With tangerine trees and marmalade skies...

WHAT a strange, incoherent mess of a film V for Vendetta was. It really was a genuinely confusing tangle of conspiracy theories, fireworks and mayhem, with a spectacular but completely nonsensical ending. This hugely complex plot, with the potential to be amazingly controversial and really exciting, was built up, centred around governmental corruption and repression, then at the climax of the film they simply stuck in an excessively long matrix-style fight, with graphic slow-motion blood spurting everywhere like something out of Kill Bill, and ended the film with a huge firework display, leaving everything unresolved. Large chunks of the plot seemed completely ludicrous, for example: how the fuck was V actually created? That part so did not make sense. Also, do we really use the word 'bollocks' that much? In what way did V represent an 'idea'? Why did the bombs on the tube say "British Fertiliser" on them and was this significant to the plot? How did Stephen Fry come back to life? How was V not dead after a five minute shooting scene? And why the hell was Natalie Portman even vaguely tempted to kiss V's mask? LAMEST kissing scene EVER.

The film seemed to be attempting to tackle some challenging political issues, but it was all ridiculously cliched and uninventive: the government's hatred of Muslims and homosexuals for example, and completely undeveloped. It was trying to deal with issues like terrorism without seeming politically biased or at all radical. Most terrorists have a political viewpoint, whereas V just seemed to want to overthrow the government and churned out all this ambiguous crap about there being no such thing as coincidence and there never being certainty, only opportunity. We find out Evey's parents were political activists, but never discover what they were fighting for. We hear about the 'face of London' having been involved in a string of wars, but not how this is relevant to what V was fighting for. And the scenes about the politician/detective guy who didn't seem to be on anyone's side just seemed too much like an episode of 'Midsummer Murders' to be even remotely interesting. The whole thing was warped and stupidly complicated. It could be that the fact that it was based on a comic book made it difficult to dramatise, but look at 'Ghost World', classic movie.

It was pretty damn entertaining though, and quirky and unpredictable and gripping at times, and of course NP was stunning. And I have to admit there were some very funny parts. For example some chav using his V mask to rob a shop. And finding out that the corrupt fascist government were originally Tories...

Got home after that to find Queen Mary only want 30 points and are 4th in the country for French. Maybe I will go to uni next year. It frustrates me how much everything's going to cost. In introducing those extra tuition fees the government have unleashed a huge privatisation movement, in a few years time the better universities will realise they can get away with charging more, and fees will start to vary, and the whole fee-paying scheme will spiral out of control. I hate the way the university system has been corrupted because it is the stage at which private school students suddenly feel the need to integrate themselves into society. I hate the way offers are made in a highly biased way based on predicted grades, at the total disposition of the teachers, who are under no obligation to be fair and accurate. It doesn't surprise me that so many people from the Anglo want to go to places like Bath and Warwick, these expensive, priveledged havens that their parents will happily pay for. Uni doesn't seem like such a big deal now I know I can easily get into a course that's reasonably interesting and literally closer to home than the Anglo is. It makes everything so much easier not having to think about student loans, accomodation, grades and travel arrangements.

I just made the perfect cup of tea, golden brown and hot and strong and sweet. While the kettle was boiling I danced wildly to Hard-Fi and ate a banana.

Goodnight.
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Maybe tomorrow

Genuinely lovely weekend. And it all started so horribly. On Friday night when I got home I was shattered, nervous, exhausted and completely disillusioned. The house was in darkness. I got into bed and cried. Tea and pizza helped of course, and Snow Patrol, and sleep.

I love Saturday mornings now. I can't help it. I don't even miss my lie-in, I literally get straight up and out of bed and can hardly wait to get to rehearsals. I remember dreading those long hours of tortured orchestral discipline, but now it's so much better. I still hate Ms Warren, and her dress sense, and her constant patronising, but I love the cello. Perhaps I shall take grade eight at some point. Although maybe not next year, I'll be too busy working in Woolworths, chainsmoking, and fighting with my parents, the traditional gap year project for those with no academic aspirations whatsoever.

