Belle Armed

2012-01-22T03:32:00.000-08:00

Everybody, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.

~ Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Cant Avoid

Fuck no.

The best thing to do then is to embrace it. Learn to love that feeling, let it grow deeper and welcome the loneliness. Dont fool yourself into thinking it'll be better. It wont.

How to alienate everyone around you

2012-01-21T08:19:00.000-08:00

Never ever ask anything similar to "and how about you"

NEVER

Last night I grew wings and learned how to fly

2012-01-19T06:01:00.000-08:00

It's midnight, at China white and Im not sure why Im here. But I do know with whom. Eva dances by her self in a dark corner and I cant keep my eyes away from her. I finish my drink and order another one. A third one, and then a forth. I cant remember which day it is, or if I have classes tomorrow. But I know she wont let me leave. Not yet.

Im in the bathroom, and I stare at myself in the mirror trying to smile. It doesnt come naturally and I kind of freak myself out with my horrible grin. I put some more lipstick on, and rush in to an empty booth. I need to breath heavily for a while.

Outside somewhere Eva dances, and when she smiles it looks as though she wants to. She smiles as though her life depended on it.

I envy her smile.

I order another drink, and then I finally let the fuck go.

2012-01-18T09:29:00.001-08:00

So, Im alive. sort of. Im just.. in a loss of words. swimming around my own ocean, an ocean of doubt and pain.

Fuck it. Im back.

Lets talk more tomorrow.

I miss you

2011-12-25T09:46:00.000-08:00

Ive been to hell and back so many times

2011-11-18T03:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you all scare me. Because there are so many of you now.

In my mind though, you're a small grou of ten or possibly twelve out there reading. I feel as though we could all fit around one or two tables in a bar. That we all know each other and speak in low voices about our secrets and troubles. This is how I feel until I hit that "stats" button. Then you all scare the shit out of me. And when I'm afraid, I run.

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL DIE IF I WANT TO

2011-10-30T01:58:00.000-07:00

Rules of attraction

2011-09-28T04:25:00.000-07:00

Been down and out for a while now. My fever still runs high, and my mind is almost starting to get used to this overheated state. I try to fight it by dressing up, pretending to have plans that require dresses and high heels. Last night I almost made it to the front door before I passed out.

Luckily, I was dressed in a very suitable way.

Jil Sander really do make the perfect dresses for corpses.

What I have been up to

2011-09-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

Fever sweats and strong pain killers

I've spent the last couple of days in bed. Half awake, half asleep.

I dreamt about Patrick Bateman carefully removing my teeth with a hammer. One by one.

Someone once told me that dreams about loosing teeth means you're worried about being forgotten. Spot on, Id say.

It was in the deepest of sleep Ive been in ages.

GREED IS GOOD, SEX IS EASY, YOUTH IS FOREVER

2011-09-18T14:52:00.001-07:00

Abandon all hope ye who enter here

2011-09-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

Another sleepless night passed. Autumn, you used to be my hero.

My savior from the torture of summer heath. The passion in august makes me sick.

With half closed eyes I stood on my balcony, overlooking this burning city for hours. Cursing the stars and spitting t'wards the moon. The cold breeze I used to think of as my equivalent to holy water passed me without it's once vibrating solicitude.

(Original sin, unable to wash off

Insomnia, one of my nine circles of hell)

The red wine dripped down on my chest, painting my white nightgown blood red.

Tim Burton, can't you please direct my life? Im sick of the Polanski taste I never seem able to spit out.

Remembrances of guilty pleasures past

2011-09-14T08:31:00.000-07:00

Remember Chloè?

I saw a crow this morning and it made my heart stop. Black eyes, dead feathers.

When he lifted off and flew away, I felt as though I was watching her leave all over again.

I might as well had swallowed a thousand nails.

Read more about her here, and here, and here

SONG FOR CLAY

2011-09-13T00:08:00.000-07:00

Feasting on sleeping pills and camel blue's (Self pity wont save you, Eva said with a troubled look on her face)

Self pity can be the most beautiful thing, if executed properly

- Matching underwear

- Red wine or bourbon

-if you throw up, do it with your hair covering your face. Use it like a veil

And it's also less sad if done in the company of beautiful girls. In a bed.

Im yours to knock around

2011-09-11T05:50:00.000-07:00

I stayed in last night. Eva kept me company for a while, but later left me alone with my books. Her phone called, and something more important demanded her attention. I've never asked to be her highest priority. She's never been mine. Needless to say, this is true regardless of the fact that I love her. I really do.

When I called her in the middle of the night, in a haze of plum wine and attarax I could her just by the way she said "Salut chèrie" that she was having sex.

She mumbled something about calling me later, but she only spoke in vowels.

It's been forever since I forgot all about consonants. Not even Tramadol can do that anymore.

IMPERIAL BEDROOMS

2011-09-09T12:51:00.000-07:00

Woke up realizing that the Tramadol had worn off. The thing is, it only kills pain if taken before it really hits you. Otherwise it's nothing more than a light layer of cotton covering a wide open wound.

Sorry for being absent today. It's to cold here to move. I dress in cadavers but it only helps so much..

Eva is on her way. Ive never let her inside my home before. And she, much like a vampire can't enter without a proper invitation. I'm busy downing two bottles of wine.

I need the head start. She has her own path towards that sweet goal of nothing at all. A total blank. I can't deal with the powder.

It's to early for snow. It's to late for blessings.

Less than zero

2011-09-08T05:08:00.000-07:00

When he shut the door behind him five hours ago (or was it ten? Ive lost count) and walked out of the same apartment as he have walked out of so many times before it didn't hurt as much as I though it would. Father figure Frank never promised to stay very long. He never makes promises he can't keep.

It didn't hurt when the door hit the doorframe, the sound didn't create a big hole in my guts as it has before.

Because this time I was prepared.

Last night, after dinner we sat down in the library to talk. I thought he would ask me to come with him, I had already mentally packed my bags. Instead he made it about Eva.

- She's trouble

-She's a blessing, F!

I mixed Tramadol with gin, covered up the bad taste with plum wine and went numb in an instant.

So when he shut the door behind him, it didn't hurt.

The night I first met Eva

2011-09-07T03:06:00.001-07:00

Last winter, when everything was covered in white. It was that time of year when you can hear your own steps, a Twin peaks kind of sound followed every move.

I was almost passed out, sitting alone by the bar at St James hotel, when she walked in.

She asked me to join her outside for a smoke, and I knew at that moment that she was a blessing. A knight in shining armor. The Evelyne type the Ansgar in me had always longed for.

Some nights are nothing less than a black swan phenomenon, and those are the ones that change you.

Eva was the first name, and I came to life when she took me in her arms. She's the one who picked me up from the floor. The one who wasn't scared off when I showed my true colors. The one who truly understood everything about me and she did this by looking deep inside of her self.

Let's clear something out

2011-09-06T01:30:00.000-07:00

This is a story, just as every life is.

Our lives will someday be reduced to a short summery that will be told to our grand children when we pass. Life doesn't end with death, not if you've made an impact.

And the thing is, that I have no doubt that I will die young and I certainly don't doubt that no one will remember me. Because I do not engage with other people.

That is the main reason I started blogging. And now you're all wondering how much of "me" there is in these pieces of writing.

All of me, is the answer. ALL OF ME.

Because otherwise, what would this be about.

I'll tell you everything, every little dirty detail, but only if you want to listen.

SKETCH

2011-09-05T03:32:00.000-07:00

If he can do it, so can I

Eva was a mess last night. Her share must have been cut to many times. To much laxatives. She was up against the walls, down on the floor, on top of the roof. I watched from the corner table, hiding in the shadows. Sipping on bloody marys. Pretending the evening was in fact brunch time.

When E left, with some perfect looking young model type, I couldn't bare myself to go home. Didn't want to see his bag standing there in the hallway, alone. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

So when he sent a drink my way, I downed it in three gulps. Later, he downed all my sorrows for three hours.

I got a nasty habit

2011-09-04T10:34:00.000-07:00

Woke up five minutes a go.My head spins, and I can't seem to focus on anything. I notice the apartments' empty. He left again, but his bag is still here. He'll come back.

Thank god.

Eva called again, and this time I didn't have the strength to say no. Im heading out to drown in an ocean of men and plum wine. I dont even care that she wants to go to Sketch.

Tonight, I'll do what ever she wants. Great thing about her company is ; I probably won't even need to talk, she handles all of that.

We're a perfect match, in some strange and bizarre way.

