geek out time...

Is it permissible to scum to the worst of female generalities and stereotypes, and admit that I am obsessed with Jane Austen? I've never quite understood it; but I suppose my obsession and preoccupation with Austen began with the film Sense and Sensibility (you know, the one with Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson?) which led to a long and lengthy love affair with the novel; and thence to a much more fulfilling relationship with Pride and Prejudice.

I have to admit that Jane Austen is sort of the quintessential female vice; we succumb to her witty verse and her romantic endings. And of course, Mr Darcy is every intelligent girl's dream; slightly proud, very dashing, and quite willing to humble himself in the face of true love. That is still my male ideal, and as unfortunate as it is to admit it, Darcy is a fictional character and beast. There is no such type of man. I hate to admit, because it breaks my heart something dreadful, but Darcy is no more and no less than a figment of her imagination.

Which is perhaps why I found the new movie Becoming Jane such a beautiful idea— I saw it this afternoon. Not only did it combine my love of Austen with my love of James McAvoy, but it had pretty dresses and evidences of a ball in the adverts. Not to mention I cried when I saw the trailer. And that wasn't just because Mister McAvoy was as beautiful as Apollo.

I loved the idea that she had loved— and maybe lost. Because as any true disciple of Jane Austen knows, she did not die happy. She died impoverished and alone. And that in itself is distressing, because I often pondered to myself, "how the fuck can she write about extreme happiness and perfect endings when she herself had far from it? She'd never even fucking experienced life, how can she write of it suchly?"

But to say this is to deny Austen's vivid imagination— we can all remember quite clearly that the Gothic novel Jane Eyre also stemmed from inexperience. To discredit her imagination would discredit the book itself— and we cannot deny that Austen and Brontë's work contained undeniable truths about human nature.

Anyhow, the movie is sweet and sentimental, and I cried far more than I should have. It was enjoyable in a quaint, whimsical way, and Ms Hathaway was charming as usual in her customary head strong character. There was nothing to recommend or to insult about it. I enjoyed it, and I also was disappointed.

But I'm very excited about James McAvoy's new movie, Atonement which bloody doesn't come out in the States until fucking December, and I'm also excited about this Hugh Dancy film coming out soon enough. It's called the Jane Austen Book Club. Tell me that doesn't sound wonderful.

more than words

Second post of the day.

My parents are out of town, with my brother and sister. They've left me alone in the house.

True to character, I am going to do some things I shouldn't. I have a friend coming over some time in the next couple days and we're going to smoke in the backyard.

But I'm not going to throw a wild party; even though I kind of want to do something like that— I won't. I'm too honoured that they respect me enough to leave me alone in the house. Isn't that kind of funny? I'm really proud that they trust me enough at home alone.

And the funny thing is, I miss them so desperately. I know that I complain about them like an old woman. But they are really quite the best parents for me. I wouldn't have done well in any other household. I respect them, I love them, and I have enough independence to flount some of their rules but not break the big ones.

Funny, huh?

of lasts

My Grand-Aunt died recently, and I will admit that I am very sad about it— not because I knew her very well, or that I was very attached, but because it means that my grandmother is getting old, and she is realising it.

I think there is nothing worse than death, except for the realisation of imminent death. We all die— it is natural, it is what happens to us. We cannot complain or whine about it, because it is just life. Life is life is life. And death is death is death. We all have to come to terms with our mortality.

This is all so easy to spout off now— if I actually sat and thought about it, I would probably get in a state of panic and freak out. This is understandable.

But it's hard to watch my grandmother mourn and come to terms with her own mortality at the same time. It all makes me feel so immature and worthless.

there is seriously something wrong with the world

How the fuck is a show entitled "The Pickup Artist" optioned and shown?







What the fuck is wrong with our society?

of firsts

I had my first cigarette last week.







It was majorly anti-climactic.



I didn't even cough.

something stupid.

Some days you just want it all to go away. And on those days suicide is suddenly an option, suddenly a way out, some way to make it all stop abruptly. And whatever it was that was crushing you just disappears, and you can walk down a road without feeling as if you are suffocating. True despair is worse than any disease. It’s staring out of a window at nothing and wanting to off yourself with a big knife. It’s not about seeking help anymore. After a while, you don’t want the attention. You just want it to fucking all end.

Because life isn’t a box of chocolates. Life isn’t even a brown paper package, or a bloody rose. It’s a fucking mess. Life throws you curve balls at every turn, and burns your soul with a lighter. Life doesn’t give a fuck about how you feel, or what you want.

Some things make it better. Like sitting in a quiet, clean room without any sound, just the dripping of a faucet. Or sitting in the middle of a green field that doesn’t smell like dog shit. A few friends at a dinner party. A boy with green eyes who kisses you gently.

But sometimes, not even those things can make it better.

And I hate to think of this as wallowing in self pity. Because really, I know my life is wonderful. I have nothing to complain about: I have a wonderful family, plenty of money, an education, a dog. I have the ‘American dream’.

And that’s why I can’t complain to anyone. They wouldn’t understand. I’m not ungrateful; I’m not. I love my family so much, and my life is beautiful. And when things are good, and I’m not depressed, I can see so much beauty in the world. But when I’m depressed, it’s like everything is gone and I can’t see anything at all.

And when I do try to tell someone how I feel, I’m told “oh it’s just a teenage thing, you’ll be fine in a few days”. Try a few months. I’ll be fine in a few months. I spent most of July in a fucking hole. I couldn’t breath, couldn’t hear, and it affected my work. And people could tell.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

How on earth do you explain that you’re wanting to kill yourself for no other reason than that there is something strange haunting you. And how do you tell people that you feel as if your soul has been ripped out?

I’m not a fucking emo. I don’t wear pitch-black eyeliner and die my hair black. I don’t listen to Panic! At the Fucking Disco, or the Used, and I fucking don’t pretend I’m hardcore.

I like my life, I really do.

But sometimes, death is the only thing I can think of to just end this mess inside my head. I want to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs just to be heard. But I can’t.

And I hate that I’ve come so close to actually doing the deed, and then I chicken out, oh because, how would my parents handle it?

Two years ago, I came so close. I was about to plunge a butcher knife into my gut when my sister walked in. I was scared more by the look on her face than the fact that there was a very sharp knife millimetres away from my belly button.

I’m sorry for being so fucking weak.

In a few days, if I don’t get really bad, I’ll be fine again, and it won’t get this bad for another few months and then I’ll be where I am now.

But I’ve managed to get through it before, and I fucking hope I’ll be fine. Because I really hate being weak. And I hate being at the mercy of something I can’t explain.

whatever it is in the world that hates me

Please stop.

I'm going crazy.