I always used to wish that I could take my brain out of my skull to give myself time to rest. My mind is always churning, some days faster than others. I don’t know if I ever truly experience happiness, because as soon as I’m happy a clock appears in my mind, and all I can see is a countdown until it’s over.

I’ve never known anchors. I’ve never felt rooted to anything; my life has always been caught in a tidal drift. The only ever present in my life has been my mother; everybody else has always been eroded by time. I take an existensialist approach to these matters, and have mostly chosen a life of solitude to avoid losing anybody. It’s easier to just be alone, than to go through a loss. I still think this is true. One of the many philosophies I’ve invented, much like the one that caused all of my suicide attempts over the years; it’s better to be the first one to leave than the last one to go.

Going. I am always going. I have left more people than I’ve been left, and usually I leave the people I love the most. The more I love them, the stronger the need to leave is. It’s a way of beating the countdown, I’d rather cut off the limb before it rots – even if the limb wasn’t in jeopardy in the first place.

In two weeks I will leave California to return back to my own personal hell on earth. It feels like being on death row. I am so desperate to experience every minute, to squeeze all I can from it because the countdown is ticking away. And there is no uncertainity in this; when I leave this place, I will be desolate. I don’t even know if I will be able to form enough sense to do the things I need to do to come back. Sometimes I manage to find a rigid tenacity inside myself to get things done, but most of the time the chasm swallows me up and I find myself in a white room once again, answering questions that have no answers.

A part of me would rather die here now, rather than going back to London. The thought of London wakes me up at night, it tears through my guts and screams in my veins. I hate that place more than anyone could understand, and the chance I might be stuck there is enough to make me want to do something drastic. To never return. I won’t do any of these drastic things. As Jean-Jaques Rosseau wrote ‘Do not burn down your house to avoid the bother of putting it in order.’

I will have to put my house in order, and I will have to suffer more. Maybe after that, my happiness will not come with a timer.

I was diagnosed with dyspraxia when I was 5. I think my parent’s thought I was slightly retarded; I have no sense of direction, I can’t tell the difference between left and right and if something is in front of me, I will fall over it.

Nobody really knows what the fuck dyspraxia is, so when you say ‘Yeah, I’m not retarded because left and right confuses me, I have dyspraxia’ they generally just call you a spastic and move on.

This article basically sums up what it is.

And I never really noticed it as a particuarly negative thing until I moved to California. London is an indoor city, there aren’t too many issues with being co-ordinated when you sit in a box all day long. Here, I’m surfing, skating, spinning quarters, opening wine, attempting to walk upright and I realise that I’m completely inept at all of the above. And I had the greatest epiphany of all time relating to it last night.

Don’t do shit that you’re not good at.

My whole life I’ve always done it anyway; I’ve surfed for 2 years and can’t stand up – I still go. The only reason I did well in martial arts was because I functioned on pure rage and am almost immune to physical pain for some reason. I broke my wrist when I was 15 because I tried to copy my friend in doing some kind of gymnastic dismount from a climbing frame. I went cliff diving and nearly broke my back from landing badly. I’ve never suffered from a lack of guts, just a lack of everything else. But I have it figured out now! QUIT DOING THIS STUFF!

I end up injured and looking like a fucking idiot, yet I always try to do stuff I will never be able to do. Maybe dyspraxia is a fancy word for moron; because I probably should have figured this out a while ago.

From now on, my new hobby is tanning.

Working nights is a tiring business, especially when you haven’t slept in 30 hours and are nursing an accumulated hangover. Here I am, on front desk at 6.20am waiting for my shift to finish so I can overdose on Nyquil and pass the fuck out.

To paint the picture, I’m listening to Night Moves by Bob Segar and looking at photos of Princess Monster Truck.

Aside from doing these things, I’ve also written my admissions essay and finished my application. I’m almost tempted to go straight from my shift to my future college and drop it off, but this might not be a good idea. Sometimes what you write when you’re working a night shift at a hotel isn’t what you think it is:

And considering that I’m applying to college, it’s probably a good idea to take something resembling a nap.

