"Ignore the Bird, and the Bird will ignore you"

Here are some lyrics to a song by the Cure that is very good and uncomfortably irrelevant to everything else but they remind me of A Little Mermaid which was an extremely inspirational film. Also -- great soundtrack. Beautiful.

Daylight licked me into shape
I must have been asleep for days
And moving lips to breathe her name
I opened up my eyes
And found myself alone alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me -Just Like Heaven

I might just make this blog entirely Garth Bradbeer references seriously WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO SAY EVER.

Garth Bradbeer
sii that sad moment when u come across totaly randomly some1 u met a long time ago on fb and dont have the guts to say hi... or perhaps its intelligence, or respect
07 April at 21:05 · Like ·
WHAT DOES INTELLIGENCE OF RESPECT HAVE TO DO WITH THAT AT ALL OH MY GOD
Garth Bradbeer
mmm stake with potatos and union
11 June at 13:28 · Like ·
LOL STAKE
I LOVE ME SOME STAKE AND UNIONS.
Garth Bradbeer well it a yeee oldi term for serios and oblivios XP
06 June at 20:28 · Like
IT A YEE OLDI TERM GUISE
Garth Bradbeer
lol am i to wooden
06 June at 20:23 · Like ·
David Toulmin What? Are you trying to tell everyone you have a boner? Or are you just entirely unintelligible?
06 June at 20:25 · Like
Garth Bradbeer
good night all XD nomnomnom =Q dinner smells, fair moon
22 April at 19:07 · Like ·
WHAT
THAT IS LITERALLY JUST A SEEMINGLY RANDOM STRING OF WORDS.

WHY ARE TATYANAS CONVERSATIONS ALWAYS SO HILARIOUS

Garth Bradbeer
what r some of the fundemental principals of democrasy
5 minutes ago · Like ·
Tatyana: ......for real?
Garth Bradbeer
lololol the alquard wait for the lift to the place u were ment to be at 7 minnits ago
Friday at 18:07 · Like ·
Tatyana:
OH MY GOD IS HE SERIOUS
Garth Bradbeer
lol am i to wooden
06 June at 20:23 · Like ·
Tatyana:
WTF DOES THAT EVEN MEAN
Garth Bradbeer
i have dessided my ipod is killing my imagination, in sted of confronting issues thinking them through gathering information and expanding my thoughts i escape into the turbulent see on music in the serch for the perfect song , or feel the need to be spoon fed emotional stimulation. well lets see how long this lasts XP how long can i be botherd thinking over omnomnoming music
01 June at 23:09 · Like ·
Tatyana:
HAHAHAHAHAAH WHAT WHAT WHAT
Garth Bradbeer
darn i was gonna write some thing insightful and intelligent but thenlike to may complex and fassinating idears it was gorn befor i could write it down.
01 June at 23:05 · Like ·
Tatyana:
this is actually so retarded

"I come from Des Moines. Somebody had to."

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

Ah, Don Maclean, you gun.
You know what I've discovered? I think you aren't really 'best friends' with someone unless you've met their parents, or their dog, or both. Or been to their house, and seen their room. Actually, come to think of it, you probably don't know someone so well unless you've seen photos of them as a child, and eaten a meal with them, and even spent a night with them, and talked into the wee hours in the morning about something stupid. I mean, it's fine and dandy to see someone every day for like an hour but you don't really know them, do you? I mean, you don't know about their past, or how they exist within their ABODE, or any of that. You only really know them as THEIR FACE, and what THEY SAY, but not what THEY ARE. See? Difference.
I think I have a fair few friends, but I don't have many like that. They're the SPESH ONES, as my mum would say. The ones that keep you truckin! <-- terrible metaphor. Seems weirdly kinky for some reason.

"If you try and take a cat apart to see how it works, the first thing you have on your hands is a non-working cat."

