I'm fuming. Absolutely fuming.

You're losing a friend. They've changed so much that you're not really sure you want to be a part of their lives anymore, and then they betray you. It was nothing major. Just enough to know that a real friend wouldn't do that. Mimi (yeahp, from my second post) had an awful day, so we were going to skip our lesson and just hang round together and talk. Mimi told our former best friend, and he was all cool. But he tells our director. The director approaches us about it, and he stands there in the corner, sniggering as if it's one big joke.

Well, tell you what, it wasn't a joke to us. We wanted to spend some time with each other, and you wanted to take that away from us? Was it because you were jealous, because we hadn't invited you? Because I wasn't talking to you? You've changed so much I can't talk to you. And now...now I don't want to.

Cleopatra

Costume parties are pretty much the best. Dress as slutty as you want, without being judged. It's fantastic. Unless you're fat and wobbly. Then you will be judged. I cannot wait for 'costume season' to begin. I probably won't get invited to that many. Just the one big one. But it will rock. I am going as Cleopatra. And not the real Cleopatra, who was ugly and had a big Roman nose. The sexy glamourised one. Halter necks, boobs, and oozing sex appeal. That's me. I cannot wait. I will post pictures, so don't panic anyone!

Denim Pants

I know it's not about sex. I know I haven't spoken about sex lately. I'm waiting for the inspiration to come. No pun intended. Actually, all puns intended. Anyway, while you wait, here's something I wrote a little while ago...
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I couldn’t help staring. From the moment he walked in the door, my eyes were on him. His long hair, pulled back into a scruffy pony tail, his loose T-shirt, shouting the name of a band. His denim pants came to just below his knee. Perfect.
I watched him as he moved around the store, my eyes following him. He looked at me and I dropped my gaze. I hoped he would come over. I hoped and hoped with all my heart.
The boy picked up something, read it and then plonked it back down.
‘Come over here!’ I was silently screaming. I wanted him to look at me again, and smile. I wanted him to say something to me. Anything.
I jiggled my foot as he looked somewhere else.
‘Come over here, by the cash register. Please!’
The boy looked up and shook his head.
“No, I don’t think I’ll buy anything today.” He said, and walked slowly out of the shop. I was crushed.
I stretched my wings and cried silently. I would have to stay, locked up in this cage once again. A poor, friendless parakeet I would remain.

A Bullet in my Gun

I'm given a gun with a single bullet in it.
"Shoot anyone you want," they say, "and we won't do anything about it." So that's it. I can kill whoever I want to, and there will be no repercussions. So who do I kill? I think about it. George Bush, Mugabe, the relatives who put their three year old niece in a dryer.

No, none of them. Out of all the rapists, child abusers and evil dictators, I will choose the guy who sits behind me in two of my classes. The biggest jerk that ever walked the planet. Our school actually had to widen the doors so he could get his big head through them. He's rude to everyone, but seems to think that we kiss the ground he walks on. He thinks I'm a freak, but has he tried looking in the mirror lately? The jokes of, "you're a boy," aren't exactly original anymore, cunt-face. "Stop being a freak for five minutes and send me the file." Mmm, wow. You're so great to me, I think I will send you the file!

So yes, I am given a gun with a single bullet in it.
"Shoot anyone you want," they say, "and we won't do anything about it."
I choose him.

Pick Up lines

To be completely honest, if a guy walked up to me and said, "the name's Bond, James Bond," I would melt. I had a dream once where I replied, "I've always wanted to be a Bond girl," and the night ended in fantastic bliss.

That's probably the only 'sucker' line that I'd fall for. Anything like "I'm not really this tall, I'm just sitting on my wallet," would probably only get a polite laugh from me. Who would use that, really?

Where are the boys?

I should be doing the mounds of homework I have. Instead, I'm sitting here writing a blog. I don't even know what direction it's going to go in yet.

I talked to my Father about buying a computer off him. I thought, wow! French Postcard time. Then I realised it wouldn't be connected to the internet. What a bitch.
I've essentially run out of things to say, other than I would like someone to flirt with. Where are all the boys?

Dream Man

You love everything about him, his crew cut hair, his mocha coloured eyes. The way he smiles when he looks at you, as if you're the only person who exists. You love his body, defined arms, a washboard stomach with a sun tattoo around his belly button and a ring through his nipple. He's a pirate, a rock star, a bad boy. He's the type your mother warned you about, but you fall in love with him anyway.

He puts his hand around your waist when you're out, showing you off to the world, daring other men to look and be jealous. He's the perfect gentlemen, and then when you arrive home, he turns into the pirate, wanting to pillage your treasures. He picks you up and playfully throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the bed - or nearest avaliable spot and pleasures you in ways you never thought possible.

He's a real man, ready to defend your honour at the drop of a hat. He's a tough guy, known not to shy away from a fight, but peel away the tough exterior and you'll find that he's sensitive, and just as ready to curl up on the couch with you as he is to test out the new bed.

He's my dream man. He's got to exist. Doesn't he?