10 minutes has passed since I typed ‘nap’, and I’m not going to lie, 5 of those was spent staring straight at the wall and silently mouthing along to Patrick Swayze’s ‘She’s Like The Wind’ and thinking about Princess Monster Truck. 

But in all fairness, this night shift has been better than the last one. I may or may not have smoked too much weed on my last night shift, and became convinced something from outdoors was trying to kill me. I armed myself with 1 or 6 kitchen knives and woke up some hours later on the couch, a flock of German tourists surrounding me and looking concerned.

I AM STILL HERE, STARING AT THE WALL.

Oh my God, I need to sleep. I need to sleep and also drink less coffee. And alcohol. And probably stop going out so much.

A guest just walked past and saw me singing Swayze to the pictures of cats I’m looking at online. NOTHING WEIRD ABOUT THAT SIR. KEEP MOVING. Colleague wanting to talk. IT’S 6AM. I’VE BEEN HERE ALL NIGHT. GO AWAY.

OH MY GOD I HATE YOU ALL.

No, no, I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I made a solem vow to never post my diary on the internet, because I’m not a 13 year old girl who just got her period. But sometimes I come home drunk or high, and I write things.

I can never remember until the next day, and I never really bother to reread them. That was until I found this:

Captain’s log. I’m not drunk but I’m really stoned, so my following lecture on the meaning of life may or may not have grammatical errors. Only time will tell. ONWARDS:

I once walked through a fog in Richmond Hill with Aly and we thought a werewolf was chasing us. We sang onward Christian soldier and I really don’t want to forget that happened. It was almost as good as this.

Except this is looking like a plane crash in slow motion. Bad things are afoot and my spinehairs are as erect as meerkats. THERE IS CERTAIN DOOM COMING. Or maybe nothing is wrong. I can’t really tell the difference between reality and the things evolving inside my cranium shack.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

So anyway, none of that really matters and has gone off topic from my lecture entitled:

LECTURE TO SELF FOR LATER

The meaning of life is about rising, not falling. Maturity is about growth and spiritual something something. DAMMIT, IT’S GONE.

Fuuuuuuuuck, I don’t know where this is going.

OH YES, I REMEMBER.

Okay so basically everything in life is about Star Wars. We are all part of a cosmic force and such on, so in a nutshell: you thought you were Luke because Luke comes from tattooine, and Anakin goes to that Paradise place, and to sum it up: You have a dark side, so you’re Anakin and probably going to drown in lava until you are in essence; a robot.

It made so much more sense when I thought about it. It has all been abandoned.

In all earnest, I should just watch tv and forget about it.

I haven’t smoked in quite a while and ruined my one and only shot with a weed dealer last night. He was being all obnoxious and ‘I’ll need your medical marajuana card’, so naturally I took a photo of my friends tits and sent them to him via text with the subcaption ‘Pretty please?’. His response was ‘Really? Sad.’

Now any legitimate stoner, who abides by the spiritual ethics to which marajuana use pertain – would never respond to tits like that. And citing all that legal mumbo jumbo with the medical card, who are you? A hedge fund manager? You sell WEED. Don’t get all high and mighty on me, fuckface. So I don’t want to contribute to your business anyhow. It’s like Ariel Castro trying to sell you a rape alarm.

Anyway, the only natural gift I may have is to find weed, so by 9pm I had a joint the size of a cigar and began to cycle through the various stages of getting high.

Stage One – Gets more interested in the conversation regarding the meaning of life.

Stage Two – Thinks that the meaning of life has been solved

Stage Three – Tries to explain it to someone, inexplicably ends up discussing what it would be like to go back in time and kill Hitler.

Stage Four – WHY IS THE WALL WATCHING ME?

Stage Five – Getting sleepy, mild dribbling

Stage Six – NO, SERIOUSLY, WHY THE FUCK IS THE WALL WATCHING ME?

Stage Seven – Give up, go to bed.

Sadly I had to walk a way home before I could get to bed, and this journey was magical. All the sparkling lights of 5th Avenue and the skyscrapers lighting up the sky. Johnny Cash’s Ghost Rider’s In The Sky making me feel like a Boss.

