For the Man with the Holy Tenant in his mind ;)

It was, the wiry man in the tweed suit thought, only a minor inconvenience really, that he was literally trapped in a mental state – and not even his own one at that.

When he had first crash landed here, way back when, it had taken him quite a while to realise that he was, in fact, trapped in someone else’s mind. The constantly shifting scenery had been a bit of clue. It had given him quite the bad case of vertigo until he had managed to meld himself in the dominant consciousness – now what he saw could be filtered through his own senses and thus appear in a form that he was comfortable with.

He had even found a function for himself within his hosts mind (always a good thing to have – it could be dangerous to be an alien piece of flotsam floating around in someone else’s subconscious – you never knew what defences the host could have dreamt up)

Having been revered as an excellent grammar teacher throughout the galaxies (as well as for a few other things) he delighted in being able to share his verbal accuracy with his host.

Almost unfortunately his host already had an excellently clear sighted mind but he was still determined to aid him in any way he could.

In fact…..

The halo of light visible around his head began to shine, a sound not unlike the chiming silver bells began to be heard.

“Ah ha!” The man sprung up and began racing through the various corridors, the light and sound getting louder and brighter respectively. Soon the man saw his prey in sight, slithering round the corner ahead.

But this part of the mind was his domain – and under his control. All the corridors sloped downwards and the floors were supremely smooth for a reason.

And the man hadn’t won the galactic roller-skating championship three years in a row for nothing.

He took the corner on one foot and two wheels and pounced on his prey.

His ‘prey’ appeared to be a long serpent weaved out of glowing lines of thread. It was a quite beautiful matrix of light and colours but some parts of it appeared dark – or as if the thread was fuzzy and frayed. Holding the serpent down by its head, the man got out his marker pen and starting working on it, pulling gently on the frayed threads, re-weaving their shape, re-writing over the darkened bits with his marker until they too glowed.

“Using such an obscure terminology with such a clichéd, inaccurate simile?’ the man could be heard muttering to himself, “that’s unlike you – I told you drinking that much was a bad idea. She’s not going to have a clue what you’re talking about.”

He leant back and admired his handiwork. “Now, that’s more like it. Go on, off you go.” He said to the serpent.

It slithered off, much more subdued, but its glow now lit the walls with a myriad of colours.

“Beautiful” the man sighed.

With a bit of mental pressure he turned his roller-skates back to converses. Whistling merrily he sauntered back to his attic hideout for a well deserved cup of cocoa.

Writing: Really Random Vignette

It wasn’t the dingy wallpaper, the tired tasselled lamps or even the way just touching the desk made her hands feel defiled. No, the major problem with working reception at ‘Golden Days Quality Hotel’ was the utter oppressive nature of the OAP ghosts that frequented it.

 
Michelle couldn’t understand why on earth they would want to spend their afterlife hanging round the same dreary place they did while they were alive, but every room in the place was packed with a different variation of a grey, slightly damp seeming, elderly ghost – usually wearing polyester and sandals with socks.

If Michelle had been dead, she wouldn’t have stood it for a second. She’d be off round the world, seeing everything she’d dreamed of while she was alive but couldn’t afford to visit. She definitely wouldn’t be stuck in this dump.

“Seriously love; I don’t know why you come.” She said as she helped yet another OAP check out. “Haven’t you got better things to do?” She leaned back on her chair and continued filing her nails, her long legs swinging in her high heels.

The OAP ghost blinked and decided to not mention the way Michelle’s foot kept kicking through the reception desk, or the way the dark ligament marks around her neck contrasted vividly with her corpse pale skin. It seemed kinder not to.

“Well dear,” she said at last, “you’d be amazed at the way habit can take a hold of you.”

Writing: Old Work

Well, I wrote this a while back and never finished it. I was just wondering what you guys thought and if you wanted to know the ending?

It was dark inside the monsters stomach.

And dreadfully smelly.

Which, really, is what one would expect from the inside of a stomach. After all, how often do stomachs come with windows and air fresheners?

