Thursday, 26 July 2012



The shuddering gears within this place, grinding and grasping
Imbedding with every moment a senseless rhythm (on and on)
Turning with the path of that ever-blowing noise, ever-gasping
Clocks shattered and thrown as playthings in an oblivion.

And I wonder for you, can you feel this mechanism within?
Is every breath for you just one more sanction passed by the heart
-          Your heart with it’s cables and connections – lacking morals or sins
A heartbeat the plodding tread of life you walked from the start

Wheeling in a fathom called your mind – a void I can’t comprehend
Sense and senselessness brothers in arms with their guns and roses
Cold steel nuzzling soft petals i see : it’s almost sensual as it ends
Only when you close your eyes can I see the list of poses

And I wonder for you, can you feel this confusion inside?
Is every thought just another plot or plan to scheme and wile
You never know whether to raise your fists or hide
Is it murder or love in the teeth of that smile...

Unfurling your fingers from within their tense clench
That once shielded the vunerablities I heard you ignore
Well look at all that’s remained of your strength :
The dust of something beautiful departed.

And I wonder for you, can you comprehend what you’ve lost?
Is it the loss of that secret place you cry about or laugh over
Delirious in a joy of all that you succeeded in killing
Dead in every sense but what you would sanction as definition.

I should hope that one day you awake from this stupor
And see the world for the striking heartbreak that it is
I would rather your heart open in pain and spill out
Than for your heart to become nothing at all. 

Punny Fom-Toolery

Hello my pretties.

You know what I really do not enjoy? Abortions.


But also... people who ask personal questions at innapropriate times. To be honest, I am in complete confusion as to why someone hasn’t written a handbook on the Conventions of Personal Questions. It’s such an awkward area, and we all know society loves self-help books that mainly just help the shitty author frolick in money and the knowledge they’re messing with people, so why has it not been written? Because I would seriously invest in such a book and just hand them out to people. WHICH WOULD MAYBE MAKE THEM FEEL AS UNCOMFORTABLE AS MUCH AS THEY MESSED WITH ME.
Just because we are acquainted does not mean we’re at liberty to swap licenses to each others diaries, thoughts and underwear drawers. No. When it comes to these things I swear all I can hear is the subtext falling out of people’s mouths – all the nicities just shed from the conversation and all i hear is this :

“Hi, we’ve spoken once and I liked your dp.”
“Oh yeah I know you! Hey how are you?”
“Im great J. So how was your day?”
“Oh you know, average...Oh actually there was one cool thing, I saw this cloud and –“

Now I’m not saying that actually happens, BUT I FEEL LIKE IT DOES. As soon as I see a motive in someones conversation all i hear is “ Hi, I’m a sociopath.” So, for my peace of mind, here is the world’s premier handbook on How Not To Suck at Being a Person : Personal Questions Edition.

Hello there. I’m so glad you’ve perchanced upon this pamphlet. Now that you’re here, let’s get to know each other. What’s your favourite color? Do you have a pet? HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE YOU SLEPT WITH?
Oh I’m sorry, did I shock/surprise/terrify/sexuallyl excite you?
If you’ve been given this book then you understand one of two things. Either the uncomfortable-ness of the situation above, and you seek refuge from the world in the pages of this shelter of manners. Or you are a tool who  society has deemed too good to just stone to death but in need of some help. Either either, let’s begin. Here are some preliminary tips to deal with situations relating to personal questions.

Firstly, for those afflicted by the situation of others being dicks, listen up.
1. Never underestimate the power of evasion techniques. Clearly the person asking you something innapropriate isn’t that bright – other wise they would have the walnuts to make a nut and work out it’s not okay. Know this. USE THIS. Here is an advantage in your favour, RUN WITH IT. Evasion is the first step you must take in answering personal questions, the preventitive step if you will. Some personal favourites of mine can be demonstrated with the example question of ‘Why do you look so depressed?’

Example responses include:

“Wait one sec, I’m fantasing about your dad right now......mmm.......okay sorry what?”


“......(silence as you pretend to fall asleep while they talk to you. I’ve actually done this. Success rate 100% if you commit)

2. If the question has been asked, then an answer is expected. However, as you all know, I enjoy spicing up said life more than the average person. Thus Step Two involves subverting the expectation of your Douche-Assailant with a completely irrelevant response. Humor is encouraged.
Example responses include:

“I like cats. (Repeat till they walk away)”

“This reminds me of this one time way back in 1932. Back then things were simpler. But times were tougher. This one morning as I was plowing the fields I was chatting to the farm folk I saw a sheep that reminded me of me grand-daddy Albert. Albert was a top bloke, born in 1865....etc”


3. If your Douche-Assailiant is either so dumb they hav’nt got the hint by now or so persistant they were willing to listen to all the above, then the fatefull Step Three remains to be your only remaining option. Use with caution.

Example reactions include:
-          Lying down on the floor face down and singing Soft Kitty
-          Trying to stab them with a plastic spoon
-          Quickly montage all the saddest parts of every sad movie you’ve watched and tell an epic tale of rape, murder and loss for as long as possible, optimumly at least ten minutes. As your story progresses the events in your sad make believe life must slowly become worse and worse. Your emotional state should also deteriorate. When you are almost done begin to wail and shake your fist at the sky. When the Douche-Assailant says some inadequate apology or comiseration, say “And that’s only last year! I havn’t even told you about that time I committed suicide.”

Good luck my doves. Now for the rest of you. YE DOUCHE-ASSAILANTS. LISTEN UP BIZNITCHES. THIS IS HOW IT WORKS.

1. Firstly, stop being a  tool. This always helps. Prime examples of being a tool include
  - toolish behaviours like laughing at people’s misfortunes (hilarious stacks by year sevens excluded), having no sense of humanity, and spending too much time in sheds.
2. Secondly,  start being compassionate. Everyone has loss or sadness in their lives in one form or another – or maybe not yet but without a doubt this screwed up world will ensure that one day they cry. That includes you. Therefore start caring about other people before everyone stops caring about you.
3. Thirdly, stop asking questions. It’s one thing to ask ‘How was your day?” but it’s another to ask “Why were you crying earlier?”. Depending on your relationship this meter of appropriateness will alter. Be aware of where you stand on this scale (Stranger, Adquaintance, Friend, Good Friend) and moderate your behaviour to suit. Obviously if you are best friends DO ask – if you don’t then your still a tool, just in a different way – but if your not a part of their lives then don’t have the conciet to presume yourself in it.

