i'm only human

who will give me comfort when it's cold?( . )

[It doesn't last, of course. If there's one thing Clyde has learned, it's that not much does. The gut-clench, the tightness palpitating where her heart ought to be and twisting in her throat - all of it fades. The drag doesn't, but she isn't sure if it ever did to begin with. Perhaps it was just one of those things that goes unnoticed until suddenly alleviation or lack throws its existence into sharp relief. Like air. Like life, she thinks, sticking her tongue out at herself for the disgusting sentimentality. Brooding is for bitches, baby, she reminds herself - and back to London it is, back to stealing journal access and pens from the tolerant and unobservant.

Her scrawl is, if anything, even shakier than usual - but that might be because she's using (and cursing a blue streak at) a broken down stub of a pencil that crumbles and cants as if it has a will of its own. A will of its own that hates being used to write. She kind of likes it. She kind of wonders what happened to the body. She kind of doesn't want to know.]

H A S ANYONE SAID BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR YET OR IS THAT IN POOR T A S T E?


hi my babies



what's the motherfuckin what, hmm?

the center of saturn is reeeeeally fucking boring but hey at least it makes for a good story you know what i mean? this one time i frolicked at the center of saturn just because i was in the neighborhood


but the asteroid belt is fucking awesome, bros and hos (and sister grace, mwah). ALL I NEEDED WAS A SHIP AND SOME SORTA INCEST GOING ON TO MY RIGHT AND A FURRY SIDEKICK AND I COULD HAVE BEEN HAN FUCKING SOLO


what'd you guys and gals and goobers get up to while i was gone? was it as inarguably awesome as space?







no. no it was not, and you motherfuckin know it. but that's okay tell me all about all the doings you've done anyway~

[She drifts away from London almost as often as she drifts through, really. Just because it's de facto home base by virtue of having her most interesting and most favourite people clustered in it for now doesn't mean she's tied down, or anything. She's a free fuckin' spirit, zooming over the ocean and huge chunks of geography at the speed of thought without friction, screaming the chorus to Freebird.

New York is so pretty at Christmastime. Lots of the cities are. She dives through trees and positions herself so her head is right at the center of wreaths and carefully edges ornaments just a little too close to the edges of branches back a little bit. Maybe she distracts a six year old from going into the closet she had just wandered through herself because she can clearly see his unwrapped presents stowed there. Maybe she does, what of it? It's Christmas, everyone should have a little magic of the nice sort in their life.

She goes home, too. Home-the-little-plot, home-where-her-bones-rot. And the home away from home that could have been hers, her younger brother's daughter and husband and baby already wandered home for the holidays. She likes her sister-in-law, thinks they would have gotten on fine. If, you know. If they had ever properly met. The fairy lights twinkle a bit when she lingers too long, the television whining gently underneath the sound, like somewhere in it a tiny trapped thing is sobbing. She's sitting in the fireplace (in the fire, actually, but it isn't like she can feel it) but when the dull mechanical protest starts to kick up a notch she blasts up through the chimney and away. Maybe she'll go back to see everyone open their presents (her brother got his wife a seriously unnecessarily swank necklace and she sort of wants to see everyone's faces when that comes to light). Maybe she won't, though (watching them makes her happy of course but it also makes that weird space where her heart used to beat ache. Phantom pains).

The pen is green, and skips occasionally.]

everyone done with their shopping? i do not miss the fucking press and crush, let me tell you.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT'S THAT TIME OF YEAR AGAIN.


who's gonna put on nightmare before christmas for me?

[After this.]

love me love me say that you love me fool me fool me go on and fool me love me love me pretend that you love me leave me leave me just say that you need me

[Another day, another temporarily appropriated journal: she scrawls with bright purple sharpie and enthusiasm.]

being rained through will NEVER NOT BE TRIPPY

THIS IS FUCKIN AWESOME

back of my neck sort of itches, went to scratch it and my hand went right through it and came out under my chin twice.


and fuck my unlife, it still itches. my existence is so hard you guys.

it just occurred to me that in all my long spiritual career i've never jumped out at someone and yelled boo before how have i overlooked this staple what is wrong with me.

[She skitter-flitted away, didn't she, and the journal world felt a distinct sort of lack, didn't it, when that should be forgettable little ghost-girl pitter-patted nonchalantly away from all the ties forged in the world she ought to properly be quitting by inches.

She might have gone home. She might have watched her younger brother - older than she'll ever be, now, and taller and so handsome and grown-up and oh, achingly alive - for a melting into each other succession of parchment-colored days inked through with whatever sort of lines a poem would have, if the poem spoke of nostalgia for the little minutes that might have strung together an older sister sort of life not lived.

She might have, might have done it. But all trough her flicker-quick try at living life she never swore on nothing about not telling lies, and dead girls tell no tales that would showcase their phantom-beating hearts.

She found a collection of glittery gel pens somewhere. Ask no questions and she'll tell you no tall tales in rickety scribble.]

BOOM BITCHES!

WHO THE FUCK MISSED ME? DON'T LIE, YOU KNOW YOU DID EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU.

what have i missed what's the haps what's goin onnnnnn other than stacey's mom catch me up on all the gossip news rumors who's fucking who bitches? shit, i have missed you freakshows and freakshowettes ♥

[Of course she's going, it's going to be the funniest shit ever. Entry backdated to this morning and written in thick black sharpie that almost disguises her usual tremor-shake-tremble-falter attempt at proper handwriting.]

MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN
MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN
MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN
MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN MAIDEN

jeezy creezy i miss goddamn ice cream and i will motherfucking bitch about it if i want to, cockmunches

but not brain freeze that can stay right the fuck away



so tell me about the last nummy frozen treat you had, mine tender young goslings (and crusty old weirdos, holla jc)

the dubliners! also the decemberists if boredom strikes also lol bieber (anyone have anything rotten veg like that i can drop on his haircut?)

CEE LO MOTHERFUCKING GREEN

the twilight singers oh fuck yes fuck yes

explosions in the sky or miyavi i must decide but it is oh so hard maybe i can hop between both arrrgh decisions

sorry katy perry and cake you are both awesomesauce but i just can't fit you in this weekend

ATTN: WORLD AT LARGE. i will be unavailable from seven pm until i turn up again every night until monday

also i will write whatever i want wherever i want get the fuck off my lawn i had no scrap paper handy and when i feel corporeal i gotta go with the flow fuckers because this shit don't come 'round often

Valentine's Day used to be a matter of hand-crafted cards covered with glitter and sincerity and filled with swirling, heart-dotted missives of adoration from The Girl From Before to all the extras in the production of her life. Unfortunately for Clyde's affectionate impulses, these days arts and crafts have largely gone the way of, you know, the ability to wield scissor, glue stick and construction paper with more vivacity than skill.

Fortunately for the amusement of all around her, however, she is a determined minx of a thing when she sets her mind to something, and Valentine's Day is one of those things that simply must be done up proper (when you are as easily bored and as incorporeal as Clyde is, every holiday is one that must be done up proper).

All Valentines are delivered whilst their recipient slumbers or is otherwise preoccupied.

( ♥ ♥ Hana Banana ♥ ♥ )

( A. Valerian )

( L. Gryffiths )

( G. Rosalia )

Words scrawl across the page, communication hampered broken pencil and brisk temper and fingers that bring new meaning to temperamental with their slippery grasp of the concept of concreteness. Clyde's usual writing has an unusual urgent look, a little darker on the page but more broken up, straight lines etched out too short and then lost only to be traced over again, curves like exercises in interlocking. Legible, yes. Unusually fractured? Check. Meaningless chaff? As per usual.

And if her little brow is knit with too many Deep Dark Thoughts and if she is as much seeking distraction as she is seeking to be a pain in the ass, well. That's Clyde for you, cheerful mirage shimmer over a skeleton that isn't there at the worst of times.

^anyone else  bored? if  yes, i   vote _word

a s s ociation 


i ' l l   start: KALEIDOSCOPE.

Scribbled in a few scant minutes after the initial message, when Clyde recalls a previous conversation. This writing is a bit neater, slightly more studied: The Library impresses Clyde, with its capital letters and the vaguely Agent Smith slash Illuminati feel of what she's gleaned from overheard conversations and cheeky inquiries and the occasional stalked journal entry.

OH ALSO. if there is a Librarian (or someone else knowledgeable about things) who would be okay with answering a question that is probably slightly frivolous could you please say hello?

( The red pen was stolen and carried back to Hana's journal with the usual amount of difficulty and fumbling. It dropped, she chased it as it rolled. Passers-by tilted their heads at the lack of sound, at the cheerful cursing of the pen's parenthood and sexual proclivities that they could almost but not quite hear ).

MERRY CHRISTMAS (or happy holidays if you prefer but MERRRRRRRRY just rolls off the tongue so much better than HAPPPPY, don't you think?) TO EVERYONE OUT THERE IN JOURNAL-LAND WHO WARMS THE COCKLES OF MY NONEXISTENCE LITTLE HEART

(and a special tip of the hat to the select few that light a fire in my immaterial loins, you know who you are)

drive safe, kids
spike the nog, wear decent clothes,
track down someone who loves you or at least tolerates you with good grace and collect your holiday hugtimes
(there has to be at least one person out there who'll hug you if i like you, no matter how gross you actually are. if not let me know and i'll come give you a ghostly cuddle/kiss/grope and then pants someone for you)
be really fucking merry, or else
take advantage of mistletoe wherever it may roam (!)
in short: do everything i can't do, and then tell your most favorite supernatural voyeur allllll about it

Hana's journal has been pirated, again (of course). Such is the way of things: Clyde is left to her own devices, Clyde pokes around and makes of herself an incorporeal nuisance, eventually Clyde is bored enough to exert the slow and measured effort required to find the journal, move the journal, turn the pages of the journal and then find a pen, move the pen, and write with the pen. She is careful not to let anyone see these exercises in tedium, though whether out of pride or because if someone else is around there are better things to do than scribble in journals it would be difficult to say (a mixture of both, six of one and half a dozen of the other, the girl gone cold is still a girl, complete with a girl's love of company and a teenager's endless caprice and a child's pointless ego).

Her writing is, as always, a shaky and wobbly thing, the letters formed from painstaking lines and the pen occasionally not pressed down quite hard enough. Managing this shit is complex, okay. All you corporeal fuckers take the little things for granted.

so hey, all you people who know stuff might know this too: how come the average person can't see me unless i say boo and sometimes not even then, but the average cat is always all like 'yo girl, i see you over there having no substance, haaaaaay how's it hanging, i'm'a come run through you a bunch of times it'll be awesomesace'?

i mean i like cats but dude. personal space.