solitaire and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week.

Now Playing: 'Never Let Me Go' by Florence + The Machines

Apparently I am very good at dodging questions.

Never occured to me before. I suppose I've just had lots of practice in the art of conversation. And when I want to, I can lie flawlessly.

Why is it that all the boys I talk to are taken? Not that I want any of them - or supposed to want any of them, anyway -  it's just a strange thing that they all have in common. Even stranger that it's those who are spoken for that are the best flirts. Maybe I'm not Jackie; maybe I'm Marilyn. Oooh...scary thought.

But I think it's safe to say that this talent of mine is overidden terribly by my extreme vulnerability to things like flattery.

I'm not always the best at turning a conversation in my favour, though. How many times have people apologised, called themselves terrible things, promised me over and over that they'll make up for it and all I could do was brush over it when all I wanted to do was agree and drive the point home?

I cannot hurt those who hurt me. I only ever end up hurting those who meant no harm.

I suppose it's rather disconcerting to some that someone like me can get so much enjoyment out of little games. I spend a good deal of time crying over them later, but I'm the sort of person who kind of gets caught up in the moment sometimes. You just...can't get that kind of fun out of textbooks, if you get what I mean. And that's all you remember, really, all you remember are the little giggles and the exhilarating shiver down your spine; the pain is just a little memory trigger.

Besides, I have more...real sources of pain to worry about. You know how I'm always boasting that I'm a cyborg? Actually...it kind of sucks. If you want to know why, take a razor sharp wire, and jab it somewhere unimportant, but fucking painful. It's the kind of pain where you can't speak, can't breathe, can't do anything, really. 

But it's okay, I can handle that. Because that kind of thing provokes some kind of response; sympathy, usually, and aid - people willing to try and end my pain rather than prolonging it at my expense.

The sooner men accept PMS as a valid excuse to be a little bit out of it, the better the relationship between the sexes will be. God knows I've put up with enough pseudo-PMS and some thoroughly non-pseudo consequences of such from boys. I made an honest mistake that day, a mistake anyone would have made if, I don't know, if a classroom's fucking empty and all the lights are fucking switched off and there's a note on the fucking door. And what exactly is the problem with standing outside the library for a grand total of about three minutes? I fail to see what the big deal was that you had to give me that much crap about it.

You know, there are some really nice boys out there. Boys who lend me pens and buy me drinks. There is nothing remotely appealing about the boy I know for a fact spent most of high school messing around before suddenly becoming all intellectual and picking up Ancient History in an attempt to be sophisticated; the kind of boy who spews economics and politics he barely understands in an effort to seem cultured. I am cultured, okay? I always have been; for me, at least, it's not a charade. You look like a shark out of water and you have the attitude to match, you're foul and your friends are worse, and as someone once put it, it's an idiot who pisses me off.

But back to PMS. Why are people so goddamn squeamish about this? Sure, it's blood and sex and babies, but it's a little hypocritical that we live in such a gun-happy, polluted shithole but all the taboos are normal, natural things.

Periods are routine. They come, you cry, you get over it. Girls talk about it all the time - it's only boys that are babies about it. It's only boys who are horrified at the prospect, treat you like you've got the plague. I've been there, done that, you know - when I was eleven the boys ran around the playground screaming that I'd gotten my period; when I was fourteen a (rather pathetic) pickpocket saw a colourful plastic wrapper in my bag and opened it for everyone to see.

I'm not afraid to talk about it. Because whether I talk about it or not, it happens, and I have to deal with it. PMS isn't a contaigious disease, and it's definitely not something made up. And now that some things have started rolling and other things have not, it's kind of like turning on the gas when the ignition is broken. So take my advice; give me some space, don't follow me, and unless you want me to write your full name and address and all your dirty laundry in bold font on this blog, from now on do not. piss. me. off.

You know what's hilarious? Boy bitch fights. I didn't even know they existed; they always used to say that boys simply didn't give enough shit to be bitchy; I didn't know that one boy could have a moral objection to another and that that boy would take umbrage at that. And it's delightfully hilarious to know both sides of the story, if you don't mind me saying.

I would like to say that if there was an off switch for all of this, I'd take it. I'd be numb and apathetic and indifferent to everything and everyone, just like everyone else is. Sometimes I think I wish I could pretend that things meant nothing to me, that people and places don't affect me the way that they do. But there's a reason why I haven't jumped off this rather confusing and sometimes heartbreaking rollercoaster. Most of it is because I can't. But some of it is because I don't want to.

So there you go. That was a very confusing, non-linear discussion of my strange week of very good highs and very bad lows; in lieu of a much more boring recount of all the things that made me laugh like a madwoman and burst into tears.