A great black wave in the middle of the sea

Death Cab for Cutie are not terrible. I'm tempted to go so far as to say they are pretty good but you see I have to pretend I'm listening to some other band to like them due to associations with hearing the name over and over and over again. But I listened to a whole album without paying attention and I enjoyed it.

Also as much as I want her to be good this girl right here:


is terrible. Not even in a so bad it's good way, not in a tolerable way. A damn shame.

Also Rob I haven't yawned yet. It's like I'm determined to make you wrong that my body has broken itself. I very much want to and I haven't.

The Brothers Bloom

The trailer can be found online here and it's a bit trailery. In that it ain't great.

However! Mr Johnson's own words were that "it would be nice if the trailer looked a little like the movie" and "Every single thing in the movie that explodes or appears to explode (or appears like it might at some point appear to explode) is in the trailer. Plus anything where anyone falls down. They wanted to sell it as an action/comedy." So there you go. Be not disappointed by the fact it seems like Ocean's Eleven but instead of Brad Pitt they got a big nose.

A love that would look and sound just like a movie

I'm a closet romantic. I turn my nose up at any film these days involving couples that isn't to do with breakdowns or tragedies and I turn my nose up at couples in general which makes me a hypocrite considering how very cliché some of my relationships were. But I have a soft spot for classics and starlets and the special way eyes shine in black and white films. The Audrey Hepburn week on Sky a while back was just magic for me. Do you know how many of her films involve her going to Paris for some reason? It's a lot. It made me wish I could afford more dvds. Pierrot le Fou is stagnant at £8 everywhere I look and every time I remember I want it it's a bad week for buying things. Good thing is, my classes this year are all in the afternoon so I'll save on the having to eat and I can spend more money in Fopp. I always wished I could have been fluent in French. I tried and I studied and I practiced but somehow I went from being able to string paragraphs together with irritating ease to tripping over the present tense. I think possibly I was blessed with the ability to learn, pass exams, forget. More room for new things?

Anyway I was watching Sabrina because I made an omelette and there's a scene where she cracks eggs. In Paris. Ooh let's be annoying and put a youtube video in here. I've never done that before. It's not a great film but it was the first scene that made me pay attention and it's just so ridiculous in a way I only tolerate in films like these. I think that maybe I feel like falling in love. It's been a while and the last one proved so very disappointing when it turned out he was a bore. And the existence of his arse was doubtful. Really I think it's because my feet were cold and these socks have ribbons. Makes me girly. Anyway watch as Audrey Hepburn tries to kill herself! Hell, I'd gas myself too if Humphrey Bogart was going to carry me like that.

To Joe

Thank you for the muffin, it made me smile. I'm sorry I did not seem more enthusiastic about it and I'm apologising only because I forgot to actually say how cute it was when you plonked it under my nose and I meant to. I did think it quite loudly and that counts a little bit.

Also I was going to work in your name more, perhaps to an irritating extent, but then I couldn't remember the last time I ever read my own name online so pfft to that. So will you be happy enough, Joe, to see your name twice in one post?

Let's go for three for a laugh, shall we?

To Mr ex-Cleavage

You should have known better than to play gay chicken with this straight girl. I play to win and your ruined lip is a testament to that fact.

To Ross who looks like that Hard-fi guy

You are not a bad guy. Pretty average but not bad and I have never complained about any conversations you have struck up even when it was blatantly obvious you were rather bored and single because hey, I was too. I have never complained about the drunken texts and phone calls because generally I keep my phone on silent for my sister's sake and I answer if I'm awake enough to be coherent. Generally I stopped actually sending replies to people along the lines of FUCK OFF I AM ASLEEP because generally it would come out in sleepy gibberish. Generally I am pretty tolerant.

BUT

Please note 1am is not the best of times to begin a conversation anyway though I was awake, I think, and I would probably have responded if I was. But if you are going to go to the bother of contacting me could you have at least thought of something that wasn't merely Hi. Seriously, even if it had been inappropriate or ridiculous it would have been better than Hi. Hell even when you sent my name and a smiley face it was better because I could at least laugh at you. My texts are free and I can't even be bothered responding. I hope you had a good night anyway because you're not a bad guy.

Still not gonna sleep with you though.

I'm sweating dust

My attic used to be a bedroom. Most rooms in my house actually used to be bedrooms and as a result we used to have a ton of bathrooms too. There's one in the attic, it's currently full of black plastic bags. Somewhere in there are my parents' typewriters and my mum's wedding dress that I tried on once and made my dad look uncomfortable. There's my toy train that pumped out real smoke as it went round and the first laptop I learned to type on and a ton of books. It was the books I was after tonight. I dived into three boxes and took anything that I might be interested in. The last box came up to my chest and I couldn't reach the bottom. I nearly fell in twice. I didn't find everything I wanted and I nearly screamed a couple of a times when I thought certain things were spiders but you know I got it together and I salvaged what I could. Turns out my dad read a lot of detective stories. He's in a huff right now because although his book list contains 5 or 6 Raymond Chandler books The Big Sleep is not one of them. He suspects all his good stuff was stolen by his middle brother, the English student. I could only find 2 of them anyway. Others I found were the Black Dahlia and I, Robot and a Rousseau book. My dad has Rousseau and he laughs at my philosophy leanings. We could not locate a certain I can't remember if it's still banned in this country so I'm not going to name it book but I did find The official KGB handbook that gives instructions on how to spy on and maybe murder 'enemies of the people'. Brilliant says I. I'm now in the position that I have far too many books to read. It is fucking fantastic. It all came about because I asked if other Kerouac books were worth reading after On the Road. His response was 'maybe a couple but most are shit' and when pressed further he said 'something about a tree? That one's terrible.' I then asked if he'd read Hemingway because I never have and I feel I should. He said he'd 'read one, don't have it. S'allright'. My dad is very much not the English student. Although I did find How to Write Crime Novels and a wealth of Journalism handbook style things. If I get very bored I'm going to try my hand at shorthand again. Still no typewriter though. How am I supposed to write a tragic romantic masterpiece, smoking and sighing and possibly being French with no bleeding typewriter to clack on! I knew I should never have let it be tidied away again.

