Deadly sins: indulgence.

"Stand back. We're going to be filthy rich and notorious.Watch this space, there's some small, very important shoes to be filled."

And that was it. The curtain roll, so-to-speak. The inspiration. I found myself sitting in bed one early evening, with my laptop in tow, scrolling mindlessly through the internet, as you do, when it came to me. The claxon sounded. The moment of realisation grew on the horizon and expanded with passion in my irises. Just like that, one day, I knew it. I wanted to be more than most. I wanted to be famous. The notoriety. The infamy. The paparazzi bombardment, the media critique, the constant late nights and earlier mornings. Surviving on no sleep, health food kicks and sheer determination. Or maybe even an ego boost from a fan, or a writer, every once in a while. Designer...EVERYTHING. It wasn't enough to just have money, I wanted to swim in it. I wanted to bathe in the sheer extravagance that only comes with being able to afford to lose a hundred times more than you could spend in a year. The feeling that goes hand-in-hand with never having rattling, jangling change in your pocket, because you only ever need Fifties in your wallet. A professional manicure, stylist and shopper, because apparently, all these functions are far too working-class to be pursued when you're, oh, wait for it... FAMOUS. (Yes, you can stop screaming now.) I know, I know. I always said I would write sooner, but I mean, I got caught up in the bright lights and the autograph signings, and I mean, y'know, there's something really exhausting about having your photo taken constantly. I mean, come on, you know as well as I do that being 'photo ready' isn't really a thing, until you're staring down the media lens and you've got a very camp, very posh man shouting "oh darling, that looks absolutely gorgeous on you!" all the while pointing glaring fluorescent spotlights into your eyes, making your pupils dilate and your vision go blurry. It's as garish as they say, I won't lie, but, god, it's so worth it. Just to see the looks on the faces of those people as I clamber ever-so-elegantly out of a limousine and hold my breath and suck in my stomach while strutting down the reddest of carpets you can imagine. It's like fireworks night, when the camera shutters begin firing down one by one. And someone's shouting your name in the distant crowd, and the voices are muffled and there's so much positivity. And someone even dares to utter the phrase "and who are you wearing tonight?" I walk with such determination, and such audacity as copied stringently from the many before me, to make sure I give the right impression. The impression everyone's waiting to see. So, I look back, one more time, before reaching the door of wherever I am that night. I look into the dead eyes of the crowd, watch the camera flashes twinkle, and hear the roar of celebrity lifestyle. I blink, get ready to turn again, and it's too late. It's gone. As quick as it came about. My seven inch stilettos break beneath my tiny weight. My designer dress crumbles to ash around my ankles. I look again, and the cameras are gone. The red carpet is in tatters. There's no paparazzi, no fans, no autograph books or limousines. No celebrity endorsements, no microphones or magazine interviewers. They're simply gone. Like a flash of lightening. As quick as the spotlight hit me, the space around me darkened again. The lights went off before they even had a chance to go on properly.


"Shit."

I awoke. Startled. Shaken. Strangely grinning. A glimpse into the unknown, and yet, the passion hung in my stomach, the want was dangerously settled in my eyes, and the determination beat down hard with my heart. Today, yes, today was the day I was going to be famous.

Reliance.

Allie's back. With a brand new grin.