Anyway, did a concert on Saturday night, it went amazingly well. Chris somehow managed to do his Maths homework while conducting the youth choir and setting up the church. How does he do it? He's like a superhero, juggling a million different commitments at the same time, and still managing to be the most charismatic person I have ever met. People like that are incredible. Becky is the same: she works so hard, and goes out all the time, and still manages to be happy and confident and beautiful the whole time. Seriously, next to her I feel stupid and inadequate.

It's weird how people I have seen or heard from in years keep popping up on the scene. On Saturday Wendy randomly turned up to see Poppy perform, and gave me a lift home afterwards. Then on Sunday evening, when I went round to Beth's to drink Sangria and watch Edward Scissorhands (AWESOME movie) Matt was there, someone I went to America with three years ago and haven't seen since, and also who incidentally was taught by my mother years ago. He goes out with Chelsea now. Sweet. Then this evening I got home to find a letter from Donald, was totally delighted. He does Maths, Further Maths, History, Economics and Music now. Yet another person to make me feel completely inadequate. But he wrote me this amazing letter. ('Sad to hear of your demise'...'I have heard good things about the IB and dreadful things about Essex'...'I am on a train...there goes Leicester.') Incidentally his sister also studies the very same course I got rejected from at UCL (European Social and Political Studies). Damn her. Although I didn't have high expectations for that course, as there are only 30 places and 200 applicants per place, or something. There's always next year. On another day. In a different place.

Today was another completely unproductive day. Had the last ever French and Biology lessons of my entire life. Mr Browne gave us chocolate biscuits and wished us well. Madame Packer lectured us about French grammar.

Four more days.

I've been running every day for over a week now. I'm not sure if it's killing me or doing me the world of good.
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Ben has vandalised my personal statement. Spot the editing.

My CAS venture has been a challenging journey through which I have fulfilled my role in my school, community and society, developed a valuable sense of expression and individuality and enabled a range of important fundraising initiatives to be deemed successful.

I would separate my activities over the past two years into three categories, although all three are closely linked and of equal significance. Firstly, there are those in which I was involved as a means of developing and harnessing my own independence and creativity. This includes the art exhibition ‘Familiar Faces’, a radical project through which I was able to showcase my artistic creations in a professional way for the first time. My most important creative pursuit has been my cello-playing, which I feel has progressed considerably over the past two years and for me is a true passion. It is the cello which allows me to lose my inhibitions and express myself freely, and improving my repertoire and musical technique has really helped me become an ambitious young player. I want to do for cello what Vanessa Mae did for violin; whereas Stradivarius created beautiful (yet now hideously expensive) violins, I shall create beautiful cellos, hand crafted with the love embellished on me by my wondrous CAS experiences.

It is rewarding to practise and develop something you are good at, but immensely more demanding to learn something new, and the cookery classes I took, entitled ‘Kitchen Survival’ have been incredibly useful. Together with a class of people my age, I learned how to cook a variety of dishes and meals. Although I have always found cooking very difficult, and initially did not produce perfect results (in fact I distinctly remember one catastrophe involving a cauliflower), I feel that this course has definitely helped, and the recipes we learnt may prove useful during university when I have to start cooking for myself. My favourite dish is one Mr. Gordon Ramsay might describe as squalid; yet I myself see myself cooking it for the entire African nation (which I do in fact believe exists, being a strong supporter of black power movements). The dish in question is cheese on toast. To create the perfect cheese on toast, one must – forget it, you don’t have the talent. Just make sure you remember the Worcester Sauce.

I have also contributed to social harmony through my recent discovery of the wonder of birds and their exciting role within society. I feed the pigeons, I sometimes feed the sparrows too. It gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing. And then I’m happy, for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to it.

