Yadda yadda yadda

Happy days.  Happy times.

How does one know when one is having a nervous breakdown?  A friend told me today that if I was having one, I wouldn't know about it.  In other words my awareness somehow dictates sanity.  But I don't buy that one.   I think one can unravel quietly, in a corner somewhere.  Without anyone taking much notice.  But why must blogs always be so depressing?  Usually because it's the only place we feel able to concentrate selfishly on ourselves, I guess... er...

Nice weather we're having.

Son House.  Goddamn.  Been watching this American Folk Blues festival DVD and damn if Son House isn't just the most amazing thing in the world, ever.  I know that's a compelling and mature description, but proper words fail me in the presence of images of him singing Death Letter Blues.  They really do.

I got a letter this morning, how do you reckon it read?
"Oh, hurry, hurry, gal, you love is dead"

The lyrics on this version seem to vary pretty madly from any other I've heard.  And it's just truly humbling to see him sitting on a bench in a white room... a church it seems, with a guitar, singing out, pure and simple. 

Been working like a busy beaver this week, until 11pm tonight, hence I'm up still at fucking five in the morning trying to wind down.  Okay I've not been winding down at all, I've been watching America's Next Top Model and Desperate Housewives.  Two of my guiltiest pleasures.  ANTM is such good entertainment - nothing beats watching a bunch of neurotic anorexic bitches tearing each other apart in a competition to see who can be most shallow and beautiful.  The finale is next week, I'm beside myself.
And DH, well, it's just got enough of the right things to keep me hooked... mainly an addictive and mysterious storyline, but it's just silly and just funny and just poignant enough in the right places too.

After the guilty telly fest I did some emails and ticked one film off my reviews list and sent the copy in.  I semi-regularly review porn for a friend's website and sometimes it can be a total blast, and sometimes just a dire chore. Hard to describe the site really, kind of "thinking man's wank zone"?  Hahaha. If the porn is ridiculous enough it's a blast and easy to write entertaining about it.  If it's just run of the mill fake titted crunchy blondes getting doubly penetrated, it's just kind of sad and monotonous.   It's quite interesting to see what actually turns me on though.  My own little research project.

Ah hell.  I really have to get some sleep.  Will try to be more diligent and depressing soon, honest.

Ephiphanies, Realisations, Wisdom

Epiphanies, Realisations, Wisdom

Yeah.  So I was standing there watching Sole at the Spitz, feeling generally shitty and sorry for myself, and I kind of came to a conclusion.

Reality check - it's probably a temporary conclusion, one borne of a fleeting jolt of self importance and ... self preservation .... that will fade in a few hours, like they do.  But maybe not.  Maybe one day, something will stick.

So I was feeling (as I have already said... see stalling already) that I was feeling down and sorry for myself.  More about that later.  Much much more.  This is a blog after all.   I was thinking that part of my despair lie in the fact that I don't have anyone to talk to - to share my burden, if you will.  To speak the unspeakable thoughts that are in my brain to. To admit defeat to.  To show the real me to.

Probably because I am a Taurus and and only child (well okay only until the age of 18 at which point I was delivered a half sister whom I love more than myself) and because of the nature of that and who I have become over the years... I have a massive skin of bravado, a huge illusion that I create, a fantastical wall of identity and front that I can't afford to discard lest something awful and terrible happen to me... or one of those that I love so dearly who has come to count on me/consider me in the manner in which I have allowed them to believe I exist.

~deep breath.  am i still making sense?  did i ever make sense?

Well, anyway, the conclusion was roughly that I need to try to be more honest about things... if not to others at least to myself, because maybe it is about time I stopped pushing it all in and tried to actually have an external conversation about stuff, with myself.

So this is the genius part - obviously no one is reading this blog thing of mine, for a start I haven't kept up with it and beside I'm not a working prostitute in London like Belle du Jour who had, oh, literally dozens of readers before turning Pro... I mean, publishing her memoirs.  On real paper, like.

Thing being that THEORETICALLY anyone can read this.  I am indeed publishing a blog, putting it out there in the ether and yes therefore it's a purge of sorts.  I'm hoping that a few people will occasionally make disparaging comments like "shut the fuck up you moany bitch you think you got it bad well my arm just fell off". 

Do you see what I'm doing here... being clever, avoiding the topic.

Okay so I am going to skirt this one a bit but I'm gonna throw a few points out there just to test my waters and get this ball rolling and GET ON WITH IT.

So... I have this thing called a prolactinoma.  It's a tumour / growth in my pituitary gland and it means I'm producing excess amounts of a chemical called prolactin and that my hormones are all fucked up.  It's not cancerous and apparently if I take my meds like a good girl, it will either control itself or even possibly shrivel up and die.  Well then, SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU MOANING BITCH.  Right?  Yeah well I'm not even warmed up yet.

