It's nice of you to ruin Christmas.

Dad.

I'm so mad. So so angry. He's unbelievable, he really is.

Every year. Every fucking year he has a tantrum about how we spend Christmas day with my mum, despite the fact that he doesn't celebrate Christmas, despite the fact that he's from a Muslim family. So every year, Parissa and I have to go up to his stupid flat and sit whilst he moans at us for hours about how its our fault Taraneh still isn't speaking to him, how it's our fault he lives like he does, how if we don't do something soon, he's going to go back to Iran (an empty threat).

So this year was no exception. We figured we'd go up Christmas night, go back Boxing day to see Dave's family and then, because it would be a Wednesday, go back to Dad's like we would normally. But no. He talked for hours and hours and hours on Sunday about how that was a really thoughtless plan and how we were just playing our mother's game and no one ever cared about him, when that's all we ever do. Me and Parissa spend our lives looking after him. It's like we have a child we never wanted.
So he talked and he talked and he talked. And we said we'd change our plan, just to shut him up, but he said no, stick to the plan you've already made.

And then today, Christmas day. 1pm. He rings me up. He sounds either drunk, stoned, or as if he's just woken up. And he talks to me normally. He asks me what time we're coming up, and I say "about 5". He doesn't say anything else, just asks to speak to Parissa. So I pass the phone over.
And I read my book.
After I finish my book, I want to send a text, but I can't find my phone. Then I realise Parissa had it; she was talking to Dad.
When she comes back, she's crying. She doesn't cry often.

So I ask what's going on.
She's swearing under her breath, cursing him.
He asked her what was going on today. She told him. She said, we're coming up later, then we're going home in the morning.
And he insisted that we didn't go home in the morning. That we stay with him from tonight until Thursday morning. You know, because otherwise, we are playing our mother's game. We are not thinking of him.
So I have to stay with him for a day and a half, and I don't get to go home tomorrow, or pick anything up. And it doesn't matter that Dave's family are coming round, or that I won't get to see Joe. He's my stepbrother. And I actually really like him. And I don't see him anymore, because he's at uni.
And we have to lie about it. We've already told mum and Dave we'd be there, but now we have to change that. And we can't tell them the truth because that would just start an argument, and really, we have enough to cope with.
And I'm so angry. And his whole thing is because of Taraneh, who's moping and sleeping and stinking up my bedroom, and SMOKING in my bedroom. I'm so furious. I'm always so furious, and I hate it. For once in my life, I'd like to feel a little less tense.

And it wouldn't be so bad if we actually did anything. If we were going to have a nice Christmassy time. Even a present might console me just a little bit.
But there's nothing.
No Christmas thing whatsoever. Because, of course, he doesn't celebrate Christmas.
We spent £30 on a fucking jumper, and he doesn't even deserve it.

He won't even let us relax. Even now, on Christmas day, he's talking. About how we're just not good enough. How we ought to do more for him. You know, because we don't run our lives around him as it is. I hate him right now. I really, physically detest him.

And he just won't shut up.
And I get so angry. So fucking angry, that I twitch. My whole body is itching to throw something at him- the glass, my phone, the computer mouse.

And to be honest, I'm not sure how much longer I can restrain myself for.

"All this time wasted being so good for you" -Function, by Denali

I LOVE SCHRODINGER'S CAT.

At least, I think I do.
Or do I?
I'm not too sure.

When I was younger I thought nothing of it. I talked to myself, imagined weird things and wrote stories. Nothing so weird for a nine year old. At seventeen it's a bit different.

I know other people like me, but it doesn't seem so weird on them.
It seems like I have too many thoughts in my head, and none of them make any sense. The thought of picking up the computer mouse and throwing at him, the thought of laughing maniacally at something completely unfunny, the thought of making friends with a stranger. I lie awake at night thinking of conjugated verbs, integrated sine functions, and suitable adjectives.

