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12/01 Direct Link

Love is not an expensive bunch of perfect, red roses, wrapped in cellophane and ribbon and presented by a disinterested delivery man. It is the single nodding daisy, stolen on a whim from a strangerís yard, and carried all the way home in your loverís hand. Love is not a brightly-coloured box of candy, picked up from the service station with your cigarettes and coffee. Itís a homemade, heart-shaped cookie, offered to you with sticky chocolate fingers. Love is not blue skies or sunshine. It is dancing like idiots in the rain.

Love is not gifts. It is the gift.

12/02 Direct Link

Love is not an expensive bunch of perfect, red roses, wrapped in cellophane and ribbon and presented by a disinterested delivery man. It is the single nodding daisy, stolen on a whim from a strangerís yard, and carried all the way home in your loverís hand. Love is not a brightly coloured box of candy, picked up from the service station with your cigarettes and coffee. Itís a homemade, heart-shaped cookie, offered to you with sticky chocolate fingers. Love is not blue skies or sunshine. It is dancing like idiots in the rain.

Love is not gifts. It is the gift.

12/03 Direct Link

Here I go; playing catch up thanks to the long-running refusal of 100 words to allow me to spew my mind sludge into the annals of history. Now I have something like twenty days to catch up on if I am going to meet the 100 words a day quota and finish this December batch. I foresee a bunch of pointless, uninteresting detritus will come to epitomize this, the final month of 2011, but what am I to do? I can hardly be held responsible for the failure of this little gathering place, now can I? No, I think not.

12/04 Direct Link

There isnít much better than sitting alone in my room at almost three in the morning, all by myself with no one to bother me; no one to impose their will upon me, my space or my time. Radiohead concert on my computer and Thom Yorkeís indescribably beautiful voice in my ears. Sitting alone, in the wee hours of the morning .. soaking up the ephemeral brilliance of Radiohead, all by myself. Dancing, from the waist up; not caring how stupid I look. Making faces at myself in the mirror and being enveloped in the unadulterated enjoyment of the moment.

12/05 Direct Link
It has been days since the Gods of slumber allowed me respite from this constant dialogue in my head. Thoughts tumble end over end, resisting coherence. I search for an answer that isnít there. For some things there are no answers, no matter how many ways you look at it. I am talking to myself; playing both parts in a conversation I have no way of predicting. I am trying to craft the perfect approach; trying to cover all my bases. I am at the fork, and I must choose which direction to take. The red pill, or the blue?
12/06 Direct Link

There is nothing about me that you love. The girl I was, the girl you thought I was, is gone. Or perhaps she is not gone; perhaps she just never was at all. I cannot be what you want. I am this girl; the one you canít understand. The one who is cold and loveless. The one who recoils. The one who withdraws. That is the girl you see, but it is not who I am. You donít want to see the beauty of who I am trying to become. You canít love me because I am not her anymore.

