Holy fuck. How could I only just now have realised how truly shitty a writer I am! It's an insult to real writers to even use the word 'writer' to describe me. But, clearly, as I am a shitty writer, I lack the ability to use anything other than the most simple and basic of descriptors to articulate my point. There's no room in my vocabulary for synonyms.
I hereby abandon all of my writing ambitions. I will never again write anything more than a whiny, self-indulgent, attention-seeking tumblr text post (that will most likely be some nonsense about how Deerhunter's music is God or the obscene things I would like to do to Brett Anderson). I will most likely never post here again. I was only posting here to trick myself into thinking I was expressing myself to an audience, whilst being comforted by the knowledge that I'm pretty much anonymous and no one's reading any of this bullshit.
I hate all of the people in my life for not having the decency to tell me earlier of what a fool I was making of myself. WHEN SOMEONE IS SHIT AT SOMETHING, DON'T SIT BACK AND WATCH THEM PLAN THEIR ENTIRE LIFE AROUND THAT THING THEY'RE SHIT AT. Poor form, people. I'd be honest and tell people they suck.
I've dropped out of uni (woo! Three incomplete degrees. Oh, the shame). I might go back and do something practical. Maybe I can be a forensic psychologist, or I guess I could learn hairdressing or something. I do have a really sick desire to fuck with people's hair. Anyone who's vain enough to pay hundreds of dollars to let a stranger put chemicals in their hair and slice at them with scissors deserves to be burned and viciously slashed.
Well, I don't know what I am, anymore. I am so fucking embarrassed. I have no faith in humanity. How could I not see how awful my writing was. How could I not see what a joke I am?! How can I really be surprised that people would just let me continue humiliating myself?
This tinnitus will be the death of me. I'm only 21. This isn't supposed to happen for another thirty years.
I wear earplugs at every gig I go to. Michael doesn't. Why isn't he crippled by constant white noise?
Why have I been fucking cursed by the only thing in life that I actually enjoy?
Do I stop listening to music and just suffer with this torture until some accident of bodily fault destroys me, or do I enjoy what time I allow myself, not limiting my music consumption, and just kill myself when it gets totally unbearable?
I know I've already "set my date", but I don't know if I can last that long.
It's so isolating. No one believes that ringing ears can actually be a totally crippling condition. People literally kill themselves over this. Some people cannot function in any capacity.
I can't NOT listen to music. I would rather not live.It's like the fucking religious freaks who don't enjoy anything about life just so they can get into some hypothetical afterlife. Gosh, if death allotted a moment for self-reflection, imagine the regret.
Misery and moderate ringing, or music and severe ringing? I can just turn the volume up, right?
It's been an issue for years. I don't know if I've just starting really taking not of it, or if it has gotten worse. I really wanted to listen to Radiohead loudly about a week ago, but I didn't know if anyone was home. Naturally, I headphoned it... loudly.No one was even fucking home. I've noticed it since then. So, my courtesy is my downfall?
I have no scheduled gigs for a month. Of course, I could not listen to music for a month and see if there's improvement, but no - BRMC and Suede both have to release new albums.
What's really scaring me is music sounds different today compared to yesterday. Is it deteriorating that rapidly?
Kind of terrified.
I think Michael and I broke up, tonight. Am I a bitch for being more concerned about my ears, or does that just cement the severity of this issue?
I did this to myself.
This is what you'll get when you mess with life...
My Mad Fat Diary, Episode 1. It's probably a little too obvious for me to relate to this show. She's fat like me, she has the same squished, blubbery, pug-face as me (but she's lucky enough to have green eyes), and she has the thin, greasy, dark brown hair that looks like fraying linen pasted to the skull. Emotional wreck. Self-loathing. Music-obsessed (and I must say, her music preferences are epically rad). There's a scene where she's out with a bunch of hip kids who she's struggling to fit in with. A slow-motion foodfight is soundtracked by Suede' Beautiful Ones, while she lustfully alternates her gaze between the food and the guy she's keen on (who, naturally, fits this physical "type" I have a preference for).
As I write this, Kula Shaker is playing in the episode. Bliss.
She has more sass.
I am so dull.
Now, she's romanticising self-injury while Novocaine For the Soul plays. Holy fucking cow.
I've had Radiohead's There There playing on repeat for half an hour. I'm fantasising about meeting a timid sixteen year old Thom Yorke and taking his virginity. Why?
I may be a little bit in love with him.
Maybe a lot.
Why can't I "love" men who aren't mad musical geniuses, twenty years my seniors?
I had another Black Rebel Motorcycle Club dream. It started at a gig at a venue that has become a recurring feature in my dreams, which consists of multiple stages. After the gig, I retreated to the "media" area (which for some bizarre reason, I was allowed into because I write stupid reviews). When I got there, I walked over to Robert and said something along the lines of "your music means everything to me", to which he seemed to respond positively.
The next thing I recall is fumbling around my "farmhouse" (it should be noted that I seem to be living amongst this really small collection of country houses in the middle of nowhere), preparing a picnic for the band. Next thing I know, I'm sitting with Robert, Peter and Leah under a tree, around 300 metres from the houses. We sit and chat (about what particularly, I do not remember. However, it was amicable and they felt like my friends). Clockwise from me sat Leah, then Rob, then Peter. I felt like I was talking to Peter a lot, while mostly wanting to talk to Robert. Talking to Leah, she felt like a friend I'd had for a very long time.
