Thursday, December 28, 2006
If You Knew
You wouldn't call me UGLY,
........if you knew I throw up every night to try and look pretty.
You wouldn't call me FAT,
........if you knew I only started eating to block out the sound of my parents fighting.
You wouldn't call me a LOSER,
........if you knew I help out at soup kitchens while you party.
You wouldn't call me a NERD,
........if you knew my parents have never been proud of my perfect grades.
You wouldn't call me UPTIGHT,
........if you knew my sister was abused.
You wouldn't call me BACKWARD,
........if you knew that my parents tried their hardest to raise me well, despite neither of them being educated.
You wouldn't call me a SLUT,
........if you knew that my dad beat my mother up constantly.
You wouldn't call me WEAK,
........if you knew that I had a hole in my heart when I was born, and almost didn't make it.
You wouldn't call me STUPID,
........if you knew I work two jobs to support my family.
You wouldn't call me a FREAK,
........if you knew I've only ever wanted acceptance, but never got it.
You wouldn't call me a BITCH,
........if you knew my parents cheated on each other, and neither cared enough about the kids to hide it.
You wouldn't call me TWISTED,
........if you knew I blame myself for my mother's suicide.
In short, if you knew of the secret hell inside my head, maybe, just maybe, you'd realize that I'm just like you.
........if you knew I throw up every night to try and look pretty.
You wouldn't call me FAT,
........if you knew I only started eating to block out the sound of my parents fighting.
You wouldn't call me a LOSER,
........if you knew I help out at soup kitchens while you party.
You wouldn't call me a NERD,
........if you knew my parents have never been proud of my perfect grades.
You wouldn't call me UPTIGHT,
........if you knew my sister was abused.
You wouldn't call me BACKWARD,
........if you knew that my parents tried their hardest to raise me well, despite neither of them being educated.
You wouldn't call me a SLUT,
........if you knew that my dad beat my mother up constantly.
You wouldn't call me WEAK,
........if you knew that I had a hole in my heart when I was born, and almost didn't make it.
You wouldn't call me STUPID,
........if you knew I work two jobs to support my family.
You wouldn't call me a FREAK,
........if you knew I've only ever wanted acceptance, but never got it.
You wouldn't call me a BITCH,
........if you knew my parents cheated on each other, and neither cared enough about the kids to hide it.
You wouldn't call me TWISTED,
........if you knew I blame myself for my mother's suicide.
In short, if you knew of the secret hell inside my head, maybe, just maybe, you'd realize that I'm just like you.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Tania
He sat hunched over the newspaper.
Easy.....easy....his eyes weren't as great as they used to be....mustn't chop off any of the hair.
Because this is how he wanted to remember her.
Slowly, he glued the slightly faded photograph that he'd just tailored onto the newspaper article.
Much better.
Because this was going to be how he'd remember her.
He looked at the article, again, and this time, the photograph jogged a memory.
It was a photo of a tiny girl, with thick brown curls. She was wearing one of those ridiculous pairs of enormous sunglasses: plastic frames twice the size of her face, in a cornea-searing pink, more dangerous to eyes than the UV rays they were meant to protect from. Her smile, remarkably gap-free for a four year old, was a killer: you looked at this child and KNEW that smile would get her places.
He winced at the thought. Hah, places indeed.
He'd seen her only once since she ran away. He knew she still came by the house: she hadn't left her key, and once or twice, he'd come up to her bedroom in the morning to find the covers mussed and the shower steaming.
He'd woken up early one morning, and caught her coming down the stairs. She still had the penetrating eyes, no longer hidden by frames of pink plastic, but by layers of kohl. The smile was still there, and could still make a man melt, but the bright red surrounding it reminded him faintly of a clown. Like Mr Bubbles, who'd been guest of honour at her fourth birthday party.
And, oh, her hair. Her beautiful, fluffy brown hair. It had always been daddy's favourite feature, and she, daddy's favourite child. Now, it glowed radioactive, more peroxide than keratin.
She'd stared for another moment, and then rushed past him out the door. He hadn't said anything.
One look at her clothes told him what his beautiful shining star had become. He'd wanted her to be a doctor, and she'd wanted to be a singer.
One look at her clothes, that was all, and he knew she'd become neither.
But that was OK, really, it was. Whatever she wanted to do with her life, didn't matter to him. This blonde stranger, this random prostitute murdered in Suffolks' streets, meant nothing to him.
He stared at the picture again. This was how he was going to remember her.
This was who he was going to grieve for.
His clinical mental separation done, he put his head into his arms and sobbed.
Authors Note: Some of you may have heard of the Jack the Ripper copycat who's been terrorizing the streets of Ipswich, Suffolk, brutally murdering prostitutes. One of his victims was only 19 years old. Aside from her name, Tania, this story is born entirely of my imagination.
Peace, prayers and healing to the families of these women.
Easy.....easy....his eyes weren't as great as they used to be....mustn't chop off any of the hair.
Because this is how he wanted to remember her.
Slowly, he glued the slightly faded photograph that he'd just tailored onto the newspaper article.
Much better.
Because this was going to be how he'd remember her.
He looked at the article, again, and this time, the photograph jogged a memory.
