Socks

So, here's my theory on socks: they're temperamental. When you're asleep, you have to have them off. It's almost as if your dreams want to burst out the soles of your feet, but your socks are stopping them, so really you're hindering your own subconscious by not taking them off.
And your way of dealing with stress is by letting your subconscious play with your mind raucously while you sleep, so if you're stopping that by wearing socks, then really you're just letting all of the stress build up, and you're essentially promoting anger.

The morning however, is a completely different story. You want to put some socks on straight away-- especially if there are wooden floors. Half of my house is carpeted, half wooden and then the bathrooms and downstair's hallway are tiled, just to be different.
So socks really for me are needed as soon as I swing my legs off of the bed. You've just woken up, you're still in that sleepy-haze with the tired buzz, and you don't really know what's going on. Your cereal's cold, you're not under your duvet anymore.
Your feet being wrapped up make all the difference. It's what separates cosiness from distress.

You need your socks, simple as.
And then there are times when they can come off/stay on as you please. For example, if you're doing the dishwasher, maybe all of the running around the kitchen carrying saucepans is making you sweat just a little too much. Pow, off come the socks- everything changes. There's a breeze around your feet, the sweat ceases. Oh yeah.

And of course, lets not forget, the matching of the socks. THe way I see it, as long as the thickness of the sock is the same, then you can mesh the pairs together. Socks may be super essential to our emotional and social (and mental) health, but dude seriously, ten minutes just to find a pair? It's one step too far.

Too far. Even for socks.

This Summer

Maybe I've been reading too much Sarah Dessen, but I'm suddenly super convinced of one thing: this is the summer that counts. The one coming up now that bridges school and uni. It's the one that's going to stick with me. It's three months where I can paint my face green and dance in the street and buy a load of flowers and get a job and fall in love.

It's my last push before the rest of my life, and I'm so hyped up right now with the thrill of it that I can barely even sit still. At the same time though, I don't want to wait for the summer to come, I want everything to start here and now. I think that it's time I put the kettle on-- Oh. Yeah.

People, [partial] Story

Macy stares at herself in the full length mirror, her choppy hair wet. She pulls a green hat over it, pouting.
There's too much to consider- the hair, the outfit, the facial expressions... So what if she pouts? Is it going to make the earth shudder and open up so that a giant fiery demon hand comes up and eats everything?
No.
So what is the problem? People relate pouts to unhappiness (they're right, she's unhappy. So what?) which they then try to find the origin of. Her striped school uniform suggests that she's had a privileged upbringing (they're right, she has, they think that's a guarantee for happiness?). Her shoes are unpolished, suggesting that she's a rebel. (She is, and proud).
THe unhappiness, therefore comes from an entirely selfish place that only exists in the first place because her poor parents have continually given her everything and ask for nothing in return.
WRONG.

Jason kicks his shoes off, flopping on to the bed with enthusiasm. Yes, he can muster strength and power when he wants to, and yes, he can find determination within himself to do something as challenging as aim the shoes in to the right slot.
But no, he can not be bothered with sport.
Sue him.

Clare sits cross legged in front of her jewellery box, her eyes closed lightly shut as she sways in time with the music. She doesn't have to look to know that the little plastic ballerina is spinning in time with the soft, scary melody, dancing even through the fear that ensues from the music.
She wonders about the ballerina- if she were real, what she'd say about her life, her outfit. Her hair. The devastating tune that just replays over and over.
However much Clare may be freaked out by the song, though, she still has to open the box every once in a while, still has to wind that twisty thing at the back.
Because even though the song is haunting, and the ballerina is cursed to dance the same dance for all eternity, at least she's dancing. At least she's alive.

Angels Cry

God, my head hurts.

It's one of those days where you just want to slump over and cover your face with your hands and fall asleep forever.

And drink tea... Mmm... Tea.
Tea cures all. Except for what I have, unless it's combined with some classic Mariah Carey-Ne-yo power, then maybe. I'm going to try it out.

Samurai

Right now, if I'm choosing, then I'm a samurai.

I'm in training in the mountains somewhere where it's not like, blistering heat, but it's warm, and breezy. I'm still at the point where I'm using a wooden staff in my exercises, but I'm swift and dedicated. My face burns with concentration, and when I'm done I can lie down by the lake.

Everything always centres around a lake. I don't know why, but they're becoming increasingly attractive to me. Still, quiet lakes.
So awesome.

