I tread grey skies
I brave floods

Searching
For that light at the end of the tunnel

I know
The sun will shine
Bearing hope

You appeared,
My rainbow.
You shone

A day in your presence
I feel not time pass us by

Just like a rainbow
You will leave
Soon enough

You sparkled.
You shone.
You brought happiness.
Just enough.

My rainbow,
You soon
Disappear.
Leaving me
In the dark.

For whom does your heart beat,
Young lady?

For whom do you smile?
Will you smile my way?

When you cry,
Who are those teardrops for?

When you yearn,
Who have you reserved your love for?

Shall you take my love?
Shall you receive all that I have to give?

Will you sit next to me
And let me listen to your voice?

Will you tell me all your secrets?

Will you let me hold you
And stop you from crying?

Last Goodbye

Send my regards to all
My love, my last goodbye

For you, my love
For us, our love

Forgive my departure

Ask not why the goodbye
Ask not why not forever

As time runs out
I might not express enough

Give me this.
Allow me this chance
To bid you goodbye

Last goodbye,
Hold on to it
This sweet goodbye

Forgive me, my love.

Should I be granted more time
Let me re-live moments with you

Grant me that last chance
To hear you laugh mingled with mine

Immortalize our love, our memories
My last goodbye

Love...

Love, I put away my yearnings
For you are no longer mine

Love, it has never been easy
Without you near

Deep within the depths of my heart
I still dream

Dreams of your return

Deep within the depths of my heart
I pray
For your return

Dreams so vivid
Beautiful dreams of us and tomorrows

Love, let me reminisce
Let me hope
Till I draw my last breath

Pain

Where is that gentle voice
The calm that silences all noise?
Where is that loving caress
That soothes me amidst all the mess?
Where is that love so pure
That makes all the world easy to endure?
Why am I now covered in bruises
In places you used to grace with your kisses?
Why much hatred in your eyes?
How could you endure these constant cries?
Why slam me against the wall?
Why am I being pushed to my fall?
You spat and yanked on my hair;
I fell to my death, do you even care?
With you I used to feel so safe
Now it is you who pushed me to my grave
Does it matter that you're sorry now?
It means fuck all now that I've taken my final bow.
Cry now all you want
See if I'll care now that everything is over and done.

11 hours of sleep is never recommended for good reasons. I'm feeling even more miserable than I was when I lost my bloody job. I'm looking at my bank account with it's $3.56 balance and the big black vortex of misery seems to get bigger right in front of my eyes.

I have my smoking habit to think of. I have debts to pay off. This bloody expensive laptop I'm typing on is one huge issue.

I've sent out resumes to all the major hotels here.

Oh my god.

When will this all end, damnit.

I want to go back to being a child again with no worry in the world.

I read Nicholas Sparks' Dear John today. My first ever from the author that I've read and this was a book I picked up at a sale at Border's when I was out buying Huda's gift some 4 months ago. I don't buy a book just because someone says 'Oh Nicholas Sparks' is a motherfucking legend. You have got to read at least ONE of his bloody books before you die.' Alright I admit, no one has ever said that to me exactly in that same exact tone. Only I can be so bloody vulgar in one breath. Anyway, I must admit it was a good read. Makes me want to go out and get me Message in a Bottle or Notebook. Maybe both. At times like these I wish I have a credit card that has no limit. I will spend it all on books, coffee and fags.