You know, I worked something out, as of late. I mean, sure, life may never live up to our expectations, and it's all devoid of meaning and la di da, but...I mean, even in the darkest times, we can still have a bit of a laugh, can't we? We can still have a bit of a sneaky chuckle! Why is all this stuff down here, all this trivial, meaningless stuff so important when all you have to do is look up and you’ve got outer space? All them stars, each a universe! Isn't that just wild? It’s seems so stupid, all this pointless pain, all this fierce sentiment. Because we might care too much, but we care. We might love people that don’t love us back, but still we have the capacity to love. I mean, loves probably a strong word, but still. There’s a reason we keep coming back, battered and bruised, committed to one last chance. We see something, in this existence. However small, we see something.

"He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn't an afterlife."

"When everything is lonely I can be my own best friend. I get a coffee and the paper; have my own conversations"

You know what I hate?
When people smile at strangers in public.
It is possibly the most awkward moment anyone can create for themselves, I say with a shaking of the fist, and thats a big call, because there are a lot of awkward moments out there waiting to be created. For instance: Rape. Thats but one.

Firstly, (yes I'm paragraphing this thought) its ridiculously uncomfortable if you do it yourself, and get no response or just a confused head nod.
And this makes it particularly awful, because, for me at least, the only time I do participate in the 'random smiling at strangers' thing is when I'm one of those incredibly rare good moods people get in which they voluntarily act retarded to spur themselves on, much like a moving wheel. And then of course the person smiles back but in a way that says, 'why the fuck are you smiling at me, punk? I don't need your smiles. I have friends of my own to smile with. Where are your friends? Huh? I don't see them anywhere. Hiding are they? -sly wink-
And then you're so cut up by being rejected and now having a hugely awkward situation with one random individual, you forget why you were even happy and end up doing something stupid, like walking into a pole or a nearby obese man drinking coffee.

The other awkward half of this situation is when you're the one being smiled at. For me, this comes as such a general shock, I end up having an uncomfortably delayed response in 'smile back' time and end up smiling at someone just as they have walked past, so I end up accidentally smiling at, say, a pole, or a nearby obese man drinking coffee.

You know what keeps me up at night? This shit.

"People are screwed up in this world. But I'd rather be with someone screwed up and open about it than somebody perfect and ready to explode."

Why can’t everybody just be open with each other? Seriously, just come out and say things. Because otherwise everyone is always left wondering how someone feels, and whether they upset them, and whether things are the same, and the thoughts in our get to the point where it's like a never ending loop or one of those terrible, terrible Maroon 5 songs you hear playing in computer stores and/or shopping malls that just go on forever and make you want to squeeze a dog. I mean really, its horrible.
And another note, everyone just get along, be civil. It's not that hard. Stop bitching about people because they’re not cool or they’re weird or don’t share the same view with you on whether dylan moran is funnier than the little guy with the beard or whatever, just realise that, to be honest, we are all dealing with so much stuff all the fucking time. And that sounds so horribly vapid but really, just stop with the typical teenager bitchy cliquey school thing, because it’s hard for everybody, this life phenomenon. Like Jonathan Safran Foer said, 'its pretty lonely to be anyone.' Which is so true. And we can almost entirely blame that on ourselves. Or the general human race. Moral of weirdly irrelevant story: People suck ;_____;

Holy mother of pearl I just found this in my documents from months ago and it's still so stunningly, stunningly relevant. I know, I know; 'god caitlin, you are a fantastic individual!' you say with a sense of badly contained wonder and delight. 'your words are true and beautiful.' I can see your thought process right now, you've jumped from seeing me as one of those socially awkward, unpleasant individuals that is always out of the circle, leaning in desperately and craning my neck to see whats happening not unlike a confused, lost sort of turtle, to nothing less than god. Yeah, people suck. Fucking bam.

"So you're leaving, aren't you? I knew it when you said just then when you told me you were leaving. That was when I definitely knew"

I don't know really. It's like I’m just filling in time and I’m waiting for my life to get to the good bit, when everything starts working, like those parts in movies where you get to the middle and everything is perfect and comes together and there are all those musical numbers and all that, but then I realize I’ve been waiting my whole life for that bit. And then I’m thinking maybe its never coming. Maybe I’m not letting it or maybe it never will. Or maybe it's not real, those lives. I wonder if everyone wasn't so fixated on perfection and comparison and all that what we'd be like. We should all do a Thoreux and jump on into the woods.