Headphones

Question. Why does everything sound so much better through headphones?
It sounds so right.

If you put them in and turn the volume up, you wonder how you can ever feel really profoundly in response to things that happen at a distant level. It just feels wrong. I mean, when you're talking to people, I guess it's best that that's distanced, because I couldn't deal with the sound of my physics teachers voices thrumming through my mind at an intimate noise level.

But seriously. Why is it better with headphones? WHy is the dangerous so much more enticing? [I say danger because of the whole noise overload equals deafness thing]]. Why..?
It's the same everywhere, but for me, right now: the most important thing is that I plug my headphones in and listen to some Bon Jovi before I lose my mind.

Supernova

It's one of those moments where you kind of raise your eyebrows and go 'wow, that little thing can change everything' okay,-- when Mr. Hudson wears that black outfit in Supernova. He's suddenly like, lieutenant cool. It's awesome. Like, I'm so happy right now, and it doesn't make sense, but I'm just extremely excited.
I think it's the whole contrast thing and he's all like 'attitude' whoo. I could dance so much right now.
SUCH A GOOD SONG! *squeals*

Can't Talk

I can't write this post. It's too hard.

You know, I think I've figured myself out. I may not always feel good, but at least it's never... Dirty. Like, the guilty dirty. THe sick feeling that you get when you just want to turn back itme. Yes, okay, there are times where I've felt like that-- when I say something completely inappropriate and I do that thing where I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand-- but I try so, so hard to go out of my way to prevent those moments from happening.
In all scenarios, I'd rather be the victim- even if that means that I'm not smiling ear to ear.
At least I'm right. Right?

When I was younger, I got in to a lot of classic small-child trouble at school. Like, staying out in the playground too late, and going upstairs when all the lights are off, and fighting on the playground. (A lot of these things happened on the playground). We moved every other year, when I was younger, and it just started getting really easy to recreate myself- easy to forget about and write off all of those times that I did something wrong. I'd just move, and know never to do these things again. I learn from my mistakes, and from other peoples and everything... It's hard suddenly not being the victim, because... I mean, I know that I've done nothing wrong. It's more in the blurry grey area.
Like a white lie?
I really can't divulge more without crossing in to the evil definitely wrong area, but what I'm trying to say... I don't even know. I can't talk, I can't write...

God, if this were a conversation then I'd be pacing and running my hands madly through my hair.
I feel like I need to go under the covers and listen to empowering music for the rest of my life. THat's the only way that I'll be able to convince myself that I don't need to be forgiven, because I've done nothing wrong.
I don't need to be a victim to feel like I'm not the villain.

I'd wrap my hands around the cool frappuchino, letting the sun work it's magic. And then I'd nod, and drink, and remember that I'm not bad, and I'm not perfect, and I'm certainly not weak.

Gelled Hair

I'm taking a stand against hair with gel in it. You know, maybe if you're James Franco and you're racing around after Spiderman trying to rip his face off, but that's it.
--I don't even know if he uses gel, but he could if he wanted to.
I see people with their hair literally a reflective surface, and it makes me sad. Because soft hair is the where the power is. You can't run your hands through stiff hair. You can't sleep on it.
What if you lie down? I mean, don't the points stab in to your scalp? There are so many flaws.
Gelled hair is taking so much. So many... And like, fine, mister V05 who has the rugged look to compensate [and also Wolverine..]- Seriously though, there are seldom few who can pull of the slicked back hair- danger combo.
[Ooooh, addition eighty seven: Jess Mariano.] There are more than a few, maybe, but soft hair is still the way forward.

I don't know why I'm suddenly overcome with this need to post this revelation. But seriously, people of the world. Sweet lord, please. Shampoo, condition, then ruffle around and shut the door.
We can't let the throes of gel take any more.

My Ice Cream Stall

It's like you wait ten hours at a bus stop in the rain, and then three come all at once.
Either that, or you spend seven months just sitting around, relaxing, and then in two days you have to do everything that you could have been doing for those seven months where you were lying back on the sofa so bored that all you could do is watch the same scooby doo episode over and over.

I can't even explain it properly, but I literally wonder sometimes, why wait around? Maybe yeah, you queue up and you get the biggest, best ice cream. But why acn't I go and look for my own ice cream? What if I buy my own ice cream stall? ...Because that will take even longer than the queue.
But then, I think, at least if I'm getting my own stall, I'm doing something instead of standing around. And then after, there'll be so many ice cream's it's insane.
I could eat ten ice creams every day.
What if I get sick of them? WHat if I stop wanting ice creams. What if I want curry instead? Or pineapple? Or... Not food at all. What if I want to get a Darth Vader mask?