Sin is the only note of vivid color that persists in the modern world.

F-F-F

2011-09-04T06:52:00.000-07:00

Father figure Frank didn't come home until this morning. A dinner party doesn't go on all night.

I sat up, wearing his shirt and drinking his gin while waiting. Tried to read but couldn't focus. I longed for him, like I have been my entire life. Woke up with my head between my legs, (with gin spilled all over the table) around five and expected to find him sleeping in a wine haze in my bed, but no.

When he finally appeared he refused to look me inthe eyes.

I didn't ask who he was with, I just finished the bottle of gin from last night and went to my room. -No, I don't want dinner F

I want you, I whispered

Memories

2011-09-03T10:23:00.000-07:00

Frank just left to attend a dinner party over at West End, and since I don't do West end anymore I decided to stay in. The lace dress is a nightgown for kids, used to wear it when I was seven or eight, and the sweater is an old Brooks Brothers that I stole from a boy I once woke up next to.

Fashion makes the world go round, right?

Prologue

2011-09-03T03:31:00.000-07:00

Some of you have heard this story before, some of you think you know all about my father figure Frank and some of you are new and have no idea. So I thought I'd break it down to you.

Hold your breath while reading this, please.

My mother Iris, who left two years a go to seek an endless summer across the ocean, never stopped loving him. He left her when I was very young, later returned and put our worlds up side down. Then he left again. Without a word, without a trace. But she didn't stop loving him. And he still loves her. Why aren't they still togheter? Well, Iris isn't a pleasent woman to spend your life with. She loves gin more than me, and maybe... just maybe more than him as well. And Frank isn't really mr stable. They were a great love story while they lasted, they were a horrid sci-fi flick when reality catched up with them.

Father figure Frank lives in LA, a place I refer to as the rabbit-hole of my teenage years. I visited him a couple of times, and it always ended in tears and acid drenched nights. He takes beatiful pictures for a living, but he refuses to photograph me. I don't know why.

There is a lot that I don't know about him. But I know this

1)He makes me feel safe

2)He cares, even though he doesn't know how to

3) He always smells like bourbon and cigarettes. He wears nothing but black.

4) No matter how much I reject him, he never stops trying.

5)He is the only one who truly knows me. And still loves me.

I've got it all

2011-09-02T10:52:00.001-07:00

Frank wakes me up, I had fallen a sleep on the bathroom floor in the middle of the day. During these few days without painkillers I seem to have forgotten the proper dose. His eyes filled with fear, his voice angry and sad at the same time. Like a husband who just figured out that his wife is cheating on him.

He lifts me up, slaps my cheek gently in an attempt to clear the fog in my mind.

We spend the rest of the day shopping at Liberty. Father figure Frank gets all excited about long dresses and feather-covered skirts but I am unable to share that joy. I hate new cloths.

Leaving the big black building Im carrying heavy bags of materia and when I ask Frank if it wouldn't just be easier to love me he starts crying.

-Thats what Im doing B.

Eva called and asked me to join her at Sketch

- You need to get out, darling. Let's drink some mai tais

I looked over at Frank, sitting across the hall smoking and pouring whiskey in two glasses

- I think I'd rather stay in tonight. I've got everything I need right here

Father figures and gin

2011-09-01T04:34:00.000-07:00

September, and I make a difficult decision. My countdown starts now where it all ended once before.

Breakfast with Frank, in the dining room we sit across from each other and stare.

I: In my robe, hair messy and an awful winebreath. Black coffee, untouched. Visible bones, a tattoo on my wrist. Wet eyes, not from crying but from confusion. One thousand questions, not a single word suitable for the situation. Quiet.

He: Fully dressed, all in black. Coffee cup, almost empty. Pancakes and gin. Smoking. Humming. Trying to meet my eyes. Sitting on all the answers. Not giving me a single one.

We: Slept like new born babies. Hand in hand. Shared a dream, shared a bed.

2011-08-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

My skin is itching, and it's keeping me awake.

I drag sharp nails across my chest, scratch my back until it bleeds, rub some supposed miracle cream all over but nothing seems to help. Is this what it comes down to?

I've been off the painkillers for three days now. First day was effortless.

He is on his way, in a cab as we speak. Father figure Frank is slowly moving through the night.

My sheets are stained with dark red spots. They smell like urine. Ive never longed for anyone, but if I were to start, I'd pick him and I'd pick now.

I feel like somethings alive inside of me, like my skin is trying to tell me something. In the mirror a horrid vision meets my eyes. I've scratched for hours, and now my back has the letter F in blood written over it. He will think I did this on purpose.

He's coming

2011-08-29T07:25:00.000-07:00

I don't remember, A. I don't know who you are. Im sorry (Oh, I wish I was)

Father figure Frank called last night. I was dizzy from banging my head against the wall. There's no more T in my drawers. I need a doctor as liberal as my father figure. I need a pill as strong as she was. The girl from the alley. Let's call her Marla.

- Whats shakin, kid?

- How's LA, Franky?

We never really talk. We just exchange questions. None of us have any answers. We never had.

He's coming to London soon, something about Vouge, something about love.

- How soon is soon? Like, today?

- Like.. tomorrow kid. Clean up, get sober, kick out the lover you're hiding.

Riots and cake

2011-08-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

They tried to burn down my city, you know. Where was I? Inside eating cake. Safe between thick concrete walls. Ive never really participated in anything, so the thought of starting then wasn't really.. well, thought.

But during all of the chaos, all of the mayhem that was caused, I couldn't help but to think of a man who wanted this to happen a long time a go. Somewhere far away, Tyler Durden sat half naked, with a cigaret between his lips and with the biggest smirk.

In so many ways, I wish I had a little bit of him in me. But Im just as exciting as the narrator. Just as empty.

Have you ever seen a human heart?

2011-08-23T03:13:00.001-07:00

It looks like a fist covered in blood

Do you need LSD to write like that he asked

When dreams become a boring pause from the insanity that is real life (Big Brother, Jersey Shore, the real housewives..) drugs seem to be the last thing a girl would need. But then again, I've never really thought in terms of "need and should", on the contrary to be frank.

Lets be frank, lets talk about truth.

I never belonged anywhere. I finished first every single time. I got bored. I started doing things I knew I wasn't capable of, just to get my floating feet back on the ground. I applied for jobs which no boss in his right mind would give me, but they all did. I started viewing life as a game of which the rules where specific and clear, the instructions gave away all secrets. I started something I couldn't finish. Then I did.

And now, I just want you to pick me, chose me, love me.

Caligula made his horse senator. Clay wanted Rain.

Some choices aren't logical, but they (much like LSD) take you for a hell of a ride.

No one sleeps when Im awake

2011-07-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

SHE

2011-07-18T03:44:00.000-07:00

I asked her to tell me how she ended up in that alley, with ripped stockings and a need for stesolid and love. I asked her to tell me everything.

She didn't, but she showed me her ribs. Covered with little blue spots, and said

" This used to be the only thing I could feel"

Childhood

2011-07-14T02:16:00.000-07:00

Took mothers journal to bed last night. I now know every word, can recite every page from memory. Yet somehow there's clues yet to be discovered. There are emotions, thoughts well hidden, that I need to find.

Her father wants to go visit Louis for a week, he's sick again and Frank wants to be there for him. Why Belle should come is a mystery to me, she's a child and wont make Louis any favors by running around and being in his way. They're leaving tomorrow, and I can't decide weather or not I'm glad to get rid of them for a while. Frank has always been a better lover for a distance.

I remember me running around Louis house, his boyfriend patiently reading to me at night while Frank and L sat in the library drinking and speaking in vowels.

What I long thought was Louis last words haven't left me yet, they're like a tattoo in my soul.

( You have to remember Belle my dear, that we are nothing but animals. Animals. No matter how many glasses of wine we drink on pure routine )

INJECT ME

2011-07-11T00:34:00.000-07:00

Last night, woke up from a dizzy haze where dreams met hopes and my mother walked the endless hallways with high heels and made clicking sounds. She doesn't belong in my dreams, but neither does rainbows. When guardian angels let me down, I tend to turn to my demons.

She came after nightfall, scars and bruises over her thin arms.

- What happend, dear? I didn't do that, did I? I say, barely covering up my worry

- Nothing, nothing happend.

We sat on the floor, exchanged vows and body fluids, when she suddenly opened her bag and pulled out a needle. Just like Louis used to do. Two shots of Stesolid, three gulps of champagne.

- I love you, you know that right?