So, Douche-Assailants and I-Just-Got-Assailed-By-Douches alike, good luck. And remember, please don’t be a tool. J


OH by the whey I’m sorry I hath not written in a while, I’m trying not to write when I’m sad because my emo poetry is shite beyond belief and I wouldn’t want to thrust motifs of gothicsm upon you all for everyone's wellbeing haha

Wednesday, 20 June 2012

Norwegian Wood

Hey kids,

Today was a weird day. Just as Kingdom Hearts would say, 'I've been having these weird thoughts, is any of this for real? Or not?'

"'When you walk away, you don't hear me say "Please, oh baby, don't go.'"

Fucckk. My entire life I have always felt safe in expressing myself. I find it so easy usually to understand myself, analyse, process, repair and move on. I've done this through talking, writing, even singing to people (though usually in more light hearted affairs I'll admit). But right now...I honestly am finding the most basic comprehension of what's going on inside my mind beyond me. Which results in what I can only describe as a fervour of confusion.

Today I was talking to Ange about this homeless crazy guy we passed by on the street. Typical crazy - talking to himself, dressed weird, not causing anyone any harm. I took the typical white girl approach of giving him a once over and being wary, but she said she felt sympathy for him. "No-one listens to him. He honestly believes what he's talking about, but no-one will ever listen." To be fair he was trying to convince two sardonic looking Chinese guys that mobile phones were Europe's latest method of international invasion, but I felt the point with resonance. It made me think of a man who is unable to speak, physically. Surely he has thoughts and emotions within, but the outside barrier will never let these secrets pervade the silence outside. Just as the crazy man has theories about aliens (apparently the USA has a colony on Mars in co-existence with aliens guys), he is prevented from expressing them by either his mental incapacity or our judgement of it. I'm not sure which one of these things it is. Maybe both? At any rate, I'm not saying that we should all have a dnm with our local drunkard or go pick up in Hyde Park, but for me that man being incapable of expression was both intensely sad and terrifying. I don't want to be that man.

Meeting - or more accurately put, observing - that man made me flashback to year 5. I was in this really swanky typical 'gifted and talented' class which always annoyed me because the teacher took my inability to draw well to mean that I was unworthy to participate in maths, science, English, PE, walking, breathing or being-in-her-general-presence activities. Anyway. So we were reading this book...ahhh what was it called, wait, quick google...Sorry to report I was unsuccessful. I'll ask Beccy (Shiara) tomorrow, I'm pretty sure she was in that class with me. Anyway, so whatever this book was called, it was about this girl who was blind. The imagery was stunning ironically, and very lyrical. I remember being aware that I was reading a book that was quality, something I could appreciate when I was older maybe. In my mind there's one scene I remember in particular. The girl is with her friend, a boy, and he has taken her to the beach for the first time in her life. She stands on the cliff face, tears blown back from her face by the sea breeze and asks what the boy what color the sea is. The boy replies red (...jokes, just trying to break the tension of my depressive ramblings. He said blue in case you were wondering.) The girl laughs and cries and bitterly shouts at him, up over the sand on this little cliff. She wants to know what this blue is, what the hell does blue mean? What is it? Explain it, now! He says (god I wish I had the exact quote, it's absolutely beautiful) something descriptive and breathtaking and amazing and goes on and on and on, and while you never really want it to end because of it's loveliness, you sort of do, just becauase we all love to see cause and effect like the social scientists we are. The girl says "Oh.", or something very small, simple...I imagine this moment to be like a bear seeing the sun after a long period of hibernation. And then the boy says, "It's also the color of your eyes."

Anyway, I thought of that book today, after seeing that man. Hence forth, he shall be named Toby. After seeing Toby I instantly thought of that book. You know when you think of something complex and emotional after a sudden coincidence, and you're filled with a rush of something? I often, happily, feel that in a positive way, like a rush of happiness or love, but this time I was flooded with a sense of insecurity and sorrow. It's the sort of thing you can never hope or bother to explain to someone else. Your friend/conversational partner/slave may notice a small change in you, like your mood suddenly changing or your mind wandering onto a different path, but since our own minds are so inundated with thoughts how can we ever aim to calm the flooding within another person's mind? I always like to try and understand others. I place a high value upon empathy - actually, probably too high a value, I know. Gotta separate yourself, stay above the emotions and damages of others, right? Anyway, I always try and understand others. I think I'm giving up on understanding myself right now though, haha....

For senior drama club I had to interview several people around the school, just asking them random hypothetical questions for lols and videoing their answers. One of the questions was 'If you could choose a superpower what would it be?', which is easy personally as I could never go past psychic power, dat shit cray with the teleporting and ghost controlling and energy skills and what not. However, one of the most popular answers was that of being able to read minds.


They CLEARLY haven't thought about listening in on people as weird as me haha. But no seriously, WHY?
1. There are some things that aren't meant to be shared. Sometimes you just don't want to tell people some things. And that's fine! It's called privacy bro, and it's legal. Look it up. And when privacy gets encroached upon, people often get embarrassed or angry, which I believe they have a right to feel. So basically if you go snooping in other people's minds, you will find things your not meant to, and you are a bad person.
2. What if the person happens to be thinking how ugly you look? They don't want to hurt you - they not saying it out loud - but still. That could just ruin everyone's day.
3. Dude, I can barely deal with my own life, let alone everyone else's. If I read someone's mind and they were sad, I would instinctually try and improve their situation somewhat. But to be honest, this sort of meddling isn't what's always needed and in fact is sometimes more effective in creating more huge piles of fucked-ness for the poor person to navigate.

Gahhhhhh want to keep writing but I do require at least sleep to keep living, so I'll be off. Night my sugarplums xx

ps. Read Norweigan Wood. It's beyond anything I could describe to you...I CRIED ON A TRAIN AS I READ THE FINAL CHAPTER. THAT'S HOW GOOD IT WAS. CMON PEOPLE READ IT!