How do you ever know which choice is the right one?

I go this close to crazy when I think about all those parallel universes out there. I might not even be alive in some of them. Maybe I own an ice cream stall. Maybe I can actually do my physics homework. Maybe I'm super tall, with long curly hair. Maybe I'm a complete psycho bitch and I walk around with a gigantic person-size candy cane that I hit people with whenever I see a red car.
*shakes head*
I don't know if this is the best universe, but it's my one, and I'm not a psycho bitch. And I don't need long hair. I don't need to be good at physics....... I just need to take a breath.

This universe has angel delight, and Bon Jovi, and pineapples (don't know why I'm suddenly consumed with thoughts of pineapples) and you know, fuck the other universes.
Because even in a universe where I'm a huge mega star with a massive double bed and curtains that are made out of pure glitter, I would never have questions. And I wouldn't get anything, because I wouldn't ask anything. So maybe I don't have answers, but that's only half of it- the SECOND half. Which is way less cooler than the first half-- the questions, which is what I do have.
La la la ala la... I reallyneed some ice cream right now.

Opinion-mente.

I just finished watching "One Missed Call" which was actually pretty good, except for the (ARGH) inconclusive ending. Literally every scary film I watch has this prolonged, unfinished sense to it. Actually, every one except for Final Destination 3, who's ending exploded in to glitter that fell so hard on all of the other crap non-ending films that they compressed so much that their innards liquefied and they died.

What's even worse though, is when you're unsatisfied with a film, but someone else makes a comment about it, so you have to pretend like you don't care- or worse... defend it. When you desperately don't want to fit in to the same category as someone, sometimes this is the only way. And it works, which is sad, but true.
I don't even notice that I'm doing it half the time- I think it's something subconscious, but every now and then I'll stop and think 'why was I so adamant, when really I agree?'. Because: I'm just trying to separate my opinion from theirs so that I can back up enough to see the line drawn that borders our realities. That way I know that I'm safe in my confined me-bubble.
We should integrate with everyone, our peers, our not-peers. But my opinion simply refuses to comply.

Filtration

This is how I see it:
The education system's like a giant filter, funnel style. It starts off big, broad, with space for everything.
Then it starts introducing testing and exams, and you're sharing a desk with a fucktard who you just want to slap in the face with a waffle, and people start getting left behind. Some are advancing closer to the small end of the funnel, some are staying where they are.
There are progressively more tests, more exams, more fucktards, and more people are left behind at the rear. A tiny little ridonculous percentage makes it through in to the beaker that's waiting on the other side. It takes years for the rest of the solution to catch up.
It's disgusting. Sick, even. And today, when I turned over the sheet with my results on it, I was suddenly faced with the concept of being left behind. Sure, I'm heading the right way, but what happens if I sprain a metaphorical ankle? And get left behind? It's hard to fantasise a whole new life for myself on this side of the funnel, when I always pictured myself through.

But I guess so long as I was poured in, I'm doing good.

Caveman Mode

It's hard to imagine a time when there was no music just readily available on your ipod. No Queen. *gasp* no Bon Jovi.
No Akon.
No Jonas Brothers.
When there were no telephones? No tv shows? When Titanic wasn't your go to film in moments of doubt?
When you could die from a kidney infection, or a cold, or a broken leg, or just an open wound.

No Twilight, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings. Would I have been able to find happiness in that time? Could anyone...?
Argh. (I refer to the times when I'm in this mood as 'caveman mode')-- "what if I lived in caveman times? Dude. Seriously."

Seriously though, what if? I mean, I know that this is a hypothetical that's never going to come in to play, but how would I possibly manage with no long distance communication? No paracetemol sitting just in the cupboard downstairs.
No. Nail. Varnish.

Was love any less potent? Was it more so? I'll never know, and I think maybe that's for the best, even if it means that caveman mode never fades.

All the Small Things

I'm a Glee fan and damn proud. (--there should be badges with that on)

I only mention it because I'm listening to the album right now and I'm this close to jumping up on the table and dancing.

I love how the little things have such significance, it's so easy to overlook stuff sometimes. It's the same with books-- with a lot of them, something huge and gargantuan has to happen every chapter, or nothing means anything. It's nicer when the small things are amplified too, because that's how it is in real life. One glance and your entire life changes. Glee takes that and buys it dinner and gives it flowers and then twirls it around the dance floor.