I've been wondering for a while why I'm like this, and why other people find it funny, and why no one else thinks like that. And I reached a conclusion:

I will never know.

But I won't stop trying. That's what I like. I look at other people, who are so content to go through life, sleeping late and doing their work and answering questions without wondering WHY? Why is it that the natural logarithm of x differentiates to 1/x? What is it about the word the word fateful that gives it a negative connotation, when it holds so much positive imagery? What's a gyroscope? What's the Karnaugh map? Sierpinski's triangle game? The correctly conjugated form of s'assesoir in the first person indicative?

I can't understand it. I don't understand why one wouldn't want to know these things. I don't get why you would be content to learn about Shakespeare without understanding it. I don't understand how you could use Alice in Wonderland as a stimulus (not meaning to offend, Megs) without knowing it. I don't really know why you would read a book and NOT look up the words you don't know.
It's not that I expect everyone to understand everything. I certainly don't. But I couldn't sit back without questioning.
How could I not shiver at the mere thought of limiting equilibrium? At standing in the balance, on the edge of something I couldn't fathom. A slip, a pull, a fall? And this is maths! This is A-level maths! And the philosophy of it baffles me. Why is something like that not the same as the chaos theory? Why is it not the same as the butterfly effect? The pendulum effect?

I think, therefore I am. If I ceased to wonder, I would no longer be. Or no longer be me. I'm not so sure. But other people manage. I heard someone today (I shall not mention who) who was telling a friend they were behind on their coursework even though they were only taking two subjects. FTW? How? What he/she must spend his/her time doing is beyond me. If it was something productive like writing or reading or something other than drinking and taking certain narcotics (which I assume is the case), I wouldn't mind. I deem spending all night on the internet as a pretty productive past time. I deem spending days making origami cranes as productive. But, let's be honest, is that happening?
I doubt not.
I don't think you have to particularly clever to wonder. You just have to have your eyes open. Is it not common sense, general knowledge that Africa is not one SINGULAR country? Why, then, are there still 18-year-old girls who are not aware it's a fucking CONTINENT.

There was much more I was going to get onto. Philosophically, I could have drabbled on for hours. But that would make a pretty boring and/or confusing blog. But I was just sitting here, thinking, wondering. And I thought I'd share these thoughts with you.

This is not snobbery, I would like to point out. I am genuinely questioning a lack of enthusiasm. When the world is so exciting, how can we ignore it?

So there you go. My blog of reflection. Think on it? I think I do. I think this is why I don't sleep. I think this is why I cry when someone breaks their glasses. I really can't handle broken glasses. Kills me. But I would rather have my hyperactive, child-of-four-fed-pixie-sticks brain, than a languid, lazy one.

(btw, Sierpinski's triangle game? FASCINATING. Take a look.)

Further reading/watching:

The Moth Diaries
Justin Case
The Science of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials
The Science of Sleep
The Number Devil

“Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the things you can think up if only you try!”- Dr Seuss

How To Survive A Family Meal
when it's not your family.

I'm not quite sure how much more of going to eat at the restaurant I can take. I gets worse every week.


Week 1: Not too busy, forced to eat far too much, and have a starter of Brie. Ew.

Week 2: Seated in the middle of the restaurant. Busy. Complete and utter humiliation, degradation and loneliness.


