Written in Dejection, near Naples

The two Beechams have just kicked it and I have a rare burst of energy! I am awake, to the extent that the blurriness is gone and I don't fall when I stand anymore. I have managed to colour in my nail. I don't know how. And now that I've looked I see I've written 3 pages of a story subconsciously, unconsciously? I guess that will be fun to read. Where did all the time go? It was ten o'clock just a minute ago. Oh, yes I went to the bakery and bought a doughnut. I don't care about the size of my ass, I only lose weight when I'm not paying attention anyway. My mum popped in to tell me I looked awful before leaving again.

God, I do look awful. Like some sort of zombie. Rwarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

There's orange juice in the freezer. Orange juice is good for colds. But I don't want a carton lolly. All I can think about is Dylan Moran and his red wine lolly. God, I love him. I want a scruffy Irish man. But I dunno if I can afford the year out to Ireland. Gallway is hella pretty though, it could be worth the debt. Love: potentially worth bankruptcy.

My hair is a bird's nest of disaster. Maybe I should just grow it. Be a girl. Smile demurely and act modestly. Or get it cut and stick a hat on?

Holy crap my right hand is inktastic. This is new ink too because I totally washed this morning. Stupid pen. Why can't you be more like that pen I got in Rome. Best fucking pen. And I wasted it on Bismarck. Nobody cares about Bismarck. Man I miss that class. I never got to pull Agnew up for making up a pirate just to win the argument. Nobody tells me I must have gotten my facts from Johnny Depp and dismisses me like some lovesick little girl.

I was reading Shelley. Well, more like browsing Shelley, too tired for actual reading. Then I came across the heading Stanzas written in dejection, near Naples and spent ages thinking dejection doesn't sound very Italian. You'd think I would have cottoned on when just a few poems before there was "Invocation to Misery". Miserable lot these poets were. Oh, how I love them. Except Wordsworth. Later for him. Full of lies. All these lines composed at such and such a place at such and such a time, only he got them wrong. And I wandered lonely as a cloud? With your sister who was also there.

Man, how good is it to be able to breathe? I had the worst sleep ever. Did I already say that? I forget what I've blogged already and what I just thought about. That's the problem I have with internet journals. Too much like talking to myself and I do that far, far too much already.

Oh, ok, the buzz from my pills is fading into a soft woomph now. Either that or I'm just way too tired. But! with any luck I'll be fine by tomorrow morning. I've psyched myself up for seeing people and I'll be damned if I have to postpone it. Girls are so much work to be around. They turn on you like that. I figure I'll take my rum, trundle up the road and if I lack the energy even fuelled by alcohol then I'll just go to sleep. She has like the most comfy bed ever. Or close to the most comfy bed, because it's a bit on the small side.

I think I might watch The Melancholy of Suzumiya Haruhi again on youtube. It's like the most ridiculous anime I've ever seen and I've seen Tokyo Mew Mew or Mew Mew Power or whatever the hell it is. Creepy, that's what it is. Anyway Haruhi. It makes no sense and it takes the piss out of so many other shows and they dress up as bunny girls for no reason. Look at her judge you. Juuuuuuuudge.

"I am half sick of shadows," said the Lady of Shallot

Yesterday, despite feeling like my face was slowly being crushed by some sort of giant vice I got up, got dressed and sat and watched the clock as I realised I was ten minutes early. Mama came through and asked if I was going in to which I intended to say yes but instead said nah. Half an hour later I was curled up on my sofa, checking my emails (and shouting I am not a number, I am a free man! everytime I had to trot out my matric number) and there's the Histoire secretary with yet another red coded envelope flashing away in my inbox. She sends so many. My eyes scanned the paragraph of notices and noticed that wonderful phrase: "lecture cancelled". Ya beauty.

Feeling much better I proceeded to spend my free morning watching Who's line is it anyway since it seems to be on constantly now and there's only so much Judge Judy one girl can take. I contemplated the several films I have recorded but half of them are french and the other half are black and white, both of which require glasses which involves getting up. My pen burst whilst I was scribbling over Joe's second chapter but somehow the ink stayed inside and just left little constellations all over my hands. Combined with the edges of the Union stamp on my hand that I haven't scrubbed off yet I look like I wrestled a squid. Well, the sailor look is very in so the lady in topshop told me. I was like no kidding, is that why you've slapped anchors over everything. I like going into topshop and giggling. I mean they picked a coked up model who thinks Pete Doherty is husband material. Not so smart.

Also in my inbox were several emails from bands I haven't listened to in a long while. Like Hot Hot Heat, who are rather like the Kooks only with better lyrics and music and accents. Apparently they have a new album out but I couldn't be bothered checking it out. Then there was We Are Scientists. Now I love this band but their music is kinda boring. I mean you can listen to them a couple of times and think yeah, pretty good, might see them live (I didn't) but then you skip them when your ipod does a shuffle. Their email begins thusly: You Androgynous Amorists, The pre-sale has ended, and general sale has begun, for The Back In Style Tour -- and if you have ANY intention of EVER seeing We Are Scientists again (this spring in the UK) and paying for it, may we POLITELY SUGGEST that you sort yourself out. Hee thought I. And I popped their CD on for all of five minutes when I then got bored and changed it back to that crazy Icelandic lass that everybody slags me off for liking. But then I remembered their website full of 'advice'. They answer submitted questions which sometimes leads to comedy results or at least kills an hour reading. For example: query: how can you understand poetry?
Ah, but that is the point of poetry: to narrowly skirt the line on whose other side lies total gibberish. A poem should suggest meaning, but you should never be sure of what it's saying. A poem that you fully understand is a terrible poem that fails in poetry's one objective: to mystify the reader.

I thought I may as well see if the idea that had struck me at 1 in the morning was workable, especially since it was task orientated and that way I'd be hitting 2 goals. Course I had to wait for my dad to return before I could fill in most of the blanks, I don't trust Wikipedia so much when it comes to religion, and luckily saying the words "Hail Mary?" led to him reeling off the prayer as fast as he could with a little bow of his head at the word Jesus. God bless him. I shan't tell him what I want to do with it but then he won't ask. I told him once that if I had been a religious girl I would have been a Catholic and now I can ask him anything I want. When anybody else makes reference to the fact that he is religious he gets all defensive. Probably because Julie treats Catholicism as this strange and weird thing, which is the school's fault really.

So I wrote a little, I was reminded of Tennyson so I read the Lady of Shallot again, the vague Lesbian relented to my complaints of being dirt poor so we're staying in tomorrow night instead and the boy who thinks he's in love with me told me he wanted to 'sex me up' and then went back offline. All in all, not a bad Wednesday.

I'm really torn this morning. I could go take a healthy dose of as many vitamins and pills as I can swallow and go back to bed or I can pull myself together and go to Archaeology. The timetable says we're doing Archaeology and Lawyers. I don't know what the hell that can even be about. Bed seems to be winning. A day in bed with poetry, Catholic doctrines to rip apart and soup. That's a pretty good Thursday.

If I cannot fly, let me sing

I don't have anything to say I just wanted that big rant to move away. I do rant a lot of crap when I'm tired.

What can I say that isn't ridiculous or boring. Not much really. I spent all my time yesterday that wasn't at Strathclyde reading. I figured I should maybe spend my 2 hours off doing some work. I know, I know. I'm a first year student and I did work. I keep forgetting I'm a first year again. I feel so old when I remember. My classes are full of people either straight out of school or much older people that complain it's so different from college. The annoying thing is when I tell people I restarted they assume I failed last year and I'm repeating the same subjects. They don't seem to get that I just made poor decisions. All because I let a boy sway my final choice. And he was only able to sway my choice because he got me to do his application. There's no way he would have got in to Glasgow on his own merits. But, thankfully, I didn't let that fact discourage me from choosing the University itself.

