Chapter One: Anger is the only Lemon.

I feel so angry.  I feel angry.  I feel – my feet are warm, but I’ve run out of chocolate.  I am so sick of being told what to do.  I really thought that when you hit eighteen you would just be an adult.  But you aren’t.

When are you really an independent adult?  I suppose you aren’t until you are, so it really doesn’t matter, be cause I am not.  But it all comes down to making decisions.  I will show you what I mean.


I have a small request.  OR perhaps a big one.  My ears are ringing in my head and I just can’t help but ask you:

  • Would you please stop instructing me
  • stop telling me things
  • stop arguing with everything I say
  • stop disagreeing with all my hypotheses
  • stop noticing when I’m mad or sad or bad or angry or ticked off
  • Please please please just stop.

Chapter 2 : A walk in the rain with an alien and a baseball bat

A letter to myself:

To whom it concerns,

You have not what you need, or do you?  Can you stick it back together with bluetack and mashed potato?  Don’t use jam, cos that is sticky.  It’s nearly June, and then will come July and August, and all.  And it will all begin again.  Choose the one with chips, she said, and don’t use blutak, it’s not good after a while.  sellotape and pva will do the trick.  ANd put it all in the oven.

All the best of luck and trivia, your adoring self,



I think it is valuable to let yourself be you, and love you for it.  The other day I laughed at a line in a song, and nobody else thought it was funny.  I felt complicated by this.  I loved the line, I think it’s great.  So why didn’t they?  And did that matter?  I have been trying to avoid letting them spoil it for me.  But somehow it bothers me.

Ah, the anti-climax.  The moment when, after everything has gone so well, nothing is good.  Or is it just not as good as you thought it was.  Or perhaps it was?  Yes it was, so what is this?  Fast arrival of nostalgia for fourteen hours ago?  It will return, you know, the good time.  Just as all of these tough and irritating times seem to keep recurring, so will the good times.  (But really, was it good?  Or was it disappointing?  It was a little bit disappointing, be honest.)


OK, you’re right.  It was disappointing.  It was really quite disappointing.  Why?  Uhrm… because it just was.  Nobody was applicable.  Everybody was not quite right for the job, and at the same time very nice, and so is it bad, or just not that good?  No, it’s good, it’s just not perfect.  Still pretty good.   It’s just sad that it’s over now.  And we’re back here, with the three dwarves, Grumpy, Sleepy and Sickly.


I wonder if it’s unusual for a person to be entirely aware that they are going to go insane.  I am going to crack.  I can feel it in my brain, and my spine and my soul.  I hate everyone.  I don’t think I have the potential to kill a bunch of people, any more than anyone else does.  You ask too many questions,

you give too many instructions,

you make me want to scream,

you make me want to smash things up, break things and destroy,

you make me hate, because I am being smothered,

I’m being smothered by all the things you think,

by all of your concerns,

by all of the things you tell me to do and by all the things you tell me not to.

Who the are you to tell me what the heck I should do?


Stop it

Stop telling me what to do!  My gosh.  Everybody.  Always.  Bossing me around.  What is up with that.?  It’s constant and I hate it.  I hate it all.  It is so sinister to find myself day dreaming about murdering people.  There is a lot of television about that sort of thing.  “killing people to make your life easier.”  Let’s see, there’s Fargo, there’s Buffy, there’s … well they kill people in Firefly, Angel, The Legend of Barney Thomas, God Bless America, Kick Ass, etc, etc.  So what ever.  I’m so so so so tired of all of this rubbish, you know?  I just want to do shit for myself.  I’m always being told I’m fucking wrong at this or that, that I’m too slow or I did it wrong.  And for fuck sake, if I was just doing it all on my tod, I’d be fucking fine and I would do the whole thing myself, so why the fuck am I being made to feel like shit just because you are doing half of it?  Fuck off.


So, shut up and leave me alone is the theme of the day, toffee popcorn and cat love will later on triumph, but only if people will stop bossing me around.  I think that life does create some of us as these boss around dolls, which eventually find new dolls to boss around.  It’s evident when you see chickens.  The big ones boss around the littler ones, and the littler ones boss each other around.  The littlest ones boss everyone around, and they get bossed right back.


In other words, today it is raining.  It is a soupy trafalgar of – what now you stupid spell check?  I really could do without your constant interruptions.  Just auto correct it if you feel so strongly.  I am so sick of everything.  I feel like just – I don’t even know what I feel like.  I want to go and lose myself in a strange city.  I’ll change my name and eat popcorn every day and I’ll work at the cinema as a projectionist and I will cut my hair and become a rabbit and follow the wind and never be under the heel of any body.  And I will never speak to another person again.  Ever.  Nobody deserves to hear my voice or my opinions.  Nobody appreciates them so they can do without.  And they will be sorry.  And I will not be sorry.  And that will be that.