Tuesday, 19 June 2012

Hannah is a sex goddess

Kate is a green tree frog.
She sits all day upon a log.
And why does she sit it this fog?
Simply, becuase she is a frog. Hannah is hot xo

Sunday, 17 June 2012

Drunken Ramblings

Currently in legal, dying slowly. I assumed that by taking this class I would somehow be transformed into Elle Woods – as in the hot chick from Legally Blonde – and I can only say I have experienced disappointment. The only sexy developments that have derived from me taking legal has been a ponder-ment of wondering if I could have a hypothetical law suit against me dissolved by flirting with the judge. IF I’M DESTINED TO LIVE A FEMALE LIFE OF SUBJEGATION, I MIGHT AS WELL ENJOY THE PERKS.

My teacher just said that one in five couples have difficulty having children. That’s really sad. But like, actually, think about it. Really sad. In the movie Julie and Julia, the lovely Merryl Streep and gorgeous Stanley Tucci are an older couple very much in love but for some unknown reason can’t have kids...I can honestly say that my heart broke for them a bit, as a well acted representation of a real life problem. When you think about it, it’s kind of crazy that we’re all here really. Especially Johnny Depp. His DNA aligned juuuuuuuuuuuuuuustttt rightttt.

ANYWAY, how are we all? That’s nice. I’m great thanks. Having some difficulty being at school for one more week. I highly doubt that any work shall be done by moi in the next five days BUT YOLO BRO! Instead I shall spend my waking hours baking and reading, like the raging party animal I am. T00 h@r3h 2 h@ndelll boizzzz.

Jesus, she’s still talking. WHY DOES EVERYONE WANT ME TO LEARN SO MANY THINGS L If i was a teacher, without sounding arrogent, I would be baus. My students would be keen as spleen to come to my classes. I think I would teach Extention English. History maybe, but I get really sad over emotional historical events and boundaries might be crossed if the kids have to hand me tissues and “There, there” me. And drama? Hmmm, yes perhaps drama. And all conversations must be had in either Shakesperan or Hood language register.

Me : “Good morn, my children of knowledge! Forgoe thine leafs of paper and shun thine quills, for hence we shall have a lesson of practical nature! Sir Jonothan, approach the stage with courage. Engaurde! Swipe the gloom from our eyes of culture, show us an act of glorious emotion. You are in the throes of hatred : now demonstate thus.”
Me : “Jolly well charming. A+!”

So yes, extention english would be my subject...And I would totally be a hot tilf. I would use those pointy-sticky-things to bash anyone who was ‘naughty’ and always be dropping things I have to bend over and pick up – HOW UNFORTUNATE. 10 points for each guy seduced each class. I COULD GET A STICKER CHART, YES!

Anyway, I’ve just typed this over the course of today, becuase I can learn absolutley nothing else this term. I cannot. I refuse. Let me be ignorant and dull in peace and quiet. For now my asparations are aimed at getting on Gypsy Weddings, where I can wear ugg boots and tiaras and service men's needs in the kitchen and our trailer. 

I'll be off now. I know this post has been spectacularly un-amazing, so I'll compensate for you.
Just be grateful Johnny's parents weren't the one in five I mentioned before.

Isn't that nice?
kbye xox

Wednesday, 13 June 2012

Lil bit of paedophilia

As promised earlier today. xo gossip goat.

A man, alone, in a room.

The man sits in silence.

The day I met Lilith was the one singular most important event in the history of my life. Not that I’m attributing much to said life – havnt’t walked on the moon, still can’t follow politics beyond the Sunday cartoon and I sure don’t think I’ll be winning the Nobel Prize next week. But Lilith...she may not be a little golden statue, something to ever so humbly explain to guests as she sits on my mantle basking in unwarranted love, but she remains my greatest achievement. Or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she doesn’t want to ‘remain’ my achievement at all. That’s what she said to me you know. She turned up those periwinkle eyes – Jeepers Creepers, where’d ya get those peepers? – opened the pout of her mouth and stoutly said “Enough is enough Bernard. This is over.” She couldn’t even reference our lives as ‘us’. It was a ‘this’ to her. Lilith was never quite so taken was grammar as I was. She thought I was nit-picky, a stick in the mud. Swinging my hand as we laughed along she would say “Bear you old thing, take a chill pill already!” and flew off elsewhere. Her precious wings caught flight of winds i was too disenchanted to catch – I watched her spiral into the distance. I never dreamed that distance would be more than physical space. And yet.

The man sits in silence.

Full name is Bernard Oswald Gunge, residence 21 Oxham street London, age completely irrelevant. That was always my biography, self-constructed. Whenever Lilith proclaimed it, it became a growling sentient being that ripped and howled until it was quite obvious that the facts were as disturbing as our thoughts were hopeful.  This is how she used to say it:

Full name Bernard Oswald Gunge, residence apartment 1b 21 Oxham street London, age far too old and completely relevant.
Then she would sigh, dolefully. Sigh and sigh until it sounded as waves on the shore, ever present and ever coming. Sure as sure she would sigh her ocean call. And yet.

The man sits in silence.
She told me she loved me. At a completely inappropriate time, too. It was really a nuisance at the time, but I suppose that’s just bloody Shakespeare irony at play isn’t it. Ha ha. Funny. The more I think about it the more hilarious it is, really. She tells me she loves me – I say no no my pet you don’t love me, go off and explore the world – then she says no don’t make me leave you my dear  - and i acquiesce and then explore what’s been sequestered away in my heart and find  - no Lilith I was wrong you must stay please – no no Bear. No Bernard, you were right. You were right to tell me to leave. I was wrong. This is wrong. 16 years apart too wrong. And yet.

The man sits in silence.

