Apologies to anyone who came here through my ff.net page for my total lack of anything recently.

So.

I am trying to be healthy.

So I took a cod liver oil tablet.

Washed down with a Mars Bar milkshake.

It can't be said of me that I am not a trier.

So, um, essays and shit. I have two more to do. Well, one essay and one piece of creative writing. The latter has come to a standstill due to a sudden strike in the ideas department. When did I become so thick?

It's not just writing, either - one debate in a seminar saw me blindly arguing that the character of Portia JUSTIFIES MY POINT THAT SHAKESPEARE WAS NOT A MISOGYNIST. I wouldn't shut up.

I think I'm becoming a grumpy old woman (at the age of 18). Little things really get on my fucking nerves. Like:

- "pc4pc", SHUT UP;

- Amanda Palmer fans on Facebook naming EVERY album of her "Amanda Fucking Palmer", like that's SO creative, dumbshits;

- my inability to socialise with more than a handful of people, most of whom engage in LARP/RP and though I'm trying my hardest to understand where they find enjoyment in it, I just can't. On the whole, everything's fucking tedious, but I don't want to hurt their feelings, since I'm living with them next year. I feel like a bad person for saying this. I really do, take me seriously on this. They are some of the nicest people you could meet. But I can't summon any enthusiasm for it.

Or anything, it seems. I'm sort of stuck in a rut. I'm so bloody disinterested these days that I can't work up my usual hatred for Valentine's Day. I always seem half asleep, with any sort of emotion dulled almost to the point of non-existence, apart from excitement or worry. What is this, depression? Just a "low point"? Prevarication of some sort?

Something that does stir my excitement is the fact that we have to choose our course components for next year, and there is a Shakespeare course. When we found out about this, everyone looked at me. Yes, this is the sole purpose of my life - to serve as the obligatory Shakespeare Freak in the house and on the course, and I am very happy with this position, thank you. If I don't get on that, I'll cry. And take the Art of Short Fiction instead.

A course called Lyric Poetry focuses on JOHN CLARE, but also focuses on Wordsworth. I nearly cried. First the guy was saying we'd have to study Wordsworth, but then he was also telling us that we'd look in depth at John fucking Clare, who I love ALMOST as much as Shakey. I know I'd come out with odd marks if I took Lyric Poetry: embarassingly low marks where Wordsworth is concerned because I HATE HIS GUTS, and shining marks where demi-god Mr Clare comes in.

We also have to select a Summer course...and there's one called European Film and Literature. And casting my eye down the list of course texts and films, I saw Metropolis, M & Caligari. I need to get on that course so badly you have no idea. Fritz Lang is my Shakespeare of film, i.e., the one person in the field I know loads about and love. I laughed when the guy was all like, "Did you know Hitchcock studied Lang?" and everyone was like, "Ooh really?", whilst I sat there and looked like a smugly cultured figure of benevolence. "Poor fools, you only JUST found out? Pah."

That sort of thing.

One last thing - there's a couple of people who, admittedly, are NOT slaving their way through an English degree, and maybe therefore don't appreciate just how much time I have to spend pouring over secondary sources and essays and the most boring books you could imagine (don't you fucking dare say first year is in any way easy), but still, keep nagging me to do stuff. Doesn't matter what brand of stuff. But I don't have the time. Actually, one of you in particular is being fucking UNREASONABLE with your demands, and I'm sorry, I think I'm just going to ignore you from now on.

No, I'm not sorry. I'm a busy tortured genius. Don't deny it.

still not over the Who casting choice. Then again, I also suppose that I won't actually watch the programme, since I was only doing so in the first place to be able to see David Tennant. Oh ho ho if I am not just the creature of fickle behaviours.


I am currently reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. And, surprise surprise, I don't like it.
I once attempted to read Conan Doyle when I was about eight years old - an excerpt, inside a book about horses stories, from a Sherlock Holmes novel in which a racehorse...went missing? Died? I can't quite recall. I tired of it swiftly, and never read it again.


...I have to stop doing these pointless updates, for serious. I'm just lethargic and bored. Blame that.

Oh Matt Smith. I'm sure you're up to the job.

It's just that you're so aesthetically displeasing.

My mum is the epic winner of the evening, because she compared him to Herman Munster.

( And I see what she means. )

Me? Shallow and judging on appearance? Oh shush.

And my only company is Barber: Adagio For Strings

For my lack of eloquence in that previous post.
I now see why I find it so bloody easy to identify with every angry, bitter, twisted character in every book I read and every film I see. *eye roll*

Also, going to see The Sound of Music with my mother in October. I am appeased.



For now.

And my only company is Ennio Marricone: Chi Mai

I'll break you like a matchstick, ( 'cuz that's the kind of mood I'm in. )

Now all that remains is to convince you all that I am perfectly sane.

And my only company is Alice Cooper - Snakebite