samaeonity's Aeonity Blog - why nobody reads blogs of strangers.

why nobody reads blogs of strangers.	Nov 18th, 2008 11:45:47 am - Subscribe
See, I've had a thought. Nobody on Aeonity knows me personally and nobody I know personally has ever seen this blog and connected it with me, because a) nobody actually reads it and b) I never specifically talk about myself in such a way to make me known to anyone. I think that's why writing here is so effective for me. I know SOMEONE might read it, but I know someone I actually know probably won't so I'm basically unabashed of the stupid things I write. In case someone actually is passing through here, I'm Samantha Jade Coleman of Townsville, NQ, Australia. So I had a fun weekend. Friday afternoon I walked around with Josh, who I hardly know, and we looked in gift stores and homewares. And I was bent over a discount basket with paperweight-animals, the ones filled with sand or something, just talking about how my brother loves turtles and I wanted to find him one when Josh stood beside me, "mhmm"-ing to my chattering and he really gently stroked the small of my back. And I kind of realized instantaneously that I liked him and his touch, even though he just broke up with the anorexic supermodel Asian girlfriend after 9 months, and he was Jesse's best friend until said Asian girlfriend came along and split them up. I seriously doubt Jesse would feel even the slightest ting of emotion knowing I was with someone or even if he were to hear I'd been horribly splattered onto a road somewhere in an accident. I'm not forgetting the delightful miss D in that equation. I'll have to talk about her more later. But anyway, it felt incredible. I was actually experiencing an urge for another human being not fuelled by bitterness or envy. I wanted him to touch me more, and touch my hair and my face and my neck and hands. So we walked around more, and in the manchester section of a department store I was hugging a particularly soft cushion to my chest when he laughed at something I'd said or done and simply pulled me against him, by the waist, and held me there for a few seconds. Still laughing into my hair. I could feel his breath swishing my fringe around on my forehead. For the rest of the afternoon there was more of it, a subtle touch here, a nudge there, brushing my hips with his hands. And we made plans to hang out on Sunday, at his place. And I went home and did nothing. I watched Pan's Labyrinth and burnt candles. Saturday I worked in the shop, which I knew was going to be fine because it always is. I dust, serve people, book piercings, arrange tongue bar displays and go home. Done. Only it was a different day; it had to be. The fat goth guy who somehow has my number came in and moped around before leaving. the Asian supermodel ex-girlfriend came in - her name is Leteisha or something - and flirted with Jason and glared at me before walking out. Jason just had to notice the Look of Death, and asked me about it. And I just answered without thinking. "I'm kind of with her ex." Which of course I KNOW I'M NOT! but I nevertheless said. And once said, there was no taking it back. Jason, who spends his workday on msn, managed to tell Jesse in a fluid move. And Jesse was neither suprised nor upset - which didn't surprise me either but I was a little upset on the inside that my suspicions on how I meant nothing to him at all turned out to be entirely true - and then I remembered he meant nothing to me too now, because I've moved on. But being Jesse, it was still gossip and so he told everyone. I wasn't worried then. I was going to worry later. Pretending I really was with Josh felt nice. I asked Sarah to read for me. She never had before and I was curious. She told me I was rare and gifted, which was flattering. She said from the day I was born, I'd been training for what I would become. I was an observer. I spent my life watching people and learning people and knowing people, but never asserting myself into them. I knew a person's life energy instantly. I knew everything about a person through calculated observation and analysis, their clothes, their voice, how they walk, the size of their fingernails. I get bored with people because I know them so entirely, so quickly, and so I throw them away because I have no need for them. She said I was going to have great success when I was forty, but until then everything won't stick or be my real destiny. I'll help people, but I won't enjoy it. My gift will be only appreciated by others but I'll hate it and curse it and wish it away. The way she said all this to me made me think of something I heard a self-professed medium say once at a New Age convention where