But I have got one thing to say, this bastard Nicholas Sparks broke my stupid heart, goddamnit. You are not allowed to play with a woman's heart like this. You cannot squeeze her heart for four straight hours and then no let it go. Instead you just carrying on squeezing till all the blood valves explode in your hand. It's the same kind of emotion, or tantamount to, reaching that high peak when you are about to orgasm. You don't hit the roof. Instead your man just walks away from you that mere few seconds before you climax and pat you on the head and say 'Well that had been fun, darling'. You want to cry, to want to punch the wall in, you want to throw your man against the wall and make sure that he suffers a slow death. I know that if you really sit and think about it, oh well, it's sorta like a happy ending for the girl...? But fuck it no. I don't want a sorta happy ending. I don't want to read all that bollocks about 'If you love someone, you just want them to be happy'. NONE of the self-sacrificial stuff, please. I know that yes, in real life we are forced to do things we don't want to for the person we love. Yes, I get it. But I don't want to get lost in my bloody imagination reading about this handsome army bloke and his southern belle girlfriend and get the door slammed in my face with that little touch of reality. Well, members of 'Nicholas Sparks Lovers UNITE' might be rallying at my front door, flinging poo at my face saying that THIS is what makes him one of the best author! He makes you cry because you love the characters so much that you WANT them to live happily ever after! He doesn't even give his characters a proper decent shag. It's all been censored. Ah fuck it, this is not Nora Roberts we are talking about, I know. But I'll tell you this, Nora has interesting dark humour. She always creates interesting men in her books. AND steamy sex scenes that makes you squirm while you are reading at Starbucks. None of this giggly American high school girl bullshit. But ah, one to each his own eh? I don't suppose I can just pop in any bookclub forum and toss this opinion of mine without getting slapped with 'You are an insolent fuck who's just spoiling for a bloody fight. Take your drama elsewhere'. No, you tossers. I am merely burning with this mad desire to discuss this crap I just read. I am not asking the whole shitload of you to jump on the EllaBandwagon and go burn this author's house down.

And when I'm done with this I'm left with staring at the stacks of book that I've bought and have not touched after reading a few pages of the book. Let's see... I have Anne Rice's Lasher, which I must admit as much as it hurts me to, is a GODDAMN LIFE-SUCKING, BRAIN-JUICE VACUUMING BORE! Her only works that I've enjoyed, I realize, are her Vampire chronicles. And then, in my opinion, she pretty much went to hell and back and giggled about it with her tales of bloody Christ. How ironic is that? And at the back of both books about Christ we have reviews from TIMES saying 'THIS IS THE BOOK SHE WAS MEANT TO BE WRITING!' Well you can SUCK MY LEFT ONE. I don't want to read about Jesus' venture out of bloody Egypt or Siberia, or Cairo or whatthefuckever. I want stories of beautiful undead who cannot get an erection who roam the earth sucking on smart people's blood. When I pick up a pick, I want to get lost. Get out of touch with reality. I don't want to know what Jesus is thinking. I don't want to go into religious shit. Which is why I started reading the Da Vinci code and then the whole Vatican church got involved and it all went to shit. I don't give a toss even if it got rave reviews from the fucking Queen. Who gives a bloody damn? But whatever, since I have that book rotting somewhere in my cupboard, I might pick it up again one of these days and swallow the entire book whole in a day and go 'Oh well, it was a surprisingly good read! Vatican popes or not...'.

I also have Stephenie Meyer's two books- Breaking Dawn and The Host. Both, looked promising, but once I'm done with it, I will tear its pages off the bind and use it to wipe my arse. The twillight saga was good with the first 2 books. And then it went to hell with the 3rd and 4th book. And now the stupid Bella Swan in the book is pregnant with some alien homo-vampire child and her stomach is going to implode or explode or whatever and I stopped reading then because that werewolf Jacob is doing fuck-knows-what. And reading about her vampires glittering in the book is alright. It's fathomable. But when I saw in the movies HOW her vampires glitter in the Sun, it pretty much killed any form of affection I have towards her characters. Vampires. Don't. Go. All. Swarovski. In. The. Fucking. Sun. Just HOW can she, as the author who gave birth to her characters, condone this? If I were her and I saw just how they made my vampires glitter in the sun, I would've unleashed my fucking fury on them by shoving a rubbin bin up their yahoo. And the other book, The Host. WASTE OF RECYCLED PAPER. I don't even know where it starts, where it bloody begins and when on fucking earth it's going to end. So I've left it to collect dust under my bed along with Lasher, Taltos, Breaking Dawn and that stupid chick-read that I've read a few pages before tossing it across the room.

