Friend Haiku

Leyla Bagherli

Your name has five syllables.

Fits nice in haiku.

Grey Hair Haiku

Oh, ugly grey hairs

Stop appearing in my fringe

You make me look old.

Domesticity

Well. I have been extremely sociable this month. I have been visiting friends not one weekend, not three weekends, but TWO ENTIRE WEEKENDS. I am so proud of myself. I was even nice to some people. Most of the time. Many things happened, for example, cars crashing, foot cutting, food making, hot tubbing, cheese eating, Hot Chick watching. ET CETERA ET CETERA. If you are that interested, then there are loads of pictures on Facebook of things that have occurred.

Here are some nice things for you to look at whilst you contemplate your (and my) life:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gg0nDDy34I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=y7U3tUdVrdw

You will like both these things, promise.

In recovering from Southampton (where I threw up and hit on other people's friends) and The Barn (where I didn't throw up, and I did not hit on other people's friends), I have skived off uni, sewed up holes in old jeans, and glued old bits of jewellery back together. YEAH PRODUCTIVE. On the other hand, the flat is a terrible tip, I haven't packed for Weybridge this weekend, and I have not done any uni work for nearly two weeks. Which is nice. The uni work thing is especially bad, as my tutor is so nice, and I may have to marry her. It makes a nice change from tutors who I want to murder, using rusty nails and broken pieces of glass. So I should be trying to impress this new(ish) tutor, except that things like 30 Rock keep getting in the way. WHICH IS TOTALLY NOT MY FAULT OKAY?

My mother is currently in Cuba, hopefully buying me many presents. That would be good. As long as it is not a cigar - cigars do not appeal to me. All smokey and coughy and icky and brown. No thanks.

So what's going on with you? Not much I imagine, as you don't exist.

FREEDOM

For at least FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. Essay in, Macbeth bought, coloured pencils at the READY bim bam boom DONE. I am on fire. Well, not so much, as it was rubbish, but you knowwww how I like to go on about it.

Next up is a nice renaissance module, and I have no idea how that is going to go. But it's okay, because I bought some Shakespeare post-its, so I am clearly on to a winner. The reading for the module is more than a tiny bit terrifying. Partly because there is just so much of it, and partly because the typeface is in oldy timey style, meaning that s is f, and v is u, whilst f still also remains f and u also still remains u. It is very confusing, and as I am easily confused, it is not ideal. My fast reading is being put on the back burner whilst I attempt to physically read it, let alone take in what it is saying. BUT ENOUGH OF THAT.

Last night I celebrated getting rid of the bastard Making Progress essay by going to... wait for it... THE VAULTS. Hurrah and huzzah. How I have missed it. I have not been there for many a moon. Or since my birthday. Or whatever. It was wonderful, as always. Much dancing to embarrassing music, and plenty of trying to escape gropey people. But as I always say, at least there's never a queue to get in, and the floors are not sticky. This, to me, is definitely worth the odd arse pinch or seven. Sadly, though, due to the amount of alcohol that I consumed, I did find myself feeling truly appalling this morning. Especially when I walked into the living room and found several glasses half full (see, ever the optimist) of biscotti baileys. Urgh. No. That is not what a hungover Cassie wants to see in the morning. Not any morning, actually, but even more so when I am horribly wretched. But it was okay, as I sorted myself out by going for a nice Firehouse lunch. Not before forcing Jon to blowdry my hair, as I could not cope with it myself. Plus I am lazy. Very lazy. The afternoon was rounded off with a trip to Tea on the Green, where they had some amazing Fornasetti wallpaper, that I am excessively jealous of. I think I would like a Fornasetti dress. Do they exist? I don't know. Someone find out for me. Emily and Joe joined us at the Tea on the Green, which was, of course, wonderful. And I am going to see The Artist with them (and also Clio) next week, which I am SUPER excited about.

So that just about rounds up a reasonably boring post. Which is appropriate, as my life is reasonably boring at this moment. I promise it will be more interesting next time, when I will regale you all (ie. Future Cassie) with stories of how I have become a successful artist, with three Arabian husbands (who are obviously all v rich) and a fleet of manservants to look after my every whim.

Good night, and good luck, my children.

Oh yeah, I was just... punching some candles.

Once again a new year has come around. And so much has changed. No, wait, it hasn't. Many things are the same. Perhaps the only difference being that I drink more tea now, and my straighteners are broken, so my hair is often curly. Yep. Well. This is the year of CHANGE, the year where I have to leave the comforting cocoon of university life and go out into the real world, to find a real job, and become a real person. Or, more likely, have to move home and live with my mother, unemployed, melancholic and freezing in a tiny mouse ridden house. YEAH AWESOME. Thumbs up to ME. This is EXACTLY how I planned it all to be. Hooray.

