Wild Thing 9/9

So, this is the last section... Now, I am both aware of a) how few people have actually read this blog and b) how much time and effort would be involved to comment on everything you read. So, I'm not asking/demanding/extorting comments. However, if people could find it in themselves to just tick the response boxes, which will just take a couple of seconds, that'd be golden. Thanks!

28/09/2013

So that’s the whole story. If you were expecting it, you’re sicker than me. And hey, I’m a murderer!

Or not even a murderer, really. I mean I didn’t shoot her or stab her or poison her. All I did was swerve a bit into her lane. It’s scary really, how easy it was. All I had to do was turn a wheel and I snuffed out my best friend’s life.

And everyone is talking about it, comforting me. Trying to help me, reach me, when I don’t even know if there’s a me to reach. I feel like part of me will always be stuck in that moment. Like part of me died with Rach.

And you want to know the funny thing? All these people, they want to help me. I mean they might not know me, their efforts might be clumsy and ineffectual, but they are trying. I act all superior, I openly despise them, but if they knew… they would hate me. Despise me. Feel superior.

But I won’t feel guilty. I don’t feel guilty. It was self-defence if you think about it. She called her boss to arrange to have me killed. What else could I do? So I blackmailed her first. That’s not a crime, is it? Or… maybe it is, but not a hanging offence, surely? Not something that gives a lifelong friend an excuse to try and kill you.

I guess there is one question left. Why’d I start it all? Why did I blackmail my best friend? Here’s the thing. I was going to be there at the drop. Just a little disguise and she wouldn’t even recognise me. I didn’t want any money. That’s not what I blackmailed her for.

All I wanted was for her to kiss me.

Wild Thing 8/9

27/09/2013

Okay so now you know almost everything. The operative word being “almost”. See, there’s just one tiny detail. Hardly worth mentioning really. The thing is, I know who killed Rach. I wouldn’t exactly call it “murder”. Self-defence maybe?

But the reason why I know who killed Rach, the reason I’ve been thinking about suicide and death, the reason why I started writing this damn thing at all was that I was there. Right there when it happened.

I was there because I drove my car into her lane and caused her to turn and smash.

Wild Thing 7/9

26/09/2013

I don’t know where to start. Well, I lied to the police. If that shocks you, then you better leave. That’s the least of it.

I told them a few of fibs. Remember I said I didn’t know she was a drug dealer? Fib. And I said I only saw her in school? Fib. I also said she hadn’t been acting oddly. Half-truth. Almost anything Rach does could be classified as “strange” but recently she was acting extra, I don’t know, nervous?

I also might have mentioned something about this new creepy guy she was hanging with who, one could argue, doesn’t exist. And never has. And I kind of just made him up.

What? You think that’s more serious than “a few fibs”? I’ll tell you what fibs are, they’re lies, only posher. So that’s all it was; a few fibs.

You want to know why I said those things? Well, I guess there’s a little more I should tell you first.

As well as knowing Rach was a drug dealer I also had a vague idea she was a murderer.

And she could have known that I knew. But only ’cos I gave her some anonymous letters that could’ve given the impression I was blackmailing her. If you’re extra paranoid or something. And thought it was suspicious to mention incriminating photos and drop-off points.

Okay in one entry I’ve gone from grieving best friend to traitorous bitch. Yay!

You’re appalled, wondering how I could be so cruel to my best friend. She’s the murderer, remember?

The night she died she was at a bar. And a guy was talking about blackmail. He was saying the blackmailer usually knew the victim personally. Was often even trusted. And that’s why they aren’t suspected and often how they obtain the blackmail material in the first place.

I was sitting there spying and I watched, as they say, the penny drop. See most of the stuff I had on Rach I got from her computer. Only she and I know the password (we share it) and from a secret draw in her room which only she and I know the location of.

It was really kind of obvious. But she didn’t want to believe it, I guess. People see what they want to. Anyway, I watched the shock, disbelief, pain, anger and resignation cross her face. Then her look turned cold and she excused herself. I saw her call someone saying they had a “problem” and she thought that once they arrived and gave the details they should “take care of it”.

Yeah. And I’m the betrayer.

Wild Thing 6/9

25/09/2013

I know I’ve missed two days. I just… I was thinking about suicide… again. And I know when I wrote about it last week I didn’t explain it very clearly. I wasn’t thinking of killing myself, I was just thinking about how easy it would be, all your troubles gone.

I guess I was considering killing myself. And I felt like that again. Wait, you don’t care about that. You want to hear about my sociopathic, drug lord best friend. Yeah, I heard the rumours. They’re not that far off though. So far no one’s said “murderer”. Doesn’t mean they don’t know. Man this is screwed up.

