random

The Devil ReincarnatedĀ 


Biscoff spread is the devil reincarnated into this beautiful, sinful, luxurious paste of mouth watering proportions that I can’t get enough of. 

Why? God, why? 

Okay, this is obviously a post about absolutely nothing but my addiction to something so tasteful that I personally have no self-control over. Given, a post about nothing is absolutely needed after the recent show of just pure sadness and lethargy I’ve been dispelling from my heart. I know some may be disappointed but I think it’s about bloody time I do something lighthearted. 
Anyway, back to my heartache of biscoff. 

It’s just so easy to scoff down! Lord help me if I ever get my restless hands on a full jar it because it will be the honest end of me! An entire jar full will easily smooth its way down my esophagus, hit the acid in my stomach, dissipate its madness into my bloodstream and cling on to the walls of my blood vessels for dear life.

All ending in a sudden (but fatal) heart attack. 

And you know what? 

I wouldn’t even care because I would be so happy to have eaten my jar of biscoff in one gulp. There will be just sheer bliss slapped onto my face, with a heavy set jaw and ecstasy lifting away each eyebrow from my glazed honey doe eyes filled with amazement. 

This is what biscoff does to you. Allows you to enter a world of pure beauty and cruelty at the same time. So, proceed at your caution. 

Or, just do whatever you want. 

I’m quickly finding that the world we live in is already as sinful and as beautiful. And there is no force of will that can go against it. 
Nakedstreetkid out xx 

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Waving My White Handkerchief

I have this permenant hatred for myself that despite me constantly trying to work on myself, never seems to quite go away. And maybe the reason it never goes away is because I’m always working on myself. 

Strange, right? But think about it.

In my mind’s eye, constantly working on myself has convinced my instinctual nature that something is inherently wrong with me.

And guess what!?

That can really lower my already horrendously low self-esteem! (Yay!)

Which turns out to make me sadder and sadder until low and behold, I’m staring at the face of depression as my barely visible hand in my crowded mind spasms a wave of a white handkerchief. 

Point is, I’m not happy.

I’m not happy one fucking bit.

moments

Moments: Just A Number

I often got that feeling of betrayal, of liberal shock when someone who carted me around work, held subtle exhibitions my way and treated me as a living sculpture pretended to know my name but didn’t. And only felt obligated to ask of my name when opposite me, with one gawky and awkward hand outstretched while the rest of the guilty but gleeful spectators stood a step behind, leaning in to hear my answer.

“Regina” I would say.

And a fake smile would be chalked across each of their faces as a chorus of ‘ooing’ and ‘ahing’ would ensue at such a moderately placed name. And the person leading the group would nod in appreciation, never once practising the name on his lips and congratulate me on what hard work I was doing. And I would say thank you because it would be impolite not to.

And as they would walk on with a casual glance my way, I would ponder at my place in this line of work. How valuable was I to them? How expendable?

And I was sure, in that moment, that I was just a number to each and every one of them.

moments

Moments: Lacking the Voice of Reason

Before I begin this Moments “vlog”, you should know that it may be quite triggering for those with an eating disorder. So, I’m saying this now:

TRIGGER WARNING: Eating disorder habits and depression mentioned. And of lesser importance, swearing.

Don’t say that I didn’t warn you…

———-

I made a mistake yesterday.

I ate at, or before, 1pm yesterday. Actually, it was most definitely before as I had been able to eat four bagels in two hours. And it wasn’t until I had eaten the last of the ten millionaire bites (caramel covered, chocolate topped, biscuit base bite size chunks) on the third hour at 1pm that I had realised how many calories I had consumed. I had consumed a lot and it began to freak me out.

Now, although I did not know exactly how many calories, I had somehow been able to stop myself from peering at the calorie content on the package of the bagels and recording the number.

I’m not sure if I should consider that an accomplishment, for it was not a noble act but a cowardly one. I was not only afraid to see the calorie content but also the nutritional one. Knowing quite well that I had consumed little, to no food of nutritional value that day had made me even more anxious than I already was. I didn’t need the confirmation printed into the back of mind with the specifics.

I wasn’t sure what to do, but I knew that I was frightened.

Usually, I would have exercised quite thoroughly for the next two hours – three hours if I could help it. All the while checking my weight on the scales periodically but… I was stopped. I was stopped by the nagging voice of my therapist erupting gently into my mind.