For her, he was more than just someone to share a smile with, a laugh with or a bed with. More than a figure on her arm, to mention in conversation, or to have as a Plus One when she was invited to a party. More than someone to drunk text, ring at 3am or vent to when she was stressed. Even more than a friend. Even more than someone to be with when everything else in the world got too much. Someone to be silent with. Someone to just be by her side. To hold her hand, or her hair back, or hold her up when she couldn't walk properly; whether it was due to her six inch heels, or blind intoxication. A support system. A lifeline. A crutch. A best friend. A mood-lifter. A helping hand. Her eyes, ears and the lung capacity she would never quite stretch to on her own. Her happy days. The reason for her giggling. The secret confidante. The person who knew all of her (even her secretly freaky things) and never ran a metre, never mind a mile. He put up with her negativity, her outrageous mood-swings, her inability to make a concrete decision, even if it was just a film choice. Someone who she ended up pouring her secrets out to, because why the hell not? He could take it, she was sure whatever crept from her lips, he's shoulders could bare the brunt of. And, she was right. For once in her life, her judgement wasn't skewed. Her friends didn't say "I told you so," instead, looked on with insane grins and admiration. The best decision she ever made was to actually trust her own judgement. Perhaps the only really good decision ever, but she's okay with that. One positive can outweigh any number of negatives. It's all worth it. The demons don't seem so bad when they're buried deep in the past. Reliance isn't so bad after all. In fact, she seems to think it's kind of great. Allie's on top of the fucking world, looking down, and yet, that's not a pessimistic view she takes. She's only short, remember, and looking higher would only strain her neck. But, as I say, Allie's happy. More than that, Allie is so content. She's a very, very lucky girl. And is looking forward to this summer more than ever. Bring it on.

Intimidated.

I can't help feeling how I feel. You know how it is. For me, if I'm ever nasty or bitchy about someone, it's usually because they pretty much intimidate the hell out of me. I know that's not a nice trait, I'm well aware it's not big or clever, or mature, but it's a defense mechanism in my eyes. There are certain people lately who intimidate me so much, it upsets me. Someone who seems to always have the upper hand. Always on the side lines, in my ear whispering snide comments and always haunting my peripheral vision. I can't help it. Some people just get my back up, make my skin crawl, and make me feel about six inches tall.

I'm having a bad day. I feel under-appreciated, unwanted, alone. I've felt like that quite a bit lately, and there's kind of a reason, but I don't want to moan all over my blog about my problems. No one really wants to read that. I'm a bit suffocated at the minute, even though I think that's the wrong word to use. I feel like I'm surrounded by people I love until I really need someone, and then it's like a tumbleweed in a deserted street. No one is to be seen, heard of, all are absent. No one breathes a word, rings, texts or anything. I'm alone. But that's the problem, because I shouldn't feel like this. I want my family to see that, and yet they, somewhat rightfully so, seem to notice my mood. I keep getting asked am

I okay, because loneliness apparently crawls through your pores or something. I need to sort my life out. Better yet, I need other people to sort theirs out, because I'm sick to death of feeling like I'm everyone's sideline, everyone's second choice, everyone's last resort. I'm no one's consolation prize, (to quote the brilliant When Harry Met Sally) so, it's about time I sorted this out. Once and for all. Time to grab all my favourite people, and tie them together (not in a weird way) because I want everyone back. As close as you like. 

Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Writing silence.

I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted on my blog. It's like my baby, and I've neglected it and just shoved food under a crack in the door rather than commit to any proper regime whatsoever. Stupid analogy but who cares, I am pretty stupid at times. So, why have I been gone? 

Well, I could rhyme off a long, convoluted list of excuses, or instead, explain where I've actually been for two weeks or so. I'm not sure which of those I intend to fulfill but here goes. Between finishing uni for the summer (minus a deadline and an exam, niether of which have even been considered, never mind completed) and sleeping, basically all I've done is drink and laze about and channel blind avoidance with regards to my uni work. I have a 3,000 word creative piece to write that is due soon (I honestly can't even remember the date, it's sometime before May!) and I'm so desperately uninspired. Stuck in fact. An idea is blossoming in my tiny little mind and yet I'm unable to really run with it. Preoccupied with alcoholic outings and socialising with my friends, as they gradually creep their way back home to not-so-sunny Chester-le-Street (it's Newcastle way-FYI.) from various locations for uni. Tonight will be my third night out in five days. I haven't done this in ages, so the air is filled with hairspray and excitement. 