William listened to the sound of the previous occupants’ flesh being dissolved in the acid. It made a sort of popping, fizzing noise, not unlike the sound lit sparklers made at Guy Fawkes Night. The kind of safe sparklers small children get handed, safe and glittery and the noise they make usually lost in the big bangs of the much larger fireworks.

The noise sounded very loud in here.

William Scoundrel (yes, he actually chose that name himself) sat in the dark of the monsters stomach and pondered what he should do.

William, despite first appearances, was actually rather lucky.

Number One: He was dead before he went into the monsters stomach and

Number Two: the special resin he coated himself with every week to prevent rot has the unexpected side effect of turning his skin into something like living marble.  This meant he couldn’t be bruised or cut and apparently, acid had no effect on him whatsoever. He keeps his hair out of the way of the drips of acid though, just in case.

This may tell you more than William would be comfortable with, about what kind of man William is.

Since making William uncomfortable is a rare and happy thing, and since he’s hardly in a position to stop us, why don’t I tell you a bit more about him?

William Scoundrel, family name forbidden due to his family disowning him and, on occasion if the opportunity presents himself, trying to assassinate him. This is due to William being, in their opinion, the blackest of black sheep. A position he earned when he didn’t stay properly dead like a decent member of the family should. When you come from a large family of exorcists, the undead state of being is a bit of an embarrassment to your profession.

William was never a brilliant exorcist, middling at best. He liked the money and status and the girls it got him but, unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t share in the whole gung-ho, ‘endless war against spirits’ thing. In fact, apart from the more violent ones who directed their violentness towards him, he would have been quite happy to let them be. But he was an obedient son and so did as his family asked until the day he died.

And then he died.

No one was more surprised that himself when, at his funeral. He had opened his eyes and sat up in his coffin. He hadn’t even had a moment to himself before Aunt Petunia had shot him with her specialist portable crossbow. That had been rather hurtful. Surely he could have had five minutes to adjust, or even get a word out before they started attacking. But then again, Aunt Petunia barely liked the living, let alone the dead. She had many emotional issues, most of which, William suspected, were due to being named ‘Petunia’, hardly a fitting name for a hardcore exorcist who battled demons from hell on a daily basis.

Death gives one a rather different view on life, seeing as you’re now a spectator rather than a contestant.

William, who had never once disobeyed the family (although honestly he had thought about it many times – but not actually done it), looked down at the crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. He looked at the faces surrounding him, faces he had known all his life, faces he had fought beside, faces he had died beside, and saw not a single stirring of pity on any of them.

He made up his mind. And pegged it to the door. The family, caught off guard by this surprising act of self thought, were held stunned for a moment, giving William enough time to make his way out of the church and into the new world of the living dead.

William was surprisingly adept at hiding himself from his family. Or perhaps not so surprising, after all, he’d had a lifetime of learning how they thought. So he vanished into the depths of the city, moving from one frozen meat locker to the other, trying to preserve his decaying body and avoiding the ravens that followed him in flocks, waiting for him to stop moving so they could feast on his flesh.

William is sure that it was the ravens that let Bertie discover him.

Ah Bertie, Bertram the Exorcist. What is there to say about him?

I hate him. But I am only the narrator and therefore my opinion does not count.

Bertie, always Bertie, only the elder’s call him by his full name, any others who do better beware. His temper, though carefully hidden, is vile and vicious and bloody.

Bertie found William after dark in a closed Iceland supermarket, emptying out the ice-cream freezer so he could climb in and have a rest. William had gotten good at defusing security cameras and locks.

William heard the footsteps walking down the aisle, past the canned goods section and towards him. The person was between him and the exits and he had no weapon on him save a box of already defrosting choc ices in his hand. He threw them anyway.

‘Now, now Wills,’ Bertie ducked easily. ‘Surely that’s not the way to greet your cousin? Besides,’ He glanced at the choc ices, ‘I’m much more of a raspberry ripple fan. I’d say vanilla would be your speed.’

