obsession

Would you be shocked if I told you I have an addictive personality? No. Didn't think so. I can get obsessed with nearly anything.

As my flatmates are no doubt painfully aware, this includes music. If I find a song I like, I can, and will, listen to it many many times in a row. I believe in being upfront about these things; I have a totally bizarre, and mostly atrocious, taste in music. Last week I listened to a remix of Cazal's Somebody Somewhere ten million times in succession; the week before, it was Hadouken! Declaration of War. I like bad electro, very much. (See also: long-term love-affair with Basement Jaxx).

I also adore Britney. Sorry. I had a couple of days last week where all I listened to was Nelly's Ride With Me. As I documented at the time, Bon Iver's Skinny Love got me through many dark dissertation hours. Pop, crap R'n'B, and average acoustic emotional wittering. I should be mortified if you saw the i-pod play count for My Chemical Romance's The Sharpest Lives or Blink-182's A New Hope.

I wouldn't be, though, because I own something even worse. I have a piece of music so terrible, and so utterly ridiculous, that it beats Ms Spears without batting an eyelid.
If I tell you mine, you must tell me yours...
my worst musical obsession ever, and one that I still keep on my i-pod:

the theme song for the anime cartoon Sailormoon, in English.

unrelated thoughts

Can you breast feed if your nipples are pierced?

It is not necessary to tell the boy you like that your toenail is about to come off.

I hope my mother doesn't notice that I cut my fringe myself.

R'n'B at 9am is just a bit wrong.

When did I turn into such a girl?

and I was doing so well

Have a ridiculous headache. Must stop with the get-trashed-sleep-late routine. I have little more to say about last other than I really, really should not be allowed a phone when I've been drinking. I am trying to convince myself the drunk pestering was charming, but it probably bordered more on insane.

Balls.

limbo

Bank Holiday Monday meant nothing to me at school. I still had two and a half hours of Economics. That's a lot of numbers, especially if you barely scraped a B in GCSE Maths. The calculator paper induced visible despair, to the point where my teacher tapped me on the shoulder mid-exam to ask whether I was okay. I just shrugged.

The May holidays are just as weird now. Radio One is pretty shocking anyway, but it's worse today. The weather is crap, wintery rain and grey cloud, soaking the books on my windowsill in the early hours. I'm not dressed yet.

Sudden saving grace on the radio - the strange Welsh bloke is playing Johnny Foreigner.

Happy enough, just stuck in that strange level land where there's no clear next step. No pressing academic commitments, no real need to leave the house. At least I've finally caught up on some sleep.

doris and the wank puppets

"Can you undo a bra with one hand?" I sway a little on my stool and reach out to JW, steadying myself on his shoulder.
"I have done." he says, with hesitance. I laugh.
"That" I pour more dark wheat beer into my wine glass "means no."
I drink. "It's a life skill."

Miss McG makes noises of agreement from the sofa.
I turn to the other boys.

M tells a story about removing a bra from a lady named Doris, a patient at the hospital he volunteers in. Doris is incontinent. Doris, incontinence, bra removal and M all unfortunately coincided. M wins the multi-tasking bra removal award, which consists of us all making retching noises.

"How did we get from sex to shit?" I am still drinking. I have also figured out how to use my new phone while slipping into drunkenness. This is bad for the person receiving my enthusiastic text messages.

As I hunch over my electronic downfall, Miss McG drags the conversation back towards fucking. "...had a wank puppet."
It is enough to snap me away from the messages. "What?"
"A friend of mine had a wank puppet. It was a character from that Sooty show - the little grey one. Sweep?"
"Yeah. It was called Sweep... but oh my... a wank puppet?"

The boys decline to comment further.

Eurovision parties seem to bring people closer together, certainly.

shoes! or: why I should not buy fashion magazines

Yes. Yes, I know every woman in the world is entranced by shoes. It's a common disease. I don't claim to have it any worse, though my illness is quite specific; I lust after the most ridiculous of high heels, over shoes that would cause a stripper to think twice. I am 5'3" in bare feet, so I feel 5" and over is quite justifiable.

River Island currently have some astounding yellow peep toes with a hidden platform and an ankle strap. Generally I avoid things that require buckling, and I have a really stupid reason for this so I'm not going to tell you, but these are something quite special. They're sold out online in every size but a 7. It's a serious problem. I might die without them.

I was going to tell you about my other current obsession (Indiana Jones) but he deserves a post all to himself. The film, it was good. Although quite why nobody learnt from the moan-inducing direness of the last Star Wars trilogy and let George Lucas write the story is beyond me. As I say, that's for another post.

(un)sporting

If I were to liveblog the football match that's on at the moment, my entry would be something like 'man in red is kicking the ball, man in blue has got in the way, guy with whistle is being pointy and taking the ball away'. You should be impressed that I actually know there's, like, a ball involved, and two teams.

I went through a stage of watching a lot of matches, keeping a friend of mine company in the pub across the road. I did a lot of nodding as he chattered on about fuck knows what. He supported Arsenal, of whom I approved because they had Thierry Henry, obviously God's 'sorry' gift to women who must watch football with men in pubs. Mr Henry isn't playing tonight. I expect you knew that.

The red people have scored. Much screaming. I live opposite a pub and below red people supporters.