Week 3: Well...
I'd pretty much resigned myself to my fate. I had it all planned out- I'd go in, deal with the usual humiliation of the table for one, refuse a starter and a dessert and leave as fast as possible. Unfortunately, that wasn't on the agenda, apparently.
I knew it was bad as soon as I got there and I saw how busy it was. And not with just anyone. Hamid, the owner, had brought in his entire family for a lovely meal, including his beautiful daughter, wonderfully named (as everyone cared to point out) Yasmin. To be honest, she seemed quite nice. But I must say, she did not look Iranian. Not at all.
My dad, being so fabulously sensitive to my emotions, paraded me, in all my ragged finery, around their table, so I had to shake hands and smile sweetly at a million people who I will never remember.
That wasn't all.
Matthew, the other manager, has HIS family round, because it was his birthday. And because of his wife, Khatuna, half of them were Georgian. I was paraded round them too. They looked pretty confused.
I sat down at my table, but Matthew (who had had a few by this time, let's be honest) was all "NO NO, YOU SIT WITH US" except in his Australian accent. So there I was, sat at a table full of people speaking rapid Georgian, waiting for my food, Matthew chattering in my ear.
Then Khatuna brought they're 3 month old baby over and passed him to me. "YOU HOLD HIM AND I TAKE PICTURE", Oh God, Oh God. I do not know what to do with babies. He's adorable, but I was so afraid. I really like Khatuna and Matthew and so I was worrying so much. All I could think was "Oh, god, I'm going to break your baby". Luckily, they took him away before I could. But not before they could snap an awful picture of me.

The Georgians sang. It was amazing, actually. They have beautiful voices. One of them kept toasting anything and everything (I think he just liked to drink.
"To our countries!"
"To the children!"
"Who died!" It took me a while to realise he was trying to toast to dead relatives.

See the thing is, I really like everyone at the restaurant. They're very friendly people. There's Matthew, who kept trying to pour me some wine when my dad wasn't looking (never mind my protests that I didn't drink) and the Iranian chef who was horrified that I couldn't speak Farsi, and there's the really sweet Italian guy who calls me darling ("Here you go, darling.", "You want another drink, darling?"). It's not them I begrudge. It's my dad. Why does he subject me to such humiliation on a weekly basis? Can he not see how embarrassing it is to be a seventeen year-old girl who comes into a classy restaurant, sits alone, eats alone and then just leaves silently. And yeah, this week, I wasn't by myself. But honestly, when I was surrounded by the singing Georgians and the drunk Australians, I've never felt more alone.

"Time away is all I need." -Denali

RENAULT MEGANE.
Because you're worth it.

Tuesday, October 9th, 2007. Megan's eighteenth birthday. So I'd like to write about her.

For some reason, I have very little recollection of my first impression of Megan, other than a small stab of jealousy that she got an A* in drama, and I was sat there with my feeble little A. I'm not quite sure how we became friends; I have no memory of that happening either. It's like there is a Before Megan and an After Megan, and nothing in between. I can remember that with other people, like George and Emily and Frances. But not Megan.

But now Megan is mine, and she'll never escape, and she should bloody well get used to that fact.

I seriously feel like I can relate to Megan. Like there's no one else that's had such a bizarre childhood. I don't feel weird when I tell her everything that's happened and I don't feel like she's going to turn round and laugh or tell me I'm exaggerating or lying, or whatever anyone else does or thinks. She's nutty, just like me. That's a good thing. I like a bit of nuttiness in a girl.
So it upset me when she thought she was going to have a shit birthday.
I am of the belief that your birthday is YOUR day. You get the presents, the attention, the fun. Even if you hate someone, you are nice to them on their birthday. No one should get shit on their birthday.
Especially not Megan.
Megan, who has been exceptional to me. I must say. She is a very good friend. She's not selfless, but she's not selfish. She has The Balance. She has done the one thing I really really needed. She has listened to me.
So, a mon avis, she deserves a day worthy of her. A FABULOUS, WONDERFUL, CATACLYSMIC DAY.

(Well, perhaps not cataclysmic. That could be dangerous.)

And I'm going to do what I can. I'm going to sew as hard and fast and neat as I can to get her top finished by Tuesday, and I'm going to add in all the little surprises and perhaps, if she'll let me, buy her banana java. Because I don't want her to cry on her birthday, because I've done that far too many times to remain indifferent to it. And because I, who always has something to say- and say LOUDLY- cannot possibly explain why I adore Megan, and why I am so adamant that she should be happy. And I want her to have a good birthday, whatever happens at home.
I once read a book that said "If home is where the heart is, where do I live?"
And I've never been properly happy at home, so I always wondered at that. I liked the idea that home wasn't where you slept at night, but where you were going to sleep, when you finally were happy. And whether Megan likes her house or not, she ought to know that there's always more and that there is nothing more exciting than what's to come.