I bought a quartz pendulum for scrying once. The medium was wearing baggy, deep purplish clothes and heavy eye makeup and lots of gold bangles. She'd written a book about all the ghosts she'd helped; typical stuff like little girls who drowned and war veterens and vengeful mistresses. So she wasn't the most inspirational of speakers. But she said something about when she realized she was connecting the spirit world, how even though she knew she was helping these people and they came to her out of desperation, she hated it. She hated their complexities and the repetition of situations that had nothing to do with her life and that she was constantly pestered by strangers who wanted her to deal with their problems with nothing in return. Sarah's reading for me made me think of that woman because of how she told me almost like she pitied what I was going to have to do; she knows I'm antisocial and introverted and selfish. And then out of the blue, she turned up cards about fertility and lovers and children. She wanted to know if I was on the pill, if I had a boyfriend. She warned me of impending pregnancy and I tried not to think about the fact I was spending long alone hours at a boy's house the next day with every intention of getting close to him. Sarah disconcerted me. I bought some sunstone and a grape-flavoured candle. I got home and everyone knew. Lateisha, Jesse's friends. I told Josh and he laughed. He said "they were bound to find out eventually" which made me think that he wasn't mad for me jumping to an assumption he mightn't have liked. So I stupidly asked into it. He said he's mine, but he doesn't want me to be like that for him so soon after Lateisha. Understandable. I didn't get too upset. Having him as mine isn't enough to make me completely happy, but it's enough to keep me pretty much satiated until he wants me. Sunday rolled in. I didn't put on too much makeup and I didn't wear any sexy lingerie; I wore plain black stuff and my normal scent and earrings. Shorts and a shirt. I honestly wanted to be close to him without fucking him. I wanted to cuddle and smell his warm foresty smell and have him want me. I wanted him to change his mind and want nothing more than me, and love the curve of my body against him and how I smell and I wanted him to think I was pretty. But of course when I was actually there, I wanted more and more of him. When his lips were actually on mine, I needed to feel more of his body against mine and I stupidly acted like I always do; like a child, like a moron, and he probably sees me as one now. Monday, I had to go fork out forty fucking dollars for this emergency after pill, which made my stomach tie up in knots and I woke up every few hours to vomit. My mother passed judgment on me, and Millie, bless her soul, gave me a hug and promised everything was going to be fine and that he didn't think any less of me. He called that night, or did I call him?, and we talked. He promised one day he wants to be mine, and he could maybe even love me. He said he doesn't want anyone else to have me. He said I'm pretty, and small and fragile, and cute and silly. He said his sheets smelt of me; like hippie but not dirt or mud or smelly dreadlocks but like perfumes and incense. He said he regretted what happened. He said I gave good head, and he loved me playing with his hair, but he felt closer with me pressed against his side, watching tv, than he felt during the sex. "No more sex, for a while." And of course, he blamed himself. Martyr. He apologized for the after pill making me sick, for my mother being a bitch, for the regret we both felt for what had happened even though I started it. He said he was afraid of it changing what we had and he said he was afraid of losing me. I'm not sure if I'm okay with it. I'm falling too fast. It can't end well. Can. Not. Fall. In. Love. Today I stayed home. I was exhausted. I wanted to curl up and sleep and sleep. I read my way through 'Heart Shaped Box' by Joe Hill for the better part of the day, I lay around in sub-zero airconditioning, in a black tutu and a shirt with scribbles on it. I put on serious makeup for the first time in a long time; down to Virgin white face powder and deep dark cherry lipstick and the black eyeliner. I listened to Scarling. I burned my new grape candle. I got a cute text message from Josh at regular intervals and yearned for him laughing into my hair again and his funny searching expression when I got caught in his eyes. Then the house filled with the people I hate, and my father snapped at me and I screamed back. He threw catalogues at my head. My mother told me it was my fault; it's always my fault he gets angry. He left though. A few