The Tale of Where My Creative Juices Have Been Flowing (Not this way, obviously)

I've spent most of my life not being a "girly" girl; when I was a kid i spent my free time climbing trees and being inseparable from something called "sloppy tracksuit". As a teenager i was ill-fitted for the slow dancing etiquette of school discos, no matter how hard i tried. Leaving school and moving to London, most of my new friends were boys - I enjoy the lack of drama associated with the male psyche. I don't exactly cover myself with baggy clothes and shave my hair off but it's just that i think more like a boy. And i'm pretty fucking proud of that. It makes me me and all that shit.

So i pretty much want to remove my mind for fear of it being so sadly retarded ever again, because of late i've been devoting certain sections of my day (morning, late at night) to writing romantic emails. CRINGE . In the morning, i wake up alone, eat my breakfast, then get on the bus and spend the 45minute journey composing the PERFECT wake up message (jeez, writing this i sound lamer than a spinster with a Brides subscription). After hours of communication via any means possible, i lie down alone in bed and compose the PERFECT goodnight message. To compound this utter insanity i secretly keep a watch on my phone, stomach knotted, in hope of an equally romantic reply. Oh yeah, and there's usually fucking six hours of time difference separating the recipient and i.

I've got no idea where this bullshit came from.. i blame it on my few feminine pleasures - trashy tv, rom-coms and Jane Austin. Most girls who watched that infamous Pride and Prejudice tv series back in the nineties harbour a secret (or not so secret) longing for that kind of romance. An unrequited love, separated by land/sea, documented in letters.

"Oh Fanny, i do declare my heart feels as though it will explode every time he walks into the room". etc etc...

But i guess i started writing this jiz because i thought i should. I was shed

ding skin, starting afresh and having my eyes opened to unknown feelings. No more closed off, boyish emotions! i thought. Open yourself to it! Say the stuff i've been too embarrassed to even feel! For a while my words were written from behind my right hand - eyes squinting through and giggles stifled. I was still aware of how ridiculous it all was.

But somewhere down the line i began to enjoy how vunerable my words made me - bearing every last piece of my soul. I also lived for how my words seemed to affect the recipient; over those months i discovered just how easy it is to alter someone through type. And i thrived of his responses, the words - "forever", "heart", "aches", "complete" = they shook me to my very core and took me to a fantasy land so far removed from the daily reali

ties of tour.

He told me how he loved to wake up to my emails; so when my fingers found it harder to flow out sentences onto the keyboard, i worked harder to write.

What would we do without our messages? Hell, our relationship was built of excessive declarations of love each day. Without these we were just every other couple. No Austin, no adversity, just a relationship with an "i love you" at the end of a phone call. And this is how i convinced him to love me. He asked me to pour out my heart daily and

i did. I opened the floodgates but now the water was gone and i was catching raindrops to fill it again.

Then one day came the words.

But the words that mean i can stop with the old words.

I think i'd forgotten that boys aren't as caught up in "the dream" as girls. Wait, i wasn't even supposed to be caught up in the dream. He'd got bored of my daily updates on life etc, they were boring and hard to pay attention to until the end.

My beautifully crafted romantic emails? My little pieces of info abo

ut my day? Boring? FML. And worse than that, why the hell wasn't i happy not to have to write them anymore? I was only doing it because he was romantic and i was trying to be everything he wanted. Oh. God. How embarrassing. I'd tricked my mind into being gushy and now i fucking liked i

t.

Anyway, i guess my point is that boys don't really like love letters, or cutsie in-depth analysies of your day. They want you to get naked on video chat. Love letters/emails are purely for the girls' pleasure, so maybe write them and don't send them. I have the advantage that the package i sent him had a love letter in it but it got returned so i can take it out and burn it to save my embarrassment.

So, chill out, don't prise your heart open with a screwdriver just incase, like me, you can't shut it again.

I would guess the point of tears it the best time for anyone to write.

The point where my heart, already divided into two, splits into three.

The point where turbulence in the air coordinates with turbulence in my mind.

Where the empty seat next to me signifies more than i can comprehend at this moment.

This point, where my dreams come crashing, face first, reality.

The reality that not all can ever be perfect. Faults exist in every dream, it only takes time before they become apparent. To take these unabashed words or to take utter disinterest? The hands that comfort do little more than grate and stop my words. The words of apology do little to appease this unchartered feeling.

But I can't remember the last time the first section of my heart heard these words. I don't think it ever did.

These words are confused and marred by wet eyes, but somewhere they ask a question...

What to choose?

I've already made the decision. And it's easy. I'm not sure tears on an aeroplane can dissuade me from this feeling; the emotion, the anger, its all conducive to something which could be good (great?).

Do I want to stagnate and still be left weeping on a cold bathroom floor? Or to live,to feel, to... exist?

I don't want this everyday. I never want this again.

