Don't ever say you're lonely.

The taboo you're never supposed to say. Not banned, not illegal and yet, if you start spouting it here, there and everywhere, you'll start to cause offense. Backlash. People around you will begin to feel distant, insulted, put-out. But still, sometimes the feeling prevails, and on rare occasions, you blurt out the thing that any self respecting human being isn't supposed to say.

"I'm lonely." 

Why? What? Has something happened? Who have you fell out with? Questions gushing in. In reality, it's probably nothing. Maybe there's no one you're blaming. No one making you feel alone and isolated. No one that abandons you or makes you feel small. No one, that is, except you. You can have the most amazing support system around you, and still, sometimes, it's possible to feel really quite lonely. Whether there's someone holding your hand, or at the other end of the phone, or if they have their arms wrapped around your waist. I feel guilty, because I feel this way. I have the most amazing boyfriend, wonderful family and brilliant friends, and all I can think of today is loneliness. I should just shrug it off. It's just 'one of those things' that will pass. Exhaustion, routine, boredom, space, whatever it is that makes me feel like this, I haven't a clue. I feel like I try to push people away when really, they're the ones I need the most. If I don't understand my reasoning behind it, how can anyone else? 

All I can ask of you is this; don't give up on me. Bare with me. If I doubt myself, reassure me. If I feel down, try to make me feel more like myself. The smallest of gestures can go a really long way. No one is negative forever. 

Book #7: The End of Alice by A.M Homes.

I currently lie in my bed, staring at my bedroom walls, blank, expressionless. I have just finished this book, and now, I'm speechless. To look at the cover, examine it closely, it gives nothing away. Well, not to someone who hasn't read it, yet now, I've taken a second look, and this time, I get it. It's representative of what's inside the jacket, what the words are just dying to convey.

In all honesty, I had no idea what this book was about when I bought it. I just picked it up, liked the title and never even read the back of it. While the front cover reads 'this is everything fiction should be-wrenching, disturbing and emotive,' the inside is what really reveals more than I could have ever thought humanly possible. To state the absolute obvious if you've ever googled this book, or picked up a copy, it is not nice. In fact, I found it so horrific, so morally degrading, that I struggled to read it and actually get to the end.

Written in the 90's, this book got a really bitter reception, and with the subject matter, it's no surprise as to why. The story follows, and is narrated almost solely by a man, a convinced paedophile, who writes from the confines of his prison cell. In doing so, he exchanges letters with a young girl, manipulating and grooming her and all the while, tiny pieces, or in some places, large chunks of his criminal past are infiltrated into the reader's mind. 

I can't even begin to fully describe how I feel about this book. I actually dropped it when my eyes finished glossing over the last few lines, in a mixture of shock, disgust and relief. I can't even believe I'd read something like this. It's so chilling, so inhumane, so utterly perverse, that actually, I kind of wish I'd never layed eyes on it. My lungs feel exhausted, my heart is in my throat, my eyes are streaming, but whether these are tears of confusion, sadness or blinding fear, I don't know. This is not, I must stress, a book for the faint hearted. More brutal as it goes on, I can't even count how many times my gag reflex kicked in when my eyes began to feast on the monstrosity in front of me. Shocked to the core, disgusted beyond belief, I feel kind of numb now. 

It's full of manipulation, deceit and ruin; loss of innocence, brutality and mass disturbance. There's something about this book that gets under your skin. Grabs you by the throat and leaves you gasping for life. While I can sit and appreciate how skillfully it is written, I will never ever suggest anyone need/must read it. From it's vulgar, masochistic tones, to it's sheer, unadulterated courage, I can't even believe this was allowed to be published. Haunting from the first page to the very last, a book I will not forget in a hurry, no matter how hard I try. An eye-opener, a casualty you wish you'd never seen, a demon you'd never wish to discover. Read it or don't, that's not for me to say. I just know, personally, and I know most will agree, this may be a subject taken a bit too far. Maybe this novel should have been kept hidden in the dark, chilling depths of A.M Homes' mind, rather than a copy of it left discarded in disgust at my bedside. 

Attention, please.

"Have you ever walked into a room and realised everyone was talking about you? Have you ever had it happen twenty times in a row..? I have." Cady Heron, Mean Girls. 

There are good and bad kinds of attention, we all know that. It's funny, we seem to be able to understand the difference silently in our heads, even from just a glance. I recently walked into a pub and a group of lads all turned and looked at me, while someone muttered something under their breath. Sounds good, right? Wrong. On the surface this may seem okay, mediocre, normal even. But it isn't. I'm not referring to the attention part, I'm referring to the act of doing so. The hidden meaning behind it. Knowing what someone else is thinking when they look at you. For me, that's kind of an awful feeling, or was then. An educated guess allowed me to realise that ten sets of eyes on me as I walked, drink in tow, shoulders back, head high, past this group, wasn't a good thing. I knew why they were looking. And note, not speaking. Some of sharing perhaps similar yet silent views. The others only partly aware of what is being thought, or acknowledged as I sat down in the smoking area, swigging my double vodka, very unladylike. I shrug my shoulders and force a smile and pretend to hide the very obvious feeling of self consciousness I am possessing at such a moment. Attention is a funny little thing. Sometimes you want it, other times you'd rather suffocate yourself with your duvet than have anyone even acknowledgeu your existence. It depends how you're feeling and ultimately, who it is you're receiving the attention from. A good-looking stranger, a vague acquaintance or a really creepy man who has been hovering behind you at the bus stop for the last twenty minutes. They're all...different. The underlying meaning is different. Admittedly, there are times when I thrive in situations where I'm being 'seen' and noticed, I like the attention, but who doesn't? I've never really wanted to blend into the background, but sometimes, there is such a thing as too much attention. Then again, maybe I just have a funny feeling about that scenario, and I know why. I guess you can't expect to be noticed one minute, and ignored the next. Although, evidently, some people find that easier than others.