Let's go get drunk. Basically. Drink too much and laugh so much our stomachs ache. Oh, and of course, prepare ourselves for Sunday. Yes it's Easter, and for some people who are religious this has another significance. But, it's also Bank holiday, which for me and my ever-expanding group of friends, means lots of laughs, and even more alcohol. The celebrations start at 8. I'm counting down the hours. 

"When are you going to... Write something?"

The infamous cry of my close-knit family echoes through the hallway. I sigh. I bite my nails so they look all stubby and raw. I sit with a downturned expression and doubt my capabilities as an even-just-aspiring writer until my knees feel like they may collapse under the weight of my negativity. I've completed 2/3rds of my degree now, and for what? It's a literature and creative writing degree and I've got nothing really at all to show for my shining ambition to be a writer. 

"What do you want to write?" People keep asking me and watch the vacant expression appear on my plain face. My eyes widen in desperation. My shoulders slump somewhere around my ankles. My mind goes blank, I'm absent from this. It's all so distant in my mind. It is my want, my ambition, my dream, oh so cliché! But it is, what I want to do with my life I suppose. That's what the answer is. I want to write: words. Strings of sentences and phrases and dialogue and action. Tears, tantrums, desires and opinions. I want to write... Something, anything to get my voice heard and my persona out there. Although I've kind of come to the end of the road, inspiration-wise. I'm surrounded by people at uni who have different aspirations, more concrete goals and agendas, and I see promise for them. But then, where's mine? I can't become a writer (however you even do that) without a lot of hard work and sleepless nights, stress and torment, and ultimately, dedication. I am that. But at the same time, I'm kind of lost. I don't feel like anyone really takes me seriously. I need pointing in the right direction. 

Private Practise.

Okay, I never really do this, but today, right now, I am. Evidently. Sorry, that was deadly obvious. Literally, seconds ago, I watched the last ever aired episode of Private Practise. It's kind of broke my heart, and left my chest with a gaping grief-ridden chasm where all my favourite characters used to be. For anyone who doesn't know, Private Practise is a US medical drama, originally marketed as a spin-off from Shonda Rhimes' very successful Grey's Anatomy. I first started watching Grey's by accident, but then, I fell into the trap. Someone mentioned Private Practise and I just became obsessed. More intimate than its counterpart based in Seattle, Private Practise is set in sunny, dreamy LA, where the sun always shines, and there's a constant backlog of patients for the doctors involved.

I won't give anything really away, because I hate it when people do that. With a PASSION. There's nothing worse than someone who is very adamant that they need to spoil your favourite television programme for you. I could stab those people in the eyes with very sharp pencils, and they still wouldn't get their just deserts. All I'll say is this, it's more than worth a watch. It will draw you in almost immediately. The storylines are brilliantly written, the characters are unbelievably well thought out, and honestly, I've seen every single episode, and each one leaves me with a different feeling, and yet, a more familiar one; every time the shot fades, the camera pans and the credits roll, there's something I always think:

'I wish I'd written that.'

 

 

With every ounce of my being, I love this programme. It's like my baby, my happy place and the thing I go to when all I need is comfort and to shed a few too many tears. Admittedly, it will make you cry, it will make you laugh, and more than likely, it'll make you go through a 'I want to be a doctor' phase, (but then again, I went through all that in my Grey's addiction.) So, it's brilliant. And my one true talent in life seems to be gushing about things I love (hey, could be worse, couldn't it?) As you can guess, I'm feeling a bit lost now. The final credits began to roll and I wanted to shout out and scream a negation of sorts, something to stop the end, cling onto the characters and envisage a new, perhaps more fitting, more satisfying ending for me. I can't remember the last time I was so attached to a programme, or so invested in it's characters. Private Practise has at times, been my salvation, and other times, my suffering. Lots of snacks, black coffee and tears later, through six whole seasons, two name changes, thousands of confessions, tense moments and happy celebrations. Here we are. The end is nigh. I'm blank, numb, empty. This is how all the best shows should leave you feeling; if they don't leave a bitter taste of nostalgia in your mouth, they haven't been worth the time.