OK, so I didn't stay off Twitter!!

I was absolutely determined not to go back on twitter, after all the agonising about how it had turned me into someone I didn't like or even recognise. I realised that like any utility it is MY tool, I am not a slave to twitter. I would say that I was addicted, I even had strong psychological cravings for the excitement, the banter, the people. The problem and also the joyful hook is that in everyday life we have interpersonal relationships with anyone we come into contact with, be it family, friends, work collegues, clients or just a fellow traveller on the train. We can 'read' those situations, given that 90% of communication is non-verbal, ie; someone's facial expression the tone of their voice, their hand gestures or posture, allow us to appropriately respond within any given context. Someone I'm travelling next to on the train for example would not expect me to warmly embrace them or describe the underwear I have on, well they may actually like it were they an hetrosexual male, but given the context of the situation it may well scare the crap out of them (remember Fatal Attraction???). In a different situation, maybe with my husband or a close friend those actions would not be unusual 'for me'. You may have a less intimate way of going with your friends. My point is without the NON-VERBAL clues, we automatically infer 'traits' to the other person we are communicating with online. We do this based on our past experiances, on our secret longings, or unconscious desires. We attribute them with personality traits they may or may not have, traits that we strongly like, or strongly dislike. Where the mind has gaps of information it tends to fill from our own imagination. This is why quite often a movie may be a big dissappointment to someone who has loved the book, ie;the director's imagination was too different or fell short of what the viewers imagination had already attributed to the charecters, when reading and enjoying the written word. As you read this you may well believe that you have a fair idea of what I am like 'in real life', but unless you know me personally, your ideas are based mostly on your own imaginings of what I am like, and those will be based on whether what I have written has triggered a like or dislike response. If you were to meet me 'in real life' you may be very dissappointed or suprisingly pleased. This is the psychological phenomena I experianced  when I was twittering away communicating with a host of people I don't really know, but believed that truely we shared a bond, a kinship, between us. Smoke and Mirrors! Of course the reverse is also true, in that some twitter friendships I enjoyed grew into outside of twitter friendships, and I still regulary communicate with some previous twitter pals. We may even meet at some stage, but outside of the frenetic, competitive world of twitter, there is time, to develope those relationships, which may or maynot grow into real life friendships. Who knows. So why did I go back to twitter? Something that suprised me is that as well as interacting with other tweeters I gained access to an emmense store of knowledge on twitter, I missed the regular news updates that are so much superiour to the telly news! I missed being part of a community that supports human rights, and opposes oppression, and makes me smile with silly quotes and jokes. I am a seasoned tweeter now, I am not in it to 'feed my ego' ( I have my blog for that! :), seriously only kidding! I will not go chasing after followers, or feel I have to be entertaining to justify their follow. I will not break my neck to be at my laptop for every friday #FF night!!! I may not #FF recommend anyone again. In short I ,will be a sensible twitter user, content to bottom feed, lurking and chatting to a few, other, small fry like me at the bottom of the pool,  I will leave the shallows for the colourful, pretty, amusing folk, with their vast shoal of followers, the ones we all aspire to be  like, I am content just to be me.

Faltering Steps to recovery: self confessed twitterholic

Ok, so its been a week now, 7 days since I closed my twitter account and instantaneously lost contact with all the tweeps I knew and loved, and so far I'm still alive....I have been trying really hard to get along with facebook but to be honest I'm just not feeling the love. I have withdrawal symptoms, as bad as any I have suffered from nicotine withdrawal. I think a lot about the twitter pals I tweeted with regularly, well I did tweet every day practically for the past 6 months with these people, and some, a few favourite tweeps. I have linked up with on facebook. One very special twitter pal and I have become penfriends! A shaft of light in the darkness! Its friday tomorrow, Follow Friday and for the second time in 6 months I will not be taking part. When you consider that I tortured Darren in our trip to Amsterdam to make sure that I accessed an internet cafe to ensure I posted my FF recommendations, you may understand, that this is not something I am finding easy. Work collegues have noticed that I am not quite myself, and when I explain that I'm missing twitter some have responded with either blank stares, or retort with "well it's probably for the best, you did take it all sooooooo seriously." Yes, thanks for that, as if I don't know I took it all too seriously, wouldn't I still be on, twittering away if I had just treated it as a laugh? Funny though, it started out just being a bit of a laugh, before 'personal dynamics' came into the equation. I have tried to be addicted to housework (big fail!) or focus more on my work and family, but alone, driving on the long trek home, in the dark, and lately the rain, my mind wanders to my tweeps, I worry a bit that something terrible may have happened to someone I care about and I don't know because of my self-imposed exile. The 'what if'....scenarios enter my head, and by the time I'm home I am washed out with worrying. So, in truth I have cheated, I have peeked in from time to time via Darren's account and searched some of my previous friends accounts, just to make sure they are still tweeting, still there. Lurking behind the curtains, finding comfort in familure words, faces. Yes I know I'm sad, I know I sound nuts, so it is with addiction. My name is Debbie, and I am a recovering twitterholic.