I want her to remember being 18 as being good, because she is SURROUNDED by those who love her. More than I think she realises. Smile, please, Megan.

For now you are an ADULT.
Now you are a WOMAN (heh heh).
Now you are YOU.

And believe me, that's a good thing.

(By the way, right now, I'm crying.)

And I don't care if this sounds cheesy. I'm a writer. It's a little thing called poetic license. I'm fucking well allowed.

Megan...

Happy Birthday.

"I found a way to make you...I found a way...a way to make you smile" -At Your Most Beautiful by REM.

I find these things hard to say out loud.

I am alone.
You see that?
Alone.
A-lone.
A-L-O-N-E.
Lonesome.
Lonely.
Solitary.
By myself.

My sister has left me.

And now all I have is the company of pathetically insecure mother, a tyrannical stepfather and a father who spends his days lying on the sofa browsing eBay and giving me 4-hour-long lectures on the values of proper respect.
Thanks Parissa.

God knows how I'll get through a year of this, because right now even one day is difficult. I've already noticed how much angrier I've been (to the point of kicking and pounding the door after school on Friday because my key wouldn't work) and much more my father is infuriating me. I'm sorry, but WHY spend ALL DAY, EVERYDAY on eBay looking at cars when a) you can't afford one and b) you don't even have bank account, so HOW would you pay for it.
I realise I give my father a bad name, but you have to understand, my mother's just as awful.
Sure, she doesn't lecture, she doesn't shout at me, and she doesn't spend all day on eBay (she even goes out from time to time), but in some ways that's worse. She tries so hard to please me, but how the hell am I suppose to tell her it's TOO LATE? That when I really could have done with her being a proper mother (i.e. when Taraneh and Parissa used to lock me in cupboards, when she called the police against my father, when someone hurled racial abuse at me as I crossed the road, when Jessica died) she couldn't be bothered. She only started caring when Taraneh left, when she finally realised, "Ooh, maybe all this may just be EMOTIONALLY SCARRING for my children" but by then she was FOURTEEN YEARS TOO LATE. And that's a pretty wide margin. It's not like "Oh, sorry I'm late, shall we start now?". It's the dust-gathering, torturous kind of late. It's a bit hard to pick up after that.
Oh, she really makes my skin crawl. Like when she says little things that you can tell are supposed to 'connect' us. Jesus, they make me want to throw up.

And what's even worse is when she's with Taraneh. It's like she knows RIGHT THEN that she might as well put her energy into a daughter who actually likes her, so she acts all 'young' and 'funny' and joins in all the 'let's rip Yasamin to shreds', because Taraneh's not just her daughter, she's her FRIEND. Well, lucky her. I don't think I can even be bothered to start about Taraneh. The energy that would take just isn't worth it. I'll just say that I refuse to let her anywhere withing touching distance of my books. Why would I let her destroy what just might help me get through this year unscathed.

Apart from my friends, of course. They'll be the real medicine. And people wonder why I love school so much. It's not for the homework, believe me. It's for Cat and Harry and Megan and Ellie and Leanne and Edie and Alice and Millie and George and France and Francoise and EVERYONE.
And it's only a year. Only a year. Only a year. Ha.
But think of all the years after that! Away! Oh, I wish everyone else was as excited about the UCAS process as I am! =D

And I should be happy for Parissa, because she finally got out, and she's happy. You didn't see how eager she was to get rid of us on Monday. I would be too. And I will be. Next year. I've been patient for so many years, one year is nothing, right?

RIGHT.

