come on hide your lovers underneath the covers

the problem with teenage love is trying to combat the sexual neediness of being 18 with the unexpected maturity of meeting parents and not constantly having sex.
is it too much to expect that we will behave and act naturally and grow out of public affection?
i sincerely hope not.
why would i imagine something so much worse than what could actually happen? he wore a scarf i thought was hers and my head was filled with jealousy and an insatiable hunger for reassurance and a bite on the shoulder.


young lovers under covers, keeping cover

they say art mimics life

now it's more the opposite way. Real life is imitating art in a scary way.
I'm so sorry dad, now I know how you felt.
Last night I spent in A+E
My robot play - the robot part is gone, the suicide bit remains.
Life imitates art.
and memories come flooding back
Oh god, oh god.

It's funny how things work out. History repeats itself, there are no exceptions. And for once I am inclined to believe that, although everything happens for a reason, that reason isn't always a good one.
And right now my vision is full of so much wood that I can't even imagine trees. What a bad twist of expression, I'm losing my touch at the grand old age of 18.
I don't know where this is going, but I know where it's come from. And I never want to see it again.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

update

haven't posted on here in a while (hi Laura)
big news so far:
been invited to write some plays for West Yorkshire Playhouse in association BBC :D
we all sat around being all cool and nonchalant until the director left then we all just screamed a little and called everyone we knew.
we have images to protect, ok?


also, today i made chocolate and carrot cake, it's fit as hell but not for the diet conscious
i'm taking it into work so all the diet conscious women can squirm

true story

When I was little I spent my life on motorways. Me and my dad would drive all over the North West and he would tell me stories and the history of the sad, desolate moors. One story he told was about a bridge.
This bridge was immense, looming out in the gap between two great cliffs that stretched up either side of the six lane road. The great stone arches curved up in their own individual sunrises until the top was just a distant line far above us. As you drew nearer you could see the graffiti tags of young boys brave enough, or stupid enough, to clamber between the concrete walls with just sweaty hands as a safety net.
According to my dad, and therefore local legend, the bridge was notorious for being a favourite place for suicide. The hardened farmers sipping bitter in pubs whispered about those who lost everything and drove up the winding hills to the bridge. From there they would stare down at people in cars like ants, and jump. Everyone withheld their sympathy, noone would come visit if the roads were closed - but in their mind everyone shook their head and thought in a sick sense of awe of how much guts it must have took to look down at a hundred miles of tarmac and sigh and step off...
At that age I had not yet learnt to take my dad's stories with a pinch of salt. As I grew up I never heard of even one more death from that bridge, let alone the hundreds he had mentioned. But something from that story stayed with me. I couldn't shake the idea that one day someone would jump and I would see them, or worse yet that they'd hit our car. That paralysing fear consumed every thought I had about that particular stretch of motorway. And so from then on, every time I drove under that bride I was prepared. And every time, I braced myself, for the jump.

legend has it

i keep thinking of trees and what they stand for. and think of roads in circles. dancing round your city lights.
ot takes a lot to let them go but who am i to know when all i remember is when their name pops up, occasionally.
do you know what it feels like to feel so tall and stand up and realise the limit of your height?
i guess that's how Alice feels, only much more severe than originally thought. when you walk with all the grace of the world.
do you know what it feels like to feel a cup is much smaller than it should be, like you're just not acting well enough?
i still miss you though i never ever want to admit that.



oh you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place

if all our lives are but a dream

I keep thinking of trees
and what they stand for.
And think of roads in circles
dancing around your sky.

i don't know what this is

You cooked chilli, I remember because it wouldn't settle and just sat in the pit of my stomach until I went and threw up in the bathroom. We only had Diet Coke in the fridge so I poured myself a glass. You watched crime dramas on TV and complained when I flicked during the adverts, even though you hate adverts and always made fun of them. The time on the computer got to reading 00:17 and you decided it was the perfect time to wash the pots. Then another one of your long rambling goodbyes that seem to end then start back up again, almost immediately. As I drained my glass I saw all the lint and fluff from the carpet sticking to the bottom, trapped by the condensation. It made me sick, like all that dirt could get into my throat and knot together in my stomach. I put down the glass. The light from the lamps didn't seem to reach all four corners and just reflected in the mirror. It was still too hot even with the heating off. I never liked to open the windows because it made the house seem less safe and as I thought that I got scared, and turned the volume up. My skin felt soft and malleable and natural yet faintly sticky, without make up on. I was sweaty with the heat of the whirring laptop and the lack of air and not moving. At 00:31 I shut down and went to bed.