Twitter : Im out of the race

6 months ago I joined twitter, as many new converts do, I followed famous twits, Stephen Fry, Ashton Kutcher, Neil Gaiman , Alyssa Milano.  I didn't expect dialogue, with these people and of course, there was none. I was way too far behind the leaders. The formula 1 of the twitter race. I used twitter almost as a visible stream of consciousness, and along the way, I gained followers. I inturn followed these twits and so it went on. Relationships started to develop with these people, I discovered that, tweeting with ordinary tweeps, even if they didn't reveal their true identities was so much more rewarding than trailing behind the Twitter elite. I looked for people to tweet with that were involved in topics I care about. Nursing, especially mental health nursing, homelessness, human rights, and comedic writers. I stumbled upon a few fellow tweeters that I strongly identified with, and for a while was a member of our own elite gang. A member of a twitter subgroup. It was heady, exciting, and so, so addictive. Our leader, although he may not have recognised it, @willmarch was so irreverant, terribly funny (at times caustically so) and I thought so brave. Even behind the facade of a fake name and funny little animal avatar I kind of hero worshipped him and felt so privilaged when he seemed to find me entertaining also. I followed people he followed, and found such a diverse range of characters, who charmed and enthralled me. @AskJincCat, @destiny2711, @KatieMcCullough. I also found through a common interest in human rights, many courageous people tweeting to raise awareness of the terrible human rights abuse, torture and murder of Iranian election protesters. Good people all. @tonytrainor ,a fantastic reporter, became a twitter friend also. Some tweeters like Tony, the Iranian protesters group , Melvin, @traveldudes the well travelled, approachable guru of all thing travel related and and the irrepressible Katie McCullough, also, a lovely writer @natalieallan have become friends on my facebook network also. I stopped following the famous and also, eventually the not quite but aiming to be famous tweeps who would sometimes reply back. I spent every available on twitter and to be honest, not so available spare minutes (my house became a total shambles!). I say twitter is a race and the immediacy of the interaction can be frantic, and competitive. To have more followers than you follow became not so  much a goal, as a drive. I closed my account with 194 tweeps I followed, and 406 followers, and even though I'm a recovering twittaholic I still feel a measure of satisfaction at that level of success. (how sad am I? Early days yet, have some pity!) All human relationships can be complicated, even in the virtual world, and I have a very dodgy suspension of disbelief button (ask my husband or kids and they will tell you tis so very true) and so I wear my heart on my sleeve a lot, get over involved, believe in a level of shared imtimacy that is in my head rather than 'out there'. Three 'events' conspired to convince me to close my account earlier this week: my ex-husband expressed an interest in joining twitter, I have not shared a marriage for over 10 years with the man and so was repelled at the thought of him 'snooping' on my tweets, I got hacked in my DM (direct message) box and felt violated, and last but not least, I unforgivably offended Will March on Thursday evening, 12th November. He tweeted that he was closing his account. I had  been trying so hard to be 'entertaining' (look at me, I'm controversial and amusing), that I was actully cruel and insensitive. He got out of his 'twitter racecar' and quietly walked away. I was watching him in my rear view mirror, shouting, don't go I'm sorry, then I crashed and burned. End of. I moved to comparative safety of facebook, it is not as exhilerating or competitive (even the games are more friendly than cut-throat) more of a ramble down a country lane, with plenty of stops to look at the pictures than the furiously fast pace of the twitter highway, but, for now, I need to get out of the race and smell the roses. Also my dear, much put upon husband says he is glad to have me all to himself again :)

