Princess Poltergeist

The Bereft Land

Compulsory first post, how embarrassing.

First pages are terrible to write, as are first posts. You always make a fool of yourself before anything you wanted to do as even begun to be done or said. You’ve made your first post and already have the audience has left without word and the other half are either hanging around with timid interest or are telling you very interesting places to put your opinions, namely your ass. What I’d like to do on this blog is namely book reviews. I like books about people getting their lives completely fucked up. I like feeling strong feelings about novels, positive and negative ones. I like performing a thorough disembodiment on books I spend money on that waste my finite time. That’s what I want to do. I also would like to document my own life sometimes, the interesting and bizarre things that occur to me. I enjoy amusing people with my own miserable experiences so expect some of those.

Also, I write. I write a lot. Isn’t the picture great?


Featured post

Unwound spring

I started on this site believing it would get me great places or that it would improve my skills as a creative individual. With every situation I enter these wishes stay alongside me, sometimes unwanted simply because I know they will be proved blatantly wrong and profoundly childish. These feelings and values I hold concerning my writing are ethereal. They sit like butterfly wings; already flaking from the mere atmosphere and prepared to dissolve in the single grimy, oily, grabby hand of a needy child. That has a deeper meaning but who needs deeper meanings at a time like this. I am well aware these entries turn to spiralling rambling within the first three sentences but I suppose that’s how my mind goes. So tightly wound up that when it finally lets loose it has no idea where it’s going, what it’s doing, who it wants to hurt. I’ve had problems living with them for a very long time, such small things that should never have turned into what they are had I let them free once and accepted that life was ultimately cruel and that writing would not always prevail. I was too starry-eyed for too long and it let me weak to a fight I wasn’t expecting. Of course, I’m better now though the ripples of such a punch still echo through me.

I hate this entry.

The Amazing Life of Dead Eric

A young adult book I finished in an hour as I received searing pains from my breast. Though short and somewhat predictable in plot and characters it was none the less enjoyable for a few reasons I’ll get into now. The main reason I am writing a review is simply so I do not forget this book. Though it’s not a diamond in the rough it was certainly a quaint experience.

I found this book at a second hand store and believed it looked interesting while also hoping to broaden my field of international writers as my palette is so restricted.

The entire book had a feel similar to the Evil Genius series by Catherine Jinks, my all time favourite young adult series. While the teenagers are fairly believable in personality and actions the stereotypes are there and the protagonist, Amanda Moo uses ‘like’ far too often to the point of the reader cringing and seeing through the veil of the story and right at the author. And who is the author? Nuri Vittchi. Know who this is? Neither do I. Let’s continue.

Despite this gripe about the authenticity of teenagers written by an adult male, the characters still had distinguishing traits to them which especially applied to our two mains. They changed throughout the short novel and faced difficult issues which is always crucial in young adult novels. It’s incredibly difficult for teenage readers to like teenage protagonists. Hell, it’s difficult for adult readers to like teenage protagonists. Amanda Moo however was incredibly likeable and reminded me greatly of Nao in Ruth Ozeki’s A Tale of the Time Being, dissatisfied with her situation but finding comfort in her own mortality. Eric Watts was rather enjoyable too. Like Amanda we are drawn to his strange behaviour and grow closer to him the more he opens up to her.

I will mention the concept of Amanda’s mother having HIV, a greatly interesting but also saddening branch to the story tree that I wished had been expanded upon. I haven’t read a book with this kind of issue before and I found it compelling. How does Amanda feel about this? How does her mother feel about that? How will they deal with the fact that her mother will die prematurely? That’s a topic I would’ve loved to read more about considering my attachment to Amanda. However this was not the case.

The style is simple with some sentences standing out as profound. Read any segments concerning Amanda watching the sea and you’ll find them. I’ve read better in teen fiction however I have also ready worse; much, much worse.

The ending was rather typical but satisfying, ending with a promise to be continued. (Considering this was written in 2001 I highly doubt Nuri’s going to be compelled to pump out a sequel now, sixteen  years later) There was an inconsistency with the first chapter that I won’t get into, however it may signal to a completely different ending that is far too compelling for what this book is. Either that or it’s a mistake. I’m betting on the latter.  

Overall it’s good for a read on a lazy afternoon, particularly so if you’re into computer science. As you’ve already guessed this book reminds me of many of my other favourites. I couldn’t criticise it too harshly considering it was over before I’d even started and it was a decent read.

