Cry me a fucking river.

In america.
House sharing with some really great friends because I failed my physical in the army.
Cancer. Ovarian. Cervical. Breast. Bowel. Brain tumour.
I'm cooked.
I get angry because everytime I share the news the word 'sorry' is uttered.
Why do people apologise for things out of their control?
The love of my life(faceless, nameless) turns up on my doorstep.
This is how the scence is played out;

''Sarah? Sarah- Jane? Helloooo?'' John's calling me, I know I should answer.
''Yeah?'' It was harsher than I meant it to be. Bitter on my tongue to speak to such a kind sweethearted man like him.
''Some bloke to see you, says its important''
My sigh is exasperated and childish. The floor where I've been lying for far too long creaks like my grandmothers joints when I push myself up off the oriental rug. The door's moan adds to the sorrowful tune thats quickly become the only song I hear. The floorboards protest as I make my way arthitically down the staircase like a woman in her 80s rather than teens.
''Who is it?'' I call down.
''Find out yourself you lazy arse'' I couldnt help but laugh.
I wait until last moment to look up from my stiff toes to see who it is.
There, shrouded in the hallway light looking like a tortured angel He stands. He stands, I stand. Time stands. He shouldn't stand there. He should be walking. Away. Away from me. I am Death.
I ask him to leave because I can't bear for him to see me as weak as I am. Dying.

He asks for one final embrace. ''You need to leave, please''
He takes my hand and walks me over to an arm chair where he sits down. I crawl onto his lap and curl up against him. For the first time since diagnosis I bawl my eyes out. He holds me together. He keeps my colour from escaping the lines. He stops the sweater from unravelling. He stops the shell from cracking, so to speak. We laughed together once, we lived together too and now, in this small cell, we cry together. Sharing the emotion and grief.

Then I woke up and cried. Weird huh?

Poorly written and not very dramatic but hey, youre the sucker for reading it :P

The Olympic Torch xx

Little Boy.

The little boy died again last night, hit by a car.
There was nothing the paramedics could do.


The Olympic Torch xx

Nightmare.

The boy died last night. Cancer. I didn't know. When I found out, I tried to stop him from giving up. I tried.
I beat someone up too. Slammed him into numerous walls on the way to the front door when he refused to leave. I asked him nicely. He just wouldn't take the hint.
I can be rather scary.


The Olympic Torch xx

Mm. Yes.

Today I did a lot of thinking. And research. I made quite a few discoveries. I rediscovered a scar on the back left of my head, why it’s there is a long story that takes us back to the nursery school of my youth, Eastwood and a boy called Ryan with a stupidly long nose. He was a bastard gotterdammnte him. Anyway.


I re-read a couple of books and learnt how to commit the perfect murder. Good to know these things right?

I also decided that in the unlikely event of yours truly moving to America, I would move here;

(Portland, OR) Because the pictures are pretty and it’s green, lots of lovely trees :) and it frequents my dreams like a bar. It seems a nice enough place, not too shabby, not too clean. Finally, I really like the name. It sounds like Oregano, the herb, which makes me smile because its my favourite herb. Whenever I dream about moving here there’s always a little boy somewhere in the picture. He always runs up to me and leaps into my arms, I wonder who he is.

I had two dreams in as many naps (disturbed night) both of which I was in the army. Can somebody please explain to me why the armed forces are such a large part of my dreams of late? Everybody knows that discipline + work + me is an unbalanced equation! It isn’t quite right! Little boy pops in again in each of these.

Nightmares of late are the same too; a friend is in a coma or dying of some form of cancer.

Just come up with a quick analytical recipe for these three ingredients;

A big commitment that I respect and kill to honour and preserve. Travelling in the line of duty whatever that should be a big enough commitment for me to need to be stationed there permanently and the child, a ward? Aunty Sarah is what he always calls me. So that could either mean that I become a blood relative to a boy who can no longer be cared for by his mother (why America confuses the hell outta me at this point because Anna’s a home bird) or he’s the child of a dear friend –I’m a God-mother?- The friend dying. Is this showing to me how deeply afraid I am of the word you use for that final farewell? I’m not too sure.



I’ll add more later. I need to do some work, IA and Geog.

Aliens abduct me now!



The Olympic Torch xx