Creative Writing #4

The task was to create a fragmented/episodical piece of text so I created a series of diary entries of an unknown character. We were given free reign to use other texts, so each sentence is a line from a Sarah Kane play; I used her collection of plays, opened the book at random, pointed, and wrote it down. I was surprised how much sense could be found from most of it. 

March 1^st 1994

What’s your boyfriend’s name? Watch films and have sex. See your Doctor, I have gonorrhoea. I won’t strangle you. No regrets. It’s leaving me behind.

June 26^th 1996

They burned your body. Nothing can extinguish my anger. I don’t talk about him that often. What bothers you more, the destruction of my soul or the end of my family? I’m not in danger of committing the unforgivable sin. I already have. Let it happen. Soon very soon.  Come on Mother, work it out.

December 21^st 1998

No. I cannot love you because I cannot respect you. Recycled. Or incinerated. I love you. He should tidy his room and get some exercise. A consolidated consciousness resides in a darkened banqueting hall near the ceiling of a mind whose floor shifts as ten thousand cockroaches when a shaft of light enters as all thought unite in an instant of accord body no longer expellent as the cockroaches comprise a truth which no one ever utters. No, not really. Silence or violence. Please. Me. Blame me.

March 3^rd 1999

He’s been dead six months. We don’t normally keep the clothes that long. If you want me to abuse you I will abuse you. Found it? Something clicked. Please. Doctor. Please. There’s nothing gay about Hippolytus. Hello, Sunshine. I’m not a rapist. Treat me as a patient. Look. My nose. Mood: Fucking angry. Affect: Very angry.

November 17^th 1999

Tell me you didn’t rape her. Which passeth all understanding. Tinker. At 4.48 when sanity visits for one hour and twelve minutes I am in my right mind. When  it has passed I shall be gone again, a fragmented puppet, a grotesque fool. Now I am here I can see myself but when I am charmed by vile delusions of happiness, the foul magic of this engine of sorcery, I cannot touch my essential self. If I -  now now now now now now now

October 14^th 2000

I’m a dealer not a doctor. The woman with dragon eyes. I wake as I dream. What have I done? What have I done? I buy a new tape recorder and blank tapes.

March 8^th 2002

No regrets. And sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes home and sit on the steps smoking until you come home and worry when you’re late and be amazed when you’re early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and dance till I’m black and be sorry when I’m wrong and happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and wish I’d known you forever and feel your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when you’re angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue and the hair to the left and your face oriental and tell you you’re gorgeous and hug you when you’re anxious […]

April 4^th 2005

She really did love me. Whenever I look really close at something, it swarms with white larvae. Something has lifted. Fucked. Finished. Graham Jesus save me Christ. She’s talking about herself in third person because the idea of being who she is, of acknowledging that she is herself, is more than her pride can take. I think about having sex with everyone. And the rats eat my face. So what, I’d have done the same thing only I never said I wouldn’t. You’re young. I don’t blame you. Don’t blame yourself. No one’s to  blame

August 26^th 2009

No. He phones people. They come round. They have sex and leave. But I would say that we were never in love. One hundred Lofepramine, forty five Zopiclone, twenty five Temazepam, and twenty Melleril. Rodney Rodney split me in half. I have a bad bad feeling about this bad bad feeling. Ever seen anything like that?

Septmember 19^th 2015

You. Shooting someone. You wouldn’t kill anything. Because love by its nature desires a future. A small girl became increasingly paralysed by her parents’ frequently violent rows. Sometimes she would spend hours standing completely still in the toilet, simply because that was where she happened to be when the fight began. Finally, in moments of calm, she would take bottles of milk from the fridge or doorstep and leave them in places where she may later become trapped. Her parents were unable to understand why they found bottles of sour milk in every room in the house. Have you ever had a fuck with a woman?

Read All About It...

Apologies now for my semi-political and news related rant.

I was watching the news and the amount of MPs that turned up to protest about Churches in England being able to conduct same-sex marriages, compared to the amount that turned up to discuss the increasing violence in Northern Ireland really disgusted me. It was easily double. At least. It makes me think that people really do not give a shit unless the problem is literally on their doorstep, or has some direct interest for them.

I have a friend in Northern Ireland, and the family know soldiers who were severely injured when fighting in the troubles before so it seems even more important to me than ever at the moment. I have not, however, just become concerned about this issue. I try to keep up to date with world news and politics as much as I can.