Then, Peter alerts me to a scene behind me. I turn around, and my "cabin" is on fire. From what I'm feeling, it seems like my dad owns this little cabin, but I know that it will be mine soon, so I feel like my whole life is falling to pieces. I cry, and Robert comforts me by putting his arm around my shoulders and telling me to look away.
Suddenly, we're sitting near the burnt building. I'm sitting on the steps next to Leah, while Peter and Robert are apparently investigating the fire. Oddly, I express to Leah my embarrassment about not having shaved my bare legs for the occasion (although, when I look at them, they are very smooth). She says "don't worry. Peter wouldn't notice". I feel bad, because I assume that means Rob would have noticed. Then the dreams disappears and I wake up to find I've been outbid on a perfect dress on ebay, and I've lost it. SIGH.
I hate the bad feeling I get from skipping uni. Today, I passed the number of unexcused absences for one subject, and thus am likely to fail. For another, I missed the only discussion on the topic of my essay (which is supposed to make up 50% of the subject mark and on which I have absolutely no knowledge). I hate myself. I can't do this anymore.
I was sitting in some weird place that I think was supposed to be my own home. For some reason, BRMC's Robert was there and talking to me in a flirtatious way. It was nice. There were balls of powder that kept exploding in the air (I can't explain that one). Then I went to see them play live, got lost in the venue, but directed other people to get lost so that I knew when I do find it, I can still get a good spot. I finally made it to the stage in time to get a spot at the front.
I feel like I've lost all the important details that made this dream seem special. I suppose I can't really describe the feeling I got from feeling accepted by Robert and that smile he gave me at one point.
I am not worthy.
I'm just going to post a bunch of pictures of Brett Anderson to distract myself from this mind full of fuck. Oh woe...
...that's already too many for me to handle...
Cool dream. I'm somehow in the BRMC gang. I don't know how. They're playing live, and I get to watch from side of stage. I feel like I know Peter really well. We don't seem to be romantically linked, but we definitely have a special connection. The band packs up and goes to a new venue. Rather than sitting at the side of the stage, I elect to sit in the front. Peter points at me and gestures for me to come and help him. He takes me out the back to where Leah is having trouble with a "drumkit" (to me, it looks like a giant church organ that was vomited up by someone on acid after eating a rainbow). She can't get it to work, and Peter thinks I can fix it. The problem is immediately apparent. There's a layer of plastic surrounding it. I promptly remove it, and the issue is resolved. Peter is grateful and offers me a backstage pass in return for my troubles. It's odd, since I'm already backstage, but I accept nonetheless. He says that Robert will bring it to me. Peter and Leah disappear and I find myself alone in a hallway. Unsure of what to do, I decide to just leave. At that moment, Robert enters the hallway. He seems kind of drunk and is carrying a gorgeous, skinny model on his arm. He's carrying a handful of colourful bits of paper. He throws them at me and says "I'm not sure which backstage pass you want, so take one". I look at him confused. "What's the difference between them all?" I ask. "I mean, I want one that will allow me to hang out with you guys later". He looks at me like I am pathetic, and I suddenly realise that I am. Embarrassed, I grab the one nearest to me on the floor. It's green and offers no details as to what it entitles me to, but it will do. "This will do" I say to him, before muttering something else ridiculous. I accidentally declare something pathetic about how I am in love with him and would enjoy spending time in his company, before I take a good look at the girl he's with. She is absolutely stunning. She's a vision of physical perfection that I never would have imagined possible. I realised how foolish I was. I look at him apologetically and say "she is significantly more beautiful than I am", and I start to walk away. I look back, and he is laughing. Surprisingly, it doesn't seem like he is laughing at how pathetic I am. It seems like he's laughing because I get him, like I've just connected to and exposed some truth that he has been hiding. It was a significant interaction, one that seemed completely shallow and hollow on the surface, but to us, it was something that would forever be remembered. Yet, he left with his stunning female friend. Strangely, when I got to the stage and took a seat on the floor near Peter, Robert was there. The magical melancholy of Vision was heard, and all I could think of, even after the profound experience, was "this is fucking retarded song to open a set with".
I am so fucking retarded. These dreams where I am accepted by BRMC are literally the greatest moments of my life. Is that sad?
I packed my boxes, today. I'm living out of cardboard boxes until I finally find some place to move. I honestly think I'd rather live at a bus stop than stay here for another week. I can't do it. I'm going to cut too deep and drown in a pool of my own blood. Why doesn't anyone ever reply to my messages? This is what I get for being socially retarded. Even the people who have never met me are repulsed by me.
The "forgetting to eat" thing is finally working. I've fainted three times, though. I guess this means I'm compromising my brain and its ability to function. Thankfully, despite for several years believing that my unique mind was all that I have to offer the world, I've since come to the realisation that that was only my pathetic naivety. In reality, all I have to offer the world are an ability to be drugged into submission and a vagina. Perhaps the crudeness is unnecessary, but even the only thing I achieve in life is helping some crazed rapist gets his rocks off while my drugged body lies limp beneath him, at least I'll feel some semblance of fulfilment. I mean, at least I can do something, right?
Right now, I am watching DiG!. Of course, this is doing nothing but feeding my crippling depression. San Francisco circa 1996 seems like the most dreamy time and space to exist in. Frankston, circa 2011, offers no excitement beyond watching a fat man bash a skinny guy's face into the ground while I'm waiting for the bus. The coolest part is that three weeks later, the blood stain is still there.
I'm going to start collecting dead things. By comparison, that should make me feel alive. If that fails, surrounded by dead things, at least I'll feel like I finally fit somewhere.
I think Luke Steele is my soulmate. Where is he?