On the other hand (where, yes, I have different fingers), it does mean that this whole essay writing, note taking, researching and general BOREDOM thing will be done with. AT LAST. It is finally beginning to feel like a bit of a chore. Plus it is costing me money in pens (I have run out four in the last three days) and notebooks (I am coming to the end of my third one now). This module, too, has been a ginormous pain in the anus, where all the books were DULL and over 800 pages long, and were written by great writers that everyone else admires and obsesses over, and that I dislike. It is almost illegal to say that I DO NOT ENJOY Dickens or Eliot, especially being that I am Victorianist. So it's a secret, okay? Don't tell ANYONE. In fact, it is not just dislike, I find them loathsome, boring and detestable. Someone needs to find Dickens a good editor, who will tell him to cut out at least thirty characters per novel, and to remove forty percent of the plot twists. I am not denying that his stories are good - in fact, I find them wonderful in televisual form. But please note, in these televisual forms, they cut out at least thirty characters per programme, and remove forty percent of the plot twists. I am not usually one for television or film versions of anything - I am a strong advocate of actually, you know, reading, and shit, but sometimes, just chill out, yeah, Dickens.

Well, that quickly went off topic. Was there even a topic to begin with? Oh yes. New year, and perhaps some resolutions:

1. Take more photographs

2. Take better photographs

3. Blog more

4. Find a good job that I enjoy and pays me slightly above minimum wage

5. Don't fail the dissertation module

Aaaaaaaand there it is. Happy New Year to you all. And to future Cassie, who I am sure will be the only one reading this.

Bus Wankers

Today was a nice day off. I was super domesticated. I even made a cake. That's right. An ENTIRE cake. Using loads of cake making stuff, like flour and shit. It actually looks like a cake, as well. I call that impressive. Although, there is no one to eat my cake, as Jan does not like to nom down on baked goods, and even I, with my remarkable bottomless pit of a stomach, would find it difficult to scoff down an entire cake. Who am I kidding? I will probably polish it off in one sitting. Continuing in this vein of domestic bliss, I made a pasta sauce FROM SCRATCH which I will REFRIGERATE and then use later in the week. AND THEN I did the washing up. AND THEN I did some clothes washing. 'What has HAPPENED to you???' I hear you shriek in disgust, your eyes widening in horror as you view the cake cooling on the plate, and the eerily twee smile of submissiveness plastered blankly across my face. DON'T WORRY, avid followers, it is nothing more than procrastination gone berserk! (Yes - an actual exclamation mark; possibly part of my new housewifely persona?) So, instead of reading the rest of North and South, or making notes on old people in Victorian times, I grabbed my cake tin, turned on the oven, and HEY PRESTO. Cooking OCCURRED. It does seem strange, I will grant you, to do productive things that I don't need to do, instead of the productive things I do need to. I can't explain it. All I can tell you is this: you will know I've got essay deadlines when the flat is spotless.

In other news, HI LEYLA. Did you find the blog? Bloggy blog. I imagine you are fascinated by me, and everything I write. Here are some facts about Lal:

1. She has curly hair.

2. She doesn't live in Exeter

3. All her boyfriends are Gaymen.

That is all you need to know, really. Those are the truly important things. Oh yeah, one more thing:

4. Her dad has a disguise face.

Actually, I saw a necklace in Accessorize with a disguise face pendant. I quite like it. But is that going too far?

Well, I think that's all of my amazing insights for today, chums. Have a nice day.

Pasta Shits

Look now. I have not posted for over a year. This, I think, is actually the longest hiatus as of yet. Can we call this an achievement? Yeah, why not. Tomorrow I start my fifth year of uni. I know, I know, why haven't I got a proper job yet? I currently work in East - I have been there for a WHOLE YEAR now. But this does not count as basically I talk about the weather and look at middle-aged women in their greying underwear all day. Which suits me down to the ground, as there is nothing I like better than glimpsing shabby apple catchers and discussing how windy/snowy/sunny it is in England.

I now live in a flat with Jan. This time, I am nowhere near the prison, which is sad. I am, however, right next to the football stadium, which may as well be filled with convicts as far as I am concerned. I am also near to the lovely James Owen Court, a wonderful place in which I spent a year basically doing nothing of any use or interest. It had a nice courtyard though.

I don't know if I will post again soon, or in a year, or EVER really. No one reads this any more anyway. Except for YOU, future Cassie. But I am off to eat pasta shits now. KTHXBIBI

Bungle

Yesterday was both a very good day, and a very bad day. Firstly (and goodly), I got my results for my degree, and OF COURSE I got a 2:1, which we all knew I was going to get because I am a genius, and that is what geniuseses get. So yeah. And I got 65 in my dissertation, which is ALSO good, because I didn't actually know what I was doing most the time. So that was nice and I liked it and it was good.

BUT THEN...