There was also a cubby hole stuffed with books, one of which was signed by the author (Terkel) and quoted some song I did not recognise which I'm assuming is from when my dad was in Chicago (where he bought books in an illegal bookstore and went to a ton of jazz clubs and I've always been insanely jealous about that trip since I was old enough to appreciate how cool it must have been), and a shoe box stuffed full of letters helpfully labeled 'letters'. If I had a week to myself I'd set up in that attic and read everything, find some secrets and treasures but my dinner was burning downstairs and Julie was fighting with my mum and my dad was being generally clueless about everything so I dumped what I could carry onto my couch (having checked thoroughly for bees) and collapsed in the one room with a breeze through the window.

Oh and I watched American Psycho today. It was pretty good although I probably shouldn't have watched it so soon after Batman. Made it too funny. Well in a sort of HAHA BATMAN KILLED A GIRL! way. You know, hilarious.

You're lost little girl

Sputnik flew Laika over the sea as my heart pretended not to break with my nose to the window, steaming up mountains and valleys and cities and towns. It was much like pretending not to be in love which gets easier each time you try it. I found a book in my dad's room that teaches Russian and I took it up to my room having checked thoroughly for our little buzzing friends. The Cyrillic alphabet makes me dizzy. A couple of years ago I went to St Petersburg and it's Paris in its design and Paris in its feel but its dangerous. The older people give you looks for being short and brunette because it is a city of the frighteningly tall. You should have seen the women. Think drunken girls on a night out for the outfit, glittering and foolish, only put that on a girl at least a foot taller, in catastrophic heels and legs that tower and it'll be 2 in the afternoon instead of the morning and you've got it. It was European oldest of all with hints of the Soviet, more prevalent as you leave the city in a minibus full of strangers and AmericanEuro splashed on the very top. And there was a moment, I have to ignore the big moments for this since I was in a shit place before I got there and then there was omg Julie (before you hit me for mentioning russia without telling you how much I love you, omg you're so awesome and such, do you still have that teddy bear? You are not awake yet, tell me later) but anyway.

There was a moment in the taxi when we were leaving and my face was glued to the window, not wanting to go home because I never want to go home and there's no bigger sink then the plane touching down. Every sign and every word was a shape I couldn't understand. I'd picked up a couple of words if I stared at them long enough and I could hear a couple of words if I listened hard enough but I was stuck on Da and Niet and Sbaseeba with a smile and a shrug and a please don't look at me. And that's when I learnt the Cyrillic alphabet makes me dizzy and I was determined to either crack it (which seems impossible without a class) or write it.

Sputnik flew Laika over the sea while I pretended my heart wasn't breaking and a success can be found even without survival. I call it project number four. The more I do the more likely one of them is good right?

Playing the fools

It's cosy, sitting in a room full of old friends and strangers when it's dark and getting late but not so late that you have to start thinking about leaving. Very, very cheap wine brings my eyelids down and I'm firmly stuck on the floor against the couch with legs and arms and a head on my lap and it's cosy. I could fall apart right here and a dozen hands would hold on to me. I've missed being here. I'm not exactly myself but I'm not so far away.

In the middle of the night a boy who likes to text me when he's drunk (and I thought was abroad right now) sends the message "whos dis". I'm going with drunken mistake/amnesia/girlfriend found a name she doesn't know and ignored him. It's always easier to pretend it's not happening.

There's a Czech film showing at the gft at the end of August I want to see called a blonde in love. I didn't really realise how gutted I was that I can't do the one subject that appealed to me until I found that film. I'm almost as disappointed as when I found out the French class the year after us got to study Godard. They got to study Godard instead of the film Buffet Froid which I doubt many of you will have seen, not because ooh look at me I know french films or anything but because it was the most pointlessly dull rubbish. Surrealism is fantastic in art but it's tougher with film. It's either hilariously ridiculous or makes no sense in a terribly pretentious way. It's even harder when you're in another language. I think I just miss learning another language. I can't speak any with confidence but I like working them out, following the rules and constructing sentences. I don't know what languages on offer are really an option though. Blehh.

I found a bunch of free sewing patterns online. I'm declaring August make some more dresses month. It justifies buying the material from ikea a while back. I'm not great at doing things from scratch but we'll see how it goes. Also I watched Lolita, the Kubrick one. It was ok, I seem to be saying that about every Kubrick film I see but maybe I just haven't seen the best ones.

