The Blog The PhotoBlog The Current Robcam Image My Ever-Expanding Music Collection My Bookshelf NOT YET READY The basic info about me which you might need. She hates her job, but she won't leave. Instead she'll moan. Genius. Possibly crazy, but thankfully as inept financially as myself. My favourite blogging student lesbian. Not that there are loads. Just another student, raking his way through the daily pile of crap. Life in Canada. It's scarily poignant at times. Not preaching, more informing. With laughs, beer and tall tales. London's resident party animal and freebie fanatic. Can you feel the sleaziness? Yet another one of us blogging student types. Except he's funny. Sort of... Glorious b+w white photos of London and other places. Simply the most passionate blogger around. His days must be full to bursting with things to do just to put on the blog. A Scottish mother who loves the pipes. Read into that what you will. A great little blog by an American college girl. She even plays a British sport... Yet another of us blogging students. Yes, we really are that lazy. A Swedish (I think) guy who includes me in his 'Blogs As Literature' section. i.e. possibly mad. A London blogger who is fascinated by the overall concept of blogging. He's written a few papers on the subject too. One if the most dedicated blogs, a Londoner who gets up to fifty times as much stuff as I ever do. A British media student / graduate who loves his music. And his boozing. A disgruntled teacher, buried somewhere in Europe. A Canadian mother who seems to like my blog. The so-called Expert Analysis of this very blog, as spoofed by one of my ex-housemates. An American girl who has a thing for British guys. Fair play. An Aussie guy who used to be on a messageboard I was on a while back. The single greatest source of news the web has ever seen. And it's British! My source of Arsenal-related news and gossip. Also has fantastic forums. Where I get my mp3s. Oh-so-cheap and oh-so-easy to use. Fairness & Accuracy In Reporting. A US-based media watchdog. Where I get all of my torrenty goodness. Good forums for newbies too. Gathers together hundreds of news sources from across the web, and is the best place for instant news. An English political and media commentary site, with some brilliant articles on all manner of topics. Groups together all of the left-leaning opinion and editorial pieces from English-language newspapers across the world. Previous Blog List All Blogs A Random Blog Next Blog

Saturday, January 31

Afternoon

As you can tell from the post below, I was quite depressed last night, probably even more so by the time I got home. I was so tired as well, which probably didn't help.

I crashed into bed, and slept for a good 12 hours, which I needed so badly. I'm finding it very difficult to sleep during the week, perhaps only getting 5 hours a night. I make up for it on the weekend, sleeping at least 11 hours each day, but I still feel tired by the time Monday morning comes around. I don't think this sleeping pattern is at all healthy, and when combined with my diet of recent weeks, it amounts to a particularly unhealthy lifestyle. But so be it. I'll abuse my body, it'll cope.

I haven't spoken to anyone since I got up a few hours ago. I don't know why, I just can't be bothered with doing anything right now. I've been in my room, tidying it, typing here and hunting down obscure tunes on Kazaa. Yes, I'm doing illegal things. Big wow.

I got a package from my parents today, containing a German grammar book that I asked for (because I suck at grammar), a cd with Nero, the CD-burning program on it (because Media Player won't burn CDs properly at the moment), and the silver necklace that I asked for (because I wanted a present from the 100 that my nan gave me for Christmas).

I don't generally wear any jewellery, not even a watch. However, I've sort of wanted a silver necklace for a while, and this seemed like the ideal opportunity to get one. It's really, really cool. It's not at all big and chunky, but very discrete and quite light. I'm going to have to get used to wearing it all the time though, including sleeping in it. Do I wear it in the shower? Does silver react with water badly? Like I said, I don't wear jewellery, so I don't know. Think I'd better play safe with it...

Yesterday And Last Night

I'm working a few days in arrears, so apologies for that.

Yesterday was such a fucking long day. I was up at 7, after only a few hours sleep. For some random reason, I stayed up until gone 2 in the morning, playing online Literati (i.e. Scrabble by a non-copyrighted name) at Yahoo Games, whilst watching the second series of The League Of Gentlemen on DVD with Matt and Chindle. Stupid, I know. I didn't even win the games!

Anyway, I was fucked by the time I woke up, really tired still. Plus I had to deal with rush hour on my way into uni. That's always good fun. The lecture was alright, as lectures go, and then I hopped back onto the Tube to come home again. I did a few hours work (which entailed spending the first hour tidying my room, since it was a bit of a mess, and I just refuse to work under those conditions. Plus I was trying to put off doing the work), and went back to uni for a tutorial. Again, I quite enjoyed myself, and had a good time with a few friends in there.

I went up to the Waterfront straight away, with Jenni, a really cool Kiwi friend of mine. I knew that a couple of my housemates were going to be there, getting smashed early in preparation for a big (ish) night out at Phase, the name of the Friday night "spectacular" (ahem) at Tutu's. I really wasn't in the mood for getting wasted, and to be honest I wasn't even in the mood for just a beer or two before going home. Nevertheless, I went and drank beer.