It was a photo of a tiny girl, with thick brown curls. She was wearing one of those ridiculous pairs of enormous sunglasses: plastic frames twice the size of her face, in a cornea-searing pink, more dangerous to eyes than the UV rays they were meant to protect from. Her smile, remarkably gap-free for a four year old, was a killer: you looked at this child and KNEW that smile would get her places.
He winced at the thought. Hah, places indeed.
He'd seen her only once since she ran away. He knew she still came by the house: she hadn't left her key, and once or twice, he'd come up to her bedroom in the morning to find the covers mussed and the shower steaming.
He'd woken up early one morning, and caught her coming down the stairs. She still had the penetrating eyes, no longer hidden by frames of pink plastic, but by layers of kohl. The smile was still there, and could still make a man melt, but the bright red surrounding it reminded him faintly of a clown. Like Mr Bubbles, who'd been guest of honour at her fourth birthday party.
And, oh, her hair. Her beautiful, fluffy brown hair. It had always been daddy's favourite feature, and she, daddy's favourite child. Now, it glowed radioactive, more peroxide than keratin.
She'd stared for another moment, and then rushed past him out the door. He hadn't said anything.
One look at her clothes told him what his beautiful shining star had become. He'd wanted her to be a doctor, and she'd wanted to be a singer.
One look at her clothes, that was all, and he knew she'd become neither.
But that was OK, really, it was. Whatever she wanted to do with her life, didn't matter to him. This blonde stranger, this random prostitute murdered in Suffolks' streets, meant nothing to him.
He stared at the picture again. This was how he was going to remember her.
This was who he was going to grieve for.
His clinical mental separation done, he put his head into his arms and sobbed.
Authors Note: Some of you may have heard of the Jack the Ripper copycat who's been terrorizing the streets of Ipswich, Suffolk, brutally murdering prostitutes. One of his victims was only 19 years old. Aside from her name, Tania, this story is born entirely of my imagination.
Peace, prayers and healing to the families of these women.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
No, Seriously?!
This article annoys me.
Long and short of it is, Pink is using her celebrity status to save sheep from the evil, evil yuck-on-a-stick that is Australian wool farming.
That is the livelihood of over a million sheep farmers in Australia.
That is 17% of this country's farm exports.
So.
Hold on, and let me get this straight:
Pink has her pink panties in a bunch because a couple of sheep are getting their bums nicked, and because of that she wants to debase an entire ECONOMY?!
IS ANYONE ELSE FINDING THIS A LITTLE ODD?!?!?!
I mean, for chrissake!!!!! If sheep really ARE getting as horribly treated as she says, then sure, action should be taken AGAINST the offending farmers. But what this female is doing is taking 5 isolated cases where sheep actually got HURT, and turning it into an international campaign with the purpose of shutting down the ENTIRE wool industry in Australia.
I have nothing against animals, and I don't believe they should be slaughtered mercilessly so a fat white woman can have a mink coat.
But when it comes to the human versus animal debate, FORGIVE ME, PINK, if I pick HUMAN.
If I pick the sheep farmer who has to feed his family over the poow wittew sheepy with a cut on its bum-oley.
Seriously?! I mean, SERIOUSLY?!
Get a life, and use your celebrity status to actually DO something that will make a difference to REAL PEOPLE. Shut down industries based on child labour, raise the standard of living in Africa, go Angelina and adopt a couple hundred orphans.
But for God's sake, think of the PEOPLE behind the fluffy Merinos, and how this campaign will affect THEM.
THE SHEEP WILL DIE ANYWAY IN 10 YEARS, AND YOU'LL EAT THEIR MUTTON. The farmers will have to live with years and years of debt, for another 50.
Long and short of it is, Pink is using her celebrity status to save sheep from the evil, evil yuck-on-a-stick that is Australian wool farming.
That is the livelihood of over a million sheep farmers in Australia.
That is 17% of this country's farm exports.
So.
Hold on, and let me get this straight:
Pink has her pink panties in a bunch because a couple of sheep are getting their bums nicked, and because of that she wants to debase an entire ECONOMY?!
IS ANYONE ELSE FINDING THIS A LITTLE ODD?!?!?!
I mean, for chrissake!!!!! If sheep really ARE getting as horribly treated as she says, then sure, action should be taken AGAINST the offending farmers. But what this female is doing is taking 5 isolated cases where sheep actually got HURT, and turning it into an international campaign with the purpose of shutting down the ENTIRE wool industry in Australia.
I have nothing against animals, and I don't believe they should be slaughtered mercilessly so a fat white woman can have a mink coat.
But when it comes to the human versus animal debate, FORGIVE ME, PINK, if I pick HUMAN.
If I pick the sheep farmer who has to feed his family over the poow wittew sheepy with a cut on its bum-oley.
Seriously?! I mean, SERIOUSLY?!
Get a life, and use your celebrity status to actually DO something that will make a difference to REAL PEOPLE. Shut down industries based on child labour, raise the standard of living in Africa, go Angelina and adopt a couple hundred orphans.
But for God's sake, think of the PEOPLE behind the fluffy Merinos, and how this campaign will affect THEM.
THE SHEEP WILL DIE ANYWAY IN 10 YEARS, AND YOU'LL EAT THEIR MUTTON. The farmers will have to live with years and years of debt, for another 50.