This is the important thing to remember here, extremely important. Bertie is William’s idol. He is everyone in the family’s’ idol. He is a bounder and a cad, suave, handsome and effortlessly charming and brilliant and one of the best exorcists the family has ever produced. He is fantastically popular with women, even though they know he will never call (although they always hope he will). When William was alive he wanted nothing more than to be just like his cousin Bertie.

Here’s something you should also know. Bertie loves to use elegant hand gestures and longs words when he speaks. He thinks this makes himself sound posh (although posh is never a word he would say – it’s far too common). Now, if posh value was counted in terms of wealth, Bertie would be so posh he would piss posh. However, posh is also determined by class – something all the family would agree they do not have. Now, they’re not what you’d call council estate trash by any stretch of the imagination but they work all their lives and this, by common acceptance, is not what posh people do.

Now, can you see how this is going?

Bertie is not here to exorcise William. He will not even tell the family that he has seen William, instead Bertie will hide him.

Bertie tells William this, and William, grateful and ecstatic not to be alone anymore (for truly, that was the worst part of being dead, having no one but the flesh eating crows for company) still has just enough sense to ask why. Bertie tells him it is because he is his cousin and the way the family treated him was just not right. Bertie thinks it’s time for a change in the way the family thinks.

As with all the best lies, this one is mostly true.

Bertie is interested in helping William because he is his cousin. Bertie does think it’s time for a change in the family. It’s just that the change Bertie wants to inflict has nothing to do with helping spirits or the undead. It’s all to do with what Bertie wants his future to be.

Bertie has got ideas above his station one might say. But these are untried, untested ideas and Bertie does not want to risk himself. He is selfish like that. However, a recently revived, scapegoat of an undead cousin would be the perfect guinea pig.

William goes with Bertie.

A naive and foolish decision one might argue, but look at it this way. William is alone and tired and dead. He’s never had much backbone to begin with and never dreamed he’d be an undead fugitive on the run from his exorcist family. What better option is going to come along? Plus this is Bertie, his hero. Surely Bertie will take care of him?

Who among us can say that they’ve never once trusted the wrong person for the right reasons?

So William goes with Bertie who takes him to a safe house, complete with a walk in deep freezer. William does not ask Bertie why he has a hidden house with a giant freezer. Perhaps he simply doesn’t think to ask it (possible) or perhaps he’s afraid to (also possible).

Bertie visits William often over the course of the next few weeks and when he senses William has gotten properly relaxed and comfortable he brings with him a guest.

This guest is a necromancer.

Now, to explain why this is so shocking, perhaps the best way to describe the relationship between exorcists and necromancers is to compare them to policemen and criminals. Policemen spend their entire career trying to undo the damage criminals’ cause. Criminals spend their career trying to have fun and earn money whilst trying not to get caught by the police. Now, times the antagonism between the police and the criminal fraternity by about a gazillion and you have the relationship between exorcists and necromancers.

Had William still breathed, he would have been breathless with shock.

As it was, once the yelling and throwing of insults and furniture had calmed down, Bertie calmly explained that this was for William’s own good, that no one knew more about preserving the undead than necromancers (almost true, but they definitely knew more than any exorcist living). Ollie would examine William and see the best way of allowing William to avoid worrying about all impacts, sharp edges and having to spend most of his days locked inside a freezer.

William, after much, much hesitation agreed. After all, if you couldn’t sleep ever, would you really want to spend most of your time in a freezer?

Then Bertie dropped another bombshell.

‘Since we know it’s possible and we want to get this sorted as soon as possible, I’ve lent Ollie our Great Uncle Archie’s work.’

At this William exploded again. Great Uncle Archie was one of the family’s greatest and darkest secrets, and the necromancers should be the last people on earth to ever know his research.

(William was quite right in this. Great Uncle Archie’s story was one of the biggest, darkest and saddest secrets their family held. It is a story full of sorrow, true love, genius and, ultimately, sacrifice and betrayal. I will not tell this story to you, it is just too sad and it makes me cry. But know this, whatever else Great Uncle Archie might have been; he was truly the kindest of men.)

