Right to Die?

Disclaimer: I do not promote any form of eating disorder, self harm or suicide.

These are just my opinions, and should be taken as such.

I reserve the right to edit this content. (So there.)

Most people on the interwebs will have heard of the so-called ‘right to die’ groups. These are organisations such as the now-defunct Hemlock Society that provide detailed information about suicide, specifically how to commit.
Before I get virtually murdered*, let me point something out.

Pro ana.
Ever heard of that one? Look at the Tumblr tag.
The best way to explain it is material (generally images) encouraging anorexia nervosa. Anorexia. Ana.

Self harm.
Again, don’t Google it. Tumblr’s the way forward.
Poetry, photography, quotes of girls (generally – the Tumblr boys that harm mainly reblog pictures of girls) harming themselves, be it the cuts, the blades, the blood, or all three.

Now suicide.
Don’t look at the Tumblr tag; 99.9% of it is hate. Look at blogs. Websites. PDFs. Material encouraging pain-free ways of killing yourself.

Let me put it this way.
A girl – let’s call her… Lizzy – wants to be thinner.
She starts starving herself.
Then she looks at the pro-ana tag on Tumblr. She discovers ways of exercising to burn more calories, different diets that are healthier than what she’s currently doing, other girls out there that can and will support her. She loses more weight than she was before, but she’s happier, because she’s not alone.

Lizzy starts feeling depressed. She gets a knife and cuts.
She looks at the self harm tag on Tumblr. There she finds other ways of coping, less painful ways to cut**, and again, other girls going through the same thing. She’s not happy, exactly, but she feels… more in control.

Lizzy becomes suicidal. Let’s not discuss how. She decides to hang herself, but checks Tumblr and a few blogs she’s found.
She discovers that hanging yourself isn’t a guaranteed way to die, that it’s pretty fucking painful, that there are easier, quicker, less agonizing ways to die.
She kills herself, but she’s not in pain when she does.

Do you see what I’m getting at? These sites don’t stop you doing whatever it is. But they make it easier, for lack of a better word. They give you dignity.

I don’t think anyone should kill themselves. But I’m the biggest hypocrite you’ll find on that. And I think that these sites help, if not in the decision, then in the execution.

Less pain for you means less pain for others. And surely that’s a good thing.

Love always,
Victoria

* Pun 100% intended***. Sue me.‡
** For the record, sharpener blades are the motherfucker of self harm. I’m not even joking. And don’t even look at serrated ones.
*** Honestly, I didn’t notice the second one. That was 100% unintended.
‡ Please don’t sue me.

Links!

Or: I’m too lazy to write a decent post so I’ll leave you with a shitload of writerly links. And by ‘a shitload’ I mean five.

How To Use An Outline To Write Your First Draft

How To Plot A Novel In 5 Steps

How Chuck Wendig Edits A Novel

What Flavour Of Publishing Will You Choose?

Your Novel Blueprint (which, FYI, is the most badass outliney stuff EVER)

Yes, they’re all from three blogs. JUDGE ME. (Please don’t.)

Love always,
Victoria

The Fault in my Stars…

…is that there’s a simple reason I’ll never be able to overdose. I can’t swallow tablets.

Love always,
Victoria

Altruism is a Unicorn

When the lights go out
Will you take me with you?
– My Chemical Romance, Summertime

Luke doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. Period.
He goes out with Paisley because he doesn’t like getting bothered by the popular kids. He punts because he doesn’t have to commit to anyone. He’s a charming, sarcastic prick because it’s easier than being decent. For Luke, altruism is about as real as unicorns.

What do people think of unicorns? They’d be awesome as fuck if they existed.

For a character to be likable, I have one rule. They need to be unicorns.
The hard part is convincing them.

All characters have the ability to be unicorns. It’s like having a locked chest inside them. Someone or something else out there has the key, but it’s up to them to open it.
And by the end of your novel, they have to want it open.

Point in case: Luke Maynard. At the start of the novel, he’s about to cheat on his apparently asexual girlfriend* (again) with a streetwalker that turns out to be a vampire assassin**. At the end of the novel, he’s most probably going to die for her. The assassin, that is.
Of course, a shitload of unicorn hunting happens between that, but the most important thing is that October Elliot holds Luke’s key, and by the end of the novel, they’ve found his unicorn.