Brett: I said the humans are dead
Jemaine: I'm glad that they're dead
Brett:The humans are dead
Jemaine: I noticed they're dead
Brett: We used poisonous gasses
Jemaine: With traces of lead
Brett: And we poisoned their asses
Jemaine: Actually, their lungs.

"I didn't realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry, mr shankly"

I looked under my bed today and found a spoon and a lock of maggies hair. It was unnecessarily unpleasant. Speaking of which, I just caught her eating from my bin. Who does that? Her mouth is literally about as appetizing as a worm. I have nothing else to say, so I'll leave you with a sneaky surprise! You best strap seat belts on your eyes guys, because Im going to take them on the ride of their life!

Wyntons horrifyingly embarrassing love letter to Caitlin (I)

'dearest Caitlyn, (<--- WRONG SPELLING!)
I have a big, huge, and massive crush on you. (note use of three adjectives describing the exact same thing. Obvious good usage of thesaurus.) you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life. Words cannot describe how beautiful and amazing you are, (but that won't stop him from trying!!) your eyes are the prettiest eyes I have ever layed on. (......) will you go out on a date with me? Xoxo love wynton. P.s. I abseloutly love you xxxxx (stunningly subtle with emotions.)

"Love me, because love doesn't exist, and I have tried everything that does."

The train wooshed past with a burst of sound and I watched the people that meant nothing. So many things are throbbing around us. So many lives are pulsating. Can't you feel it? Feel it within you, almost bursting? But the cobwebs were there, sticky, thick cobwebs in my squashed brain, and so still I could not understand. Under, under, under, 'think.' and nothing. I could feel myself falling, I could feel the dirt pressing on my shoulders, gathering at my fingertips. Around me, the people kept moving, thousands of them, all so faraway. I watched them tangle around me, heads filled with purpose, minds aching with emotion. It hit me as I breathed. 'in, out, in, out.'
'is this heartache,' I thought, 'or does this just come with being alive?'
The trains passed me, the people got on and off. Life continued, just like forever.
Am I sad or nothing?

"we were stupid, because we believed in things."
"why is this stupid?"
"because there are things not to be believed in."
"love?"
"there is no love, only the end of love."
"goodness?"
"do not be a fool."
"God?"
"if god exists, he is not to be believed in."

"He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry"

Late at night, a darkened room was holding its breath. The only sound in the room was one of a clock ticking, rhythmically tapping out into the inky night like a warning sign, ‘tick, tick tick.’ And silence. The room, unlit and small was scarcely more than a closet, a gathering of space that had been forgotten, tucked out of sight. Hanging next to the clock a big, wide window gazed out to the streets below. As the clock played its monotonous tune in the shadows, the window lay firmly shut and obscured by a curtain. If you threw the curtain away, the room would dance with the colors of the city, flashing lights and neon signs. Perhaps outside there were stars, little bursts of light in the air. Perhaps the moon was raining down on the tops of buildings, hanging from the clouds as if on a wire. But as it was, the room remained empty and black, nothing but a clock ringing out in the stale air and a girl, hidden underneath the folds of her blanket, lost in her lonely dreams.

The girl woke up slowly. Her eyes woke first, fluttering and flitting, shutting tight and opening wide, looking around, adjusting. This was always the way in the morning. Every awakening marked the end of some hopeless serenity, the listless dreams her only exit from ‘the real world,’ the stuff that hurt. The girl stretched, her muscles tightening, coiling. ‘Good Morning,’ she whispered. Then silence. And the clock.

At 7.00, the girl made a pot of tea. She timed it perfectly, first setting the kettle to boil, then laying out the mug, the sugar, the milk, the teaspoon, all the while pattering around in her worn stripy socks. When it was done, she sat in a hard wooden chair and drank it slowly, looking at nothing, thinking of nothing, and still the clock, and still the silence. But there was a world outside, she could hear it humming.