- Belle.. Don't go there.

Then we exchanged blood, connected by diseases.

2011-06-13T18:45:00.001-07:00

Black eyes. cocaine skin. She is five years old, and Im her mother- in so many ways.

I provide, she injects.

A funeral

2011-06-05T05:49:00.000-07:00

I'm on my knees

2011-06-03T18:26:00.000-07:00

He said: Belle, stop cutting my wrists

I said: Mine are already trashed

I tried to come back, tried to swim up for air but kept falling down. I thought about you day and night, but couldn't find the words. Went to LA and back, with less words for each air mile.

But I do find myself carrying on conversations with you even though I can't seem to write anything down. I tell you everything, but the words doesn't travel well.

But I know one thing. My wrists can't take anymore, and neither can his. So, can we pick up from where we left off? Can you love me again?

Nothing new

2011-04-14T12:09:00.000-07:00

I'll come back soon, lovers

2011-04-05T10:55:00.000-07:00

(Tell me why) I don't like Mondays

2011-03-29T03:45:00.000-07:00

She is crashing the illusions into reality.

I dont know how to talk to you, if you don't listen. All of the sudden, Im a ten year old little girl again. Mother's drunk and father figure Frank is smoking in the library. He's not there. She's not there. I can't open my mouth. I scream, but the sound waves can't travel through the rivers of wine.

My back has always been exposed. Im yours to keep, yours to break down.

I don't have anything else than this. Like there's anything here at all.

I could tell you about the time I let Mr Sheen pull my hair in an LA bed, I could tell you about how he injected heroin between his toes. I could tell you I did the same. but you wouldn't listen. I could tell you about the time I bit pneumonia white so hard that I tasted her blood, or the time I fell asleep in Pneumonia blacks lap. But none of us would know if it was true or not. I don't know who I am, so how am I supposed to tell you?

The illusion is my reality, so if it crashed - it did so a long time a go.

Eat my flesh, watch me die

2011-03-28T02:58:00.000-07:00

Woke up, blinked a couple of times until the nightly blur had disappeared from my eyes. Like dry lenses last nights smoke covers my pupils, it's a fog uneasy to clear. Next to me lays the girl with magic eyes. The one that makes me sleep. Fully dressed unlike me. I shyly cover my bruised chest with crisp white sheets and with much grace (or so it seems, but then again Im still drunk) make my way to the window. I grab the half full champagne bottle and empty it in three gulps. I almost choke trying not to cough. Light a cigarett, slowly inhale, stop, exhale while watching her eyelids vibrate. She sleeps so intensely, I bet she's dreaming.

Five cigarettes later, I still can't stop looking at her. This is what she does for a living. I pay her to do what I now can't stop doing. I watch, and then just before she wakes up I break down in tears.

She stayed with me the entire night. She fell asleep next to me.

She's my Helen of Troy, my Ansgar.

My hero.

What Ive learned

2011-03-25T06:42:00.000-07:00

After three days on the floor, it doesn't really hurt anymore.

After four days, the crying stops. But when the fifth day comes and goes, that's when your hearts starts to grow roots into the floor. They grow with such intensity that once you try to break free, the only way how is excrutiatingly painful and ugly.

It's bedtime for jokers

2011-03-20T11:59:00.001-07:00

Things I wish she would do

Punch me on the side of my head, make my vision blurry

Lay down next to me and sleep

Drink wine with me and tell me more secrets

Let me hit her

Choke me

Kill me

Trench and blood

2011-03-19T08:58:00.000-07:00

CUT IT OFF

2011-03-18T08:43:00.001-07:00

Last night, acompanied by the beautiful smoking girl who knowns when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. I dont have to give her any instructions anymore. She knows me. I love her.

There was something missing though, something wasn't quite right so I couldn't get any rest. Sleep felt just as impossible as running in high heels when caught in a haze of plum wine and Tramadol.

- Why wont he come back and explain it all to me?
- Sometimes you have to change before things can go back to what it once was

I gave her a scissor, sat down on the cold hardwood floor and cried. She gently stroke my hair, kissed my neck and grabbed a fist full of hair. When it hit the floor, I knew we were on to something. She made me into something new. She turned my world around.

I stared into the mirror, tried to understand who the girl looking back at me was. She was like a ghost of a complete stranger.

If this doesn't make him come back, I don't know what will.

Retrospective and father figures

2011-03-15T04:51:00.000-07:00

Last night was another pitch black picture in which I was left alone, with no help except the bottles of prescribed dreams. No girl in my open window, smoking and watching. Nothing to remind me that I am in fact a person, a human being. I was nothing but a ghost of a stranger to myself, a vision in the mirror that I didn't even recognise after two Demerols and three tramadols. Five pills and I float above my own body. There's nothing magical about it.

Managed to drift of, on the floor with Wallpaper next to me. Bed time stories for fashionistas. Models for company.
Frank spoke to me in a mist of dreams. He told me about the first time he saw me, Ive told you that story once. Outside our town house he came in his black car. Hey kid and so on. But then the dream changed, I was drunk in a bar and he was there. Sitting in the corner watching me, I said something mean not directly to him but meant for his ears and in the next scene I was falling slowly and just as I was about to hit the wooden floor he caught me, lifted me up and held me close to his chest. His heart was beating like a drum. I wanted to sing along but couldn't think of a single song. He kissed my forehead, and I woke up sweaty and with salty drops on my cheeks. I carefully licked my lips, tried to taste the dream but there was only dried up wine left.

I emptied the bottle next to me, washed down another Demerol and tried to haze off but couldn't. Instead I picked up the phone and within minutes I heard that familiar voice again

- Whats shakin', kid?

- I need you

The naked truth

2011-03-14T05:11:00.000-07:00

I just don't know what to do with myself

1. He never shows, no matter how many drinks I have at the same damn bar

2. I can't read Little birds again

3. She couldn't come over last night. I couldn't sleep.

4. She doesn't answer her phone.

5. I wish I could throw up everything inside of me, and fill the gap with new organs.

6. I wish I could be something new.

What she left behind

2011-03-11T06:39:00.000-08:00

There's not a problem out there that can't be solved with the proper medication. Im glad my mother agrees with me. There are pills everywhere, under her bed, in her drawers and closet. Keep in mind that she moved over a year a go. It's christmas everyday here for an oprhan like me.

The love in her eyes

2011-03-10T01:44:00.000-08:00

I feel as though Ive found some sort of new religion. Like Ive connected with a higher power. Suddenly Im able to sleep for six hours straight, no demerol or tramadol to make me haze of is needed and I have dreams again. Real ones not just hallucinations and visions from my past. I dream with such intensity I feel present while being in them. I can touch them.

When she's there, sitting in my window watching me move through veils of mystery and unknown worlds I feel at ease. The solitude that once was my permanent state of mind is now nothing but fade memories. By night, I feel like I belong. The by the hour fee is a small price to pay. Sometimes she tells me something, a short stories about her pimp or a bad drug related experience and I find great comfort in the fact that she knows exactly what it feels like. What everything feels like.

She's the most wonderful person Ive ever met.

Stories and substance abuse

2011-03-09T05:45:00.000-08:00

Little birds, come fly with me.

Another night of heavenly sleep. She sat there, smoking in the window just like I had done moments before. A mirror of some sort, a retro perspective of everything. She told me about her father, how they used to be close but that all went out the window when she started doing coke. Fathers seem to have a problem with their daughters once they start experimenting, don't they? In the beginning of the story she was a little kid, when I feel a sleep she was somewhere around her fifteenth birthday. I can't remember much about it. I need another hit, another story and another night of dead still sleep. I need her again.

Rabbits eat birds, dont they?

2011-03-07T06:05:00.000-08:00

He is nowhere to be seen, I only have one option left. I read the book once more last night, every page meant more to me than the last time. Every word was a silent prayer. A desperate call for help.

He must have known I would look for him, he must have known me somehow.

He must have known what he did to me. Just like a rapist always knows how a no is a no, it's just that it doesn't bother him. It holds no greater value to him.

So I had five dry martinis in the bar, reading and crying. Bartender let me be. Not a word was spoken.

I walked down the same alley where I first found her, at least there's one person here who is consistent. A fist full of cash, a good night sleep for me. Knowing someone is watching over my uneven breaths. She leaves in the middle of the night, like a criminal she sneaks out. Last night she told me a story, my story. Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smt.

dreams and lies

2011-03-06T08:22:00.000-08:00

Bungalow 8 should change their number to 9. Dante would have wanted them to.