We need to prioritize. Drastically. Nobody will die if the Church is able to conduct a same-sex marriage, but at least 3 Politicians in Northern Ireland have received death threats, 2 police officers were nearly burnt to death after a petrol bomb attack and last week two houses were burnt out. It disgusted me.

There is an awful lot going on in the news at the moment. Lots of things that I feel are incredibly important. Nelson Mandela is sick, and I'm fairly sure he is on his last legs. This makes me incredibly sad. He is a fantastic man who did more for the world than most people could even dream of doing. I have visited Robin Island, and South Africa, and the plight over there is very dear to my heart. Racial segregation in that sense should never, ever happen and what he single handedly did to try and stop it is phenomenal. The prison cell he was kept in is diabolical and I found it incredibly hard not to cry when I walked in there.

I think the way that the news prioritizes is bizzare. It really goes to show that the state really does try to influence our opinions on things. It makes me feel like I should care more about the protests against equality and basic human rights than one of the greatest peace keepers in the world, and probably one of the most revered human beings on the planet, being incredibly sick, and the fact that there is increasing violence in an incredibly unstable country that it so closely linked to ours.

Sorry capitalism, i'm going to try my hardest to stop being a hegemonic vehicle and I will not let the news tell me what to think.

I guess what I'm trying to say guys and dolls is, just try and be a little more awake. I don't even know what I am trying to say actually. This post was born out of anger, sorry.

Creative Writing #3

As a group we were split into pairs and had to recount a tale to our partner. Out task was to then take this tale, and write it as if it was our own personal experience.

As I was stood there at the top of those steps, I felt truly invincible. Fully confident of my own diving ability, I was preparing to jump. It was only 2009 so London 2012 seemed out of the question but, hey, I wasn’t prepared to rule out Rio. The familiar rush of adrenaline was coursing through my body as was the case when I was preparing to dive. Looking down on the water, the Mediterranean sun refracting off the broken surface, I knew the time was drawing near.

We were on our usual family holiday. It was mid-August as was customary. Everyone was there: Mum, Dad, brothers and sisters, Grandma and Grandad, cousins, aunts and uncles - extended family was a big deal to us.

 I could hear my Father and Grandfather below arguing. I craned my neck down to see what the commotion was, this was my moment after all and I wasn’t about to be upstaged by some late revival of the Oedipus complex. There had always been, animosity between them but it was generally put down to a generation gap. Dad transitioned though adolescence during a time of political and social change. Opinions were shifting. Dad took them on, Grandad didn’t. Ever since there had been a certain friction between the two men.

It was something much more trivial. Apparently, according to my Father, the water was too shallow, and obviously my perception from this height was going to be false.  Brilliant. Grandad was much more encouraging and evidently believed in me. He was telling Dad that I would be fine and that the water was clearly plenty deep enough. At least there was one person there who was sure of my capabilities.

Fuck it. I jumped.  Perfect form.  No splash.  10 10 10 10.  Gold Medal.  I rose from the water like a mermaid, rising through the wash like I almost had no actual physical being. The water fractured around me as if I was passing through a sheet of glass. The sunlight was glinting off the pearls of sea that were clinging to my hair and shoulders. I open my eyes and let them adjust to the light and then saw my family stood there. Dad looked astounded and Grandad was looking at him with a smug grin on his face. He wouldn’t let it go for the remaining 10 days now, I could tell.

Smiling I began to swim towards them. It was warm, incredibly warm, and it felt like there was a bit too much water on my face considering how long ago I had surfaced. I was willing to ignore all of that though for the opportunity to show Dad he was wrong. This was a rare moment that I unwilling to slip through my fingers like the water was slipping over me as I neared the shore.

Dad was shouting my name repeatedly, trying to get my attention to congratulate me and tell me he knew I could do it all along no doubt to attempt to save face. I would try to wave but I was mid stro…

I woke up, fully submerged in water and, from the red colour surrounding me, what I can only assume was blood. Suddenly my eyes bulged and I was struggling for breath. I felt something around my ankle and I started to struggle, what on earth was that. I was hauled out the eater and it became apparent that the force on my ankle had been my father. Shit. I reached up to touch my face as the burning sensation hit. I was covered in cuts and scrapes and I was fairly sure that my nose was broken too. It never used to be at that angle, did it? Well, it appeared that Rio was definitely out the question. 

Creative Writing Piece #2

This is a rewriting of my last piece as a piece of genre fiction.