12/07 Direct Link
She came prepared for battle; wrapped in all the bluster she had conjured over days of impotent rage. She arrived fully armed and expecting the worst. She knew what he would say and how she would counter. No quarter would be given, and she would accept no excuses. But she did not count on the concern that spread across his face at her initial strike. She was not prepared for his compassion, nor had she foreseen his advocacy. She had planned for everything but this. She came prepared for battle and left victorious, but she did not have to fight.
12/08 Direct Link
Now begins twelve hundred words that I need to put together over the next hour or so in order to meet my goal of finishing December before I am no longer able to access this batch. Anyone who bothers to look at this months contributions will no doubt think me an utter bore, but that is not at all a fair assessment of my general ability to write and entertain. I blame 100words, and I will continue to do so. I have been forced to fill these little boxes with crap and I take no responsibility for the ensuing rubbish.†
12/09 Direct Link
If only I had been able to access these little boxes consistently over the last month, I know I could have written insightful, fascinating and enthralling entries worthy of the time and attention of anyone who wandered this way. The best I can do now is this silly stream of consciousness/rant rubbish that few people will be interested in, and nor should they. I mean really, who gives a toss about the unfettered mind sludge of some random girl on the†Internet? I'm sure someone does, but they're probably lunatics painting the walls with their own excrement, or something.†
12/10 Direct Link
Painting the walls with their own excrement. Yes. I said it. Not a pleasant thought, I'm sure but I shall remain unapologetic. If you are feeling the overwhelming urge to blame and hold someone accountable for the rubbish you are being subjected to, blame yourself. I am blaming 100 words, as I have said several times now, but you are the architect of your own fate. You are choosing to continue reading this rubbish, and you alone have the power to change it. Stop blaming me for filling your head with garbage. Go ahead .. take the reins. It's your choice.
12/11 Direct Link
So, you chose to continue reading. Do you realise that you are willingly subjecting yourself to brain-rotting torture? What is it that prevents you from looking away? There is nothing here of interest. These words are not going to suddenly morph into something of substance and consequence. If you are hanging on in the hopes of a†revelation, you will be sorely disappointed, I assure you. I have nothing deep or meaningful to share with you. I am merely filling in these boxes; filling them with pointless words. There is nothing here for you. Go now. Run. Save yourself.
12/12 Direct Link
Ok, that's four hundred words down. We're a third of the way there. If you're still reading, please accept my sincere apologies. If you've never read anything else that I have written, I encourage you to switch batches and read November, or skip ahead to January where I will hopefully return to having twenty four hours to write each piece, affording every word the consideration (and editing) that it deserves, and no less. I often have things of interest to say, and generally I am quite good at saying it in entertaining and clever ways. I promise, I'm not lying.
12/13 Direct Link
I am sitting on the couch, watching Mythbusters with my boy and being full of coffee and cheesecake. I have eaten far too much garbage over the last two weeks and I am feeling pretty second hand because of it. I know that it's been Christmas, and of course, my birthday was thrown into the mix too, but that's hardly a good reason to fall so completely off the wagon. Besides, the expanding muffin top that has started accompanying me everywhere once again is a great reason to quit the shit. Seriously, next week it's back to low GI, baby.
12/14 Direct Link
Thirty eight. How the fuck did I get here? The other day I was talking about my age in conversation. I don't really remember the context, but I went to say my age, and I got half way through saying "thirty four", then caught myself. Thirty four? I haven't been thirty four for four years now. What caused me to take a four year leap back in time? I know that I'm not all that thrilled about being one year closer to the big four OH, but still, that was kind of odd. I don't like this getting older business.
12/15 Direct Link
"A car is not a whip", is what he said. We were sitting on the couch and he was running his finger over my little finger nail like he does when he's feeling nervous. I know that particular habit is my fault. When he was little and wouldn't go to sleep, I would put my hand in his cot (crib for you Americans) and he would hold onto my fingers. It soothed him. He knew that I was close and he would fall almost instantly to sleep. He's 18 years old now, and he still does it when he's nervous.
12/16 Direct Link
You know what really annoys me? Teenage relationship bullshit on Facebook. Why is it that these fledgling adults feel the need to spread all the minute details of their insipid love lives all over that conduit for useless detritus, filling my wall with pathetic mooning and vapid declarations? Am I such a bitter old cynic that I just can't see the young love in the same way as the rest of the world does, or does this kind of shit annoy the hell out of everyone else too? I'm so tired of it, I'm thinking about removing all teenagers permanently.†
12/17 Direct Link
Tomorrow morning at five am, I will officially be left to my own devices for the first time in 13 years. Not that I have had absolutely no time to myself during that time frame, but there certainly has not been extended periods of time for which there were not only no other people for me to consider, but also absolutely nothing that I need to do. No work. No motherly duties. No partnerly expectation. Nothing but me, Radiohead, the†Internet, a good book or two, knitting, drawing, jewellery making, photography, red wine and a cigarette or two. Fucking wonderful!
12/18 Direct Link
Will I be bored? Probably, at times. I'm not used to having no one else to cater for and I will be left entirely to my own devices. Well, I suppose you could factor in Jet; someone will have to take care of and feed that hairy little bugger, but he isn't very high maintenance. Apart from one beastie, it will just be me and whatever it is that I want to do at any given time. Will I miss my boy? Sure .. I have no doubt. I like having the kid around, but this is my time. Down here.
12/19 Direct Link
This is it. The last left over day of December's batch that I needed to fill and I'm already twenty words in. I know that there is nothing much in these last twelve hundred words of any worth, but I have succeeded in completing the batch, and that will have to do. January will be better; hopefully filled with well-considered, interesting and thought-provoking posts worthy of the time someone may take to read them. But for today, I shall content myself with knowing that I have put this month to bed .. another year older, not really any wiser.†
12/20 Direct Link
She is nothing but a scared girl; all bluff and bluster Ė and desperation. She lives through lyrics and romantic notions of hope and tomorrow, watching others take their chances. She wonders how they so carelessly throw everything up in the air, trusting in the universe to treat them fairly and with kindness. She watches as they are rewarded for their courage. Envious, she covets their ability to reach out for their own happiness with both hands. She tells herself that these are noble sacrifices she makes, but the truth is far sadder and much more simple. She is afraid.
12/21 Direct Link

Over the last month I have seen so many signs that I am starting to think I have become the universeís pet project. Tonight a fellow blogger took the time to like my 100words entry, which lead me on a reciprocal journey to visit the blog from whence they came. What should I find there but yet another post telling me to live. More specifically, to live my life as if I might die tomorrow. To stop being miserable in my unhealthy relationship and stop waiting to do the things Iíve always wanted to do. Alright, already. I hear you.