I tried to dance, ended up sleeping in the corner couches instead. Acid and wine doesn't mix well.

Next to me a beautiful girl sat crying, mascara all over her pale skin. Like two rivers finding their way through a desert. When I kissed her she didn't object nor did she really get involved. Passive aggressive. I kissed her again, tasted her salty drops of salvation but she remained indifferent to weither or not I was there.

Later, I crawl down between cold sheets. Naked and alone.

- So I just sit here she asks

- Yes, untill I fall a sleep. There's money on the table.

I slept like a newborn baby.

Little birds and dead girls

2011-03-04T10:21:00.000-08:00

I wear little birds around my neck tonight, will have dinner with Amanda and her new boyfriend at the Ritz tonight. Little birds around my neck. They're my company and if I see him, he'll know that Ive missed him. I carry little birds so that he will nurish my childish dream of being saved. I'll be waiting at the bar around midnight, he must be there.

There is no other option, A's going to bungalow 8 and I would rather have my heart ripped out.

And that just might be this nights plan for me. I'll take my chances.

Dress : Jill Sander (you've seen it before)

the birds used to belong to my grand mother.

Jacket: Primark, just for the hell of it you know.

Did you know?

2011-03-04T04:11:00.000-08:00

Crying makes the employees of Sketch extremely uncomfortable.

Anticipation

2011-03-02T05:29:00.000-08:00

Last night, third one in the same bar but still no luck. They say good things come in threes, I think maybe three is crused. Its not a couple, nor a group. There's no fucking balance in three. But I waited, with the book opened in front of me as a shield. Not in the mood to carry on a conversation with the bartender yet again. He mumbles something welcoming, poured a dry martini and smiled carelessly. I wish I could do that. I never smile anymore.

Five drinks later, the bar which Im alone in is closing and I feel more alone than I have ever done before. Not just alone, I feel betrayed/used/abused. What a horrible man he must be, building up something so beautiful and then leave it without a roof. I feel like the foundation of an amazing house, waiting to be complete. And it doesn't rain in London, it pours. Im all wet and he's not here.

Romance and nihilism

2011-03-01T08:27:00.000-08:00

Went back to the bar last night, had read every page twice without finding an answer of some sort. Without finding anything. I wandered back, hoping he'd be there, praying for him to sit there like time had stood still. but once again, I entered an empty bar.

Same bartender, same drink. He lit my benson hedges and we connected. Theres no smoking in bars anymore you know. I wish I was dead.
Hours pass, gin pours down my throath. He must come, he must tell me why. I ask the bartender but he didn't know him.

- strange man, wasn't he he asks
- the most beautiful man Ive ever seen

I stay for hours, the evening turn into night and I turn into a very sad picture. Not moving nor feeling anything. Like a statue I sit there, waiting for a stranger to tell me what I need. (Aren't we all?)

Three chapters later

2011-02-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

I read with much anticipation, there must be an answer between the lines or in the middle of them. There was no note on the first page, I havent got further than to the third chapter yet (and he is still no where to be seen) I don't know what Im looking for, but Anaïs keeps me company while I try to figure it out.

When I feel lonely and without purpose I always walk down to Piccadilly circus. There's always someone missing out on being in the group photo since he has to take it, and there I am offering to help them out. I save their memories and they make me feel needed.

Statutory rape

2011-02-28T05:12:00.000-08:00

At Naptek, sipping on a cold cappucino thinking about last night.
Amanda waited in the hotel bar, laughing at some man who must have made a clever joke when I stepped in. He looked at me with such dispair. I ruined their moment. She wrapped her arms around me, kissed my forehead grabbed my arm and yelled VAMOS!

Dinner at Nobu, same crowd as always. She's beautiful in any room, I look like Donatella. We eat in silence, observing our surroundings closely. I drink more than I eat, blink more often than I breath. Out in the street again I loose track of her, she's gone and I can't bare calling. "Disappear here" she texts.

Alone in a bar with a ceiling filled with airplanes. Walls covered with photos of old american presidents. Im the only guest, the bartender is old and he makes for a sad excuse of a man. Dry martini, no music in the background. must have been turned of when I walked in. He's not closing, but the night is dying. I watch him with loving eyes as he fills up my glas, lights my smokes.
A man walks in, talking on his phone and orders a beer without making a pause in his conversation. He smiles at me. I empty my glas. Another one. Another road not taken.

One hour passes, I cant focus my eyes on one single object, my eyes move like a tornado. He changes seats, moves closer and when I look up he grabs my hand. Wedding ring on. He holds my cold thin fingers in a firm grip for a minute or two, Im to tired to care, to intrigued to pull back. When Ive finally gathered the curidge to say something he pushed a finger to my lips, lets me hand go and pick up a book from his briefcase. You need this more than I do he says, and leaves in such a hurry Im left wondering weather or not it actually happened.

Woke up this morning next to "Little birds". Anaïs Nin understands young girls better than we understand ourselves.
Why didn't he stay and tell me why. Why did I need it more than him?

Back home

2011-02-27T04:16:00.000-08:00

I never understood the whole green tea revolution. I don't drink to get healthier, feel better or live longer. One cup of black tea wont effect my decaying body, so I don't really appreciate the way the young man in black uniform looks at me when I decline his offer to give me something with "a lot of nutrition"

If its "supposedly" good for me, then so be it but I've made a habit out of choosing the other option. I always chose the other option.

Can you breath he asks and when I reply with a slighty nervous nod he ads pressure by forcing his thumb into the thin skin that covers my throat. This is what I chose above love and comfort. I choose little or no air.

I close my eyes and the smell of death passes me by, a longing for some sort of constant sleep suddenly feel more present than him or my own body for that matter. I wish for a never ending sleep.

Instead I get green tea when I specifically order black and a city filled with life and laughter. Its a tragedy, being alive but feeling dead.

Where to miss, home I presume?

Yes, sure. Sankt James hotel, please

Lay on top of me, London

2011-02-26T15:20:00.001-08:00

Fucking and punching

2011-02-25T01:33:00.000-08:00

In the library with my dark passanger. The journal never leaves my sight, it has a life of it’s own. It has come to be my constante, knocking a bottle of plum wine disguised as Vitamin water of the throne. 176 pages of hate. I carry them around, loath them but love them.

I never felt closer to her than when I read about her first time. of course, this was written by an adult so it didn’t have the right tone but there was something in her words I could relate to. The disgust, the feeling of being in the wrong place although the place had nothing to do with it. She wrote about his sent and the way he moved. To imagine a man making her feel uncomfortable is like seeing god.
You see, she never felt uncomfortable, except when I cried at family dinners. He was heavy, or maybe it was just that I was a very thin girl at the time I cant help but laugh. The honesty ends there. Her truth is always modified, and I am forced to realize what I should’ve know from the start.

I only feel close to her when she lie.

Oscar Wilde on Paper street

2011-02-24T03:27:00.000-08:00

Mothers journal on the bed stand, a half full bottle of old raj gin on top. You must go through eight stages before you meet the devil. Eight stages of burning hell, then there’s only Cocytus left. A frigid pit of despair where sinners come to suffer

I pour another drink, gin on the rocks except I have no ice left and carefully flip through the pages. She rambles about Oscar Wilde, how he would have been the perfect husband and how she would have looked perfect with an 19th century background. The drink doesn’t help, doesn’t make it easier. I feel a sudden urge to change her words and look around desperately for a pen. There isn’t one pen in this god forsaken room. So I have no other choice but to tear out the page but it doesn’t cut it. It needs to vanish, it’s filled with her condescending words and lack of knowledge. When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire I think and start chewing (a page or two is easy to swallow)

There's a new blog out there, written by a girl who I have a feeling just might get IT. She just might be what is missing.

There's heaven and hell, there's good writers and awful ones. There's serpents and then theres Eve.

How to mess up your daughter 101

2011-02-23T07:47:00.000-08:00

I remember him telling me to leave her alone, she had been drinking and I had trouble sleeping. Dont talk to, talk to me he said and poured some scotch in my warm milk. It was almost midnight, octobre and I was minutes from turning eleven. I might as well had been fifty. There was nothing to say
.Since I never really slept I didn’t have bad dreams and I hadn’t really learned to lie yet. Like a baby shark I could smell the blood, I had an idea about lying but I couldn’t go through with it, I couldn’t kill on my own. Deep gulps of milk and scotch made my eyelids remember what Darwin told us. What plastic surgery can undo.
I don’t remember laying down, but I remember him carrying me to my bed and softly whisper Do not wake her up, darling. You don’t want her to wake up

2011-02-22T11:36:00.000-08:00

Staying in where crisp white sheets offer some sort of comfort. outside the crisp white snow offers suffering. For once I feel calm enough to chose the calmer option. At least for now, Im content hurting myself by reading words I loath written by the woman I fear will be the death of me.

