Looks a Sunshine and Flowers Day. It’s deceiving. I was outside this morning to feed the Masters of the House, its bitter cold. Not Apocalyptic, Armageddon, The-World-Is-Ending cold, but not Run-Around-In-Only-Your-Silk-Nightie-And-Bunny-Slippers weather either.
It’s more pleasant when you’re in bed nursing a mug (Hot Chocolate, with Canderel instead of sugar – how many calories is that?)
Boredom sets in, which is not boredom in the truest sense of the word, since ‘boredom’ indicates a cetain level of ‘Nothing to Do’. Rather Lack of Motivation. Looking at the inside of my cupboard door – wonder what it says about me? A sort of sadistic map of my life..
Studio picture of me that She had taken when I was four: big blue eyes, blonde hair, pigtails, a grimace instead of a smile. Why the hell is that up there? Paint-by-numbers I did when I was eleven. We all have to start somewhere. Signed photograph of Jesse Metcalfe. Has-been. Cost me a lot to get that picture though, least of it being money. I don’t suppose I can sell it on e-bay? Hardly, I’d get more for my Vespa. No-Chicken award I got for donating blood for the first time. No comment. My best friend, before the Big Move, geographically and gender-wise. Melissa became just Mel. She always had the eyebrows. But don’t fucking laugh – I love her. Him. We look so young in that picture – Circa 2006. Shit I was pissed that night, didn’t know you were supposed to drink Sours as a shot, not in a Styrofoam cup. Sixteen year-old protégé – and I couldn’t even hold my liquor down. Suppose I was upset, Mel was leaving the next day and the boy I loved had gone off into the bushes with another girl. A fat girl. A concept I just couldn’t grasp then, I was skinny and big into tanning and ’well, you might as well not be wearing one’ miniskirts. And he didn’t Pick Me. I learnt that lesson soon after – You Don’t Fucking Understand Everything. She was everything I was not.
I get bored of the trip down memory lane. It’s filled with potholes and wrong turns. Broken dreams. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, forgot to remove my eye-liner last night… Well stuff it, the racoon look is hot now right? Next to the mirror, my new mantra: Nothing Tastes As Good As Skinny Feels. Damn straight Kate.
I have to get out of here. My head. Pull out my sketchbook from under my pillow. Flip to the last page, the one I was pouring over last night. I’m starting to feel like a Never-was. You are not going to make polka-dots happen again, deal! My designs also suffer from Lack of Motivation. Great!
I’ve been avoiding my Blackberry all morning. J (who is by no means Little, so don’t even go there) has been calling the whole morning, and I’ve been successfully not answering. Probably something I did that I wasn’t supposed to do, or didn’t do that I was supposed to do. T is at a casting and it’s my day off. Lack of Motivation.
So I start a blog. Word says I misspelt ‘blog’. Guess Old Bill doesn’t know much about blogs. Neither do I. I chose WordPress (wrong, wrong, wrong says Word – doesn’t know brand names either) because it’s the first thing that popped up on Google Search. After Blogger – I’m not a sell-out. All I know is I like writing. It makes the fucking merry-go-round go slower. I don’t know if I’m any good, I suppose it’s irrelevant in the proliferation of information on the Net.