Anyway, I had several pages of sources to study and one of them was online. It's Rousseau's Emile in case anybody was interested. Reading him made me miss Philosophy. Those Tuesdays in that cosy classroom, talking football, Narnia and what love truly meant. I was the guinea pig for the next year since our school had determined that one Religious and Moral class was enough. So I had a class that the school didn't recognise and my teacher and I sipped tea and thought deeply. I read Plato and Hume and Descartes. I told him I wasn't in love with my boyfriend and my teacher told me he had met his wife in Uni and during his year out in London he'd slept with other women. He also went through every one in the actual Religious class and slagged them off. He told me about the philosopher (who's name sadly I've forgotten) who believed that morals were simply imposed by society, which in itself is nothing new but he chose to live his life ignoring all of these morals. So much so that even Paris was disgusted with him. And then there were the Jesus walking on water theories. The boyfriend accused me of having an affair with my Philosophy teacher. He was only half joking. Started complaining after I was late coming down to lunch because I stopped to talk. Crazy boy, I was far too boring back then to start an affair with anybody let alone an older married teacher.

Anyway, Emile. I must have written down a page and a half of quotes from that source, and I never finished it. It was full of these incredibly interesting insights about women. Explaining why women have to be the weaker sex, not because they are inferior but because if we were the bold sex we would have men completely under our thumb. Fascinating stuff. Not quite as fascinating as the stuff I keep finding scrawled on the walls of the toilets. I swear sometimes I just go for a read. There's a lot of debates and general female bonding going on in those stalls. If it wasn't so inappropriate I'd copy it all down and write a book.

When you are away my heart comes undone

The cold that threatened to ruin yesterday hit me hard this morning. I was spending my pennies on comfort food and tissues. I contemplate heading to Boots and doing the "please help me, little boxes of pills" that I seem to do every other month. But it's raining. That's why my hat is tucked awkwardly in my bag. It's why I'm shivering, huddled outside the Union trying to decide where to go to kill my time. Lovely Lass is away home by now, our timetables don't match quite so well this semester. I have a page of a story that I'd planned to finish yesterday but I wrote about the sleeping boy instead and doodled strawberries so I'll have nothing to present at the Writer's Group but that's ok. I haven't written much lately. I've got a fair few things rolling around my head but no drive to write them. I've been reading instead. Devouring pages of text. There's so many books waiting to be read and I don't have enough time or money to get through them all.

My head has been in the clouds lately. I've not been thinking anything through. I like life that way. I like trundling along and hoping for a surprise. I don't want to make the first move, don't want to make any decision. I care, don't get me wrong. I always care. It's been a long, long time since I gave up caring and I like to think I've grown up a little. I can deal with things better. I'm still floored when people see through me. When they say something, usually offhand, and it niggles away and makes me think far too much. I'm happy to an extent. I know what I'm lacking. I want somebody to curl up sleepy and cosy with. When two bodies fit just right beside each other and you can talk about anything and it doesn't matter. I want to fall asleep in somebody's arms and feel safe for once. There's only been a handful of times when I could make that claim.

But whether I want a relationship is debatable. I love being somebody's girl. I love that thrill when you tell somebody you're off to meet your boyfriend. I love the butterflies in my stomach when I walk down the road to meet him and I wonder what the day will be like. But I've been my own girl for close on 2 years now (which was mostly self-inflicted so I can't complain too much) and sometimes I wonder if I could give myself up to somebody else again. I need control. Maybe I'm just tired of men declaring love. I mean at nineteen years old what is love exactly? When you can't stop thinking about him, and he intrudes on all your thoughts and you just have to be near him? When you lie awake at nights and wonder what he's doing and if he's thinking of you and is it too late to call him? I don't think I've ever fallen in love. Not with anybody I could have a relationship with. My relationships are defined by boys who showed an interest in me and I'd say yes because I figured why not. I'm still unsure about David Number 2, considering he was a boring psycho and a good friend of mine at the time was madly in love with him. Suddenly he was telling me he was in love and people were going on about how we were in love and I realised I was incredibly bored and left him for somebody new. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? The men who consume me are always the ones I can't have and I try not to dwell on them but they fascinate me more than the boys who throw themselves at me.

I feel awful. It's not the alcohol because God knows I didn't drink enough of that even if I was less than steady on my feet. My face aches from the cold that I hope goes away soon. My feet buzz from walking too far around the campus today. Luckily the teeny little cut on my hand is mostly healed so long as I don't stretch it or write too fast. I'm rambling again. Honestly I'm surprised anybody bothers reading this. I know I don't after I get it out. This is merely an extension of my mind and sometimes I forget this is public and people who know me read it. And when they mention things I've written later on I get freaked. It's so intimate reading somebody else's thoughts. I wrote in my journal the other day that imagining you reading what I'd written there was like imagining you watching me slip my dress over my head. I concluded that my blog on the other hand was a mere flash of my tits, so quick you barely notice. I remember feeling I'd written something profound and insightful but then I always think that until I look at it a week later and laugh at my pretentiousness.

I'm so bored. It's like my mind switched off weeks ago and nobody wants to wake me up. Is this less abstract enough for you? I barely even rambled on about the past that I dwell in far too much. This is my present. And fuck me am I ever sick of it.

Nevermind. No doubt time will catch up me unawares and deadlines will scream in my ears and I'll be too flustered to give a damn about anything real.

A selection of thoughts written tween the hours of 10 and 2

With a whirr that interrupts the Landau Orchestra the blinds crawl up the great windows and the gothic spire looms before me. The clouds themselves part to let the light in. I sit in this cold, hard library chair and the sun, something we haven't seen much of lately, creeps in and makes me sneeze. My heart swells a little at the romance of the scene outside.

And just like that, the whirring noise disturbs my thoughts as the blinds come back down and I take one last look through half-lidded eyes and a too-long fringe. I have next Monday off. Maybe I'll get a haircut.

I'm studying gender again in History. I can't escape it. As a woman, naturally I care. At least it's modern history. Less "nuns, ahhh!" and more "women are boring and silly, lets laugh at them."

What is this song? Oh, man I know it, I know it. C'mon hurry up introduction. Oh, there we go, it's the Eels. Huh. I suck at recognising music.

I don't know whether it is the light or the angle but the window is doing crazy things. I can see the stacks trailing off into the sky and my daft nose floating in the middle of them. The roof in front of me is green and rusty. I think it's the hideous Boyd Orr that everyone hates. I love the view up here. I love going up to East Kilbride, or rather coming down from East Kilbride at that dip in the road where Glasgow stretches out before me and my heart soars. I remember drives through Argyle, round Loch Fyne. I kayaked in Loch Long. I'll be fieldtripping to Loch Tay. I've never been to Loch Ness. One of the Christophers did. He said he saw the monster. Ben who could pick his nose with his tongue confirmed the story.

The light and smell here reminds me of Iceland. Those brightly dull mornings. We went there in March when I was wee. Snow towering above my head. I was four and a quarter so I kept telling my dad's camera. "I'm four annna quarter and we are in Iceland and it is snowing and go way I wanna sleep now Dad. Stop being silly."

Laura and I used to say snow came from East Kilbride as we watched the cars come down the windy hill. She suggested we elope there until I pointed out elope meant running away and getting married.

There's a guy sitting next to me asleep. He has nice thighs.

My plaster is folded in the creases of my palm. When I stretch out it's as if the plaster is my skin.

The air conditioning makes my nose run and my arms shiver. I feel like I'm in an airport. Our flight was delayed once coming home from Rome or Barcelona. Everybody lay on the floor; huddled, bored and Glaswegian. It was cosy.

Y'know what, I'm goddamn proud of myself for being here. I told everybody I was going to get in and then I did. And I got an A in Archaeology.

