Facebook, no. No facebook!

A young, Asian man is giving me a pedicure as I write type this. He is making my nails beautiful.

So, I deactivated my facebook account on Saturday. Let me just tell you, it’s the best decision I ever made.

I never realised how much time I wasted on that site. And now that I’m off it, I feel like a whole time vaccuum has been shut off. Yesterday, I had so much more internet time to do other things that I wanted. Youtube some comedy, Google some good, healthy recipes… etc.

No more candy crush, no more pointless tags and posts. No more wishing people happy birthday.

I’m free!

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Just thinking about stuff and things…

The other day, a colleague and I were discussing how we were both taught the same competitive edge in the same manner. If not the exact same, highly similar. Maybe… 85%?

Anyway, we were remarking at this similarity and then realised that despite this common lesson, we had very different attitudes about competition.

He joked that it was because I hadn’t been taught humility. It wasn’t that. Maybe it was that his manifested through sport and mine through other avenues.

Somehow, our lessons were twisted. I’m looking forward to investigating this further.

But for now, I’m going to enjoy a stroll in the sunshine no matter how brief it might be.

Instant Gratification

So here is the gist of it.

I have problem with patience. A big problem. I hate waiting for things. Waiting for doctor’s appointments, waiting for the microwave to finish heating my food, waiting for the bus, waiting for the computer to start up. EVERYTHING.

I need to start an exercise in patience. Just like exercise your body, sometimes our minds need exercise too.

What is meant to be, will be.

You know how sometimes there are people or things who come into your life for a brief moment and shake things upside down and leave? I had one of those moments very recently.

Our family had a visitor last week. He was visiting from interstate, on business. We had less than 24 hours to spend with him but in that time, he triggered something in me that had lain dormant for years.

For the last 6 years I have been swimming around in this gray haze. Unwilling, unmotivated, unhappy. It’s no secret that I carry a lot of baggage with me. The weight of it had never really bothered me too much before, but perhaps the wear and tear was finally getting to be a little too much.

And so here comes my brother, my father, my friend, galloping in on his white horse, genuinely spreading positivity and light and assurance. It became evident that I had let the skeptic in me hold the reigns for too long. 
There is a twinkle of hope in me now. A twinkle that I am so desperate to nurture so that it may flourish. Because God knows, hell, even I know, I’ve been living on borrowed time. But now there’s a good chance I’m going to get out of here.

L.

VENT: The weekend

So, my weekend was very up and down. Literally, very up and very down. I feel like I need to place extra emphasis on that.

Saturday was both wonderful and horrible. I climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge with my Sister. And we had the greatest time. I can’t recommend it enough to anybody who plans on visiting Sydney or even the locals. It gives you a beautiful and refreshing take on the city. Something, I think I was in dire need of.

The the horrible came. It was like… I was a tiny possum, trapped in a cage, just knowing I was about to be dunked into the water and drowned. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t do anything but cry. Those that know me, know very well I am not a very emotional person. In fact, most would describe me as lacking empathy for anything. It was a very strange experience, but I’m glad it happened.

Now that it’s all out of my system, I can’t wait to get cracking on an old fiction project I have had sitting around for so long. Very, very excited. It’s the one thing I am holding onto at the moment to keep me from losing my sanity completely.

The actual conclusion to Albert’s story:

When I awoke, I was in a boring, beige room. I recognised it as a hospital room or similar. A lady of about 40 was sitting by my side, smiling gently. Feeling self conscious, I sat up straighter so I could greet her. She introduced herself as Hellen and told me she was there to help me. Remembering the pain of the prior day’s events I eagerly asked her, “Marley?” I was so desperate to see my daughter, to have her with me, chattering away. “Mr Atkinson.” She started, “what year is it?” Feeling a small bite of irritation, I replied, “1998.”

“No.” Hellen frowned. “Mr Atkinson, the year is 2013. Do you remember what happened to Marley?” She asked slowly.

“Is she okay?” I groaned, feeling that sink of impending doom begin to open in my stomach. “Where is she?” Hellen took a deep breath.

“Albert. Do you know where you are?” I uttered another negative response. “You are in the River Bay Medical Centre. You were admitted here on April 29 1998.” She paused to allow me to register the news. “Allow me to walk you through the reason you are here with us.” She scooted her seat closer and placed her hand over mine. There was familiarity to the sensation that I felt slightly comforted by the contact. “You were at a wedding, remember? Lisa and Carl’s wedding. Marley got sick and you had to go home.”

I searched around in my mind trying to recall the night. “Yes, I remember. Lauren and I had that awful argument in the car on the way home.” I felt happy that I could recall something solid. That had to be promising, surely.

“That’s right, Albert. And what happened next? Take a deep breath and let the memory come to you.”