Smooth.

Literally about to grab a huge red mullet wig and dance around the kitchen.

*Bows thanks, picks the microphone up and boogies.*

Chapstick

I've grown to really hate the taste of chapstick. It can be the nicest flavour in the entire world, and yet it will always have that sweet tang that makes you want to gag and yet also buy some candyfloss.

I just wiped of the last traces of cherry off of my lips, I can't deal with it. Me and lipwear are extremely temperamental- partly because of the whole taste fiasco, but also because of the way that it makes my lips feel: dampened down, trapped almost, kind of overwhelmed. I can wear lipgloss probably for about ten minutes before I start wiping the back of my hand over it because it has to come off or I'm going to combust.

But then there's the whole lip dryness. This winter it was bad, my lips were all dry and torn up and disgusting and bleeding all the time so I had to wear lip balm every now and then so that they didn't just fall off all together, but honestly I'm more of a naked-lip person.

It's weird though, because however much I dislike wearing chapstick, when I see a flavour I like, I have to get it, even if I'm only going to wear it when my lips are half dead. Example: peanut butter.

It makes my lips look weird, it tastes wrong, but it smells amazing, and I feel super cool just knowing that there's a whole stick of peanut butter lip balm in my bag.

I don't know why I'm blogging about lip moisturising. Strange how sometimes it's the smallest things that nag at you and you just have to get it out

*nods* weird.

I don't even know where I stand with chapstick, even after this whole post. *shudders* Lip wear clearly has powers that surpass even our mind's abilities to distinguish between good and bad.

I guess I just have to shrug, nod, and pat the stash of barely worn lipbalms in my bag.

Evening, baby

Evening's are so rebellious. It feels good to just be awake in to the late, dark hours-- almost as if I'm cheating society's daylight rules. There's no pressure to be out and about, or socialising (I sound like a psycopath here. I do like [most]interaction and people) and you can just lean back in, feet propped up on the desk, laptop on lap, where it was always destined to be, playing dvds and drinking tea in pjs.

PARFAIT.

T-shirt

I like things that aren't obviously perfect.

For example, I bought two t-shirts yesterday, one dark red, one dark blue. Both strikingly beautiful, naturally. BUt the blue would complement my hair. The black jeans I'd wear with it make my legs look just the right length and size.

I choose to wear the red. It clashes a little with the faded, almost-red purple that's still in my hair, and I wear my comfy blue jeans with it-- and I'm happier this way. Sure, the blue t-shirt's going to look great tomorrow, but the red is for me now. It suits me because it's not the blatant best, not the first clear choice, but you love it anyway. You're still at ease.

I think that in many ways I like it because it's an extension of myself--

So what, I may not be beautiful, or super clever, but I fit nice and I'm not constantly looking around in fear that there's another jeans t-shirt combo out there that may be better than mine, which is the best I can achieve. It's dark red. Boo-yah.

Okay.. Where was I..? --Things that aren't obviously the best. Maybe it's from being raised in a barbie-heralding household, where there's a Disney film on every two seconds, but I'm so sick of the routine perfection everywhere. I like my bed unmade. I like to reuse my tea mug. I like wearing the red t-shirt. I like looking around and seeing the evidence of myself. Seeing two blinds open, one still closed from being on the far end of the room, seeing that I'm here, and I'm alive and I am DAMN COOL.

Book Love

I don't know how to explain reading. It's almost as if you become that story, as if you're a part of every second of it. There are no lies, no illusions, there's just you and whatever it is.

When I was younger, I never really had anyone to get advice from. I remember just reading a lot. Like a lot, a lot, and I think that it's books that really developed my character.

I feel like I've written this before, but whatever, it's about time for a repeat anyway.

I think that it's because I read so much, and am given all these emotions and feelings and raw truth so freely that I'm able to be so honest with myself. I know who I am and what I believe--does everyone?

I mean, I know that we all have depth. It's just displayed differently with everyone- some are impatient, faster to act, others more guarded, shy maybe.

But I wonder if it is really possible to hide the truth even from yourself. Because otherwise, how could anyone ever be wrong?

I don't know dude, it's super complex. But I'm just writing this post because I find myself suddenly consumed with this love for books and stories and all that superlish jazz.

And so I bow, yawn and take to bed.