Blinds are up again, the guy rearranges himself. Those thighs look comfy. If I was a lot more attractive and a little more crazy maybe I'd sit on them. I like sitting on people.

My hands smell of play-doh. They always do on a Monday after yesterday's clean. Rubber gloves? Chemicals? This looks like a job for science. Room is brighter now and emptier. My reflection beside me is mirror clear. I look scruffy. The guy is fast asleep again. My bic is sticky from the plaster. Plautus remains unread. The main building looks beautiful in the muted light. I want to jump that boy. Is that wrong? Wrong that I want him to wake up and see me and ask me out and take me back to his cramped apartment.

Valentine's Day is approaching. Dunno why I thought of that. How dull. Profess your love with chocolates and roses. What does it matter if you don't love her anyway. Although the roses on Byres Road look beautiful, but then they always do.

Once again love drives me on that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done - Sappho. Found on the toilet roll dispenser in the library toilet and I had to note it down.

Becky Stark is in my ears now. I want to scoop her up in my arms and carry her away. She would be wearing a white dress with flowers in her hair. But no time for love, Doctor Jones. Time for Sweeney Todd.

"Uhh," said the man to the lady

The screech of feedback distorts the conversations that had threatened to engulf me. I turn the volume up higher and higher until I can feel the squeals of the guitar vibrating my nose. The pause between songs brings the sea of voices washing in. "E's a fat bastard. A fat speccy bastard." "Aye, aye I get that, but what's he doing there?" A child shrieks and I shut my eyes and wait.

There must be a devil between us
Or whores in my head
Whores at the door
Whore in my bed
But hey, where have you been?

If you go I will surely die...

The leather of my jacket is soft against my cheek as I slouch down further in the bus seat. I had my legs tucked up comfortably for half of the journey but this angry woman in front of me ruined things. She's eating salt and vinegar crisps and the smell takes me back to school. Thoughts of the skinny girl who always took charge. She organised the games, in which I was nearly always the evil witch although I also got to be Belle and Jasmine and Mildred Hubble when we attempted to recreate rather than invent our own. She would sit next to me eating salt and vinegar crisps and press two pence coins into my legs in preparation of my big death scene. I had to wear long socks that week. She'd ask me for advice. I was the go-to girl for solving all of life's mysteries. I was more than a little in love with her. We would giggle under cardigans and rub noses like eskimos. We'd link arms and gossip about boys. She had a bay window in her bedroom with a sofa. We sat in the porch of her old friend while we waited for her to get dressed and her little brothers ran out naked and pressed themselves against the glass door. We hid each others eyes and agreed that boys were icky.

The woman in front has finished eating by now and memories of the skinny girl float away. The blue of my plaster peeks from my sleeve and I wince just a little as I stretch my hand out. Only I could cut myself with a mop. The pen in my pocket rubs along the inside of my hip reminding me I have so much to write. Of course, it would be my right hand the mop attacked. There's a man in his bedroom spying on his neighbour.

The sirens sang so sweet
And watched the sailors going down
You talk to me in siren song
Yeah, anyone would drown

There's a child delirious in her bed. Things moving in the dull light. Ever had a poster that looked like the faces were moving at night? There's a girl. She's mostly me. She keeps walking down this road, tripping over tree roots and she gets to the bridge on Kelvin Way and she puts on her favourite song and looks down into the grey water and

The music stops. I'm out of battery. Which is bullshit because I just charged it but my ipod is pretty old now. Everybody is talking too fast and too loud and the woman's hood has that stupid fur around it and my eyes are heavy and the bus is too warm. My head spins and I'm losing track of my thoughts. I miss my stop and I have to trudge along East Kilbride Road but it isn't raining so I don't mind too much. My jaw is clicking again. I clack it down my road and don't care how obscene I look.

And then I shut the door on my Sunday. I hope yours was more entertaining.

Aw craps

Feeling bored, I took out the last of my birthday money and went shopping. Intending to have a quick perusal while Julie purchased more Final Fantasy figures I came home with a dress that might be too school girly, Percy Shelley, and 2 pairs of socks. I mean they're pretty damn great socks but now I'm home with the remnants of my bank account and BAM here's comes the crippling financial blues.

S
I
G
H

I should really start looking for a job again.

For a minute there I lost myself

"I just want simplicity. No more convoluted situations, no secrets I can hide from some, lie barefaced to others and throw heavy-handed at an unlucky few. I'm tired and I can only sustain selfishness for a short time and then it all comes tumbling down on me and I have to care about everybody else. I do my best to speak plainly, tell people what I think with a degree of tact. Yes, I lie. Yes, I reshape history, omitting certain truths or at most telling them so off-handedly that I think I sound like I don't care. Sometimes I don't remember what is real and what I imagined. In the end what I'm trying to say is when are you going to stop pretending. I am half-sick of shadows."

But the kittens have lost interest and the music changes. Goddamn Radiohead. Sheet music is before me and my beautiful neglected acoustic in my hand. The neck fits so well in my grip and I wrap my body around its own. I remember Em and Am and Bm. You can't play a Thom Yorke song without a hearty dose of the minors. I remember smiling when the other girl thought C was a stretch. I remember being happy there were no bar chords because I was terrible at them. And I remember being glad I didn't have to read tab despite being told that anybody can read tab. It messed me up. I blamed my tutor. He had spent a year and a half teaching me classical fingering. I had just about mastered a Malaguena when he changed his mind and handed me a sheet of chords to learn. I'm gonna brag here and tell you that I was the only girl still taking guitar and I was the only one who didn't mess up the practical exam. My ex boyfriend freaked out and my soon to be current boyfriend fluffed his 2nd song. The music department took care of me. I was the token female guitarist and sound engineer. It meant I spent time in the cupboard with boys who at first tried to feel me up but soon accepted me as one of them. We did things like write Gibson and Fender on the school guitars that had more holes than strings, and folded every piece of paper into an aeroplane. We also shunned the Viking and the wandering minstrel and invented our own tunes slagging off the waster that nobody liked and was the only one who still called me a frigid cow even when it stopped being relevant. The only lyrics I remember are "Why is Glenn standing over there? Because he's a fucking idiot." All of this floated through my head as I sat in the bar full of kittens and performed.

I woke up half-way down the stairs and flinched as I realised I'd been dreaming. I stumbled back to my bedroom and wrapped a blanket around my freezing legs. Maybe Freud could tell me why I keep having conversations with kittens, or people who turn into kittens. The internet (which is much quicker than finding a working flux capacitor) tells me that "To dream of kittens, denotes abominable small troubles and vexations will pursue and work you loss, unless you kill the kitten, and then you will overcome these worries." But the same site tells me that if I dream of "kissing a strange woman, denotes loose morals and perverted integrity" and come on, no it doesn't. If anything it says I have latent lesbian tendencies, durr hey. But the site is the reproduction of a book written in 1901 and I don't care enough to look at others.

You shouldn't let poets lie to you

With the slightest of twitches I snagged my stocking on a splinter of wood and scored a line around my thigh. Wincing, I rearranged my legs carefully on the edge of the pier. Behind me the crowd screamed in delight as the bonfire flared into existence, but even though I had sat here to wait for that very event I did not join in the merriment. The lake was a vast expanse of black, broken only by the blue glow of the fairy lights strung along the planks and the occasional flash of a passing car on the other side. Once or twice I thought I saw something flicker across the water but my searching eyes found nothing substantial in the murk.

One by one I had dropped each stick of my woefully inadequate firewood contribution into the water instead of the flames. The uppermost arc of the ripples shone in the bluish light and gave me something to stare at while I sipped my drink. It was my third, or maybe fourth of the night. I couldn't remember pouring this latest one. My cigarette smoldered away in its long black holder and I let it burn away to ash. It was mostly decorative anyway and I'd promised Jonathan to cut down. I took a last, long drag and watched the tiny flecks of amber spiral down below me.