The second category is the activities centred around the school and local community, which have helped me gain confidence in interacting with citizens of all ages, and have given me a new sense of comradeship and social responsibility. This included performing at the annual Christmas OAP party (I persevered despite the weird smell they gave off, which I think deserves extra credits), and with my orchestra at several community venues around the borough. It gives me pride and satisfaction to provide entertainment for the appreciation of other members of my community, and helped me develop respect for people of all ages, and enabled me to interact with a diverse range of people and cultures. I have particularly enjoyed performing in the school play in June, an exciting performance of Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. During the long weeks of rehearsals and line-learning I felt myself rediscovering the power of the stage and developing an understanding of the more technical side of acting: the directing, stage design, management and publicity. I also began to appreciate the talents of those around me, and recognised that I had an important role to play, leading me to a position of responsibility and self-reliance.

The projects which have helped me fulfil my role as global citizen form a third category, and have made me become more aware of ethical issues, and determined to act against social injustice and deprivation. In particular the Model United Nations group that I became involved with in September 2005 has provided me with the opportunities to initiate change: along with a group of equally passionate and dedicated fellow students we embarked on a campaign to achieve Fairtrade status for the school, and to implement Fairtrade products into the school tuck shop and canteen. We held a Fairtrade Taster Day, represented the school at Fairtrade conferences and eventually established a Fairtrade stall in the Sixth Form area, selling over 200 Fairtrade Geobars in less than ten days. Unfortunately the only people even remotely interested in buying the bars, which consisted of congealed raisins and were reminiscent of something my cat would produce, were either deranged ecofreaks, or victims of brainwashing from our highly deceptive publicity campaign. But who cares? We got the CAS hours.

In short, my CAS experience has been demanding and frustrating at times, but I genuinely believe the projects I have been involved with have been beneficial and extremely innovative. Although this section of my diploma has required a lot of extra hours and commitment, which among exams and academic pressure has been incredibly difficult (also pointless), I have enjoyed focusing on initiatives aside from my school subjects, and the work involved has also in general been exciting, varied and rewarding. I have developed better social, political and environmental awareness, and matured considerably throughout this period, gaining a better understanding and enthusiasm for global issues such as global warming, natural disasters and international trade. I have discovered new aspects of my close community, and harnessed my creative talents as well as learning new skills and becoming more responsible, organised and determined. But most importantly for me, and perhaps for others too, the IB CAS scheme has helped me take one step closer to becoming a mature and morally aware global citizen, and has helped me develop an intense spiritual connection with my lifelong idol, Mahatma Gandhi. It has also made me less like Hitler.

So, in summary, without my CAS experiences I don’t think I would have had the drive necessary to create a cure for AIDS; thanks to Bill Gates for the funding, and thank you, IBO, for the inspiration. If only the Catholic Church hadn’t hindered my research.... think what I could have achieved.

Some bastard has stolen the toothpaste from the bathroom. It is raining. I am going to bed at quarter to ten.
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Staring through a thousand dead eyes.

Three years today. More than 30,000 civilian deaths.

"The conflict in Iraq is illegal, immoral and unwinnable. We must set a date for final withdrawal, evacuating all our troops and liberating the Iraqi people without foreign bases left in their midst." - Tony Benn

Wracked with guilt that I wasn't there on Saturday.

It seems horribly wrong to follow that with trivial trash about my long, wasted day. I ate and walked and wrote and slept. Nine more days of school, I'm trembling already. No cello lesson, so my Monday evening dragged on for just a bit longer. CAS is a living nightmare. Physics is beyond a joke. I've no time to think, or sleep, but time to waste and fail. Devastating.

My sister has a new job. I remember that library as huge, high and stately, lined to the ceiling, a beautiful, redbricked haven, but today it just seemed shabby and deflated. Yet another childhood illusion crumbles away.
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You must wonder why I'm relentless and all strung out.

Gosh I feel weirdly sleepy and dizzy this evening.