Next piece is about me.

Mothers journal has for the last 84 pages not mention the fact that she has a daughter, not until now. Seeing my own name in her writing is much like a slap in the face, a stab in the gut. About my weight her thoughts circle she used to be thin, legs like a ballet dancer and lean strong arms. She used to look like me but now I dont know. I simply don't know what has happend. She goes on for another page. I feel sick and strangely violated by this. This was written two years a go.

We all hate what we wish we had when others posses it. We're nothing but petty creatures in the night. I was never the right size for her life, for her standards. To thin, to fat. It was never about weight really. It was about a love we both had lost and tried to regain by hating. This Armed family has always had a peculiar Modus operandi.

If you by any chance like the way I look, or at least dont despise it here's a black swan event. Ive been Style cloned on the smart and exciting site Styleclone.com.

Massmurder and silk underwear

2011-02-22T00:31:00.000-08:00

You say Im misunderstood but that like simplifying the first world war down to People were angry. I am not a children's bed time story, there are deeper levels of this. Maybe I chose to be this way. Just like I chose to wear a bra that doesn't come off unless you carry a knife.

It's not that I like it on. I just like the struggle. Five years a go a man murdered his five children and then put on his shoes and went to work. No one knew.

He wasn't misunderstood. He was unhappy.

Carine Roitfeld may you rest in peace. We will always have those summer editorials.

Lies and other drugs

2011-02-20T23:59:00.000-08:00

A haze of dreams, hotell corridors are my idea of hell, the ninth stage. Treachery and Demerol should not mix.

When I walked the seventh floors hallway for the hundred time I started screaming. Open mouth, with an unfamiliar strength. No one ever hear me. I decide to leave, and put shoes on my bare feet. Manolos for broken ankles, vintage dress for my bruised skin.

Out in the snowstorm everyones screaming. I ask a girl who's sitting by herself in the bar close to the end of the world if she wants some company. When she doesn't reply I sit down. We drink slowly, in some sort of understanding. She smiles, I leave.

I meet up an old friend and we throw each other back five years to when we used to dance, smile and dream. For a couple of hours I forget about the cold and my fever. I enter a state of mind where nothing matters, where I'm the closest to happy Ive been in a long time. I guess that happens in a city close to the north pole when you're on your back on a bardisk where they mix beer and call it a drink. When you feel closer to the cobble stone than the sky.

Elevators and painkillers makes for a fun ride

2011-02-17T00:26:00.000-08:00

The blond cheerful face belonging to the doctor wakes me up in the elevator. This cant go on any longer.
-You're not dying, but a flue is still a serious thing. Take care of your body, or it will resent you.

I mumble something in response, take her hand with some resistance and swallow the three yellow pills me gives me. Scandinavia is liberal, like a teenager while Britain is an old lady. Painkillers are your friends. The door opens, 713. My address is no longer a street, it's a number. Much like Paper street. If you don't have a home, do you exist?

-How did you end up here darling, what did you do last night?
Wherever i go, people always seem to feel an uncontrollable urge to take care of me.

I smile and while looking straight into her kind blue eyes I open my lap top. I want to show her photos.i want to say "This is what I did last night"
People are afraid to merge of the freeway,and nihilism is deeply rooted in romanticism.
But I dont have the photos. And she leaves.

Mothers journal is mocking me, lying there quietly on the bed stand. Go on, read me. be disgusted!
I think about it while undressing and I slowly smoke a cigarette in bed. Could this really get any worse?
I open the book.

fever sweats in Chanel couture

2011-02-14T08:31:00.000-08:00

Im in crisp white sheets. A hotel bed is cleaner than a hospital. Or so Ive been told. Plum wine on the bed stand. Lit cigarettes in the ashtray. In both hands and mouth. Im to sick to smoke. To tired to care.

She: A hotel doctor. Sent up to make sure NO ONE DIES on the seventh floor. White coat, blond hair. Pink lips. A sent that reminds me of spring and blossom. Smiling. Almost to fresh, to healthy. Judging the activity in the room, trying to hide it. Failing miserably.

I: Feverish for days. Shiny eyes. No, not shiny . They're rather wet, but not from tears. Heavy breathing. Panic when the cold stethoscope touches my bare back. Inhale. Exhale. Avoiding her. Piercing my own skin with sharp nails. No no, I am not sick.

And outside, just as the blond doctor leaves I spot something dark outside my window. With trembling steps I make my way to the balcony. One centimeter at a time.

There he is. The symbol of our decaying souls.

Snow and silence

2011-02-12T10:42:00.001-08:00

Trying to check in to a hotel next to a night club. Snow storm outside. Inside. In my hand I have my passport, some cash and mothers old journal.

The clerk looks at me with despair, gives me a key and tells me she can arrange for some cloths to appear outside my door within the hour.

-Or anything else you might need, sweetheart

I frantically grab the fur coat, pull it close to my body to cover my bruised ribs and purple nipples. The cold hasn't treated me well. No, I dont have any bags I tell her. No, I dont

need your help.

Share elevator with a man in a dark suit and eyes like the devil. He looks at me with such horror, such fear. I step away from him, trying my best to keep the smell of gin to myself. Not let him know what my breath always gives away.

Outside the hotel room, I struggle with my key. A maid helps me open, guides me to the bed and remove my coat. She dresses my pale skin with some t-shirt that miraculously appeared and when she's about to leave I feel an uncontrollable urge to ask her what I fear I already know

I used to live here, didn't I?

A single man and coagulated blood

2011-02-11T03:18:00.000-08:00

A fist full of Tramadol, I swallowed without letting a single worried voice consern me. Just like high school.

These streets of scandinavia's most nihilistic but beautiful city is filled with crisp with snow. Headlines tells us not to leave our homes, but I dont have one. I arrived yesterday, naked under my grand mothers rabbit fur. The paleness of my skin slowly turned less white and more blue for every second spent outside. No bag, just a passport cigarettes and cash.
The freckled girl behind the bar gave me a disturbed look when I ordered my plum wine, they dont have any but they have a lot of port she answers. Thats not the same. Would you sleep with someone less attractive, less understanding, less educated just becaue that is the only option left when you know someone so much better is somewhere out there? She shrugged. I emptied the glas of port anyway. This is not an exit.

Four minuts blanc, not a second more, I rested for four minuts in a pile of snow. And you where there, wearing black. Removing wine stains below my lips with your thumb. Lifting me up, you almost tripped. But you didn't, you stayed stable. You kissed my left eyebrow. Dreams are nothing but a reflection of what we want. And I want that, an stable rock who sometimes almost fall to the ground.

And the second before my eyes opened again, and I realized that I am nowhere near stable. That must have been why he fell.

signs and the meaning of life

2011-02-10T03:20:00.000-08:00

We're the generation who has nothing to say, and we proclaim that fact every single day.

I enter China white, dive straight into the euphoria that is chaos and coke. Loud music and beautiful people, eat me alive please. Consume my flesh.

Im in the middle of a deluge, a limbo. This is not an exit a sign tells me. No its not I suddenly scream out loud. Does anyone hear me though? No. Im like a tree falling in the forest.

They're busy chasing drugs, blow jobs or if nothing else at least a drink or two. I suddenly come to think about what one of my teachers once told me about the black sea "It was a violent rush of salt water into a depressed fresh-water lake in a single catastrophe that has been the inspiration for the flood mythology" and I suddenly feel as though maybe he was talking about me. A violent rush.

Miri smiles, drags me into the bathroom. Inhale this darling this is not an exit. She pees on the floor, my red soles plash against her urine and the expression on her face: pure pride

I escape, leave her there. And then the real deluge comes crashing and I decide then and there to let the fuck go. I pour plum wine down my soar throat and smoke in the crowded hallway. I think about Avy and her perfect legs. About Chloé and all that love. Father figure Frank and mother. This is not an exit, it's a ferocious rush of salt water down my chin.

The last supper

2011-02-09T01:05:00.000-08:00

At the breakfast table.