And yet I still can’t believe that I told you to leave me.  And as our mindsets slipped past each other in opinion, from one polar to the opposite we swapped, that nothing caught each other? No small catch of eye or brush of hand was enough to make you stay? Yes I know I told you to leave but I was wrong my darling I was wrong, and I’m sorry and I told you that but you really don’t understand what I’m going through. No you don’t, you never understood because you never listened to me, and when i put my hands on the soft sides of your face to make you listen  - to make you see  - you resented me doing that didn’t you well you shouldn’t have because I knew best and this has only happened because you put your two cents in when you didn’t need to and now look  you swung your eyes onto the dark horizon rather than my heart where you told me they would always lie (lay there lying to me).  And there you saw the chasm between my two rickety digits and your two spritely digits. You saw it. You saw it you saw it you did you did you did. You saw it don’t deny that you did you liar you always lied to me you bloody cheating heart-killer but –

Stay my darling my love how i miss you how i scream in agony that you aren’t here. god Lilith it’s all so loud and I can’t stop screaming and it’s all hear in front of me, the truth of us, that I killed us quicker than a cyanide shot glass and we never would have worked, 16 years of unlikelyness that only hit me in reality when my heart had sunken into fantasy my love my sweet pet how i miss you how i scream for your hand on mine you know i think one of us has to go because if we are apart we might as well be dead don’t you think my dear what do you say darling just what do you think about that you damn -

The man sits in silence.

Tuesday, 12 June 2012


Hello my pets!

Yes. I know. I know it's been approximately three thousand years since I have last written (yes that was technically correct).


I forgot my password. To ALL my gmail accounts! And although generally Google is pretty chill and happy to be in a relationship with me, on attempted recovery of my password we had some issues to work through. Firstly it thought I was trying to hack in and steal bitches money, then it thought i wasn't who I said I was, he thought I was seeing other browsers etc etc...
I think in the end it was just too embarrassed to realise that it was wrong and give me the damn password. After mediation with an impartial third party, the lovely tech savy Kate, we worked it out, and things are once more a motion-picture-flowery-meadow-of-google-and-Sophia-eternal-love.

I wouldn't let that browser 'explore' me even if he promised no YouTube adds. Bitch please. Can II provide me with Jonny Depp browser backgrounds? NO. Didn't think so. NOT INTERESTED BUDDY.

Now I'm having deep and meaningful creative thoughts about the logistics of a computer-person relationship. Possible? Probable? Perfect?

Well, it would be handy for setting the mood. Like you know how you listen to a song and your all like "OMG THIS IS THE PERFECT SONG FOR WHEN I MARRY THAT GUY THAT LOOKED AT ME ONCE FROM ACROSS THE STREET ILY JEROME!!!" ? Dating Google, he would obviously be the baus of YouTube, and he would set dat mood RITE. Having a cuddly moment? Bon Iver. Having some lols?  Search up dat Kreyshaun. Your entire life would be sound tracked and delightful and then I could maybe finally achieve the life goal of living The Notebook. Yes.

"Baby, you can delete your history with me any day ;)"
"Error 301? Damn. I must be getting a little overheated...your gonna need to restart my system OH YEAH"
"I love the sound of your keystrokes. Want to hear mine....?"

Actually but on that note, history. Could get awks. I'm a pretttty open person except about really deep personal stuff, but even I recognise that there are boundaries in info sharing. You do not just walk up to an acquaintance and tell them about the crazy animal porn you were watching last night. IF YOU DATED GOOGLE....YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO SAY IT.
He would just know.
As soon as you walked into aforementioned hypothetical room, he would just look at your with his screen-brightened eyes and JUDGE YOU.
And you probably deserve to be judged if you were watching that, that's just nasty haha.

ANYWAY must be off to WOZ rehearsals...I will post some actual writing on here sooner or later :) kbye

Tuesday, 1 May 2012


Hot little hands and a stone-cold heart
Splicing and shredding this construct apart
Love can’t win when it’s not in play
How can it sing when it does’nt have a say?
It whispers in cracks of dark mind-gloom
A box in an empty corner of the room
That we once lived in, this castle of ours
Built from forever gazing up (see those stars xx)
Brick by shtick and stones on loan
Every day was a bill to repay
But you forgot to mention that chivalry is dead
And i had to pick up the tab instead
Sharing is caring and you stole me away
Didn’t leave me any part of myself, except the part that could hurt.

But if a girl can't write emo break-up prose then I simply do not comprehend the world I live in, nor do I wish to. I'm sorry it's been a while my pets, shit's been cray and living must be done before I can write my random-ness down. Living includes maths assesments. As in the one tomorrow. As in the one I have studied really hard for AND IF I DON'T PASS THEN I AM DROPPING OUT TO GO BE A POLE DANCER BECAUSE THAT'S ALL IM GOOD FOR CLEARLY. kbye xx

Monday, 26 March 2012


I Feel Like I'm Going To Die

Panic attacks and fights like a viral infection
Red-lighting  my mind's  neural intersection
Can you hear that high-pitched vocal inflection?
It's just me internally, screaming for a re-election :

Because clearly the authority within in my mind right now
Is an entity with as much sense as the common cow
Even after every noble self made promise and vow
My actions remain free-willed and refusing to bow

To what I'm well aware is for the good and best
It's like being in Iraq and Ebay-ing your bullet-proof vest
Just for a lol and to experience the zest
Of being examined upon life, and failing the test

While we're on this topic, guess what's tomorrow?
My modern history assessment! What joy! (read:sorrow)
All the study I've been doing my mind will now borrow
LOL JOKES in procrastination I've been far too thorough

Because what have I been doing while letting my education lag?
I've been scrolling down pages of useless 9gag.

I'm not even joking guys, I haven't been this doom-ridden since the last Harry Potter novel came out and I realised I would have to change the reason behind my life. I know I'm going to fail. You know how I know that? Becasue I know that I know that I know nothing.
And that may lead you to believe that I know something, ANYTHING.

But I really don't.

Aware of my own stupidity, I write ridiculous poetry and watch the minutes tick on past, all while berrating myself. It reminds me of what Einstein said, something like "Insanity is doing the same thing a thousand times over and expecting different results."
If we're going to go by that definition, you know, by one of the greatest minds of our time.....

Then I am the definition of insane.

okaybye and good luck to all you studiers. screw you all. xx

Sunday, 25 March 2012

"Mr. Potter : our new celebrity."

Hello again.

YES, I KNOW. I'M SHOCKED TOO. I updated again within two weeks! Goodness me, it's almost like I'm reliable. Almost. Not quite. ANWAYS :

I'm hoisting my eternal love for all things Harry Potter related upon you only because I am a lazy idiot who is too lazy to work and then wonders why I don't do well in assessments. Yes, assessments. You know, the ones in about 48 hours? Yeah, those. Have I studied I hear you question?

