If you lived here, you'd be home now.

Last night's escapades with insane people, hysterical women, loud banging noises at 1am and then 2 hours later, and eventual police intervention makes me almost tempted to look for new lodgings. I love my little flat, but I hate the building. The woods are full of fairies, but the suburbia is full of drug dealers.

It's times like this that I get heartsick; torn between two courses of action, neither of which will make me particularly happy. It's as though I'm always searching for the thing that will finally make me feel like I'm home, but until then everything feels like a temporary stopping point. I've lived here almost two years and still haven't hung most of my pictures on the wall; university flats had everything up within a week. Maybe it's because I'm living alone now. Maybe it's because there's something about this place that just doesn't feel quite right. Maybe I'm just ill-equipped to deal with real life and grown-up responsibilities. None of those options are particularly appealing, because they all, ultimately, mean some kind of change has to happen.

I think I know what I want; but then, this used to be what I wanted.

It's not a side effect of the drugs....

I try not to care what people think of me, but of course I do. Everybody cares, and people who say they don't are either lying or more comfortable with themselves than 99.99% of the population. Maybe even less.

I wonder what people think when they look at me; the assumptions they make about me. Right now, I wonder what they would think if they saw me sitting here: short-ish brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail with strands hanging over my face; glasses with thin, black, metal rims that have seen better days and are slightly bent from falling asleep in them too many times; two rubber music-band bracelets - one red and yellow, the other camoflage; a white gypsy top wth purple flowers; red sweatpants, less stylish and more comfy; big furry slippers; no make-up; round face; jewelleryless... All of these things make up my appearance, but none of them define me. People look at me, and they think: Girl. They think: straight. They think: somewhere between 20 and 30. They think: a little chubby, not terribly stylish, a little geeky. They think: big smile, big laugh, dramaqueen, happy.

It's amazing how wrong people can get it when they assume. And it frustrates me, because I feel as though I have to be constantly explaning who I am. If I had surgery to become a total androgyne; if I wore rainbows everywhere; if I walked around with a pensive look...maybe people would get it. If as soon as I met people I asked that they call me by non-gender-specific pronouns, if I showed them pictures of ex-girlfriends, if I could physically manifest internal tumultuousness, then maybe people would understand me better.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a sellout because I'm so much happier not to rock the boat, to let people assume that I fall under one of the heteronormative 'normal' categories unless it specifically comes up. I won't deny it, because for me, I shouldn't have to make a big deal out of it, because no-one should assume things in the first place. But that's not how the world works, is it? Sometimes I wonder if it's worth taking a stand, once and for all, just to clear the air. To stand up for who I actually am, as opposed to who they assume I should be.

Of course, I probably won't. But a person can dream.

You can't title love....

Every spring a craving is awakened in me. As soon as I see a Japanese cherry tree, my soul yearns for the blossom. I don't feel complete until I have some in my hands, in my hair, through a buttonhole. It started when I moved to Edinburgh for university 7 years ago - Edinburgh has squares within the city which are lined with cherry trees - and the first time I saw one a part of me was filled with longing.

Once upon a time, millennia ago, there was a young Japanese woman who fell in love with a man who wasn't her husband, and he fell in love with her too. One night they arranged to meet. The man brought the woman some blossom off one of the cherry trees, and they spent one beautiful, forbidden night together. At the first light of dawn the next day, the young woman dressed, picked up the blossom the man had given her, and stole back to her room before she could be missed. She never saw him again, but for the rest of that spring, and every spring following, she wore cherry blossom in her hair to remind herself of what it was to truly love. Her love for him lasted even after death, because some loves are eternal, and once forged can never be broken.

Aishiteru.

"So you're, like, half gay?"

It's so easy to forget that people will always assume that you're straight, so you have to actively 'come out' everywhere you go.

The world is clearly filled with fail, and needs to catch up kthnx.

Beware of the monkeys!

Or, at least, limit their access to screwdrivers.

One of life's perfect moments:

Falling asleep between two people who are so much a part of me I can't even conceive of myself without them.

Freckle, freckle....

Oh, mother, how pretty the moon is tonight
She ne'er was so pretty before.
Her two little horns are so sharp and so bright
I hope she won't grow any more!
If I was up there, with you and my friends,
We'd fit in it nicely, you'd see.
We'd sit in the middle, and hold on at both ends
What a wonderful cradle 'twould be.
And there we would stay, 'til the dawn of the day
And in the bright clouds we would roam;
We would see the sun set, and see the sun rise
And on the next rainbow come home.