I closed my eyes and drifted back to that night…

“I’m not a Mother, Al! I’m not! I’m not the mothering kind, and I never will be!” Lauren screamed as she burst into tears. I pulled into the drive way frustrated, eager to escape my wife’s blubbering. I had never been comfortable with her mood swings. Leaving her in the car, I marched into the house and quickly thanked and paid our baby sitter, taking my precious baby girl into my hands. She was feverish indeed. I decided to run a cool bath to try and keep her cool. Lauren finally managed to get herself together and followed me into the bathroom, uttering her apologies and taking Marley from my arms as I turned the taps on in the bath. I told Lauren I was going to the kitchen to get some baby paracetamol to help with her fever. As I approached the stair case, I heard splashing. I recall smiling to myself, thinking that I was about to see my wife and my daughter frolicking together in the bath tub. I strolled slowly up the steps, feeling a little more relaxed and happy.

When I arrived, Lauren was crouching in the bathtub, her hands submerged under the water. I ran over and witnessed my daughter’s final breaths being taken from her. A rage filled me like no other, I pushed my wife backward from my daughter and scooped my baby out of the water, squeezing her tightly to me. I ran to the bedroom and placed her on the bed, my mind racing, how do you do infant CPR, 30 breaths? How many compressions? I took my mobile phone out of my pocket and dialled the emergency number for the ambulance. They advised they would be there as soon as they can. I rolled Marley on her side, opening her mouth, trying to encourage her to cough up water. But even I could see there was no use. I had been too late. Weeping, I kept checking for breath, massaging her chest, tugging on her tiny hands for some glimpse of hope.

I shuddered as I forced my mind back into the present. My face was wet and there was a gargling screams of terror and heartbreak filling the room. I recognised the heaving sobs as my own. I looked over at Hellen, whose own tears had been welling up in her own eyes. Leaning back into my bed, I shut my eyes tightly, trying to scorch the image out of my mind. But there was no use. Hellen covered my hands with her own and murmured words of comfort to me, her hands are a powdery warmth against my cold, unfeeling knuckles. “I killed her? Lauren?” I gasped as Hellen nodded in reply.

I was snapped out of my sorrowful reverie when the sharp bite of cold metal slapped around my wrist. Men had entered the room. “Time to get back to your cell, Atkinson.” The words resonated throughout me and the memories of the last 15 years came flooding back. I felt my age then. The weariness slumped over my shoulders. My Marley’s murder and the other deaths that night, the murders of every night until I was caught and locked away for life. Locked into a padded cell where I couldn’t wreak my vengeance on the rest of the world.

As I was rising from the bedside, preparing to be escorted out of the infirmary, I felt a sick smile catch on to my lips. It spread from my mouth to my cheeks and then soon, I was laughing maniacally at the very top of my lungs. I felt a shivering glee take over my body and decided to leave my case-worker, Hellen, with a little parting gift, “You look just like my late wife, you know? Just like her… I’ll bet you bleed just the same way.”

THE END!

Down with Wednesdays!

Today I was up. Very up. But now I’m down. Maybe because I’m hungry. But now I’m too grumpy to care that my tummy is grumbling.

Booooooo. In other news… I’ve begun brainstorming again. Yay! Ideas are finally flowing. Bad news. My lovely boyfriend deleted part 2 of Albert’s conclusion. Sadface. Funny news? I’m now, officially 24.

24. What an awesome number. Maybe Kiefer Sutherland will come visit me and be all heroic and save me from this boring mediocrity.

You know what else I am hating disliking right now? The stop buttons on this bus make a yucky noise. And now I feel motion sickness.  No good. Need food!!!!!

One Year Anniversary of WordPress

Wow. A year already. I’m proud that I stuck with it this long. 

Time to finally post the conclusion to Albert’s story. (Computer has been reformatted and I was unable to locate the file)

WANTED: A penpal who is keen on sending/receiving handwriten letters

I want to write a letter to someone. Handwrite it and share pieces of my life with someone who is willing to do the same.

There is a magic and an intimacy in letter writing. From the penmanship to the beauty of the written word. I love the flow I feel with handwriting.  There is no backspace, no undo, no spellcheck… it’s just raw.

I had a letterbook with friends while I was in high school.  We would write letters to one another on beautiful paper, or with creatively coloured drawings and borders. I miss that.

There was also a vulnerability that I felt I could allow on the paper that doesn’t quite come across in online messages. I remember being so proud of my handwriting.  It was horrendous to begin with, but I worked hard on it and developed a small, neat print.

Today, I read over some notes I made during a work meeting, and I felt upset that my handwriting was lopsided and just an untidy scrawl.

So anybody out there! From anywhere! I would happy to read anything you write me. Let me know if you would be interested. Or if you have had a similar experience?

L.