Also the cover makes it look like it was made on clip-art. Hilarious.

Write a word a day

Keep the anxiety away

Little by little

Inch by inch

Deny the inevitable

Moving into a home for demolition.

I am feeling the need to be destructive not only towards myself but everything and everyone around me I deem unfair. I mean, there is no point in keeping to the straight line when the straight line has only gotten me this far. There is no reward and no acknowledgement, just keep doing what you’re doing and you might find some self satisfaction some day. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t care if my future is tainted. It’s barely a future as I see it now. Let things crumble to dust for at least it is me doing the wrecking this time: I have control. I will destroy the things in my life before anyone else can.

I will never get a new job and getting fired from this one means nothing. I can scream until my throat burns with blood but nothing changes. Everyone is blind. Everyone is silent. That’s why I’m screaming. I’ll never feel satisfaction and each time I see other’s happiness I taste soot in my mouth. I’m sorry but it’s not something I can help. Constant rejection and belittlement makes the best people into the worst.

I’m not exactly sure what this destructive behaviour will evolve into, but it has to be better than what I’ve currently got. Let it ruin me and rip me away until the basics remain. Perhaps we can rebuild what a negative society cemented to me.

Cruise Control: Off

Powerless in the life you have, or simply in the life you are conscious for. Losing control of the insignificant things in your circle can break the illusion that the world is your oyster. Instead it becomes the raging sea surging toward you land, ready to tear trees from the ground and people from their feet: literally. This is how I feel, knowing control is such a petty want when it is near impossible without hostile threats. I don’t want to control much, a few decisions here and there, a job I hated could become a job I could stand happily, the motivation to project my ideas to a waiting world. I am young and these ideas will only grow older with me, curdling in my skull when they should be drunk in plenty. What’s wrong with me? Where’s my motivation? It doesn’t feel like I’m living much. I see other people and point with a child’s ignorance and curiousity. Is that living? Is that control? Where do I find it? Don’t tell me it’s within myself. Please don’t.

The sweat doesn’t come from hard labour. It simply arrives and never departs, as if living itself is the struggle. It’s hot, very hot. I like to think the heat chases away my motivation for creativity (and most other things) but what when the heat stops? Even now I feel the dribbles of saltwater down my skin and all I do is write a ramble, a rant, a gurgling mass of spirally sentences that could be summed up by ‘my life is flawed. I will not change therefore I am sad’. This is something I have been wondering for awhile. How would one go to change themselves in a way that their mind, morals, and choice of actions is new and improved?

What comes to my mind is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the gentle beast the monster was. It’s always books that come to mind. Read this book and be enlightened. Read this book and become smarter. Read this book and stop living in the dark. Read this book and have the epiphany you’ve been waiting for. Placing my hope in novels by gurus and the words of other people whose lives have been changed is a very, very risky task. I believe the only person who can control my life is me. Much to my worst fears the power is in myself. The harrowing dig inwards through the sickly, sticky coal-like substance that sticks to the inside of a pipe in order to find something better and more beautiful that what I see in the mirror now. I see depression. I see weakness. I’ve seen it for a long while.

I’m sorry my content isn’t as decent as it once was. This is an issue I am struggling with, something microscopic in this world that I find as large as the sky sometimes. It stems from anxiety to do better and be better because somewhere along the lines anxiety did just as us humans did: it evolved. I threw out irrational thinking and it weaved through my mind under the facade of something positive. Being on your toes is a somewhat good trait after all. What about when you pace your bedroom wondering how the world will ever know about your ideas and characters and stories? Your job feels like the worst day each day simply because it isn’t as good as it should be. Constantly striving for better means constantly finding flaws in things you should appreciate and love. Depression builds and sinks in when I’m low. For a few days I am dilapidated by it and in a few more days I will rebuild myself with illusions of control and lies and thin promises, weaker than before, always smiling, always hiding.

The power to change is in myself. I’m frightened of that. It doesn’t seem like there’s much left inside there.


She gets angry and writes stuff and doesn’t edit it because who cares

I’ve talked of this this alot. I’ll keep writing about it until I find a resolve. It’ll always be said to me therefore the blistering anger will always be burning under my skin. “Oh, but I’m sure you’ll want kids when you’re older!”. No, I won’t want a grimy fucking parasite growing out of me when I’m older, but thanks for asking.