Rumours that are completely unsubstantiated

It never really leaves, that's the first thing I had to learn. I had to learn to separate myself from myself and think passively. It's a little surreal sometimes when you watch yourself live and hear words fall out that you weren't expecting to say. It's easier drunk because I switch off and it usually takes the wrong word in my ear to bring me back. Very occasionally the right word. Rarely the right touch. There's only a few people I can stand to be that close. Yesterday was Tuesday the 22nd of July and if I'd been coherent I'd have written this then but I wasn't so I didn't. Yesterday was Tuesday the 22nd of July. Five years ago the 22nd of July was a Tuesday. You can count the years of my life from that date.

It never really leaves. It ingrains itself into just about everything. I walked home last night with my hands on my spine to feel the bones twisting. I walked a plank of the kerb all the way down to my house and past it. You have to avoid the stone five along from my driveway because it slopes into the drain. You can lose your footing and dash your brains out on the asphalt black. I walked the plank down to the park and peered into the darkness first. Local junkie kids like to hide out here but it was Tuesday the 22nd of July and a lot of them are on holiday, shooting up in prettier places in the world so it's quiet and I sat down on the big swirling circle and put my head on my knees, just for a moment. Walking in the door of my house pushes the reset button and I have to wake up to go to bed. For a moment I let my head swim and there was a pricking and a choking and a sighing because I knew it was Tuesday the 22nd of July and it never really leaves once it's there. If you'd spoken to me a few weeks ago when it was still June I would have smiled easily. If you'd spoken to me a couple of weeks ago when July was first spreading out I would have been passionately sour but yesterday was the day that it was and I teetered. Push me and I just might fall.

It never really leaves but it becomes easier to ignore. Yes, it would be easy and yes, it would be simple. Quiet and uncomplicated if you can pull it off but that's why you dream. I have to finish something first. There has to be an achievement. It's all just dust to cover it up because when it really pushes you, the dreams are too unattainable anyway. It would be easy, simple, quiet and uncomplicated and then it would leave. If I had a knife, sharpest you ever saw, that would cut it out finally I can't tell you for certain that I would do it.

I'm being unfair here because I write this for myself. Everything I've written here I've written for myself and I know it's read but I pretend it's invisible and I ignore the words I post until I hear them repeated back and then I remember. So maybe I should apologise for writing this and abandoning it when I push the big orange button. Then again, you're making the choice to read this. Oh I don't know. I just found it remarkable that Tuesday had come around again and it'd be the same date and it'd been weighing on my mind anyway because it never really leaves.

We don't believe in you

When the big happies are hard to reach you gotta settle for the little smiles. I slide through the kitchen in cosy socks with ribbons or float through the bathroom in tights with a run of slits above my left knee. The nylon distorts my freckles and my bruises. There's the release of a well-scrubbed face with whatever microbead things that scratch and tingle to making it all better with the moisturiser, the only one that doesn't make my skin worse. There's turning the tub of Julie's doublebase on it's side so the cream ploomphs onto the plastic and finding the circle of invisible dryness that disappears and reappears in exactly the same place. Like a ten piece was rubbed onto her skin and placed on mine. It's finding the bumps on my left shoulder to remind myself of myself. There's other smiles like a book that feels just the right size in my hand or the pink of the gaffer tape that holds my earphones together. There's the fact that my mum seals up my window with sellotape and then we wonder if the bees will get stuck and if they have bodies or just fuzz. Then we sat for the longest time trying to remember if bees had heads.

There's a smile of a quiet song with a piano. There's picking out all the red skittles and making a pile to eat one by one. There's finding out my dad likes the same band as I do and has two of their albums. There's pens falling out of my pockets as I try to carry too many notebooks at once. There's a message from someone who barely even knows me but liked me enough to say hey. There's a big glass of water and a blank piece of paper and a pen I haven't chewed yet and my mum interrupting because she needs a book to read and saying my room looks like a brothel. There's a certain way that girl moved, a combination of colours and the nose of a boy that caught my eye. There's knowing that in a couple of hours when I think that's time to call it a day, I won't sleep because there's too much to think and knowing I won't write it down but the barest hints like Cinderella in a courtyard of bubbles from the fountain or feet hanging down in the back of the car as she pulls herself further outside or twins dancing in thrift store suits. It's knowing all of this will come before the bad thoughts and then the dreams and then the headaches before my coffee. But for now I've got a smile to tide me over and half a glass of water and a mouthful of jack and a pen I've only chewed a little. I just need another piece of paper.

I am now allergic to my place of work, yay

Now I clean, sneeze and have to clean again.

The girl in Barnados now knows me by sight. I got the biggest smile today as she came out of a door and sought my eye contact. She also made sure she said bye to me when I left even though she'd been downstairs. I want to hug her. However, I think I exhausted my luck with the skirt which still feels amazing despite going through the washing machine twice and found nothing of any interest.

When I was getting something to eat a man laying some sort of pipe or tubing in the road said good morning so cheerfully I thought I'd imagined it but he was still standing smiling and ignoring the other worker when I turned round so I said it back and he just beamed. It's like the sun made everyone happy and for once I'm not grumbly even though I'm shattered. But it's very fun talking to someone until you fall asleep so I'm not complaining about the lack of sleep for once.

Dear tv drama land

Your tiresome fear of female sexuality has become unbearably predictable. Must I watch as every woman who cheats is punished in some way? Is their a rule that says all female characters who enjoy sex must be whorish? And anyway they're just ultimately looking for a husband in the end anyway. I'm not a raving feminist, I want equality yes but I know men and women are different. Sometimes I think life would be a lot simpler if we were all just assholes and said the things on our minds but we won't for fear of how others will react. I suppose alcohol is supposed to help, with the removal of inhibitions and all that but I still hold the capacity to lie even when I lose the power to walk.

