Three chapters later

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

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

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

Fucking and punching

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

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

1. 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
2. .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.
3. 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

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

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

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.