Numbers crunch and teeth grind.

It's 3.33am.

I don't know why this seems to be of some vague importance to me. Three threes. I like numbers, despite my lack of talent at manipulating them; maths classes were spent drawing boys that I thought I was in love with in my notebook and wondering when I would no longer have to expand fractions - no surprise when I only managed to scrape a bottom of the barrel grade. I can sit watching television, playing with the volume and watching the numbers go from 15 to 25 and back again. God forbid I leave it at 27, it has to be left on an even number or a number ending in five. I don't know why this is the case. It's one of those irrational things humans do I've been told.

I play solitaire and line up an Ace to King combination so the virtual cards make a neat clicking noise as they shift to the bottom right corner; satisfaction - one set closer to winning the game against a computer for the 234th time. Numbers.

Sudoku puzzles litter my desk amongst my bangles and the song lyrics I have scribbled down for next band practice with G-Unit. A dentist appointment card says 10.50am. I quite like the dentist actually. He twists things in my mouth, removes plastic bands from my brace brackets and applies new clean ones. He tightens the wires and makes my mouth feel weird and different. I get to close my eyes for five minutes and not be able to think about anything other than the metal in my mouth which wouldn't be out of place in a Saw film. I bitched and complained about getting braces. "Two fucking years?!" I said. "Nobody will ever kiss me with all this metal in my mouth!" That turned out to be untrue, but I don't and I didn't care about that. They're probably coming off this month and I'm feeling indifferent about it. 12 months. 52 weeks. 28 teeth. More numbers. And a whole fucking ton of metal.

Right now I'm not feeling particularly human due to a combination of an infected tattoo and the antibiotics I have been prescribed to battle against it; my bloodstream is probably like a  manic rave right now. My eyes aren't quite focussed and my thoughts aren't quite processing like they normally do. I hadn't slept for two days or so and I crashed and ended up sleeping for hours in the day, so now I'm absolutely FUCKED. I want to be clever and witty and so so vulgar, but all that is coming out is this awkwardness. I'm trying to think of an anecdote which will make my readers laugh and make certain people like me a bit more, but nothing comes to mind.

 

I couldn't agree more.

Supposed to be meeting Germanotti for coffee at 4.30pm. Haven't even finished my homework and I doubt I will before I go out. I really just don't care about a lot of things I should care about right now. I should really try and go to sleep right now, but I won't. I'm absolutely terrible at looking after myself. My tattoo now being zero ink and scabby pink flesh is down to my own lack of care.

I will need to get my tattoo redone. The doctor said on Monday 3rd to wait until it healed fully and the skin was no longer broken before I got any more ink done. Perhaps it will take a week or two until that is possible. I could get my tattoo in that time, but I can't get it done until 22nd of a specific month.

Very important numbers.

I was laughing with Germanotti hours ago about how much information some people put into their blogs and how it's crazy. And here I am throwing out my sexuality and my hidden tattoo and being a complete hipocrite.  Whatever. I'm not entirely convinced year by year whether I'll still be alive at the end of ever twelve months; I have some kind of feeling that I'm not going to live to see twenty. (This isn't a suicide letter or anything, don't jump to idiotic conclusions.)

I think when you lose someone very close to you you really question your own mortality, and I have definitely been affected by this. From thirteen onwards the thought was "I won't see my next birthday." It's still with me. I am typing this and thinking "2011? Congratulations Cazz, since you haven't died yet maybe you'll manage to get someone to love you or get to university before 2012 when you could snuff it."

It's all about the numbers it seems.

13 years old.

Six years of friendship.

Moving house a million miles away.

A ten minute phone call.

Six stupid months.

Another ten minute phone call.

 22nd.

A number of years later, another stupid year: 2010, and September is almost over. I made note of the date and decided to get the hell out of the house. I went to town and saw a movie by myself. I was walking to a shop to get a CD when I thought of the tattoo parlour nearby and decided to get my nose ring put back into place. I went in to get a nose ring and came out with a permanent addition to my body.

It would be so Rock 'n' roll to say it was completely spur of the moment and I am so wonderfully spontaneous that I just strolled into the tattoo parlour and decided to mutilate my body with ink in a matter of minutes. Truth be told, I'd thought about a tattoo for a long time before this.

But there was an element of surprise, since when I asked if they had a piercing technician in, they replied "Nope, tattooists only." I went to look at the tattoo walls to have a look like I always do before I leave, not because I was picking a design out.

"Are you wanting anything else?"

The guy was covered in tattoos and crazy piercings and his head was bald and yet he had a ton of facial hair. I smiled and vaguely entertained the idea of bringing him home and telling my parents he was my boyfriend, just so I could see the horrified expressions on their face.

"Yeah, how much for one letter?"

I signed the forms.

'I am over 18.

I have not consumed alcohol in the last 6 hours.

I am not under the influence of drugs.

I have no medical conditions.'  (I signed with a smirk on my face)

Some other stuff which I can't remember and wasn't important.

"So whose your boyfriend?"

The guy clearly thought the letter stood for a stupid teenage fling and was going to try and talk me out of it. I was in no damn mood to listen to any advice. I told him it was a family member's initial who had died; a small lie.

I picked out a style of font and the guy in the piercing cupboard room frowned; he had wanted something more elaborate. "Don't you want any detail? Heart or something?"

I shook my head and he pulled my design out of the special printer. He peeled it off and applied it on backwards to my skin and mumbled about things to do and not to do; I didn't really listen. I should have.

The sound I was dreading and looking forward to became present.

Pain. It was bad, but I'd had worse.

Paused.

Started again.

Done after several minutes since it was only the size of a thumbnail. Heard more advice I didn't want to hear; I couldn't really concentrate on anything on 22nd.

Patched up with a cling film bandage thing and a streak of pink cream.

 

It's all about the damn numbers. How long until you move out, how long until you find someone special, how long until you achieve your job of choice. How much money, how much time left, how many seats, what's the time, buy one get one free. There are dates you remember and times you look forward to. But numbers mean shit compared to letters; letters form words and names and songs.

One letter dripped in ink off my body today. 

Maybe I'll get it put back on, on another 22nd. I would attach a photo, but there's no ink left and nobody wants to see someone else's scarred ribcage.