I'm not demonstrating tomorrow. I hate to let people down, but I'm completely exhausted and overwhelmed and it's five weeks until exams, and my head is spinning.

Today's Maths talk made me think, even though I don't want to study it. "Maths is the best thing in the world when you understand it and the worst when you don't". So accurate. It's difficult and abstract and disorientating and frustrating, but ever so rewarding. That's the case with a lot of things. Somewhere there was a glimmer of hope about these exams. Stupid, and strange, to be influenced by a mumbling Imperial graduate working in the city, but there.

Car journeys at night are lovely, and so is Eagle Eye Cherry, but then there was Brentwood, and crowded pubs, and it was a bit of a let down. Plus I don't like Gilbert. Never have, really. And then my train was delayed for thirty frozen, miserable minutes, and there were drunken thirteen year old chavs throwing up, and it was not a good end to an otherwise wonderful Friday. Well, maybe not wonderful, but reassuring, unstressful, and uneventful. Which means wonderful, these days. My one wish is to lapse back to those long, listless summer weeks after GCSEs, before I messed things up, and things became hard and gritty and fragile.

Genuinely can't write any more, my eyelids are drooping and my head is throbbing and I have cold clammy feet. I love you all.
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And there's no such thing as happily ever after, it just gets dafter...+_+

Couldn't face anything yesterday, not even blogging. Collapsed on my bed the second I got in, drifted into an uneasy slumber, and woke up drenched in sweat and fully clothed at eight, blearily wondering who I was, then cursing myself for wasting three hours, thinking about revision, and fuck I was meant to cook the dinner...

Today wasn't much better. Late trains and freezing knees again, and when it arrives I'm crushed by people clambering for work, plunged into the sullen mediocrity of Stratford commuters, waiting for my connection for centuries. I hate the journey even more when I'm alone, head against the glass, familiar brown Romford office blocks streaming past. It feels like I was fucking born on one of those empty green-seated Clacton hellholes.

Went to the exams office to try and sort out this module retake once and for all, hating the corrupt system of privatised exam boards, and money-over-the-counter for a fucking retake. Edexcel is tormenting me. Mr Smith, or whatever his name is, the most drawn, prematurely aged, fucking moth-eaten man I have ever seen is telling me the exam board could refuse you, you should have applied earlier, whatever they say goes, that'll be £30 please, and suddenly I'm trembling, blinking, refusing to cry, pathetically telling myself not to let this stupid man get to me, and somehow I'm in E Block trying to hide the tears, thinking he's wrong, everything's wrong, and why am I even crying anyway?

It was better, when I'd forgotten, when my desire for food caught up with me, when more important anxiety (the "rest-of-my-life" one) suddenly seemed more pressing. Why am I so fucking OK at everything, never passionate or ambitious or inspired, happy to have a vague interest in every fucking thing that's put in front of me? A renaissance lady, that's what my parents say. You shouldn't be unappreciated, you can write and paint and read music, you'll stun people: like Leonardo Da Vinci, with his painting and botany and engineering and wonder. But I'm not stunning, I'm not him, and this is 2006, when I need to specialise and mature and decide, and seriously hasten about it. I can't stand feeling so painfully inadequate.

There are things I could do with a bit more of. Energy, and comfort, and sleep. And there are so many things I could do without.
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And all the evils in their eyes and the backs of their minds....

Daisy chains, and schoolyard games...
Cello lessons on a cold Monday evening. Love love love love love. We played and played and played non-stop for about 35 minutes: all these suites and studies, until my fingers were going to drop off. Then my teacher told me an exciting story about the time he was touring in South Africa and stayed with some Zulus. I was genuinely sad to go. Playing the cello makes me forget everything else, it's something I'm good at, and something I can't ever associate with all the disastrous things in my life. That's why I don't like playing it at home: it's completely out of context. Music and the IB are worlds apart. (This doesn't make much sense, but it does in my mixed-up mind. It's also because I'm lazy and I lack the routine and the concentration to play the cello during the week.)