What I'm really saying is I watched Casualty tonight with my mum. I was playing my gameboy during the boring bits, which since they kill off every good character (ridiculously attractive paramedic, where did you go?) was pretty much all the time. There's this story about asshole doctor man and pretty nurse who had a fling and then SHOCK turns out she didn't want to see him again because she was married to SHOCK this other doctor but they were keeping it a secret for some reason. Also he was having an affair with this female doctor. And then some stuff happened and nurse continued her affair with asshole doctor. This week the wonderful twist of adulterous nurse's son was nearly killed whilst she was busy boinking asshole doctor. OH NO says I. Now she'll feel all guilty and refuse to ever speak to the doctor ever again and she will cling to her husband. Especially if the son dies.

How does the episode end? With the nurse PRAYING TO GOD that if He saves her son she will stop being a dirty whore. This is because the show cannot justify such selfish behaviour from a woman. SHE HAS CHILDREN! The doctor, despite making her feel like shit anytime she had a moral crisis, will only feel sad because he loves her. He receives no punishment but sadness. Boo fucking hoo.

Oh for fucksake says I and then since I was here already I decided to rant.

If you haven't looked at Dr horrible yet you must hurry. It stops being free to watch tomorrow. And I'm reading Being There by Jerzy Kosinski, pretty good so far. And I can't take Slavonic Studies because it clashes with History. Fuck. But I saved the reading list and maybe I'll just read them myself. That's what I did for English Lit this year. It's like an academic recommendation list.

Everyday means another bee to rescue. Goddamn stupid bees.

My friend was a mix of a girl named Ashleigh from school who had done gymnastics and Nicola the first friend I made at uni with her mad hair and soft Edinburgh craziness. She took my arm as we wandered around the dark woody campus, looking for the door. We found a seat, padded leather bar stools on grass and settled down for the powerpoint presentation that would act as our introduction to the degree. It was long and I was eating an apple. I span the core round the table until I started getting looks from the other people so I stood up and made my way to the front to bin it. My skirt was black and fifties sticky out and my shoes rubbed into my heels as I stepped around clusters of students. It was agonisingly slow and I had to take the long way round. By the time I got back a new group of people had taken seats around us. My stool was hidden between the backs of whispered laughter and I shrank smaller, darting through until I managed to get my ass on the seat. I straightened up and pushed them away. One guy I shoved was this huge broad dark and scruffy man who snatched my hand in his and introduced himself loudly, booming that he had another class to get to and I had to shout my own name several times before he heard me. He cuffed the top of head as he left, laughing as my hair exploded even bigger. The lecturer had things to tell us, something about a repeat the next day and then I back outside with my friend complaining that I missed my university and she sighed and pushed me down a hill.

Then Julie had a birthday party and her dress wasn't zipped properly up the back but she wouldn't let me fix it. Her and three others had plates of cakes only the cakes had been crumbled into the paper of the plates and I shuddered to see them try to scoop it into their mouths. This tiny little girl kept complaining of being hungry and then she picked up a screwdriver and several screws, called them a fancy name and tried to fix a shelf. I took a screw away from her and pierced my finger. Then I was on my hands and knees in a bookshop looking for something for Julie who was shouting abuse at a bunch of people in the doorway. I was tangled in a card display when one of them came up behind me and tripped me up. I leaped up and he held my hands as I struggled to hit him and all he did was laugh.

Woke up to deal with bees.

I'll comfort myself in the next life

Watchmen Trailer is online now.

I'm going to say it. I have my doubts about Zack Snyder. I have seen his films. Dawn of the Dead made me laugh but I don't think it was supposed to. And 300? Guys I'm saying it, don't bother arguing with me, it was pretty stupidly bad. If it just the battles it'd be fine, I loved that speed up, slow down, spear through somebody's face kind of thing. If you read Homer or any of those Classical guys the battles are pretty much that anyway. You get a long description about a guy and his family and his life and then SPLUNK arrow through the eye and out his brain! But come on, it was shiny and so WE ARE NOT GAY overly macho and then you throw in the unnecessary woman bit (I wanted her to fail, stupid whore), the unnecessary LOOK AT THE MANY POSITIONS US SPARTANS HAVE SEX IN BECAUSE WE ARE NOT GAY. It was as my dad remarked when we walked out "a fifteen year old boy's wet dream'. I saw it, I was entertained for the most part, I would not watch again.

So a man who has made two films, one a ridiculous zombie film, another a bunch of men in little pants screaming and now he's made what he says is a very faithful adaption of a very good comic. I imagine it'll be a good film so long as you're not precious about the source material. Or it will be ridiculous. Also Oxymandias looks terrible.

You know, with the season over I haven't really seen my dad much. At least before I had 90 minutes every week to talk shit with him. It means we start booking things together. We're seeing the Last Shadow Puppets and Chuck Palahniuk and then they've made a film about Lou Reed's Berlin and I'll probably take him to see that too even though he's seen the concert twice now. People wind me up a lot about football and I do like the sport although I have to be in the mood to watch it sometimes but it really is the easiest way I can connect with him. Laugh is here I am, bored waiting for Julie to get up, typing about my father and he calls with cryptic murmurings before declaring that I can ignore the call and hangs up. Thanks dad, you crazy old man.