Growing up in Belfast, amid bombs and testosterone: Chapter 1

I came here from Canada. If Canada was bright daylight and distinct seasons, Belfast was all drizzle and dangerous foggy nights. Canada was clean and healthy childhood innocence, Belfast was dark with an electric current of breathless anticipation. Teens for me lasted between the ages of 12 and 16 years. At 16 I ran off to get married. At 16 I became a mother for the first time.
I was restless, I was skinny, I had no breasts to speak of despite all the rubbing I did to promote growth. Someone in school told me Barbara McGee had big ones because they were hand grown,(SHE had a boyfriend) so I tried to coax some growth into my little fried eggs by regular massage. It must not have worked unless someone else did the coaxing. I always felt like life was something that happened to other people. It was there all right I was just not part of it. I mitched school, I started smoking. I hated school. Glencairn Secondary School for Girls was the Belfast version of St. Trinnians but without the slapstick homour. I hated being called snob from snobhill because we lived in a 'bought' house so I determined to be best at being bad. I was the best mitcher, the best smoker, the best at throwing my life away as fast as I could.
In first year I was voted by the class to compete in Miss Glencairn, by second year I was so out of it I don't remember much of what little time I spent there. Ballygomartin Presbyterian Church disco held a youth club come disco, where I and my little band of awkward youth spent every Saturday night. I can't remember who first introduced me to solvents, but one of my cronies, approached me in the toilets with a balled up tissue and dared me to sniff the contents. Lady Esquire, leather cleaner to the bootclad, sensible population, nectar of intense intoxication to each of us huddled in the cubicle.It became our drug of choice. It was cheap, it was easily accessible from the local Woolworths, it smelled nice. At first inhalation Beetoven's Fifth boomed in my ears, my brain, my surroundings. I swayed out of the loo, into the disco. Spirit in the Sky, "when I die and they lay me to rest gonna go to the place that's the best....." I was no longer a malcontent skinny schoolgirl, I was air. I was water, I was a living embodiement of the faltering lyrics. I was hooked

Mea Culpa my love/hate affair with smoking

I was 12 years old, cocky, bit out of control. I was sitting astride Phil's 750 worn but impressive Yamaha, chatting. Phil was 17, a friend of my older brother, long hair, leather jacket smelling of petrol and cigarettes. I asked if I could have a draw of his No 6, chuffed when he handed it to me, mostly chuffed that he and his mates were treating me like a was a teenager and female. I was attempting flirtation, smoking like I was an expert, confident that I looked older with my khol eyeliner and scarlet lips. We were talking about some obscure lyrics  from a band that I had not heard of but was pretending I loved. I felt the displaced air around my left ear before I felt the pain. My scarlet smile died, just like the easy going ambience. I fell forward and twisted into a spin jump,landing catlike, facing my father.' HOME ',he snarled. I ran ahead, fuck fuck fuck, I'm so dead, my feet beat into the pavement. At home I raced to the bathroom and locked the door. 'Give me a stick, ' my father yelled 'a big stick, I'm gonna break that wee girl's bones!' I looked frantically around the bathroom, I used to be able to fit through the small, uppermost window, but since*cringe* I had become a woman ( I hated the term menstruation) and had the beginnings of hips and baby breasts , I couldn't fit anymore. A row ensued outside the door, my Mum was demanding to know what the problem was and was drawing my Dad's fire. I unscrewed Dad's razor and thought 'Do it, end this fucking useless existence, I'm nothing but a pain to everyone anyway, I hated them all but myself much, much, more. He didn't kill me, I didn't kill myself, and smoking became a part of who I am.
Now, once again, I am attempting to turn my back on smoking, to convice myself, this is NOT who I am. It makes no sense. My mum and Darren's dad both suffer from a smoking-related disease. I have stopped so many times I have lost count. I am a serial stopper. I stopped once for 6 years, never smoked when I carried or breast fed any of my 3 children. Last time I gave up, I stopped for 6 months and felt better, looked better, had so much more energy. Then one of my homeless clients was murdered. Stabbed to death, in June of this year. I knew him for 2 years. I liked him. I ran to the newspapershop and greedily sucked the deadly fumes deep into my lungs, as if it was oxygen and I had been suffocating. Now I am starting to feel the minus health effects again, too frequent colds, using my asthmatic meds more often, post midnight wheeze. My Dad is not around to get a big stick to beat the evil out of me. I am my own judge, jury and executioner. 3 days.............and counting.