Up until I got to Broadway, and then it was all FBI Survellance Vans, whether or whether or not anyone could tell how high I was, the veritable landmine field of fire hydrants/lamp-posts/railings/bins/bus stops. The traffic lights that never change (or do they?) and of course the inner monologue of a stoner.

“An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day – la la la – OH HELLO 7ELEVEN, are those chips and dip you’re offering? Don’t mind if I do. Wait, I have no money. GODAMMIT. *sings inwardly* YIIPPPPPIEEEEEYOOOOO – Hey, there’s that crackhouse with all the tinfoil windows! And there’s a guy outside screaming at his shopping cart. Which is filled with grapefruit. He’s probably got a knife for that grapefruit, otherwise how else would he eat me. EAT ME? WHY DID I THINK THAT? OH MY GOD, THIS CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER IS A CANNIBAL. WHAT DO I DO? Walk tall. Think like a jungle cat. THEY’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE.’

and so on.

I arrived back, vaguely traumatised but still high enough to be notchalant about the whole affair when I realised that all of my clothes smelt like semen and the beach, so it was time to do laundry.

“Why are you doing laundry at midnight?” My hawaiian room-mate, who I love to death, asked me.

“Because it smells like cum and seaweed. This is some ratchet ass shit.” I say in my accent which is somewhere between Jessa from Girls and Iggy Azalea right now.

“Isn’t sex on the beach really painful? Like what about the salt water up your vagina and all the sand? I’m genuinely curious.”

“Well, I guess it depends how wet you are. After a certain point, nothing sticks.”

She considered this.

“Do you think eventually the sand erodes your vagina, like sands it, and it becomes super smooth after a while?”

“Oh yeah.” I replied “After six months it would be a marble fireplace.”

And that was my day.

I have always secretly judged the fuck out of people based on whom they fancy. I once dumped someone because they said in an offhand remarked how much they liked Jennifer Aniston and what a fool one would be to leave the whinging minge. Naturally, I pretended it was for other reasons, but once someone has shown they prefer the very epitome of mundane, it’s time to leave.

…

I mean really. Angelina Jolie (or the old Jolie I used to idolise) drank blood, collected knives and made Gia. Jennifer Aniston made Friends, which is a tv series only children and mongoloids find entertaining. CLEARLY we’re never going to have anything in common. It’s a fine litmus test of somebodies character.

I would have made a fantastic lesbian had I not had an innate love of dick. I like wifebeaters and women’s MMA. after all. Sometimes I mourn for the life I would have had as a carpet muncher. But there are a few women that would turn me in a heartbeat, and I realised this morning when watching a trailer for Fast and Furious 6.

1) Michelle Rodriguez

I feel like Michelle and I would be a lesbian power couple, who would ride around on a motorbike with guns in our knickers and rob liqueur stores on route to Mexico. We would possibly start a lesbian motorcycle gang and revenge murder rapists.

2) Megan Fox

My kingdom for Megan. I used to love her, until I read this and now I LOVE HER. She’s a fucking freak. I mean, she seems kind of retarded but really fucking weird. I think we would just smoke hella weed together and talk in tongues, then complain about being objectified although we do things like this:

Sucks to be us.

3) Olivia Wilde

She told Justin Bieber to ‘put a fucking shirt on’ so clearly we’re meant to be together.

4) Gina Carano

We would fight a lot. It would be hot.

5) Rihanna

Who wouldn’t? She’s quite clearly into S&M, so that could be interesting. And weed. So all bases covered.

6) Asia Argento

I’ve already written about the time Asia told me that women like us would burn the world down together AND THEN after writing that she tweeted me saying she remembered and gave me more words of encouragement about being a crazy bitch in a valley girl world. So basically I will always love her more than anybody else. I could write a thousand reasons why I love her, but instead everybody should just watch Scarlet Diva.

And that’s it. May the snatch be with you.

 

They say opposites attract, and maybe there is good cause for this. For the average homosapian, finding a mate who shares many of your qualities can also be a good thing. If you happen to be a feral degenerate with no understanding of your own limits, and meet another one of these barbarians, then everybody is in trouble.

I learnt this last night, lying face down on the side walk of 5th Avenue in a very elegant green dress. Somehow being fucked off your tits is worse if you’re in formal attire, especially if the person lying next to you is randomly shouting ‘Is it still illegal to punch your girlfriend in the face if she likes it?’