HA. Oh you guys.

I wrote this instead! A far more worthy use of time I would wager. Now if only I can find a way of relating this into modern history  - maybe Emmeline Pankhurst loved sorcery? - I'll be set.

Mr. Potter

Famed for his scar and quick flight on a broom,
Everyone stares when he enters the room.

He’s young and angsty, his past full of trouble,
His future guided by Dumbledore and Mcgonnigal.

His best friend’s Ron (who owns an evil rat),
His sidekick’s Hermione (the nerd with the cat).

But he’s also got friends like Hagrid and Dobby,
Who benevolently supress his rule breaking hobby

He’s battled huge snakes with venom dripping fangs,
Gone one-on-one with Deatheater gangs.

He has a history of sucsessful giant maze navaigation,
Always scrapes  through every desperate situation.

He’s had friends become enemies and visa verca,
And if you really piss him off he’s sure to curse ya.

He’s quite short, I know but have you seen those eyes?
Green emeralds sparkle among the rest of those guys

His wand handling technique is experienced and bold
I’m told by Cho (slut) it’s quite something to behold

Don’t worry though – I’m well aware of all his many flaws
But frankly they seceed to the charms in his drawers

But it’s more than just that, I feel obliged to stress
We dream of having kids – but first comes  the white dress

I’m Ginny by the way, and his name is Harry
And one day, i know, he’s the boy im gonna marry.

Friday, 23 March 2012


So it occurred to me today that it seems rather ironic that I dared to call this (blog?) Word Collector. while failing to provide it with words to....collect. After much consideration of this shameful double standard (The Gillard Government should hire me.) I collated my thoughts and established the following options.

1. Change the name of the blog to something that in no way implied me to write on it.
    ....Then I realised that even I, the master of illogical logic, couldn't justify writing a blog that didn't need me to    
    write on it. Scrap Option One.

2. Write on the blog.
    ....I saw potential. I was going to go with this but then my mind conjured up  -

3. Get the leprechauns to write for me.
    ....why didn't I think of that earlier?

So I've had a chat to them and they'll be ready to work from next week onwards for the meagre price of one pot of gold and potato famine insurance. I almost feel like I'm taking advantage of the poor things.

ANYWAY! Now that I'm here, I'll try not to codify my hallucinogenic rants. If I'm going to bother to write anything I should really try and make it comprehendable. Or not. I have a feeling that if anyone reads this, it's not going to be for my serious take on contemporary politcal issues. So we may all have to embrace my love for the ridiculous. On that note, here, have a picture :

Sigh. I don't even like Dan-Rad, but he IS Harry Potter.
And I'm not gonna lie. This picture is smokin'.

...You're right. I'll just stick to writing. I'll leave the jokes for the unfortunate people who made friends with me.

Tonight I went on a bit of a tumblr rampage. I'm having a bit of a thing for James Dean - esque guys atm, so anyone who has a bike just went up about 50 points in my eyes. BOYS, GET YOUR LICENSE. Yes, I know, yet another double standard - I'm almost 17 and in all those years I still haven't rounded up the effort to sit my L's. However its not like i need them - i walk to the kitchen, not drive.

GAHHHH I HAVE THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL SOUNDTRACK STUCK IN MY HEAD. It's one loud, strange cacophony of cross-dressing men and wenches singing about the French Revolution and falcons in dives, while in the background, "I hear he cracks the longest whip." This is surely the first step towards insanity. Maybe that was a while back though, like when I employed the leprechauns. Yep, that was definitely it.

I'm going to leave you now with two treats, one definitely more merry than the other.

Firstly, this, because I enjoy it and it's uplifting :

And secondly this, because I felt like writing properly for the first time in about a month ( rusty and depressed, but hey it's a start) :

Emotional Baggage ( literally interpreted for your convenience. Idiot) 

Bloated brown leather with a handle on top
Four corners make a mindful suitcase
Flung open, filled in, falling with a flop
It ques with the line of things I can’t face.

The handle is worn, grip marks show clear
So. So heavy without the heave of will
The burden behind growing with every year
How long till it snaps? Till the contents spill?

Yet the metal clasps remain firm to latch
A saviour of the whole damned mess
Always holding tight what my mind can’t catch
My packing lies safe ; my mouth won’t guess

But just as I’m packed and ready to go
Comes a moment of passive fustration
I throw it all down, rip it open and lo –
See my meaningless ministrations

What’s the worth of my plans and my schemeing
If it thieves the place of hopeful dreaming?


Thursday, 1 March 2012

Bloody Blood

Hey kids!

So today I went to the Red Cross Youth Ambassador training day, and now I am back to yet again thrust social activism in all of your unwilling faces!

I'm actually surprised anyone reads this, I mean, I'm annoying MYSELF at this rate haha....

ANYWAY GUYS! Here's the quick and easy link that will take you directly to becoming a better person, enjoy :

Also, here's something weird. Today I made up with someone I've inadvertently been having somewhat of a feud with. And you know why this person randomly decided to hate me and cause me much angst and concern over what I possibly could have done?


When we first met. Apparently I'm intimidating.


I thought with my ridiculous face-pulling, outrageously hipster clothes and ability to turn any sentence into a song - my best work today was "Oh look! Some blood! I hope it doesn't flood!" - meant that people were more likely to be either bemused or annoyed by me. But nay. Apparently all this enthusiasm is terrifying.

I wonder if that person is afraid of small, very cute puppies as well.

But anyway, it's good to have ended that feud. I don't really hold a grudge easily so it was sort of awkward. It was like Germany back in the day (the Hitler day) randomly trying to start a fight with Switzerland, like :


"Ehhhh, not really. We tink we are alright. You know. Nutthink too speshale. Maybe a 7/10 on a good day, when the alps are being ze good little mountains and ze chocolate is nice I suppose. And how are you, Germany? Got those anger issues under control yet?"


I swear that's what it felt like at the time. ANYWAY! Germany has now made peace and Switzerland is cool with that. As always :)

ANYWAY! This was simply a way for me to divert my time into a pursuit that wasn't homework. Mission achieved. I have successfully wasted time and fucked myself over for tomorrow.