Miri breaths like an old woman. Like our downstairs neighbor. Heavily and uneven. With no beat. Possibly like a rhythm closer to jazz than the swan lake. In front of us, two half full bottles of plum wine. Miri grabs one, empties it. I struggle with my coffee. The wine made it to sweet, but we dont have any milk. Whats a girl to do.

Dinner last night, the old woman went on and on about her roof. Our shower still running upstairs. There is no explanation to why we wont shut it of. I stopped taking showers ages a go. I hate the sound of water running.
Miri almost fell a sleep in the middle of a sentence. The old woman had crazy red hair and offered us long island drinks stronger than the ones Louis used to make me. She told us about her Hollywood career, about her wealthy husbands, about her modeling and all the money she married into and left with. She made sure we ate a lot, forced foie gras on us until we begged for mercy.

Miri is staring out the window now, not knowing that she is the most beautiful in a straight forward angle. I need to let last night go. I need to get out of my dress. Black of course, I had a feeling last night was a funeral of some sort.

And today, well the feeling remains.

Outfit

Dress Yves Saint Lauren

Straightjacket with black pearls

Mood: morbid

Where death means birth

2011-02-08T00:55:00.000-08:00

Two deep breaths, in out in out and then I decide that I am strong enough to do this. I step inside, this room used to be mothers. Now Miri sleeps on the floor her heels once walked on. Quiet and peacefully she sleeps. Like a fucking zombie.

I havent slept since she arrived. Nor had I gotten any sleep before that either. I simply cant. Bein unconscious doesn't count.

When she sleeps I walk the endless hallways, I read books Ive read ten times before. I let my tears fall in to them. Bury my emotions in Karenina, 1984, Lolita..

Gather some courage, swallow some left over wine, I read another page in mothers book. Black covers, yellow pages and horrible grammar. Hate. She tells me further about Louis and how he is a burden she must carry. I suddenly feel last nights dinner re entering my mouth. Let it out in the kitchen sink. Last nights wine paint my snow white chin red. Dark red. Like coagulated blood.

Outfit

Lace knickers Agent provocateur

Cashmere blouse Jil Sander. Mothers old one.

I have never felt closer to her.

Truth and Tramadol

2011-02-07T06:14:00.000-08:00

Three Tramadol makes me feel less heavy inside. Five creates a massive amount of stones in my stomach. Its all about balance. Control. I look around the kitchen. A bottle of what I assume is champagne is left half full on the table. I grabb it and empty it in 3 gulps. For each one the distance between emotions and me grows further.

Sitting by the table smoking my benson slowly coming to life I suddenly notice it. . A black tattered notebook. I look at it like it holds all secrets of my past. Things is though, I realize while flipping pages that its not mine. Its hers. Iris. My mother never told me about a journal. she never told me anything.

Her childlike letters and crappy spelling hits home, I hold the key to something awful here. With a mixture of hate and fascination I read.

Louis needs to get his act together. I wont help him off the floor again, put him in some black cab and tell it tp drive off to yet another rehab. I wont do it, its not fair to me. I have my own problems.

Cant help but think, did she really think of me as a problem to take care of? If so, why didn't she?

Outfit of the day

Dress: Jil Sander circa 1975.

Lipstick: chanel, colour of coagulated blood.

Death and disaster darlings.

REMEMBER THIS, REMEMBER US

2011-02-06T09:08:00.000-08:00

In postmodern culture, only a picture can testify that we exist, that we matter- Tetzlaff

I realized something valuable today, something I should have known all ready. I realized that Patience is next to Godliness. And I have none.

Write what you know

2011-02-04T04:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Miri

Companion in life, knight under the full moon. The snow on Londons god forsaken streets remind me of your skin, I keep on filling my pockets with it. Trying to bring you homer with me. You melt, you disappear, slipping through my fingers. Impossible to hold, impossible to let go.

These walls are screaming, the air is white from cigaret smoke that never's allowed to leave. Windows stay closed here, I try to capture my own shadows. Much like you, they're impossible. They run. Blood stained foot prints, old paintings smelling like death. Every single book ever written ( before this century of course) creating an layer on top of the floor. I walk on top of them. Float on stories thats been worn out. They're just as tired as I am.

What did you dream last night?

I dreamt of you. In your mothers blood stained wedding dress you smiled and you had some sort of sick desperation in your laugh.

Companion of mine, give me life.

love, Belle

quid pro quo

2011-02-03T00:43:00.000-08:00

Could I go there you ask. I just might could, but Im not sure it would do any good. Without Louis and that greek god that was his boyfriend I dont know what else there is left. Some paintings, a mirror leaning against the wall and some Brooks brothers jackets in the closet perhaps. And if Im lucky, those jackets might still smell like Benson & Hedge and Old Raj gin. Other than that? Most likely nothing. Fifteen bedrooms and ten baths filled with nothing. One balcony that could fit an entire soccer field and a dining hall good enough for queens. To have a lot of space is worth nothing less than zero when you lack emotions or items to fill it with.

In the end, your stuff ends up owning you. Im thinking about throwing away all my dresses, to keep only one left for myself. Eat sleep and breath in it until the end of the year. If I have nothing, then Id possibly be up for a trip to the countryside. A time travel to when times weren't this rough.

When there's nothing left to burn

2011-02-02T01:38:00.000-08:00

If you could chose anywhere to wake up tomorrow, where would you wanna open your eyes and meet the morning? Father figure Frank called in the middle of the night, he whispered with a voice filled with unanswered questions. Filled with guilt and anxiety.

I know the answer. Its a vague and unfulfilling one, but an answer non the less.

Louis owned a spectacular house, maybe he still did until he was brought back to life and then killed once more.Louise Dahl-Wolfie would have made such a beautiful painting of him had she known him like I did. L walking

endless corridors, mirrors covered with black fabric in the end - his face had lost its beauty and L hated all things

whom lacked beauty, he hated them above murder, torture and war. He hated ugliness. So he hid, like a mad man in a house big enough

for fifty people. His young adonis stayed with him, took care of him and helped him keep his substance abuse under control.

Under control for them meant satisfied, and fulfilled.

I adored that house, the parties held there were the best ones in Britain. Models, actors, poets and other idiots

drank Louis champagne and smoked cigars until night became day. And in the middle of it all was I. A young blond freckled little girl,

not ever a word spoken but still there. Watching, and thinking that in that room - I wasn't that different.

Iris never cared if I came home smelling like gin, and with evidence of wild nights in the shape of white powder on my expensive dresses.

She never cared. But she made sure the dream was interrupted to early, she woke me up and forced me out of it prematurely.

If I could run anywhere, I would run to that house.

You have to set yourself on fire

2011-02-01T13:35:00.000-08:00

When sleeping comes to be the hardest part of the day, thats when you have to self medicate. I turned to Anna Karenina and Tramadol last night, like two knights in shining armor they guarded my mind while sleep failed to do so. I lit candles in a circle around my bed, pretended to be a corps in an old and expensive chest. It was a funeral, it was a childish dream.

Much like my life in general ; a funeral/a childish dream

They want to teach you how to march (I want you to dance on my grave)

2011-01-31T13:41:00.000-08:00

This is what they want from me

1. To have a father, a real one. Not a man to whom I refer as father figure and whos bed I sometimes sleep in.
Frank is a tall, beautiful creature who I have known of for a long time, but never really known. But that's never been an obsticle, Ive still been hopelessly and inconveniently in love with him. So has my mother always been. This is the only place where our minds crosses paths. This is only thing that ties us together. He is my father just as she is my mother. But they are not my parents, nor my family.

2. To stop drinking. Alcohol makes young girls age in a tragical way, it dries our skin out and makes us less like those Lolitas they secretly wish for. News flash, dearest men - I am two years to old to be a nymphet. Two years, and one houndred thousand thoughts to old. They want me stop drinking, and do more drugs. Cocaine chic is beautiful, its Vouge. They want me to be like all those pretty anorexics who passes out back stage. I want to pass out on the street, in the middle of Liberty while shopping for Manolos or at Chinawhite while trying to avoid all married men who I sometimes fall in to. On top of.

3. To love.

4. To have friends, call them and cry in the middle of the night when sleeping is out of the question and drinking has become boring. They want me to spend my emotions on friends, but I like the way my emotions create puddles in the pages of my mothers old books. The ink mixes with my inner self. I am one with what ever I read. No one can take that away from me.

This is what I want from you, tell me what people expect and why. Tell me how you feel.
And then, lets all burn their wishes. Lets paint the streets of our own cities with our responsibilities. Let the ashes be you. Lets die, and come back as something stronger.