The girl dressed in the corner of her room, hiding from the window, the people might see, look up, idly wondering, and then her, getting dressed, we wouldn’t want that, it was easier if she hid. Quickly she put on her clothes, boring and drab but that was okay, clothes are just clothes, just material, and anyway where was the money to look good, to look presentable, it’s all for sex anyway isn’t it and goddam why is that clock so loud? She didn’t stop to look at herself afterwards, and anyway there were no mirrors. At 8.00, the girl picked up a suitcase. It was small, leather, boring, but maybe it was poetic too, the boringness of it all. Maybe there is something poetic in everything that seems to hold nothing, blank but for a sense of wistfulness. Or maybe it was just a suitcase and maybe it was just a clock and maybe everything was just exactly what it was and nothing more. The girl left her apartment quickly, in case something decided to hold her back.

Down the flights of stairs the girl climbed, and this time the only sound was her feet pattering, one step after another, ‘step step step step,’ but it was echoing loudly and all blending into one so it was more like ‘stepstepstepptestsep.’ She didn’t take the elevator, she didn’t trust elevators and anyway what if there was an emergency and she couldn’t get down; she would die there, in an elevator shaft with her terrible suitcase and imagine the embarrassment. She tried to hurry down the stairs to escape the sound but that only made it louder and it felt like there were a little man screaming ‘STEPSTEP’ in her head and banging on the walls.

And then the stairway abruptly ended and there was the street and the whole world was drawn out like a map only real, only complete and unwavering. And the clocks were everywhere, and the clocks were everything around her, (can you hear them, hear them screaming,) and the clocks were the cars buzzing and the advertisements shouting and the people scrawled like bugs on the pavement. And then the bugs crawled into her mind and they crawled into her brain and she realized the clock was ticking inside of her, it was always inside of her and it would never end. It would never end until she drew her last breath and the minute hand hung still and cold to the 12, ticking and silence. Finally, silence.

"he'd walked himself weak down it's endless blue streets and those who knew how to live kept their tantalising secret to themselves"

My mood is empty. The light is dull. The carpet stained. The dirt is everywhere. 'How much of our lives is repetition,' I think. I need to fix the lamp, it's broken. 'continued rhythms,' I think, 'continued thoughts.' I sit on the bed. My legs are folded. The dirt sits beneath me, thousands of particles, hiding like ants in the carpet. I imagine myself sitting there, surrounded by the grime. I imagine that is already myself now, only I am bigger. My chest aches, I am crumbling, folding. I cover my face to block out the pain, but with every breath it is still there. On and on, it will not end, there is nothing to wait for and I stare at a dusty spot on the wall, every movement is idle, blathering. 'Don't think,' I think. Beneath me, I imagine the dirt spreading through the floor like wildfire, past the books, up the wall, and finally, into my broken mind.

"I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life."

I sit in my room and stare out the window at the passing cars. I try to count them but there are too many, too many lives, too much noise, never ending. Sometimes they move slowly, or stop at traffic lights, but I know eventually they will leave, and I will forget, ‘patterns,’ I think, ‘we live by them.’ I think of how there is at least one person in every one of those cars, one person my life has crossed paths with, and I look at them in their cars, the people that mean nothing. It makes me sad, how lonely it all is. How many lives intersect every day? Every year? I press my face against the glass and hold it there, trying desperately to not think, not even breathe, maybe if I pretend to not exist very very hard I just. Won’t. ‘Hello, cars,’ I whisper, but they do not hear me, I wonder if people don’t hear you have you spoken at all? If you don’t see anybody do you exist at all? ‘There is such a fine line,’ I think, between being real and being nothing. It is raining. The rain drips down the outside of the window, gathers in tiny puddles and spurts out, runs in another direction. If you shut your eyes a bit, it looks like the water is dancing. If you blur your eyes even more, it looks like the window is crying. And still, the cars pass by me.