Tomorrow, I will go to the library and pay off my 8 dollars fine just so that I can borrow more books. At least with borrowed books, if I don't like it, I can return it and get another one without it killing me. At least I won't think OHHH IT COST ME 30 BUCKS!! Books are fucking expensive here, damnit.

Just before I go, I have something to ask. How come kids these days are not reading Enid Blyton anymore? That woman is good, I tell you. I grew up collecting each and every one of her books before my brother came along and sent the whole shitload of them to hell. What are kids these days reading anyways? Surely they can't all be reading Harry Potter right? Maybe Chronicles of Narnia? Or maybe... Spongebob's great escape out of Bikini Bottom...?

One of the notes from my FaceBook notes section and I still think it's hilarious.

-WHEN I GET MARRIED-

* I will skip the invitation cards and just send notifications via facebook. It's is part of my 'Save the Earth Movement'. And also because I am cheap like that. But nevermind me being a cheapo. Just think of me as the Environmentalist Extraordinaire.

* I will skip expensive cutleries and delicate China plates. You will get your take-outs in styrofoam boxes. Contradicts the last phrase, what with the emission of Chloroflurocarbon and all, but Oxymoron turns me on. That is, if I decide to feed my guests or not. Who cares about the food, right? You're all present to witness the holy matrimony of me and my future partner in crime. I mean, husband. And you're also not there for the free booze, right? That is why we are all drinking tap water. I have that tap filter thingy, mind you.

* I will wear a red victorian ballgown with a plunging neckline and a ten-foot-long black lace train. Because I am a big fan of extravagance in the weirdest of situations. And you will all go ooh and ahh when you sip your tap water and clang your plastic forks on your styrofoam boxes. Oh and about the plunging neckline and the heaving bosom? I just love the thought of giving my future husband cold sweat at the thought of all the guests ogling his future wife's mammaries. Purely superficial. And not to mention entertaining on my part. Also it increases the risk of dirty rampant sex after the whole tiresome ordeal we call 'The Wedding'. Did I just type that out aloud?

* I will be riding off into the sunset, hopefully to get blissfully laid, in a small cute and oh-so-compact Volkswagen Beetle because I know it'll be a pain in the arse to shove that bloody ten-foot-train into the stupid car. It will be absolutely hilarious, I promise you. But then, bear in mind that I am easily amused. On the bumper there will be a sticker that says "Like, we are soooo married it's like, OMG!"

* I TOTALLEH blame Jetstar stewardesses for that bumper sticker. Okay in all fairness, not ALL of them. Just one in particular. She makes my pubic hair twitch with irritation. Like, OMG! IT'S LIKE... YOU KNOW!? I honestly thought that that phrase came from the US and therefore only being utilized by teenage drama queens. But like, whatevarh. Cross-breeding happens. And I lyk SO stand corrected!

* Oh and wedding photos will be taken MySpace pose style. The kinds where you look up at the cam and pout and act sexy. The "missing cigar pose" is strongly encouraged. Because it gives me the giggles. OOH! I'm thinking polaroids!

* Ooooooh oooh oooh! DISCO BALLS! Because it gives mom a strange 'blast into the past'! See, I DO think about other people's happiness!

* I have yet to think about gift tokens for the wedding. But then I think we shall skip it all because REALLY you guys are all at the wedding to share the wonderful moment with me, right?

* Oh and it's okay about the wedding "donations" or red packets to fund for my honeymoon trip around Europe with me and future husband. I doubt I will be able to walk for the next three weeks at least. Nawh, it's not wishful thinking. It's just merely faith in the superkapowablity of my spouse. And also because of the fact that I cramp easily. Choked arteries and capillaries and all.

Isn't it absolutely wonderful that I just wasted all of your time because I was horrendously bored and was trying to show off that even in absolute boredom I am STILL a literary genius?

Good night, my fans.

YOU! Fuck YOU!

Bloody hell, you. I was never a particularly possessive partner in the past and I don't see myself as the jealous type. Maybe then I never cared as much about my partner as I do now. Maybe I know then however jealous or un-jealous I may be, the fucker's going to stray anyway. So, whatever. You're making me go against my own Terms Of Service. So yes, screw you and I am going to add 'Selective Vision' to my impressive collection of superpowers now. And right now, in my current situation where I have nothing better to do with my time, I am highly explosive.