Still, I'm enjoying the game in a girl-like way, with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and the windows open to let in the evening air. We've spent the day cleaning and I've tidied my room, cooked a curry and made up a bowl of falafel mixture to fry off tomorrow. I'd rather it was a tennis match on the television but Wimbledon will come around soon enough, and then it will be hard to pull me away from the sofa.

and then

Fretting over a minor upset on Sunday night, I opened my e-mail inbox yesterday hoping for a distraction. Perspective smacked me in the face; there was a message from my tutor, telling her tutees she'd not been replying to our exam queries because at the end of last week her baby son was prematurely stillborn.

Life, you're such a bitch. Seriously, screw you.

the drawback

The one thing I really need to talk about, I can't. I just can't, not even offline.

Didn't sleep well and now just want to wallow. That won't help. Up I get.

a year on

Friday night marked one year since I had my fall. Tomorrow it will be a year since I split up with my ex. The changes happened fast, but the effects resounded through the next twelve months.

It has been a strange year. I've spent the majority of it repairing the damage I did to myself and my friendships last summer.

Friday was also the 21st birthday of one of my best girlfriends at university. Champagne, wonderful food, tipsy noisy conversation in a beautiful hotel (Miss McG to me, on a toilet break - "I can't even hear you across the room" - I'm notoriously mouthy with a few drinks inside me) and then to a bar where I smashed a glass of wine on the floor while gesturing enthusiastically.

Shortly after the barman had swept up my embarrassment, I was chatting to my friend A about the evening and quite how good a time we'd all had. The birthday girl was propped on a stool by this point, lolling a bit. It was time to go home. I remember, through the blur of alcohol, telling A "I don't believe things have been this good, ever."

And they haven't. Anticipating the end of university, proud to know this amazing group of girls and boys, meeting someone new and just as interesting and exciting, with summer plans and happy expectations for next year.

And Indiana Jones is on the TV tonight. What more could I want?

a question

Do you trust your instincts, dear readers?

I think my instincts (everyone's?) are born of a defensive mechanism. Although I do not always act on them, I often regret ignoring the twinge of understanding playing on my ribs.

Truly, I know nothing about the things that really matter.

trailer trash

Terrible things that I really love:

1. Rose Vamp nail varnish by Bourjois, enriched with vinyl. It resembles the peel-off varnish I used to have as a kid.
2. Britney.
3. Really trashy newspapers/magazines, like the News of the World, and the National Enquirer.
4. Enormous hoop earrings.
5. Chunky gold jewellery, and too much of it. An armful of bracelets is my good luck charm.
6. McDonalds McChicken sandwiches.
7. Tranvestite-esque high heels.
8. Anything animal print.
9. Metallic bikinis.
10. White jeans.

yellow

"I think it's brave of you to post a link to your blog on facebook."
I think about this, as I walk down the main drag towards home with Miss McG.
"I don't write about anything consequential." I reply.
"But you put your life out there."

We wait for the lights.

"I'm more aware of what I write about other people. I try not to write anything I wouldn't want them to come across."
She nods.

Miss McG doesn't read this. She'd know who she was, if she did. If you know me, and my friends, even a little, you'll know who she is. Writing about her, about anyone I know, doesn't make this necessarily less narcissistic. Possibly, it focuses it more on my own indulgences, taking parts of other people, sanitising and packaging them in words, sentences, and posting them online.

I feel torn about it. What right do I have? Is that why I avoid typing up the bad days, the arguments? I leave out most of my romantic disasters for similar reasons. I'm a very judgmental person, and so are you, my dear. Why put the worst of myself in the spotlight?

I don't think writing is brave. I think it is a selection process, a methodical and cunning way of presenting an image, constructing it secretly, delicately, until you can be satisfied with this linguistic projection of yourself. This isn't an expression of my honesty, but a way of ridding myself of the dishonest, the personality that I would like you to think I have.

Bit deep for a Monday morning, yes?

and it drops

The weird bruises on the back of my hands? Are from being too lazy to fetch the postbox key when checking the mail. Instead I force my fingers into the slot (heh) and end up with these marks. Another mystery solved.

smash

Broke an eight minute mile today. Would be nice to do two in a row. Wildly unlikely. As I finished it today I laughed, well, I made a noise through the sweat and heavy breathing that may be described as happy. I think I'm prouder of how far I've pushed myself with the fitness than the stupid degree. I'm by no means excelling at either, but I do enjoy the weary smugness post-gym so very much.

I won't miss the TV in the gym that they tune to this bricklaying infomercial. It's totally inexplicable. The ten minute ad for some kind of spangly new building equipment plays over and over and over. I was distracted today by an endlessly homoerotic Take That video on the screen next to the bricks. Bare clammy British arses at nine am. Yuck.

Totally procrastinating. Have an essay to finish. Predict late night rush tomorrow.

xenia

In addition to people that don't live here, the flat is now host to a dog.

That is all.

annoyed

All I will say is that this flat is meant for four people. Not five. Not six. Not seven. Four.

Had enough of it.

good times

There was a moment last night, as I did ridiculous air guitar to Feeder's 'All By Myself' and jumped high enough that I flashed whoever was stood behind me that I believed I'd never, never been happier. Despite being in a club I hate, at a night that has morphed from mildly kooky indie music to boring 'The [whatever]' bands surrounded by groups of girls I openly made faces at because I found them so awful I was elated, exhaustedly delighted to be out with good friends, drinking bad beer.

Watching the boys on the pull made me laugh, hard. The neon paint that now speckles my new jacket I admittedly could have forgone, similarly the groping hands of stupid emo men wearing more makeup than me, but still, it was perfect.

You don't read this, boys, but thankyou.