B. 713

2011-01-31T05:37:00.000-08:00

La femme est plus forte par le sentiment que l’homme n’est fort par sa puissance.

-Honoré de Balzac

The death and birth of something beautiful

2011-01-30T10:54:00.000-08:00

An hotell cellar, graveyard candles and red roses outside and crosses covering the walls. Miri took my hand and led me into the dark night, into the light. We're all gonna die tonight she whispered and I didn't tell her that a young man, possibly high definetly drunk stopped me on the street. He asked me when I thought I was gonna die and I answered that Im hoping that death isn't to far away. Maybe in the end of the week? I stared at my worn out Manolos and tried to avoid looking in to his eyes. Then he said what Miri later repeated unknowingly. You're going to die tonight. We're all going to die tonight.

The cellar was packed, fashionistas and immortal artists, editors in chief and random bloggers who make their living by wearing cloths and posting pictures of their charade. A man in a black cape gave me a bottle of Moët and I started crying. I emptied my plugged veins in the eternal salvation that is darkness. The absence of light is more merciful than cocaine. The same man later gave me a black envelope with cash. Because you're strange and you're beautiful.

Are you afraid of something she asked and I told her that I can't stand this. If she leaves, much like everyone else has, I will die. Because you see

She grows inside of me by the second, by every step I come to be more dependent on her presence

Line up, soldiers

2011-01-26T04:27:00.000-08:00

Couldn't walk straight, my footsteps created a z-lined pattern on the streets I passed. Bouncing from one building to another, left right left right. Like a soldier. In an army devoted to the greater good. We defend what they condemn. Teenage porn stars and acid? Sir, yes Sir.

She wasn't there. I was so sure that if I called, she'd come. The alley screamed she will never come back, you wont find her

I just wanted to know her name. Ask her who she was before those stockings got ripped.

When I tripped and fell on Bond street an old woman helped me up. Go home she said, sleep it off You'll feel better in the morning.

She lied.

Lolita

2011-01-23T10:12:00.000-08:00

She haunts me when ever I close my curious eyes. She visits me in my bed when I finally go to sleep. She sings to me when I drink to much. The girl from the alley wraps her stick-thin legs covered with ripped stockings around my conscious when ever I let go. Last night when I was sound a sleep thanks to Tramadol and blanc de blances she softly whispered in my ear

You will go down with me

And I believed her. Now, awake and semi-clear minded I still do.

It's bedtime for jokers

2011-01-21T13:19:00.000-08:00

Father figure Frank and Louis finished a bottle of bourbon, smoked cigarettes and laughed the way only men in their older thirties can. I made my way through the hallway, trying to be easy on the steps, trying to float on their smoke. I didn't want them to know I was listening. They never said anything remotely true then I figured out long before I learned to lie myself.

Louis whispered about the accident. About a shared needle and a positive test result. The laughter stopped that instant.

My hero had fallen, he had been reduced from a life in the warmth of spotlights to nothing but death on a silver platter. I sat down frantically holding on to a copy of 1984 and shaking with anx when Frank found me, picked me up and carried me back to bed. Then he made me take a sip and set my throat on fire. From the hallway Louis steps echoed and set the beat to which Frank sang
It’s bedtime for jokers We’re dead serious this year And here comes April all in blue And good she dresses torned and too They killed our heroes one by one´

My hero had fallen, and the laughter never re-entered.

This one's for you

2011-01-21T02:13:00.000-08:00

An angel bored like hell

2011-01-18T14:03:00.000-08:00

Walked through the deep fog in the hallway, made my way to kitchen with a vison so blury I couldn't tell if I was alone or not. Three Tramadol and gin on the rocks is to much. One and some plum wine is to little.

A bottle of what I assumed was champagne was left half filled on the table. I grabbed it, jumped up the window and slowly came back to life. A note on the table, took forever to read. Iris had indeed left. It told me more than that though

Funeral a week from now, noon. You know where.

Black, of course. Wear a bra, do not wear anything with lace.

I wont return until then, get your act together.

Decided to walk the shame off and to not get dressed. A black trench, unbottoned but belted halfway covered my naked body. Cold winds and strangers said bonjour to the freckles on my upper ribs. On a bench close to Liberty I sat down, smoked slowly and wiped away some slow moving tears. Hours passed, evening turned into night.

An alley not so far away, she asked the man infront of me if he wanted some company. He looked back at me, lowered his head and shrugged. Like I would judge you Mr, like I would be pure enough to through a stone. When I passed her I noticed her freckles, similar to mine. Her stockings were ripped, but the dress was a Chloè.

I wonder how she ended up there. Selling what I give away to who ever cares enough.

She could have thought the exact same thing about me. How did I end up there?

suicide solution

2011-01-16T13:18:00.000-08:00

Been dying slowly these past couple of days. Been seeing everything I ate in reverse, reliving all nine stages of hell (Yes, Ive been to hell and back before) and sleeping more than Ive ever done before. In sheets stained with sin Ive sweated out all anxiety from my past. Iris gave me four Tramadol and left. That was wednesday so Im doubting she'll be back.

She fears weakness more than anything. More than love.

The fever is slowly dropping to a more suitable temperature (close to Rigor mortis), my back is drying up and I start to regain some sort of consciousness. I light cigarettes although I still have burning ones in the ashtray next to me.

I do not wish to be anywhere else, nor to be anyone else. Not because this miserable existence is what Id choose above all but because I simply cant imagin anything else.

Please

2011-01-10T16:50:00.000-08:00

Im not interested in letting go

Iris, I just want to leave

A devil meaning well

2011-01-09T10:16:00.000-08:00

A phone call. Autumn still, not long after a sunday walk but week had past.

- Im dying darling-belle and so are you.

- We're all dying dear. I might beat you to it old man.

- I hope not he said after a long pause, good night

Audrinne, a tall brunette which I shared room with at boarding school stared at me with sad eyes. She never asked about the nightly phone calls, even though they woke her up. Without a word she lifted her duvet and made room for me. I laid down next to her and she stroke my forehead until I fell asleep. Not a single word was spoken that night. The only light in the room was from her burning cigarette.

When I woke up, Iris passed the news through the principal who called to his office. Louis was dead. I had already dreamt about that exact scene the night before, in the arms of my loving roommate. I mourned him with intensity and passion, and wrote letters I never sent telling him about what he had left behind. Loved him more and deeper than before.

If I had sent them, we might have had those years (lost because of her lie)

What else has she stolen?

My hero

2011-01-06T06:42:00.000-08:00

I was ten, maybe nine, and it was the loveliest time of the year. Early octobre, the leafs were blood red and yellow and my mind was filled wonder. We walked slowly, he smoked and I loved the way he smelled. Hyde park was filled with people, horses and dogs. He asked me if I wanted a dog and when I noded he promised me one. Iris ended up sending the puppy I namned Stalin to "a nice family on the country side" after a week. He had destroyed some dress.

I didn't cry.

We used to walk for hours, Louis and I. He never saw the bruises on the outside, but he knew where to find the ones on the inside. I couldn't wrap silk and labels around them. I could never hide a single emotion from his curious eyes. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. He was sick. I was hurt.

That is how I remember him. A tall handsome man in his mid thirties, causal chinos by Brooks brothers and always a lit cigarett between two thin fingers. Much like me, he didnt sleep and the evidence was painted with a dark shade beneath his eyes. We looked like father and daughter.

The sunday walks became less frequent, and his pants seem to increase in size. Years later, he was dead.

Killed by a blue sky, not beneath it

2011-01-04T11:52:00.000-08:00

We are not alone.

I: bleeding finger nails. Contemplating. Desperately holding onto a glass of heated plum wine. Licking my lips. Staring straight forward, only slightly above her head. Focusing on the back of a book. Our Mutual friend, Charles Dickens. An old Brooks Brothers shirt and stay ups. Gorgeous hair.

She: Perfectly polished and french manicured nails. Running her index finger slowly round and round the edge of a high ball cocktail glass, filled to the brim with gin and ice. Fixating her eyes on the table. Tapping her left foot against the carpet. Dior, crisp white dress and pearls. Red hair.

We: Sit across from each other. Library setting. Dimmed lights. Exhaling Benson & Hedge smoke carefully. Not talking. Challenging each other.

No mother, I do not go to school. I do not eat. I do not sleep. I take a lot of pills. There are only two bottles of wine left in the once packed wine cellar. Yes, I drank it all.