"Can I tempt you with a marshmallow on a stick?" Olivia's silky voice dragged me back to the party. Two men towered over her with expectant faces. She pulled a pink gooey ball off the wood with sharp pearls and flashed me a sticky grin. "Dance with me, Sara-Star."

I began to protest but the tallest of the two stole my offer and spun her round fast as the music grew louder. Two marshmallow tipped twigs were pushed into my hands as Olivia seized her chance and sashayed back to the fire, her black skirt billowing out with every swing of her hips. The other boy smiled sheepishly and took a stick from me. Gracefully he swung his legs over the edge beside me. He had a strong nose, a boyish grin and a certain Slavic romance in his dark eyes that melted away my frosty indifference with a glance. He childishly tried to steal my marshmallow after devouring his own and after a struggle I found myself eating from his fingers, and leaning dangerously close to his curling lips.

"You are beautiful," he whispered, sounding almost surprised. I was glad of the mask that hid half of my face from view as I flustered my words, not quite knowing how to respond. I was very aware that the curve of the molded plastic left my own lips exposed. I was an anonymous mouth and once I directed my attention to them, my lips seemed to take a life of their own. My tongue darted over them ever so slightly, tasting the night air and the proximity of his breath. Without any hesitation his mouth met mine and took my breath away as his tongue danced over my molars. "You taste of starlight," he murmured against my mouth before stealing another kiss. My wandering hands found his own disguise tucked in a pocket. It was a mere strip of black voile and I tied it over his lustful gaze. We were united in our anonymity.

The party had simmered down by the time he laid his heavy head on my shoulder and murmured nonsensical romantic notions while his fingers idly buried themselves in the edge of my skirt. It wasn't Olivia's idea to go skinnydipping but she was the first to break the calm surface of the lake with her lithe body. There was the longest pause while we waited for her to break it again. She threw back her head like a mermaid and taunted us until she was joined by at least a dozen shining bodies.

"You will regret it if you stay here." He raised an eyebrow at my wavering expression and won me over with further compliments. Embarrassment checked by hidden identities we dived in hand in hand and stark naked. The shock of the cold took my breath away and I struggled against the inky darkness. When my head was clear of the water I sucked in a lungful of air and noticed that I had lost both my mask and his hand. Laughing I splashed around and called out to the others. With a sickening tightness in my chest I realised there was nobody else around. I scrambled back onto the pier and clutched my shivering body. The fire had burned low and I could just make out the piles of clothing dotted around the beach. Each pile was topped by the discarded smiling mask of the wearer. I called out every name I could remember but the silence was deafening. Shaking from fear and the cold as the water dripped off my limbs I half-ran back to the pier. My outfit was folded neatly where I'd left it and the mask I had been wearing when I jumped in was nestling in the folds of my dress. I picked it up with trembling fingers and the fire went out in a cloud of smoke. Something damp wound its way around my ankles and my scream was cut short as I faced the dark eyes of my captor. Without hesitation its mouth met mine and stole the very life from me. Before I fell into darkness, rough lips confirmed my fears with hushed words:

"You taste of starlight."

Je ne regrette rien

Dear reader, do you recall the young man I described who captured my heart with his Mr Darcy (Macfadyen not Firth) sideburns? Well the Girl Who Is Deceptively Old is friends with said young man and as the two of us laughed our way out of Classics after an enthusiastic Greek had told us that the Romans invented the musical and spoke at length about Grease who should approach us but my Darcy. Fair reader my heart did flutter but I did not fluster a single word and when Oldie turned one way, the two of us turned the other and he spoke in gruff tones about the weather and how he felt he was drowning last semester due to missing so many classes. Truly I was indeed distraught when we had to part ways but my heart was gladdened for now I knew the name that those sideburns belonged to. And, perhaps more importantly, he knew mine. I have not even begun to tell you of his nose. I'm such a sucker for a strong nose.

It's been a crazy old day. It began rather dull and it wasn't until I glanced around in Archaeology that I spotted that nose of his and my heart flipped out of its cage. After the lecture, I stood out in the cold waiting for the Lovely Lass when he stopped across from me, gave me a half smile and spent a good long while trying to light his cigarette. My heart and my lungs began a violent debate. I so dearly wanted to ask for one myself despite knowing full well that I cannot smoke and is taking up such a habit a wise choice just to talk to men? Even if they are insanely divine? He was gone and she arrived before I came to any conclusion. I resigned myself to another semester of hopeless romantic notions and settled for coffee and mournful reminiscing of the massive crush Lovely and I both shared on the tragic Heath Ledger. I mean we saw Ned Kelly for him. That alone proves our love. She too left me, wrapped in her mother's lab coat having stained her own purple the day before, and I trudged through the hail to the cosy shelves of Fopp. And what do I find but The Dreamers for a fiver, the very film I have been searching for but could only find at extortionate prices. It is delightfully pretentious and ridiculously erotic. Plus Louis Garrel. He was the reason I wanted to see that French musical that wasn't showing anywhere even though every review was calling it mediocre. And yes, he too has a beautiful nose. My only comment on the film is that I think I spent more time staring at the freckles on Eva Green's breasts and comparing them to the ones on Louis Garrel's face than I did watching the film. What that says about me I don't really know nor care. Also everything before Louis Garrel started masturbating in front of his sister and their friend was fantastic but after that it went a bit silly. Therefore, good film, wouldn't have paid more than a fiver for it though, and everybody was just always naked. Pretentious porn perhaps?

One last thing for today. I looked up to see if The Breeders had their new album out yet since I will be seeing them and I haven't heard anything they've done recently. Turns out their album comes out the day before they play Glasgow. What's the deal, Kim? (Didja see what I did there? Probably not because I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you don't know who I'm even talking about). So I'm hoping that their new album turns out to be great or they play a lot of old stuff because like hell I'm going to have the time or money to buy a CD the day before I see them live. I spent all my money on underwear, art and alcohol already like all good students should.

The dog that never was

Once there was a dog.

Or was there?

THE END

EPILOGUE

No.

Una historia sin tiempo

"Cath, you know it's like half past nine?"
"No, no s'ok mum. I don't have History today, it's Monday."

I then went back to having a conversation with someone who was in the bed beside me and it was deep stuff. I unburdened myself upon them and they did not judge me. I bared my soul, unloaded all of those pesky little secrets that usually want to pour forth at 3 in the morning when I've been awake too long again but there's nobody around. I like to talk as I fall asleep. I have no idea what I'm saying but it needs to be said. David Number Three used to let me yammer on while he turned round and fell asleep surreptitiously. If I was conscious enough to be annoyed I'd start telling him crazy things in the hope he'd at least freak out, give me a reaction. All I ever got was snoring. It was an unfulfilling relationship to say the least.

"Cath, you know it's like quarter past nine? You awake?"

I opened my eyes and may have grunted something because my mum shrugged and walked off. 2 days into the second semester and I've missed my first History class that wasn't enrollment. I didn't even stay out late last night to avoid this, despite enjoying spending time with Rob because we make the best noises that turn into pirates half the time. I went home after having an epiphany on the train, losing it when I walked in the door and settling for the bowl of strawberries that nobody else had claimed already. To be honest they might have explained the dreams.