SWEET. hehe okaybye

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

"Raindrops keep falling on my Head" + the rest of me

I honestly don’t know why people don’t like walking in the rain. I like it. In fact, I would say it’s way more fun than your average mainstream  meander across sunlight meadows or whatnot.

 I absolutley hate it when girls freak out about walking in the rain becuase of hair/makeup/shite priorities in life. I’m sorry, but if walking in the rain is REALLY going to damage your appearance THAT MUCH...then just wear a paper bag on your head for the rest of our sakes. No, no, i jest, but the point remains that your perfectly straightened hair and Napolean Perdis face might be ruined temporarily – BUT NO ONE BUT YOU CARES. I’M SORRY THATS JUST THE TRUTH. I SAID IT. And if your boyfriend or whatever is more foccussed on your hair and makeup rather than the fact you are soaking wet, POSSIBLEY in a white tee shirt, then, yeah, both of you need to just priorities. Come on people.

That being said, seeing girls do the above, “OH MY SWEET (insert deighty of choice), MA HAIR IS RUINED, AND PEOPLE CAN SEE WHAT MY REAL FACE LOOKS LIKE. NOOOOOOOOOOO” is quite the lol. Yep. I’m a bitch. Tee hee J

ANYWAY!  I am the total opposite to the above example of modern day feminism (brrrt). I think it’s actually fun to ramble around in ze rainJ But then again I like it when plays go astray like that. It doesnt bother me if we plan to go to the gym and we end up at a cake shop instead. AND NOT JUST BECUASE OF THE CAKE INVOLVED. Although let’s be honest, it does help. But regardless, I think schedules are over-rated and are a major spontaenaity kill. THUS THE RAIN = SPONTAENAITY WIN BY THE WEATHER!

ANYWAY, should go do those important things now. Like food. And youtube. And maybe a bit of homework but I wouldn’t lie to you guys, that’s the bottom of the list, right below cleaning my room. okaybye

ps. I am aware that this post was completely boring and unnecessary. However I still wrote it, and if your reading this then you obviously read the above. SO HA! 

Who am I kidding, NO one read the above.

I'm going to stop writing now.

Wrote this last year. I’ll put some less shitty, more recent stuff up soon when I feel so inclined ;)

Rain in the city is a soul-shatter waste
Heels and buisness suits,
Heads down
In a coin-grabbing (futile) haste
Blinded to the spilling tears of Heaven.

Porn With Teachers.

HELLO my little ones. All two of you.

I have only a brief comment to make this evening, which stands as thus : if possible, try not to witness sex while in the prescense of teachers.

Let me clarify. Tonight I went with my old drama class to Belvoir, where we have a group subscription much to my glee J I even wore my pretentious hipster glasses to heighten my sense of theatre-appreciation snobbery (which reminds me to wear them to the Scarlett Pimpernell). So, yeah, the play begins, all good, no dramas, no-one is self harming, using EXTREMELY foul language, causing violence, using intravenous drugs, chilling on stage naked, having boundary-line consensual sex or committing assisted suicide. However, by the end of the play, LITTERALLY ALL THAT HAPPENED. NO JOKE.

To be perfectly honest, the language presented no shock value at all as my own diction is simliar to an angry drunken sailor (But where’s the rum? THE RUM IS GONE). The nudity didnt freak me out becuase I was in a bad seat so I couldnt see – not that I wanted to, the lady that disrobed was of the 45+ variety which always means disurbing sag bags < example of sailor talk. The drugs made me lol, violence was only minimal to be honest, and the suicide was extremely emotive so I was down with it. I get really into things like this, I cry over everything...Even listening to certain songs I tear up! I saw The Notebook with Kate for the first time a few weeks ago, and there is VIDEO FOOTAGE of the emotional damage caused. I think most of that was built up stress over seeing Ryan Gosseling shirtless though....ANYWAY!

SO the final issue, the sex scene. YAH. YEP. RIGHT. EXCELLENT.  Everyone could tell it was coming at least. You know how you have sex sometimes SPRUNG upon you? Like, you will be watching something innocent, like Asian porn, then you flick channels and people are making out on Gossip Girl and your parents walk in and judge you – “NO GUYS, I swear I was watching the GOOD QUALITY stuff before you came in.”

Haha, that reminds me, look at this at 2:39 for a relevant note of lol :
Just watch the whole thing, it’s hilarious.

ANYWAY! So the tension was building, and everyone saw it coming which was both good and bad becuase we weren’t shocked but we also couldn’t pretend to ignore the fact that a 25 year old pothead and a 14 year old terminally ill girl were about to get it on. Mid-scene – though it didn’t last very long, disappointing performance upon his behalf. Although, if it went for a realistic amount of time then the silence of the audience contrasting to all the...sounds....coming from onstage would have just become LOLLABLEY awkward. As if it wasnt awkward already. ANYWAY – so Mid-scene I look over at the teachers and They. Are. Dying. So badly. SO SO SO BADLY. If two people wern’t having loud sex on stage then I probably would have been laughing at their faces. AS IT WERE HOWEVER, THE SEXY NESS WAS GOING IN RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES. And it was impossible to look away. I had to check they were pretending to have sex because the sounds accompanying it could have been interpreted in a number of disturbing ways, ie, microwaving a hamster. 

And damn, let me just say, I don’t usually have a thing for these Lol-I’m-Heading-For-Jail-Within-The-Next-Decade-For-Stealing-A-Spoon-To-Dig-A-Hole-To-Bury-That-Guy- I- Killed-For-Crack-Money ,  types of guys but this pothead character was BANGING to steal a word from Hannah. Not gonna lie, those abs kept me interested for the whole show. In fact minus the abs, and all you really have is an inapropriate show that featured an old woman flashing.

ANYWAY! I just felt like writing that, I’m not expecting anyone to care haha okaybye

Dead man walking,
Dead man talking,
Sitting on the side-walk
His future baulking. 

The present lies dead
Already entombed  in the past
Every thought lasts a day
Every dream is his last. 

Change is in his pocket rather than his heart
With a sigh he knows it's an impossible start

But day and night for a life he'll sit there yet
Hoping, one day, he'll be able to afford a Chevy Corvette. 

Monday, 27 February 2012

Rather Vague Really...

Hello Empty Cyberspace :)




How vague I am.