A week is an awfully short time/ Tiny's story

I cannot believe it has been a week since I last posted on our return from Amsterdam, God that was a fast week! Work has been hectic, a lot of young homeless people with a host of complex needs. I have been working with homeless clients for over two years now, and it has flown by! No two weeks, or even, no two days are the same in this job. I talked with my eldest daughter about the stresses and strains of the job and she said I don't know how you can detach yourself from the plight of your clients, when you come home, and the truth is I can't. Not without my family, dogs, home, Rose Wine, and twitter to keep me balancing precariously on the sane side if the fine line. I don't let it go entirely, but I can't bring all my clients home to live with me, although every so often I feel like I want to. Especially the young ones. Kids really. Which brings me to the one time I brought home, not a client but his dog, Tiny.
I had been visiting this patient as his CPN for a few weeks. I called to see him more often than my role warrented, but I was very concerned about him.Tiny's owner, I will call him Tony, was in his 50's but looked more like 80. He smoked 80+ a day and had schizophrenia. He lived alone, except for this wee jack russell. Tiny. Tiny was his life. He also suffered from chronic heart disease. He had problems with fluid retention, due to his weakened heart function, and didn't have trousers that fit. So he sat in one room, unable to stand, trousers around his knees, unable to wash, or walk any distance. He spent all day/night watching a tv white noise screen( not tuned in for picture or sound) He refused to allow me to tune it in as he saw all his favourite movie screen goddesses, Marilyn Monroe, ect on the screen. He had a care package, carers called 3 times a day to help him wash and make him meals, but he refused their offers  to walk to the bathroom and they didn't argue. Just made him ready meals and pre-packaged trifle, and left. I logged their visits as lasting 6 minutes. He was so dirty I didn't know he had brown hair until he was in hospital. He had weeping leg ulcers that a district nurse called to dress daily, but as soon as she left, he undid the dressings to let Tiny lick, he thought the dog had a better chance of healing them. I tortured the Care Manager, and his GP with telephone calls. I was afraid he would die alone. His sister in law brought him groceries and cigarettes and managed his benefits but had her own burdens to bear, and couldn't spend much time. He wheezed, the dog wheezed, he smoked, so the dog smoked with him.The GP finally agreed to me at his home one evening and called an ambulance to take him into hospital. He agreed only if I would take and look after his beloved wee dog. I visited him in hospital and the staff kindly let me bring Tiny in to see him on three occassions. I gave him a photograph of her he kept at his side. When he died, within a matter of weeks the same photograph was buried with him. I brought Tiny to the funeral, and she was the centre of attention. Sometimes when I look at her I swear I see Tony's expression. She sleeps with us, is on my knee as soon as I am through the door (makes it difficult to manage on the loo!)and is the source of much happiness. She no longer wheezes, can run(almost) as fast as our collie, Rachel. I do not forget where she came from. As she is an wee old doggie, she may not be with us for too many years to come, but I know someone who will be very glad to welcome her to wherever he may be, and I sincerely hope Marilyn Monroe is also there to say Hi!