I was so tired, and came very close to falling asleep in the Waterfront a number of times. But, for some stupid reason, I got a ticket for Phase and decided to go have a good time. Which didn't happen, in the end.

We went up there at about 10.30ish, and went straight to the bar. Malibus were dirt cheap, so I was on the double Malibus and Coke. Sickly, sickly sweet, but then I have a very sweet tooth. I could feel them starting to hit me, but I still wasn't that drunk.

We were all sat round this table on the edge of the dancefloor, chatting away and laughing at random shit. But, yet again, I could feel myself slipping into depression and a bad form of melancholy. The "why even bother" mood was hitting me like a ton of bricks. I just could face being in that place any longer, alone in a room with 500+ people in it. I had to get out and go home. I said my goodbyes quickly to a few mates, told them I'd see them back at home a little later.

I grabbed my stuff from the cloakroom, and headed to the bus stop to wait for the N13 home. I remembered that I had my notebook on me, as always, so I began to write. The original intention was to write the first of a possible series of columns to go into ROAR, the student newspaper at King's. Seeing as I was in a depressed mood, and constantly being reminded by myself that I am STILL single, I decided to title it "Tales of A Twenty Year-Old Virgin."

I wrote, and I wrote some more on the bus. However, rather than being an insightful but yet humourous look at dating and relationships in the world today, it became a very introspective and depressing look at myself. It became a rant about nothing in particular, and to no-one in particular. It was no longer fit for publication in ROAR, so it is without further ado that I present to you here:

Tales Of A Twenty Year-Old Virgin

Why do I write this? Do you think that it is therapy? Do you think that it is a place to vent anger, to let off steam? Do you think that it is a cry for help? Do you think that it is a request for a solution to the problem?

It is none of these.

It is a story, and it is a story worth telling. I am me and there is nothing you can do about it. You read it. You like it, or you don't. I don't write for a response or for sympathy. I write because I write. There is no ulterior motive, no underlying reason for the existence of this writing. It is, and shall be.

I write because I write. I repeat myself, I cover the same subject areas. I am cliched, unoriginal and boring. I am the same as everyone else.

Except that I have never known the touch of the opposite sex. I am an unplucked flower, an innocent being, the Infant Joy that Blake adores. I have no songs of experience, but yet I feel that I cannot sing songs of innocence.

I have innocence, yes, but I am corrupt. I have been corrupted, but without acquiring the experience of corruption. I have but anecdotes, learned material and an imagination. I have no experience on which to draw. I am but a frost-bitten flower, devoid of petals, but unpicked. Unloved and unappreciated. Who would want just a stem?

Part 2

Who do I bother?

Why do I subject myself to the torment that is having a night out? I have no reason to go out, to resign myself to sitting at the side of the dancefloor, alone, questioning why I am having such a bad night out, but so many are having the time of their lives.

Why is it that I cannot force myself onto that dancefloor, into that meat-market and the possibility of ending the evening in another's arms? Can I not just drop the pretence of being infallible and uber-confident for 10, 20, 100 minutes at a time?

I AM confident. I swear that I am. I am confident around friends, in classes, around members of the opposite sex that I know. Place me with a random person whom I find even slightly attractive, however, and I fall to pieces.

It is a never-ending spiral. The older I get lacking this confidence, the worse it becomes. Every day without success adds to the feeling of "Why bother?". Why build myself up for success, only to be let down, to be dismayed, to be destroyed? The simpler option is to do nothing, to remain aloof, perhaps even unattainable.

I want the world to fall into my lap, not to go hunting for it. I don't want to smell my own fear, to taste the bitterness of defeat, to take that innocuous-looking pill of self-humiliation.

"Yeah, go on, do it. What's the worst that could happen?"

I have no inkling as to the worst that could happen because my fear of it happening is so overwhelming as to block all ration thought concerning the possible outcomes.

Fine, I could be told "No, I'm not interested". My fear, however, is telling me that I will be laughed at, mocked, DESTROYED.

How to overcome this fear? Why bother? The fear rules me, and I suffer no ill effects, save for the periodic bouts of depression, loneliness and general incapacitance. Absence of fear does not solve these problems, it merely removes them. If any semblance of the fear returns, then so does the intensity of the problem. I find myself unable to cope with the problem, but yet unwilling to face it.

The problem is me, and I am the problem. The problem would not exist without me, and I would not be me without my problem. Yossarian would be proud.

Great Hall, King's College

Phone call from my Mum: My Dad's just got back from Dubai, and he's got me the silver necklace I asked for. Fucking A. No idea what it looks like, but hopefully he's followed my instructions as to what I asked for. We'll see.

