Merry Christmas!!

Wishing all my friends a very happy festive season. Thank you for all your news, all the times I've read your private thoughts and felt connected to someone. May 2017 bring you all so much happiness xxx

Only deluded people achieve anything

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Sixth Level of Hell - The City of Dis!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repending Believers)Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)High
Level 2 (Lustful)High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Moderate
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very High
Level 7 (Violent)Moderate
Level 8 - The Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Moderate
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Low

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
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Public Post on the Great British Florist

I have had dealings with the Great British Florist company lately and I wanted to say publically that they were absolutely brilliant. The customer service was really good and I am more than happy with the purchase and the outcome of it all.
I know it's a bit strange but sometimes people are so good they deserve a mention and a little space to be brilliant. Especially from moany old me.

Broken bones heal if you set them right life's a rollercoaster keep your arms inside.

I haven't done a proper update for ages, I was thinking about this in the middle of the night and couldn't sleep, and I decided that although I love this journal and reading and thinking, I use it for communities mostly, and of course reading individual friends posts, I don't feel like I have anything I want to contribute to it personally. All my life seems too trite and routine, and all I really have to say is moaning, so despite me being here often, I rarely feel the need to actually speak. So many people on here are better versions of me, there's not really a reason for me to say anything. More and more I get anxious about what I put on the internet, even in a locked, more anonymous place, and I feel like I would rather tell one person than everyone. I have always been controlling in this way but I get paranoid about everything too so it's worse. I am almost certain most of the people I know on here have long left too which makes me sad as I felt we had stuff in common and they interested me. I hate how people disappear from my life so often. I wonder about what happens to them for years after, I never forget anyone but they walk away and forget me so easily. We all grow up and get other priorities I know but I mourn the loss of old friendships often.
I don't really have much news, again I wonder if it's appropriate to post loads of stuff about my child or my health or books that everyone else has already read and written better about than me... but I am still reading everything on here and am glad to read posts from everyone.
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    Television is on - more crime documentaries.

How To Write A Letter

(Garrison Keillor wrote this in 1982 for his friend, Corrine Guntzel).

We shy persons need to write a letter now and then, or else we'll dry up and blow away. It's true. And I speak as one who loves to reach for the phone, dial the number, and talk. I say, "Big Bopper here - what's shakin', babes?" The telephone is to shyness what Hawaii is to February, it's a way out of the woods, and yet: a letter is better.

Such a sweet gift - a piece of handmade writing, in an envelope that is not a bill, sitting in our friend's path when she trudges home from a long day spent among wahoos and savages, a day our words will help repair. They don't need to be immortal, just sincere. She can read them twice and again tomorrow: You're someone I care about, Corrine, and think of often and every time I do you make me smile.

We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are. They will have only a vague impression of us as A Nice Person, because, frankly, we don't shine at conversation, we lack the confidence to thrust our faces forward and say, "Hi! I'm Heather Hooten; let me tell you about my week." Mostly we say "Uh-huh" and "Oh, really." People smile and look over our shoulder, looking for someone else to meet.

So a shy person sits down and writes a letter. To be known by another person - to meet and talk freely on the page - to be close despite distance. To escape from anonymity and be our own sweet selves and express the music of our souls.

Same thing that moves a giant rock star to sing his heart out in front of 123,000 people moves us to take a ballpoint in hand and write a few lines to our dear Aunt Eleanor. We want to be known. We want her to know that we have fallen in love, that we quit our job, that we're moving to New York, and we want to say a few things that might not get said in casual conversation: Thank you for what you've meant to me, I'm very happy right now.

The first step in writing letters is to get over the guilt of not writing. You don't "owe" anybody a letter. Letters are a gift. The burning shame you feel when you see unanswered mail makes it harder to pick up a pen and makes for a cheerless letter when you finally do. I feel bad about not writing, but I've been so busy, etc. Skip this. Few letters are obligatory, and they are Thanks for the wonderful gift and I am terribly sorry to hear about George's death and Yes, you're welcome to stay with us next month, and not many more than that. Write those promptly if you want to keep your friends. Don't worry about the others, except love letters, of course. When your true love writes, Dear Light of My Life, Joy of My Heart, O Lovely Pulsating Core of My Sensate Life, some response is called for.

Some of the best letters are tossed off in a burst of inspiration, so keep your writing stuff in one place where you can sit down for a few minutes and (Dear Roy, I am in the middle of a book entitled We Are Still Married but thought I'd drop you a line. Hi to your sweetie, too) dash off a note to a pal. Envelopes, stamps, address book, everything in a drawer so you can write fast when the pen is hot.

A blank white eight-by-eleven sheet can look as big as Montana if the pen's not so hot - try a smaller page and write boldly. Or use a note card with a piece of fine art on the front; if your letter ain't good, at least they get the Matisse. Get a pen that makes a sensuous line, get a comfortable typewriter, a friendly word processor - whichever feels easy to the hand.

Sit for a few minutes with the blank sheet in front of you, and meditate on the person you will write to, let your friend come to mind until you can almost see her or him in the room with you. Remember the last time you saw each other and how your friend looked and what you said and what perhaps was unsaid between you, and when your friend becomes real to you, start to write.