To cry is to be weak, and weakness blows. But perhaps it takes this once to throw the dreams right back to earth and ground them.

Reality sucks, especially when you're still on holiday. But the touch of a hand on a leg takes that reality back to something i can live with.

Assertations of feelings towards me that i don't agree with take me deeper, darker, further into the worse side of this situation.

My emotions here never ran so high, so low, so insane in such a short time.

Twenty minutes ago i was praying this plane would take me down and end this pain. Now i can't wait to be free when we land.

I feel like my heart is waking, with every stifled tear that leaves my body, i am someone.

I exist.

I am.

I live.

Every sense is awakened.

Is this sadistic?

Is this natural?

Keep me in this hideous limbo forever. Floating above the earth and all my worries.

Abuse me, pour drinks over my lap in false moods.

I am alive.

I'm yours tonight..

To my father, who has somehow found my blog. I don't think you want to read this...

I've been putting it off for a while.

I didn't even really need to do it.

I can try them on and find one that fits eventually, right?

Alas I've been on tour and sleeping in them frequently for the last few months, mostly due to sheer laziness. As a result I've got permanent red lines on my chest and every one of my bras is running on minimal elasticity. If I'm going to buy bra's en masse I want to know that I'm buying the right size.

So I did it...

I took the plunge and set aside an afternoon to get my tits measured. In Plymouth. God knows why... there was logic for that, I'm sure.

And I was probably working on the assumption that all the old ladies in M&S up and down the country are equally un-scary. So I guess this is where my plan starts to unravel... oh, that and the fact that my chosen day was, in fact, the first bank holiday Monday after Christmas.

Yeah, I know, don't laugh.

Marks was a seething mass of panicked middle-aged women; brassieres flying over display racks and landing on the huddles of confused-looking husbands on the other side. Winding through these wild creatures, I found the fitting rooms.

CLOSED FOR SALES.

Great, fucking great. I'd come all the way to Plymouth (kindly referred to by me as the "armpit of the earth") and I can't even have my chest fondled by some nice old lady.

In a moment of sheer industriousness I took myself to Debenhams, whose undercrackers department I have patronised before.

Walking down into the basement of my concrete playground I became aware of what I was dealing with...

Pink. Everywhere. Florals. Everywhere. Lace. Everywhere. This was a SEXY underwear dept. Not like, Ann Summers' saucy, but a step up (or down?) from M&S.

What the hell am I doing? I thought.

The only person who's seen my naked tits in years is.... well, let's not get into that.

The entrance to the room-of-impending-doom revealed that my measurer would be one of a group of young girls. I truly was about to get my knockers out for a whore. Ushered into a small, dingy cubicle, I was told to strip down to my bra and stood, shaking with nerves, in wait for the whore's next move.

A set of lurid pink acrylic nails wound their way around the edge of the curtain (my safety net).

A screech warned me of this walking STD's imminent intrusion.

The talons felt their way around my ribs; stretching and inspecting the black fabric of my bra. With the skill of Ron Jeremy, the hag had flicked apart my clasp, revealing my bare, flaccid chest. A ragged tape measure found its way around my tits, and - as suddenly as this dark chapter had begun - I was left; cold, topless and alone, in my barren cage.

My whore returned with a bra (black, grim) and told me to put it on.

(A minute of awkward fumbling begins on my part)

"Perfect! Does it feel comfy?"

Yes you whore, it fucking does. I feel violated, embarrassed, and naked. But, jeez, my tits are chilling about four inches further towards the heavens.

"You've gone up in size. Isn't that great?! You're a 34D".

With that, her prematurely wrinkled mouth cracking to a hideous smile, she turned, and left.

The tour is over but they just keep coming...

10d13h30m

"And we just want sleep.

But this night is hell.

I'm sick and sunk and I blame myself because I make things hard

and you're just trying to help.

I got no gas.

I'm winding out my gears.

This is one more day on the verge of tears.

And now my head hurts. ( Head hurts)

And my health is a joke.

Now I got to stop because the headphones broke."

It's stupid because I get to choose the soundtrack to this moment. I could have had the radio on. Then I'd let the fates and playlists decide how this should feel. But i'm delving into my own collection.

It's not like i'm limited to my mixtapes from way back when.

I have literally thousands of songs at my disposal. Some of them are even good.

I could make this moment comic. I could make this moment uplifting... euphoric.

WHATEVER.

I'm living life in the minor key. I want to hate this moment, right? I fucking must be into this not being good. Great, sappy lyrics written by a man who should know better. I should know better.

Well, I'm taking this moment to emo-town. It's a one way ticket and there's no going back.

Bring on the acoustic.

Bring on the violins.

Bring on the "intelligent" rhymes.

I should have listened to hip hop.

We travel in groups of more than one.

"If we are always arriving and departing, it is also true that we are eternally anchored.

One's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things."

Gin, Gin, Gin.

There were tears on the way home.

Slept until 4pm.