What's really funny, or not funny at all as it happens, is the the last thought I had before we left Parissa. There we were, pulling out of Flodden Road, Camberwell, when it hit me. The fact that, I'm not mad at Parissa because she is leaving... I'm mad because I'm not. It's not exactly jealousy, more bitterness. But if I'd only been born a couple of years older, our positions would be reversed, so maybe I'm glad that it is me. Because like the rat that I would save over me, or the cat over the painting, I wouldn't wish this on anyone else.

And, you know.
It's only a year.

"The search ends here/ Where the night is totally clear/ And your heart is fierce/ And you can finally know that you can see where you're going/ You can steer" - Steer by Missy Higgins

STUPID, SHINY VOLVO DRIVER.

My copy of Eclipse came, after SO LONG of waiting. Although, I'm not sure whether or not I was worse off before.
Don't get me wrong- it's SO GOOD. SO GOOD IT HURTS. SO GOOD IT'S INFURIATING. AAAAAAARGH.
Edward Cullen is, as usual, his perfect self and Jacob Black is, as usual, NO COMPETITION. All the way through, I was just thinking "HA HA HA, sucks to be yoooou". Apart from the times I was crying, of course. Actually, I lie. I didn't cry at all. I'm far too hardcore for that. =D Or maybe it's just that I could tell what would happen, so nothing in it could upset me THAT much. Not like when Rudy died...

BUT LET'S NOT GET INTO THAT.

Megan had a partay on Thursday, which was immense. It was soooo good. And although we all went to school on Friday feeling like shit and had to have our photos taken, I could't have been happier. Actually, a couple more hours of sleep may have cemented the joy. But it was a good night. And I just found it so easy to get on with everyone there. Like at Leeds, I just liked EVERYONE. The Lady Manor's lot were made to seem so SCARY, but they're lovely. And, of course, there is everyone else, like Alice and Alice and Edith and Eleanor and Emma and Robyn and Frances and Krishna and Greg. Speaking of the last three...HA HA HA. I had almost forgotten how much fun a good old skirmish could be. Especially when I win. Which I almost always do, because people underestimate me. I'm stronger than I look. That's what comes of being the youngest and smallest (by a wide margin) of six children. Granted I didn't grow up with two of those, but the three that were left were definitely enough to contend with. At least enough to enable me to wrestle a harmonica of Krishna and accidentally- yes, guys, I just don't know my own strength XD- incapacitate Greg and Krishna. I think my stubbornness played a big part though. The boys weren't the only ones who were injured!
I must say that party was probably better than the one's we had in the holidays, if only cos everyone was there (except Marshy of course). And I like Megan, and her house. It's comfortable. It's not the kind of house I would be afraid of, like mine. My house always makes me laugh, because I realise sometimes just how much of a rarity having people round is. Like, once a year maybe, I have people round. And I don't mean for a party. I mean, people. Stopping round for more than five minutes. Not even necessarily people. Maybe just one person. ONCE A YEAR. I guess I already used up my quota for this year then. I think it makes me a little bit sad, because it's only because of my stepdad. I can't wait to leave. It will be easier then.

But until then, I have a year. A year is a long time. Especially without Parissa.

I should stop now, because otherwise I will repeat myself next week. You see, I have already forseen next week's blog. It will be a horrible, pathetic tirade of depressive, self-pitying shit. And then the week after I'll read it and laugh at myself. And then a couple of weeks later there will be another. Repeat the cycle until September 2008 when, with any luck (ha. Me. Luck.), I will finally get to do what I've dreamed of for years. Leave.

"I already know how strong you are. You didn't need to break the furniture." - from Eclipse by Stephenie Meyer

I'm SO TIRED.

I've been back from Leeds for two days and I still feel like I'm falling asleep at every moment. It was amazing though. Even the last night, when people were burning things right next to our tent. Everyone was freaking out about that, with good reason I suppose. I wasn't afraid for myself, seeing as I was pretty sure I wouldn't get hurt as long as I didn't get too close, but I didn't want my stuff to burn. I quite like my stuff. Unfortunately, not everything was saved.

