.

allaroundbackgroundsound: Naive Melody - Talking Heads

i feel ugly

It is a cold, self-deprecating blast of wind that never blows away. I'm not one to indulge in a melancholic post into cyberspace. Since I haven't posted in a year, since no one reads this anymore and no one is likely to see it, I feel I can expose myself for what I am worth. (Which at this moment feels like a sad sum of nothing.)

It's about time I confess that I am ugly. I'm no paragon of beauty. I'm no Helen who launched a thousand ships. I'm not even that girl with plastic surgery who convinces herself she is gorgeous, even if her face does look like a stack of mismatched lego pieces.

I don't look at myself in the mirror. I don't surreptitiously glance at my reflection in the train when it scurries through the tunnel like an electric robot rat. I have never enjoyed my own refelction, or partaken in moments of self admiration. I don't have Johnny Bravo moments. I'm more a rough combination of Ed, Edd and Eddy, as far as my mind will have me believe.

Is it possible that I love myself so little? I am spent. I just want to be alone. Romance can go make love to itself. I realise I am perhaps better off alone, where there will be no one to chase away in the first place.