R053 was incredible. From afar, it was nigh on impossible to tell what she was. The polymesh fibre stretched over her slender cage was the perfect replica of a human epidermis. Her hair was the deepest brown; it was hair as well, one of the last examples of human hair harvested from Earth. It was only when one got close that her origin was given away. Under her  skin could be seen the colourful pulsation of transmitter liquid and the cogs that allowed her to interact, move and  emote (as much as she was programmed to). Despite being a near seamless copy of an earth human she was lonely for she was the last creation to look as she did and there had always been a derogatory opinion of the crawlers. Despite her technology being some of the most advanced in the cosmos, due to her aesthetics she was forever to be associated with the inferiority of Earth tech.

When we meet R053 she is speeding towards a supernova to get her fix of death. Not that she herself hoped to deactivate. On the contrary this death was to make her feel more alive than anything there was to experience in the vast vastness that was the Universe. When a star dies, the gases pour out in a swirling vortex and surround those who were near-by. It was this fix that R053 craved. Something about the way she was put together, and the porous nature of polymesh, meant that the gases seeped into her core and had a magnificent effect. Parts of her mechanism were sped up, while others slowed almost to a stop and she was left with a feeling that was hard to describe. It cannot be compared to ‘gravity’ that her muses lived with, as this was an alien concept to our roaming space pirate, but as if she was suspended in a vortex, frozen in an instant and she was able to watch the events around her as a fly on the wall; an omniscient view.

She could tell she was getting nearer as the billboards came into view, the usual “Teleport here to kick the gas habit” bullshit that sprang up as you approached a death camp. The intergalactic patrols were highly disappointed about the destruction of natural heritage to be used in such a way but the UParl had never managed to pass a stature outlawing it. She thought to herself that she would rather hyper and hypo-mechinate and combust than have to live without the buzz. It seemed to fill the space between the lumps of metal inside her.

 As she pulled up into the bike-dock she could tell there wasn’t much waiting to be done, it was nearly ready. The colours and pulsations of the supernova were becoming more erratic. Suddenly, it blew and R053 felt everything rushing towards her and the suspension hit.

***

Disorientation was all R053 could think when she woke up strapped to the regulator. It took a moment for her to realise she was in the repair bay. Again. Shit. She knew was this meant. Involuntary Cryo Treatment.  It had become policy that any person who ended up in the centre more than 4 times in a set period was frozen until there was a remedy for whatever ailment was inflicting them. She was never to feel as wonderful again. She has no choice. Panic flooded her circuit boards and all she could think of was escape. She could tell this was a futile idea but the idea of Cyro Treatment was detestable and fearful to her. It was impossible to tell what civilisation she would be woken up into. What would others think of her then? Would the human race that she was based on still be such a laughing stock? Would she even be recognisable?

A Squelly Doctor walked in and began wheeling her regulator down the corridor. It was apparent there was to be no consultation; R053 was too much of a regular to deserve an opinion on the matter. His long jellyfish like tentacles wrapped around her arms, holding them in place with the huge suckers on the inside of them. The turned the corner and there in front of her were the rows and rows of pods, mostly empty she notes. The man told her that she was at her pod, and someone would meet her on the other side one day; hopefully.

There was no concept of time for R053 which she was frozen. She had no idea of how much or little time has passed while she was in the pod.  To her, it was as if she had blinked for no longer than a split second, but the door to her pod was opening and someone was stood there.

“Ah, patient…. R053. Welcome back.” The voice was creamy and seemed to flood into her audio converters like swirling galaxies. It was like nothing she had ever heard before and when her visual conductors had finally adjusted, she realised she had never seen anything like the person stood in front of her either. Tall frame, lilac skin, azure eyes, slender yet broad in all the right places. Who was this? What was this? When was this? There were so many questions flooding her that she feared she would short circuit.

“Don’t worry,” the voice continued, “the sensations you are experiencing are completely normal. I have simply chose not to answer your questions yet so as to not pack too much new information into your processor at once. There is a now a cure for your… problem and we will be ready to fix you shortly.”

R053 didn’t know how to feel. She realised she would never again experience that tugging, yearning sensation that came from waiting for the news to report another expected Supernova.  There was something else though. She couldn’t place it. It was like there was something else inside her, which seemed impossible. She hadn’t been tampered with had she? No. This place, despite its reputation, seemed too moral for that. It was almost as if this person stood in front of her had altered her in some way. What was happening to her?

“Will… will you be performing the procedure?”

“No, I won’t. I understand you would feel safer if it was a known figure, and at this moment in time, I am all you know.”