I left my heart in the town centre.  It is adrift.  It floated away like a helium balloon, and then it got stuck in a tree or a power line or a fence.  And now I am alone, I am lost and I am trapped and there is no hope for me.  What do you do when you are at a place like this?


You know, there is really nothing to do when you reach this place,  you just have to carry on going.  Keep pushing yourself along like a toy train.  Keep putting food in your mouth and playing with your toes.  Daydream about the death of people like Jan and whatever her name was, and that stupid guy, and that other rotten bloke, and the ones who tell you what to do, how to be.  And eat chocolate, and toast, and fries.   And ice cream.

All you can do is nothing.  What I do is I keep on writing.  I like writing.  I love writing.  I love reading, writing, scribbling, colouring, drawing, painting, knitting, sewing, cooking, baking, eating, drinking, watching, writing, drawing, fixing, scrubbing, bathing, digging, walking, singing, dancing.

So really there is a lot I have to live for, and that is a lot to live from.



What I don’t understand is this: why do we talk to each other when nobody is listening?  I feel I want to make a chart to document the lack of interest my statements and anecdotes accrue.   And it’s not as if I really need any kind of response, it’s just that, in society, you talk to the people you share spaces with.  And, in society, you nod and smile and pretend to be interested.  You respond, some how.  I don’t know why I care, and I really wish I didn’t, but I can’t help it.  It drives me crazy.


“Sometimes I get mad that I was ever born.”


“I get so mad cos this world is so full of crap.  It’s so maddening.  I get so mad at all the butt heads who litter, or who chew loudly.  I’m mad that it’s all so broken and that I’ve been tipped into it.  People think they should be thanked for taking care of me, but I really think they should be condemned for not using birth control like condoms.  If you could have just done me that favour, then I would not be here right now, feeling like crap.”


“You don’t think that’s a little bit harsh?”

“No.  No, I don’t.  Do you?”

“I guess it’s fair.”

“I had no deciding control over my existence.”

“It’s like fate.”


“You’re right.  It is fate.  I didn’t used to believe in fate, but lately I really do.  I don’t know why people have such a problem with fate, actually.  It doesn’t mean you don’t get to make choices, it just means that someone else already knows what those choices will be.  And it also means that it doesn’t matter which road you take, because you will always end up the way you are destined to end up.  It takes the pressure off, actually.”


“I contain multitudes.”

Emily Dickinson said that.  But I do too.  I contain multitudes, and I think my thoughts are important.  My words are powerful.  A person doesn’t need to have anything about themselves’ validated.  We do not need to be heard.

We all contain multitudes, and it’s all for us.


“Stop saying no.  Stop saying no to me.  We are having a discussion, stop interrupting me while I’m talking with the first word as “no”.  I need you to stop.  Please stop.  Please please stop.”

“I can’t stop, because I believe that you are mistaken”

“I don’t care.  I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care.”

“Very mature.”

“Oh, you block head.  Go fly a kite.”


Life is exhausting.  What is the point of human interaction.  I just want to go somewhere and never come back.  I just want to be left alone.  I’m so tired of conversations and the uselessness of them.

“I hate everyone in the whole world.”


Chapter Nine: If you don’t stop it I will have to kill you 

There are a selection of reasons why living in a shared house is a bad idea.

Reason number one is: Boundaries.

Reason number three: the floor is always open.

4. There is no peace and quiet.

5. You can’t sit in silence just because you want to.  Someone is always around, doing something, making sounds.

Chapter 10

What are you going to do?  It’s odd how complex our experiences are.  You can feel happy and not at the same time.  Some things are just not quite right.  Everything is just about good, if only a few factors could be adjusted.


I don’t think I do conversations very well.  I certainly don’t seem to enjoy them as much as I think I will when I read them in books or watch them on television, or in films.  I think that a talking stick would be cool.  Or something.  You could have groups of two or three, and a timer goes off at regular intervals, at which point it becomes the other person’s turn to talk.  Of course, they may well have been in the middle of a story, and so you might say, no, keep going until the next timer alarm.  Or you could use the opportunity to ask a question for them to elaborate or explain some aspect, or to say what you think about what they think, and then soon it will be their turn again.

But it’s not just that, I am trying to work out what it would be that would make it a perfect evening?  I would like it if you could hear every thing you wanted to, because public places can be loud, and in real life, someone can talk over someone else, and it’s gone forever, it’s like being at the cinema, because you can’t rewind.

