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.
x

P.S. "Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds / And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds." I love you Timmy.