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♥ memoirs of an ex-nymphet ♥
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| Thursday, May 27th, 2004 |
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well, I have jumped on the livejournal bandwagon. dude, I am so fucking leet. I heart my eljay. I doubt I will be updating this journal again. if anyone actually still reads it, please redirect your attention to the livejournal. and take a peep at my site also, as I can't remember whether I told anyone that it had moved. and please tell me what you think. K xx |
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| Monday, May 17th, 2004 |
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once upon a time there were three children: a princess, a mermaid and a puppy-dog. the tree-roots of their lives intertwined. events happened, as they have a tendency to. the three children grew up, and the roots linking them died. the puppy grew into a dog, a mangy stray lost in his little grey world. he runs around and sniffs at bitches; little girls who should know better. dogs are just puppies who have grown bigger. the mermaid has outgrown her fins and stepped up onto land to join the world. the endless murk of the ocean in front of her eyes is gone. now there is only the endless sky. the princess has grown into a czarina. she has found not a boy, but a man. a czar. kisses are no longer sugar-sweet and sickly, but clean and exotic like raw tomatoes and rain. the dirty honey of resentment has long been swallowed down. the world is green and fresh. the children shed their old skins. they are not the people they were. |
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| Sunday, January 11th, 2004 |
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I often think that no-one actually reads this. I usually update it when I want to get something out, but don't want to write it down. just in the vain hope that someone has been paying some attention, I will mention that, after much hassle, my website has finally settled here. if you are at all interested, then please have a quick look and let me know what you think, even if it is mean. xx |
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| Wednesday, December 31st, 2003 |
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does nothing fucking work anymore?! MSN keeps deleting itself, cupidalaska.com is down, and I can't log into the uni portal to see what my bastard exam results are. just fuck it. I am pissed off and tired. |
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| Tuesday, December 9th, 2003 |
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I remember when G and I broke up, and I looked at him and though, 'I will never kiss this man again'. and I was wrong. and we said that when one of us had kissed someone else, we wouldn't kiss each other again. so when Chris kissed me, I thought, 'I will never kiss G again'. and I was wrong. and I think of this line from a song: "kiss me hard, 'cause this will be the last time that I let you" and I thought about that line a lot the last few weeks, and as often as I think it is relevant, it never is. and his mouth feels wrong, but every time I think it's the last kiss, I'm wrong. xx |
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| Friday, November 21st, 2003 |
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it's disconcerting how quickly things can fall apart. last week I was a nice girl. as of now, I am a bitch. I am a slut. I am stupid. I am a troublemaker. I am a nasty little person and soon I shall have no friends. 1. - stupid my uni grades are mixed. my grades for psych and linguistics are quite lovely. however, my degree is english, and my english grades are horrendous. I am starting to think I have made a huge mistake. I am still barely eligible for honours, producing B- work. 2. - troublemaker I had a letter from residential services today, asking me to attend a disciplinary hearing. someone has complained about me. now, I think this may have something to do with my friend standing on the pavement in his underwear at 7AM and screeching about how everyone was a "right-wing fuck" and should vote for him, and him alone. but this is really nothing to do with me. he is a lush and I just wanted him to shut up. it is not my fault if he just wouldn't go home. if I get evicted I will not be happy. however, due to the fact that I am a slut, I may have to move out anyway. 3. - bitch G and I broke up a month ago. it was amicable and we were getting along quite nicely. unfortunately I was getting over it much faster than he was. on tuesday I met a boy called Chris. he was very sweet and funny and wore glasses. we got drunk and then went back to the chalet to watch 'friday the 13th'. at 5AM he kissed me. then we went to sleep. we woke up a few hours later and he drove home. when G found out about this, he was not happy. now, while I have not technically done anything wrong, he was very hurt. I said many of the wrong things to him, mainly due to my room-spinning hangover. I have been a bitch to him. in the words of the guy who lives down the road: "you are so awful to that man. he loves you and you don't love him." 4. - slut my flatmate's boyfriend kissed me, and I did not stop him. they have been together for three years. all afternoon she ran around the place screaming "fucking slut whore" and slamming doors. I spent hours in the union drinking coffee and staring at things. now she wants to move out. I have this terrible fear that my other flatmates now hate me too, and will hide their boyfriends whenever I am around. I have never felt this guilty in my entire life. I don't know what I've become. the floor has moved out from under me and I have nowhere to go. k xxx |