But ah, fuck it all. Anyway, I was just going for a smoke just now where I stood at the kitchen window at 3 am, pretty much dying to have a screaming fit with someone. Bloody neighbour was smoking pot again and just the fucking smell alone is making my mouth water. One of these days I will knock on his fucking door in the middle of the night and say 'You should fucking share that shit, damn you.' And then I will go ahead and smack his head right in. So yes, I was standing at the kitchen window and I noticed something at the block across. A homeless guy was sleeping at the staircase. It's a rare sight, I must admit, people sleeping on the streets here in this country. And there he was just lying there on the floor with his head lying on the last step, trying to cover himself up with whatever pieces of clothes he had with him. It's a cold night. Even indoors, I can feel the chill to my bone. Even as I was standing there smoking, I want to finish with the fag fast so that I can shut the window and crawl back into my room. And there he was sleeping there with no choice but to remain where he is because that could possibly the sole lone spot he found where he could sleep without being chased off.

Shit, WHY am I moaning about being jobless when I have a bloody roof over my head? WHY am I moaning when I have been doing fuck all to land myself a bloody job? THIS is all my own damned doing so I don't have the fucking right to moan. Poor bugger is sleeping there freezing his arse off in the middle of the night and I have shitloads of blankies here. I even toss them onto the floor in the middle of the night because it got too stuffy or it gets snagged to my piercings. I should go across and give him some blankets. No wait. I might get raped on my way there. Ah fuck it. I'm not a particularly religious person, but tonight I shall say a prayer for him. Pray that he don't die in the cold. Pray that it don't fucking rain in the middle night. I don't need a man dying right across from where I live. Not when I was staring at him for the past ten minutes. I don't really think ghost exists but yeah we all know, shit happens. One of these days one might pop out from the walls and put the fear of god in me. Hopefully I don't die from it so that I can blog about it.

Moral of the day: Most of us lose our morals along the way. And some, like me, are fucking proud of that fact about themselves.

I won't be moaning about being jobless. At least I will moan at my own time and not post it out for the world to see. Okay, I won't promise that. I've been known to eat my own words from time to time. But whatever, anyway, I solemnly swear that I have never been up to any good but for the sake of my HardcWhore and seeing as to how I can't fucking live without him, I will bloody go and look for a fucking job. Tuesday. Because I'm going out for a movie with Huda on Monday. Huda, the only sole person who has done a bloody follow-up with me. The one who asks on a fucking daily basis how am I coping up. The one who treats like a goddamn mentally-disabled child incapable of basic daily tasks. The one who yells at me on a daily basis to get up, stop meddling with my fucking Sims and fucking get a job because if not, when the hell am I going to get my goddamned Octuplets. Because she knows me too fucking well. She knows that I need someone near to me to give me a bloody smack everyday.

The rest of you- Thanks for your one-liners. I am fine. I am not dead. I miss you too. But I'm thinking, and I have been doing quite a lot of thinking, that a good number of you can carry on with your lives and fuck all and I will be just fine with or without your texts. I'm just wondering, is there a possibility that that number of you have not contacted me again because you're afraid that me hearing from you would reduce me to a sodding bag of tears? Or is it just because I was forced to bloody resign I am a fucking bad apple and you no longer wish to be associated with me? Or is it that you are too fucking high up in your bloody honey-mooney cloud to even give a fucking toss about me? YES, I am bothered. Can you tell? YES, I have a fucking bone to pick. And it just so happens that my ego is too huge and I am not one to pick up the fucking phone and go OHHHHHH YOU GUYS WHY HAVEN'T YOU BASTARDS BEEN CALLING ME?! Ego, yes. And according to my mother, I have that in abundance and one of these days my ego will suck me in whole and spit me out into the deepest bowels of hell.

Fuck you. You and that goddamned fruitbat whom I will slap repeatedly if she so much as throws herself all over my HxcRawr.

