#7

I pronounce this to be a failure!

I've had a really really fun week though, so I couldn't care less.

BEDA #1

Blog Every Day in April. I have a terrible track record for these kind of things, but I saw somebody had posted they were doing it and I couldn't resist giving it a go. I haven't blogged, haven't even written very much in a personal capacity, in a very very long time. Too long.

My excuses for pushing creative writing to one side are, of course, manifold and yet all amount to the same thing. I've been busy. Busy with second semester of third year university work for the main part, with other bits and bobs on the side. There is a lot to do my friends, and very little time to do it all in.

Having said that, I am fairly on track with everything. My dissertation is due in on 20th April (that will be an excellent blog post if I make it that far), and it's not looking too shabby. I can't judge it in any real academic way, but I can say that I am very emotionally involved with it. That sounds ridiculous I know, but I am. I have been so lucky to be allowed to write about the thing I most wanted to write about, and I am awfully attached to my (close to) 9,000 words. I might write a little more about it later on, perhaps when I have handed it in.

I am off to visit le boyfriend in Bristol tomorrow afternoon. V. much looking forward to it. Will both be doing a fair bit of work as well, but will be glorious to be in lovely lovely Brizzle once again.

Ta ta for now, will see how this pans out!

Currently reading: Three Stories - Alan Bennett (just finished The Common Reader by him too - wonderful! Can't believe it's taken me this long to get around to it).

what a difference

It's very almost one year since I last wrote anything down here. Things have changed, just like they always do (that whole 'transient nature of life' thing is a right pain like that) and yet so many things have stayed exactly the same.

I've been writing though. Every (almost) day. In a journal. It's scruffy and incoherent and I'd like to say it's pretty darn honest. So honest that I don't let anybody touch it, not even a peek. Which, by the by, is a problem. I don't want my journal to contain so many secrets, it makes things complicated.

Despite all this writing, blogging seems to be exceptionally difficult when you haven't done it in a while. For some reason because I'm writing in a box that has an edit function I feel like I should be writing fantastic prose. That's a fairly silly way to think really, I shouldn't have to edit how I write here anymore than I do on paper. Digressing. Sorry.

Almost a year ago I started going out with a boy that made me really happy and I think I maybe mistook that happiness for general life happiness. Emotions can be awfully confusing to sort out sometimes. I was happy, though. I still am, sometimes. Sometimes I'm not and that's probably why I'm writing.

I'm still at a university that I despise. It's not the institution. For all its flaws and whatnot, it probably could be worse. Throw myself into work and I'm alright. The house I live in is cold and mouldy and overpriced, but I have a roof over my head and food to eat so I'm luckier than most. Emily is one of the best things about this year, we've somehow both lucked out in living together and get on insanely well.

The right thing to say now would probably be that the problem, is me. But it's not. Yes, I'm a jealous person. It's in my nature to be so and after several years of trying I just can't stop it. It's ugly and vicious and hurts me and my relationships, but it is constantly gnawing away at me and I just can't stop it. I lack self confidence and self belief and all those other things that make for a strong, independent woman and I'm completely trapped inside of my own head. But the problem isn't just me. It's other things. Here lies the problem of the internet. Barely anybody reads this, but there's this slight chance that some day it'll get stumbled upon by people that should remain ignorant to the crazy that lives in my head. No wonder my journal is so full.

As a preview into those elusive "other things", I will say this. My generation, as wondrous as so many members of it are, are a disgrace. The vast majority of people I have met here just don't care. Cheating on your girlfriend is fine and alcohol is always a good enough excuse to do whatever the hell you like without worrying about the repercussions of your actions. I just wrote this really big essay about Fitzgerald and so much of the time I feel like I'm living in one of his novels. We're behaving like we're lost, like we have the right to behave in this way because we've had to live through some terrible event. But we're not. We're spoilt and we're childish and we never stop to think. And I get that growing up is supposed to be about experimenting and learning and trying new things, but that's not an excuse for hurting people. Youth isn't about being the biggest cunt possible just because you can get away with it. This is probably where I'm going wrong in being a teenager or supposed "young adult". That I take pride in the fact I actually give a damn about the way I present myself to the world and that I don't actually think there's anything wrong with giving a fuck about another person.

So much more to say, too upset, too angry.

p.s. haven't read this over - trying not to self-edit much more than is necessary.

reasons to be cheerful

My only lecture of today is at 12, I'm sat in my dressing gown and the sun is shining. It seemed like an appropriate time to compose some kind of prose (RHYME).

Except lately I've been having difficulties with completing posts. My beginnings rarely have any relevance to my main text anyway so they're always quite easy to get through, but once I've got past that point everything becomes much harder to put into words. I have urges to copy and paste life affirming lyrics into this white void, mostly because I want to put them as my Facebook status, but I can't help but feel I do that too much and it's probably a bit irritating.

And I think I know what the problem is.

It isn't my sudden inability to write coherently (I didn't say I was good, I just meant I can string a sentence together without sounding like a complete fool), nor is it for lack of things to talk about really. There's always something to talk about. Even when nothing extraordinary happens, there's always be something. In fact, those things are probably my favourites. The problem, in fact, is quite simply that I'm happy.

You might be thinking that surely being happy isn't a problem at all. Quite the opposite in fact. But the issue is, I don't know how to write happy without sounding like the kind of always-positive-super-optimistic-free-spirit kind of person that I genuinely can't stand. I like a bit of cynicism. A lot of cynicism, in fact. And in most cases my cynicism proves to be right. Cynicism is far funnier than optimism for one thing. I would, in fact, argue that my breed of cynicism is paradoxically simultaneously rather optimistic. Always looking for a laugh.

