I feel.

I feel wonderful.

I woke at 6:30 this morning, because I had to catch the 7:45 bus to school. I didn't want to get up so I tried to reset my alarm to 7, for an extra half hour of snoozing. The buzzer kept going off anyway, even though the little hand was no where near the alarm hand. "Oh crafty alarm clock," I thought to myself, "You have bested me again."

It was dark at the bus stop but I felt lovely and fresh, even though my nose was extraordinarily cold. When we were driving I was looking at the little hills covered in snow and thought they looked just like the sand dunes at home in the dimness of the morning.

I just got home from the Christmas party at school. I did not enjoy that. I'm tired of standing on the edge of a group pretending to have friends. But I'm going home so soon.

I left a little early so I could run to the shop to get shampoo, toothpaste and cashew nuts before my bus arrived. I slipped on the icy path and laughed very loudly. People looked at me like I was crazy.

It's very windy outside and it's swirling the snow around as it falls, and blowing it off the roof in huge sheets. It's all very pretty.

I'm content, and I'm looking forward to a cosy family Christmas and an explosive New Years Eve.

Life is glorious.

So here's me.

So here's me taking a break from writing to... Write.

Well, I don't know what else I expected. Writing is all I can do.

I feel a bit like I'm going insane, but I expect that's down to being sick and exhausted. My sleeping patterns are all messed up again. I am tired, but I can't sleep. I tried. I can't.

It's 4:30am.

Last night I was at the window watching the snow falling and crying. I didn't remember how I got there. I'd been on the couch moments before.

An hour ago I found myself standing up, holding a plate in one had and a sandwich in the other, watching one of the cats playing with a bug it'd found. I don't remember making a sandwich.

Maybe I'm sleep walking or something.

I have this weird sensation of time passing really really slowly, but also incredibly fast. I've had it before, many times. It makes me feel queezy.

I'm writing my SRP still but it's difficult it's turning into a debate. I'm arguing with myself about Nature vs. Nurture, Savagery vs. Civilization, Good vs. Evil.

I feel young, but not in the carefree, I-have-my-whole-life-ahead-of-me (which I do) way. It's different. It's strange.

I'm sick of thinking and writing sequentially. Life isn't like that. Not really.

Have I been watching too much Ashes to Ashes?

I'm in.

I'm in the hospital with a severe throat infection. It's pretty shit to be honest. Tomorrow I will probably have an operation to get my pesky tonsils and the gunk in my throat taken out. Then it'll be pain and ice-cream for a week. Joy.

After midnight tonight I'm not allowed to eat or drink anything in preparation for the surgery.

Before today, I hadn't eaten a meal in 10 days. Hospital food tasted like it was fucking gourmet. Also kind of felt like the last supper.

I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to think about before I get knocked out. They say you usually dream about what you think about just before you fall asleep. I've heard good things about general anesthetic-induced sleep, so I don't want to waste the opportunity ;)

Currently have antibiotics dripping into me, which is making it a little awkward to type. I've had this needle inserted into me for the past two days.


I'm in a two person room but I'm the only one here. There was this old lady before who told every nurse her life story and snored last night. Now she's gone and so is her bed, which makes the room feel rather empty.

Now I'm tired.

When I eat M+M's.

When I eat M+M's, I arrange them according to their colors.

I line them up in columns starting with the color I only have one of, then the color I have two of, and so on.

Today I had two orange ones, and two yellow ones. I tried to decide which color to place first, but I couldn't decide which one I preferred.

I brought my head down so that my eyes were level with the table. Upon closer inspection, I could see that one of the yellow M+M's was slightly misshapen.

Disgusted - but also perversely delighted, as this solved my dilemma for me - I ate it.

Now, my M+M graph was perfect, I thought. But even as I looked at the little colored circles I felt a pang of regret for what I'd done.

This was discrimination and segregation at it's worse.

Shaking my head sadly, I carefully gathered all of my little chocolate friends together in my left hand.

I ate them all in one mouthful.

I figure.

I figure it's about time I write another entry here.

I've been so busy lately. Just finished up a five day weekend, which turned into a six day one as I pulled a sicky yesterday, and now a seven day one, as my classes were canceled today.

I could write all about what I did during those five days, but I feel like I haven't got time. It's ridiculous, because really, I have all the time in the world. I'm sitting here on my laptop, drinking my coffee in the kitchen, in Europe, for fucks sake. No uni or anything to worry about. But I know that there are things I should be doing - things I've been putting off for weeks.