“You’re all I want to know…” R053 realised she was wrong when she thought she would never feel as wonderful as gas made her feel. This was real, this was wonderful.

Creative Writing #1

This is the tale of Rose. Born in the affluent New York borough of Manhattan to Juan and Ivy Medina, a pair of high-flying corporate lawyers, her life was that of a teen socialite. It seemed many that Rose was blessed by the Gods, or was simply a sheer coincidence of perfectly formed genomes, wrapped in a faultless swirl on Deoxyribonucleic Acid (depending on your beliefs). She was beautiful beyond compare, a mixture of Hispanic and classic English heritage, her skin was the colour of a rolling sand dune in the Sahara; when she walked it was as if she was skimming the surface of the earth, mixed with the daintiness of her figure, it appeared the wind or some other natural force may bowl her down at any moment; she was intelligent, witty, passionate and driven. To all intents and purposes, she was perfection. When one looks closer however, it may appear there was a force of jealousy acting upon her birth. Rose was lonely. She often felt as if she was curled in a ball at the bottom on the ocean and the water pushing in on her from all sides was the immense vacuum in her life. There was a vast opening inside her and Rose was unable to equate what should fill it.

Many people seemed to orbit Rose. She was always in the centre of a herd of people, be it at a party hosted by her parent’s clients or a gathering of intoxicated chimpanzees from her school. She knew full well that her so called friends were only after her money, the status of the association of her name brought them. Her upbringing had taught her politeness and manners, so her voiding soul was well hidden from those around her. The luxury of her lifestyle had also taught her that there was many ways available to her to alleviate her feeling that she was grieving for a life that had not yet ended. Alcohol, Cocaine, Ecstasy. Just a few of the ways she chose to feel like a real person in this society full of empty shells. Money was of little value to her, so these things could obtained with a slight rise of an eyebrow, a small gesture with a hand, to the right person.

That evening Rose was at the opening of a new nightclub; one of her father’s clients had recently won a huge settlement and this was the outcome. Rose was obligated to attend so as to see that the family was represented. Carted off like an escort to a sweaty, balding man in his late 40’s. That night the remedy of choice was Cocaine. It reminded Rose of snow; winter meant less social functions and less pretending. This night however, Rose seemed to be sinking into a drift. The tumbling, swirling flakes began to suffocate her and her consciousness slowly melted away.

It was a stranger that first alerted the club staff to the girl in the toilets with dried blood over her top lip, sweating, cold. It seems fitting somehow that it was an unknown who found Rose, despite all of her admirers, those who follow her, none of these people who supposedly cared for her had even noticed she was missing. An ambulance was called for, as were Juan and Ivy, and our broken petal was rushed to Metropolitan Hospital Centre where it was found that her snow walk had turned into an icy freeze: she was in a coma.      “My name is Arianne, I’ll be Rose’s nurse.” A slender, freckled hand was extended towards Mr and Mrs Medina as it was explained they try to keep nurses the same for coma patients due to the fact that it is believed many can still hear or recognise voices, and familiarity is a key part in the recovery process. The Medina’s weren’t listening to the woman speaking. In addition to be in shock, they were mesmerised by the tempest of auburn curls ebbing and flowing around her face as she spoke. There was a deep comfort in her eyes. The piercing green wasn’t intrusive, but seemed to reach tendrils of calm and comfort out into their very conscious.

Over the months, many people came to visit the dormant seed of the vibrant flower they once knew. Admirers, friends, family, all came to visit, and brought gifts, and stories, yet there was no stirring from Rose. Arianne had also been visiting Rose during this time, as was her duty. She often sat in her room during a quiet shift and rambled nonsense to the sleeping girl. Over time though, there seemed to be something else, the girl’s beauty began to resonate deep within Arianne, she seemed to understand that these people knew very little about whom they were visiting; generic greeting cards, shop bought bouquets, these were not the gifts of true friends and family. She hoped that her inherent nattering would somehow soothe the girl’s worries. A soul in torment was one of the things Arianne found truly disturbing in this world. After a few months Arianne began to visit Rose even on the nights she was not working, wanted to spend as much time in the girl’s company as she could. It was impossible for her to understand, but she could barely leave Rose’s side despite never having spent any time in her alert company.

Meanwhile, drifting through blackness, Rose had picked up on a noise. She couldn’t pin point what it was, all she knew was that when she heard it the most vivid colours flew around her consciousness, hues and tints that were previously unfathomable became those of great comfort to Rose. As she gradually recovered, this noise became a voice, and the comfort she received from the colours swelled and grew into admiration and fervour. She longed to see the face that produced such beautiful tones; each sentence was like a melody.