I was supposed to be responsible for the evening, and quickly lost control of the situation. It started off as a civillised affair; I’m a great hostess before I drink. There I was, blending up margarita’s in the kitchen and serving them on little trays. And then I started drinking. And drinking. And drinking. I had a few pitchers of beer down in O.B earlier in the day and was a little tipsy before I hit the tequila, and wasn’t quite aware of how hard the tequila would hit me.

I don’t usually drink tequila, and now I know why. The other important factor to all of this was I had spent my afternoon catching up on Game of Thrones, and sometimes when I get really, really drunk, I forget that I’m in this world and pass over into a fantasy realm in my head.

So we make it to a Mexican bar, and naturally the right thing to do after drinking two bottles of tequila is to order more drinks. As I walked into the bar, the ground violently moved direction and I began to fall.

‘Let’s not fight the natural order of the evening.’ I told myself as I plummeted to the ground, too drunk to try and save myself. My main concern was being kicked out for being too drunk, so I quickly blamed it on my shoes/special man friend and tried to retain an air of composure as I sat at the table.

Somewhere along the 2nd or 8th margarita, the boy starts talking about girls. Not in any particular way that a sane person would find objectionable, but I am not a sane person at my best; let alone when on a tequila fuelled rampage. This is the only flipside to having the best sex in the history of mankind. There really isn’t much of a difference between passion and violence, and the tequila demon didn’t like the mention of any other girl too much. I also may have been under the impression that I was Daenarys Targaraen, rightful air to the Iron Throne and Queen of the Dragons.

“If you so much as look at her, I’ll rip off her scalp and beat you to death with it.” the tequila demon said through my mouth. This is the way of the Dothraki.

“You are so jealous tonight.” he replies

“I am not jealous. I am Queen of the fucking dragons, and I’m from Brentford so I know how to cut a bitch. You Americans think you’re so tough with all of your guns. Fuck guns. Back in my school we fought each other with MALLETS. Where’s my drink? Why am I on the ground? Did I just punch you? Ohmygod, sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry. A KHALEESI IS NEVER SORRY. hic.’

Well why this is going on, he’s just screaming at random dudes walking by, ‘She’s jealous but she’s mine. She’s mine. Keep walking homo, I own this pussy.’

The rest is a bit blurry, but we decide the best course of action is to retire this night ASA-fucking-P. Unfortunately we had 5 blocks left to go before we could have sex and stop fighting.

So there I am, staggering/falling/swinging punches down 5th – and we both fall over. A lot. Luck wasn’t on my side, and I spent more time lying on the pavement than walking on it. An hour or four later, we arrive back to a shitshow in the lounge. One guy is screaming obsenities and trying to fight the landlord, and my nemesis is sprawled over the couch. Nemesis is a harsh word, because it denotes a worthy adversory. It’s just some girl who hates me because I have the guy she wants.

I, myself, am a fair and reasonable woman but the tequila demon is not. When I’m sober or regular drunk, I just avoid her. The tequila demon shoots a look. Women are territorial creatures, much like wild dogs, and sometimes you just have to let someone know whose the fucking alpha. I learnt this from my rottweiler I had as a child. You had to look him dead in the eyes until he looked away to assert your natural authority in the situation.

In my head my look denoted this:

But in reality, it was more like this:

At any rate, it worked and nobody got punched. Except for me and my male companion, who were just punching each other in the face because it was funny. Well, it was funny until I woke up and took a look in the mirror.

“I think people are starting to question the nature of our relationship.” I said as I was leaving, trying to figure out why my hair had a lot of dried blood in it.

“I think we should probably start questioning it.” he replied.

As I got back to my bungalow on the other side of town, my friends looked fairly horrified when I rolled in.

“What the fuck happened?” my room-mate asked, looking concerned.

“No, it’s fine. It’s funny.” I waved her off and found an ice pack.

“…How?”

“I can’t explain why it’s hilarious. It just is. And none of these bruises are from being punched, these are sex bruises. It’s a different intent so it’s fine.”