Oh, fuck it, I don't even care.

My life at the moment is all about the writing. I can't remember if I've said so in here but I'm doing nanowrimo this year. It's where you have to write a novel of 50 000 words in the 30 days of November. But because I was doing so much over the weekend, I missed four whole days of precious writing time. As a result, I spent most of yesterday typing furiously in my room. I'm now on just over 10 000 words, which is no where near enough.

Anyway, how about an excerpt? Yes, I think this is altogether necessary:


Making up his mind he glanced in both directions and crossed the street. Cassie turned when she heard him approach. She looked frustrated at first, but when she saw him her face lit up, and she smiled.

“Oh, hello,” she said, “What are you doing here?”

“I live across the road,” he answered, pointing, and she nodded in understanding.

“I live a few houses down,” she said. He almost said, “I know,” but stopped himself just in time and instead returned her nod and asked,

“What are you doing?”

He could see now that she was holding a piece of paper and a roll of sticky tape in one hand, and that she had a bunch of the same paper wedged in her sling.

“I'm putting up posters,” she replied, and handed him a sheet. It read, in bold, black font, “LOST: AIR GUITAR. If found, please call or text 0384 667 766”. Ed looked back up at Cassie and was greeted with a half smile. He laughed,

“Do you think anyone will actually reply to this?” he said, handing it back to her.

“I intend to find out,” she answered, before turning back to her work. Ed watched as she placed the paper against the the tree, then proceeded to hold it in place with her forehead while she attempted to blindly tape it on. He laughed again,

“Do you need a hand?”

She looked sideways at him from her strange position and grinned,

“I was beginning to think you weren't going to offer at all.”

Yesterday I got.

Yesterday I got to the bus stop 45 minutes early so I sat and read. It was rainy and windy but I was fairly nicely bundled up in my coat. I had a diet coke.

I read Olalla, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Before reading it, I was not a fan of his at all. I have of course read both Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and they were such let downs for me. Olalla, on the other hand, I loved. The plot and the language were much better constructed, and the characters were considerably less annoying.


The day was perfect for reading this kind of text. It was gray and over-cast, but I didn't find it depressing. It was beautiful. The air was fresh and clean.

The one thing that upset me was the sheer amount of cigarette butts all over the ground around me. Smoking is a disgusting habit - I've always felt like this - but what saddened me the most was that it brought up a memory I'd forgotten; I smoked a cigarette on Saturday night while under the influence.

Why do I drink? Nothing good ever comes of it. I always regret things I've done on a big night out. One day soon I'm certain that I'm going to do something terrible and irreversible after consuming alcohol. Will this thought stop me from drinking? I am 100% certain that it will not. Aren't I ridiculous?

Well, I am what I am.

Just a quickie.

Just a quickie to say that I am totally addicted to freerice.com.

It's non-profit website where you answer questions on your choice of subjects. For every correct answer, 10 grains of rice are donated to the United Nations World Food Program to help end hunger.

It's such an easy way for people to make a difference :)

So what are you waiting for? Go go go!!

I am so.

I am so so tired but feeling very content right now. I don't know why.

I woke up very early this morning to get to school on time. I'm not a morning person at all and I need at least an hour and a half to start functioning properly.

It was pitch black when I woke - like the middle of the night. And then when I went out to the bus stop it looked like this:


It was really very pretty. Oh, and the photo is really bad quality cause I took it on my phone ;)

What was the point of this post again?... Oh well, off I go. Lalala.

I am no writer.

I am no writer. A writer can convey emotions through words.

A writer would be able to say that she wants to die - in some ways - but that in others she knows life goes on, and that death solves nothing.

A writer would scribble down the fact that she hates that she is no longer in control; that she doesn't know what's going to happen in the future and that that's what hurts the most.

She would say she doesn't know how she feels.

She would describe a knot in her stomach and a lump in her throat and a weight on her heart that she doesn't understand.

A writer would jot down that she cries not for unrequited love, but because she's not sure what love is, if she's had it, if she's lost it, if she'll find it or even if it exists at all.

But I am no writer. I'm just a girl.

Nothing to be done.

Nothing to be done when hopes are dashed.

When something keeps you going and then something goes away, it's just a matter of finding something new, right?

But what if you don't want anything different, because what you had before was perfect?

What do you do then?

What happens to a person who can not maintain hope?