12/22 Direct Link
These obstinate words refuse to cooperate. The battle against the whirling vortex of excitement, trepidation and fear rages on inside my head, preventing any useful contemplation or discussion of anything but the looming†matter at hand. I struggle to wrest each thing from its uncontrollable spin and force it to order. I plead for the respite clarity could bring, if only I were able to pin each thing down and create an understanding of all the players and their respective positions. Try as I might, I am not able to organise these stubborn ideas into any sort of manageable order.
12/23 Direct Link
Woven between the words we choose and the pieces of ourselves we share is the life unspoken. Distorted for more palatable consumption by those we would have love us, truth lies tangled in the bondage of acceptability and expectation, wrapped in the obligatory layers of propriety. It hides behind absurd pretence to protect itself from judgment. Denying intuition and rumor, it nurtures the secret reality of love. The loathsome necessities of each day bear down upon it, constructing a pyre of resentment and bitterness to suffocate and drown. Despite the terrible weight of suffering, truth is silenced and love endures.
12/24 Direct Link

No matter how many bells you jingle or how many singing angels you hark, you can never recapture that feeling. As Christmas passes from being the most anticipated and exciting event in our young lives to merely an annoying parade of irritating television commercials and bitter battles over whose family to eat lunch with, it becomes increasingly difficult to dig up any scrap of Christmas cheer at all. The harried and meaningless gift buying, the hours of cooking and the requisite stuffing down of too much food have replaced that simple wonder we all felt once upon a Christmas morning.

12/25 Direct Link

The table was resplendent with festive cheer and heavily laden with the traditional fare of the season. Family, friends and strangers alike gathered together to celebrate the day with too much food, a little to drink and some rather unexpected drama. Christmas in Australia falls in early summer, and though we were treated to the much loathed, sticky humidity we have come to expect, the sudden torrential rain was more of a surprise. Not as much of a surprise though as the streams of water that drenched the table as the makeshift guttering system failed in a most spectacular fashion.

12/26 Direct Link

Owing to the fact that 100 words has not allowed me to submit an entry to my December batch, I am now playing a quite serious game of catch up in order to complete all thirty one days in time. Looking back over the days I have not written an entry, because I was not allowed, I am having a difficult time remembering anything relevant to each date to write about. I know that I have spent a lot of time in worried contemplation about an upcoming offer/trip to France. That has consumed much of my brain space to date.†

12/27 Direct Link

I need to sleep. On glancing over at my reflected face this revelation becomes crystal clear. My skin looks oddly doughy, which roughly approximates the post-Christmas condition of most of the rest of me. This year I did not do so well with my ďjust say noĒ campaign. I feel the threatened return of the muffin top. I also feel lethargic and sort of on the verge of vomiting, pretty much constantly. Christmas cheer my ass! What good is all this indulgence if all you have to show for it is an expanded waistline and a suitcase full of guilt?

12/28 Direct Link

She wraps you in her sinuous tendrils and you surrender to her embrace. Dreams beckon like a waiting lover; softening the edges of reality and inviting you to fall. The lure of amnestic respite is more tempting than the sirenís song; soothing a will worn thin by discontent and fear. White-knuckled fists release their grip and you slip towards the windowless silence of nights reprieve. There will be an eternity to untangle the chaos before the silver coins are pressed against your eyes. Now the darkness creeps under your skin; its relentless quest to bring down the curtain is irresistible.†

12/29 Direct Link

Waiting, again. I find myself searching through endless streams of pointless information in the vain attempt to stay awake. To stay awake just so that I may have mere minutes with you before sleep inevitably takes me. I am waiting to hear your voice, whispering to me from the darkness. Waiting to listen to you breathe in my ear, rhythmic and soothing as we lie together on opposite sides of the world. Waiting for my reward for making it through another day without you. You are not here tonight, and as I always am, and always shall be, I am waiting.

12/30 Direct Link
Now to write a pile of absolute garbage to fill my quota of 100 words every day for each day of December. As I've said, I can hardly be blamed for failing to meet my goal, since the website refused to allow me to contribute for more than half of the month. Never-the-less, here I am trying, on what is the first of January for me, to complete December, filling it with garbage no one will want to read for no other reason than that I refuse to fail. Maybe I should just fill it with Radiohead lyrics.†
12/31 Direct Link
On this, the final day of 2011 and the day on which I chronologically become another year older, I have not very much at all to say. D and Z are about to leave on a week or so long trip, leaving me alone in this house, to do whatever I want, whenever I want, dressed however I want for the first time since D was 5 years old. The possibilities make me decidedly giddy. What will I do? Probably nothing. A bit of reading, a bit of drawing .. a lot of loud music and whatever I want for dinner.†