I'm really trying to fight my laziness. I mean I did my first day back so dress up because it's easier to fake it in a skirt than jeans and I spoke to like 3 new people. I was a little disappointed that the cute ginger girl didn't carry on Classics but I think I already knew that and hung out with the girl who is actually kinda old. I only point that out because we were talking about graduation and she was all "omg I'll be thirty" and that was scary. I mean thirty is older than I can imagine being. I'll be 22, 23 maybe if I take that year out in Ireland or Iceland or Greece. Unfortunately annoying 'lets make out in class' couple and fat guy who steals your desk were all still in my class and Mouse Face is too and still determined to sit almost next to me but say nothing even when I smiled hello. He did his 'maybe I'll say something' face and then turned away. Cannot be bothered with more of that. And my Classics class is in the Engineering building. First off it's a horrible looking tacked on modern building next to the Gothic main one, 2nd to get to it I have to clamber over the road torn up by trees and climb oddly spaced out stairs and 3rd? Well it's full of engineering students. These are people who know maths, that wouldn't spend ages agonising over percentages in shops and triple checking addition before heading to the cash desk. they intimidate me something fierce.

But my point was the laziness. Maybe I should at least try and adhere to my sex. Just a little. Spend more than 2 minutes throwing on whatever doesn't smell bad or look crumpled. But even when I make a little effort it never takes more than 10 minutes unless I'm looking for something in particular which means it's at the bottom of a pile in a room nobody goes into. And half the time I'm only making myself look good for myself. I don't really like attracting attention, just makes me think there's something wrong with me, and I'm still a little wary since the time the crazed junkie wouldn't leave me alone but that's really another thing altogether.

Plus like 3 people on separate occasions have remarked "that was quick!" when I've come back from the toilet in this past week. Like they expected me to be ages. What I'm supposed to be doing in there I'm not sure but clearly I'm not doing it for long enough? Is there some sort of set time for girls that I don't know about, because I don't have make up to check and I know my hair looks awful without looking and maybe I should have just worn a hat?

God, I'm starving. I think it's time for make toast and pour all the leftover syrups and honey on top to make a gooey meal!

I'm so bored of cowards

He refuses to walk you home, says it's too late, too dark and too dangerous. He suggests waking up his mother but she already hates you for what you're doing to her precious little boy and you shake your head. He walks you through the carpark and boys on wheels whirl around you making comments and blaming you for keeping their friend away. He gives you what he imagines is a lingering, romantic kiss and shuffles off wringing a promise of a text once you get home safe. Spin on your heel once he's out of view. He didn't even look back. You're alone now. Step into the night.

Your outfit was barely appropriate during the day. Under the streetlights you feel exposed. Your heart pounds as you pass each waiting car. Your limbs shake in the oversized coat that offers little protection against the cold and leering eyes. When you threw on your clothes you didn't get it quite right. You feel thoroughly rummaged and you don't want to use the word violated but it sits there mocking you anyway. Once you pass the train station and the last point of real danger, you relax and pull your ipod out of your pocket. Play anything to fight the darkness but turn it up until it hurts.

I want to go on a mountain-top
With a radio and good batteries
And play a joyous tune and
Free the human race
From suffering

Your lips still hold the traces of your lipstick. The sticker called it Red Passion. The French alongside seemed even tackier: Passion Rouge. Like a clichéd whore. You pull your hair out of their bunches, so tired of being cute and you stalk across the last road. It doesn't scare me at all. Someone moves by the church where the lights don't work but don't you look. You're safe if you don't look. One more corner baby and now you're under that patch of sky you know so well. The only patch of sky where you feel like the world is round and you mean something on it. I'm no fucking buddhist but this is enlightenment

You feel like singing, like dancing or shouting. You feel free for just a moment with the stars in your hair and the night curling around your legs. Hang back just a moment sweetheart, enjoy the silence. In ten minutes your parents will go mental, you know without looking that you're an hour late. By tomorrow morning he will be furious too, remember to turn that phone off tonight. Enjoy the silence, it's all I can give you.

It doesn't scare me at all

She died like she lived: in vain.

Julie came home sick this morning, disrupting my very lovely dream and forcing me out of bed at the ungodly hour of half past ten. I couldn't get pissed though because an hour later she was freaking out, Mum was freaking out and then I had to phone my dad so he could freak out too. I was told nothing as they drove down to the doctor and I comforted myself with the thought that at least her adrenalin was still with me so she wasn't like dying or anything. She came home, thought about throwing up some more and then danced down the stairs singing "Shake your booty" louder than I would have liked. She's watching Happy Feet now as I type happy but for the fact that she's not allowed online to talk to her Devart fans.

While she was tucked up safe in bed I dragged down my sewing bag from the attic and found a couple of dresses I haven't worn in years. Unfortunately I could only get them on if I lost my bust. Pictures may follow later of my new skirt, made primarily of a giant vest top I got for a pound in one of the many charity shops down on Main Street. Seriously there's more down there than is needed for one road.

In other news I have two new freckles! This may not seem like news but when I was wee all I wanted was freckles. Everybody I was friends with had them and wished they didn't and I had none. On the one hand I was instead crazy pale and when people asked if I was ill I would lie and pout and get sent home. I never intentionally lied you understand I just knew how to take advantage of a good situation. On the other hand, well all the pretty girls had freckles and boyfriends, such as they were in primary school at least. I was pale as death and had a boy who told me one day that I was his girlfriend if this other girl decided they weren't going out anymore. Seriously. And this was like primary one. Is there something about me that screams 'hey she'd be great if I weren't already with this better girl' because it's hilariously depressing.

Picture time since I finished faster than I though, mostly because I couldn't be bothered reinforcing the pocket. It's not a great pic cause my camera broke ages ago and all I have is my mobile but hey you get the general idea, right. The pocket's a tee of my dad's recycled and I have no idea what the cyrillic says so lets hope it ain't offensive.

I could write a book about the way you walk and whisper and look

For reasons unknown my hair decided to look good when nobody could appreciate it. It decided to look good for a day freezing my ass off at the football but I can you lose interest already so I won't talk about it. Even though it was a hilarious game with blood, own goals and the old man who sits behind me calling the referee a 'paedophile cunt' with such malice that we could not stop laughing. I can't even remember why he was so angry, it was probably something like the referee missed a foul or something. That man is gonna collapse one day and I, for one will not help him.

My hair was still good this morning for the exciting task of mopping. Awesome. I did things like find stains under paperwork and wonder if maybe the skank had to keep taking those pregnancy tests because she left her contraceptive pills on her desk. I kept my spirits up with loud music paired with atrocious dancing and the knowledge that there was a tenner burning a hole in a pocket and if I was lucky I might find something pretty.

Four hours later and my hair was bad, I stank of rubber and bleach and I've accumulated several more cuts and bruises. Every week I do this is another week I never want to be a housewife. My lovely friend was talking about how she wants a wedding on a beach somewhere warm and I don't doubt that she will one day. She's gonna marry a nice doctor, have a big house, coupla kids and a dog; it's something I've always known. I don't think I've ever entertained thoughts of marriage, apart from the time I tried on my mother's wedding dress and freaked my dad out (it was her idea). Reasons why Catherine is not a girl number two: Has no wedding plans whatsoever. It's my worst nightmare, being someone's wife. That and being attacked by giant spiders.

So four hours later I dragged my weary ass through the last remaining sales racks and picked up anything that caught my eye. I found the most hilariously hideous dress I've ever worn. I mean, I always wondered why Topshop hired Kate Moss. I don't hate that crazy girl but damn was she ever coked out of her mind when she created that dress. I could not stop laughing in the changing room and it was that bad laugh that nobody else should ever hear. Oh it was good times. Topshop made up for themselves by having Moomin pants. Pants with the Moomins on them. I did not buy them because I'd already spent all my money by the time I saw them on the way out but by god, one day they will be mine.


Oh, also: totally do have a 3 day weekend! It's the rubbish one sure and I'll probably try and get my tutorials on Mondays but for a week or so at least I get a day off. First time that's ever happened. I might get my big bag o' charity shop tees and tops stolen from ex boyfriends and see what I can sew. Either that or write some more, but I think I'm lacking cohesion. And my main character just topped herself and I don't think she was meant to. One minute she was annoyed at the neighbours, the next she swallowed every pill she could find. I was left there pen in my mouth like "Oh, ok then." I might have a go at arranging everything I've got so far into English and ooh I can listen to Ella Fitzgerald since I finally got round to actually buying some of her stuff instead of relying on the Starbucks on Byres Road that plays Jazz. Brilliant I got a day plan, I can go play Tomb Raider now.