Unknown

All the important things I ever knew, I learned from my mother. Except for my past, but then, she never knew about that. How could she? I don't even know if she was there.

"Everything turns into awkward turtle."

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to survive without caffeine. If maybe the agonies I had to spend during the four years without it was a blip, and maybe it won't really be like that. But then I spend more than a day without it and my brain gets wired, feels like my thoughts are on an express train that just won't stop. And then I drink enough caffeine (four shots of espresso topped off with hot water, cans of Red Bull, half a box of chocolate covered coffee beans, cup of coffee) and suddenly I'm Zen. It's like bullet time; my thoughts slow down so I don't feel like my brain is always racing to catch up, doubling back to understand what's going on in my head. It feels so good when everything quietens down, I can sit still, and the world feels peaceful.

Rachel can't be right about why, surely. It makes sense, but it's yet another label that I can do without.

"That's no moon!"

It's horrible to see people's work stepped on. You're always your own worst critic, and it's never great when something doesn't turn out the way you wanted it to. But to have people you trust simply take it and break it and make it how THEY want, without permission? That's a major betrayal.

It always makes me sad when this happens to people. It's happened recently. I don't know the person, but I read their blog, and I like their work, and they worked so hard on this particular thing. It makes me so mad that people would do that - would take something that was someone else's and change it, without permission, for money.


"What world is this? What kingdom? What shores of what worlds?"

You can almost see the wizard through the curtain....

I have so many names sometimes I don't know what to do with myself. Jinks (Jinx), Vj, Cj (Kittynip) - and J, Jay and other permutations of my actual name.

I don't mean to sound as though I don't like it. I do. There is something freeing about having so many names, from so many people. Some of the names I've given myself, but people choose to use them. Some, people have simply given me. Some names are only used by one or two people, and I like that, too.

Identity is a strange thing. Some people change their names legally, for various reasons, but sometimes because the name they were given at birth is not a name they identify with. I understand that - for many years I didn't identify with my name. Well, maybe not as strong as that. I didn't like it, and I hated my surname. I like it now, although I like some of my 'other' names better. Jin(x)ks and J/Jay are two of my favourites, but only a few people call me the former, and only one person uses the latter.

I think how we identify gender-wise has a lot to do with how we identify with our names. I identify more happily with my non-gender-specific, but still slightly feminine, names. I do like my own name, though. God is gracious.

Post gig highs are the best

I got robbed and punched in the face yesterday, and it was still one of the best days of my life. And, ironically, if I hadn't been robbed and punched in the face, it wouldn't have been quite as good.

I also made a shirt in preparation for the gig (Gym Class Heroes):



It doesn't look like that now - sweat+barrier+non-waterproof markers=mess - but at least Travis got to see it before it got wrecked. And he signed it. I love my life.

Counting time....

Did you know that Sanskrit-based languages have ninety six words for love? English, in some ways, is a woefully inadequate language.

In other news:
Plots and plans (and helping hands) can see me through the day.

A veil of what-has-beens.

I am currently plotting something which is simultaneously exciting, diabolical and terrifying.

There are few things more frightening than being spontaneous when you're the kind of person who never stops second guessing themself.

When your brain explodes in fireworks, there's only one thing to do.

I love my family and my friends. They're the most important things in the world to me.

But really? It's ALL about the music.

Second star to the right

I'm about as good as Peter Pan at giving directions. Taking directions isn't my strong point either, making me feel like I'm stuck in a loop of Sinatra, sometimes. You're taught to be independent, but sometimes it backfires.

Whenever someone in a movie falls in love, there's always music. Makes you think that when it happens to you, when you finally realise that you've fallen in love with someone, that's what will happen. You'll hear music; an orchestra, a string quartet, a shoegazer band. In reality, there's no music - mostly it's silence, broken only by the pounding of your heart, the rush of blood in your ears, and your brain screaming wait, what? NO! Maybe some people do get music. The righteous. The innocent. Soul mates. LustLove-at-first-sight. Hormones bouncing around your brain like kids with ADHD, yelling look at me! Pay attention to me! until you have no choice but to listen. So empathetic with everyone else that I manage to miss what's in front of my nose until it's too late.

Epiphanies at the coffee machine are strange, making you feel even more exposed, like everyone knows what you're thinking. Life's too short for any kinds of regrets, so from here on that's it. I won't waste a second, because it's all too precious. I refuse to have any regrets about my life, because what's the point in holding back when maybe you won't even have tomorrow? I don't think I'll stop wearing odd socks, though.

Sometimes - more often than not - people will surprise you. Books judged by cover always turn out to have a twist.

