I will always be different

not out of choice, but out of necessity.

It would be naive to believe otherwise.

A well sighted human functions differently to a blind man. A man with an open wound must function differently to a healthy man. Sight I have, but not enough. I have the pain of a wounded human yet no marks to show.

By my next birthday I will have spent twenty years hoping there will be some way of overcoming my poor sight and five years hoping for a cure for my unusual nerve condition.

Is it not time I gave up on such things?

Yes.

And I have, not out of choice but out of necessity. I am bored of "what-if's" and silly little waves of optimism - they achieve nothing, yet still I find myself being re-aquainted with my little friend who names himself Hope but he has left me and in his place Reality has stepped in.

Never will I see. Never will I live a day without physical pain.

I feel like I am sixteen years old again except this time I wont allow a pain consultant to raise my hopes with various drugs and strange ideas. I have just wasted three years of my life living under the impression that trifluoperazine will fix everything.

I am angry, angry at my sixteen year old self for believing such things were possible, angry at my seventeen year old self for allowing that belief to carry on - angrier still that at the age of eighteen and nineteen I still allowed that hope to grow stronger. Why did I get my hopes up? Why for one minute did I believe it would be that easy? Was I really that desperate to find a way of reducing the retarded nature of my nerves that I failed to see it was illogical and stupid? Did it really mean that much to me. Why did I allow my own stupidity and naivety to cover logic and sense?

I do not know, all I know is that I never want it to happen again. The disappointment is too painful. And I can only blame myself. It's about time I grew up.

I thought I was cynical before. Apparently I intend to take cynicism to a whole new level.

FML

Fuck my liver, as in, my liver is fucked.

My answer to this somewhat problematic issue? Drink myself silly on a daily basis so I don't have to admit it to myself whilst sober. Wow. Nice logic there Nim. Well, it works for me.

I wish people would offer their views on it and then shut up. Or just say nothing.

I know you care, and I know you give a shit but that doesn't mean I will openly admit to caring and giving a shit myself. Nor does it mean I will go and make my suggested doctors appointment. If I'm ignoring my doctors advice, odds are I'm going to ignore yours also.

I don't want sympathy, nor do I want words of wisdom on the matter. I would prefer it if everybody joined in with me and my beautiful facade of not caring for it does make things so much easier. I don't care if you consider it to be an unhealthy way of looking at it, but that is how I intend to go about dealing with it so either join me or fuck off.

I can no longer be bothered with people.

And just for the record. Just because I am not taking my meds does not mean I am in no pain. Constant cramp in ones shoulder gets tedious. I am moody, if you don't like it sod off.

I have some vodka waiting for me.

Goodbye, all.

Happy fucking Christmas.

(I pray God it's our my last)

I think it is about time

I gave up on my father.

Every time I come home from a term of University I somehow manage to convince myself that maybe next time I see my father he will have changed. I feel guilty for hoping my father will change. It comes accross as being very ungrateful. I love my father, I think this is what makes it hard.

I do not think I ask much of anybody, I certainly don't demand anything, but a small amount of compassion would be nice every now and then. I do not think this is too much to hope for from ones parent. Time after time, however, my father does prove me wrong with a nice constant flow of unsypatheric, hurtful comments, which in all honesty, are nothing short of rude. And they are certainly condescening.

Maybe it is naivety, or maybe it's denial. Maybe he is just a cunt. I know not. But I have given up. I am fed up of being on the recieving end of comments which achieve nothing but belittle the effect my shoulder has on my life. Apparently, the situation regarding my shoulder is ridiculous. No fucking shit. I know it's ridiculous, I am the one who fucking has to put up with it. Apparently, the situation regarding my shoulder is a perfect excuse for laziness. Excuse me? Apparently, if I am able to lift my fork in order to eat my dinner I am able to do everything else also, and apparently, denying this is stupid. Well, you know what father, sod you. I can no longer be bothered.

My father does not understand why I am currently in quite a foul mood. According to him I am being over sensitive and stupid - again? I think my father should broaden his vocabulary.

I probably am being a little over sensitive about my shoulder. But for once in my life I think this is kind of justifiable. After three years of asking to be put back on a specific pain medication which my doctors didn't want to put me on I found a doctor who was willing to give it to me. Eventually, hope was in sight. There was a high possibility of eventually being on a medication which would significantly reduce the pain I am in. Awesome. However, it backfired. I had a nasty reaction and am once again at stage one; I am in pain and there is jack shit I can do about it. I had been hoping for three years to be put on something that would help, my wish is granted and it fails. Yay.

I should give up on the idea of change. Then I will not be disappointed and everybody will be a winner.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I am in a fairly decent mood today. And by fairly decent I mean good. I am confused. I will not lie.

I woke up with the worst period pains, ever, as in I think they are possibly the worst cramps I have ever had in my life. I'm not allowed codeine so there was jack shit I could do, my shoulder was also being a right cunt. Yet all morning I was chatting away to myself in a proper cheery manner.

Maybe it's some psychosomatic thing to do with the fact I am on drugs which I know have a fairly high possiblitity of being helpful. I don't know, but it hasn't half confused me.

It's not right. I like being a miserable cunt, damn you. Ah well. I might as well make the most out of it. Hah. I'm a right weirdo.

Your face resembles an arse.

Gutted in your face/arse.

Yes, well, your arse resembles a face.

So? I'd rather that than the other way around.

I wouldn't, it would mean I'd get a proper close up view everytime I took a shit.

This is a conversation I just had with myself
It amused me. Rather a lot.
I have issues.
I apologise for said issues.

