Any dream will do...

Terminal boredom.
I don't think I've ever been so consistently bored before. Because of boredom, I was scrolling back through all of my entries, and I've been typing "Boreded..." in most of them.
There are people here getting excited about The Bill. Weirdness.

I am so, so bored...
Maybe it's because I'm not such a fangirlie any more. And it's generally believed it's healthier not to be a fangirlie, but I disagree.

Today has been normal, so far, if you ignore the rain. The biology lab was being bombarded by hailstones this morning. This was while Becca and I were having a ridiculous conversation involving genotypes and phenotypes and Joseph and his amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It seems the song "Any Dream Will Do" is just as popular as ever.

I'm hungry. Would give worlds for a proper sandwich, but I don't think one is forthcoming.

Bored.

Going downstairs in a minute. I ought to be learning my French presentatation.
Just got a text message from Becca: "Where are thou? No nice people, am bored."

So I'm going.

Agnostic airlines...

A whole week after I decided not to do any maths coursework at all (or was it two weeks? I can't remember) I'm here again, lurking in the computer room skiving maths and listening to Konstantine.

It hasn't been such a bad day, all told, but I'm updating too much. It's only been a couple of hours since the last time, but what else do I have to do?

We didn't get the Oasis aptitude reports this morning, which makes us the last class, probably because of Mrs Chemistry Williams' general incompetence. We'll probably get them tomorrow, but I won't be concentrating because I'll be too busy panicking about my French oral. I'm not doing too badly memorising the presentation - thank the Fates, Furies and Muses for a memory like a sea sponge - but it still only gives me one night to memorise the whole second page of it. It looked like so little when it was still typed out - when I copied it out, it became two A4 pages of sprawling spiderish handwriting.

I forget that so many people here have never seen my handwriting. It's not pretty. Actually, it is - lots of twirly bits - but I never render it legibly. My grandfather's handwriting was just the same. It must be hereditary.

So... I started thinking about it critically in maths. Why am I so bored? Why do I have such a bad case of writer's block?
I don't know, still... but I thought it might be a good idea to get out of the fangirlish mindset. I am a writer. I may not be a fangirlie writer any more (perhaps not - thank god for M*A*S*H) but I am still a writer. I should still be able to write.

I know purplerainbow writes a good deal of original fiction, more than me, and it's something I enjoy. Reading and beta-ing hers gives me a great deal of pleasure, partly because I know exactly how difficult it is to write a goos short story. Hers are always sublime, of course, and I know she works at them...

I do still write original fiction on occasion. I did some not so long ago that the mailing circle thought was weird, but it was an actual piece. I was there for the birth of the idea (I was in the shower) and I got out, dried my hair and sat down at the computer. I got maybe a page done then, before I had to go downstairs. It had become a three-thousand-word short story by midnight.

So I'm still capable of it. And it's not as if I have to force myself to keep a journal any more, because at some point it stopped being a chore and became a pleasure. I'm not sure exactly when it was, but I'm glad it happened. I used to keep a paper diary, but I couldn't stick with it. This online journal has the one advantage that keeps me writing - I'm writing for an audience. Writing in a book that only I see makes me self-conscious and nervous, and consequently the writing goes to pot.

I'm still bored. But maybe I'm calmer than I was ten minutes ago; I don't know. I guess I may have reached a conclusion, finally, but the problem I've found is oddly fitting - original fiction is more difficult because there's no audience the way there is for a fanfic. People want to read my fanfic, but who wants to read my own stories?

[Earlier, Helena and I were being sceptical in an RS lesson. It was a video featuring the various airlines that take you to the afterlife - there's Air Catholocism, which features nuns waving sacrificial wine at you, and Air Atheist ("Desk Closed") and Air Krishna ("Fly Air Krishna, Fly Air Krishna") and my favourite, Agnostic Airways ("Well, I'm not really sure we can help you, as I'm not certain if we have any flights. You can buy a ticket if yoou think we will have flights later, but I'm not certain. In fact, it's not certain if we're an airline at all. I can't be sure... in fact, I can't be sure about anything...")]

I think I should go now.

Lalalalala....

Blatantly stolen from tygermoonfoxx( ... )

"Sunday, Monday, happy days..."

The guy who played Ritchie Cunningham out of the Happy Days gang (with the revolting leather jacket) was just in M*A*S*H, in the ep where Frank ends up in traction and Hawkeye cries. I love this episode. I used to love Happy Days. And I've learnt three quarters of my French presentation, so for the moment I'm happy.

I'm going to wash my hair.

"....knew it was a sin to lock them up..."

Apparently the LJ servers are screwed. I don't know if I'm going to be able to post this...

Anyway... Pedar has been bugging me tonight to print off some of the screenplay of the Shawshank Redemption. I asked him which part, he told me, and I printed it off and gave it to him, thinking he wanted it to read again and there was no need to get so stressed about it.
So I gave it to him. And came back ten minutes later just to check it was okay.

He started to tell me about John Hewitt's memorial service. John was one of Pedar's best friends as well as being the doctor who delivered me into this world.
He died several months ago from cancer. I remember the funeral for him - it happened while Pedar was out of the country and he regretted not being able to go very very much.

But the memorial service is still to come, and Pedar is going to deliver the eulogy. He was reading the last few lines of the screenplay as I came in.

"... and the part of you that knew it was a sin to lock them up rejoices. Some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright.

I guess I just miss my friend."