Tranquilizers. I need them in massive quantities. And cough syrup. When the fuck will this bloody cough go away damnit?!

IMVU is dangerous for you.

Holy motherfucker. Just when I'm about to write something I need to shit.

So anyway yes... I miss Jarrod. But I digress, yes.

My mom just rolled over in bed and her head is currently on my arse.

Motherfucker, yes. As I was saying. I was just currently on IMVU humouring myself as most bored people are wont to do. I have this absolutely hideous get-up on that made me look like some aboriginal straight out of fucking Jumanji.

And then I got an invite from a guy whose display picture is that of a man sucking on an equally naked woman's breast and I'm thinking 'Motherfucker NO! I cannot take another bloody old bastard who've hit mid-life twice asking me if I want to be his master!' I have not and I can safely say, never will be a goddamned Dominatrix, chain-whipping woman in bed. I vaguely remember this guy who asked me to shit on his face, of all places and I was asking him, exactly how am I supposed to shit on his face when he is in bloody Saudi and I'm here? For fuck's sake. What, does he want me to can my shit and ship it over to him, or something? Whatever happened to the joy of sniffing undies for kicks?! Now you're on to me shitting on your face? Men, you have evolved in the most weirdest of ways.

So then, back to breast-sucking man. I thought, oh well. Let's make this a practical joke on the horny man with me turning up on his chat client looking like a primate.

But no. It was an interview for strippers and pole and lap dancers. Right there in fucking IMVU. How much have I missed in my fucking hiatus?! What is going on here? They are hiring dancers and paying them in credits on IMVU? And it's a room full of good-looking pixels while I am the fucking ape?! And how come no one informed me of a fucking interview? You can't fuck around with the heart of the jobless like this, maaaaaaaaan! It's wrong! And I was just telling my mother I'm considering becoming a stripper! This is all wrong! I want to be a real-life stripper! Not one on IMVU!

But this is all too weird to be hilarious.

There is no moral of the story for this post. Except that... In my boredom, I went and sold my gorgeous pink-haired pixel to be a stripper. Just because I'm bored and this will humour me for a few days.

Day 4 in the life of the jobless.

Horrible, horrible past four days, I must admit.

I am not enjoying this bloody vacation at all. All I've reaped out it are misery, more boredom and again, motherfucking emptiness.

I showered this afternoon. Finally. So yes, I should pat myself in the back for at least maintaining my personal hygiene. And I brush my teeth on a daily basis. Mainly because I've gone without brushing my teeth for two days and the third day when I woke up to suck on my first fag of the day, it tasted like utter horrendous shit. So yes, I'm simply brushing my teeth just so that I can continue layering my lungs with tar comfortably.

I have not looked at the papers for jobs. I have not gone and sent my resumes to various companies. I'm putting it off till past Easter. Excuses yes, but I don't really give much fuck now. Not yet at least.

It's not as though I enjoy waking up to nothingness. I wake up to Jarrod every morning and spend the next few hours laughing my head off with him. Great start to the day, one must admit. Then after that, he heads to bed and THEN, I'm left to stare ahead thinking about what the fucking hell am I going to do with my day.

Today, my mother was not working so, the day was spent pretty much with me avoiding her. Until eventually it got too much for the both of us that we both took 3 spoonfuls of cough syrup and passed out next to each other in the living room. Irony.

I have managed to slip back into my former anti-social self. I don't talk at home, I don't answer phone calls, I don't reply text messages. There is only so much 'I heard what happened to you. I'm sorry. We'll miss you.' I can take. I did not overdose on some fucking class A drug, for crying out loud. I get it, alright? I miss you guys more, for fuck's sake. I'm here at home staring at a bloody pitbull and thinking round the fucking clock as to how on fucking earth can I get myself out of this bloody HOT AND FUCKING HUMID COUNTRY before it's too bloody late. I have nothing better to do except think of how to act out my fucking revenge on Alan the balding bastard while I take a dump in the morning. I swear, it's interesting how I've skinned him alive time and time again everytime I constipate. Just because I don't answer to your texts, doesn't mean I have gone and swallowed 40 painkillers and DIED. No, I am just fucking tired of crying for no fucking good reason, alright?