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| Friday, September 26th, 2003 |
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I don't think my baby loves me anymore. he is my angel, my only darling, and he does not want to be with me. I don't know what to do. I want to cry. we need space, we are young, we don't want to be tied down. well, I don't care. I love him and I want to be his girl, and I don't think it's any more complicated than that. I'm supposed to call him tonight, but I don't think I can. I know he will give me 'the talk'. the one about how he wants us to be friends. I can't deal with that fact that I will lose this beautiful thing; this boy who told me stories when my toothache kept me from sleeping, who brings me little toys he finds, who watched the entire series of batman films with me, who holds me when I'm sad, who tells me I don't need to be lonely, who calls me his doll, who takes care of me and kisses me on the cheek fifty times a day. I'm so scared of being without him. |
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| Sunday, August 31st, 2003 |
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I got an e-mail today from a girl I talked to on MSN once. She says she dreamed about me last night. It was so sweet and scary and entirely unexpected. I have had a worrying amount of e-mail about my new site. people seem shell-shocked that the old one is gone. anyway. yes. things are how they were, and there's not much more to say. kirsty xxx |
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| Sunday, August 17th, 2003 |
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I feel very quiet and sad. very still. I feel like all my movements are tiny and in slow-motion. my family are so sad and I am sad too. we have all been saying "I can't take this anymore" for months. we have said "this is the last time" a hundred times. I am tired and slow and quiet. I haven't spoken for hours. I haven't written for days. I've been thinking: cutting was my catharsis, then writing. I have arms full of ugly cathartic scars and notebooks full of ugly cathartic words. now I don't cut and I don't write. what is my catharsis now? is this why I am so sad and quiet and still? why I am lonely when the house is full? why I can't talk to people, and when I do I talk too much? I am so tired but I don't want to sleep. I can't explain why. I am embarrassed that people might read this. people that I know, people that I care about. people that I want to like me. I want to cry and write and have burning black coffee and declare love to my boy. I want to be blissfully melancholic. instead I am just sad. a stranger asked me today why I've changed. I want to answer but I don't know how. why have I? I'm not even sure why I have changed. maybe I've just grown up a tiny little bit. I hope I'm not that girl that Judith hates. I think probably not; I have not seen her in months. she will have forgotten by now. sometimes I want to save the world; convince everyone to recycle, lock all the bad people in a box and eat the key. sometimes I want to be beautiful; pale and soft with babydoll eyes and perfect hips. sometimes I want to be a dreamy bohemian; writing and painting and drinking strange tea. sometimes I want to be together; organised and perky, writing to deadlines and finishing a chapter a day. a chapter a week. a chapter at all would be good, really. the only thing I know for sure is that I want to be content. |
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| Saturday, August 9th, 2003 |
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I hate him so much. he's finally come down off the roof; it was raining and I thought he might fall. he's eaten something and he's watching a film. I don't want to see him again tonight, but I know I'll have to put him to bed in a few hours. he couldn't even get dressed; I had to put his arm in his sleeve. I don't know what to do. I really don't. the doctor told me to just ignore him when he gets like this, but when he's on the roof at 10PM, wearing just trousers, when it's raining and he hasn't eaten all day, how can I just ignore him? I might hate him, but I can't ignore him, even though it's the only thing I want to do. my overriding thought right now is just that I really, truly just don't know what to do. I hate to even think it, but I know that life will be so much easier when he finally kills himself. "don't you know you've got your Daddy's eyes, and your Daddy was an alcoholic" |
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| Friday, July 25th, 2003 |
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well, children. I am still here. I have taken out my madonna piercing - now it will always be unphotographed. I have also had a lot of my hair chopped off.
and, for once, all of my earrings match.