Eventually, many months later, Rose awoke. Her room was suddenly bursting with people she recognised, but none of the faces belonged to the voice she longed to hear. After the hubbub had died down, and various visitors had traipsed in and out, Rose was desperately seeking rest. The door to her private room opened and a tall, slender figure was silhouetted in the doorway. As she began to introduce herself as Rose’s nurse, she realised; this was the voice.

“It… It’s you… I heard you, talking to me. It kept me going.” At that moment, an epiphany hit Rose, she suddenly realised what the void in her previous life was. Love.  She held her hand out and as her nurse took it, it was as if someone had altered the saturation.

Where did October go?

I'm sat here looking at this screen and thinking that it has been so long that I have no idea what to write. At all.
I am now a fully fledged English student at the University of Falmouth. I have a lot to read, a lot to write, and too little motivation. I have spent an extraordinary amount of time here incredibly drunk. I have made some amazing friends and met so many awesome people. I don't think I ever comprehended that I would enjoy myself as much as I am.
Don't get me wrong, I have had my many moments of doubt; both in myself and the whole idea of being here. I often want to curl up into a ball under my duvet and just cry and hide, or just scream and scream and run around campus like some wildling. Realistically, I just go and get a hug from Mike, Abby, Hannah, Eline or Dulcie, have a massive rant, maybe a cigarette, and then I'm probably feel a whole lot better.

In addition to all of this. I am turning 21 in three days. I can tell you now that I don’t feel like I thought I would. I had been dreading turning 21, like really hating the idea. It made me feel sick and I had this pseudo notion that suddenly I was going to have to act like a grown-up because, well, I would be one.

In actual fact, I am nothing but excited. I cannot wait for my birthday. I am unsure if this is due to it (roughly) coinciding with starting University and all the new experiences that it’s brought, or whether I just realised that it doesn’t really matter. I’m still going to be Chelsea May Harris after all.

My friend Abby summed it up very well I think “It’s the end of a beginning”. So, although the ‘beginning’ of my life, my childhood, is over, I still have the middle left. If I recall rightly, it’s the middle of a book, or a film, where all the cool stuff happens. Yes, there are going to be some shit times, but I’m excited about the adventure now.

So here it is, me getting back into this blogging malarkey. I'll be posting my creative writing pieces from Uni up here, as well as trying to do some more posts like my previous ones, so please feel free to have a gander, and comment, and all those niceties.

16 days.

So, it is 16 days until I move to University and officially, finally, become a student. Needless to say I am buzzing around like a blue assed fly at the moment. I can quite confidently say that I am irritating most of my close friends and my family as I am talking about little else. Admittedly, I keep getting these huge tides of nerves and I keep freaking out. When these bouts hit, the term 'Shitting Bricks' doesn't quite cover it, I believe "I have an entire Housing Estate falling from me ass" is more appropriate :) All in all however, I can't wait.

I must admit though, I am finding it incredibly hard to leave things behind. Considering how long I have been mooning over going to University (probably getting on for 5 years now) I guess I thought the whole process would be a lot easier for me. So far I have sorted out my books, DVDs, toiletries, jewellery, pens, paper etc. and I'm struggling. Really struggling. I think the worst moment was taking all my posters of my wall. My room now looks like a shell of what is was and, evidently, who I am. I think removing these small keyhole peeps into my personality was actually harder than packing things away into boxes and storage crates. I know I have taken some of them down because they will be travelling down to Falmouth with me, but the next few days will be really weird sleeping there.

This is selection of books I have had to leave behind. I have had to take 9 books for my initial reading list as well as a dictionary, a quotes book, a literary dictionary, a selection of poetry and some novels that I either want to read desperately or I love to re-read. I would have loved to take more but we have been told we have to buy even more books when I get there and I just don't think I'd have the space :( I've not even started trying t my clothes out yet. I have no idea what to take at all because I can't work out what the weather is going to be like in Cornwall in September-December. Actually, that's kind of a lie. I have chosen which from my collection of knitted hats and scarfs I am going to take :)

I guess I'm not not quite as comfortable with this change as I was hoping I would be.

