Mum found blood on my pillow, then checked the back of my head and saw the scab from where I'd been scratching. She thinks its infected and is taking me to the doctors later today. She also wants to sit on my next session because she thinks its not doing any good. Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaark!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's what I don't understand:

I go to my counseling appointment. The whole room stinks of pipe smoke. It's coming from his body, from each breath, he's walking emphasima. The man is grey. His skin looks terrible, he's kind've sweaty and nervous. I've been four times now and he's always wearing the same clothes. He uses the word wary when he should be saying weary and jumbles up his pop culture. Today, I guess he was trying to appear 'hip' or 'down' with youth culture and he started talking about my 'emo' music and how it can suck a lot of kids in. That the bands are really just cashing in on teenagers pain and angst, that they're not really suffering like they appear to be in the video clips. Well thanks for your helpful advice Grandpa. Firstly if I liked emo music I WOULD off myself and secondly isn't that like the entire history of music right there? I'm not sure what set this off. I was too angry to ask, I just sat there seething, thinking about the face he must make when he takes a shit and how satisfied he must be with himself afterwards. I also wondered if his penis had lost its bulk like the guy at the end of the street. I decided it probably had.

I don't know why I purposely gross myself out like this. But seriously, this is the person that people think is going to help me?

So I'm on the train saturday night around 12.30, it's pretty packed, everyone coming home. I hear these skaters hanging shit on an Indian guy. I can't hear exactly what they're saying but I can tell they're mocking him. He seems pissed. There's this girl with red hair and her guy sitting next to me. She's angry, telling him that he's an alcoholic. He's pissed, arguing, telling her that he's not. 'What would you call someone who falls asleep waiting for a train, someone who throws up in bed, someone who tried to strangle me the other night.' He gets up pissed off and sits with the skaters. She puts her ipod head phones in. Suddenly this hot guy gets on the train, he knows the skate kids. The Indian guy tells him to sit down next to him, he says no way, you've chucked on yourself, everyone laughs. Suddenly I smell the vomit in the train. One of the skaters rolls up the leg of his shorts. He has a tattoo of a syringe and the word candy along it. The Indian guy laughs, and leans over and begins vomiting. I can hear the thud of it hitting the floor. I start to dry wretch. Suddenly it's really hot. The station is taking forever. I can taste it in my mouth and all I can hear is laughter. I get off at the next station (2 stops early) and walk the rest of the way.

I've been thinking all morning about what my mum said, and now I’m totally pissed off. My counsellor tells me not to ‘ruminate,’ but he can shove his ‘ruminate’ up his fat cord wearing pipe smoking ass. Who would say that to their own kid? Jealous much? It’s because she knows I’ve got better hair than hers (and a better ass), that she’s old and no guy wants to fuck her anymore. Seriously no one’s had a hairstyle like that since the 80’s, all teased and puffed, she looks like a poodle crawled up onto her head and died. Mothers are not meant to be jealous of their kids. It's fucked. When she left for work today I took Brain Drain to the good stereo, cranked it up til the walls were vibrating. It didn’t really help much, but it was a good work out. Even now I can feel it in my calves and thighs, a bit of stiffness when I bend over. Luckily there’s no one I need to bend over for at the moment. But that's really nothing to be bragging about.

I’ve decided I’m not going to take her shit anymore. Next time she tries it I’m just going to let her have it. Both barrels. Then we'll see what's what.

just before I left today I poured some liquid paper into her oil of ulan.

My mother says I look like one of the check-out chicks at Coles. But the way she says it I get a feeling she just wants me to get a job as a check-out chick at Coles more than anything else. I mean, I've been to Coles stacks of times. I go there and buy smokes every other day and if I look like any of those poor fuck-faced bitches then mum mustn't love me much. If I ever give birth to a girl I won't tell her she looks like one of an assortment of ugly bitches who all work together in the one miserable shit place.
I want to go down there now just to see if I'm wrong. I hate feeling like that. I remember a morning in summer when I felt something invisible and evil just happy that I was wrong. I was so scared. I just ate all day until I was sick and my eyes were stinging from playstation.
My head is still itchy. I know a girl, (Hannah), she had lice really badly. She got into lots of trouble and just forgot to do anything other than fuck boys. And get lice. I haven't got lice. I barely fuck boys.
I'm going to have a shower and wash my hair anyway.

30th of November 2008

Woke up today with a splitting hangover. ate toast with crunchy peanut butter, a banana, and now I'm onto a can of cheap lemonade. I found that scratching my head makes me forget how bad I feel. I've got this spot on the back of my head. I think I must scratch it a lot, maybe when I'm nervous. It feels tender. I actually just drew blood. i might try to take a photo of it so you can see.

29th of November 2008

I was walking down the middle of the road. The way I always do when I'm scared.  It was late at night. The trees were howling. And it was wet. All I could hear was the wind and the sound of my feet hitting the road. And my breath. I stopped because my shoe was rubbing against my heal. My sock had slipped down about ten minutes ago. I hadn't wanted to stop to fix it. But now I was getting a blister. I hate these fucking socks. No elastic.

I could see movement beyond the curtains, silhouettes of the rich people. The flashes of the television, the odd thumping of limp techno as I walked past. They always have to have the worst taste in music. It's like a pre requisite for owning a house in this area. I put my hand down my pants. It felt good. Warm. I thought about the Ramones. Great lyrics. True stories. These are the moments that make you forget about being cold, forget about feeling skittish. 

There is one house that has always made me nervous. It's on the corner of the court with the dirt road. It's architecturally designed. Lots of glass. No curtains. An old couple live there. Sometimes you can see them in there at night, reading books or having dinner.

When I walked past I could see only him. He was wandering around wearing only a white singlet. His withered balls were out and flopping around like kids at a fair. He was lost in thought. At one point he knocked into  a side table and sent a vase flying. It seemed to jolt him out of his daze. Yet all he did was clean up the glass and then just walk from room to room turning the lights on and off. I watched for about twenty minutes shivering in the cold until all I could think about was a cigarette and a warm shower. He seemed kind've sad and I was obsessed by the way his thing would swing around like it had a mind of its own. It was pretty big for an old guy too. But really really thin. Maybe as you get older it loses its bulk. After a while I got sick of him and left. Later that night I listened to these horribly cheesy electro Bossa Nova covers of Ramones songs on my headphones. I hated myself but couldn't help but sing along. The KKK Took My Baby Away was luscious and heartfelt. It must be terrible to lose a child like that. I fell asleep to Beat On The Brat on repeat. I dreamt strangely.