I'm becoming almost - ALMOST - well put together. also, I think that I should show the world my beautiful boy:
heavens but he's cute. well. what else. uni has finished - somehow I managed to get a 1B. it's madness; I didn't even buy drugs for the exam markers. I have a chalet for next year. it's in the woods, it's all very Friday the 13th. I have decided that from now on, I will stick to ear piercings. metal stabbed through anywhere else just irritates me. so, darlings, suggestions for nice ear piercings are much appreciated. I'm thinking: rook or snug. now I should probably have some breakfast. or maybe just a nice cup of tea. k xxx |
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| Friday, March 28th, 2003 |
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so. new piercing, new boy. the piercing: a little silver stud above the right side of my top lip. for a week, I had a fat lip. the crackwhore look is not my friend. healed now, thank heavens. still, do not get this piercing if you like really hard kissing. it hurts. the boy: a blonde. I suppose I secretly do like blondes. a tattooed pierced Edinburgh boy - silver rings in his ear and black patterns on his back. he punched a wall when a boy talked to me in a club. he hates all my exes. he has a superhero fixation. we watch a lot of films. he tells the shittiest jokes I have ever heard. sometimes he makes me breakfast in bed. we dress up to fuck. he photographs me. I write poems about him, but I can't finish them. his ex-girlfriend is thinner and prettier, but he still chose me. he is not on the list below. I miss him. ...and that's about it. for the past month, all I have done is: written three essays, watched stupid tv shows, eaten bananas and pasta and ice-cream (but not together), fucked, bought 50's dresses and pink high-heels, got drunk on cocktails and schnapps, marvelled over my new ruby-red lipstick which does not come off even when I want it to, and slept badly. this is my life. I really like how things are right now. k xxx p.s. shaft. |
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| Friday, February 28th, 2003 |
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Males At Stirling University In Whom Kirsty Is Currently Interested #1. an angel, a virtue, a God among men. an artist and a muse. I have met this guy once, and alreadyhe is my martyr. I have a terrible fear that I'll speak to him and realise that I've just hyped him up in my head, when in reality he is ugly and boring and has forgotten my name. or even worse, he is beautiful and fascinating and luminous and has forgotten my name. I want to see the films he makes and read every word he writes. he gave me his website address, but my obsession was unformed so I forgot it. he looks like an ugly movie-star, a wasted beat-up model on two hours sleep. he is always ten minutes late for English lectures. no one seems to know who he is - I know at least six people who are on his course, and they don't know him at all. whenever I see him, he is alone or with a girl. I have never noticed whether it is the same girl or different ones. I rarely see him, and I confess that I am not yet quite obsessed enough to go out of my way to bump into him. my mother suggested wandering the halls yowling his name until he appeared; as much as this suggestion tempts me I don't plan on going through with it just yet. so far my only efforts consist of not skipping English lectures. he wore a black hat last week, he looked so much like he'd just woken up that I wanted to kiss him and make him tea. I hope he never reads this. I have chosen everything I want and pinned it onto him. is this unhealthy? I thought so. #2. one of my tutors from last semester. I estimate that he is a few years younger than my father. he is a smoker and I think that he has been for a long time, probably my whole lifetime, as his skin looks like a mixture of white sandpaper and leather. he writes beautifully. my heart skipped when he remembered my name. and despite my sporadic attendance at seminars last semester, and my single appearance at the writing group (which was, incidentally, my fateful but fully-clothed night in the man above's bed), he remembered that I write poetry and not prose, where I am from, and even where I work. admittedly, it is his job to remember his students' names, so I will not pin too much on these feats of memory. I wrote a poem about him, which he will unwittingly give his opinion on. I want to lie curled up on him and have him teach me things. I want him to make me mysterious foreign foods and give me strange wine, even though I don't like wine. I want to prowl around his house in a vintage silk babydoll, and have a bath and brush my hair and paint my eyelashes, and have him watch me be his china doll. his geisha. I want his stubble to scratch me. my