I feel sick. The police think Rach was getting scared and her bosses had her “eliminated”. What a euphemism. You probably use worse ones though? I’ve heard the old biddies going “Poor Danielle, what a way to lose a child”. Please. If Rach weren’t dead she’d die from indignation.

Sorry, was that callous? Awfully sorry. I just can’t keep this up anymore. I can’t keep lying. Starting tomorrow you’re getting god’s honest truth.

I swear.

Wild Thing 5/9

22/09/2013

The cops came yesterday, wanted to talk to me about Rach. I know what you’re thinking – why did I ramble around yesterday talking about “the whole story” instead of discussing current and important issues? Now you’re “catching up”. (Note use of sarcastic quotation marks.) You’re going: “Poor dear, they must’ve told her something horrible, she was in shock.” So great to have someone who understands. You’re so right.

No, wait, that’s wrong. Shut up! Geez, let me tell my story.

Or is it her story? Right, you want to hear the juicy, shocking information the coppers gave me yesterday. Sorry for thinking of myself first.

You know what? I’m not sorry. I’m sick of this crap. I’m sick of everyone giving me “sympathetic” looks or telling me they “understand how I feel” when they have no idea. And then after five minutes they’ve already moved on. Talking about schoolwork or jobs or some party.

It’s not like I’m asking for much. Just some… Time? Space? Consideration? My best friend died. Fake concern or some meaningless platitude isn’t going to make it better. Do you offer a band-aid to someone who has lost a limb?

I guess I feel like a wreck. Like I’m crying for the first time in ten or so years. Like I pick up the telephone and halfway through Rach’s number I remember she’s gone. Like I’m the only real person left and everyone else is a mindless drone. And like even I am disappearing bit by bit. Stuck on autopilot. Forever.

God, I’m a piece of work. A nut job. I need a break, a few minutes to… gather my thoughts? Just… wait.

I’m back. Right. Police. Questioning. You want a story? Want to hear a revelation? Coming right up.

They asked me all this stuff they already knew: “You were close friends with the deceased, Rachel Longclast?” “You saw the deceased the day of her death?” “You only saw her at school?” etc.

Then they asked if she acted strangely (No) and if I knew she dealt drugs (No again). I asked what was going on. They told me two pretty shocking things. 1) Rach was probably murdered and 2) She was probably a murderer.

What? Not what you were expecting? Not some hot goss you can spread around without remorse? Guess I live to disappoint.

Wild Thing 4/9

21/09/2013

I remember when we were younger Rach and I would have these elaborate sleepovers. There was only ever the two of us but we’d dress up in our favourite clothes, organise some special dish and cook it together. Rach couldn’t really do much other than chop or mix but I enjoy making up new recipes and experimenting. We’d play some games. Rach loved board games and we both excelled at truth or dare.

Later we would tell ghost stories. Rach is an impressive storyteller and often I would lie awake, long after Rach had drifted off, telling myself I wasn’t scared of the images she’d conjured up. During such nights I would hear Rach talking in her sleep. Not once or twice. Every time. I might be the only person in the world who knows that. And now no one else has the chance to find out first hand.

You know, I bet you think you’ve finally got this all figured. At the start you were jumping the proverbial gun, grabbing conclusions out of nowhere and trying to make your preconceived ideas fit. But now you think you know better, think you’ve got the story figured out.

You’re not even close. You haven’t got the barest inkling of the whole truth of this story. How could you when I’m not even sure? What I do know is that neither of us (whoever you are. I write as though to a specific person though I don’t intend to show this to a soul. I think I’m picturing my mother) will ever know the true significance of the events I narrate between these pages. What, don’t believe me? Trust Shakespeare – ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Hamlet. (I put that reference in for your benefit; you don’t strike me the type to read Shakespeare.)

Anyway putting aside my philosophical ramblings there’s one big problem with you understanding the story. You’ve only heard the end. Not even that. The aftermath. So you want to know the rest? The whole truth?

Wait. There are a couple more things you need to catch up on. Why can’t I tell you now? One word: homework. Believe me this makes me no happier than you. I guess the world really doesn’t stop spinning when you’re best friend dies.

Wild Thing 3/?

20/09/2013

We were friends when we were little, playing with glitter and dolls. So we did some girly stuff. That mess up your worldview? Take us out of our nice, neat, stereotypical boxes? Sorry, world doesn’t work that way.

Sometimes we’d play with “boy” toys. Lego and toy guns, video games and robots. As we got older, Rach got into drawing; she started off with colouring books, then she drew her own stuff to colour. Then she skipped the colour all together. I was never good at that stuff.