Wouldn't it be great to be Dorian Gray, just for a day

I bought the soundtrack to Pan's Labyrinth the other day. Fucking gorgeous it is too. That haunting lullaby winding its way throughout every track. But it was the two tracks at the end that I had to pay £2 extra for, that made me fall in love. They're like Pan's Labyrinth reimagined as film noir with that same lullaby played on sultry brass and conjuring up some Spanish entanglement. It makes me want to dance.

I stood before my large mirror, my hair wild from the shower and my cheeks burning from my perfume and the rum. My dress that had been discarded for over a year fitted me snugly and swished seductively with every little movement. I slid in stocking feet and felt faintly French. I debated over whether to wear a bra or not, I wasn't sure how much leeway the top had and I played with my eyeliner while I made up my mind. I felt like being a girl and my friend giggled at me when I showed up since I've worn a skirt the last three times she's seen me after five years of jeans.

My hair dried straight with little encouragement, a good sign. I wound the blue material around my fingers and pretended I can dance in the mirror. I'm a vain little thing but I can imagine I'm somebody else while the gold frames my twirling body. I needed a cigarette and a tragedy to complete my fantasy. A cynic of a man who loves me violently. But I was running late and I ran out the door, wrapped in my long coat and regretting my outfit as the skirt billows out behind me. A man shouts something at me from his van and I acknowledge him with a flick of my finger and skip up the stairs to my train.

The further away I move from my mirror the more the girl slips away from me. By the end of the night I'm drinking beer, making crude jokes and odd noises down the phone to Rob. But when I walk home sweeping through the dark under the stars, I get all romantic and let my mind wander far away. I felt like dancing or running or doing anything else that wasn't walking home alone down this street of geriatrics to my bed but alas, my night was over. Soon I was curled up with Oscar Wilde in an old tshirt and the romance was gone; tucked away for another night out.

Conversations with my mother

"Hey Mama? Do my legs look alright in this skirt?"
"Yeah. I mean I can't really see them but I'm sure they look great. Be sure to pull a tall guy and you'll be fine."

"Hey Mama? Do these boots look alright over my jeans?"
"Oh yeah. Your legs don't even look fat in them."

"Kitty, how do you do it? Your hair isn't even wet. Or it doesn't look it anyway. It looks nice."
"Aww really? I thought it looked like a curly puffball."
"Yeah, it's like a wet dog."

"Like the tshirt?"
"Yeah. And it gives people something to read when they get bored. Good choice."

These were all intended as compliments. Her insults are generally: "No you look awful, maybe you wanna go change?"


I'm seeing the loveliest girl and the vaguely lesbian friend tonight and I can't remember where I put their Christmas presents. Or if I wrapped them. Oops?

Although we often wondered, it was no thing of wonder

I step out of the exam hall first after we've been told to stop writing. I had written a fair amount of crap but at least I was never stuck. Unlike the fatty who wedged himself in front of me and when he left 20 minutes early threw my desk up in his effort to escape. I was covered in ink. But that wasn't from the exam, that's just me being clumsy with pens. I got a fright in the shower one day when I had a perfect line across my belly and thought I'd cut myself somehow until it washed away and I realised I'd slept on a pen again. Today it's limited to my fingers and the top of my chest (stupid low cut tops).

So I'm covered in ink, my hair has exploded in a curly puffball in the rain, my glasses bring everything into more focus than I like and I'm just that teeny bit taller in my heels that echo through the arches. It's like I left Catherine in bed this morning and stepped into someone else. I always feel that after exams though. It's the glasses and the head full of dates and being aware that I haven't written my middle name since the last exam and it always looks a little weird. I linger just a little at the edge of the cloisters, pretending to wait for the rain to let up while really standing beside the huddled smokers with their sodden white sticks and checking out the guy who looks like someone I know but I'm pretty sure I don't. He has good sideburns.

I take a shortcut through the carpark and get that thrill as I look down on the museum, if I take my glasses off the view is vaguely Russian. I get a romantic thrill but that could be hints of memories of what happened in the park one time. My heels clip over the bridge and I pause in the middle and watch the water rush. I've got time to dawdle, but the rain is seeping through and my thighs are starting to shiver, being the only part of me not protected by layers. I debate an ending in my mind. I know what she is going to do but I'm not sure if he will make it in time. I'll see how it goes when I get it on paper.

There's nobody on the bus so I stretch out. Reasons Catherine is not a real girl number 4: she sits like a man. I wish I still had that list, I was goddamn proud of it.

I bump into the Thunderbird, or 'my first kiss that never was' as he runs from his car to the barbers. He stops to chat but I don't stay long. It's not really appropriate for me to start rubbing life back into my thighs and if I don't make it home soon they might just shake themselves out of my hips. He's grown some sort of fuzz on his face. It's adorable, but not in a good way. He looks like a little boy who stuck some felt on his chin. It's not a good look.

And now I have all the time in the world to decipher just what it is I wrote down in notes last night.

You know when a song is just perfect and life is good for 3minutes 40seconds?

Well it means I can take a break from being pissed at myself for not studying at all and beginning something that is begging for me to stay up all night and write when I have to sleep. Seriously brain, WHY DO YOU FUCKING TORMENT ME SO? I'd include a link so you could hear this but all I could find was a godawful art school film and one live performance where the sound was iffy. I mean Julian Casablancas is mumbly enough without adding bad sound to the mix. I need The Strokes to come back to Glasgow, goddamn are they ever hot live. I hit so many stupid girls and danced with so many pretty indie boys that night...

Modern girls always have to go (you were right)
Old-fashioned men always want a mistress (right on time)
Modern girls always get their way (you were right)
Modern men dream of what they can't say (I was wrong)

Best part about the song? It features Regina Spektor, who I'm sure you know I'm a raving lesbian for by now. Second best part? It's called "Modern Girls and Old Fashion Men".


Aw crap, history. I can blag history right? Dates and names won't feature at all or nothin'

I'm screwed.

A capillary hint of red

You guys! Know how I have an exam tomorrow morning that I have not studied one little bit for?

Well I just started a novel.

The tap of all things told me to do it. It's kinda broken you see.

It may be awesome.



Fffffuuuck.



And I woke up with my lip all metal tasting, ripped to pieces, bleh.

Ow :(

Open your heart, tear it apart

I woke up early this morning. I had plans. Plans that stretched as far as get up early and have a shower before everyone else uses the hot water. So I woke up early this morning as very previously mentioned due to having a dreamless night. I mean I love my dreams, thanks tons I dunno crazy dream god sandman figure, but they tire me out. Like in Science of Sleep but with less wandering around naked and falling in love with French girls. And I'm not as attractive as Gael Garcia Bernal even when he's dressed as a woman and bumming crazy priests.

So I woke up early like I said but I missed my chance at cleanliness. Plan failed. The shower did not happen until lunchtime, lunchtime kinda happened at breakfast and studying did not get done at all. Instead I sat and wrote out all the stories I have online so I can have a legible copy of them. Yes, I know there's a machine that prints off words found in a Word file but I prefer to read my own handwriting, crappy scrawl though it is. Also I'm totally low on ink.