And an explanation of my opening quote: would you take someone with you when there’s no one around to see it? When the only person it’ll affect is you? When the lights go out, will you take me with you?

Love always,
Victoria

* Spoiler: she’s not actually asexual. I’ll explain more later.
** It makes sense in context, honest. And by a vampire assassin I mean a vampire who kills people, not a vampire killer.
NB: I know this post made next to no sense. I’m sorry, guys. I’m sorry.

The Wallbanger of Texting*

“Wuu2?”
*finds Teen-Speak to Rest-Of-English-Population dictionary*

Wuu2
1. abbrv. What are you up to?
2. message one receives before cracking one’s mobile phone in two, often caused by the ignorance levels of fellow humans

What am I up to?
Blogging. Cutting. Writing. Overdosing – not suicidal amounts, just enough to make me stop overthinking for a few hours. Homework. Researching the success rates of various suicide methods; throwing yourself under a train has a 90% death rate, but I’d rather not do that. Overdosing on legal drugs is only lethal 49.7% of the time. Freezing to death in typical English weather. Wishing I was being literal.

Wait, there’s a third definition.

3. Part of the text script ‘Meeting’. The required question is ‘Heya’. The required answer is “Nm, u?”

*flicks through dictionary*

Nm, u
1. abbrv. Nothing much, you (generally imposed as question)
2. Part of the text script ‘Meeting’. The required question is ‘Wuu2?’ The required answer is ‘Nm’, but teens occasionally substitute ‘Gtg now’ followed by ‘soz’.

No one actually cares what you’re up to. And that’s why it annoys me.

tl;dr Only ask a question if you give a shit about the answer.

Love always,
Victoria

*A wallbanger is a book that’s so bad you throw it at the wall.

No Joke

An exchange between two of my friends (B and K, if you will) in fifth period went like this:
“B… I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Hmm?”
“I… I slit my wrists.”
And K showed us her drawn-on scars. And B laughed.

It’s not funny.
Let me ask you something. Just one question. Is this something you find funny?*
If it is, please get the hell off my blog. Because I don’t think it’s funny.

Self harm isn’t funny. Only one of my friends, Z, knows.
When I told her, she said, “I’m just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying. It’s just you’re not the kind of person I’d imagine doing this to yourself.”
There is no ‘kind of person’. Pick the person you think is least likely to harm. They’re probably the most likely.
And X, who doesn’t know I harm, said, “No one has a reason to cut.”
Um, why do you think they do it?
(We were talking about the Cut for Bieber bullshit. You know how I feel about that.)
I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this post. But I can sum it up nicely.
tl;dr Don’t judge things you don’t understand.

Love always,
Victoria

* I don’t own that picture.

‘Cut for Bieber’ is…

[Edit: I’m working on my potty mouth, so I’ve censored myself. I’s a good girl.]

Now I’ve got that out of the way, let us proceed.

TW: self harm
Disclaimer: I do not promote or glorify any form of self-harm.
NB: When I’m really pissed off, I swear. A lot. (A/N: Edited out. You may continue.)

Justin Bieber smokes weed. So (the fudge, Victoria, fudge) what? It’s his body. Live and let smoke. It’s called free will.

Right. Okay.

“He doesn’t like cutting – so let’s cut.”

The fuck?

And I thought my logic was messed up.

If you’re a fan of Bieber (what do they call themselves? Beliebers, or some such?), why would you do something he doesn’t like? Tell me that before you start cutting.

And you don’t want to start cutting.

It’s addictive.
We’re all addicted to something that takes the pain away, be it music, porn, cutting, whatever. (No, I don’t watch porn*. Have a nice day.)
For the people that cut, though… they have reasons. Reasons other than some guy smoking weed**.

Reasons like control. Like how the amount of blood on their wrists – our wrists – is the only damn thing in their life they can control. Like how for those fleeting moments when the blade enters your skin, you can forget what’s going on around you.
Oh, it hurts. But this time, it’s a pain you can control.
When you can’t do anything about emotional pain, you turn to physical pain. Making your wounds real.
For me, and millions of other people*** out there, it helps. Even if it’s for one minute, it’s a minute of complete freedom.
And when your freedom ends, you cut again. And again. And again.
It’s a vicious cycle. Don’t start. And most of all, don’t start for Justin Bieber.

