Monday, 16 March 2020

Blog Posts To Be Murdered By.

One of the first times I was in the nuthouse this lady next to me yanked on my arm and when I turned she spat mashed potato in my face. Lucky I wear glasses. The next morning she was made to apologise to me. In a very thick Polish accent.

“I apologise for spitting in your face. I thought you were a Belgium spy.”

For a millipede of a second I thought ... am I a fucken Belgium spy?”

Definitely not in this world. A parallel world, perhaps. Ever wonder who you are in parallel universes? 

I saw that same lady the other day as I stopped for her at a pedestrian crossing. Long grey hair, eyes downcast, tortured as ever. I still wondered briefly if I was a Belgium spy. (I told Rocco that story a few years ago, a bit too inappropriate at that age but it was worth his laughter.)

It was my birthday a few days ago and I loved, loved my presents from my guys. Always the best part is the homemade cards.

To dear mum, I hope you have an amazing birthday and thank you for showing me strength and courage to keep moving forward no matter what. Love you loads.”

That right there? Is called grace. I’m so lucky.

This morning I went to a tennis court except it wasn’t tennis and the umpire was a judge. I slept in
late so chucked on leggings, no undies, no bra, a jacket and leopard print scarf. Wore my black boots with the gold stitched wings and crosses and haven’t felt that powerful in a long time. Too long. Even though I cried I felt my power coming back to me why must I always give my power away? No more.

I like the colour purple, both in crayons and the film but not on my stomach and thighs and arms so I’ve literally taken a stand.
I’m a lot of things but I’m not a mean person. One of my sisters starved her budgie to death because she didn’t want it anymore. When she busted me feeding it she got so angry so I stopped and therefore became a complicit budgie murderer. I felt so bad, the day it finally died. Some people kill budgies, some people want to save the world. My brother would never have starved a budgie and today when all the fear rose up again I remembered seeing his body in the morgue and if I can get through that day I can get through any day.

Come after me if you dare but you said you have faith in god and anyway my house is super booby trapped. Booby, heh.

I just wrote a huge blog post and it deleted itself so this post is just a tribute. Spewing .... I’ll never word the same words again. Can’t remember exactly what I wrote - something about god. Bless me father for I have sinned it has been 32 years since my last confession. I was so little I had to lie about my sins. “Uummm, I didn’t do the washing up.” Fuck me dead imagine my juicy huge sins now but I’d never tell them to a catholic priest. The thought makes me vomit .... Father Barry-Cotter was the parish priest of Cooma when I was a little. He was a rapist pedophile piece of shit. I don’t think that was the confession that was asked of me.

Computer I need to write more. Three people in the past year have warned me not to blog but a writer who doesn’t write is courting insanity and I caught insanity years ago lucky it’s not catching - I promise, us loons are often the best kinds of people. And if we hide away and if you feel like it, if you’re not too burdened by your own heavy lives (which is completely understandable) ... then check in on us. Even just a text that we’re frozen to reply to until a week later. It could save somebodies life, trust me, I’m a limo driver. 

Thanks for still hanging in there with me. You’ve got no idea how much I’m trying. I don’t want my blog to get tumbleweeds and I don’t want a ghost town for a heart.

I guess I’ll let myself  quietly sit on the palmtree of gods hand.

See you soon. Love deeply,

Eden xxx



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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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