hours ago, he drove away. My mother won't talk to me, which is fantastic. I feel brilliantly free. When everyone is mad at me, I get ignored and it's my favourite thing in the world, when they aren't expecting me to be nice to all of them. Work should be fun. I get a trillion shifts leading up to the Christmas holidays. Anne decided she isn't hiring the wonderful miss D. Words cannot describe how much I love Anne sometimes. I never want to lay eyes on miss D and know how much Jesse wants her filthy, bony little body and her wispy weak blonde hair. I hate her for being the epitome of opposite to me. She wants to be a famous actress, she wants to be 'different', she loves partying and alcoholic drinks and colourful clothes and friends. She wears generic clothing, smiles, laughs like a moron, and everyone loves her. She chatters loudly and annoyingly. There's a cute little blue sparkle in her tragus. She loves being the center of attention, she's stupid, she's shallow, I can't stand her. It insults me that he likes her so much. He has short spikey black hair, piercings, gigantic stretched holes in his ears. He plays heavy metal in a band. He does drugs and lives with his bandmates in a filthy hole of a house filled with ciggarette butts and empty bottles and condoms. I fit into that, more or less. The shy little goth girlfriend with the matching piercings and slutty black clothes and books about vampires and pale skin and weird sexual habits. When he was sick of me, I was devastated. But if he'd gotten another goth girlfriend, or a rock chick, or a hippie, I'd be fine. I'd know nothing had changed with him and it wasn't just my lifestyle that turned him away. Hooking up with home economics Barbie has given me a complex. I'm gonna go watch some Addam's family from the boxset, burn my grape candle and wait for Josh to call me.
mood: illuminated	(0) comments

Purple dress.	Nov 5th, 2008 3:05:20 pm - Subscribe
Tonight I performed the same song I'd performed in front of equally as terryfying crowds hundreds of times before. I got to dress as myself though. And I had a vision. I wanted to appear on that stage and look like an apparition. I wanted to stand there and be stunning and for all shallow reasons. I wanted him to notice the dress clinging to my body and remember when he could hold me like that. I wanted him to see me, hear me solely onstage and yearn for me and ache for me as I do him. Tonight, I exerted every ounce of effort in my being to make him suffer. I wore a long, gathered, rich purple dress. Tight across my breasts and hips, flowing at my legs. I combed my hair out and straightened it, so it was midnight black, dead straight, to my waist. I put effort into my makeup. Screw throwing on the 'Goth white' foundation and liner as per usual. I applied an ivory tone. And deep ashen browns around my eyes. And dark red on my lips. I felt sexy, but I didn't feel like I was proud of it. I felt like I was assaulting him, throwing myself to his mercy even though there were another 2999 people there and he didn't matter at all, in reality. I stood there and I felt beautiful, and I could hear myself sounding beautiful. And he wasn't moved. He didn't watch me with faded lust and forgotten affection. I meant Nothing. missed me missed me now you gotta kiss me if you kiss me, mister, i might tell my sister if i tell her, mister, she might tell my mother and my mother, mister, she might tell my father and my father, mister, he won't be too happy and he'll have his lawyer come up from the city and arrest you, mister, so I wouldn't miss me if you get me, mister, see? missed me missed me now you gotta kiss me if you kiss me, mister, you must think i'm pretty if you think so, mister, you must want to fuck me if you fuck me, mister, it must mean you love me IF YOU LOVE ME, mister, you would never leave me it's as simple as can be! missed me missed me now you gotta kiss me if you miss me, mister, why do you keep leaving? if you trick me, mister, i will make you suffer and i'll get you, mister, put you in the slammer and FORGET you, mister, then you'll miss me WON'T YOU? won't you miss me? won't you miss me? WON'T YOU MISS ME? missed me missed me now you gotta kiss me if you kiss me, mister, take responsibility i'm fragile, mister, just like any girl would be and so misunderstood SO TREAT ME DELICATELY! missed me! missed me! now you've gone and done it! hope you're happy! in the county penitentiary IT SERVES YOU RIGHT! FOR KISSING LITTLE GIRLS but i'll visit if you miss me? SAY YOU MISS ME! how's the food they feed you? do you miss me? will you kiss me through the window? do you MISS ME? MISS ME? will they ever let you go? i miss my mister so...