Love always,
Victoria

* As many friends ask me. “But I thought nerdy girls watched porn!” -.-
** Why doesn’t anyone cut for teens? Or dealers? Or Whitney Houston’s kid?‡
*** Boys harm too. It’s not just the girls. Trust me on that one.
‡ Please don’t.

Not So Different

Written for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction challenge.
Prompt: Bad Girls In Prison
Conflict: Enemy At The Gates (I’m not sure how I did with this…)
Must include: A bottle of rare whiskey
—
She’s back. She’s sitting down, making herself comfortable. I hear her sigh as she settles her fat arse onto the chair next to my bed. She’s gearing up for another go at me, another lecture on how sick I am. She’s swigging at her bottle. Smells like whiskey. She’s about to begin.
“So, Ellen,” she says. “How’re you feeling today? That disgustin’ little head o’ yours still hurtin’?” She laughs. “’Course it is. Fractured skulls don’t heal overnight, do they?” She pokes her whiskey into my ribs. It hurts, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing that.
“Actually, the painkillers they gave me are doing the trick. I’m remarkably well, considering.”
“A right good kicking they gave you. Nothin’ more than a whore like you deserves, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, Ms Cattan, I wouldn’t say.”
“You whores are a breed apart. A particularly abhorrent breed. I looked that up specially for you.” The chair creaks and I hear the sound of whiskey being poured into a glass. “This is nice stuff you had on you. Looked it up as well. Rare, this.”
“Glad to know you’re using me as an excuse to learn something.”
“Learned a lot in the service,” she says. “Like how your lot are the lowest of the low. Filth.” Her face is right up against mine, whiskey-loaded breath tickling what little I have left of my nose.
I count to ten. And then twenty. “My lot? Who’d they be?”
I hear the creak of the chair as she leans back. Her boots squeak along the lino of the ward floor. She’s getting comfy.
“Filth,” she says. “All o’ you.”
“Actually, not all of us. Your lot think we’re all the same old kiddie fiddlers.” I try to ignore the pain in my ribs, still throbbing with the imprint of Jessy’s kicks.
“Pity they didn’t finish you off.”
“They would have, no thanks to you.”
“A few more kicks and no one would’ve been any the wiser.” Her chair protests feebly as she stands up. Her prison-issue boots squeak across the floor and I imagine her standing at the window.
“You got a husband, Ms Cattan?” No reply. “Kids?” Silence. “I doubt you’ll tell me, but I’m guessing you have. You’re, what, thirty-nine? Forty? Two kids, probably more. I’m guessing Mr Cattan’s body isn’t what it used to be.” She hasn’t said a word. I try to breathe through the pain. “Tell me, when he’s lying on top of you, do you fantasize? Do you shut your eyes, conjure up a younger, smoother, firmer body? I bet you do. How old is he, this young thing who keeps you going? D’you have a name for him?”
I hear her turn around. Her footsteps come towards me. They stop at my bed and I sense her bulk above me, taste her heavy breath on my face. Then she turns away and I hear the whoosh of automatic doors expelling him into the corridor.
She’s not so different from me. Oh, she likes to think she’s on some moral high ground, looking with disgust at the likes of me. But deep down, somewhere in the oily darkness of her soul, when she’s fucked by that inflated, lumpen mound she calls her husband, she wants it too. She wants to feel young flesh. The difference is, I can.
She’s back. I hear her popping a cork. Beer? Rosé? Or my whiskey? She slurps noisily.
“Do you have a name for your fantasy lover?” I press. “I’m betting he’s real. Your first boyfriend? The one you felt up in your school photo? He was twelve, right? Thirteen at the most.” I hear her shift in her seat and I force myself to carry on. “So if this fantasy of yours is underage and you’re forty, what does that make you? Not a whole lot different to me.”
The effort’s exhausted me and I’m relieved when the doors swoosh open. Now someone’s fiddling around with the machinery keeping me alive. And I am alive. Hello, I want to call out, I’m here and I can hear everything you’re saying.
“How’s she doing?” I recognize the voice of Prison Doctor Isabel, my saviour.
“Same as before.” Cattan doesn’t sound amused.
There’s a period of hushed whispering before Cattan speaks again. “I don’t know why they’ve got me sat ’ere all day. Not like she’s going anywhere any time soon.”
Doctor Isabel laughs and Cattan joins in. I hear footsteps, not the heavy, obnoxious clumps Cattan’s boots make, someone else’s, retreating.
“That’s it? Not even a bit more morphine?” Nobody’s listening. The doors slide shut, and Cattan tramps back over.
“Looks like you’re going to get what you deserve, despite Doc.” Cattan sounds pleased.
Not if I’ve got anything to do with it. I concentrate on my left hand. I will what’s left of my brain to send a signal to it to move. Just one finger. Now, damn it, move.
I’m sure I felt something. A twitch. A slight trembling. But definite movement.
“Hah! See that, Cattan? Did you? I moved. Who’s paralyzed now, brain-dead?”
Silence.
“Aren’t you going for help? Come on, this is your chance to redeem yourself, you bitch.”
She lets out a loud belch and sighs.
I take that as a no.
—
This is the first flash fiction I’ve written. What do you think?
Love always,
Victoria