Write the salutation - Dear You - and take a deep breath and plunge in. A simple declarative sentence will do, followed by another and another and another. Tell us what you're doing and tell it like you were talking to us. Don't think about grammar, don't think about lit'ry style, don't try to write dramatically, just give us your news. Where did you go, who did you see, what did they say, what do you think?

If you don't know where to begin, start with the present moment: I'm sitting at the kitchen table on a rainy Saturday morning. Everyone is gone and the house is quiet. Let your simple description of the present moment lead to something else, let the letter drift gently along.

The toughest letter to crank out is one that is meant to impress, as we all know from writing job applications; if it's hard work to slip off a letter to a friend, maybe you're trying too hard to be terrific. A letter is only a report to someone who already likes you for reasons other than your brilliance. Take it easy.

Don't worry about form. It's not a term paper. When you come to the end of one episode, just start a new paragraph. You can go from a few lines about the sad state of pro football to your fond memories of Mexico to your cat's urinary tract infection to a few thoughts on personal indebtedness and on to the kitchen sink and what's in it. The more you write, the easier it gets, and when you have a True True Friend to write to, a compadre, a soul sibling, then it's like driving a car down a country road, you just get behind the keyboard and press on the gas.

Don't tear up the page and start over when you write a bad line - try to write your way out of it. Make mistakes and plunge on. Let the letter cook along and let yourself be bold. Outrage, confusion, love - whatever is in your mind, let it find a way on to the page. Writing is a means of discovery, always, and when you come to the end and write Yours ever or Hugs and kisses, you'll know something you didn't when you wrote Dear Pal.

Probably your friend will put your letter away, and it'll be read again a few years from now - and it will improve with age. And forty years from now, your friend's grandkids will dig it out of the attic and read it, a sweet and precious relic of the ancient eighties that gives them a sudden clear glimpse of you and her and the world we old-timers knew. You will then have created an object of art. Your simple lines about where you went, who you saw, what they said, will speak to those children and they will feel in their hearts the humanity of our times.

You can't pick up a phone and call the future and tell them about our times. You have to pick up a piece of paper.

Everything I do is leading to the point where I just don't know what to do.

Thank you to everyone who answered my post yesterday, really, I know I've thanked you all individually, but it really means so much.  I think a bit of kindness is all I need sometimes.  It means a lot that you're all there for me and care.  Thank you from the bottom of my cold dead heart.
Things are better for me today, I've been able to do things other than cry and distract myself.  My friends K, N and my sister came over yesterday night and we got wrecked.  I had to put on a mask and laugh and all that, but it was a great distraction and I got lots of hugs and it cheered me up.  Then I went to bed and had a long sleep and woke up in a better mood.  I dreamed the plot of a novel that was interesting.  Then I walked down the supermarket in the sunshine with L and spoke to my mum on the phone.  My poor dad's still in hospital, they won't let him out because his bloods are all up the creek and he's had a blood clot, so she's pretty annoyed and sad.  He'll be ok, and hopefully he'll be out tomorrow or something. 
I'm glad things feel better, I've been mostly hanging around the house, sweeping and writing and I did a wordsearch.  Just need something to fill up the days really.  Hopefully I'll get some work somewhere this week so I feel less bored and at a loose end.  I was brought up to believe that you always work, regardless.  I was never allowed days off school if I was ill, I had to go in unless I was so sick I really couldn't manage it, and both my parents always worked and never took a day off.  Now I feel guilty if I don't spend every day doing something like education or work.  I think it's why I clean so much when I'm off, because then I still feel like I'm working.  It's been driven into me from childhood.  Even as a teenager, I went to gigs and got drunk, but I could do whatever I wanted, so long as I was up at 6 to go to college the next day.  It's made me into a very committed worker but the guilt of having spare time does get too bad, it hurts.
Still haven't finished Hannibal Rising, been unable to concentrate the last few days.  I'll crack on this evening I think. Days are for working, evenings are for doing what I enjoy.
Nothing else to add really, life's the same old same old, but I do feel better, less tearful, less like the world is on my skinny shoulders and generally more able to cope with the pressures of life, and that's in part at least thanks to you lovely people, so many thanks.

In 5 years I won't know what I've done but I'll be 5 years too late.

Thought I'd come on here and have a moan, because, like, everything sucks.
Felt rubbish last night, had a good cry, it didn't help.  Watched tv in bed, fell asleep, woke up feeling a bit better.  Came downstairs to make a cuppa to find a bank statement in my porch.  Read it, got sad again.  Liam got up, started moaning.  More crying, more feeling terrible.  Texted a few people, tried to organise my friends to come over tonight so I can get wasted, have some hugs and generally feel better.  I believe in helping yourself when you feel shite and not just moaning about it.  Went food shopping with money I don't have.  Came home, hoovered, washed up, cleaned the bathroom, all that nonsense.  Got bored.  Attempted to read, couldn't concentrate.  Ditto with writing a letter.  Played Jeff's Crass Songs and realised I don't love him any more, it was only good when only I liked him, now everyone else does I can't be bothered.  I get selfish over my art.  Listened to Malcolm.  Felt sad over my lack of WG still.  Writing an email asking about my copy is beyond me.  Like, totally.  I get what I deserve.  No record.  No job.  No anything I want.  There is nothing left.  This mood will pass, it's just, at the moment, I'm at the end of my rope, where I deserve to be.
  • Current Music
    12 Crass Songs *Jeff Lewis*
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