You guys love Whedon don't you?

Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog

Thank you Mars Volta guy for being so very nice and talking far too much about tv or I would have missed this.

Nathan Fillion is in it by the way if you haven't clicked the link yet. Why haven't you clicked the link yet?

I don't know what I'm doing still here

Scarecrow and fungus, they ran through a stop light but it was ok because nobody was there.
Scarecrow and fungus, they ran through a stop light but it was ok because they were on foot.

One day I will marry this woman.


Free music so you can learn why.

This too shall pass

I've been awake for several hours and I've got that hangover that comes of dim grey mornings. No alcohol, I don't need a drink for the headaches to hit me. When I was wee I used to curl myself up tight, push my head into a cushion and scream, muffled in the hopes they would ease but they never did. I have a craving for peanut butter, I'm tearing up my mouth trying not to think about it.

So let's not. I find it easier to type here than in a word document and my notebook runs along my burnt finger when I hold it the way I like. Notebooks paper cut. I once sliced my wrist on the edge of a particularly short notebook. That itches like you cannot believe. Not the point, or maybe a new point. When I'm stressed out beyond belief it shows physically and not always intentionally, not anymore. I'm stronger now, not as goddamn stupid. There was this huge pause between sticking my hand on the side of the sizzling machine and spinning round the island hissing through my teeth. That pause is the silent peace of a busy mind. It's the deep breath, the murmur that you're doing fine, and then you plunge in full and you can scream and shout and it would be ok but you don't anyway, you just keep on hissing and you let yourself cry even though you swore you were never going to let yourself cry and every time you tear up when it gets too much you gotta clamp down on your lip and tell yourself to grow up a little. The world is not some big bad wolf but don't go skipping through that forest without looking. Naive little bitch.

I used to be the one that everybody turned to, I won't know if I still am if I keep avoiding people and I am such a good little avoider. I practice my lies in my head while I shower and on the bus and before I go to sleep. I'm prepared for what you have to say. But they used to come to me and I listened and I soothed and I was maternal and I understood but nobody wanted to probe why I understood, how far I understood and I forget what I ever told you. I forget what you know and I worry it is too much and I'm sad that it isn't enough. Lying there, tired and pissed off at the world I tried to null the alcohol swirling in my system because the worst thing that can happen is the depression. It hits and I try to pull my skin off. I should have known something was up when she staggered in beside me in an old winnie the pooh jumper that jarred with her frilly thong that was trying too hard. My life was painted perfect by her. I wasn't allowed to have problems, like I have to be in love always and I have to care. I have to feel bad. So many rules for so many different people. Listening to her pulled me back too many years and I hate thinking about it. Anything I say about that time results in "I never noticed that" and I wonder if what I'm saying is the truth or if I was just truly unnoticeable. I know I'm not now. Somedays I try to walk, try to live without anybody seeing me and I can feel eyes on me. Strangers smile at me and I used to walk down this little road, university something and count the looks from the English students who had their class before me. Then I'd check in the reflection of a car to check I wasn't odd. Odd beyond my own control, I mean. Go away, go away but I'm vain and I need the uncomfortable glances. I need to know I'm worth looking at.

I'm starting new again come September. Another year with another class and it will be pointless like all my classes are pointless. It will be my seventh first year subject with my first two second year subjects. And I wish I could go back, I wish I could be in 3rd year like everyone else but I was weak and tired and I just wanted to get in. I thought it would take care of itself but my problem is I can learn it and I can read it and I can understand but I cannot speak. Je peux l'apprendre et je peux l'lire et je peux l'comprendre mais je ne peux pas l'parler. I want a revolution, I want a cause to fight for and I want to spin down those streets and find a hand to pull me close and let me know

it's just another morning before the world wakes up and I boil the kettle. Good morning.

Thinking about puddles, puddles and mistakes

I didn't tell you about my dream the other night. I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget but I just could not be bothered blogging. Funny thing I sometimes forget I have actually posted something here. There's a post here for almost every day and I often have no memory of writing it.

Anyway, dream. It started in a street, there was some fuss about a dress, I don't remember this part too hot, but there was a big fuss anyway and then sometime later this little girl skipped past me to hail a cab. Big yellow New York one like cabs always should be. She had her long hair in a french braid, I remember because I can't do it but my aunt could and she used to twist my hair on top of my head when I was little and my hair stretched all the way down my back. I was watching a programme just there and this girl had this wondrously long braid and I sort of want that. I also sort of want to chop it pixie again but I probably won't. So she skipped out, dragging a suitcase and she was wearing the dress. Black and white and skimming her ass as she leaned into the road. She slid into the cab and the boy with me whistled. We were in the jungle. We stayed in the trees not wanting to touch the swamp. My view cut to the three guys on the other side. They were posed smiling bubbles under the water and I worried. He told me not to care and then I lost any control over the dream. There was a crocodile. They panicked but it was in the way of the only exit. But an Irish guy threw a rock, and he kept on throwing stuff until it was buried under some sort of large computer. I saw this scene so many different times. I kept waking up, and then I'd shut my eyes again and see it and I couldn't understand why so I made my Irish man who switched into many different men and eventually started to cry kick the computer which was now a box off and there was the dead crocodile staring at the trio with the dress and a braid in its teeth.

"This is fucked up. Fuck you guys," said my Irish man and he started throwing stones again at something else and then my mum woke me up by hovering by the end of my bed and I freaked out.