mood: stunning	(0) comments

Sunny week.	Nov 4th, 2008 9:44:57 am - Subscribe
I am feeling bitter and resentful and unsafe. I feel like I am full all up of misfortune and disappointment and it's all been shaken up inside me. It's funny how only a little while ago I felt all hole-punched, like swiss cheese and with the bits missing. Thursday, I rushed madly around looking all over town for a dress. I looked everywhere, getting more and more frantic at the lack of anything vaguely appropriate. I ended up finding an ill-fitting purple floor-length dress, which is hardly anything like I had been hoping for. I went to work and Carla made things a little better. She sprayed room freshener on her dreads because they were a bit smelly and we shared frozen raspberries. And Tina told us funny stories about her and her boyfriend and she took a look at my conch and put a longer bar in for me, which felt much better. Carla offered to lend me her green mermaid dress for my grad and awards performance, and Tina suggested sex shops. But they specified no dominatrix shenanigens from me. They knew exactly what to expect from me. Jesse came in and ignored me. I pretended not to care that he was standing a foot away from me, leaning over the counter and waited for his disgusting e-addict friends to get their labrets done. I was tempted to accidently give them 14g but it would have been unprofessional and very painful for them. I pretended I was not remembering the time we were tangled in each others arms, completely spent, and how I remember exactly how his sweat tasted on my lips after pressing them to his drenched forehead. I pretended not to remember how I'd be laying across his bed watching whatever movie we'd feigned interest in that day, how his arm snaked around my waist and crushed me to him, and how he breathed in the scent of that spot beneath my hair, above my neck, behind my ear and kissed me, just there, and knew how I could not ignore him any longer. He knew what that exact spot did to my resolve. I had to vacuum when we were closing. I did not look at him. I vacuumed around his feet whilst he stood there, oblivious to the tearing and fluttering and faltering in my chest, knowing how much he wanted HER, the blonde whore and hating her even though she's probably a nice girl but wanting to be point out all her faults, how shallow she is, how her ears stick out just a little bit, how she stands hunched, how she laughs in a way that makes it seem forced even when it's not. Friday, it rained all morning. I arrived early for a touch up of this terrifyig performance in front of a couple thousand which I am not ready for, and am visualizing going wrong, and do not want to go through with. Malachi apprehended me with guilt. Vanessa and Megan and Bronte Were Not Speaking to me, so I had nowhere to go. I ended up clinging to the remaining girls where Fiona and Kristen could normally be found, only they weren't there so I was sitting with Lana and Nell and the acne-licious brunette who gave Turner head at the afterparty (forgotten her name), all of whom were civil to me but made no apparent effort to make me feel welcome. I was relieved to disappear to HLP, where I was stuck beside Candice and co. all of whom are trying ever so hard to be grown up and cool like Sex and the City, only they come across more ridiculous and childish than they would otherwise, which would have made me laugh normally but I was in too much of a bad mood. Then I had to go to vocals, where we had to sing through Defying Gravity AGAIN even though the little room really didn't do us any good except fuck up our expectations of acoustics. And I of course got inspired and emotional, so by letting myself feel anything, I also set myself up to feel everything, which of course I did and instantly regretted because it meant those damn tears again as soon as we stepped out and I was seated at the tables. Only there were too many witnesses, otherwise I probably would have welcomed the outlet, waited for it to wear itself out and try to keep going with whatever was happening. So I was led to Kim and Frances, both of whom pulled concerned faces and made concerned sounds, but I wasn't taking it in and I sure as hell wasn't feeling good for the attention. I did notice Fiona, standing a way back behind a table, scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes, and I couldn't tell if she was angry with me still for the fight with Millie or if she was pitying me, and thinking how humiliating it is to burst into inexplicable tears in front of lots of strangers. I probably would have been humiliated too, but Matt's arms were holding me together and I was enjoying the feel of him keeping me up too much to compose myself immediately. I went to Science and then