Disenchantment

Well, I was there on the day
They sold the car for the Queen
And when the lights all went out
We watched our lives on the screen
I hate the ending myself
But it started with an alright scene.

- My Chemical Romance, Disenchantment

So there’s this boy.
…No, hear me out.
There’s this boy, and, well… yeah.
I like him. And apparently he likes me, but to be honest, I doubt it. I’ve known him since I was three, I think I’d… Okay, fine. Other people are trying to convince me he likes me, but I don’t think he does. Just because… well.
I’m not explaining myself well. Look. Here’s a letter I wrote (as advised by my fellow elephants). It was a few months ago, but it holds up. The only difference is that X Took a Level in Jerkass (I’m pretty sure she’s a Tsundere too, just I don’t know which type) and we don’t talk as much now. So we don’t walk with the boys.
 -
Dear N,
You confuse me.
At our old school, you’d relentlessly take the mick. We were rivals, but I was winning. On the rare occasion you’d beat me, you’d be so unbearably pleased that I’d vow never to let it happen again. You’d make up little songs about me, songs laughing snidely at me, and I’d try not to show how much I hated it when everyone else started singing them too.
That was then.
Now, it’s… different. You still poke fun at me. A lot. And it still hurts. And I still ignore it.
But that’s the end of the similarities.
When my guard slips, when my emotions flutter across my face, when anyone could see how much your words hurt, I’d say you were appalled if I didn’t know you. You take back what you’ve said immediately. You look like… like you actually care about me.
When I moved house, we walked down the same road for our secondary school. You’d laugh at me for being a ‘larry’ when I got to the top of the road early, before X and Z got there. The first year, I deliberately avoided you there.
Now we’ve started Year 8, X and I walk with the boys. It suits all of us. And we end up walking down our road for maybe a minute together each day.
You always think of some excuse to talk to me. And you don’t laugh at me. We actually talk. For a minute a day, three or four days a week.
And every day, every lesson we have together, I catch you watching me.
And I’m confused.
But I think I like it better this way.
-
That’s as coherently as I can explain myself.
But that doesn’t explain everything. It doesn’t explain how I feel when he’s around. How whenever he’s hurt, I’m hurt. How my heart skips whenever he speaks to me.
Fun fact: I don’t know why they call it butterflies. It felt like my ribs were being bludgeoned open by a sledgehammer. Or something.
Maybe not a sledgehammer. Maybe something like a tennis ball.
In case you missed it*, I’m not good at this ‘explaining myself’ thing.

So there’s this boy. And I like him. And maybe he likes me.
And I’m confused.
Love always,
Victoria

* ‘In case’ is a strange phrase. In case you missed it. In case. Maybe it’s short for ‘in the case of’. In the case of you missing it. A hypothetical phrase. See, this is why I have no life. I spend my time being confused by the English language and boys, and relating my life to TV Tropes.

Flash fiction, Chuck Wendig style

Okay. Okay. I’ll explain.
Or rather, I’ll guide you here.

I rolled Bad Girls In Prison, Enemy At The Gates and A Bottle Of Rare Whiskey. I know how this is going to turn out already. But I wonder, can I have a bad girl and a bad boy? No? Meh, they can be lesbians. Or… Okay, I know where I’m going.
Here’s my favourite from last week. I’m not kidding. It’s amazing.
Write with me… I guess I can’t call you word-nerds. Write with me, dear readers.

Love always,
Victoria