Hurricanes and casualties.

They are tough and distant, they can't care less and they are completely foreign to us. They say one thing, and they do another, and it confuses us to no end, but we stay and wait anyway. And then there's the hurt. The hurt that comes from all the broken promises, that to them were not broken, or made, or promises in the first place, that to them mean nothing, but to us meant two weeks of waiting for that one phone call to be made, among their many, to take us out to that place they said they would, or watch this movie they said they wanted.

It's not that they completely mistreat us. On the contrary, they can be the kindest things on earth, all nice and sweet, asking how was your day, and if you got your paper done ... but no more.

And here we wait. We crave. We hanker. We wish for that one miraculous moment when they would turn and notice us, and know that we're sitting there, hoping he'd stay a little longer for us, even when he doesn't have to. But he leaves anyway. And our day is gone. We leave too, in defeat.

Why though? Why do we stay? And linger? And second-guess and read into things? Because of the nights, when all's been said and done, and we find ourselves in tears, hiding from their view, but they come over and pick us up, and hold us in their arms, and tell us that they do like us, but they can't do so and such, and so we have to be good, and listen to them, or else risk losing them, and we don't want that.

They press their foreheads into our tear-stained cheeks, and they tell us what we want to hear. Words go right into our ears, followed by their heaving breaths. It doesn't matter what they say anymore, because we are just glad to be in their arms again, and that everything is going to be okay. They tell us again, in all earnesty, they they like us, it's just, and so, but yes.

And of course, we cave. We give in to them, and we stay just that bit longer. At the back our of heads is the familiarity of this situation. Of how many times this has happened in the past. And how many times we've been on that same lap, sobbing softly because something similar went wrong, and that same, low, paternal voice tells us it's just, and so, but yes.

They like us. They really do.

But we cave in anyway. We play into their big, strong hands, even though we know they are leading us on, we know the whole point of it was to slip their hands up our shirts and enter us in our weakest moment.

We said no. We won't let them. Almost playfully.

And they stand before us, tall and domineering, daring us to say no. They give us the chance, say no.

The damage is done. For nights to come we will think back on it, on how they held us close to them, almost like we were their property, theirs to care, theirs to love.

They walk off satisfied, glad to have gotten what they wanted.

It's torture, but we will hang on forever, for the sake of these moments. They come far and few, but we want so badly to relive it that we trick ourselves into thinking that there's no way he's not sincere this time or it's okay if he lied it doesn't matter we don't care or that things are okay now.

But after eight months, you see the pattern, and you know things will never be okay. And then nostalgia becomes diluted with this dull, throbbing pain in you, recognizing your helplessness in the face of all this, knowing you will never be free again.

There is just something nice guys cannot give us sadistic girls. We will get along with them well, we will love hanging out with them, we'll call them sweet and adorable, we'll say they are the nicest guys in the world ... and we will pray that they find someone, because we know we'll never be the one for them.

I talked to a friend once about how I don't want to hurt this guy who likes me, because I feel like I'm a hurricane, and he'd be my casualty.

And all this while, I was the willing casualty to someone else's hurricane.

More shit.

I'm getting a lot more sleep than I did during school, yet I still feel the same level of shittiness as I did back then, and I still complain a lot. In fact, I probably complain more. I guess the more you're given, the more you want.

I am feeling shitty, so no happy postings. I just had my own death wish stare me in the face, and it was narrating to me, for seven minutes, why I can't do anything about it. Why I stayed for so long. Why everything was so hard. Why things will never be the same again. I hate feeling helpless, that's the one feeling I'd like to not have, because it's all illusory, and you're never really helpless, but once you think you are, there's no getting out of it. And I can't get out of this one, not tonight. It's staying for good.

You're never supposed to be with the one you're supposed to. You never like the one you're supposed to. Life just sucks from then on.

I was not happy. Why do I constantly toy with the line between pain and pleasure. I couldn't look away. It would have been equally painful.

I deactivated life.

I swear, it's like a recurring sickness. I am still not okay with this place. There are times when I feel okay, and then there are times when I feel so fucking blah, like now. But I've never felt great. I fucking hate this place, it's so God-awful, I want to leave and never come back.

I'm sick of having conversations for one. I'm sick of wanting to be wanted. This place is fucking cold and distant and unwelcoming, just like its people. I'm sick of reaching out into thin air, nothingness, because this is exactly what this place is. Nothing. A big pile of nothing.

You know what's your problem, America? You care too fucking much about how you look to other people. I can never be myself in a place like this.

I swear I can live anywhere in the world, except here.

Bloody. Perth. I can live in bloody Perth, and not here.

Send me to fucking Cuba, or North Korea. At least misery is justified there.

I have no connection or relation with anyone here. It's been a year. I've tried. In the past two, three weeks, I've been trying so hard. The door was slammed in my face a couple times, but I kept going, and I tried. For God's sake, it's my fucking last two weeks here. Possibly forever. Don't I deserve a chance? One last gratification? What changed? Why are things so different than before? What happened to my good mornings and hellos and byes? Why can't you man up and tell me what's really going on, instead of giving flimsy excuses and shit? Fuck you.

If I don't get out of this place, I'm going to go insane. No one here understands anything, or tries to. They live in their own stupid world, and they never get out. Nothing I have has meaning here.