realized someone was standing beside me. And of course, on such a day as this, it would have had to be the six-foot apprentice of the girl who has been snidely dropping comments on me for months, who adopted my appearance and taste in music overnight, who continuously stalked internet profiles and blogs. I cared at first, didn't anymore, gave up. The tall abnormality of flesh said something, with a lisp no doubt brought on by the bar of cheap zircon through her tongue, and then I realized the object of assault was standing motionlessly beside her. I don't know why she chose to say nothing and let her intimidating friend do the talking if she's attempting Goth. We certainly don't hide behind sizeable pals when it comes to skinny, pale juniors with whom we have disputes. I said something about not having problem with Girlzilla, who nevertheless continued talking on the other girls' behalf. Nothing was resolved. I was in a daze from my crying episode. It had been a while since I'd last accepted the factuality of What Had Come To Pass, and I was still reeling under it. Short murmured responses are likely all I managed, though I can't remember any of them. Baskerville ended it, yelled at my nose stud until I removed the offending sparkle, and went inside. Where of course Bronte and Melissa ceased their whispered conversation upon seeing me and I swayed where I stood, seeing red. That precise moment I turned, saw Desiree and Jesse walk past, his eyes bright and his fucking tail wagging expectantly as he followed her pathetically. I turned and there was Malachi, a cute little smile on his face as he shot a look of "I'm friendly, I'm here" and I couldn't take it anymore. I slumped in my seat and let those tears appear for the second time that day. Baskerville didn't comment, Millie dutifully wiped under my eyes for the mascara and eyeliner, Malachi quietly murmured a question of my wellbeing, but I growled at him which of course I felt bad for knowing that I abuse the way he feels for me by not letting him move on but not giving him what he wants, either. I just love his easiness and the way he doesn't care about what's wrong with me or how mean I am or how weird I am or how his friends refer to me affectionately as the most 'fuckable corpse they'd ever seen'. I got home and cried some more. I told my mother everything. I bought expensive, tasteless pizza from Millie's Italian restaurant and ate it alone and sad, watching the Addams Family Values and feeling sorry for myself. Saturday, I went to work and Jason was in. And he made jokes about me being a witch, which I was not in the mood for. And he talked about hanging out with Jesse, which I didn't need to hear. I bought a healthy lunch for once and bought a fresh fruit smoothie and felt like a responsible person and almost forgot about how much everything sucked. I walked around and saw Hayden and admired the new purple tips in his dark hair and ran into Alix and smiled at her. And I bought some bloodstone, because I am feeling weak lately. And I got home and burnt some Superhit. And Millie txted me from Relay for Life, about how the other girls were alienating her because she fraternizes with me and how Jesse was there, walking with and supporting Desiree. I only had a little cry, though. I went to bed early in preperation for... Sunday. Matt and Cam came over and moved my furniture around for several hours. I tried to pay them but they refused. Insisting lead to them hiding the cash under a book and leaving. When I found the money, though, I went and bought a sixpack of coke and rum for Cam and light beer for Matt and thrust it into their doorway. Then I cleaned and vacuumed and dusted and rearranged. Monday, I suffered. No Millie. I attached myself to Matija and she kept me company. She came over and fawned over my clothes and told me she thinks I'm like a gypsy queen, only darker. Which flattered me; it's a name for what I am. Then I made myself presentable and headed to the gallery and watched Millie and Matt and Fiona and Carmen. And I saw Bella's paintings and heard Imogen's cello playing and Sarah and I were browsing the photo section and I saw unexpected photos of myself covered in blood and felt embarrassed that I wasn't even warned the shots I modelled for were on display. Today I wanted to cry. Matt's last day. I held him for hours. We walked arm in arm. He had his arms around me and I was clutching his waist desperately. I wonder how long I'll be alright without him until I completely lose it. He laughed and said his goodbye to everyone. But then it was me he stayed behind with, me he held onto longest, me he sadly promised lunches and coffees and movies. God, I need him so much. Wait. I need Matt?
mood: violent song: fog - radiohead	(0) comments