Be it ever so humble

Home safe and sound from our Amsterdam trip, no matter how nice it is to be away on a trip, it is always lovely to come home. Smooth travel thanks to Easyjet and the impressive Amsterdam transport options, we traveled on the tram to our hotel. My first time on a tram, although my Mum told me back in the day trams operated in Belfast. We dined in a Nepalese resturant on spiced lamb, excellent! Then went off in search of the Iran protest meeting in Dam Square. the arranged time, 7.30pm as posted on twitter, came and went. No sign of any protestors. I approached a group of people as I spotted one guy was wearing a green wristband, but no. He had not a clue what I was asking him about, and my gestures( waving my arms around) accompanied by shouting Iran? Protest? Human Rights? Soon had the lot of them scarpering in the opposite direction, they probably thought I spent too much time in the Coffee House! I was a little gutted but mostly sad for the tweeps supporting the protestors of  the human rights violations happening in Iran. So we did not let this setback get us down and headed straight off to the Red Light District, Scams was curious :) Again I was struck by how different Amsterdam is to Belfast. The prosititues are protected by law and have even formed their own trade union! Business was brisk and we saw quite a few 'occupied' booths. The atmosphere was good natured , and when we visited a sex shop I was suprised to see several lone female shoppers quite comfortably browsing the products on offer. We didnt know what most of the goods were, and did a bit of childish giggling, but I can honestly say that I am no longer a porn virgin, 3 TV's screened graphic penetration way too up close and personal. I did not find it a turn on, I think for a lot of women, the offer of a cup of tea, or I'll do the dishes tonight, you put your feet up, love, is much more of an aphrosidiac than the (painful looking) shagging going on there. No, we did not buy porn, we did make a modest purchase but I won;t go into too many details, except to say that we bought the same product for our Sons-in-law as a keepsake of Amsterdam(and they both were mightly pleased their pressies)! We did visit a coffee shop and Scams had coffee. I had one of the other 'goods' on offer, but kept it real, no over indulgence to regret. On our way back to the hotel we heard some shouting, and hopeful that the Protest was at last happening turned to investigate, A group of Belfast Boys singing 'the sash my father wore' were the culprits, so we did not join in the singing. Amsterdam memories? Bikes, everywhere, all over, coming from all directions, all the time. Beautiful canals,candlelit dinners, eaten outside, strolling along a particular canal back to our hotel, the long tall buildings luminious in the darkness spilling light and laughter onto the still water. Holding my husband's hand and feeling safe because he was there, celebrating our past 10 years of being in love, by remaining in love. We will go back to Amsterdam, maybe in a few years, and as long as I am with my Scams I am sure it will be just as special.

We are off to Amsterdam!!! Goddammit!

I love to travel, and now that my kids are no longer attached to my breast (youngest22!) the opportunities to travel are greater now than at any other time in my life. Last year Darren and I had a fantastic Road trip starting in Toronto(Canada)-Saint Catharines ( my birthplace)-Niagra-Buffalo-Salem (Mass.)-Boston-Mystic (Conn.)-New York. Before this trip I has preconceived idea's about USA and Americans, that, as I discovered were completely wrong! I loved being in Canada, and despite my protestations that I didn't miss Canada I had a huge emotional response to my place of birth, and when I stepped into the street (Mackie Avenue, Port Dalhousie, Ontario) where I spent the first 8 years of my life I felt overwhelmingly that I was home. I have always felt a bit of a 'blow in' in Ireland, I was brought up as a Protestant, but never felt in tune with loyalist, or Unionist traditions. When I made friends with Irish Nationalists, while studying BA in Fine Art, I had great sympathy with the Nationalist cause, and traditional Irish music did (and still does) make me wish that I had Celtic blood racing through my veins. I couldn't say that growing up in Belfast I felt different, infact ,I tried really hard to fit in,memories of my first year in a Belfast primary school and being asked to swear in a Canadian accent for the amusement of my P4 classmates,( I think they mostly turned into Loyalist paramilitaries, although 2 died in IRA bombs).

But, I felt at home in Canada, so much so, that on our return, I asked my kids to move with us( I still hold a Canadian Passport and my kids also qualify for one), but they were reluctant. So we will have to see how that goes. the dream is not completely dead. So, any way, where was I? Oh yes back to today, this morning in fact, Darren and I are heading to Amsterdam, he booked this trip to commemorate our 10 years of being a couple ( married for past 4).  Later discovered that we will be in the Dam in time to take part in the 'Free Iran' protest. Great! Darren says he is not protesting, but making sure I don't get arrested! If you follow me on Twitter you will know that the situation in Iran is one I have become passionate about. All those kids, murdered, raped and tortured! I look at those faces, innocents slain and I think, that could have been any of my children, is anyone above and beyond the risk of being a victim from  tyranny or oppression? Our past conflict is not so far away in terms of time or memory to comfortably believe that. So the ability to add my voice to the throng of others demanding the world take notice,and act to stop the horror that is happening on a daily basis, is not one I want to miss. Also a fellow tweeter @velvetescape is an Amsterdammer, and hearing we will be there tweeted me and offered to meet for coffee. So that is happening(if I don't get arrested ) on Thursday, all this and the unique Amsterdam culture awaits. So excited.