soft tight white skin to be grabbed by his brown smoker's hands. I will not rule out the disturbing possibility that he is an Electra complex. I want him to make me coffee in the morning and have all my flatmates stare. he is the kind of man who would fuck you up against a wall. or outside. he knows a million more things than I do. I want to know what he knows, I want him to tell me. would it all be illegal? I hope it is, and I hope he does it anyway. #3. he irritates me more than anyone. he is a buck-toothed blonde public-schoolboy, a guitar-playing, hard-stomached, fascinating ponce. he is so ugly, but I really fancy him. I think I annoy him; everyone seems to annoy him so I don't assume that I'm an exception. he knows a lot about philosophy and politics, even though he spells it 'polotics'. I am a sucker for boys who can teach me politics. yesterday he shaved his hair into a mohawk; he says he will shave it all off next week. he will look like a death-camp escapee. he will look very unwell. I have a distinct memory of a long drunken rant about how much I love shaved heads; how any boy could shave his head and I would be instantly crazy about him. however, this rant was drunken, so I can't remember who I said it all to. I don't even dare imagine it was him. after all, it is a little extreme to shave your head just to win the attention of a girl you're not even interested in. I left my shoes in his room and didn't go to get them for a week. I made him a mix-tape. I put nice earrings in just to go and borrow his cheese-grater. he does cocaine. I think he is on cocaine right now. he seems to think I am impressed that he does cocaine, when really I am just scared that he will die and no one will understand why I cry. I will cry more than his ex-girlfriends, because at least they got the chance to be his ex-girlfriends. I want to be his ex, but I don't want to be his girlfriend. he opens his mouth too wide when he speaks. he has an obnoxious laugh. he calls me 'honey'. he never tells me to go away, but he never asks me not to. he irritates me so much that most of the time I want to punch him. the rest of the time, I want to kiss him. and there are so many mind-numbingly pretty boys just walking around, as if they were normal people. I don't know why I look. I'm just a silly cliche with dyed hair and unfinished tattooes, spattered with scars from a fictional carcrash. pretty boys will only ever be my muses. they will never see me. k xxx |
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| Tuesday, February 4th, 2003 |
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okay. I honestly, truly, don't uually fill in these stupid quizzes. except the one about Sarah's head, of course, for which I got 'goth head', along with a suitably pretty picture. but I filled this one in: Nerdslut What's your sexual appeal? brought to you by Quizilla and how fucking cool is the term "nerdslut"?? I love it. my darlings, AM I a nerdslut? I must know... k xxx |
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| Sunday, February 2nd, 2003 |
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to my critics: I have never claimed, and will never claim, to be any of the following: pretty, attractive, intelligent, talented, interesting. I do not need you to tell me that I am ugly, pointless, stupid, worthless, irritating or a general waste of space. you think I don't already know? I know I have fat thighs, a fat stomach, a fat arse and yes, probably even fat ankles. give me a break, because I'm working on it. you can't just eat some celery, do a couple of sit-ups and look like a supermodel in a week. give me a few months of eating what I eat and doing the exercise I do, and my body may almost be presentable. my breasts may be too small by your standards, which to be honest I'm fine with. they are nicely rounded, they won't ever sag, and they are in proportion to the rest of me. I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a model with anything above a B cup. my face is ugly, this I don't deny. however, my skin is now near-perfect and I've worked for that, so don't knock it. my mouth is too small, my eyes are too small, my eyelashes are too short, my nose is too big and has a bump in it, my eyebrows are too pale, my cheekbones aren't strong enough, and I am incapable of styling my hair. I may by ugly, but so are you. so if you insist on detailing my faults, all I ask is that you send me a photo of yourself so that I may do the same in return. and I sincerely doubt that anyone's ego is unshakeable enough to actually take me up on this offer. k xxx |
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| Tuesday, January 28th, 2003 |