Culinary Delights

As a woman, I've always believed that I had a pretty hideous relationship with food. I eat crap, and I snack and, to be quite honest, I don't go near the fruit bowl and salad draw nearly as often as I should. When I was eating my lunch today though, I had a revelation; it's not food I have an unhealthy relationship with, it's meals. 
I eat pretty healthily as a general rule of thumb. I don't like snacking. I drink water and squash and juice over fizzy drinks as much as I can. I reckon I get three square meals a day 4/5 times a week. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I have perfect eating habits, I really don't (as I am sure this is going to expose in a minute) but I really don't think I have the worst diet in the Universe ever. I guess I'm a fairly bog-standard eater.
Anyway, my culinary epiphany came as I was sat in my pyjamas - a black vest and bright red pyjamas bottoms covered in pictures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse - eating what I had decided to throw together at about 1pm. Lunch today was: a piece of cod in batter, a poached egg, and spaghetti hoops. Yes, at 20, this seems an appropriate meal in my mind.
To surmise so far: I am 21 in less than three months. I still wear Disney pyjamas. I cannot put together a balanced meal. Considering I am moving to University 4 weeks today, I am fucked.

My issue with food is that once I decide I quite fancy something in particular to eat, I won't really enjoy anything else I eat. That's what happened today. I opened my fridge and saw loads of eggs and thought, "God, I want an egg. How do I want my egg? Not an omelette because I have nothing to put in an omelette. Scrambled? No, that's too much like a fry-up. Poached? Ooooh, yes. I like poached egg. What shall I have with it? I'll go and look in the freezer." I then went to said freezer and saw a box of cod in batter and a very similar thought train about fish went though my head to the one that happened with the egg. I resolved that Cod in batter and poached egg would be fine together. It'd be like gourmet or something. As I was cooking the two items, I decided I was a little more hungry than previously thought so I had better add a third element to my meal. Upon opening the cupboard, my impulsive brain stomach decided on Spaghetti Hoops. 

Yes, you read right, I said brain stomach. I basically think I have a section of my brain that over-rides my logic when it comes to food and wants to torment my stomach in the most awful ways. Yes - my lunch has made me feel incredibly ill. 

I wish that my odd meals stopped there though. On Sunday I had home made Sweet & Sour Chicken, and a tortilla wrap. Maybe as people, when we say we have a bad relationship with food we need to stop and think; is it food? Or is it meals? Am I simply incapable of putting a proper meal together? I know for a fact that I need to stop being insanely lazy when it comes to meals and just eat properly.

AFTER THOUGHT - I think a lot of people's problem with food is timing. When people look in all their cupboards, and fridge and freezer and declare "THERE IS NOTHING HERE TO EAT" perhaps they really mean, there is nothing here that I can make quickly enough to satisfy my hunger so I simply won't bother. Or is that just me also?

The New Dress.

As 90% of the population are probably aware, 'fetish wear' is the new big thing in the fashion world. Leather, spikes, collars; you name it, people are wearing it. I'm unsure exactly how it happened but you cannot currently walk into a shop without seeing random metal spikes, or leather sleeves, on garments. Alarmingly, it works. There is something so right about what essentially, probably shouldn't look good.
I'm not usually one to buy into fashion trends. I hate buying clothes because I have a ridiculous body shape so nothing looks good on me. (I am not attributing anything to the fact that I worked in a school last year and there was an endless supply of cakes, and biscuits, and the fact that I possibly put on weight.) I have however recently purchased a new dress. It is black, just above the knee, cap sleeves with slight shoulder pads, and spikes. The shoulders of this dress are covered in metal spikes that are about one centimetre tall. I do believe that the buying of this dress was largely down to a coincidence of timing. Less than a week before I added to my wardrobe, my boyfriend broke up with me. I am not saying that I only liked the dress because my boyfriend broke me, but there was something incredibly appealing about a dress that had the potential to hurt people. When you are feeling hurt, you want nothing more than to hurt others.
I think it would be really interesting to ask all the women you will see wandering around with metal spikes sticking out if the idea that their outfit could hurt people appeals to them in any way. I think a lot of them would probably say, yes. There is something wholly satisfying about wearing your aggression and spite on the outside, without looking like a thug. Maybe even to ask these  people about the circumstances of their purchase. Even if it was something small that caused them to have a bad day, it would be interesting to see if there was anything that perhaps made them want to own something that essentially says "Fuck off. I'm dangerous." Admittedly, a spikey shoulder isn't going to do much damage. As my friend Stan told me the other day, If you want to wear spikes to stop people [men] coming near you, they need to be on your crotch. Makes a woman wander, how long until we see women walking around with metal spiked covering their privates.