If you hold on to the bright, you realise that bright is evident after all. I’m glad there are two sides of me. I didn’t only enjoy the time with my parents; I was being overly perceptive throughout the time when they were here with me. I looked at them with so much more depth than ever. I was observing the very surface of my mother’s skin, each single grey hair on my dad’s head. And I suddenly remembered being three, then five, six, ten, twelve and fifteen. I realised that at those ages I never really observed them. Except that I found my mother exceptionally beautiful and I wanted to look like her. When I was young, I probably never listened carefully to my parents, either. Having spent all these years building and enhancing my ego and getting prepared for its trip, I had done nothing but exploit them. And they are the only people who never resented me for it.
Talking about giving I would give them all I have. It’s just that I have nothing.

Now the sound of music has dispelled the sense of sadness that had engulfed me since they’d stepped onto the plane. I’m not alone at all like I thought I was. My boyfriend Art has returned and is now after Ellen. But no one is ever going to have her. She might have you, however. This much, I figured.

When my mother asked me what my book was about, I hesitated. So she thought it was about her. I was glad to say that she was wrong. Although it has nothing to do with my parents whatsoever, it is dedicated to them and that ghost of mine. The only sad thing is that when I talk about books with my parents, they only come up with that “Harry Potter”-writer. They don’t even know her name. Funny that my mother thought it was about her and all her negative sides. I still hope that she didn’t mean it when she’d said it. If there was ever anyone to blame about any negative outcomes regarding my character, then it will be me obviously and shadows that I was/am involved with, but it will be my fault for letting them shape me and form my face.
Not quite disfigured yet, in spite of the Bacon experience. Bacon, however, portrays a lot more pain; the kind of pain that I am not familiar with, apart from Ellen. The creator and the creation never feel the same way. Just like you and I will never feel the same thing or the same way. We do not understand each other. I can only teleport myself into Ellen’s body in order to experience the same sentiments. There was a moment while writing, where her sentiments exceeded my standards, so I had to change the voice. It was only fair. I know who I am not.

When I watch people talking to each other, sharing personal details, I realise that they all have a reason to talk, but a lot of times it’s for the sake of social conventions. They believe they have a reason to talk, a reason to repeat the same words every day, but in reality they are debasing the centre of their personality by adding more and more insignificant material to their lives. They kept congratulating me without knowing how I little I care about it. The ceremony meant nothing. I used it to lure my parents to come and it worked and the other reason was I wanted to see someone, but he wasn’t there.

I am ashamed to say that I’ve put on 5kg since I started working and none of my jeans fit me any longer. Going to the gym in the evening is not as effective as going in the morning. I also messed up my immune system during New Year’s. The lump on my arm was an infection and the cold lasted for a whole week which is too long for my standards. As mentioned before, I was almost experiencing the same thing from four years ago, except the mid ear infection didn’t occur, luckily.

I shall run ninety minutes tomorrow. The first time since early summer.

I noticed how much I dread the words “We should catch up.” Never have I got anything worth telling.
Another reason why I think I shouldn’t talk is that I found myself lying to a bishop yesterday. He didn’t even mean to be rude. He asked me something that wasn’t any of his business, but instead of saying so, I chose to lie and it wasn’t right. So I decided the next thing he asked me I would tell the truth. Unfortunately the next thing he asked me was “What do you write?” I hesitated. Almost convinced to say romance and drama, I said “dark stuff.” There was silence for a while and I saw how his eyes were digging a deep hole into my forehead. I emphasised it was merely fiction and not horror or any of that sort. After all, I’m not fussed about lying to a bishop, but I realised that’s what I’m like with people nowadays. I cannot look at them sincerely if they ask me things that are none of their business or not of any significance. I continue talking without even looking at them. Therefore the impression you get is I could be lying, but very often I am not. I just don’t feel like talking. Don’t you ever feel like that?
I hate talking about writing, particularly with strangers. As writing is the only thing I cannot lie about.

My viewpoint that gynaecologists should be men and men only has been justified. The nurse made my cervix bleed. She had no idea how to insert the speculum correctly and it hurt. It never happened before with my former gynaecologist in Germany and it never hurt, either. Despite her friendliness and attempt to prevent feelings of embarrassment on my side, I must say almost lost it when she started talking about my modesty. Having had 2 male doctors and 2 female nurses doing gynaecological check-ups on me, the two female nurses have, by far, been the most incompetent. The first nurse came up with abnormalities (which weren’t true!) and the second one made me bleed!
Now my smear is covered in blood! Thank you!
Apparently if the blood has covered up too much of the smear, I will have to do another one.
Why are the hands of women so nasty? So nasty…
And why do women have to go to NURSES for smear tests in England?


There is nothing to say. No more.

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