I want to take you far from the cynics in this town

I have decided

to wear this skirt forever.

Hell it even makes the burn on my finger look good. God how I love you, Barnados. You and your creepy as fuck giant moths and kinda pretty but also kinda ugly girl at the till that always smiles and approves of my choices. She has the warmest smile. See on anyone else I'd be turned off and resent the intrusion into my weekly browse but on her it makes me feel glad I stopped in and even gladder when I find something truly great.

Like this skirt. Hot damn. It's like the perfect length and it sits on my hips just right and it's such an odd colour I could wear it with anything and it feels amazing like I may have already said. Dear god, I'm in love. And I was going to go out and show it off today but my dad forgot to pay my wages so I'm skint. I may have to go for a walk.

Summer don't know me no more

Guys, guys see this skirt?

I paid a fiver for this skirt. It feels amazing. Seriously, I could touch this skirt forever which is gonna be a problem when I wear it out. Be like the time I had these amazing feeling tights and I couldn't keep my hands off myself. Not appropriate but my god, it feels amazing.

Walking down to work I found a letter on the ground. I didn't read much of it, was something medical about a consultation about cosmetic surgery on the eye area. It was kinda weird. I don't like invading people. It's like I'd like to read Sylvia Plath's diaries but she never intended them to be published so I don't buy them. I feel weird even reading certain blogs and hell if I find a mention of myself I stop reading. Saying that I listen into conversations all the time and I watch arguments so maybe I'm talking shit. Wouldn't be anything new. I was gonna do a post about how much I adore Cibo Matto but I can't really be bothered. They are great though. If you want cute Asian girls (one of which was Noodle for a little while) singing nonsense about food and Obi Wan well they're your band.

Why don't you tell it like it really is

I had a flurry of writing earlier this week. Every moment I had to spare I was curled up with a notebook and several pens sticking out of me. I lose most of them in my hair to be honest. They make for good chopsticks. While I was out the other day, after I had successfully burnt myself, my mother took pity on what was the floor of my room and hoovered it for me. In doing so she recovered at least six bics which is awesome because now I have a choice of pen. Anyway I've been writing. I've not touched my only finished piece because blehh I have too many issues with it, I can't progress with my French one until well I go to France and I'm just polishing up the pieces I can write with absolute confidence. It's a rather cheery piece though and I'm not consistently cheerful enough to really dig in and get all of it out of my head. It's there though and there's a lot of notes and stuff so it won't fade like a lot of stories do if I neglect them for too long.

My third one is the one that's consuming me. It's not helped by the fact that I've been reading Bukowski and Palahniuk. I want to write male. See all my best pieces, the ones I am truly proud of and other people have read, all those ones are from a male perspective and I'm always really scared about doing that. I want a voice obviously, because an author without a voice is just a story teller, but I want to be able to write something different everytime and be recognisable without being easy to identify if you follow. Like oh that's by the same author but what in the hell is that person like. I guess it stems from the fact that when I think of a writer I think of something masculine. I started this third thing as a experimental piece. I was a little bored, sick of looking at my old stuff and thought fuck it. I'm on holiday, I'm unemployed, I just sorted out what I want university wise (though I can't make it happen until August but at least I know what I want now and yes it is pointless but hey), I'm more or less on top of this thing called life because I essentially tried a month or so of just not giving a damn. But this thing I'm writing, it's ridiculous and it was really just a filler until I came up with something good. Somehow I've objectified my only female character and if she isn't nagging, she's giving my narrator a hard on. I swear I did not intend this. I was going to write it from her point of view, instead I'm some sarcastic drunk guy in his thirties hanging around with kids and God waiting to ride out the apocalypse in relative safety. And it is backwards. And it's like I'm proud of it but I don't want anyone to read it because it is ridiculous and I can't tell if it's just pretentious nonsense or if it's a goddamn masterpiece. I'm either fantastic or I'm insane or I'm rather dull. We'll see how it goes. I know it's daft to aim so low as to want to be a writer but that is all I want. It's not what I'm going for, I need a job and a career and a life since I cannot picture a marriage or kids. But you know I've wanted it since I was about six years old so why shouldn't I hope to achieve it? If I don't hold on to it I'm left with not a lot after all.

continued on pain of Julie attackegg

So yesterday I managed to be very very dumb and burn myself on the toastie machine. I got to watch the blister form under the tap it was pretty freakin cool let me tell you, only at the time I was not a happy kitty. Julie came through to enquire after her dinner and found me with my hand in a cup of water sobbing like a big girl. She was all iffy and hovering around until I showed her that I had in fact hurt myself.

"Thank god. Thought it was emotions." she proceeded to pat my head and call me a big wuss. "I mean sometimes I'm so tough I just stick my whole face in the machine, for laughs." It was her way of showing she cared. So after it stopped hurting quite so much my mum bundled me up and dragged me down to the pharmacist so three pharmacists could inspect me. They weren't patronising or anything but it was still pretty daft. Was like when I was in primary school. I always hated going to the office and showing them my skint knees. It's like I'm really just letting someone else tell me that yes, you have hurt yourself, silly girl. Don't make it worse. I'm being careful as hell. I mean I burn myself quite often, just little ones. 1st degree since Julie was so keen to tell me that my finger is 2nd degree burned.

