Thoughts, again.

So I've not blogged on here for a while.
Sorry, todos.
I could say that I'm working on something fabulous. -Unfortunately, that's a lie. And the only other thing I'm really working on is a dodgy fan-fic, an attempt to sort out where my novel will be going (because I'm never going to complete a NaNoWriMo unless I do that), and another blog where I'm just rambling about books for a long long time.
I could say that I'm really busy as of late. -Unfortunately, retail has dropped significantly, so my extravagant hours are moot.

So I'm just going to tell the truth.
I don't know what to say.

Lately, I'm in a bit of a funk. It's an irritating funk, because it's hashtag-firstworldproblems all over. My biggest problem is that I'm living with my parents (age 19) and seem to completely freak guys out?
I still get food and I don't get beaten every day.
Yet it's something that bothers me - more the latter than the former, because I know that the living with parents stint will finish in a few months (we hope). But gah, why on earth do I freak out guys all the time?

Chronically unloveable, is what flickers through my mind every time I try and think of good qualities for myself.
Always a fail.
Never going to be worth it.

The last time I liked a guy, I was sort of smitten. Okay, very smitten. I tried pursuing, which didn't work out too well. I backed off, which worked for a little while, then --
Oh, then. Then he got with someone else.
Now married.
This is the low point of my 'love life', non-existent as it were. Unfortunately, it also exists as the high point.

The guys I like don't ever choose to like me back.
The guys who do like me, I am never attracted to. I can see them as friends, but as anything more? My head puts a large big cross over it and says, "Don't. Even. Go. There."

And maybe it's not just me.
But it sure as heck feels like it, and even though I'm only 19 and everyone apparently gets like this at some stage, I don't care.
I just want some form of love, from a man in this universe, in this world.

You know what? I'm really, really, so much fun when I get in these moods.
It's good I'm going to hit publish on this post.
Rawr.

Changing Times

Tuscany was practically begging me for a walk. She was sitting, eyes mournful, at the back door, gazing at me with every step.

I succumbed to those eyes, and she and I set off.

I had five dollars in my hand, and I had a plan. I needed mints, that much was certain, but I was aching for chips. It’d be enough if I bought them at the corner shop. Who knows, I thought, I could even buy some warheads.

Tuscany pranced along the road and I practised my gymnastics trying to remain balanced on the gutter. We walked along, past the paddocks that had become a bypass. Alongside the newly-made hills, sprouting off tentative but vigorously green sprouts of grass, set against a Tiffany-blue sky with patchy clouds seeming to mar the perfection. Tuscany snuffled at the dead butterfly on the loose, shiny black bitumen. She paused at a crack in the seam where two gutters met. She ate a dandelion, and pottered along looking pleased with her efforts.

We were reaching the store and Tuscany began veering towards it, her nose glued to the ground. Even with shoes on, I could tell that the pavement was hot. It steamed up along my legs, along my face, around my glasses which were smeared with fingerprints.

And as we neared the store, something didn't seem right.

Tuscany didn’t notice my faltering steps – or, if she did, she paid it no mind. She marched straight to the pole where she usually waited while I shopped for the two of us. I dropped her leash, and looked in the dirty windows.

The shop was bare.

Instead of rows and rows of sweets and chocolate, hidden behind a gleaming glass counter and cupped gently in flimsy packaging cases, there were grimy shelves and unpolished glass. There wasn’t the bucket of lollipops that Gemma and I would scrounge through after primary school, counting ten cent pieces slowly. There was a small cupboard, door unscrewed but rusting hinges left wonkily to age more. The magazine stand was gone; the candy-striped ice cream fridge was absent (only brown water-stains indicated its past place).

I brushed my hair from my face, and Tuscany looked up at me at last. She nestled into my legs and thumped her tail once, twice, on the ground. I let one hand drop to her head, my eyes returning again to the store. No Coca-Cola and Norco fridges standing side by side, boasting 375mL soft drinks and two-litre milks in tetra cases. No chips, with the prices carefully inscribed on shiny white cardboard in permanent marker and more rhombus-shaped than rectangular.

Tuscany impatiently barked, though softly.

“Okay,” I said quietly, “let’s go.”

            

We walked only a few metres further to the adjacent petrol station. Tuscany settled outside, not moving while I tied her leash to the gas cylinder cage. I went inside to the mints.

“How much are Eclipse mints?” I asked, handing over a peppermint case.

The woman behind the counter scanned the emerald-green tin and said, giving me back the mints, “Three twenty-five.”

I nodded my thank you, and went to the ice cream fridge, a luridly promotional Streets case, wondering what I could choose. The petrol station was not kind with information, and in the end I handed over two sweaty coins and thanked the woman.