At this, Ollie spoke up. ‘I am not interested in doing anything with it. Just what is asked. I might be born a necromancer but that life is a closed door to me.’

Ollie looks a bit like a washed out IT technician. His hair is long and brownish and untrimmed. He has stubble that won’t grow into a beard. His clothes are so loose and faded that you’d think an elephant had been wearing them and then washed them 60 times at high speed trying to get the grass stains out. But under his shaggy fringe his eyes are clear and firm. William wishes his eyes looked like that in the mirror but when he was alive he never bothered to look that properly and now he is dead he is too afraid to. But he knows they definitely don’t like anything like Ollie’s.  If you’re wondering, William’s eyes normally look like those of a frightened rabbit.

William allows Ollie to experiment on him (although he prefers not to think of the word ‘experiment’ as it makes the more delicate muscles around his eyes twitch). William soon finds out that Ollie is a world class necromancer and a bit of a genius to boot. He also discovers, to his surprise, that he actually quite likes Ollie and Ollie, in return, discovers that he quite likes the dead mans company. William surprised him when they first started. As with all experiments, the common method is to first start with animals. In necromancy, you get a live animal, kill it, bring it back to life and experiment on it. Ollie was preparing to do this with a rabbit the first time when William, who had been watching, yanked the rabbit out of his hands before he could cut its throat. Both demanded to know what the other was doing. After Ollie had explained, William insisted that Ollie just test things out directly on him.

‘After all,’ William said, ‘I am already dead. There is nothing left to fear.’

Ollie felt like saying, ‘If that’s the case why are you hiding now’ except he noticed how much Williams hands were shaking but how he still stood between him and the rabbit cage. For this, William earned Ollie’s grudging respect, possibly the first respect he has ever earned.

Ollie’s natural genius, combined with Great Uncle Archie’s work, soon resulted in the resin.  This meant that not only was William safe from rot and physical damage, but that he could finally go out in the sun (previously impossible due to the sun’s tendency to accelerate aforementioned rotting).

William didn’t think that he had ever been happier than when he was outside in the back garden with Ollie drinking beer and watching the sun glide across the sky.

Sadly, all things must come to an end. This is an irrefutable truth.

Bertie wanted to test exactly how indestructible William had become.

Writing: Pitchforks

For V and Ivan - since they seem to have a soft spot for the little serial killer.

Once upon a time there was the dearest little village in the mountains. All of its milkmaids were plump and rosy cheeked, its geese were as white as snow, the village itself was neat and well kept and the village folk were of the simple and good natured sort.

Due to the fortress that loomed, dark and vengeful over their small village, they were also all excellent marksmen (many of the men had won shooting competitions in their youth) and all, down to the youngest child, were quite nifty with a sharpened pitchfork or flaming torch.

Oddly, the fortress never seemed to be inhabited for long and the tenants seldom left a forwarding address.

The most recent tenant however, seemed to be a different sort from the usual. She had long, perfectly kept blond hair and beautiful large blue eyes. Her posture was excellent, her smiles charming. And well, if she seemed a little shy around people, surely it was fashionable for ladies to be demure?

Several of the lads had already fallen for her, which would have made the milkmaids her enemy, had she not clearly and politely refused them.

In fact, the only discordant note about her was her ward, Ned. The villagers had seen enough minions and mutants around to recognise one when they saw it – but the lady seemed genuinely devoted to him and Ned itself seemed to wish no one ill. The villagers assumed that perhaps he was a relative of hers fallen on hard times, and that the lady had brought him here out of the prying eyes of society.

Yes, the villagers found their new tenant wonderfully acceptable and gladly took her into their society.

Every villager that is, but one.

Alexis was the secondary village blacksmith. As you can imagine, a small village does not really require two blacksmiths and times could be hard if you were rated second. Normally it wasn't so bad for Alexis – you could count on a regular supply of tenants coming in and out of the village. And when they left, the villages always needed pitchforks and Alexis were rated the best. So his sales of pitchforks were enough to keep him afloat.