Neither of us got into horses or fairies. Our favourite colours weren’t pink or purple. But we did do some dumb kids stuff when we were dumb kids. Maybe we still are. Or I am. She can’t be a dumb kid anymore.

When we got older still, she started attracting boys. She had classic looks; olive skin, green eyes, tall and voluptuous. She had strings of guys who’d follow her around but she never went steady. I didn’t pay much attention. I’m not really into guys. But we were both cool with what the other did and got on with it.

We were each the closest, most important person in the other’s life. I didn’t tell her everything. And she didn’t tell me her darkest secrets. But that’s not that important. Or it usually isn’t…

Wild Thing 2/?

Here's part two.

19/09/2013

Wow. I’m actually writing again. Huh. I thought I’d got that out of my system. Oh well. Guess I better tell you some more. What do you want to know? My friend’s name? The one that haunts my house and lives in the graveyard? What? Grave humor not your style? Don’t want to hear the one about the skeleton and the midget? Oh, don’t look so scared! I’m not having a breakdown, trust me.

I lack credibility, huh? At least I’ve still got a pulse. Rachel doesn’t. That is, was, her name. She used to change it a lot. Not officially, just go to a party or nightclub (I know, we’re not eighteen, show me a place that cares) and introduce herself as Roxanna or Cheyenne or Brianna.

Her hair was caramel brown but she’d dye it all the time. Black or dark blue, with funky coloured streaks. She’d drink heavily at parties then make me skip school with her to nurse her hangover. Or cover it up by getting drunk again. She’d copy my homework and cheat on tests. She’d sometimes smoke a joint at lunch and jig at least once a week. She’d get into crazy dares and crazier guys…

I knew all that. I didn’t really mind. I was happy enough knowing she always confided in me.

Hah.

Wild Thing

Okay, so there's a story I've been writing and I've decided to post it in instalments here. Tell me what you think...

Wild Thing

18/09/2013

I thought about committing suicide today. Oh no – not seriously. But I thought about it. I know you’re already writing the script in your head. Some poor little girl no one understands, bullied at school, ignored or abused by her parents. One day it’s too much and… Or you’re some cheesy, Hollywood/Disney romantic and I’ll get true appreciation of my worth from some unlikely source and turn into a happy princess from a fairy tale.

Get over yourself. You don’t know me, or my story. Heck, I don’t really know myself – so how could you? I know I don’t sing aggressively cheery pop music or talk all night with girls on the phone or write initials in love hearts in sparkly gel pens. I’m not some stupid, little schoolgirl. Which is why, until today, I had never considered keeping a diary. But look at me now, right?

I just thought if I was thinking about death. Thinking about it rationally I mean – I’m not a vampire wannabe, sex ’n’ death chick either. Then, well, a diary might be the right place for suicidal thoughts.

But you still want to know the score, right? Why am I thinking about this kind of stuff for a start? Well your best friend’s death will do that to a girl. Oh she didn’t suicide. No, she was your classic sob story. Just another kid who got screwed up on booze and drugs and one-night stands. Left some club and drove herself into a wall.

So now you think you’ve got me figured? Some wild piece of trash, lives life to the extreme until she decides not to live at all? You don’t know anything. Stick around, and you might be surprised…

Smallville and Chlollie

I'm an avid reader and for a long time have been involved in several fandoms. I particularly enjoy reading Buffy fanfic and in my endless search for good stories (there's a lot of bad ones to weed out) I stumbled across Buffy/Smallville crossovers.


So began my Smallville obsession.


My point is that I watched the first interactions on Chloe Sullivan and Oliver Queen and fell in love. I immediately looked online and found their love story spread across the internet. Despite having yet to see them get together they are definitely my OTP for this fandom.


And you, dear reader, get a look at my fanart!

Thoughts on 'Shades of Grey'

Note: This is a book review, of sorts, and although I'm not going to give away the ending (or much of the story at all, actually) there may be some spoilers along the way.


I recently read a book by Jasper Fforde, called Shades of Grey. It gave me a lot to think about and I decided to share. Fforde has a rather whimsical style, at times verging on nonsense, but his writing is intelligent and astute, making his work thought provoking once one gets past the more light hearted fun.


Shades of Grey is set in a dystopian future where social position is determined by one's perception of colour. Unlike many science fiction books, the societal rules in Shades of Grey accurately depict the complexities found in actual societies, instead of over simplifying matters. For example, The basic social order goes, from top down; purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, red, grey (these terms indicate what colours a person can see, purples see only purple, oranges see only orange and greys see no colour at all). However a high-perceptor red (someone who sees a lot of red. Perception is measured in percentages, anything above 50 is considered good and allows one into the Chromogentia, while below 10 qualifies as grey) would have higher status than a low-perceptor yellow in some situations. Primary colour perceptors also have certain extra privileges, and further subtleties develop as the story continues.