A couple of hours drinking (I have to point out here that I originally wrote 'a couple of hours studying') became far too long and while I'm not drunk (thankfully because there's no way in hell I would make it to the library tomorrow with the depression that follows my drinking, I'd stay curled safe in my bed thank you) I'm so very tired. I guess it's the sacrifice one must make for the greater good. The greater good being awesome presents from the very lovely CL (including a Byron postcard! I didn't find it until I got home and got far too excited, so awesome!), acting more gay than I should with the sexy Jane being a fan of the mens after all, making babies with Rob and naming our offspring after Mike. Also I can't think of anything to say about Joe who was also there because I'm tired and all he did was be his usual silly self so there's a mention, which will do.

I should be sleeping. I'm already ruining my plan for tomorrow which is pretty much the same as today's plan but with less fun. I've got friday night to look forward to though. Having a girly night out with the loveliest gal and the vaguely lesbian friend. And then before I know it, it'll be Monday and uni will begin again (although wow do I even have classes on a monday this semester, could I have a 3 day weekend? Holy crap I must check this out when I'm not in bed. I'll put it in big so I'll remember. COULD I HAVE A 3 DAY WEEKEND?) and my proper Indy lessons begin. How To Dig 101. Fuck yeah.

I'll need wellies. And a romantic interest. And a hat/whip/pistol combo. Put it all together and what d'ya get?

Motherlicking fortune and glory, bitch.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

Morning. The light creeps in around the edges of my blind and assaults my eyelids. I roll onto my side, away from the clock that digitally chips away at my remaining time. Probing fingers count the bruises on my legs, pressing each one gently until I wince. I find five new ones and one new dent where my leg had yielded against the jutting keys in the filing cabinet. Absently I pick the skin off my fingertips and count the hours to my exam. I'm safe at six.

I half-lift my messy head from the pillow but he says something. I'm not certain yet who he's supposed to be but his tone is urgent and I settle back down. He's smoking. Everybody smokes these days. He's smoking and he's telling me something and it's important. Life changing. But other people encroach on our conversation. The scene changes. I'm walking down a street in a crowd and there's a girl hanging off my arm asking where the relationship is going and who will keep the kitten when I leave. There's always a kitten. Maybe if I had taken psychology like I'd wanted to I could explain it all. But I'd gone with the safe choices, and bombed. She's pulling on my arm, wants to drag me away but I can't go with her. He's going to tell me a secret.

I'm in a lift now. I don't like lifts. He dragged me in and we float between floors and I feel just a little sick. He takes me in his arms and mutters nonsense. It's always nonsense in the end. I pull away from him and the kittens turn up again, winding around our feet. He hits me. My head cracks against the metal walls and I pull myself out of bed. I don't need to see the rest. My legs pick their way carefully around my piles of literature. There's the books I had to study, books I still have to study, books I'm reading, books I want to read. Too many books and never enough time. I stagger to the mirror and check I'm still in one piece.

There's a bit in The Bell Jar where Sylvia Plath starts talking about experiences. How she thought that if she visited the Alps she'd come home and see the reflection of a tiny mountain in her eyes. And when she lost her virginity she'd see something different in her eyes as well. It's something that's always stuck with me. I always wanted to see the change. I used to spend hours staring at my reflection waiting to see something different. When I came home drunk for the first time I ran to the mirror to see but the girl that stared back told me too many unwelcome truths so I burst into tears and didn't drink for another year.

There are no revelations in my eyes this morning so I have no choice but to begin the day.

I'm a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl

Instead of studying Herodotus I have trailed around town looking for a French film that I cannot find, cleaned five offices, a kitchen, three bathrooms, a boardroom and a studio until my hands ached and I managed to scrape a pink line burning from my hips to my breasts in the process, bought Bukowski's Women, lamented over the poor selection of poetry in Waterstones, bought the Ghost in the Shell movies, stayed up far too late the night before drinking beer and flirting with old acquaintances, dreamt about kittens and created a chicken burger to end all chicken burgers (still to be proven as it won't be ready for another 15 mins but I have high hopes!)

My exam is tomorrow afternoon and I just can't care.

So instead I'm watching Batman and Robin because it's on.


Bat Nipples!

Best thing I've done instead of study? I read these. Second comic down is a Mary Shelley comic. This on its own would be enough to blow my mind but then she goes and makes that Byronic panel 3 and my day is made.

Good Morning, Internet

I have the best hair this morning. I wish I had a picture of myself the night before so we could compare. It was perfectly normal apart from the fact that it needs cut and I hadn't straightened it. Still, I wouldn't have been ashamed to take that hair out to a bar. Sadly another night of no sleep until about 7 this morning and the 2 hours of sleep being full of the most vivid and crazy dreams that encroach upon my consciousness meant that when I staggered to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I glanced up and saw this:



Now I don't know if you can make it out terribly clear but it was the best I can do. I look like some mad professor's assistant. The one that knows a fair deal more science than his patient wife and helps with late night experiments in the hope he will see his wife sucks compared to her. Romance ensues after chemicals blow up in their face. All I need is my glasses, a labcoat and to be attractive enough to lure a man from his wife and hey, new life goal.

Not pictured are my hella cute shorts. They're this gorgeous shade of pink with teeny tiny bunny shapes on them but they're not as kiddie as that sounds. They are also hella comfy. But I'm not sharing my ass with the internet just yet, Not for free anyhow.

Dr. Jekyll is wrestling Hyde for my pride

She sighs,
Polkadots dancing in her eyes.
The rain hammers from the skies
And boredom joins her on the bed.

"Ennui?"
She calls to me
And asks in all fragility
"Is this how it is to be dead?"

My girl
Her crystalline tears unfurl
As I clasp in one great curl
Her hair and sharply twist her head.

She sighs,
Dark spots dance before her eyes
And the rain still pours from the skies
While death joins us in the bed.



Um, yay I wrote awful poetry? I don't know. It's been a crazy day. I opened this intending to write something completely else, which I can't remember now but I'm sure the title was relevant, and instead this happened. Not included is one truly awful stanza although it included the lines: Which rouses from their slumber/Her soft enticing lips of red which I was fond of despite the forced rhyme and bad English. I'm publishing it so you can see why I should be kept away from people at bedtime. I go stupid.

And my msn has totally crashed and won't let me sign back in so Night Emma Who Has Kissed A Boy.

The enjoyment that can be had from discussing the weather is second only to sex, and approximately equal to a good strong cup of tea.

What with the crazy storms outside, the miserable headache inside and the incessant dripping that kept breaking the barrier between the two, I did not get much sleep last night. Course I can't complain. My mother had none at all and woke to deal with my gran's shed; the roof of which had landed in a garden down the road. She's gone back to bed now, confused and angry.

Who broke the sky?

During the couple of hours I did sleep before Julie got up for school I had the craziest dream. I don't remember much now. Only that it was a musical. A musical involving lesbians and a plot about a missing ring. And it was ridiculously complicated and I was confused for much of it, trying to reason with the people around me.

I'm procrastinating. I can't study. There's a list of dates and names and pots I need to know by Monday and none of it is sticking. I am so sick of looking at aroused Satyrs and Greek men throwing up. Or the best one: a pot whose feet were shaped like male genitals "giving a shock to the holder." No shit the holder is shocked. He just wanted to enjoy a little wine, instead everyone is mocking him for holding the penis cup.

I'll have to drag my ass back to the library tomorrow. At least there is nothing to distract me there. Only smokers to sniff and fat women who hog three computer spaces and eat bananas loudly. You disgust me, fatty. And the toilets have the best graffiti. Only in a library would you find: "So girls, what's your favourite poem?" and someone highlighting the choice of Keats with a "YES TO THIS!"

Okay, I'm gonna stare at these pots some more. If my brain dies in the process you get 10 minutes to claim what you want of my possessions because I'm too tired to write a will.

Nobody even takes American Express these days, why would I want one?