I've changed my mind about my mother. She's not evil, or disappointed: she's just fucking mental. Today for dinner she served: raw beetroot, patchok in wine and flan. Patchok is some kind of bland, Chinese vegetable. It was the strangest meal I have ever eaten. My mother described it as 'wonderful' and went on to explain how the beetroot was meant to be 'al dente'.

The sun woke me up this morning. It was scarily bright, the winter has flown away, and for a moment it was June. Last June, for some reason, and I was plunged into a weird memory of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and failing my end of term exams, and eating ice cream on the school field and coming home at 7 still in gleaming sunshine. Summer, and noise, and humidity, and craziness and intoxication. It didn't last though, it's still freezing cold outside. But there was this moment, where I was fooled.

There's a thousand things I should have done today. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I will surprise myself, go wild, do something that's right for me, try a little harder, give a little more. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I know exactly what's wrong with me. At least I think I do. I'm lazy, I lack focus, I'm weak-willed, I'm disorganised, I'm irritating, I talk too much and don't work enough. I'm not going to write several paragraphs about it, because it seems self-deprecating and pointless, and I don't want sympathy, only I can help myself. This will either seem really rather cryptic, or kind of attention-seeking. Or perhaps just garbled teenage angst, to be ignored. It's probably all three, but it's real and it's spontaneous, and whoever cared about coherence and congruity anyway?

You know this journey that we're all on? The long, exciting one, that's meant to have a destination? I'm a bit lost. I'm stuck. There a tube strike, I'm in a traffic jam, we've run out of fuel in the desert, I've broken my leg, the boat has sunk, the train has crashed, the road has stopped moving, the world has stopped spinning.
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Now it's three in the morning and you're eating alone.

Blogging the minute I get in, before I've even kicked off my shoes and put the kettle on: now that's commitment. Or desperation, you decide.

My mother isn't very nice to me. I know she taught me to read, brought me up, etc. but I don't consider myself financially indebted to her. She could have used contraception. My dad could have had that vasectomy a few months earlier. As far as I'm concerned, having a baby ties you down and costs you money. I'm not a lodger, and I'm not moving out in September. I don't think it's unreasonable that I expect them to pay for university. I don't feel bad that she still does my washing for me. I cook and clean, I'm nice to her when she's nice to me. I behave like an adult when she treats me like one. When I want £10 to go out, I don't want to have to beg her for it. I'm fairly normal for a seventeen year old in full time education. I don't make unrealistic demands. I consider it slightly unreasonable when she wakes me up at 6.30 to shout at me, and tell me she won't drop me in East Ham. I don't even mind walking to East Ham, it's more the waking me up too early that I hate. It's her behaving like a martyr. It's her telling me how unreasonable and unpleasant I am to live with. It's her not even treating me like I live here, creating some sort of delusion that me leaving will make her life complete and give her some sort of immaculate peace and sanctity. Complaining about the bad things, and not acknowledging the good things. I'm talking about me cooking a meal for her when I'm shattered and have exams the next day, and her storming in and shouting at me. Her barely being able to admit that the meal was OK, that she actually likes having people in the house, that I do give something back, that I do do something right once in a while. If she hates having me around, if me leaving makes her life complete then why did she have me? I truly believe that she shaped the way I behave, and I don't think she did a bad job. She's never happy with me. She has high expectations, which I can never fulfil. I'm sorry Mum, but I got rejected from Oxford, and I'm not going to pass my course with flying colours. I'm not going to study medicine or law. I haven't got a rich, clever, beautiful boyfriend. I can't do everything you want all of the time. Yes, I argue with you. Yes, I disappoint you. What is it you want?

I'm not saying all this because I want her to give me more money, or because I can't be bothered to do all my washing. Maybe my sisters had it worse off. Maybe I should obey and accept. But I'm writing this because I can't understand her, and apparently she can't understand me. We have odd flickers of closeness, but essentially I'm not quite what she wants, at all. Should I change for her, or is it her who should change for me? Can't we meet halfway, or something?

