Home is where the muck is…

I feel like my statue head, hanging from the wall. Angry and upset each and everyday and angry at no other person other than myself for failing me each and every day.

To be honest, I don’t like my home. I rarely call it home. I call it ‘the flat’ always have. I guess I never really felt like it was mine or that I was meant to be here for so long. I think I moved in over ten years ago. It was May a long time ago. I wasn’t supposed to be here this long. In my head I had other plans, just not the stamina to carry them through and now, there is no other option but to be here. I can’t afford to buy unless I come into a lot of money and I certainly don’t have an option of moving. Who in their right mind would want to live five flights up in a converted house where you can smell the smoke of the heavy smoker gay boys who moved in last September after the death of Mr Harris.

But I don’t even hate it here because of that! I hate it here because this place has become a self made prison. I spend more time here now than I ever have especially when I have time off from work due. I try to be productive but in a flat as big as a shoe box, I can hardly squeeze myself into it using a shoe horn there isn’t room to swing my cat let alone work on my art stuff or even feel like I want to. My head is all fuzzed up. Yes I know it’s more than the size of a flat causing it. It’s just that everything inside my head becomes a battle with those monsters who live in there. And everyday it seems to get worse. This place needs needs decorating but I don’t like it enough to even do that for a third time. It needs cleaning, but I really can’t be bothered because my energy levels are zero. I do the basics, no more than that.

I know I should dust and wash the floors, get into a routine. I just can’t seem to do it. I stay in because I hate the world and myself. This blog will just be a long long list of whines and moans for the time being. I can hear myself and its even making me wince. But, this is part of fatblog. Part of my right to scream loudly, to whine to give myself even that negativity…If and I mean if it helps me find my way out of this empty pit I feel in my over grown belly. But only if it means escaping my very own prison. If not, then why bother to continue to live this way? I’m not happy, I’m creating this way of being, no one else. So…

You see, when I had a life I never used to be here that much so I guess it didn’t make me feel so crap living in such a tiny space. But now, having given up fags last Jan (06) and having to be forced to smell second hand smoke as well as banging doors, I feel less like living, cleaning, enjoying it for what it is and more like throwing myself out the window. I doubt I shall be that dramatic, but hey, who knows.

Welcome to my world

I chatted to my nephew Cameron last night; he brings a big smile to my face. I told him the night before, when he informed me he that he had new fish and recently that one had died, and that his creatures always die. He said that wasn’t true, so I reminded him of his guinea pig.

He said, ‘He didn’t die I gave him away’

‘Yes, but he committed suicide’

‘How’s that then?’

‘The fox that ate the rabbits was full; the Guinea pig said to the fox, hey what about me…. The fox looked at him and yawned, but I’m full oh guinea pig… The Guinea pig screwed up his face and squealed…. The fox yawned about to make his way off the playground… The Guinea pig jumped for it, right into the fox’s mouth - end of story’

‘I never know if I should believe you Gaga’

‘It’s true, I have proof’

‘How?’

‘I have a note he wrote’

‘Guinea pigs don’t write’

‘Oh yes they do if you don’t give them those big long pens that make them topple over, you have to give them bookie pens or Ikea pencils, then they are OK and they can clutch them with their claws…’

‘Oh right, can I see it’

‘Yes I can scan it in at work and show you’

‘Just bring it in on Monday then…’

‘OK, I will’

The following day, Cameron received a text message.

Cameron, don’t worry, I am OK, and I don’t blame you. I am happy here, love guinea pig”

He called me to tell me. I said, yup I had the same text message. The ‘posh lady, who spoke as he put it, said he was ok. I said ‘yes he told me that too, I think she was the only way he could get through…’

I had to come clean when Cameron told me he felt a shiver and wanted to know why Grandma didn’t contact him that way instead of in dreams. I told him I was messing about. We laughed about it, chatted about his tent and left it at that.

I had first aid most the day yesterday. I was dripping wet in the evening from sweat and heat. Yuck. I am glad we did it though, me, Mon and Weezy passed. That’s out of the way, now ofsted and the core funding application form. Then I can relax.

I ate too much today, I had three bagels, rice, cauliflower, and 2 of those tasteless cod frozen pieces. I also had a bowl of yoghurt and frozen fruit which was nice and popcorn with nothing on it. Yum. Now I have nothing much left really. Oh dear.