Mais j'etais trop jeune pour savoir l'aimer

I'm dreaming away the days. I have to keep reminding myself that it will be January soon and after the Old Firm match on Wednesday I have no more holiday plans. I'll have to start dragging myself to the West End again and study. On the plus side I only have two exams, both in the same week but spaced apart. The bad news is the first is the 14th and I have done nothing. I haven't even looked at my notes and suddenly I've forgotten what it was I actually studied this semester. Something about old dead guys. I'm not panicking, I know I can pass them but I want to do really well. Prove to myself that I made the right decision to add another year to my education.

It's hard to care too much at the moment. I'm only dimly aware that it is now the weekend and if it wasn't for Emma texting me a couple of days ago with a countdown or my gran asking me what I had planned I wouldn't be remembering my birthday is in 2 days. But that might be because I'm not looking forward to it. I prefer other people's birthdays to my own. Not that I'm saying I don't like the attention, I love it. Everyone should worship me every day of my life if they knew what was good for them. But neh there's something about my birthday I don't like.

You would think since I'm refusing to acknowledge time I might have got some stuff written like I keep threatening. And I have but none of it is very, well readable for lack of a better word. I have snippets of pieces of stories I could write and I jot them down for later but there's something bigger waiting. Fluttering away at the edges of me is a story I wrote last year on the back of some particularly pointless English Lit notes. A dark piece about the literal delivery of an aborted child to the father. I don't know why I wrote it. I'm not sure if I should have written it, it disturbs me. I'm not even sure I kept the draft but I know it word for word, burned in my mind. So many times I have sat with my book before me and a pen staining my fingers as I fidget and turn every attempt into an abstract portrait of beautiful girl. Or I'll start waxing lyrically on how trumpets can turn me on. My latest try resulted in an all-time low when I drew BatPope instead. He can give mass upside down! I will write it one day, I know I will but damn if it isn't determined on driving me crazy first.

In other news Santa also brought me Regina Spektor in the form of an album called "Mary Ann Meets the Gravediggers and Other Short Stories" and dear god do I ever love this girl. I mean I am actually in love with her and I don't care if you call me a lesbian for saying so. It's that New York accent of hers and the fact she's Russian. When you throw in the huge amount of talent she possesses (and those lips), bout near drives me insane. It's a really sweet album even though I already had a couple of the songs. Most songs are really stripped down with most of them just her and a piano and it has been the soundtrack of my past few days. You need her in your lives.