"1st degree=red line. 2nd degree=blister. 3rd degree=FACE FALL OFF. In fact Catherine we best cut your finger off now just in case."

Julie also checked on me while I slept to make sure I didn't lie on my hand. So sweet right?

Well until she remembered I'd promised to bake her some cookies this week.

"When you gonna get in the kitchen and make me a tasty snack, bitch?" It was difficult, shall we say, but I managed it although I didn't even attempt to crack eggs with a finger out of commission.

J'aime ça! is Julie's cry of delight

I had a hankering for an ice pole. Yes, it's cold and wet and miserable outside but fuck it, I have an imagination, I can pretend! The shop only had these insane pod like nonsense so we settled for Calippos. Or Julie did and I had this Ribena knock-off one which wasn't bad but you know, no artificial anything so a little more bland than usual. I was whining about the lack of real ice poles and Mum was all they had them, shurrup.

"No! Those were stupid ones. Real ones are neon bright and like a foot long." Here I extended my arms (with caution for reasons I'll come back to) rather wide. Distance and measurement were never my strong points.

"Boys must love you," my mother laughs and I choke on my iced treat. THEN JULIE WAS AWESOME

To Andrew of Campbell Street

I am sorry you could not possibly know that just because I was up dancing and laughing that I would be fun and/or easy. This is mostly due to the fact that I'd wanted to go home at 11 and it was coming up for 3. I was drunk on corona, jack and tequila because it was £1 a drink so why the hell not and annoyed that I was still there, that I'd been id'd at the bar (never happens), that my order was questioned several times even though I'd spoken loud, clear and confidently, that I looked like shit because my hair was such a mess all I could manage was pigtails. This is also due to the fact that your face was problematic. Angles I could not understand and facial hair like that thing you did in science, you know, with magnets and crumbs of metal. Also you made the mistake all men make of using the words "you should". I don't care what you are recommending I do, don't fucking say it. I will not be told what I should be doing. And you had the cheek to try to goad me into dancing more. I mean you were fucking asking for it.

So that is why I laughed in your face constantly and shrugged off your stares. That is why when Last Night came on I leapt up and bounced out of my heels and dipped my ass to the ground because Kirsty did not know how to do it. That is why I did not acknowledge you trying to dance behind me. That is why I leaned back so close and darted out of your way every time you tried something. That is why I left without saying goodbye and ignored you outside and when you demanded a hug I sighed so loudly at the taxi door and half-heartedly waved an arm out. I'm so sorry you were too interested, I'm sorry I slid away when you tried to kiss me. I'm sorry that she was so drunk that she cried half the night because her life is a mess.

I'm sorry that while I was trying to calm her down I was busy trying to find the perfect phonetic spelling for the next line in my next novel. I'm sorry that at 5am my hand found my phone in my jeans and typed tequila headache oww but did not send it because 'it's the wonder of communication and why should I send knowledge of my crippling hangover over the sea?'

I'm not sorry that I went home early even though I had to get her out of bed and my heels echoed too loudly down her street. By doing so I calmed the resent in my chest, I gave a man directions to a street he was already on and I saw Glasgow laid out before me covered in clouds. I wanted to scream louder than anything that I fucking loved my city but I can't stay here any longer.

I am slowly losing my mind.

Me, my mum and my dad were watching newsnight last night. Or rather my dad was trying to and my mum was all 'it's my birthday stop it' after already changing the channel to Swiss Railway Journeys and insisting we watch it until she got bored. So we're watching the news and suddenly my dad waves at us to shush because he knows the woman who's sitting at the table. My mum laughs and says 'I have never seen her when she wasn't wasted' and then it cuts to another woman on the screen. "A professor! Fucking joke," cries my father at the woman's subtitle. "Is she nervous or something? She looks uncomfortable," my mother asks. "No, she's just really fucking fat." And then we all hugged. I do so love watching BBC programmes with my dad. I like to know who hates who and who got really trashed at some wedding.

My hair last night was the curliest it's ever been. You've never seen my hair like that. This morning however, I might have spent two hours with the ghds and it'd never sit like this. SERIOUSLY WHAT HAPPENED? I have no before picture though so you'll just have to take my word for it.

Go without, until the need seeps in

I have this spectacular bruise on my leg from where this metal bin kalumped into me. Now maybe it was because I was swinging it around and maybe it was because I was dancing a little bit because I was bored of carting it up and down the stairs to get the recycling from the recycling bin to the big ole plastic bag and I was trying to get my mind off whatever that weird yellow crusty food thing was on the side of one the containers but hey, not my fault. It doesn't hurt mind. It's just turning funny colours. I've got a thing about bruises, not a sexual thing just a fascination. Probably because I'm always covered in them. I walk into a lot of doors. It's the colour changing aspect. Ooh let's be poetic and say it's like autumnal leaves or a tacky mood ring. Helen had this fantastic one on her hip. It was nasty looking, all purple and red. My dad (apparently) had a great one where the doctor had leant on him during surgery but he didn't want to show me and I didn't pester him. Mostly due to placement.