As for right now, I'm sitting in the Great Hall at King's, awaiting the arrival of Desmond Tutu to give his talk on (let me find my ticket) "The Truth and Reconciliation Commission". And apologies to Mr Tutu, if he's reading this, since his full title is Archbishop Desmond Tutu. I imagine that is is immensely proud that the King's College Student Union nightclub is named after him. I've had far too many late nights and drunken shenanigans at Tutu's that I care to remember. In fact there's many that I can't actually remember.

Speaking of which, what I hate most about being drunk is how I get introduced to people, then meet them later in the week. They know my name, and who I am, but I don't remember ever meeting them. *hangs head in shame*

Thursday, January 29

Bus, Finchley Road

Cool. Cold, in fact.

I'm on way back (again) to King's to go to a lecture being given by Desmond Tutu. Yes, THE Desmond Tutu. He of being African and being religious and all-round great fame.

Metropolitan Line, Southbound

Stupid arsing Tube delays. One thing you do not want to see on the message board at the Tube station is that the next train on the line you want is 13 minutes away. It's not as if it has snowed today, and it wasn't exactly blizzard conditions yesterday. At least the Met line is working fine, so I've taken that am going to have to change. Oh joy, Baker St station at rush hour should be fun. But i'm not allowed to moan too much about Tube delays, because I just berated those who do, over at RAGE. I also put up a strenuous defence of students, a mini-diatribe that I'm quite pleased with. I might copy and paste it here later, if I remember.

Spotted - Headline in the Evening Standard: "All This Chaos From Only Two Inches Of Snow". Am I psychic or what?

Wednesday, January 28

Notebook - A Review

I think that it's time for me to take a small step back and evaluate the use of my shiny new notebook in helping me to post here. For the past few days, ALL of my posts are taken straight from my notebook. Generally, I write rambling monologues on my Tube journeys to and from uni. It's about 45 minutes each way, and I get to write for about 25 of those. You'd think that I'd be more prolific, but there you go.

I quite enjoy writing actually, since there's times when I have ideas, and times when I don't. By having this notebook on me at all times, I can write things down as soon as I think of them, rather than having to remember them when I eventually get onto a computer. I always forget the half-decent stuff, which results in there being a load of shit, boring posts, as per the last month or so.

Well, I think the posts are more interesting, and I guess that's what counts. Until next time, sports fans.

Temple Station

It's Snowing! It's Snowing! It's Snowing! It's Snowing! It's Snowing! It's Snowing!

I'm VERY excited, if a little cold.

I love how ill-equiped Britain is to deal with snow. Temple station is practically drenched all the way down to the platform. The snow is blowing in through the open doorway, and all of the people that enter are bringing puddles with them. The whole floor is about half-an-inch deep in water. Mmmm, squelching.

I can already picture tomorrow's headlines (well, those in the parts of the newspaper NOT given over to the Hutton Report): Snow Causes Chaos; Cold Draws Britain To A Standstill; Trains Break Down; etc, etc. Stupid bloody British infrastructure.

Do you know what I like doing whilst on the Tube, especially at rush hour? Looking at people. Preferably without getting caught. I like looking at how many people stare at the floor to avoid eye contact with any other person travelling. Makes me chuckle.

Jubilee Line Southbound

I have this strange feeling of apprehension about posting at the moment, and I know exactly why. Yesterday I gave a friend of mine the URL for this blog. I'm not 100% sure why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, I'm a little bit worries about what I post here, since there is someone that I speak to on almost daily basis who might be reading it. I'm more than a little concerned that I won't post anything particularly revelaing here, because I will meet this person in the "real" world and she might ask about them. Don't get me wrong, I'm not giving up on the insightful / revealing material, but I'm just worried that it might provoke an unsavoury reaction.

But to you, unnamed new reader (you know who you are), take everything you read here at face value. I never lie in what I post here, and I don't twist the truth. This for me is a kind of release, a cry of expression or an indulgence which I happen to enjoy.

I do not care who reads my life, and what they think of it / me. I write here because I choose to write, because I choose to tell my story, because I want a record of these tempestuous times in my life. Why is it public? Why do I not choose to keep an ordinary diary?

Perhaps my ego wants me to publicise myself, and to put myself onto the stage and perform for my audience. Perhaps my expressionate side needs reciprocal feelings of being acknowledged. I don't have a fucking clue what it is, but I will continue to feed it as I post here, expressing my life, my feelings and my self.

PS. Empty Tubes are great. Time to think.

Tuesday, January 27

Tube Journey Home

No. 1 in a series of 1: Things You Really Shouldn't See Whilst Walking The Streets Of London.
A man in a suit spitting on the pavement. I mean really?!