But now they had ‘The Lady’

Alexis hated the lady.

Ever since she arrived the villagers had done nothing but coo over her, with her pretty blond hair, her pretty blue eyes and pretty smile. Her looks had blinded the villagers to her nature. Alexis had been born in the village and had seen hundreds of tenants come and go. He knew that however pretty her packaging was, what looked out from behind her eyes was a monster. His pitchforks sang with her craving for blood.

But no one would believe him.

So, one day, when he could afford nothing but hard bread and stale cheese for dinner, he decided to prove his point. He took his deadliest pitchfork with him (he called her Marilyn for the shine on her tines) and crept up to the fortress. He kept an eye out for Ned, her minion. He liked to chase butterflies on the front lawn. He didn’t think he’d be much of an issue but you could never be sure.

The fortress seemed deserted – the merest plume of smoke drifted from the chimney but that was all. He crept towards the labs at the back of the building. The door was open and he cautiously looked through. The sight that met his eyes made his heart leap for joy.

The lady was crouched over Ned, her dress was splattered with the blood from his cut throat and numerous other slashes across his body, most likely made with the blood soaked pearl handed straight razor the lady held in her hand.

He must have made a noise, for her head moved sharply and then she was looking right at him. In spite of himself, he took a step back. There was nothing human in that look.

He made himself stammer, “M. M. Monster! Just wait till I get the others!” He regained his composure at the thought of his comrades. “Just wait until you taste the purity of the flame!”

And she laughed. Not a light delicate tinkle of a giggle, but the deep, full bellied guffaw of the truly amused.

“Ned.” She said

And then the thing on the floor was moving, moving when it shouldn’t have been with cuts and bits flapping and eyes too full of blood to see but it was moving to fast, too fast and he was on the floor. He was on the floor and the lady was looking down at him and the blood from her razor was dripping onto his face. The blood that had come from the thing holding him down.

The lady delicately licked the blood off the razor with a neat pink tongue.

“Nighty night.” She said

And then all went black.

He woke to find himself tied to a squishy floral armchair in front of a merrily burning wood fire.

The lady was in the opposite chair, watching him. Ned, all cuts vanished as if they’d never been, was curled at her feet. Its hair had been freshly washed and someone had lovely wrapped him in a multicoloured blanket. It was wearing bunny slippers.

For some reason, Alexis couldn’t tear his eyes away from how the ears of the slippers bobbed and danced as Ned twitched in its sleep.

“It’s asleep.” He croaked out at last.

“Yes, Ned gets tired from regenerating.” The lady said pleasantly. She leant and ruffled her fingers through its hair. Ned seemed to make a noise like purring.

“You are helpless.” He whispered

“If you think so then why are you trembling?”

“Monster.” He tried to shout but it trickled out from between his lips as a whimper.

“Ha! Pot. Kettle. Black!” She said disbelievingly. “Or have you not done the maths?”

“I saw you…kill him.”

“And now he lives.” She again ruffled his hair and had she been any other girl Alexis would have said she did it with tenderness. “Ned cannot die. He came like a gift for I must kill, the desire burns too bright within me. But due to, certain circumstances,” and here she looked away and was that pink tainting her cheeks? “It was beyond my grasp. But then Ned appeared and saved me. In return I will care for and touch no one but Ned. But you! Oh my but you and the other villagers, you are far worse than me.”

“We kill monsters!”

“Yes, you do. Over and over and over. In fact, can you even remember the number of throats you’ve cut? The amount of ropes you’ve tied, fires you’ve lit? Heck, this whole place is  a custom designed monster trap!”

“I don’t, I don’t know what you mean.” Alexis stammered out.

“Oh come now dear. An innocent, hideously outdated, little backwater village tucked away in the mountain, miles away from the nearest neighbour – a perfect little honeypot. You even have milkmaids for crying out loud! And along comes a count or mad scientist or yeti and thinks they’ve found heaven! A perfect well stocked larder/experiment subjects, no one for miles to interfere and a fortress at a reasonable rental rate. Heaven! And then you wait. You wait and you play nice and all the while you’re sharpening your pitchforks and the second they step out of line, the second you think they step out of line – they’re done for. The torches come out, the pitchforks stab and the bonfires are lit. Bye, bye monster.