Example : Yesterday was Papa Bear's one-day-early birthday celebration. Went out for merry breakfast, did the whole "YAY YOU ARE AGEING WOO PLEASE DON'T DIE TILL I GET A JOB" little thing, la de da ecetera.


This morning, woke up with absolutely no recollection of yesterday and promptly forgot that TODAY was the ACTUAL birthday. I missed alllll the hints from my family, observed the half eaten cake in the fridge with mild distaste  - "Why do we have a half eaten cake?" - and buggered off to school without one birthday remark like the ungrateful child I am.



Anyway, here's something I wrote for a friend in science last year. It has no purpose except to be completely useless and delightful. okaybye


In the event of a fire, it is handy to try and avoid being engulfed in the flames as it can often result in severe damgage to bodily parts or perhaps even death! Thus it is advisable to attempt and ecscape such a fate, unless you are a fan of the whole body bandage look. Personally I can’t rock that, so I always try and ecscape. If you have similar views on this concept, then it is important that you learn how to ecscape fires. The most important step is move away from the flames. If you stand still, then the fire will begin to burn your body. This could be mildly irritating, or pehaps painful! Thus I reccomend moving. Unfortunately it is not just this simple. The steps become more difficult here. When moving, try and move AWAY from the fire, rather than towards it. Moving TOWARDS the fire will actually make the situation worse for you, and it would have been better if you hadn’t moved at all. So, the healthy alternative is to therefore move in the opposite direction of the fire. If you are trying this at home, make sure you master this correctly in environments with many exits, just in case you are a slow learner. However, things become even more complicated from here on it. You must try and move away from the fire, yes, but keep in mind that all this effort will go to waste if you do not attempt at reach an exit, or at least a place like a refirdirater in which you could try and counter-attack the hot flames with some cold ice. However, I generally do reccomend trying to leave the building alltogether. A buddy of mine once tried to hide from a fire in a blender, not realising that blenders are not that cold, and unfortunatley was switched on at the time. We now call him Stumpy. Anyway, point is, go for the exit. This exit can be in the form of a door, an air vent, or an underground tunnel if you have Soviet Spies in your basement or whatever. Now, in case you were gettting all proud of yourself or something, just take a chill pill. Because it’s not good enough just to reach the exit. You must then USE the exit. If you’re reading this guide then I’ve already assumed you’re not that bright, so I may as well just explain how to exit from an exit while you’re already here reading. Right, so, using a door is generally your best chance at exiting an exit without utilising a screwdriver, a tool which might just stretch your capabilities a bit too far. So, approach your door. Reach out with one of your arms, prefferably an arm with a hand and fingers attatched to it. If neither of your arms are so gifted, then talk to my friend Stumpy and he will teach you his ways. So, reach out with your arm and take a hold of the doorknob. Don’t panick if the doorknob is moisture-ful, it could just be your sweaty hands. No wonder you can’t get a boyfriend. Alright, so now turn the doorknob, and push. It might take a while for your muscles to remember how to work, and since yours don’t look that developed I really hope they have an effect, but if not then just resort to mind power. Thus with this method your door should open and you will have sucsessfully ecscaped your fire! Hurrah! Go have yourself a nice cool drink. One of those ones with a little umbrella in it. See my other guides on how to raise your pet goldfish with love, affection and dog food. XOXO GUIDE GIRL

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Unceremonious First Post

I feel like as this is my first post I should discuss my views on life, or the reason for me doing this, or why the earth is like it is. Instead I'm simply going to ignore that crap and give you all (yeah, so many readers Sophia haha) this, which i wrote today on my balcony. It's the best place to write. The sun is delicious and I can see the harbour and life is just generally good out there. So you would think that what I wrote was all light hearted and passive. WELL, SORRY GUYS. It's social activism crap. I need to stop getting so worked up about this things. Or do I? Well someone has to be interested in change! Otherwise we will never get anywhere I will go crazy.

WOW. I mean, i know this is here for me to write on, but wow, i just talk way to much.
I'll shut up now.
Sorry everyone :)

btw this is copied straight from Word and I can't be bothered to fix formatting errors. GOOD BLOG SOPHIA. SORRY.

ANYWAY tell me what you think. I think it's a tad wanky. But i think most things are wanky. okaybye


A modern day tale of tolerance, pop culture and the absence of personal pronouns

Once upon a tolerant time, in a land far away from the inconsistencies of reality, there lived and breathed a young person by the name of Cinderella. Our young subject was the child of an upper-middle-class white gentleman, who inherently suffered from the plight of Western privilege. Out of this frustratingly pleasant lifestyle was born mediocrity, a bother Cinderella had been battling since childhood. Every morning [she] would awake, look out [her] window at the beggar children on the pavements of the appropriately named Easy Street below, and sigh (rather intentionally wistfully), longing to face such poetic hardship. By the age of nine Cinderella had bemoaned [her] completely average and uninspiring life so much that on one quiet Sunday morning [her] Father slammed his good book down on the table at which he read and [she] drolly sewed, giving a shout of exasperation.
“Cinderella my child, what is it you want from life? Like a shepard I have tried to lead you down the good and honest path of life. I have tried to bring you simple joys on platters of affluence, and yet you derive more glee from refusing them, hitting them away till they fall and break. Why must you live like this?”
“My Father, I have tried to follow you but in this flock i feel ostracised! The proverbial black sheep and I are akin! I should rather live, and TRUELY live a tragedy, then pantomime a comedy for only the pleasure of others. The beauty of persecution is lovelier than all the fake smiles and niceties you could ever offer me give or take this platter of privilege. I TELL YOU, I CANNOT LIVE LIKE THAT.”
The Father listened to her quietly. When [she] had finished, the scales of judgement fell from his eyes and in measured breaths said, “Then this is how it shall be. From this day on, this kitchen shall be your home. This stove, your purpose, and this hearth your bed. May you adore it and all its harsh realities as much as i have fought to protect you from them.”
Thus from that day forward Cinderella would wake every morning while even the sun still dozed to slave away at the chores in wait for [her]. [She] washed up after all [her] father’s tea parties  - always a messy affair when the Mad Hatter was invited – polished the new Will’s and Kate silver, and trimmed the garden hedges into eccentric shapes after taking inspiration from Edward Scissorhands. One afternoon while lighting a fire and singing the theme to Les Mis, The Father announced his entry into his child’s domain with thundering footsteps and delivered the following without pause or emotion:
“Cinderella, heed these words child. Mardi Gras is to be held in this Desert-City we call home, tonight, and naturally Queen Priscilla has invited me to attend. While I am gone observing the frivolity of too much senseless joy you shall remain here in the cinders and behave. Feel free to bake or clean, but if you read a book or gain any unconventional views you shall be punished.”
Cinderella sighed (wistfully as always), acquiesced, and watched the Father’s Honda speed off into the dust-ridden distance. Determined to at least enjoy [her] night, [she] put on [her] taped reading of A Female Eunuch and began to scrutinise herself in the mirror as all teenage girls do, without releasing the irony in [her] actions and the words of lamentation drifting through the air around [her]. While scrutinising [her] complete lack of a tan, [she] realised [she] was not alone. Behind [her] stood Elton John wearing a fabulous outfit and a grin.
“Hey there Hun! Just thought I’d pop by.”
“...Hello. Who are you sorry?”
“I’m the Godfather.”
“Oh. I was sure that was Marlon Brando...”
“Well of course it was! And wasn’t he fabulous? But as I was saying,  I am your FAIRY godfather. I should have mentioned that first. But anyway, we can’t waste time on this banter; I’m here for a reason my girl. Would you like to go to the ball tonight...or not?”
Cinderella turned back to the mirror and considered [her]self. [She] certainly wasn’t the fairest of them all and [her] skin no where near sun kissed, but [her] eyes were bright and eagre, and [her] jawbone was accentuated with a nice little smear of cinders [she] fancied looked like a fashionable five o’clock shadow. [She] turned back to Elton; any concerns about his sudden appearance now dissolved, looked down at [her] Nike’s and said “Just do it.”