Tuscany looked expectantly at me as I exited, and I peeled the plastic off the tin case. One green-and-white lolly dropped to the floor and her tail wagged as she ate it. I unravelled her leash and we began the journey home.

Past the corner shop, where the plastic seats and red and yellow umbrella were conspicuously absent, and past the house next door. Its picket fence was cracked and stained with red dirt. A car, rusting at the taillights, sat in a dirty driveway. Branches on trees that I never learned the name of hung low, brushing into my face.

Our neighbour across the road turned into our street, and tooted his horn and waggled his fingers at me. I waved back.

Tuscany and I went back home.

I felt oddly resentful of the now-flowering frangipani tree in the backyard.

If I get one this little, people are just going to think I'm gay.

Scrubs quoting, heck yes.
Onto other matters. The lovely Emily made reference to my writings, which is awesome, because she is awesome, and you can't help feeling a sense of glee at being referenced. Or, at least, I can't.
Emily writes about important things, I feel. In contrast to what I write, which is:

• The Occasional Rant, at time periods, people, lack of spelling ability.
• Pure And Utter Idiocy At 1am Where I Can Barely Think Let Alone Write, which has actually dwindled down in recent weeks. I'm going to put this down to getting a job.
• The OhmygoshPURTY Post, where I make reference to things that have inspired me. Such as the Sexing the Cherry post.
• Seemingly Pointless Updates And/Or Memories In My Life, which are generally embarrassing in nature.

Anyway, Emily writes about things such as politics, happiness, and les plaisirs de l'hiver, which I know what it means, and you may too.

Next part.

So the extremely strange post I had going on was, yes, definitely personal. Not in regards to my everyday behaviour. The thing about Tashes, we put up guards, but we also do let people know - a lot - if we're upset/growling at the world. We operate on extremes. Psychotic way to live much? you say, scornfully, and sounding like Blair Waldorf. Au contraire, mes amis, it's a fantastic way to live. Gives you the ability to write characters so much better.

If you're not a writer/in the creative industries, I'm not sure how this would really benefit you, but I'm sure it would.

Anyway, the blog post was in reference to someone close to me dying. I really despise that word, dying, and I equally despise the words passing away. Dying is more honest. So, yes, a person whom I consider a family member died on Sunday morning, 5am.

I was woken up with the phone call, at about 9 (so sue me, I sleep a lot), and immediately called Kathryn, because that seems to be my reaction to most things. Mum's in hospital? Call Kathryn. Family member dies? Call Kathryn. Excitement over certain things? Call Kathryn, unless they can wait til I can attack Kathryn's MSN. Kathryn came over, gave me hugs while I sobbed, and then took me to the city.

She also took me to see Courtney's puppies, which I needed. I used to sit all the time with my dogs when I was sad, and Courtney's dogs were a nice substitute.

At the time I had written the post, it was 12.10am, as you can see. I was in a strange mood where I had cried to Kathryn, cried to Mum, been distracted all day then gotten home and felt strangely numb. That was the culmination of the day's emotion, because I have never experienced death before.

Positives to the situation, because I am attempting to do this more?

• He was in that so much pain, it's now ended. Thank goodness.
• Although it's under really depressing circumstances, I get to see my godmother and her family. 
• I then also get roadtrips with my father, which are always awesome.

Part 3.

Uni has been going spectacularly well, although the assignment thing's getting a little annoying. I'm at a stage where I can't think of ideas. This unnerves me. For non-fiction, I can; fiction, I cannot. Something tells me that this is God going, "HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, herein lies your career path."

Who knows?

Anyway, so. Yesterday my Lit. Studies tutor, henceforth referred to as Viv, reminded us of an impending assignment. We could either do a creative option, culminating in a short story that evoked issues of certain readings one could apply to a space, or an essay option, which explored these in a far easier way.

The assignment was, to find a physical site - e.g. cemetery, garden, house, dressing room - and explore different ways the site is read.

Sitting in the back corner of the room, I'm listening to Viv explain the assignment, and rave about the Gendered Bathrooms essay which we have as an example on Blackboard. One of the girls in the room asks about an idea she's got; I can't remember Viv's reaction because at this stage I've picked up a pen and started drawing. 

I decide to choose a bridal couture shop for various reasons, and after the tutorial, I toddle over to Viv. "For my piece," I say hesitantly, "would a high-end bridal store be okay? One where the dresses are about $7000 each?"

Viv burbles about how brilliant this idea is for quite some time, and as we part ways, she says how excited she is to read it when it comes in.

I don't know, really, life's ups and downs are balancing out recently. Keeping me in perspective. I have better ideas of what I should be doing in my life, and God's giving me a path and reminding me what life's about. I'm excited for what life is giving me. Sad, in some regards, of course, but positives are in all situations.

Anyway, I just got paid. I need food. Stat.