Shopping Solo II

I went out with my parents at first-- it was cool, I wasn't disheartened. I spent some vouchers, bought some underwear, then we all split up because my dad wanted a sports car and my mum wanted cake.

So, I'm alone at this point, but I feel really good about myself. I'm not driven solely by wanting to prove that I can be smooth, but I'm not uncomfortable either.

I'm walking out of the shopping centre on to the highstreet, going fast because now I'm alonea nd I don't want to get stopped by a 'monk' again shiftily trying to sell me some weird book with Hindi gods on it.

Then, this guy just jumps out in front of me and goes "Do you want a free daffodil?"

He was with this flower shop place and was promoting it, and oh my god, I felt so special, I just grinned and took it, and nodded as he listed this place, I'm pretty sure it was White something... White Flowers? I don't know, I'm fairly certain my eyes were glazed over from the pure joy of being chosen from all the other hundreds of people milling around.

It gets super busy at weekends, needless to say.

And now I'm staring at the daffodil, which I put in an empty mayonnaise jar and the flower's opening, *applause* and reminding me of everything awesome in the world.

I always thought flowers were cliche before, but I can't even begin to describe how amazing it felt to be given this.

I'm literally ten seconds away from jumping up on the table and doing a Happy Dance.

Life. Is. Good.

And you know what, if I hadn't been solo, then maybe he'd never have jumped in front of me. THere'd be no amazing daffodil revelation. FATE.

Shopping Solo

I hate having to act all blase and cool when I'm out shopping alone, as if I couldn't care less that there's a Darth Vader alarm clock over there on a shelf 50% off. I'd really rather just jump up and down squealing, punching the air with happiness. Apparently that's inappropriate if you're alone?

And what happens when you accidentally pick up some random woman's coat and start looking for the price tag and ehr husband goes "that's my wife's coat"? Because when you're with someone then you just smile and leave, chuckling-- but alone you have to apologise profusely and blush and dude, it's just a lot to do all at once.

And you just stand in the fitting room queues utterly alone, face deadpan.

I can definitely understand why someone might want to hire a shopping companion, but at the same time, it's like, dude, man up. Seriously, have some strength. Stand tall! You're on your own, so what? It shows confidence (until you try on a spiderman watch and realise it's too small. Try schmoozing your way out of that one)

I'm putting off my impending excursion in to the big, wild outdoors, because I'm afraid of the potential awkwardness to come. *deep breath in, out*

Hype myself up time-- I am, Strong. Confident. Awesome in every single way.

*sigh* I might just buy a doughnut, it's the ultimate way to swagger up.

Oh yeah, baby, time to fly.

Flame Thrower Slayer

If I was going to enter the land of myth and magic and all that, then I'd rather not be a vampire. It's only just really starting to get to me that the land of Twilight isn't mine. I don't know how well I'd deal if I were sitting in that biology class in Forks. I might just take a nap to be honest.

Bella's weak, and sure, Edward's awesome but he's not rugged (see last post. Ruggedness is a necessity here). And I don't know how I'd cope with the whole eating people thing. I like cake, and Edward says that food tastes dirty when you vamp up.

Then again, I'm no wolf either.

I'm thinking Slayer, right now. But the kind that never wears leather. (What is it with the Slayers of the world and leather? I think it's some kind of confidence thing.) And I'm also a flame thrower. And I have a thing for ritz crackers-- that's an actual weakness of mine.

They're so good.

So, if it's dimension-choosing time, then I'm either going in to the Buffy-verse where I help slay vamps but I'm also some kind of descendant of flame throwers because of my awesome fiery ability, ooooor Charmed maybe, although that's more defensive rather than outright slayage.

I don't know, but where there's evil, there's me.

Flame thrower Slayer, reporting for duty. Boo-yah.

Rugged

I had my eyes closed for about twenty seconds before I woke my computer back up. Rugged.

Ashen, dark, mysterious, sexy.

That's what makes a guy a hero, in a book at least.

They have to be tortured, too, otherwise there's really just no point. And insanely good looking, but they don't really care. And they're witty. And womanisers, but they choose to be with you and stay with you. That's part of the appeal. That they can have anyone, literally, because they're so awesome, but you're all blase about it, and they want you and they fight for you.

Example number one: Jess, Gilmore Girls. Number two: Wraith, the Demonica. Number three: Mr Darcy, Pride and Prejudice.