more things I love

I am trying to contain myself, well a little, well no actually I am splurging out all over the place, cause this is MY blog, a bit like a multi-dimensional scrapbook!, and if you know me at all you will know that I love to talk!! I also love to listen, so if you come in for a visit don't be afraid to leave a comment, you can pretty much say anything, I have no moderation controls in place so, feel free! I am almost impossible to insult (as long as I'm not drinking vodka, if I drink vodka I get very stroppy!)

Another thing I love is graffiti (can't actually spell it though). On occassion I take the train into work and have the pleasure of viewing some fine graffiti along the embankment walls. Some of it is just the big bubble writing, depicting names (much like a dog marking it's territory) MARKSEY WOZ HERE type thing, but others are quite clever and makes me think about the artist, and the message. Considering that most art, even the classics get only on average 3 mins viewing time (depressing fact) our graffiti artists are social commentators that will be viewed time and time again (or at least until the local authority or in my case translink cover it up with cheap unimaginative flat paint) Although they can't all be Banksey, thumbs up to the street artists. Thank you for enriching my otherwise tedious journeys to work!

continuation of things I love......

I thought long and hard about what I should next list as things I love, and in keeping with the 'stay away from the dark side' my next post is in appreciation of ...............breasts...yes thats right, I am a hetrosexual female but I have great and sincere appreciation of breasts. Whats not to like after all. This topic came to the forefront of my mind after a conversation in work. A collegue (Social Worker) was commenting to our young (22 year old) Social Work student how disgusting and innappropriate was a huge billboard with a magnificent pair of boobies advertising ? car parts I think. She was saying how the poster 'objectified' women as sexual objects. What?? I am a sexual being.... I do have breasts and I concur with the song lyrics ( I forget who by) that 'everybody needs a bosom for a pillow'. I said that they were pretty spectacular bazooka's and cheered me everytime I passed by said billboard. The student (who by this time was pretty red faced) grinned and said he deliberately drove by them every day! Good for him. Do we now have to apologize for being female. I did note (mentally) that the Social Worker in question had none. I however am proud to confess I sport a 34 D-E pair and I am always willing to hug anyone needing a bosom for a pillow! (Within reason, doesn't do to hug every homeless person I come across) keeps my husband pretty happy :D

I'm not really a manic depressive, honest!

Having just looked at this blog again, I am a mite concerned that I am coming across as a dark, depressive, moan. Scams (poor bewildered husband) would like me to clarify that the sad assed poetry predates him by many years! (well, not that many to be fair, but feck all to do with 'OUR' life together).  So I intend to stop the dark crap for now and talk a little about loves in my life, and I love a lot!
Twitter has become a 'bit' of an obsession (can one be a 'bit' obsessed, is it like being a 'bit' pregnant?)
I check it even before I have unglued my eyes in the morning, sneak peaks at work when I'm office based, and stay up far too late at night, twittering away.
I have favourite tweeters and chat, more to them than my IRL (In Real Life) friends, in fact where are my IRL friends, when was the last time I saw them? Have I really been submersed in Twitter for the past..... how many months? S C A R E Y  yes, I think it is fair to say I am totally obsessed with Twitter he he*sheepish snigger*
The thing about twitter is that I believe it IS real life. My friends at work, husband and kids keep telling me it is not real ....I do not chat with a furry black cat called Jinx, I do not have a best friend I fight with and love lots called Will March, I don't know a gorgeous author of Steam Punk called Natalie, and another talented, beautiful actor and writer called Katie McCullough, and many, many more. My family and friends tell me these people are fake and fear I am deranged for even trying to explain my attraction to them. Maybe, but as I sit here with my house a tip and laundry undone all I can say in my defence is twitter is addictive, and I happily confess I am a twitter addict. Maybe I should suggest a support group for all of us twitter addicted people, I may, if I had the time, but, so much to tweet and so little time!!

