girls don’t like boys. girls like dresses with pockets and guardians of the galaxy
Jessica is a 25 year old human being of the female variety. She is from Australia and is not fond of speaking about herself in the third-person .... I enjoy writing and have wanted to be Roald Dahl since I was six. Which is probably why I'm a literature major - books forever! I rarely get enough sleep and function on pure spite and coffee. I live to over-analyse and love to make people laugh, occasionally these attributes unite and form awe-inspiring blog posts.
My better internet work, like my writing, can be found HERE.
I am obsessed with the Book Depository.
> Explaining it ALL
> My adventures in the ordinary
> To put a selfie to the name
What overthinkers mean when they say, “I KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!” (After something bad occurs.) [x]
Today I wore a top that has a giant loveheart on it. I also wore my FEELINGS banner pin AND wrote two lengthy posts containing emotional themes on this here tumblog. I should probably call it a day, because I have been successfully SPOT-ON AS FUCK for allllll of this motherfucking Wednesday.
My grandfather died five years ago today. When I looked at the date today, I felt something about it, but I didn’t remember. Mum sent me a message saying she was worried no one would leave flowers for him at the cemetery. I remembered, then I felt awful.
Five years is quite a long time. I was 20 when Pa died, now I am 25. I feel very much like a different person now, and I wonder how he’d find me, what he would think. If I was to say I was angry he died, it would be dramatic, unfair, childish. He was 87, which is a pretty great innings. But I still feel ripped off, just a little. I was sure my Pa would live to be 100 years old, at least. When I was little I would talk about how I couldn’t wait until he turned 100 and got his letter from The Queen.
When he first died I was terrified I would forget the sound of his voice. I haven’t, yet. Thank the stars, I still worry. My Pa was one of my favourite humans to ever live. I like talking about him, even though a lot of it makes me sad and makes me miss him terribly. I never want to forget a single detail about him, every scrap of memory I have of my Pa became the rarest treasure the moment I knew I couldn’t make anymore with him.
His hands, calloused from working as a mechanic and chopping wood from the are of 14. His cap and work boots. Without fail whenever he saw me he would yell, "Jessie! You’re growing! You’re growing! Soon you’ll be as tall as your old Pa!" I’d been taller than him, by at least five inches, since I was 13. His stories, ones he made up and told like folklore, his stories from growing up, his stories from the war. The fact he called our cat Tinsel a ‘real cat’, because Tinsel was very much like a dog. He would call a nap “having a spell”, which always made me think magic was involved when I was 5 (and maybe still a little now). When he would pick me up from work he would always come say hello and tell me exactly where he parked, so I wouldn’t worry that he forgot me. He was purposeful, he could never sit still for longer than a few minutes. He was in no way perfect, and I would never do him the disservice of making him saintlike in death, he would hate that. He always had a cup of tea with his dinner. He never thought he was extraordinary, and he was utterly selfless and would have done anything for his family. His smile, his laugh, his voice. This is all treasure.
Rhiannon and I wrote him letters that he was buried with. And I know that my letter would be long gone now, and that he would never read it. But I was selfish in that letter, I listed off all the events in my life that were somehow going to happen even though he wasn’t going to be there. And that that was okay, and I would probably understand one day.
One thing I know about growing up is that our hearts are not Tinkerbells. They flux, swell and grow to contain so much, feel so much at once. For my Pa I can feel sad, understanding about why he died, just a tiny bit ripped off, and more love than I can ever describe. And I can miss him so much.
He was one of the best people in the entire universe.
my bad boy t-shirt shows people i’m a bad boy who has no respect for anything except t-shirts which succinctly convey my essence
A couple of years ago my friend bought me a calendar. It’s made of tin, made to look older than it is, and it has three magnets on it that you move around to display the month, day, and date. When she gave it to me, she explained that it was great because it saved you from having to turn over every new month, and you don’t need to buy a calendar every year! "Yeah!" I said, thinking instead I have to deal with it everyday for the rest of my life.
I just looked at it, it’s kept slightly out of sight behind the cupcake ornaments that decorate our kitchen, and it was last changed on August 23rd. Just over a year ago! I can’t believe how quick a year goes. I can’t believe it’s almost September. But then I can’t believe our oven door smashed to fragments by itself yesterday. I can’t believe how easy I am to drop, to let go of. Or I don’t want to believe, so I try to ignore it, maybe it’s not true. I can’t believe anything, and I believe everything, because nothing and everything matters. Or something. I’m in the mood for Vonnegut, that’s how I categorise this feeling.
I feel on the precipice of something, and that could be the usual run of the mill anxiety I am blessed with. Or maybe I’m finally sick of certain rituals and certain ways I am treated. Maybe I really, truly want a new job.
I’ve been prone to weird obsessive thoughts lately. Not even all of them bad, which is good. That conversation with my brother about the theory of consciousness and emotions being a chemical aspect of out bodies solely has been planted so surely in my mind. I think about it a lot.
Also the song Black Beauty by Lana Del Rey. When I first heard it I almost laughed because the lyrics, "I paint my nails black, I dye my hair a darker shade of brown" because that was entirely me in my latter teen years. Hilariously so. I always wanted black hair when I was a teenager, but because I’m so pale my hairdresser always refused. It would wash me out, I’d look too “goth” (that used to be something considered a problem, can’t goth me up enough these days). We reached a compromise, a brown so dark it was almost black. Espresso, was the dye’s name. No black hair for Teenage Jessica, her hair was black coffee. I think about this often now, because I was so intent on saying something about how I felt and who I was with how I looked and I never went there. I don’t necessarily care about this anymore, but I still think about. I think about how important and unimportant how we look is to who we are. I think about how I mostly wear black clothes but on the other hand I want to wear floaty, fluffy pink dresses. Oh, and of course as Lana sings to us Black Beauty, "I keep my lips red, the same like cherries in the spring."
I think I know what all of that means though. My heart may be foolishly big and like a treasure chest of sorts that probably opens too easily, but it’s still dark and evil.
I hope I get to write as many musicals as I wish to when I grow up.