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Dec. 2nd, 2002
Bored.
It's twenty past ten in the morning and I'm already bored. I've been awake for an hour, which I believe is quite good for me. I need to revise a little - but I want to go out, so sue me. I really don't know whether to actually tell my mother I'm going, or what -damn my compulsive truth-telling I think I'll lie.
I feel like eating pop tarts - we do have some, but that's the only thing I feel - hungry. Hungry, and displaced, but that's nothing new. I mean, I don't feel anything, and it bothers me. I didn't put any music on until about five minutes ago. There's something uncharacteristic.
That word - "uncharacterstic" - always seems to remind me of Pedar's sense of humour. I don't know what we were talking about, but I seem to remember saying, "Why, were you going to say that was uncharacteristic of me?"
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then - "Would I do that?"
I think he might have been watching the Stargate ep Menace with me. Just a thought.
Anyway, I think it's not dififcult to glean from this hotchpotch of randomness that I have writers' block. I had a mild case of it last week, but ever since Friday, I haven't written a line. This isn't in itself so unusual - I don't always get the time to write - but what is strange is the fact I haven't been thinking about it. Usually it's close to the surface constantly, like a submerged layer just beneath my consciousness of what's going on around me - for example, if I'm idly thinking that's it's raining and I need to borrow Becca's umbrella, there's another layer underneath thinking about the details of the rain, the way it drips into my eyes and hair, the way it looks against a sky, the effect the umbrella has on it (none at all) and why it's the only thing people ever unite on - how horrible British weather is.
But now I have the feeling I have only one layer of thoughts. The depth is gone.
It's twenty past ten in the morning and I'm already bored. I've been awake for an hour, which I believe is quite good for me. I need to revise a little - but I want to go out, so sue me. I really don't know whether to actually tell my mother I'm going, or what -
I feel like eating pop tarts - we do have some, but that's the only thing I feel - hungry. Hungry, and displaced, but that's nothing new. I mean, I don't feel anything, and it bothers me. I didn't put any music on until about five minutes ago. There's something uncharacteristic.
That word - "uncharacterstic" - always seems to remind me of Pedar's sense of humour. I don't know what we were talking about, but I seem to remember saying, "Why, were you going to say that was uncharacteristic of me?"
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then - "Would I do that?"
I think he might have been watching the Stargate ep Menace with me. Just a thought.
Anyway, I think it's not dififcult to glean from this hotchpotch of randomness that I have writers' block. I had a mild case of it last week, but ever since Friday, I haven't written a line. This isn't in itself so unusual - I don't always get the time to write - but what is strange is the fact I haven't been thinking about it. Usually it's close to the surface constantly, like a submerged layer just beneath my consciousness of what's going on around me - for example, if I'm idly thinking that's it's raining and I need to borrow Becca's umbrella, there's another layer underneath thinking about the details of the rain, the way it drips into my eyes and hair, the way it looks against a sky, the effect the umbrella has on it (none at all) and why it's the only thing people ever unite on - how horrible British weather is.
But now I have the feeling I have only one layer of thoughts. The depth is gone.
I have never been wetter.
I take that back, because it's not true, but this makes it into the top ten. Bloody fucking guys who have such inferiority complexes they need to exercise their fucking masculinity by purposely driving through the deepest puddles and absolutely drenching lone girl walking home on pavement through pouring rain.
And then they have the cheek to look all offended when said lone girl gives them the finger.
So, yeah... I sneaked out into Liverpool today. My mother will hopefully never find out. It was okay... can't say it was really worth the sneaking-out thing. Maybe I should have just stayed at home.
Anyway, will go and have a shower now, to try and get rid of some of the pockets of rainwater that have collected. There are times when I loathe the male of the species.
Come to think of it, I always prefer the ones who seem in touch with their feminine sides - Darren Hayes, Kurt Cobain, Daniel Johns, JR Bourne - which makes me wonder. I read somewhere that about ten percent of the population are straight, and ten percent are gay. The other eighty percent are varying degrees of bi-curious.
So let's rephrase that. There are times when I loathe the male male of the species, taking as prime example the fucking son-of-an-inadequate-whore who drenched me.
I take that back, because it's not true, but this makes it into the top ten. Bloody fucking guys who have such inferiority complexes they need to exercise their fucking masculinity by purposely driving through the deepest puddles and absolutely drenching lone girl walking home on pavement through pouring rain.
And then they have the cheek to look all offended when said lone girl gives them the finger.
So, yeah... I sneaked out into Liverpool today. My mother will hopefully never find out. It was okay... can't say it was really worth the sneaking-out thing. Maybe I should have just stayed at home.
Anyway, will go and have a shower now, to try and get rid of some of the pockets of rainwater that have collected. There are times when I loathe the male of the species.
Come to think of it, I always prefer the ones who seem in touch with their feminine sides - Darren Hayes, Kurt Cobain, Daniel Johns, JR Bourne - which makes me wonder. I read somewhere that about ten percent of the population are straight, and ten percent are gay. The other eighty percent are varying degrees of bi-curious.
So let's rephrase that. There are times when I loathe the male male of the species, taking as prime example the fucking son-of-an-inadequate-whore who drenched me.