I digress.

The crux of the matter is that I'm not just happy because there is an increase in people that make me happy. There is, and it helps, but I don't believe they'd like me if I was in the same state of mind I was 4 months ago. I'm much more happy because I stopped whining and being angsty about all the crap I couldn't really do much about other than whine and be angsty about and I started living. I'm happy (and honestly I can't believe I'm even contemplating saying this) because I chose to be happy. Positivity isn't magic, but it works. You just have to let your cold, cynical heart give it a chance to.

don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody

I think I was 13 when I read The Catcher in the Rye for the first time. I don't think at the time I knew quite why I liked it, but I definitely did. I distinctly remember it being one of, if not the first 'adult' book I'd read and I think at the time that was probably part of its charm. My dad had always let me read whatever I wanted to read (eternally grateful) and I think that's one of the reasons I find censorship so difficult to comprehend. But that's a story for another day.

I re-read Catcher for GCSE English, and I'm almost certain I was the only class member to have read it before. We were the only class that had it assigned to us (eternally grateful), our teacher insisted upon having us read it instead of Of Mice and Men.

I began to read differently. Obviously we'd analysed prose before, but this was something so much more than just looking at sentence structure. What did the hunting cap mean? Why all the fuss about the ducks? Do I really care about this kid, who let's face it, can sometimes be a bit annoying?

But I did care. I cared so much. I hated Holden one minute and loved him the next and over time I realised I could feel so many different things towards this figment of Salinger's imagination because he was opening up facets of myself that I hadn't quite been able to access before. He's alone and afraid and he doesn't know what's going to happen to him when the pond freezes over.

Without Salinger I wouldn't be studying Literature. Eternally grateful.

karma

I have so many things to talk about. So, so, so many things.

Sadly absolutely none of them are Internet friendly and thus I shall skip around them with ease and wit.

I will however say this...I still can't say I like university, but oh MY has it been entertaining the past few days. I've been wearing a jacket that states 'what comes around goes around' for several days now (laundry will be done today, I promise) and I think it must have magic powers or something equally as awesome. I need to be in the vicinity of my best friend to tell her about it and do silly impressions and show her ridiculous text messages. Sadly we live in different frickin' countries and for some reason national rail are adverse to giving out free train tickets for necessary situations such as this.

Semester two starts tomorrow and I, of course, have absolutely no idea where I'm supposed to be for anything. I should probably sort that out. I'm looking forward to having stuff to do in the day. Especially when that stuff is 'read books and talk about those books'. It's kinda my favourite thing.

It seems I don't have anywhere near as much to say as I thought I did...secret stuff is fun but not very conducive to blog writing.

I moved flats. I can't remember (nor can I be bothered to check) if I mentioned that before now. Well...I did. Friday night I came in at half 2ish and one of my flatmates was passed out in front of my door next to his own vomit and, as I found out the next day, lying in his own piss. Needless to say I didn't attempt to venture to my room.

Why am I so unlucky with people?

i have no idea what number day this is

I'll be honest, this 100 days project isn't going all too swimmingly. However, I should be revising right now and thus blog writing feels awfully appealing (oof look at that alliteration right there. Maybe I should analyse my own writing, I think that'd count as revision/extreme narcissism).

So it's 2010, eh? Resolutions anyone? Do share.

I have a mass of the things, but not really because it's a new year or anything. I tend to make them constantly throughout the year, allows them to change and grow and suchlike. I'm not good with definite things. Too...definite. Probably.

Aforementioned revision is going horrifically, which probably isn't a good sign considering my first exam is on Monday. I should probably be more worried, but I know I'll get it done and I know I'll do alright. It's my least favourite module at my least favourite place in the world, so I'm not exactly all too bothered by not excelling in it. Ask me again on Sunday and I'll be nervous as hell, but que sera, sera!

This holiday has been gorgeously refreshing. If ever there were a case of pathetic fallacy, it's been the past few days. The snow is stunning. Pure, crisp and fresh. Feeling alive and yet knowing it's going to melt. I wouldn't be surprised if come Sunday it had all gone. Unfortunately I don't think the weather quite reflects my own state of being quite that accurately. It's a good thing really. It'd take away from my continual vagueness if anyone cottoned on.

Yesterday and the day before have been pure poetry. The day before should have been awful. Really terrible. I had one of those horrific stomach sinking realisations and that feeling hung around for a while (I suppose it's still sort of around, but I'm coping well. If I'd been at university I think it would have been a completely different story), but then I just read some Medieval crap outloud in a melodramatic way and had an impromptu one person dance party in my bedroom and it was just...really good. It was nice. I felt like me. It's been a while since I've been able to say that. I do hope it continues.

Yesterday was wonderful. Two lovely lovely people, sledging, moments of genuine cow fear, hot chocolate and a film about blue people. That's another magic thing about snow. Everyone regresses to children. My mum threw a snowball at me. My mum is somewhat mental, but it still threw me off guard. I love home.

I AM NOT THINKING ABOUT SUNDAY LALALALA. IGNORANCE IS BLISS.

I've been here just under a month and I haven't seen the one person I used to spend almost every possible moment with. I'm not okay with that, but I'm...better. Time to put an end to all this tragic pining.