The people in this world live at least 500 years after some huge event, referred to only as 'the Something that Happened' and since then people have been living under rules laid out by someone named Munsell (a man who actually invented a certain system of categorising colour) with religious fervour, despite the inexplicability of many of these rules. Any inquisitiveness or curiosity is greatly frowned on, so people continue to follow rules such as the one banning the manufacture of spoons despite the problems it causes.


This obsessive conformity and blind obedience is the true focus of the book, although it is delightfully dressed in witty dialog and entertaining characters. As with all good literature, it studies human nature, and manages a very good break down of innate traits and learnt behaviour patterns. At first the world seems so wildly different that it can be difficult to translate into a modern context but once you break away from the world there are many insightful messages.


That is not, of course, to say the world should be ignored. As an artist I found the thoughts on colour to be entertaining and I actually checked what quite a few colours from the book would look like, which added some depth, though, it can be argued, is a tad obsessive. The way colour is used as medicine, drugs, poison and a subliminal message device, possibly accessing some sort of shared memory, is clever and interesting as well.


Finally, one would be amiss if looking at a story by Fforde and not studying his word play and invented terms. My favourite this time is 'loopholery', a term which is self explanatory and one I have incorporated into my vocabulary. There are others though, highlights including beigemarket, youknow and chromosynthesis.


Anyway, the book (my copy at least) is 432 pages long, and it is only the first of the trilogy. As such, there is no way I can do it justice in a single blog post and I therefore encourage you to buy it. Do with that recommendation what you will.

Hope Springs Eternal. Or, y'know, not...

Note: It occurs to me that religious folk should leave this page at once if heretical thought offends you.


"Hope springs eternal". People always say that. And besides from the fact that, contextually, this is completely untrue(for more details check suicide rates)the context this phrase is used in is the opposite of it's original intent. The words come form Alexander Pope's essay on man, epistle one. The section reads:


'Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.'


As anyone who has watched Veronica Mars can tell you these lines are saying: "life's a bitch, until you die'. Or, people don't throw the towel in at every minor inconvenience because they believe in an afterlife with frolicking bunnies and kitties and ponies.


Or something like that, anyway. Although this is also clearly untrue since many people don't believe in a heavenly reward and still manage to survive day to day life. However, my point is that people use the phrase to say people will always have faith in life when Pope meant that people will always have faith in death. And although I disagree with both perspectives, I object to the mutilation of Pope's thoughts.


I also give him the credit of realising that life really sucks, even if he was optimistic enough to believe in paradise.

Last Day

Everyone jigs on the last day of term. Well, not EVERYONE. But almost. And it is really the most pointless day to skip.

I mean, most days there are classes with learning and teaching and homework. Everyone is there and most of them are annoying. But on the last day you watch movies or talk and as long as some of your friends attend, the percentage of people to avoid is much smaller.

The computers don't care when you skip school as long as you attend 85% of the time or something. So skip a day that might actually suck instead of wasting it on the last day.

Controlling Teenagers

I have come to the conclusion that it is useless to try and control teenagers. Every attempt is doomed from the start. A key problem here, I believe, is that the natural tendency towards the contrary, found in all people, is magnified in teens. The other problem is that adults seem to forget this, along with every other aspect of the teenage mind.


A typical example of this occurred at my school a month or so ago. Some higher up, for reasons unknown, decided that police should talk to the year 7-9s about cyber-safety. The first on a list of bad decisions. It does no good telling teenagers about bullying. Anyone who remembers teenage-hood knows this. Beyond that a 30-something-year-old cannot tell a room of 15-year-olds about advances in online technology without looking silly. My dental hygienist, for example, thinks he's being 'cool' when he talks about 'going online and looking at the facebook'. Walking in to the library my only hopes were that the presentation wouldn't be interactive so I could lapse into a state of semi-conciousness.


Unfortunately the presenter wasn't just completely useless at discouraging online bullying, she actually created new problems. She asked whether our school had a 'goss' page on facebook. We didn't. Yet.


Yeah, that's right. By talking about how bad these goss pages where she inspired some kids to make one. A goss page is, apparently, a pace where kids from a school write nasty things about each other for the whole world to see. The internet bathroom wall.


But that wasn't the end of it. Not at all. One week later years 8 and 9 were called in for a meeting. They told us all about the goss page. About how horrible and illegal and irresponsible it was. How the police were now involved and questioning students (interestingly, they didn't mention how the police had started the chain of events off). They told us that even looking at the page was encouraging it. I think the word 'ignore' appeared about 80 times in the speech.


Can you guess what happened next?