Now they are three insanely diverse examples, but you've got evidence of them all over the entire fiction world. Seriously though, in reality do they even exist?

You know what, even if they don't... It's cool, because that's what makes the hero attractive and hot and the protagonist's love interest, but maybe I'm not the protagonist, right? Maybe I'm not all that dramatic that an entire book or film is going to focus on part of my life.

Honestly, I'm not all that good with drama anyway-- I shy away from all forms of confrontation. Just so long as they're sensitive but confident, charismatic, smouldering, (the rugged must stay, it's my shiny golden number one)... It is so weird how quick the list can grow.

In the end, I don't even really know. I've never been in love, so I guess I'm just going to have to bide my time and wait and see what kind of guy I fall for. Better be rugged though.

A Lightning Storm, Story

Alice would tear through the wrapper, indulging in the sweet smell of the kitkat before biting down on it, hard. She was such a chocolate lover. She would hold the broken pieces in her mouth, hoping that this time it would make the taste just stay forever.

Michael sat tucked up in bed on weekends, duvet pulled high to his chin, glasses pushed high on his nose, pyjama bottoms rolled up high to his knees. He'd sit with his back high up straight, and his head held high so that when he watched tv on his laptop at least his back wouldn't do in. He was an achiever, old Mikey.

It was a monday when Alice opened her bag and saw that there was no shiny red wrapper. She almost choked on her own saliva, her shock was THAT penetrating. Seriously, it was an extreme omg moment. She was kneeling on the floor, digging through her bag, back turned to the rest of the world, as she searched like a madman for her glowing holy grail.

Nowhere.

She bit her lip, turned around and sat on her bag, punishing it for keeping the chocolate from her.

Michael was still in bed.

That exact same monday that Alice's kitkat fix was denied her, she walked in to a lamppost. Coincidence?

Bah, nothing's coincidence. Least of all kitkat deprivation and then head pain. The world was clearly screaming something at her.

She stopped walking to lean against the brick wall beside her so that she could ponder the content of the scream.

Michael blinked disbelievingly.

His laptop was out of battery.

It was NEVER unplugged. Never. Something must have gone seriously, seriously wrong with the world. He suspected evil gnomes.

So he bent over, picked the charger up off of the floor and plugged it back in to his laptop.

Woh. His entire brain span with fear. Was that a disc that just slipped out of his back?

It seemed that that monday was unkind to everyone: Some found that there was just too much oil slick on the ground for their taste, as their wheels turned futilely in it. Some found that the car bastards were passing just about anyone nowadays, even people who drove in to vats of icky oil and then through it all up in your face and on your newly ironed white shirt.

Some found that their converses scuffed the floors just one too many times.

Alice was crying, although you couldn't tell to look at her, the way that the rain was painting her a depressive maniac anyway. There was a roar, and she squinted as she looked up, frowning with distaste.

Was lightning really necessary? Seriously? Did the world hate her THAT much? What was so wrong with enjoying chocolate? What was so wrong with sitting at home and reading and dunking chocolate digestives in to tea?

What was so wrong with her that needed this severe a punishment? It was then that Alice realised that there was nothing wrong with what she did, nothing wrong at all. But there was nothing insanely right with it either. It was simply a nothing, not black or white or even grey. It was inconsiderable in that aspect: harmless.

Did harmless ever seduce a greek god? NO.

She bit her lip, tilting her head to the right slightly as she considered this raw truth. Adopting chocolate-eating as a lifestyle doesn't exactly scream 'Love Me' in neon lights either.

Maybe the lightning wasn't so bad after all, she thought, staring up at the flashing sky.

Maybe it wasn't a scream, or a sigh, or a call, or even a gentle murmur. Maybe it was just a giant spotlight for everyone- reminding people that plain old dull blue skies never took anyone's notice.

Michael hobbled out of bed, convinced that the rest of his spine would fall out if he didn't get to hospital asap.

He grabbed the car keys off of the kitchen table, and, one hand held at his back to stem the flow of discs, pulled the front door open.

Alice lifted her head fully up to the sky.

She liked chocolate and she liked reading and bed, and blankets. But she also liked life, and she wasn't rolling in it at the moment.

She didn't want to run in to the station tomorrow morning, hair swept up in a giant pineapple-fruit-basket-do, that wasn't what she wanted. No. Alice decided there and then, soaking wet, lacking the familiar taste of chocolate, that she wanted to skip out of the harmless section.