Half an hour later as Cinderella moulded herself onto the back of Elton’s speeding Harley Davidson [she] reflected that this transformation wasn’t quite what [she] expected. When Elton had kindly offered [her] any of his garments to wear to the Ball, [she] was less than overjoyed to discover his surprising lack of women’s clothing. Settling at last for a pink crocodile skin suit, [she] was not altogether unhappy about this new look, indeed, surprisingly interested by it and pleased with it’s comfort factor that men’s imposition – high heels, corsets and mini skirts – denied [her]. As they pulled into the turning circle outside the grandiose castle, Cinderella felt the first inkling of social insecurity, the first time in [her] young and inexperienced life such a phobia had swept through [her]. Elton, sensing this, leant in with arms outstretched and radiating confidence. Returning the hug, Cinderella forgot any feelings of concern and walked towards the castle, working the crocodile suit the entire way.
[She] laughed yet again, surely the hundredth time that night, all in his company.
“And still, hours after we have met, your name is still to be a mystery? That seems rather unchivalrous.”
“I fear you would dislike the answer, and the merriment of our conversation would be lost thereafter.”
“How could a name of any nature, apart from a cad or villain, instigate such a reaction from me? Nay sir! I name i demand!” [she] said laughing, laughing, an arm upon his, drink in hand, smile on face, hair falling over [her] shoulders.
“If i tell you my name, will you tell me why you are wearing a suit?” Gleaming eyes and grins searched.
[She] paused, considering.
“What if my reason, and my only reason, is that I do not see why i cannot wear this suit?”
The man saw that this enigma had won more of his than just his name.
A deep pause and a quiet moment here.
A reply there. “Cinderella...I am the prince. Son of Priscilla. Owner of this castle. All this and more! There is only one thing I lack. The hand of a beautiful woman. Cinderella...would you be that woman for me?”
Silence humming with questions and thoughts unsaid. 
“I couldn’t be that beautiful person. I could be a beautiful person though...”

More silence, but not a quiet one.  A loud, strong silence with ticking, whirring, changing, moving concepts of thought and destiny and possibilty.
And then Cinderella heard [her] name from behind [her].
As The Father called [her] name from above, [she] felt fear and loss rise from below. [her] champagne flute and future fell from [her] hands in less than a second.
Two days later Cinderella was locked in [her] wardrobe,  [her] mind with the Prince as [her] body hunched in the dark alone. The Father had taken [her] home. He had snapped [her] musical theatre CD’s, shoved an apron over [her] head and nailed [her] suit to the wall on perpendicular pine wood – forbidden fruit close enough to see but too far to touch. All was quiet but [her] soul. Suddenly, a great comotion could be heard in the house outside [her] confinement, just audible,
“I am your sovereign! And, as Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, your house, and indeed YOU mister, I demand to see every young [person] in this land till I find the one who holds my son’s heart hostage, whether it suits you or not!”

A joy came over [her] as sun floods the grass at dawn, racing and leaping with no thought to when and where it might stop. A horizon is nothing but a goal, but beyond it there is always more, always another sight to see, emotion to comprehend, another smile to smile for no ones pleasure but for one’s own. Relentless, useless, all-encompassing joy.  To the awakening soul, how can a closet provide anything more than a momentary deterrent? Cinderella sprung up, beating [her] palms against [her] prison, shouting
“I’m here! I’m here! I’m alive! And not just my body! I have a soul, oh Prince, and a mind! And I no longer linger in black and white but all the shades of life now confuse me! Proud purple beats behind my temples, and green without envy rises from within me. Oh let me out my love, for surely i will die or worse sacrifice myself to convention if i stay within another moment! Why should the fear of another man, born in another time, vice itself onto me like a life-leeching disease? Why does society pull and push harder than the waves of more tangible entities like water and wind? What life is that? Let me be free, I say, or let me die!
Also, while we’re on the topic, you guys know Pinocchio right? Yeah. Well. Let me tell you something, he is NOT a real boy no matter what he says.”
After a moment of rather stunned silence, the Father said,
“I think we ought to let [her] out.”
A key, held for too long, too tightly, was unleashed from the vicelike grasp, and the door was flung open. As Cinderfella came out of the closet, [she] looked to [her] Prince and found a true love more real than any Disney recreation. Priscilla sighed (wistfully) and the Father, tears of remorse in his eyes, took down the suit from its place of shame. As the young lovers smiled at one another, the Prince whispered “I always knew I would find you, you know. My little Cinderfella.”