Sad ass poetry for the romantically challenged

By Proxy

that was your fault you said

why don't you keep your mouth shut

and, as I fingered my loosened teeth

and tasted the rust iron drops on my busted lip

I was inclined

in retrospect

to agree

But instead I wished you dead

or at least a guardian angel (or two)

would magically appear

through the american shadow shag

and punish you

just as I have

with every kiss

by every curse

through every man I've known

since

DLR

because you were the one who went away.....

this is the poem I didn't write for you
it goes with the song I never sang to you
along with the dreams I couldn't share with you
I'll tear it up into little peices
as well as the photo's I didn't take, (all you)
and store them with all the fragments of memories
I do not have of you
and I never again will tell you
I want to come back.............

DLR

Sad ass poetry for the romantically challenged

Having a blog, as I have discovered, is a big responsibility. It is the purest form of self indulgence, possibly the cheapest therapy outside of the NHS, (and Twitter) but also a bit of a worry. I find I think about it a lot : what to say, when to say it, possible visual material, how to post this........so it goes on. It is a bit like inviting friends for dinner, then worrying they won't like the food, or talk about you behind your back to mutual friends, about how your toilet was smelly or the wine cheap shit from Tesco.

I was recently on a Twitter friend's web site( even better than a blog, as I have learned). Natalie (http://www.natalieallen.co.uk/) talked so eloquently about the entrance of Autumn. She included a poem which I enjoyed so much it reminded me that I used to love writing poetry. Sadly most poems were penned when I was a bit of a sad ass. It is much easier to write poetry from a perspective of personal pain rather than celebratory joy. I find.

So here I go, introducing my sad ass poetry for your edification, and if you find it distastful or tacky, please tell me directly, don't go badmouthing me to my friends.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Actually we had a lovely Sunday. Darren, Ben and I went to the Black Box and enjoyed the very laid back vibe, coffee, and films. Darren and Ben bought books and vinyls. They were totally impressed with the array of 2nd hand goods on offer. I saw Terry Hooley, he was manning a music stall. I didn't speak to him ( because I don't know him, only of him and I used up my quota of psychobitch for this month)
I had time to reflect on my shameful Twitter behaviour last night and yet again (will I never learn) that too much alcohol and Tweeting is not a terribly good idea.
I must remember that Twitter is not real life.
I must remember that twitter is not real life.
I must remember that Twitter is not real life.
Any better?
I don't know if I can make that concept stick.
I will try harder. I hate thinking I hurt anyone. No excuse for that. Especially a friend. ARH! Did it again. I must remember that Twitter is not real life.

Et Tu Brute?

I have followed Will March's blog from its very inception, just as I have followed and promoted Will on every #FF. Indeed I have been proud to call him my favourite tweeter to date!
But tonight when I just started this thing and was really excited about it and wanted to tell him first he ignored me! on twitter! then called his blog shite! We had a fight on twitter, can you believe it on twitter. And another thing Will, if you ever get the big fat stick out of your arse and bother to read this- You treated me like a twat- I have heard you treat other people like twats and try to frighten them away, but I didn't think you would do it to me. We are mates after all. You don't frighten me one tiny bit. I will continue to like you despite your best efforts.

In the beginning was earth , then came woman. as a huge afterthought there came man(but only cause the grass needed cutting!)

Hi, All who enter, be not afraid. I have created this blog and I promise you will be safe here. Stay close to me and make no sudden movements.

How fecking easy is this. I cannot believe I am on a blog- much less my blog! I was only trying to find out the true identity of a fellow blogger, Jinx Cat!

Next thing I know is I'm being asked to choose my wallpaper, Now I know how Mr. Ben felt when he went into the changing rooms with the dodgy looking salesman. "Inside leg measurements? No problems my good man but only if I can I wear the Spaceman outfit!"

So this is it, my own private space to be as outrageous as I want. My Ego and Id are in mortal Combat with this one .....Lets just see how it goes. Debs hehe