And no, I'm not going to call you back soon. I can't even talk without my voice breaking. So yes, fucking let me moan in my little corner for a bit more till I'm ready to get the fuck out of my room. A few more days, I swear. I'll then go get my arse in gear.

And I don't know what I plan to do with my life right now, either. Day 1 I kept thinking 'Fuck I have to go to London.'. Then it hit me OH FUCK I DON'T HAVE A SINGLE CENT ON ME. THANK YOU, PARENTS. So yes, taking refuge under Jarrod's armpits was out of the fucking question. Day2 I was going around the house scaring my mom shitless by staring at her for hours to the point where she's gingerly stroking my head asking me if everything is alright. And she fucking ends every sentence with 'Sweetheart'. No, Ma. For crying out loud, everything is not alright. My world ended, Ma. But yes, thanks for feigning concern. And you don't have to touch me if it means you're doing it like I'm a rabid chihuahua, Ma. Really, it's alright. I'm not a big fan of unnecessary touching if it won't lead to sex, anyway. And since I'm not into incest, you don't really have to stroke me every few minutes. Everything's fucking up right before my very eyes, but it's perfectly alright. I AM FUCKING USED TO ALL THIS SHIT, REMEMBER.

Day3 I picked up a book, read it for an hour, had my mind elsewhere, chucked the book in the dustbin by mistake and I was staring at the rubbish chute going 'Oh fuck no! Nononononono!'. Nevermind that said book was shit anyway. But a book is a book. And goddamnit. Rubbish chute. Whoever invented a hollow shaft where rubbish go down should be thrown against a fucking wall. Later on during day 3, I was lying in bed blasting my headphones on so loud it gave me migraines. Then I went and smoked again. Finished my cigarettes that I bought in the morning by 3 pm. Drank my 4th cup of coffee. Drank cough syrup. Bad cough, I swear to god. Early into the morning of Day 4 it got me thinking, I should possibly go and try out the make-up field. I told my mom about it and JUST because she said 'No daughter of mine will be a make-up artist and go to hell for it.' the more I am going to do it. Fuck it, Ma, seriously. If I'm going to hell, I'd rather it be because I'm doing something I love and not because I ran down a fucking dog for fuck's sake. Plus, we're all going to hell. I'll reserve a sunny spot right next to the steam bath for my friends. Or the guillotine board. Whatever rocks your boat, baby.

Day 4, I was talking to Jarrod about the many blogs I have and I thought... I should be a fucking author. Thoughts of becoming a stripper went out the window. Along with thoughts of becoming a social escort. Or common whore, whatever. I'm a good writer. So yeah, why not. Go and get my fucking blogs turned into books. 'Confessions of the jobless'. I'll be an instant bestseller.

Oh my fucking lord. I don't know!

I have no fucking idea. I STILL think I should be in London right now.

NOW fuckdamnit. NOW.

Diary of the jobless begins.

April the fucking 6th. Year of the fucking Ox, 2009.

I am officially fucking jobless and after one and a quarter year, I have time on my hands to do things that will not make sense.

I can now look up at the ceilings and wonder what colour should I paint it.

I can stay up all night blasting my music out loud on the headphones and eventually pass out.

This is too much free time I have here.

It is beginning to scare me as to how free I would be for some time to come. I will cease to have a mission in life. My days ahead look somewhat like a big black hole. This entire vortex of morbid misery will suck me whole in the space of a week.

Motherfucker. I do not need a panic attack now.

I do not know what I intend to do with my life now.

I'm 23. People whom I know intimately call me Ella Bella. I am fucking jobless. I still behave like a 16 year old. I wish I can live off my parents for the next few months but I can't. Not when they've been living off me.

And right now, I pretty much don't give two fucks about their misery over the fact that I have managed to lose my bloody job. They need to realize that the world evolves around me and my misery. Not theirs.