I can't write here. I can't love. I can't do the things I love. I can't do anything. My hands are bound. It's a sadomasochist relationship, but my master is too shit to provide the aftercare.

This place is so confining and stifling. Yet I come back, again and again, I tell myself it'll be okay.

Well I'm sick of trying. It won't ever be okay. We're all just fucking lying to ourselves anyway.

Shitters.

Fuck my life. It's been 13 days since I updated?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Oh my fucking God someone take me out and shoot me by the decree of bloggers or something?

Well. I don't know. Apart from the fact that I'm retarded and can't update blogs and don't give a shit about the small amount of readers I have left (not true, I actually love you guys for still reading me - probably the only people I love with no ulterior motive in this world. Insert Oscar speech here), so more about my life ... I've been getting a little bit more sex. That's good. I'm a little less stressed out. That's good too. Coming to the end of the semester in like two weeks or so. Gotta pack and get my shit together for New York City, St Petersburg, and then home.

I'm also putting off a huge decision I need to make for later in the summer, or until I get back home. :/

America continues to frustrate me, what's new. People here are so judgmental, God. It's getting harder for me everyday to be who I want to be. And it offers so little in return too.

Eh, at least I update my Twitter? At least I'm still surviving? At least I'm somewhat happier and doing better than before?

Bah. Peace out. Will update more when I can.

American military history.

Is a course I will be taking next semester, and I'm really excited for it, for multiple reasons. It was said to be an easy class, I get to interview U.S. Armed Forces veterans instead of a final exam (I love any reason to be interviewing people I find interesting, and I'm not going to say I didn't make up such reasons in the past...), apparently a lot of cuties and military peeps are in that class, and I'm also sort of using this class to gauge how much of an interest I really have in history, as opposed to history in my fields of interest (Russia, Russia, Russia) (and parts of Europe, centered around where WWI and WWII took place). I also want to see if I'll actually enjoy studying about military, or if they just look good in their uniform...

I am also looking forward to the videos where tanks charge through the streets destroy everything in the way and blow up stuff.

I'm just trying so very hard to not get holed into one area of interest, with the exception of Russia Russia Russia, because it's my major now, or take courses that I've already covered before - a class like Hitler's Germany, or the Period Between WWI and WWII (totally made that up, but it could fly). I took a course on Irish history this semester - never done that before - and absolutely loved it. That's what I want to be doing in college. Exploring different areas and taking classes I can never do anywhere else (coughUKAustraliacough).

Between completing requirements and my overarching interests though, it's becoming harder to do that. I wanna be able to devote some classes to taking courses that I like, that has no relevance to my major whatsoever, but at the same time, I also want to study abroad in Russia, so it's a case of breadth versus depth, and they're both so equally enticing.

American military history. This is going to be interesting. Can't wait for the tanks, and the army boys who will be falling into my lap.

PS - Life is going great. Living easy, living free. I am having so much fun just pissing people off and being able to rise above it, and then just watching them fall all over themselves trying to get to me. It's great. The men situation is going surprisingly well, and I'm starting to see remnants of the old life surfacing again, where I take center stage in my life and how my day is going, and nothing can touch me if I don't let it. I'm starting to gain control again. My ability to not give a shit has reached awe-inspiring levels, and I am proud. My thought processes are now as follow: "Oh no, they think I'm immature and annoying ... oh wait, I don't give a shit." "Oh no, he might be banging this chick and I care... oh wait, I don't." "Oh no, people talk shit about me and don't actually like me... oh wait, IDGAS. And when the fuck is my food coming."

And so on.

I only value the opinions of people who are better than me. Like Einstein. And Nabokov. And I highly doubt people at that level have time to bitch and hate, so this tells you a lot about people who do.

Life is great when you know you're going to hell.

To those who have traveled far.

Words can't explain how much I miss my family right now. I want my two brothers to be here with me, I want to sit pointlessly in the living room as my Dad watches golf on television, just because I want to be near him, and my mom ... I just want to be see her again. I love her so much, and she's just the rock of the family. I understand it so much more now that I'm away, just how much she's done for the family, and if I could take back all the quarrels we've had and tantrums I've thrown at her as a teenager, I would. She's done so much, and endured so much, that I dare say she deserves to have and say and do anything she wants in the world. I hope my brothers learn what I never did when I was young. I know, I'm being sentimental and shit, but I can't help it.

School ends in three weeks or so. I know I should fly home the second I can, and spend it with my family that I love so much ... but ultimately, I shouldn't. I know I love my family more than anything, and that comes first, really, but I need to fight the need to run home every moment I can. There's a fine line between love and over-dependence, and this is just the moment in my life where I have to assert my independence, and go all the way.

I'm spending my summer in New York City, then St Petersburg, and then I'm going home.

This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but also the best I can for myself, I know it. I need to move out of my comfort zone, and I know most people never get the chance to, so I should be glad.

I'm not a hypocrite or anything. Of course it will be fun to be frolicking around the greatest city in the world and in one of my most favorite countries in the world, there's no denying it. But I also want to cry myself to sleep every night thinking of my family and how much I want to be with them right now. It's a double-edged sword. Especially when the two edges are on opposite ends of the world, and it takes 30 hours of travel time to get to each other.

I love them to death, and I don't need a reason to. Because they're family, and I can't wait for the day I go home to them.