The big issue is that this prolactinoma is causing all kids of fabulous side effects and that is the thing that is causing me the "issues".  The most exciting development is that I have terminal acne - okay yeah SHUT UP YOU MOANING... etc. but sorry.  I never had problem skin. And this isn't just a few spots.  It's like I am the Elephant Face woman.  I don't get spots/pimples in the conventional sense - I get big boil-like lumps underneath my skin.  Only on my face, of course.  These bumps are roughly the size of a pea, or a pinto bean.  Which sounds small but try sticking a bunch of them under the top layer of your skin and see how big they suddenly become.

I don't consider myself a particularly vain person, because I've never been considered particularly beautiful / attractive / desirable / etc... whatever those words are.  I mean I know I'm not ugly, that I'm reasonably attractive (and yes I judge myself by who I get to fuck me (c) Frightwig) but I've never really made much out of what I had or considered it my biggest asset.  I have pretty much always been overweight.  So.. yeah I don't think I'm a priss about it.

But of course as you get older these things become more important, more apparent, and when your looks start to go you start to notice the attention you are missing.

My job means that I have to but up a lot of Front.  I have to lead.  I have to manage 10 employees.  I need to inspire confidence in my colleagues.  I work with a bunch of musicians and artists and I need to maintain their confidence.  I have to be Big Bad Me at least 10 hours a day.  And this big ugly lumpy face of mine is making that extremely difficult, because I am mortified by my appearance and that means my confidence is non-existent.

Okay.  I'm stopping there.  This is a big step.  No need to purge my entire soul in one sitting.

Cars, alternate personalities, revolutions.

The Beast

    Originally uploaded by

Savage Pink

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                                                                                            Yeah.  So, like I never finished the story about Cornwall and the Tapestry festival.  Sorry about that.  It did actually get better, and then it got worse.  And there were alot of cowboy shirts and boots and hats and some fires and some snogging and alot of cider and even some drugs though as far as I know no penetrative sex.  No...wait.... I tell a lie.   Maybe I'll tell the full story some day instead of just skimming the highlights.

The problem with writing this shit, and I have been actually ENCOURAGED to do so by some parties of late (so THERE!) is that I wake up in the morning full of beans and ideas and words and then I go to work, get my brain drained and by the time I roll in the house... I'm too exhausted to get all that grey stuff down on paper.

Must. Try. Harder.

Yeah, anyway, I am pretty bored with that whole Mysluts thing now.  I've made at least one really good friend out of it.... and that's about it so far.  I'm sure it's all my fault.  So for the time being I am adopting an alternate personality, Queen Of The Night.  That should scare all the creeps away and confuse and confound everyone else, right?  For those of you who are not familiar, The Queen Of The Night (baked clay relief from Iraq, c. 1800 BC) represents an ancient Mesopotamian goddess, possibly Ishtar, the goddess of sexual love and war, or maybe her sister Ereshkigal, who ruled the Underworld.  Some think she is Lilitu, the demon of the night, known in the Bible as Lilith.  She holds in her hands the rod and ring of justice.  She has wings and taloned feet and is flanked by two owls and two lions.  Yeah. 

So..the neverending saga of classic car ownership runs on and on.  The Beast has problems.  Overheating - although a blocked thermo seemed to be the cause, a new one ain't fixed it, so I'm looking for air locks now. The hydraulics are going and I'm going to need a new master cylinder & slave.  And the distributor is definitely shot -  we thought the new cap & rotor arm had sorted the problem but it's gone dickey again.  The frustrating thing is that she runs really well when she's nice and warmed up (and the distributor ain't making her stall and and the gears aren't sticking and the radiator ain't spewing boiling water at me).  Oh, I can hear you laugh.  It's funny... I am questioning my sanity.  But I'm also reckoning that I'm half way down the road and I've got to get to the bottom and see what's around the corner.  I desperately want The Beast to live.  I don't want to give up on her.  But I am beginning to wonder if it's remotely practical to keep a Rover V8 as a day-to-day car in a city like London.  And I don't reckon I can afford two cars.  A scooter maybe?  Nah, I hate The Who and I can't see myself in fish-tail parkas.  A motorbike?  Maybe...would need to learn to ride one properly and I'd probably hate it in this shitty British weather, and I'd probably get killed by a bus or something in London. 

Hmmmm.  But I can't possibly go back to some crappy but reliable car, can I?  Sigh....

Apart from all that fun...I've started a little revolution.  It's only small, and it probably means alot more to me than to anyone else at this stage...  but for the first time in well over a year I feel incredibly energised and excited and challenged by my work.  This deserves a full, clear-headed, morning rant... which I should be ready to give you soon.  Watch this space.

And I thank you. 

or, "Grrr! Scary Things!"

xx Queen Of The Night...