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well, if it's not already obvious, I'm absolutely terrified of moving out. I've thought of every possible bad-case scenario. what if I don't get on with the girls in my flat? what if they're all drug addicts? what if they're all bulimic and expect me to vomit with them? what if they're all thin and beautiful? what if they're homophobic? what if everyone's out getting drunk every night, and I just want to sit in my room and write or read or play music or just generally stare at the walls? but then I get these visions of waking up at 10AM, dragging myself into the kitchen, dancing around with my walkman on playing cheesy teen pop and Mindless Self Indulgence, shouting down the hall, does anyone want coffee?, then reheating something in the microwave and chopping up a pepper for breakfast. or staying up late with the purple fairy lights on, playing the virgin suicides soundtrack and writing pages of poetry. or going for my weekly swim with my body (which will, by then, be thin and pert and perfect) in a cute bikini and then trudging back with wet hair, meeting ten cute boys I know from classes, then making tea and reading someone else's crap magazine. or going for a midnight walk and sleeping somewhere strange, like in a field or in someone's bath, just because I can. and not even having to tell anyone that I slept there. or going to the writing class every week, to hear novels in the making and see Patrick, who is really just an ugly Jonny Lee Miller with a Canadian accent, even though he claims to be from Oban, with the pirates and paedophiles and gangsters, and then afterwards bringing him back for coffee and to discuss our respective writings, and having him smile and stare and be generally starstruck, just like before except in my space this time. or reading great, lengthy, earth-shattering classic novels while lying on my bed and nibbling grapes and crackers and cucumber, killing time before a lecture or LGBT meeting or for the bath to fill or going to the union. and then I figure that even if one of these comes true, it'll all turn out fine. k xxx |
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| Sunday, January 19th, 2003 |
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okay. I am getting really sick of this. I am not a bad person. I am young, I am healthy, I have a 26" waist and I will do whatever I damn well like! if I want to writhe naked on the floor and have my photo taken, then I will. and if the best insult that people can come up with is that I have "fat ankles", then hell, maybe I really am pretty. yes, friend of Claire Rodgers, you know who you are, and you know how entirely pathetic your insults are. I'm not sure what this obsession with me is, but for the last time, please get on with your own lives as I am trying to get on with mine! k xxx |
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| Wednesday, January 8th, 2003 |
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I need a muse. I'm going slowly mad, and a muse will save me. are YOU beautiful and interesting? would YOU like to come round to my house and have some tea and let me photograph you? if so, YOU (yes you) could be my new muse. you'd like that, wouldn't you? of course you would. email me, you gorgeous inspiration. oh, and tell your friends. you can never have too many muses. k xxx |
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| Friday, January 3rd, 2003 |
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well. someone broke into our house. I can live with the fact that the car, laptop, x-box, dvds, and camera were stolen. I can even live with the fact that all my dead grandmother's jewellery was stolen. however, what kind of sick-minded fuck breaks into someone's house and steals their TV REMOTE?? I kid you not. these people did not steal my ?2000 bang and olufsen stereo. instead, they take the tv remote. the logic eludes me. some people just really suck. k xxx |
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| Thursday, December 5th, 2002 |
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a man took photographs of me for two hours last night. he had long hair and wore beat-up skate shoes. he's a camera purist - he changes the rolls of film in pitch-black. I get the feeling I'm in love. maybe it's just the way he stares. he's making sure there are no shadows on my skin, I'm gazing back misty-eyed. he's checking light levels three inches from my mouth, I'm trying not to kiss his fingers. he's fiddling with the screws on the soft-box, I'm wishing he's fantasising. the last guy, the east-european sociology student. for two hours, I was naked and he was sweating. the whole time I was wishing he'd ask me out for coffee. and oh, he stared too. I didn't like it when our eyes met. am I a little bit in love with every man who has ever photographed me? it's very possible. k xxx |
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