“Be kind to yourself” the voice whispered, while another voice, a little stronger and far more violent grabbed me by the consciousness and screamed in my mind’s ear “you fucking fat shit!” And so ensued an argument between the two. Imagine that, two voices battling it out in my head, one fading under the intensity of the other. And if you can imagine that, you will understand why I started to laugh. Hysterically. So much so that I began to feel tear after tear crawl down my cheeks while my laughs were interrupted by slight hiccups from the force of it all.

Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure what to do.

And I wish I could end this by saying I did the right thing, that I called up my friends and talked to them. That I continued my day as normal and ate something healthier when I was hungry in the next few hours. That I actually took a minute to reflect on how I was feeling and calmed down. I wish I could, but I can’t. I instead did the only thing I knew to do in situations like this. I took to my bed and folded myself into a tight ball underneath the cover of my sheets.

Oh, and think to myself in the dim silence:

At least I didn’t exercise.

moments

Moments: A Journey on the Outside

The clicking and groaning of the train distracted me periodically from the hushed whispers being spoken by the two ladies sitting opposite me.

Even though I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, I couldn’t help myself. It didn’t matter anyway, I didn’t understand them. It took me a while to realise that they were speaking some form of broken spanish. And even when I did figure it out, they had noticed me looking and had decided to speak wholly in Spanish from that point on. Not that I minded, because I was half sure they were talking about what I was wearing. A skirt with a single cardigan, boots and a body warmer. I knew my mother would be in my face, giving me a right earful when she saw me dressed for warmer weather, but I couldn’t care less. Even though I knew I should as it was pushing a measly 4 degrees Celsius that day in London and I wouldn’t be too happy in an hour or two. But I would get over it soon enough.

Anyway, we had arrived at the last stop and it was time for me to get off, so I could stop worrying about what I was wearing being analysed in Spanish.

My phone buzzed twice with the arrival of a new message, it read:

From: Mama
Subject: (there was none)
“G, you don’t need to come, it’s been sorted out.”

Hm, well, I wish she had told me that before I had left the comfort of my bed quite hastily for the crippling cold of the streets. And yes, I’ll admit it now, my finger and face – if nothing else – were popsicles of ice by that point. A part of me wished that I’d had a small temper tantrum, refusing to leave home to help her, that way I wouldn’t have left so soon and would have saved myself the trouble of leaving in the first place.

I quickly typed a reply back to her, mentioning none of my dismay and accenting it with two ‘x’s’ before sending it. I looked around, trying to figure out what I wanted to do. Glancing up, I saw the signs directing me to the Central Line, so, I walked up the stairs at Stratford Station. I might as well take the train to the library if I’m out.

An instant later her reply arrived with a ping and a vibration on my phone.

From: Mama
Subject: (again, none)
“Love you G, God bless you”

I guess that’s mum in a nutshell because you can’t be annoyed at her when she says things like that. I typed a reply, just as quickly:

From: Gina
Subject: (none)
“Love you too, Ma. Take care! šŸ™‚ xox”

And with that, I made my way onto the Central line, getting off at my designated station.

moments

Moments: A Series

So, I decided quite randomly today in the shower that I wanted to create a new series called ‘Moments’. Basically what this series will be doing is capturing little moments in my day or week or in certain situations and my thought process during it. It would be written in prose or through a poem.

It’s just kind of like a vlog that captures candid moments in my life, but instead of a camera capturing these moments, it will be me and my keyboard. Or paper and pen, whichever is closest. And then I will post it.

Sorry, it’s something that occurred to me in the shower.

Aye then, talk later.

Nakedstreetkid out x

Uncategorized

Random Bits and Bobs

I haven’t actually posted anything to this blog in a ridiculously long time. Well, I guess it isn’t as long but considering the amount of random bits of work that I have been writing, it seems strange that nothing has been posted.

I guess it’s just become really difficult for me to get my point across recently and that has reflected in my writing. So, I’m actually holding off until I can take the time to look through the things I have written and figure out the way I want to phrase things.

And if that fails, I’ll simply post it because I don’t like having so many drafts in my memo notes and on WordPress’ system.

Oh, and if this inability to express myself continues, I’m just going to force myself to post everyday during March. Simple as.

Nakedstreetkid out x