Hours pass, not a word is spoken. Then she takes a deep breath, like she tries to push air down to her uterus, a large sip of gin and half a smile. I force myself to look at her (she's beautiful, I hate how perfect her face is) but I cant summon the strength to smile back. Then she slowly separates the two thick lines of Esteé Lauder that is her lips. When she leans over the table I can almost smell the lipstick (old age, or maybe even death)

-Did you know Louis?

-Your brother? Uncle Louis? No, I never met him. I thought he died

-Well, he did. Yesterday.

-Oh

She told me he died seven years a go. I didnt bother to ask her why she lied, nor did she explain it further. We simply opened another bottle, and let the silence consume us. Ignorance is bliss.

Red soles and black coffee

2011-01-03T06:43:00.001-08:00

Yesterday morning, I hadnt slept at all. Thoughts moved around in my mind with a speed similar to racing cars. Like club kids on x.They made me dizzy, I couldn't turn their volume down even after three Demerol and half a bottle. All it did was turn the speed up. I screamed into my pillow, threw up in a wine glass placed by my bed. Cried and screamed some more. Needless to say ; when the morning sun hit my window I looked like shit. Like seven years of anxiety and panic had washed over me.

So when the sound of keys turning a lock came from the hallway I rushed to put on a shirt, the housekeeper doesnt need to see my bare chest again (she was horrified the last time) and made my way to meet her with a check. But the steps didnt sound like hers, they had more power, more determination in them. They wore sharp high heels.

-Dear god, when did you last shower?

-Welcome home, mother.

Lets cry it out

2010-12-31T03:10:00.000-08:00

Another year, a lot of lonely days. Some in the most loving company there is. Miri held my hands in Camden a couple of nights a go J D Salinger died this year ya know. We drank mai tais until our vision was blurry enough, and then we loved each other a little bit more. Sisters by heart, connected through sorrow and guilt. We know the secret, we just cant deal with it. We dont know how to handle it. We're no good at protecting the light (We always seem to blow it out)

Father figure Frank wrote a letter, the second one Ive received during these nineteen years.

He promises that 2011 will be different 1) I'll talk to Belle 2) I wont leave if you ask me not to

I promise that 2011 will be a year when I 1) Start drinking earlier in the morning 2) Write letters, long ones. Let me know if you want one darlings.

J D Salinger died this year. But we'll always have catcher in the rye.

Unite and take over

2010-12-28T10:29:00.000-08:00

Christmas was awful.

I didnt plan on going, but when the dark night hit the city I felt lonelier than ever and I ended up attending Amanda's party. My hair worn as a veil, covering my pale skin with white strings. I used to have freckles but they have faded during the last month. Much like everything else. December kills a lot of things.

One violent embrace later, A loves with intimidating strength, I poured two glasses of slightly heated plum wine down my sore troth. Ive been smoking to much, eating to little. Scanning the room filled with thin girls and boys wearing suits, but with striped tshirts under instead of shirts. Feathers on the floor, pearls and punch. Christmas orphans, unite!

When I woke up in the bathtub after a minute of unconsciousness (an hour?) all I could see was red spots. Dark red spots. My nose cant take this anymore. My body is old, and its starting to resent me. A called my driver, and when I finally got home I fell a sleep in the black corset that had taken me an hour to get on with a lit cigaret between my lips. Unfortunately it didn't end up burning down the apartment. Nor did it kill me. At least, not in an instant.

A timekill to die for

2010-12-25T03:28:00.001-08:00

Last night I tried to poison myself, not the suicidal kind of poisoning but just enough to sleep throughout this whole day. I failed. Plum wine, methadone and demerol. A blood red haze. In my dreams, Frank kissed my forehead and sang to me ( did I ever tell you about his voice? Its the most soothing sound I know) She is the sad one I’m a clown, Charlie Chaplin, Eva Braun ,She learned to smile, I bought her friends, It was the beginning of the end and I think he sang about me. For me.

I woke up feeling lonelier than ever. Amanda had left a message on my cell. She knows I wont return the call. It has nothing to do with love, its just my phobia. Much like what Freud felt about women. Keep them away for they are the devil. The fact that I own an iphone is so ironiC I wont even get into it. There will be a party, or lets call it a charity event, for lonely young hearts at her apartment tonight. No gifts, no fucking food and no singing she said. "If you dont come, Ill have you killed"

She's serious.

I still cant really focus my eyes, and my mind resembles a Pollock right now. So I have to sleep some more if Im going to make the far walk to her place. Or maybe I should take some more. Depends on what kind of night I want.

Poison is for professionals. Im an amateur. Always have been.

( Id love for you to email me today, if you're bored : Belleinarms@googlemail.com)

Partial lobotomy

2010-12-20T10:37:00.000-08:00

The excruciatingly silent morning after, he had slept on his stomach in a pathetic attempt not to get blood on the expensive sheets. I hadnt slept at all. Those nights when I do are rare.

Franks back, dried up drops saying bonjour . The same colour as my nails, signed Chanel.

With the kind of movement that resembled a very old woman, possibly half dead, I stumbled out of bed and sat down in the window. Treating the cigaret like a vail, taking comfort in the fact that white smoke is only half way transparent. As long as I was smoking, I could act as though the silent didnt bother me. He finished a glas of bourbon still half full from last night Belle dear, Im thinking about moving to LA, London is nothing but one of the nine stages of hell without you and your mother. That is when it hit me. The present perfect tense of last nights sentence -It was all going to be okay. He was; still eager to heal me. still in love. I was ; Agonizing. Loving him. Biting my nails until they were bleeding. Mixing it with his. We : No blood connection. Fiction. A bond beyond what meets the eye.

His wound undoubtedly has healed now.

I still cant sleep (Technically speaking, the operation is brain damage, but it's on a par with a night of heavy drinking. Nothing you'll miss)

Ages have passed since I last felt alive

2010-12-18T18:38:00.000-08:00

Punch me I yelled, please punch me

His blood freckled my arm. I didnt mean to puncture his pale skin below the shoulders with my brooch,or at least I didnt think I would go that deep.

But he was sleeping so heavily ( heavenly) that I doubted he would even wake up. Unfortunately he did. This surprised me because the needle was so thin.

I just wanted to write my name on your skin I lied.

The look he gave me when those words were spoken is until this day still the gloomiest my eyes ever met. Then he gave me the most sincere embrace, stroke my hair carefully and told me "everything is okay. It will all be okay"

And I closed my eyes for a second, then I focused on la plaie invisible that I had given him, and the suprisingly amounts of blood coming out of it.

Please hurt me I begged

Abandon all hope ye who enters here

2010-12-17T00:55:00.000-08:00

Where're you going?

I ran through rows of well dressed people. Chinawhite doesn't even have a sign, its so pretentious I couldnt stand it. I left A there, she handles those situations well but I panic. I always panic.

An hour maybe two before I left, a model offered me some escape and then she peed while I was still in the booth. Models are horrible people. Model citizens. The ones who will all save us someday.

God loves the beautiful ones.

Two drops of blood from my nose landed in the champagne, I drank it all - thirsty for something real. Something human.

Someone knocked and pulled the door handle . We'd been in there for ever. The model and I. When I first kissed her she pulled away, then she laughed - took a deep breath, a snow white inhalation. Then she she said ; Do you know someone, like really know someone? Inside out, get them completely? Cause I dont think we ever really will.

Its just dust.Peter Pan didn't want to grow up. You can even walk on it. Fly above it. It kills every sound around you if you want it to, creates a layer of innocence on top of everything you see. Its a brand new start, it covers the filth. Its snow. And the winter is much like the truth ; cold and awful but beautiful from the outside looking in.

If you cant beat them (join them?)

2010-12-14T20:33:00.000-08:00

I was ten, it was four days until christmas and I was in London. Boarding schools does not accept minors to spend the holidays in their premises without parental approval. No matter how much I begged.

Trying to read Rules of attraction, falling in love with Sean Bateman. In the dining hall- laughter climbs the walls, mothers voice clear and oh so loud and then he proposed. Can you imagine. Dear lord, I can not cope. Such a sad old man he is. Ten, or maybe even twelve different laughs joined hers.

Mockery, one of her many talents.

Tea parties, one of her many excuses to avoid me (out of sight, outof mind)

They didnt drink tea, and their gossip wasnt suitable for my sensitive ears. I wasnt allowed to leave my room until they all had left. That didnt spare my soul. I could smell them, hear them far to clearly. Pearls and Chanel dresses. Gin on the rocks served in tea cups, scones and cigarettes.