I think that I've improved from earlier on. Yes, I still think that my life is a mess, but I'm having a relatively good afternoon. My last two classes have really cheered me up. First, a lecture by (randomly) a member of the House of Lords, on alternatives to prison. We were all expecting the worst, but it was really, really (I use that word far too much) good. I put my name down on a list to get some FREE books on the subject sent through. Yes, FREE. High-class literary material for me.

Speaking of which, I applied for a vacancy at my local Books Etc store yesterday. Or at least I did after a comedy / catalogue of errors in trying to print my CV off. Stupid cheap 3rd party ink cartridges. It's a Saturday job, but I figure that I don't do anything on Saturdays anyway, and I need the money really (that word again) bad.

Getting back to today, my 2nd class was a German language one. Again, it was a one-on-one, because the other girl failed to turn up. Her loss. I like the guy who teaches it, even if he is, how shall I put it, eccentric. Think Einstein with slightly less mad hair. Anyway, we chatted in German for about 40 minutes, mostly about the difference between German and English constitutions (they have one, we don't). He then picked up on my mistakes, and gave me this sheet which is going to save me, German-wise. It's basically a sheet which lays out clearly when and how to use the words for "the" and "a". You'd think they'd be easy, wouldn't you?

You'd be wrong. They're fucking hard, and I haven't learnt them properly yet. How long until I go to live in Germany? 8 months. I'm so fucked.

And now here I am, on the Tube (= scruffy handwriting), cheered up and in a mood. Yes, I'm skipping an Evidence class, but meh. I haven't done the reading for it, and I've got another tutorial to prepare for tomorrow. Something interesting as well: Prisons and all of their paraphrenalia. A few good books from the library, some tunes on and some OJ, and I'm set up for the afternoon / evening.

Corridor, King's College

If there's one thing you don't want on your tube journey into uni, it's a fiddler. A fiddler with a banjo player in your carriage, busking (badly). Go and get a fucking job!! Surely you can earn more in a crappy job than by annoying everyone on the tube, playing shit music (loudly).

This morning was a weird one. I seem to have lost all of my enthusiasm for most of my degree, and I can't find any motivation to read the textbooks / articles that I'm supposed to before each class. This is resulting in me being behind, but I still don't seem to care. I just don't feel like I'm enjoying my time at university any more. My housemates are pissing me off, my course is pissing me off, my workload is pissing me off, my financial situation is pissing me off, and, above all, I'm pissing me off. Like I said, I've got all of these things pissing me off, but yet I do nothing about them. I don't talk about them to anybody, and I don't even have outbursts of any kind. I bottle things up, let them grow and swell, and then increase the pressure on the cork that's holding it all in. Eventually, the bottle is just going to explode.

Monday, January 26

Bakerloo Line, Northbound

Hmm, so I'm blatantly taking inspiration (read "copying") from BoysAreTurds, but so be it. I'm allowed to get inspired, aren't I?

A shiny new pen as well as a shiny new notebook. Hooray for me.

I've decided to carry this little notebook everywhere I go, along with a pen, and just write stuff down as it occurs to me. If I remember to take my camera as well, it'll be a whole new blog that people are reading. No more one-a-day (fucking tube, bouncing around) posts with a whole load of nothing as content. Nope, from now on there shall be sporadic, random and sometimes non-pointless posts, from my mind onto the page and onto the blog. When I type the notes up, that is. Or I could take photos of them. *idea forming* Ten you could see just how scruffy my handwriting is, and see the thought patterns falling onto the page.

I want somebody to sit down next to me, and start reading this over my shoulder, because then I can nonchalantly write: Why the Fuck are you reading over my shoulder? Do you not think that you're being very fucking rude?! Fuck off and let me write.

I'd like to hear a slight gasp as they realise that they've been caught. That'll teach them. Ha.

Hmm, poster for Scary Movie 3. I must go see that this weekend. I'm a slave to marketing, I know.

Speaking of which, I've got to remember to go into a couple of chain stores to ask for a job.

Sunday, January 25

Even More Worried

How do you know that drug culture amongst your generation has reached saturation point, and is now the norm?

When two guys and a girl do lines of coke in your living room, whilst you're sitting on an armchair, watching TV.

Yep, my living room has now gone from just being a smoker's paradise (just ciggies, not weed) to being a place where coke can be cut and snorted. For fuck's sake, my friends are fucked up.

The strange thing for me was just how comfortable they were doing it, and how practised they were. I already knew that Pete and Phil (for it was they) had done coke before, amongst other things, but it still shocked me to see just how normal they were around it. Personally, I'd never seen anything harder than weed in the flesh, and to see two of your best mates snorting coke as if it were an everyday occurrence is a weird experience.

I'm just glad that I didn't even get offered any, because I probably would have gone off on one about how "Drugs Are Bad" (a la South Park) and that they shouldn't do it. Fucking weirdos.
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