We'll leave you kicking and screaming so you can thank us in the end

Sometimes I wish I could just listen to music normally, instead of like this, like every piece was so goddam important, like if I listen to it wrong it'll screw up the experience of it, or mess me up in some way. Of course, the danger is more that it won't mess me up - the CFOB Mixtape screwed me up to the point that I still can't listen to it like a "normal" album. One day I'll get to the point where I can listen to it when I'm not in the dark, lying on the floor as the music lights up every single one of my synapses like a goddam Christmastree. But not yet. I'm almost afraid to try.

If music didn't get all-the-way into my bloodstream I feel like I might be halfway to normal.

I spent the day with a mane again; the fluffiness almost suffocating me as I tried to move my head. I feel like it should be a fashion statement; really, it's just me being unable to brush out the tangles and giving up halfway through. (I'd turn this into a metaphor about my life, but I'm not quite that cliché.)

Reading an email with different fonts messed with my head today, remembering suddenly that the real difference between an uppercase 'I' with top-and-bottom perpendicular lines and an 'I' without is about forty years and facial hair. Then couldn't see anything else as I looked at the email and had to send it quickly before closing my eyes and trying not to look at any letters for a few minutes while my head cleared. It's more of a problem than it used to be because I know I'm overthinking it; where once I subliminated (because otherwise it drives you crazy) now I see them like crowds in front of me. Overthinking has always been one of my less enviable qualities.

Give me detached existentialist ennui.
Flash.

Love makes you do the wacky.

What is wrong with all of these people who make reality TV shows? And what is wrong with the people who watch them? There is something seriously the matter with our society.

I look at my inbox and I feel as though the world has righted on its axis again, after so long out of kilter. Everything is as it should be again, except for my own feelings, which are not now nor ever will be right, or good, or anything but wrongwrongwrong. If only we could police our feelings, make them as they should be.

November 4th is so close now, I feel like the world has started holding its breath. We're not all US citizens, but anyone who cares about the world cares about the outcome of this election. It doesn't quite keep me awake at night, but it's close. But if it all goes to hell in a handbasket, I doubt I'll just stay in my own country; Canada is looking mighty sweet right now. Prince Edward Island was pretty, and Nova Scotia was awesome too, so it's not like it would be a hardship. 

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm doing pretty well for someone of my age, and the fact that I haven't done the things I wanted to do by this time isn't necessarily the worst thing ever. It's just that not everyone has their dreams come true. Which for some people isn't a problem, but for someone who never stops dreaming, it's somewhat heartbreaking.

The swingin' sixties were not what they seemed, not everyone was lost in a technicolor dream

My friend at work showed me this yesterday. I think the 'third date rule' has changed a little bit in the last 46 years.



It's always strange to see first hand how different social norms are from generation to generation. When my great-grandmother was alive, she didn't like my first tattoo (she never lived to see the others) because, for her, tattoos were only found on sailors, criminals or 'women of loose morals'. She was shocked that my parents were quite happy with me having it.

Part of me thinks that it seems like a simpler time; the rest of me understands that I would not have lasted a week as a teenager back then.

"You're the one that does the nude Hohos!!"

Having problems with impulse control causes problems when it comes to money. I'm aware of this, but I just bought what are possibly the best shoes ever.



Wearing them on the rainy, muddy streets of Manchester first time out was perhaps not the best idea, but I felt a kind of childish excitement in buying these, skipping down the street watching my feet.

Sometimes shoe-buying good for the soul.

By guess and God and hope and hopelessness.

It's funny how families work; how the person you were least close to growing up ends up being, in a perverse, messed up way, the person you're closest to. It's amazing what adulthood and distance does to relationships.

Almost regretting invitations given in haste, but the things we do to make others happy should never cause regrets, even though they often do.

My pulse still feels sluggish, as if it's pumping stale alcohol to the surface of my skin to be sweated out. This would not surprise me. Every time, I'm left wishing that I was in possession of a modicom of impulse control. Aching, exhausted, and feeling like hell, but the memories are good, and you only live this lifetime once.

I wish the air was cooler. I feel as though I'm baking in my own skin, expecting to be extra crispy any day now. Part of me can't wait for winter, even though I love the summer. Yesterday felt like July; clear blue skies, brightbrightbrightness, butterflies chasing each other (in honest idiocy of flight). There was a sweetness to the day, memories of being young and lying in a hammock slung between trees as my dog ran around crazily, before coming to lie in the shade, panting at the heat. I miss her.

I wish I could cool myself down just by pressing a button on my arm. That would be awesome.