There’s very little time to think.

So, a perfect evening…

What would I like to talk about?


Dracula by Bram Stoker comes to mind.  It’s such a good book, it’s so interesting and scary and it’s funny too, in some ways.

I’d also like to talk about movies, new movies, favourite movies, favourite characters and parts of movies, top five favourite movies, (sort of off the cuff, you know, like when Rachel in Friends chooses her list of celebrities she can go with without it being cheating?  Not agonising, like when Ross chooses his.  In the past I have been agonising, as if my choices will somehow cause all other films to be deleted or something.  It’s just fun, remember.)

Maybe favourite actors…

Favourite books, discussions of books, explanations of book plot lines, favourite characters etcetera.

I don’t know.  You know?  I just think that we don’t really talk about the things we should talk about.  We should share jokes we’ve heard, have fun.  I don’t know.  It’s hard to make up a perfect evening just like that.  I guess Bill Murray explores that in Groundhog day 🙂 That would be fun, wouldn’t it?  To go through an evening and say, ok, tomorrow we won’t talk about that (sore subject) or, wow, I didn’t need to order that food, it tasted funky.


Chapter seven

So, I’m pretty much done with people.  Aren’t they the worst?  I’m just done with them.  I’ve no more listening for them, no more attention.  I’m done.  I don’t need their input.  I don’t need their conversation.  You can do a lot with nothing, and that is my intention.  I am done.  Done done done.  That’s it.  That’s the last anyone will ever hear of me.  I’m not conversing any more.  Nothing but monologues and silence.


I can’t remember why I’m in this position, but I remember it was a good reason.  It was a last straw sort of situation.  Now, I don’t know if it was because of what that gal said about the supermarkets, or if it was about that other gal who dismembered my favourite tv show.  All I really know, is that I want some spaghetti right now.  Spaghetti in a toastie.  And I want an ice cream sundae, and a blanket fort, and maybe a box set of something.

Anyway, I’m done.


“So I’ve been writing this novel for three months now, it seems like longer.”

Sophie looks at me. “are you going to get the apple crumble or the chocolate fudge cake.”

“Both probably.  Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, I am.  It does feel like a lot longer than three months.  Either way you didn’t win the novel writing competition, cos you missed the deadline.”

“Whatever.  I’m not into competitions.  I don’t think judges understand my style.  I’m not going to be appreciated until I’m dead.  And all of my art and writing will not be preserved, so I’ll be a sort of legend.”

“Well that’s cool.  I’m getting fries and soup and a bagel.  Four bagels.  And a chocolate fudge cake with custard and one of those little things.”

“What little things?  Cherries?”



“Ugh, I am going to barf.”

“Delightful.  No you’re not, you’re just drinking water too fast.  I’m cold.”

“Do you want to watch tv?  I don’t think I do.  I just want to go back to bed and sleep under my duvet all day.  And then in the night we can watch movies and eat fried sandwiches.”

“You have the most revolting thoughts sometimes.”

“Let’s go to a park and go on the swings!”

“Have you seen the mail?  There was something in it for you.”

“No, I let the mail find me, and then I run away.”

“Very mature.  You’re like an old tree.  Or a big rock on the beach.”


Chapter Eight – Boredom and the meaning of life.

It’s eight in the morning and I cannot help but say “I am so bored”

“Why?” replies Dakota.

“I don’t know.  I think that life is just monotonous.  We don’t really know where we are going, we are just shuffling along.  We have to do all these things we have to do, and they get in the way of the things we want to do, almost entirely, save for a few hours here and there.  And then we die.  Doesn’t that bug you?”

“Of course it does, but I don’t think it helps to think about it.” Dakota always has this incredible ability to rise above the scrabbling what ever that we have to deal with.  It’s not helpful at all, and I don’t believe it’s healthy either.

“I think I don’t know how you can not think about it.”  I say.  “it’s everywhere.  It’s in our hair and our clothes.  It greets us in the morning and it kicks us out of bed.  No that’s not true.  What it does is it sneaks up on us.  We get out of bed, all happy and true, and we start to do what ever it is we need to do that day.  That is when it gets us.  Whey you realise you’re doing something which is going to take hours and hours, and if you’re lucky you’ll get it done before you go to bed.  It’s basically the same thing you did yesterday and the day before that.  And it’s the same thing you will do tomorrow and the day after that.

And there’s a lot of pressure to do the best things with your spare time, because there is so little of it.  Why aren’t we just doing what we want to do in all of our time?”