And of course it’s not murder. How can it be murder when you’re the good guys? When you’re simply defending your home? So what if the ground is drenched with blood and the charnel pits are choked with corpses? So what if every child here knows how to wield a weapon before they can even write their own name? They’re the monsters, they attacked first, it wasn’t us, it wasn’t me, and our hands are clean.”

“And you dare to come in here and call us monsters.” She says.

Alexis huddled against the chair, trying to hide behind his bonds, away from the lady with the truth written all over her face.

“So Alexis, what should I do with you?” She asked.

“If you kill me it won’t change anything.” He said hoarsely.

“Very true.” She says agreeably – and pulls out her newly cleaned straight razor.

Alexis whimpered as she moved towards him.

“Please” he said

“Feels shitty to be on the other end of that word huh?” She leaned forward

Alexis closed his eyes

And she cut the rope.

After a few minutes Alexis opened his eyes again. The lady was back sitting in her chair, the straight razor still in her hand.

“The thing is Alexis, I like this place. I like how quaint it is – even if trying to get a signal for the internet is a pain in the arse. I want to stay.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled. “I guess you could say I feel comfortable amongst my own kind.”

Alexis shivered.

“But I will need a friend. This place is big – too big to manage by myself. I know your prospects in the village are not too…prosperous shall we say? I realise that my disinclination to offer myself as a sacrificial lamb to your villager’s murderous impulses may have something to do with that. So I propose a deal.”

“A deal?” A movement caught Alexis’s eye. Ned is awake and staring at him.

“Yes, how do you feel about being my butler?”

“A butler!” Indignation temporarily overcomes his terror. “I am a blacksmith, not some namby pamby butler!”

“But not a very good blacksmith.” She said coolly. “Call it what you want but I could do with some ears and eyes in the village and to help me maintain my estate. The villagers’ blood lust won’t stay sated forever, prior warning would be useful.”

“I’ll not betray my neighbours to the likes of you!”

“So you do have a spine then? Interesting. I could do a lot with a spine you know.” She paused. “You will be handsomely paid. And, of course, the lodge on the grounds comes with the position.”

Alexis hesitated. The lodge was a handsome stone building, warmly heated and with indoor plumbing. He thought of his two room shack on the edge of the village. His stomach was still growling from the insufficient dinner he had had.

Then the lady delivered the killer blow. “Likewise provisions would be made for you to obtain a housekeeper. I hardly expect a man to keep a lodge of that size in order. The girl will be hired at your own discretion of course.”

A young pretty girl to keep his house and cook his meals.

Alexis handed over his tattered and black soul without even a backwards glance.

“When do I start m’lady?”

The lady smiled. “You can move in tonight and we will talk more in the morning. I assume you can show yourself out. After all, you will have been here plenty of times yourself.”

Alexis nodded and went to the door. Then he paused and turned.

“Milady?”

“Yes?”

“You have a spot of ..uh.. on your cheek.”

The lady reached up her hand a brushed at her cheek. Her fingers came away red.

“Oh dear, I always seem to miss a spot. Thank you Alexis, I can see you’ll be worth your weight in gold already. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Alexis left.

The lady sighed and slumped in her chair. Ned leaned up and made an enquiring noise.

“Oh Ned,” she said, ruffling his hair. “I am still not good with people. But,” she carried on thoughtfully, “he and the villagers are far easier to deal with than most. Perhaps because they’re just like me on the inside.”

Ned yipped and brushed his cheek against hers. She held his frail body tenderly in her arms.

“Oh Ned…. Shall we try the axe tomorrow?”