I don't want what you want
I don't feel what you feel
See I'm stuck in a city
But I belong in a field
Yeah we got left, left, left, left, left, left....

I love The Strokes.
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D'you want to go to the seaside?

I'm not trying to say that everyone wants to go...
I fell in love at the seaside.
She handled her charm with time and slight of hand.

Haven't been feeling very expressive lately, I'm all garbled and inarticulate and skatty. This extends beyond my blog. I keep saying the wrong things to the wrong people and fretting about little things, like I'm a nervous wreck.

People keep trying to reassure me, it never works, but it means alot. I feel like I'm still going through obscure, fanciful phases, and fluttering from one thing to the other, and then collapsing into a disappointed heap and breaking down. I should pull myself together. In June I'll have nothing left, not even the remnants of stability that I find in school and train journeys and early mornings. Freedom, that's what it's called. I don't feel remotely liberated by the thought of it, though. The prospect of having nowhere to go and nothing to do no longer seems like some blissful, decadent abyss, just depressing and disparaging. Maybe even a little pointless. And almost certainly completely terrifying.

Becky looked beautiful yesterday. Her gloves were scarlet and her dress was amazing. And Michael drove me all the way home and I was racked with guilt all day for that. It was a strange evening to be honest, I trawled the streets of Witham in silver sandals which left grooves in my freezing feet, and then drank a little and danced a lot. Or maybe vice versa. 'The world around us makes me feel so small...' It's still in my head, even today. For some reason.

Either way, it was probably the last time I go out in a while. Exams, and all that stuff. Was invited to Maria's birthday party tonight, but realistically there was no way I was going. I don't have a cocktail dress, and I'm shattered.

But there were some good times, among the shambolic, hazy fragments of my weekend. Singing Oasis at the top of our voices all the way home. Starbucks on a strange, sleepy Friday. Eating boiled eggs, and sleeping. Oh, and Philip Bloomfield dancing wildly to Cotton Eye Joe... that was a sight to see.
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My only comfort is the night gone black.

Just recieved a letter from Queen Mary College, saying 'Thank you for attending an interview and Open Day on 18th January 2006. I am pleased to inform you that you will soon be recieving details of a conditional offer."

Seeing as I didn't actually attend an interview on 18th January, and nor did I even tell them I couldn't be bothered to go, this comes as somewhat of a surprise, and just proves that the whole interview process is a waste of everybody's time.

Not that I particularly want to go to Queen Mary or anything.

Today was a rather hazy day, tense and frustrating, and it's been raining and raining this horrible, soggy, soul-drenching drizzle for hours. My brain seems to be working a lot slower than usual, and my concentration comes and goes, and I'm so incredibly weary and it's only Wednesday. Perhaps it's that dreadful Fairtrade wine that I tasted at the conference yesterday, which by the way was actually fairly enjoyable (the conference, not the wine): especially the chocolate cake. Although drinking smoothies and watching M*A*S*H at Phil's house was more fun. (SO should have been working last night...)

Seriously wish I still had some sort of motivation left in me. Jesus, it's hard enough waking up in the morning, understanding physics and even finding a Cowboy/Indian costume for Becky's party, let alone all these exams and this staggering commotion. In my questionnaire (if you can call it that, it was more like a confusing mess of numbers, badly phrased questions and irritating pedantry) I described the IB as 'horrible, oppressive, undervalued, scarcely understood, illogical and badly structured'. Sadly I got so bored of rating every aspect of my school using a complex numerical system that I ended up desperately filling in random numbers, so that my criticism probably dramatically contradicts the rest of it. What a waste of time.

Things that have annoyed me today: the holes in my tights, Bridget's control-freakery, Tasch being evasive, Henry being defensive, the train, rain, this horrible strain....
Uptight, aren't I?