Fake Christmas was bloody awesome. I now own lots of foamy, dinosaur and ben 10 stuff. This makes me quite the happy bean. I ate lots of tasty food. And listened to lots of shitty music. Twas amazing.

Fake Christmas will kick the bum of real Christmas. Maybe the above conversation is between Real Santa and Fake Santa? Who knows.

Today I had to buy the worst bog roll ever because I didn't think I had enough money on me for Andrex. I had to get Tesco Value toilet paper, I got back to my room and discovered there was an extra quid in my pocket. I am so fucking inimpressed.

I have shiny blue drugs. This makes me happy. But I'm not allowed to take them with my codeine. I am in pain. I probably will be for a week. I cannot afford to purchase illegal drugs. FML.

Grasping at straws

in a desperate attempt to find happiness.

Two years ago, I decided that moving away from home would achieve this goal. It didn't. Before that, I believed that isolating myself from human beings would get me somewhere. It didn't. Last year I thought that maybe material objects would provide me with some sort of rapture. Again, it didn't. A few months ago I decided that another move would do the trick. Yet again, my plan failed. Although, backfired may be a more suitable term.

Whilst I love being far closer to my catalyst than I was this time last year, the rest of my time is spent in a far more isolated manner than I could have ever imagined. Don't get me wrong, the time I spend with my dragon is wonderful - I visit her most weekends, and often stay longer than I should, but I am undecided on whether this joy is worth the price I pay when I have to return home. I am reluctant to refer to it as my home; rather, it is a room, in which my belongings sit.

I miss the friends I made last year greatly. To be able to knock on a flatmates door when some company was desired is something I took for granted last year. This year is so different; I barely know the people I live with, and am yet to befriend anybody on my course.

I lead a life of solitude, or at least part time solitude.

I wouldn't say I regret the move, but I can't help but think that I may have been happier had I decided to stay. Had I have stayed in Lancaster, however, I know full well that I would have regretted staying there.

I guess sometimes you just can't win.

Blah. Blah. And, Blah.

Since discovering that Mr. 7UP (whatever his name may be) was an albino I feel somewhat obligated to purchase his brand of carbonated drink. Now, I'm not overly fond of 7UP, yet still I find myself purchasing it. And it is growing on me. Rather quickly. In fact, I like the stuff. Hmm. Bias opinon much? Possibly. I'm going to blame it on the albinism, it seems a perfectly valid excuse when one takes into consideration the circumstances.

My life, it seems to consist of many strange loyalties, yet I don't have much to show for it. It makes me quite sad. Sometimes I wish I had the balls to be a cunt. Yes, the irony in that sentence was fantastic. See, if I were to be a complete and utter cunt to the world I'd have a legitimate reason for being a lonley bean.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Anyway.

Today has been quite dull, and highly frustrating. The most important Christmas present I have ordered has not yet arrived. I have crippled my shoulder, so now I am genuinely unable to write the last 750 words of my essay. I'd rather write the fucker than be a crip. Gah. My mother phoned and woke me up just as I fell asleep. And when I went to the doctors I forgot to take my fags so had to purchase more, so now I have two open packs which is annoying, although it will save a trip to sainsburys tomorrow.

I don't think I ever stop complaining.

The highlight of my life, currently, is the imminent arrival of fake Christmas.

Once upon a time there was a very neurotic dinosaur...

To be reminded of a harsh reality always comes as quite a shock. This is undeniable, and expected. But when this reality is one you have begun to believe to be something which doesn't hold as much power as it previously had, the shock involved is substationally larger when you realise once again that is just as powerful as it has always been.

To be assaulted by a close friend is never pleasant, but when such an assault leads to a broken bone which then develops into a nerve condition which comes to be a part of my daily life - even now, four years and two months later, it's not overly surprising that this harsh reality of mine affected me rather a lot.

I didn't talk to anybody for a good two years. The prospect of any human contact made me feel queasy. And to have somebody touch my left wrist was a terrifying concept that I hoped would never become a reality. I was a mess. Then, along came my catalyst. The first time she came to speak to me she grabbed me by the left hand - a friendly gesture, but my worst fear, so I suppose it is kind of ironic that now, she can hold my hand freely and I wont even think twice. I wont lie, it took time. And lots of it. But I had learnt to trust my catalyst - or rather, she had taught me to trust her - something I will be eternally grateful for; it's kind of like a physical proof that the trust exists and I like that. But where I have become so comfortable in the company of my Fitz I guess I'd managed to somehow convince myself that at long last I was getting over my huge issue of human contact.

This weekend, however, prooved otherwise and resulted in I, the Fool, looking like a right plonker. Someone I know I can trust, somebody that I know wouldn't hurt me, someone that I sholdn't be scared of grabbed my wrist when I was least expecting it and once again I was consumed by my own oh-so familliar, irrational wave of fear.

It was embarrasing. It was scary. And it was also somewhat dissapointing. To be reminded so easily that something you wish to erase from your memory still affects you to such a great extent can't really be anything else, apart from disappointing.

I don't want this stupid fear to be a part of me anymore. I want it to go away. I don't have the energy, or will, to go through what I went through with my catalyst for every single person I meet. My answer? It is still the same as it was four years ago; avoid people, don't get close enough to them to allow them to hurt you. It's quite simple, although it must be said - it's quite lonesome too, but in all fairness the pain one gets from being lonley differs greatly to that of shitting yourself every time somebody goes near you.

I may well turn into a hermit one day. I guess that's okay.