I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd

I don't really have to much to say so there is no point in this post but it gives me an excuse to keep my laptop on and thus keep my lap warm. Oh yeah, this is coming live to you from my crotch, doncha all feel special.

I do love wearing skirts in winter despite the fact that it does actually freeze my ass off. There's something so blatantly feminine about stalking the city streets in my little swishy skirt and a long coat, clip clipping in my ridiculously broken heels. I have not fallen completely but I've yet to learn how to walk, talk and not skid to my potential death at the same time. Dangerous business being a girl. It's daft really because if I wore skirts in summer I wouldn't have to wear tights and I could wear my converse with them instead of tottering around like a fool. I don't do New Year's Resolutions but if I did at the very top would be stop being so gorram foolish. And shy. I used to be absolutely dreadful and while I'm much better at speaking to people I still forget to say half the things that run through my head that I should say (and quite often I say the thoughts I should keep to myself) and I'm still too quiet. I'm louder than I was a few years ago when nobody ever heard me but I keep befriending tall people and I forget that I have to speak even louder for them. I get easily tongue tied which results in a lot of my answers being noises because it's quicker and easier to respond with than focussing on my mouth making the right shapes. But you know s'not really proper communication with human beings now is it.

I smell funny. Not like me. It's kinda a mixture of cold air, strange soap, sweets and somebody else but I can't place who.

Ugh it's cold. My radiator is broken so I'm swaddled up in my bed, thinking warm thoughts and wishing I had retrieved my tshirt from the other room before I got less cold because now I only have the choice of sleeping in my jumper or Team Joe and neither is terribly practical. But I'll be damned if I'm getting up again. I may not be suitably dressed for bed but tis my bed and I'm not sharing it with anyone anyway. I've got The Postal Service, Angel and a scrawling page of my handwriting to decipher. If I manage it there just might be a new story uploaded tomorrow. I bet you're all just wetting yourselves with excitement but don't get your hopes up, quotes from the charming little paper The Digger are interspersed between the imagery of snow and sex. Quotes such as "the question The Digger is asking this week is WHO IS THE HITMAN?" and "who got in touch with friends who knew people...who killed people".

Also there's a little kitten chasing the letters which while it sounds cute actually renders a lot of the words incomprehensible. Sometimes I wonder if this is how other people write but then I abandon that idea and picture a world where I have a tiny little garret somewhere in Paris and I can sit with my typewriter facing the window. I shall have a whirlwind romance with a Byronic hero which will end in bitter tragedy. Heartbroken, I will chain myself to my typewriter, drink copious amounts of red wine and chain smoke like an old movie star until my masterpiece is completed. And when the manuscript arrives on your desk you will wish you had written it yourself and that you had known me. But I'll be dead and buried under six feet of dirt, roses and a tearful lover before you ever read it.

Okay okay enough dreaming. Time for some sleep.