Ok so less weird I checked out the website of the new lingerie shop that opened on Ingram Street. Just to see if it truly is as expensive as I thought it might be. The website had a sale. So now instead of paying £80 for a bra (a bra and nothing else mind, if you want the matching thong, knickers, shorts, suspender belt, cami or basque well you're screwed my friend and not in the way you might be if you could purchase these things) you can pay £50! You know what £50 is to me? Two weeks wages and two weeks further away from my goal. But I thought, well it's ok. I don't have a boyfriend anyway and most of this stuff is impractical for reasons other than boyfriend so just click away and look at shops you can afford. Like Oxfam. But you see the hosiery button taunted me. Girls all have their weaknesses. Handbags, shoes, underwear, jewellery. Mine is nylon. I can't actually shut my drawer where I keep my tights and socks. I only wear my knee high socks around the house when it's cold (so always), I don't wear the fishnets anymore and the neon pink ones are stuffed in the back. I tore a hole in my favourite ones and forgot to buy another pair, I may do that next week actually if I can find them again. I tore another hole in my overly pretty ones but I stitched it back up so we're fine. I'm truly awful with hold ups though. It's pretty safe to say if I wear 'em they'll get trashed. I mean the last pair I wrecked by putting them in my pocket. With my keys. Not so smart.

Point is I clicked and browsed and thought oh hey these are quite nice but pricey, ah well.

And then I saw the most utterly impractical and gorgeous ones. They lace up the back of your legs with ribbon like a corset and just looking at them does funny things to the pit of my stomach. £46 for 1 pair that I could not wear in public and would most definitely ruin instantly. I need me a rich man.

J'y suis jamais allé

We were snuggled up tight like kittens with my arm holding her waist tight so she wouldn't fall into the river. The jut of my thumb grazed her breasts and there was a wall of blazing red frills between her thighs and mine. I shook her awake when we passed Notre Dame. There was a raft that was supposed to be an island with too many people on it so it was in danger of sinking everytime somebody moved.

"Priests!" shouted she for they were priests indeed and so there was a lot of moving because one would kneel down and two would stand up and so on. "Catholics!" At this point my brain gave up on me because nothing was making sense and decided to toss all of us into the freezing water and I drowned. Red frills and ribbon wrapped around my middle and tied me to the bottom of the riverbed while the priests bobbed up and down, drowning and then not, and one would kneel down and choke while two would stand up and so on.

I woke up to the distant sound of a marching band which I assume was the orange lodge because it nearly always is at this time of year and because it makes the dream infinitely better if that was so.

I just remembered my dream last night

There were four of us, three guys and me. Of the three two were guys I knew but one I couldn't place. There were a lot of other people too mostly female and they kept throwing things at me because I wasn't paying them attention. Cards were thrust in my hand and I tried to tell them I didn't know how to play poker but instead I said hell yes I want to play. I was originally on a red chair but I slowly slid off but before I fell to the ground a fourth guy (who I also knew) pulled me onto his lap. He took the cards from me, stuck his tongue in my ear and I told him what cards the other guys were holding. They had showed me them when I admitted I didn't know how to play so he asked me and I had a long debate about the morals of cheating in a poker game because there's the bluffing which is just lying which is just cheating and anyway then I hid under the table. There was this huge book but I couldn't read the words properly because I kept getting kicked so I gave one leg a paper cut and he chased me round and round the table until I threw one of the girls at him and then I woke up.

Now I almost didn't post this because I firmly believed this had happened and even now as I type it all out I cannot say for certain that I didn't try to play poker at some point this week and have made an ass of myself by saying 'oh yeah I had this poker dream, crazy times'. It's a worry.

On the other hand there's a Jimi Hendrix concert on tv right now. It is freakin' awesome but that should be obvious.

Calippos are fantastic

Julie dragged me down to the supermarket. "If you wish to eat dinner tonight, come with me" were her words. "Could you buy some lentils" asked mum and thus this was the reason. My english is pretty bad at the moment so bear with me. I staggered down the road, bleary eyed and aching while Julie shoulder charged me and waved her hands before my eyes. "Are you hungover?" "Rehhh" was my response. I think I mumbled that I drank absinthe and she asked if I saw the green fairy like Moulin Rouge. I did not for I did not drink fairy liquid amounts. "What did you see then?" "The ceiling. The floor. My hair all fooof."

BORING.

Then she said we must buy ice lollies and we did and it was awesome.

So since this is really turning into a blog about the films I watch here are the films I watched.

I saw The Bride Wore Black which was very Frenchly funny and some images were completely stolen for Kill Bill. The best thing about it was it was such an old reel. There were the join jumps and crackles and squiggles and I love all that.

I saw A Film With Me in It and though I kind of feared it would be I'm Dylan Moran, Irish and alcoholic (not that that would be bad it's just I worried the whole film would be lost in this) but it was really good in an Irish depressing hilarious way.

I saw The Fall which was gorgeous.

I watched The Big Sleep which was damn near perfect. I freaking love this film and I'm sad I waited so long to watch it since it's on vhs and hassle.

I watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The only response is what? I do not know. I think I liked it. Maybe. I liked staring at it and I liked listening but seriously what?

I think that's me. I'm making a small dent in my films to watch pile but I'm getting to the foreigns and my eyes are tired for glasses. Dinnertime now!

Girl I'm just a jeepster for your love

So me and Julie went to the supermarket yesterday for alcohol and chocolate. It's the best cure for what ails ya. Somewhere in the pizza aisle my sister says the following:

"You'd tell me if you were a big gay, right?"

No, I'd keep it a big secret and live a double life. Straight and narrow by day, wild and lesbian by night. NOBODY WILL NOTICE BECAUSE I WILL WEAR A DISGUISE. OF GLASSES. AND BAD HAIR.

OWAIT