Dakota looks at me for a minute and then says “Because you can’t.  In this world you have a responsibility to do a lot of boring things.  Some of them you’ll get paid for, others you won’t, all of them are mandatory and time consuming.  They are the wheel of life.  They have been invented so that the masses don’t have time to get crafty. “

“But I’ve no desire to become a mass of danger and mischief.  I just want to be a mass of drawing and scrap booking, of needlework and handstands.”

“You can’t do handstands.”

“I can do cartwheels.”

“Last time you did a cartwheel you hurt your muscles in your back.”

“That’s because I’m dying inside from all the boredom”

“No it’s because you didn’t warm up properly.  You never do.”

“That’s because my life is so boring, and I don’t want to waste another fifteen to thirty minutes warming up before I spend two minutes doing a few cartwheels.”

“We really should get on with our work.”

I sit staring blankly into the distance, my problems unsolved.  They are not really problems at all, and yet they are.  That’s the problem.

NB Pictures are of the band “Hinds” a Spanish indie rock band from Madrid, formed in 2011, consisting of Carlotta Cosials, Ana Perrote, Ade Martin and Amber Grimbergen.  They are really cool and I like them.

Plus a cat, some dolls, actors, film stills and some notebooks, which I found on the internet.

I do not own the rights to these pictures, so I guess I would have to take them out of my novel eventually.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sick of it all.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like: it’s autumn – I can’t deal with that right now.  I’m cold already and we’ve got five months ahead of us where it’s only going to get even more even colder.  And then there’s the fact that it’s still Thursday!  Can you even believe that?  It’s been Thursday for like a month now!  What gives?  Plus my feet are cold and I’m almost out of coffee.  And it’s still Autumn and Thursday.  When will it all end?”

“Oh like that.”

“I’m dying.”

“I don’t care.  I really don’t.  I’m just tired of being afraid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m quoting Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”

“Oh, right.  Great.  Well, that’s something I guess.”

“How do you think people manage to write an entire novel in one month?”

“I really do not know that.  But apparently it’s possible.”

“I don’t think I’ve written forty thousand words in my entire life.”

“I think probably you have.”

“I miss Kirsty.”

“Kirsty who?  Do you know how many Kirstys there are in the world?”

“A heck of a lot.  I personally know of four.”

“Me too!  Weird.”

“I’m talking about the one with long auburn hair and brown eyes.”

“I need more.”

“The nice one.  From fifteen years ago.”

“Oh yeah, I know.  You’ve only known one nice one?”



What ever happened to my disclaimer?  I think it got eaten up by my novel.  Oh well.  Just remember, it’s not my fault.  And what ever.  I am well and truly here to say I have no idea what is going on, she thought as she got on the bus.  What was the point of anything?  She hated abbreviations and lots of other things she couldn’t even remember.  so why was she even here?  She didn’t want to go to work.  Everyone on the world was obsessed with stupid stuff which didn’t matter.  And oh no.  Here was Lloyd.  She was trying to avoid him because she borrowed his theoretical dictionary of philosophy and she dropped it in the bath.  Hi Lloyd, Hi Emma.  How is your cereal?  Mine’s fine.  You’re theoretical dictionary of philosophy?  Oh if I could finish with it a bit longer, then I’ll give it back.

Now he’s doing things on his phone.  Phew.  Oh well.  She had been trying to find another copy to replace the old one, but she couldn’t find it anywhere.  She looked on the internet and in the specialist book shops.  It was no use.

Chapter Nine

She felt like, if she could just get the chance to get it all together, it would all be all right.  And probably it would.  Right?  It was already, really.  We are all just muffins on a tray, stars in the sky, drips on a leaf, leaves on a tree.  We are as coincidental and inconsequential as anything and everything else in the universe.  And yes, everything is not only inconsequential, but vitally important too, but it is all ultimately of no matter.  If you change one thing, everything else changes, but then it all changes back again, because the string of dominoes ends up back where it started.  So everything changes, but nothing changes.

It was really too early to be discussing things of this complexion.  She really needed a pick-me-up, but there was nothing in the house, and her teeth didn’t feel right.  What ever that means, of course.   What ever.  It didn’t matter.  She went into the kitchen and made herself a coffee.  She hated coffee, and it was probably the reason her teeth felt the way they did, but still, it was an anchor and a crutch for all her idols on the television shows, and she had an inherent right to copy them whenever it felt appropriate.

She felt exhausted by the stream of her own thoughts, so she put the tv on, hoping it would drown out the sound of them.  10890996_694987200618934_1871490524_n