Songs with good intros: Eagle Eye Cherry - Save Tonight, Edith Piaf - La Foule, Garbage - Stupid Girl and The Libertines - Death On The Stairs.

The Strokes were AWESOME on radio 1, and I love the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs song. Yes. That's about it.
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P.S. Reporter: Are you off drugs yet?
Pete Doherty: What sort of a question is that on a Tuesday morning?

Ouch. Just spilt scalding hot tea all over my lap.

I'd love to stay here and be normal.

All the time that slips through your fingers sits here with me where it can malinger
Within two and a half hands and a face without eyes
Time stands still, where it usually flies. *

Every day I do a million things wrong. Without meaning to, without having to, without wanting to. My life is a viscious circle at the moment, and I'm not sure whether I'm helpless or whether I'm just not trying. What's the difference anyway?

I watched "My Summer of Love" on Friday. Terrifying, mesmerising, delicate. Pretty damn awesome. Very real.

And then there was Saturday. Played the cello until my fingers were red and raw, and then saw Roshni. Talked and laughed and ate and talked some more.

In March I have to do three concerts, I'm not ready for any of them.
In May I have to do fifteen exams. Not ready for them, either.
All I'm ready to do is curl up, sleep, eat, dream. Die, regret, mourn, worry, waste and churn. Ebb and flow and fade. Bite and sow and collapse. Watch. Feel. Hurt.

I'm constantly letting down so many people. Strangers and friends.

And then there's myself.
And then there's me.
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*Copyright 'Broken Clock' by Reid

A little girl, with nothing wrong, is all alone.

She looks like an Edward Hopper painting.
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A simpering, whimpering child again.

Everyone is out. Mum, Dad and Duncan have gone to a restaurant. Jack is probably in the Live And Let Live. It's Friday night. I have nothing planned.

I've finally done my English Oral, but it was punctuated with repetition and awkward pauses. I don't think I've done very well. And I revised for hours as well.

I am going to do my Biology write-ups, and tidy my room. Like a good girl. I don't really know why I'm so oddly subdued, really. Just the usual, unavoidable reasons that I already complain incessantly about. Sometimes, in fact most of the time, I feel like this blog is becoming pointless, and insincere. I only update it for to fullfil some sort of shallow, unsatisfying obligation. It's not deep, and it's not lifechanging. It doesn't shift continents, or start wars. As Sarah once said (and I hate to steal her eloquence) "What I write about is nothing: music and drinking, nights out with good friends and virtual strangers. There's no emotion and no meaning. This is not a blog; it's an extended pop-culture reference." This blog has become a futile, unshocking, uncontroversial, and perpetually tedious project. I have nothing much to say, and no way of expressing what I feel. It's just diatribe. Angsty teenage banter. Garbage. Waves of the same emotions, the same worries and pedantic frustrations, copyrighted lyrics, and Googled images. You could do better yourself.

Everything I seem to do is a distraction, and this is a particularly repetitive, inarticulate one. There are more important things.

But I guess there always are. The only problem is that either I haven't discovered them, or I can't appreciate them.
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P.S. "Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds / And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds." I love you Timmy.

Eating blue Smarties 'cos she's rock'n'roll.

Just spent an hour and a half cooking dinner. This was apparently not good enough according to my mother, who complained that:
I hadn't used any garlic.
The plates weren't hot enough.
I hadn't put the salad servers on the table.
I hadn't wiped the surfaces.
I hadn't cooked any brocolli.
I hadn't cooked any Jerusalem artichokes.

She then proceeded to complain, and interrogate about:
School.
Exams.
My teachers.
How much work I'd been doing.
Why I didn't deserve any money.
Why I was going to fail the IB.

Marvellous. What a horrible horrible day. Couldn't face school because I'm sick of teachers wasting my time.

My eyes sting, my hair is horrible and my feet are cold.

On the bright side, I have cookies. And Graham Coxon is on the radio. Live.
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