Gift: Last Night

Your shower washed
your fingerprints
from my skin

Your comb liberated
the knots you tangled
in my hair

Your toothpaste dissolved
the taste of your mouth
on mine

My body again a blank slate
last night unwritten
from the pages of my flesh

But I can still feel your fingers
pressed hard down to bone
burning

Random: Immodest/Paranoid

How crazy is crazy?

Hmmm, let me start that again.

I suffer from incredible shyness. Due to this world being such a sociable place I work hard to overcome this - as it's hard to interact/ earn money whilst locked in your room (unless you're a writer or Internet genius or some such. I must stress that lack of social contact is only a small part of the reason why I want to be a full time professional writer)

As such, at work, for instance, I have my 'professional persona' which, although incorporates quite a lot of my own personality, it also incorporates a lot of fake, smokescreen characteristics. Chipperness being a large part of it. 'Fake' might be the wrong term to use - these characteristic may not be in my original make up but after a while they being automatic and almost indistinguishable from the 'real' thing.

My work persona - since I am in work 9-5, 5 days a week, has become so routine that sometimes I pull out those characteristics when interacting with my friends - and occasionally it will even feel natural (not always though). I hope this is the result of years of me trying to be more self confident and less shy and not, say for instance, my mental cohesiveness breaking down.

But all in all, I feel happier in myself than I have done for a long time so I'm going to go with the more optimistic viewpoint that I am just getting more comfortable in my own skin.

Which leads me on to the original point: how crazy is crazy?

I am at my most craziest (my most myself) when I am with people I care about. Simply because I trust them to love me as I am - and I return the favour. After all, what is the point of friends who don't actually like you the way you are?

My Muttley Bear.... well, I think it is a testament to how much he loves me that I haven't been committed yet :)

This is all fine and dandy - except when it comes to 'new friends'

Now, as I child I was so atrociously shy that I used to hate going anywhere new where there would be people of my own age as I was sure that a. They'd see me for the freak I am and b. No one would like me

This feeling, although dimmed, has always lingered. Thus, going into a room full of complete strangers (or worse, a room full of people who know each other but have no idea who you are) has always instilled me with a sense  of  deep, dark dread.

On the plus side, whenever I do make a new friend I am almost ecstatcially happy.

Which is where the trouble lies.

I am so happy, in fact, that I tend to drive myself crazy, God knows how the other person feels. A new friend is such a cherished occurrence that I tend to just want to take pictures of them, call them everyday, tell them how wonderful they are and basically act like a teenage fangirl.

Then comes the realisation that I have been acting like a teenage fangirl, and then comes the FEAR.

Fear that I have been too pushy, too clingy, too crazy. Fear that, when I have finally made a new friend, that I have scared them off with my behaviour. Thus, each text/hi/wave becomes a nightmare of decision. Should I email or not? Do they want to hear from me? Are they going to start avoiding me? Perhaps I am being too immodest and forcing my company upon them? Perhaps I being too paranoid and since I haven't texted yet they think that I am upset with them?

This fangirl/paranoia phase can last from anytime from one month to six depending on the person in question. Some friends have managed to knock it out of me in a week - others it's taken longer (since they're so wonderful I simply can't believe my luck ;) )

So, any future friends of mine out there in  the world (and I do hope we will meet), if, after becoming one of my acquaintances, you think you may have come into contact with a demon possessed emo cheerleader - fear not! It is just me trying to impress you :)

Hmmm, on second thoughts...maybe secluding myself away from the world isn't such a bad idea after all

Neglect

I fear I have neglected my blog terribly lately, but I do have the most excellent excuse of being out of the country.

Corfu, where my friend and I sojourned, was truly blissful. Hot, sunny with an excellent pool it was practically heaven (apart from the fact that not all the people I wished for were there).

Of course, now I have to feel the inevitable downfall of returning to work.

Not good.

After having a week of being left to my own indulgent devices, to have to return to the stultifying nature of work, with all of its bizarre idiosyncrasies and restrictions, is just too depressing. I have zero enthusiasm for it and I fear today it is showing.

Apologies for making you listening to my whining. I promise that at least next time I will think of something more interesting and entertaining to read.