To use the term ‘it’s not a phase, mom’ feels utterly ridiculous. Had the term not been adopted and abused within communities of angry teens (once sincere, not ironic) I would have no problem using it because it’s true. I am a twenty three year old women and this choice of not wanting children isn’t a phase. It is a personal choice based on opinions and fears that I have held since I even considered the idea that some rugrat could come explode from within me. When I begin believing in something that may change certain aspects of my life I make very fucking certain it’s something I am settled happily upon. The same could be said for my gently satanic fashion style. I do not see myself changing my preferences in clothes or hair anytime soon, or ever. At this age you don’t tend to change as much as you once did, more settled on things with a little more experience tucked behind your ear. I am at an age in which the choices I make will stick around until I’m thirty or so, and I’m happy with the choices I make or choose to continue with. The goth phase came and never left and I couldn’t be happier. I have no issues buying an expensive shirt telling someone to fuck off. It makes me giggle. Watching my mother see my new purchase and do that frown that looks like she’s juggling gobstoppers between her lips also makes me giggle. I understand I’m getting off topic. I’m saying as a healthy independent adult at a level-headed age I have made my life choices which will affect a majority of my life.

What some (only some) mothers don’t seen to understand is that children are in this choice and not a customary ritual one must do. Generation Y is supposedly one of selfish intentions because we don’t want many kids. Many of my friends have this same opinion. We all grew up together, from tots to trash. We know how fucking terrible we are. Why add to the count? I wouldn’t want a smaller version of myself wandering around without a leash on. I find it hard enough to control myself. How would I control another me whose limbs I couldn’t keep still? I’ve got enough anxiety to power on my entire life. My high school years were plagued with heavy depressions, my primary years ones spent in confusion and shame. Ah yes, these are the experiences and disorders I would like to pass onto a child. How would I even raise a child? I barely raised myself. I can long for many things. One of these things isn’t motherhood.  One of these things is food.

My mother is so smug and certain that in ten years I’ll be in a hospital bed with my vagina split in two, cradling a flesh cake in a blanket. I can almost see her shit-eating grin. I’m excited to see that smile turn to grim realisation that this isn’t a phase and the only children she’ll be getting are plastic dolls with missing eyes. Sorry mother, I know you want to take care of our kids and I wish there was a way for you to look after babies without me having to have one. I’ll steal an occupied pram from the park and pretend it’s mine for a few days. I heard you get good food in jail.

(Sometimes I forget if I’m joking or not).

Nevertheless, at this age, I know when I’m certain of something and this is for sure; one decision that will stick with me for a little longer than forever. I’d rather plunge into the foamy depths of Niagara falls in an open barrel than conceive a child.

I wonder when I’ll write something worth reading…



Just because it’s difficult doesn’t mean it’s worth it. Just because it’s difficult doesn’t mean you should give up.

I have issues in deciding which route I should take. There are benefits and disadvantages in both and always will be. To choose simply one route would be to open a door onto new possibilities, while also closing it on others. These are opportunities that we perhaps will never know because without consideration we let the door close because a better option came into view. Down even the worst paths lie some kinder, better things that sometimes justify the pain of a bad path.

We could have lived lives we never imagined.


The end of your anxiety is behind our counter: pregnancy tests.

The owners of the grocery chain I work for decided to remove pregnancy tests from the shelves and place them behind the counter to be available on request. And you know what? I’m fucking livid.

Continue reading “The end of your anxiety is behind our counter: pregnancy tests.”

Prompt 8: Freckles

We’ve all hated our freckles. I remember many children labelling them as their worst feature, and I was included in that tally. They are the epitome of an Australian childhood spent playing in a relentless summer, blemishes that will never truly fade. In winter they dimmed down with dreary temperatures but come the hot weather and the spots would come back in all their speckled glory. I hated them throughout my younger years. I felt too childish. I never learned to use make-up. My round face and freckly cheeks reminded me of a slowly rotting apple with spots of mould. I never liked myself as a child.

Now, however, I don’t mind them. Over time they have faded but once in awhile I see them in clusters, particularly in the space below of my eyes. I never thought of the stories they tell and how many blue skies I was witnessing. Each beige speck is a reminder of how I explored and sought out what, at the time, was a monolithic mystery. What was in the bird’s nest? Were there shells at the bottom of the rock pools? How fast could I take the hill in my beat-up push bike? I’ve seen a good deal but have a great deal more to go. It’s all about moving forward and looking towards the sun, allowing the freckles to dot your cheeks and chest and shoulders.

It seems growing older makes you wiser but sappier. Oh well.

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