And now, I don't want to cry anymore.

@ 10:26 PM || link || ||



Too true

If I were a work of art, I would be Piet Mondrian's Composition A. I am rigidly organised and regimented, although my cold and unapproachable exterior hides a clever way of thinking and a rebellious and innovative nature. A lot of people don't understand me, but I can still affect them on an emotional level. Which work of art would you be? The Art Test

So work yesterday.
It was okay. I'm hesitant to say okay because it's not how I feel, but realistically it was. The people that work there are nice. I got the hang of the computer system quickly. I didn't stuff up too badly. They got me answering phones and calling customers, as well as serving, which was a surprise all at one. Pretty soon they're going to have me call publishers and shit.
But let's just say I felt a weird vibe from the people helping me. Not a bad vibe, not a good vibe, just a weird one.
And let's just say that my back and my legs ache in places they haven't ever ached before, and I have no one to rub them for me.
And let's just say that I'm the youngest person there by about 10-15 years.
And let's just say that I'm mothered by some, and ignored by others.
And apart from that, I can't think of any reason why I should feel as... uncomfortable - that's a good word - as I do, but I do.
I have to work tonight, 5-9.

Yesterday a girl brought a resume in to work. I saw myself doing the same thing three weeks ago, and laughed to myself. There were no positions available. I gave the resume to my boss, Jody, and she groaned.
'Not another one. I get these damn things all day every day,' she'd muttered.

I thought about it. She gets them all day every day. She must have picked her favourite 20 resumes out of the pile of 60 she had, called them in for interviews. Then she picked her favourite two interviewees - Me and some other guy.
Me. Out of 60 people.
Why?

Mum is of the firm belief that when things like this happen, it's for a reason. My dad was moved around a lot by his employers as he was promoted, he was used as a tool to improve bad areas of finance, thus the whole family was uprooted time and time again to be placed somewhere different.
Now we've been in Brisbane for six years. Mum vows up and down that it all happened for a reason. 'Amy, if we hadn't moved to Kadina; to Gawler; to Darwin, Streaky Bay and Adelaide, we wouldn't have ended up here. Everything has a way of going, everything happens for a reason.'
And now she says the same for me. 'If you hadn't worked those two years at Coles, putting up with all the rubbish and mistreatment you did put up with, you wouldn't have scored this job over all those other, older people. But you did.'

That's great. I don't want the fucking job.

Hey, here's a thought. Maybe the other person they hired, a guy called John, is good looking. And if anything happened, my mum would crow indiginantly, 'See! Didn't I tell you things happened for a reason!!'

Knowing my luck, 'John' will probably be a 35 year old balding pedophile.

I dont' want to work tonight.

@ 9:51 AM || link || ||

Wednesday, December 5

Ohhh. Myyyy. God!
So I knew that I'd be getting my annual leave paid off. I knew that Coles owed me about $300 for that. And I knew they'd be paying me $30 for my last weeks work. So when my bank balance was sitting at $20 yesterday, I was feeling not so bad. I knew I'd be getting some money today.

Picture the scene. I log on to check my bank balance, while talking to Simone. The account they've paid me in, previously sitting at $20, is now at $680.

amy jo says: Oh. My. God.
amy jo says: Ohhhh myyy goooodddd!
amy jo says: Holy fuck!
amy jo says: Simone
amy jo says: they paid me $660!
amy jo says: Oh shit
amy jo says: Oh my god
amy jo says: Oh my fucking god
cherry ripe says: someone's taking me shopping
amy jo says: I'm almost crying

Okay Coles. You wanna pay me $660, that's fine. Fine. I knew I deserved more outta working there.

Webcam, here I come.

@ 9:31 AM || link || ||

Tuesday, December 4

Struggling
I have to stretch four Panadol to last from now until tomorrow afternoon.
I'm dying.

Strange searches today:
- essay on alexander the great
- emma bunton weight gain
- curly fonts
- lack of handwriting skills in students
- minogue video

All from Google. Is anyone surprised?

@ 3:22 PM || link || ||



Sitting around
Thinking secret, silent thoughts. The soft, constant woosh of the air conditioner permeates the quietness of this house without people, just me and the keyboard clicking away as my fingers meet the keys.

And I wonder what it would be like to be with you, after talking on Friday night because I was tired and you couldn't find a better excuse. Your friend's in hospital, dying, because she's lost 90% of her blood during child birth. She won't take a blood transfusion because she's a Jehovahs, her baby isn't going to make it. You're melancholy, I'm disbelieving, I can't understand and don't want to understand why anyone would stand and watch this happen without questioning the ethics behind it. That girl, the girl that's slowly dying, that could be me. You and I, we talked about it once. About what it'd be like if we were together.
I don't want to die for some illicit, misinformed cause. I don't want to die for something you believe in. I want to know what you really think about it, you must think something is wrong. You believe in the religion but I've seen you question it, this dying of a friend wouldn't - shouldn't - wash easily with you. You would never say it out loud, but would turn it over and over in your head until you managed to find something to push it aside. A bible passage? A line of shots? One is just as bad as the other, but you won't talk it out. It will slowly drive you insane.

And I think about the two swollen bull-ant bites I have on my waist, from swimming yesterday in a dish-water pool at dusk, from floating on the surface and watching mum's palm trees scrape the star filled sky. The stinging had started out slow and hollow, and I had pressed my hand to my side as the pain increased, ascending into a sharp, biting pain that left me gasping as my mum and brother looked on curiously. Three successive bites in the same area, it's lucky my allergy hasn't flared up and that I got the antihistamines in time. The bites throb, now, a pinky-red colour against my pale white skin. I need a tan, but can't pull myself away from this air conditioner, from this steady clicking, from these thoughts.

I struggle with Melbourne, with leaving, with deciding to go the whole way and just... let go. Simone will have the courage to do it, I know. Whether it be to proove everyone wrong or because she genuinely wants to get away, she will do it. I have two families to leave, my immediate, and my chosen - my friends. I have contacts here, people that will stop me in the street and ask me how my life is. I have neighbours who bring me nectarines and party invitations, parents of siblings friends who talk to me about school and tell me how great I'm going. I have pets here, I have history. I have familiar places that won't reject me and decieve me with newness and shadows. I have memories. What can Melbourne bring me? University, rent, and the love of someone who doesn't deserve me. I think I need more than hollow feelings and echoing rooms. I need him to deserve me. I need Simone to understand and be patient. I will do this. I can do this.

I push aside my new job, my five hour shift tomorrow, my first shift tomorrow. My bright red shirt that I will brandish with sullen pride, that I will wear on the walk from home, through the haunts of my old work, and on the sticky, hot seat of the bus. All taking me to a place I don't want to be, in a job I don't deserve, wearing a t-shirt that doesn't suit me. I wish my mum could drive me tomorrow, that her presence would be with me until I left for work. But she too is working, and I'll while away the morning on my own, each minute dragging as my pulse accelerates towards certain disappointment and anguish. I don't want this job. I really don't want this job.

I remember lying awake last night, at midnight, my fan spinning precariously above my head. It was silent and dark in my room, and a sudden movement outside awoke a flock of Mina birds. At midnight I lay there, listening to the birds chirp and shriek and call to each other, and the darkness felt out of place. I pulled the covers up to my chin and closed my eyes, praying that what ever had disturbed the birds wasn't going to disturb me. My imagination knows no bounds at midnight.

And still I sit here, clicking away. A plane is humming over head, descending towards the airport half a city away. I'm alone in a house that knows me, that has watched me grow and change and laugh and cry for five years straight. Maybe it's time for some music.

@ 9:44 AM || link || ||