That's right guys,

Trevor is gone.

Forever. I actually can't believe it. I've had him round my neck for THREE YEARS and he's GONE. I feel like crying right now. And I know, he was just a little man who I wore round my neck but he WASN'T JUST THAT. He was a present within one of the sweetest letters I've ever received. I once ran into the middle of the road to get his LEGS. That's how much he meant to me. And he's gone.
To be honest, I think I handled it pretty well. Normally, I would have cried and screamed at everyone to find him RIGHT NOW, but I figured, what with Megan and Claire and that poor poor Ellie freaking out about having their faces burnt off, there were more important things. I figured that maybe Trevor was old, maybe I'd been taking care of him for just long enough. Maybe it was time for him to find his Great Perhaps. So please, I urge you all to mourn with me, for a life lost, for a bond broken, and for a tiny little Polly Pocket doll that meant the world to me.

FAREWELL, TREVOR.

I love you.

So Levi, yeah, I also lost my wedding ring sweetie. I'll need a new one of those. And if anyone has any Polly Pocket things- I'm looking to adopt another, so any number of them would be helpful.

I had a driving lesson today. It was SO bad. I wasn't focused on anything and I got sooooo stressed. I went home and threw stuff around my room for a while to calm down. I've been doing that a lot lately. I think I'm getting angrier. But I have only had three lessons, and I should understand I'm not just going to be able to do it perfectly straight away.But last week's lesson was so gooooood, and I could do it so much better then. I might write a few things down to revise from each week.

Jesus, I sound like Sarah. XD LOVE YOU REALLY, DARLING.

"I'm off to seek my Great Perhaps"- Francois Rabelais

OH, IT'S BEEN TOO LONG...

Truly, it has. I've missed blogging more than can be healthy, but I'M BACK, BABY, and hopefully here to stay, depending on how certain computers decide to behave. I had to make a whole new account, which is kind of (VERY) annoying, but I can deal with that. All it means is that I have to find Sarah and Rob and LBR and everyone again.

It seems like a rather stupid day to begin a blog, seeing as I'm going to Leeds festival for four days tomorrow, so there will be a gap between posts, but I felt the need to at least get it up, so that I know it's there and I won't keep putting it off. Hopefully, I can keep a nice thread of blogging up- I'm trying to get as much writing in as possible, because I'm so afraid I'll never be good enough.

I finished re-reading the Book Thief today, by Markus Zusak. I cried. A lot. It's one of the most beautifully written books I've ever read, and if you knew me then you would know that getting me to cry at a book is one mean feat. I don't normally cry at books. As my sister likes to tell me, I'm cold and unfeeling. Indurate. I learnt that word yesterday. I like it. Indurate.
Anyway, the Book Thief. I loved it. And I would recommend it to you. It's so good it hurts. It's got everything- history, humour, love, sadness. So much bloody sadness. But the good kind. The kind that makes you want to start reading it again as soon as you finish. I wish I could write like that.

One day, maybe...HOPEFULLY. I want to make some kid cry somewhere. I don't need for my books to be bestsellers, I just want to make kids cry.

How good of me =D

I think I should round this off now. I think my tea is nearly ready- at least, it smells good. I figure food is ready when it starts to smell good. Perhaps that's why I'm such an awful cook. Who knows.

Leeds festival tomorrow. Brand New, Smashing Pumpkins, the Bronx. Megs, Cat, Laura, Minty. God, that could get awkard. I'm hoping everything will go ok, and I won't have forgotten something important, like my left hand. That's even more important for me than most people, seeing as I'm left handed. Sign of the devil apparently, so my manager tells me.

Yep, dinner is ready. And about time. I think I can feel my stomach start to eat itself. Never a good sign.

Until I type again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I am haunted by humans." From The Book Thief by Markus Zusak