Crackle, croak, wheeze; ahem.
I'm laughing. I'm laughing hard at Bowie in space. My raw throat protests at my hysteria and fizzles out and dies, and my breath comes out like the ghost of my previous laughter. I sound like I'm having an obtuse panic attack, with the occasional squeaky scream coming out when I push hard enough, but it hurts like hell. I sound like one of the women in the black and white films, the ones whose true love just got shot in the head trying to protect her, and she leans over his dead and bleeding body and cries "Why, oh, why couldn't you have taken me instead?" but she's crying so hard that no noise is coming out except little squeaks where she yearns for her lover to resurrect, or a woman on the news whose whole family's been wiped out and somehow, she thinks its her fault. If people could hear me, they'd cry with pathos.
I have no voice, and any who no one to speak to. So, I'll speak my thoughts to you, dear blog.
Ooop, here comes a ramble. Why is there no one here? Why do they always leave me? Do they care more about yoga, dance competitions, Kenya and China more than me? I don't think my family have all been together in about two months. It's sad, so sad. There could be great, best-selling books about this, the girl with no family and no voice, but somehow still manages to stay witty. It'll be called: "Natalie's Voice" and underneath it can say "one girls journey to find her voice." Epicness - I like. OOH, and it can include a collection of all my blogs as well, and the shiny bit with the pictures in the middle that every one flicks to in autobiographies to see the full, extended gawkiness of their favorite celebrities adolesence. Since when did that lady on Loose Women - my favorite show for when I'm ill, except maybe the Wright Suff, especially when Richard Bacons standing in - become Waterloo Roads favorite geography teacher (better than Mrs. Currie?? Well I never.)? I'm getting excited because me and my friends are planning on a trip to go and see Muse live - anyones welcome to come - I LUUUURRRVVEE MUSE - oh, the art of Facebook Chat, especially when you have no voice. Gossip Girl is two minutes late and I'm watching some losers complain about their "builder from hell" and its annoying me. I want my throat to stop hurting. I want a letter. I never get letters, unless it's my birthday, which has just passed, but even then they're cards, not proper letters that I enviously watch my parents open after coming in from yoga, or the garden, where he spent the day gardening, crazy calamities. My parents are annoying. My Mamie spends her days teaching yoga, coming home, reading about it, goes to two one hour classes and then goes to her room to meditate. My Dad leaves his home on the river at six am to lecture music technology at mid-Kent uni and comes home at eight pm. At the weekends he's mostly in Germany or Rome. Which is, oh, well its just embarrassing. My sister lives in Nando's beckenham, where she works, and when she comes home she goes up to her room to stitch serial killer writing onto the adverts found in Vogue (long-term art project, don't ask). That's my immediate family, don't get my started on the rest. I want to be able to get to sleep. I've built up an immunity to my meds and I'm spending gradually more and more time trying to find patterns in the stars outside my window. All I can see are moles. Moles, moles, moles.