“PUNCHED?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t get it. I know I’m a fiend with a limited capacity for morality, so when he punches me in the head and laughs I just feel he really gets me. Y’know? I find it quite touching actually. Finally someone understands me!”

She pulls the duvet back over her head and goes to sleep.

I go and watch another episode of Game of Thrones. Just another Tuesday night in San Diego.

I have been very fortunate in my California escapades to shack up with possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever met in my entire life, who is almost perfect. Almost. I’ve already irratated the fuck out of my housemates by waxing lyrically about all his good qualities, and just as I thought it couldn’t get any better…it didn’t. The fucker decides to grow a moustache.

It’s a very new thing, so I’m not quite at the stage where I can hide an electric razor in my bra and wait for him to fall asleep before shearing the little critter off, so I’m stuck in moustache limbo. I HATE MOUSTACHES. Men seem to love them, but I see no merits in facial hair. I have to wax my lip, eyebrow, snatch, shave my legs, armpits and occasionally pluck a rogue boob hair out, AND IF I HAVE TO DO THIS, WHY CAN’T YOU SHAVE? I have always been very courteous about my own body hair. I’ve have a Hollywood wax since pre-puberty for fuck’s sakes. Well, two can play at this game.

From hence on (in? forth?) there will be no pruning of the Wolfe Forest. My jungles will grow free once more. Let’s see how awesome this moustache idea is when I have pet chinchilla’s curled up inside my armpit. Let’s see how you fare when there’s a small tribe of indigenous people setting up camp inside my ladygarden. I imagine they will look like this:

Or just maybe no blowjobs. All 3? Will I get dumped? Is it worth the risk? Will my blood feud with facial hair end poorly for everyone? Even with a developing moustache, he’s still the best looking person in California…but if it goes any further I might go insane. I have a feeling the fucker won’t crack easily either, and considering I have a terrible fear of my own pubic hair this could already be a lost cause.

FUCKING MOUSTACHES. FUCK YOU, TOM SELLECK. THIS IS YOUR LEGACY OF PAIN, MOTHERFUCKER.

 

 

 

I watched Spring Breakers at Horton Plaza the other day. I used to intern for Harmony Korine, which is to this date the only impressive thing I’ve done with my life. Anyway, watching this film was like getting slapped multiple times around the face with my own reflection. The monologues were verbatim what I have been thinking about since I got here. I just don’t want to ever leave.

As much absolute bliss I’m having in California, I’m also having panic attacks every couple of days about going back to London in June. I do not want to go back. I seriously would give up an organ or limb to stay here. I’d join the military. WHATEVER YOU WANT, OBAMA. And I know, I know live in the now. Be present. Yeah, whatever, fuckface. I bet you don’t like in the hellmouth, because I do, and it’s called Chiswick. It’s full of the same vacuous braindead cunt maggots that have lived there and bred together since the 80s. It is a grey wasteland of misery and stupid accents. You work 75 hours a week for £5 an hour and can’t afford to move out of your parent’s attic. Everyday is grey, it rains all the time, there is no such thing as summer and if you’ve never been to a beach in England you’re probably better off for it.

And then you have California. California is utopia. The beaches are made of gold, and the water is a deep green colour. You can sail out into the cove and check out mountains in the distance and palm trees lining the horizon. The sun shines every day and the sky is so blue and clear you feel like when you stare into it, you are staring into infinity. The houses are painted different colours and the architecture varies on each one, standing alone and different. The grass is green here, a real green. There’s a fountain in Balboa Park you can stand in, and on hot days we go down to the dock and hang our feet over the ocean. You can go the pool with your friends, hold your breath and sink to the bottom. The sun makes everything glitter.

Of course there’s the friends you make too. Nobody judges you in California, everybody likes to smoke weed and have a good time. Everybody smiles and everybody laughs. You can make friends anywhere; in the laundromat, at the beach, at Coffee Bean. Everyone has a tattoo and nobody gives a shit if you have 100 of them.

You can find a party every night of the week, and sometimes you end up on adventures that you did not expect and could not anticipate. There is a vein of electricity beneath California, and it’s always different and it’s always magic.

In London everything is sucked out of you, and in California it’s always giving you renewal.