She didn't have to be harmful, she didn't even have to be sharp. Or heavy. She could be... Shiny. Glittery. Covered in pink sparkles. She could be inspired. She grinned. Oh, yeah.

She extended a hand out, admiring the raindrops splattered all over her palm. This moment, it seemed to say: "take me". SHe stepped off of the pavement in to the empty residential road, and span around.

Michael stood in awe, unable to interrupt the girl before him and her amazingness. Her long dark hair fanned out around her as her jumper's hood fell down, useless. He almost wanted to scream as it all got matted down by the rain, but the way that she ran her hands back through it, laughing made him hold any screaming back. He'd hold it back forever if he had to, just to let her have that moment.

She craned her neck up, just staring at the rain coming out of what seemed like nowhere, and then, there was a hand at her waist, and someone grinning beside her. She shook her head, laughing, as she spun in to his arms, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other in his safe, warm palm.

Michael spun her around, unable to stop smiling. It wasn't painful though, it was gentle. It was sweet. It had been a long time since he had felt anything besides anxiety.

Together, they whizzed around for about fifteen minutes, eyes locked on each other. Then, when their clothes were weighing them down, Michael took her hand and led him in to his house. She wrung her hair out on the door mat, as he shrugged his coat off, then took hers and splayed it on the floor.

"Tea?" he asked, and she grinned. He gave her the best mug in the house, the big, fat, dark blue one that held about a gallon. When they were settled, both with towels draped uselessly over their shoulders, she bit her lip.

"When you missed the normal train last week I almost had a panic attack looking around the carriage for you" she told him.

He smiled, "I took my sister's dog out for a walk, he just had surgery." She nodded. She loved a sensitive dog person.

And then they just sat there, consumed in all of the conversations that they always wished they'd have, the rest of the world full of angst, full of angry-at-lightning people, everyone but them and a few other lucky ones completely oblivious to the wonder of a good lightning storm.

A good storm can light up your world. It can rip down the illusions, and the things that you pretended to know.

It can bring two people who got on the same train every day for the past two years, to a dance in the rain, to a cup of tea, to a conversation, to love...

From then on, Alice would get a twirl, or a box of ferrero rochers if she was feeling ambitious, or a yorkie, or even the occasional kitkat which would make her grin. She would push whatever button she felt like on the vending machine, and she would always get what she pushed for. She would have some bad days, but the storms, real, or emotional, would always clear them out, always give her the pink sparkly aura that made her shine.

And Michael would slouch down on the sofa when they watched tv, because that way their bodies fit right next to each other, and he could lean his head against hers and smile because there was nothing to worry about.

He never slipped a disc. Ah, love.

Dream Flying

It's got to that point where my eyes are burning but I know that if I try and sleep everything will be drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat, and I'll start getting all uncomfortable.

Ah, complexities.

I do love dreaming, though, and there's a possibility that I'll dream if I fall asleep soon. You supposedly have something like nine twenty minute long dreams a night, but you only remember one, if any. That's kind of cool.

I've never had any premonition type dreams, or even any sinister recurring dreams that may suggest I'm a descendant from some ancient mage or something equally awesome, but I do have this one thing that I do in almost every dream: I fly.

But I don't just fly, it's as if I'm swimming breast stroke in the air, and it's slow, but it feels so real, and so right. What's weird though, is that I never swim breast stroke in reality. Always front crawl, or diving underwater. I never breast stroke... Kind of cool, right?

Wall Paint

What is the significance of the colours of my bedroom walls? I'm genuinely curious here.

Does it say something about who I was when I picked them? About who I am now? I have three green walls, one yellow, and a giant purple built in wardrobe. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that that suggests I'm indecisive (which I am) and that I have crap taste in paint for walls. The yellow is nice, but the green- it's like mushed up pea green with cream in it.

But does it show that I'm ambitious too? That I'm a wild risk taker?

Even if my creative peak's a little low with respect to this, then at least I show vivacity in my choices, right?

I wonder if, in the huge future, when my kids or grandkids are sitting on the bed looking around with their hands folded between their knees, all choked up with nostalgia and sweet memories of me, they'll think I was cool or misguided...

Or if they'll be proud then I didn't do a standard pink or blue. I mean, come on, green? THat's pretty independent.

Or if my house will be torn down before then so the colour of my walls is of no consequence what so ever. What if a weird alien-bear hybrid species repaints without telling anyone? Then they'll get completely the wrong idea about me...

Argh, too many question marks.