"Mail for you!" The letter flopped onto my stomach and I stared at it with unseeing eyes. "It's a credit card!" My mother told me several other things that I'm sure were important at the time but they were lost as I curled into my pillow. Today was study day. Or study day number one. I almost told Emma no to drinking tonight but I told myself I could study and have fun together. I did it all last semester, hardly be different now. I tumbled out of bed around 11. Not a good start. I made it to the bus stop around half 1, worse middle. It was on the overly heated bus that I read my letter. By read I mean I scanned the majority of it, snorted and threw it in the first bin I came to at Uni. There was an overly complicated scenario involving a red coat that wasn't the right red and what to do if the shop wouldn't give you a refund. What exactly it was trying to say I have no idea, but this story went on for at least two pages. I've always wanted to do that. Write something, anything really, and select addresses to mail them to. I'd love to wake up one morning and find something like that hiding amongst my bank statements and junk.

I was going to write back to AmEx with something witty scrawled across my application for the card they'd never send an unemployed student with no income. Give the confused woman with the undesirable red coat some motivation. Maybe she was going through a rough patch with her husband and instead of realising she was in a doomed relationship she focussed on the coat instead. It was the wrong red! Anyone could see that!

But I threw all my ideas out with the letter. I'm just wittier in my mind, I guess.

I'm tired of living with my mind. She's too fast when I want peace and too slow when I want anything else. I'm sitting here staring at the work I have to do tomorrow if I can face it and the stories I'm itching to write with the taste of another man's beer in my mouth. A man with too big teeth and who took an age to say nothing. I let his hand rest on my hip and his eyes leer down my top and I didn't want him. I couldn't want him even when I tried. I'm oblivious to those who genuinely like me and throw myself at men I can't have. Women only love men they don't know.

I fill my head with bastards. Brontës, Bukowski, Byron, Hughes, Lermontov, and Plath. I devour their portraits of arrogance. I don't hate men, though I tease them shamelessly. I get my kicks from them until I'm bored and tell them they've failed but thanks for playing. I envy men. Sure they can be bastards, but they fascinate me so. Which brings me back to where I'm sitting with my regret and that awful taste in my mouth (I don't want to know why he tasted so bad) and truly I want my own bastard. I want someone to curl up beside me at night and murmur nonsense into the back of my neck. I don't need romance, I own enough novels. I want the kind of lust that clings to you until you shake it off with the sleep the next day. Where it leaves you light unless you tell someone and they make it pointlessly complicated in your head and drag you down with worries and regrets.

Really I'm just suffering from withdrawal. I've been going a little mad ever since my dad quit smoking. I don't know what to do. I can't start and I don't know enough smokers who'd appreciate me following them around for the smell. In fact I don't think anybody wants me doing that.

In the end the coat was just too red. Why won't you take it back?

Nine times out of ten our hearts just get dissolved

Things you should never mix with rum

At the top of the list we have sherbet.
Followed swiftly with flying saucers because technically they fall under the sherbet category but with added hilariousness due to the dissolving of the saucer itself.
Then there's maoam (although it should be noted that those round ones you get in the multipacks are lovely in vodka)
And finally we have lemonade. Why I chose to mix the two I don't know because I have made this mistake before. The first time at least had been as part of a dare since I had made everyone try my mistake of adding sherbet, the second I can only say I'm a fool who doesn't learn from her mistakes.

Blehh


Blehh

On the plus side it helped me finish writing the story I was working on (which you can read on my other blog, conveniently located in the links bar). On the bad side Psyduck?

I don't even know.

Blehhhh

In the process of writing this post the angel catapulted from the tree into my eye

I am a geek, there is no denying that. So I was more than a little excited when a big box from Forbidden Planet arrived at the door. Julie helped me tear into the cardboard but soon she walked away disappointed, muttering about the lameness of me.



Here he is! And yes I drink alcohol with a curly straw, don't judge me.



He's joined Leia with Julie-added pervy Jawa (his eyes light up when you press his belly)

And since I'm uploading pictures, here's the cookie Emma (love you!) gave me for my birthday. It's gone now, but it was hella tasty while it lasted.

Anyone who ever had a heart wouldn't turn around and break it

I was sitting yesterday with my notebook taunting me with its blank pages. I was covered in ink as is usual when I attempt to write. I fidget. In the shower this morning I was still finding marks in unexpected places. But no ink on the paper. So I dawdled from the goals I set myself and I went online where Emma's third chapter was awaiting me. So I spent my evening listening to my dad's music and typing up my comments as I read. It helps wake my dozy mind up and focus on issues of an English sort. I didn't do much thinking in English Lit true but what do you expect when I was surrounded by girls who claimed Rochester didn't really love Jane. Just stamp all over my first love why don't you. But I couldn't be lazy in my critiquing. This year I could get away with half-assed arguments because I know my mythologies and I got away with waffling. There's something so satisfying in reading a piece of writing and figuring out why it works and why it doesn't.

I finished chapter three this morning with only a few brief digressions pondering both Ryan North's recent take on Hamlet and curly haired men. My notebook still sat in front of me with nothing but some doodles from weeks ago. I flicked through my diary instead, just in case any of the notes I'd taken in the middle of the night sparked anything and while I had written some two paragraphs and written out the vaguest outline of a plan I couldn't write a damn thing. Although I am covered in pen once more, making my morning shower almost pointless. So I thought well maybe I could try typing it up and skip the handwritten stage; something I really can't stand doing since my fingers become dyslexic the minute they're faced with a keyboard. But once in a while they behave, and tonight they did. So hurray I wrote something! Just in time for me to start studying for my exams. I always have the worst timing.

And if you know where my title comes from you know the song I grew up listening to since it's always the first thing my dad plays when he picks up his guitar. You can listen to my childhood.

Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset

When I tell people my birthday is on Hogmanay everybody's so apologetic. I'm not sure why really. Yeah, it's inconvenient but I never want a big party anyway. I usually crash other peoples. This year I got a lot of yes, no, maybes and it ended up pretty much how I expected with me and Emma talking shit all night long and eating oreos. And ok so I didn't get drunk at New Year and I wasn't at some huge do surrounded by friends but sitting on my couch, watching stupid shows and eating junk with my favourite girl was the only way I wanted 2007 to end and waking up next to her to share more tales ensured a satisfactory start to the next year. She's like a girlfriend without the complicated sex life.

The beer settled comfortably in my stomach and gave me the courage to open up. Confess my sins and share all my daft mistakes I hadn't got round to telling her yet. She told me in return of the crazy 'friend' situation she finds herself in. And we laughed at men. We laughed at their desire to protect us from themselves. She sighed at crossed wires and I rolled my eyes at would-be Byronic heroes.

I woke up a couple of days ago and saw that I'd lost weight. Kinda the same way I woke up months ago and saw that I'd gained it. I can fit in my black jeans again and I stalk through the sales with just the faintest twitch of an ass wiggle. I dunno what's changed really but my head feels better. Talking to Emma helped. Made me straighten things out. Let me see what I've got and feel lucky. I still crave a life of my own. A flat, a job, a partner and a kitten. I'm nineteen years old and feel like I've achieved nothing but I've still got time, none of that stuff is going anywhere. So I want 2008 to be a casual year. Leave all the crap behind me once and for all. Stop thinking so damn much. These aren't great resolutions when you look at them but fuck it I've got no addictions I want to give up or habits I want to break. All I want to read more, write more, flirt a little less and kiss a little more.

I've been reading Bukowski. I found his first novel in Waterstones and read the ending which is how I pick new authors. Post Office ends with: "In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought. And then I did." and so I chose him. He's like a million guys I've read online. Deadpan relation of a shitty job and meaningless women. He writes like I wish I could write but I'm not male and I can't use men like they can use women. But I reach something close to it in my gender confused dreams with my girlfriend who bores me but she's too pretty to give up. And I wonder is this some kind of bi-sexual greed? Then I laugh because I know I'm just flirting with labels again.