On my way to Beth's there were many many queues of traffic, in which I was stuck for a very long time. And as I went past the dump, I started to smell something peculiar which wasn't actually from the dump. As I smelled this odd smell, I looked out of my windscreen, and there was smoke billowing out from under the bonnet, and a funny light turned on, and then I thought oh shit, so then I just turned the car OFF. I then proceeded to jump out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the road for all the traffic to wriggle past. With the hazards on for safeness, obviously. And then I sat on the side of the road, next to the dump, next to my flashing, smoking car, and got beeped at by many passers by, as if I thought that it was a nice and good idea to abandon my car in the middle of a traffic jam. Poor little Leroy looked as though he was bleeding to death as his life water gushed out of him. NO LEROY, I cried. NO, DON'T LEAVE ME, YOU ARE MY ONE TRUE LOVE. And then he died slowly in my arms. I then called Beth, and made her sit with me, and have a minature picnic by the roadside, watching as large lorries swayed by my car, missing the wing mirror by inches. So we had to call the AA (yes, I obviously mean alcoholics anonymous) who came to pick up my car (drunk). Leroy was then stretchered home, whilst Beth and I sat in the cab of the car. So now, he lies in a coma on the side of the road, waiting for the car doctor to come and operate on his water pump. And sadly, I can't get it on the NHS, so he will be costing me lots of money. Bastard Leroy.

So yeah. That's about it. More school tomorrow. Why?

"And then they force them to marry them and do sex with them"

Well, I am now partaking in a three week long placement at Salesian school. I know, I know. But there have been no bottle throwings, as of yet. It is almost an accomplishment for me to still be alive, actually. That might have more to do with the fact that none of the children know that I am a posh lesbian from the school down the road. It's just easier that way. And safer, I think. But school is school. I sit in lessons, my head resting on my chin, my eyes struggling to remain open as I stifle a yawn. I make sparse notes that relate little or not at all to the topic. I doodle stars over the title and the corner of the page. Not much has changed, except that now I have to wear smart clothes, which are, surprisingly, more uncomfortable than school uniform. As at school, I am nervously awaiting results that I should have worked harder for, prepared more for, hell, I should have actually read all three of the novels that I wrote about in my dissertation (I'm sure you can guess that it was Shirley that proved to be an impossible read. I mean, it's called SHIRLEY, it was never going to be good). School tends to be dull, it has to be said. The children do say some amusing things, though, from 'May I use incest?' to 'The moon looks like a Babybel in the sky'. Both of which I liked. The teachers themselves are entertaining, and are actually just as immature as the children. Which I also like. The notice board, which said, 'The dress code for Monday is Inset dress', someone had changed it to 'Insect dress', and drawn wasps all over it. I liked that a lot. Yeah, alright, it loses something in translation, but shut up.

In other news, next week I am going to Glastonbury, although the coach tickets have not yet arrived, meaning that we are unable to get there, and then also unable to get the actual tickets meaning that we will not be allowed on to the site, which, in turn, would mean that I would miss Muse. And that's not good. If this non ticket arriving thing continues, I will be forced to board the coach in a buccaneering, piratey way, take over the controls, drive helter skelter down the motorway, steal ALL the tickets so that no one else can get into the site, meaning that I will be able to see my Muse, with as much space as I like to lie around and listen to the nice nice music. Failing that, I will call the hotline, and request that they send my ticket ASAP. So yeah. Logic and whatnot.

I'm not really sure what inspired my return to the blogosphere, apart from the fact that the computer was near, and that it popped into my head. I'm not even going to pretend that I will continue to write on this. It's just another sporadic post. For no one to read.

Bloggedy Blag

Look.

I forgot the blog again. Unbelievable. How could I just deny the creature that I have created? It is like I am Frankenstein. Only MUCH better looking. Many different things have occurred since I've been on blogging vacation. Here are some of the things that have happened in my life in the past year:

• I have applied, and got in to do a MASTERS. That's right, I will be a MASTER. The master of YOU. And do you know what this means? Cos I do. It means another two years of bumming around Exeter, doing the same amount of bugger all that I've been doing for the last three years. Hooray.
• In similar news, I have a new house for next year. It is close to uni, and close to town, and not right next to a prison, which is definitely a step forward, I think. I will be living with Seb, and Sarahhhhhhh and Mel, and that is nice.
  
• I have a nephew. He is small, and blonde. And makes squeaky noises if you poke him. I suppose that is normal for a baby, but I don't really know that kind of thing. He doesn't really do much more than that. Supposedly, he will walk and talk at some point, but for now, all he does is gurgle, and try to crawl, but without using his legs, meaning that he sort of drags himself around. Bizarre...
• I am currently avoiding writing a disseration. Actually, the less said about that, the better.
• Lalman resides en Francais, and we went to visit her and it was AWESOME. I want to live there, it was all French, and whatnot, and I like that in a place to live.
  
• I am hungry at the moment.

Other than that, everything is pretty much the same as normal. Normal blue hair, normal too much uni work, normal messy house, normal house politics. Normal normal normal.

There are other things to say, and I will say them, I am sure of it, but at this current moment, I am hungry, and I need to shower, and this inhibits my writings etc. So quit your yapping, yeah? Annnnnyway, I am off to get clean, hurrah.

Be My Bronte

Ohhhhhhhhh man. I have done my essays. In fact, I did not inform you, dear blogface, that I was writing any essays, due to the fact that I have been rather lax with my blog writingnesses. Sorry to all those MILLIONS OF PEOPLE who rely on my regularly updated blog to get them through the day, the week, the YEAR. Enough with the capitals, possibly.

My new love is for pink elephant sweets, which look suspiciously like a cheaper, yet tastier verson of Percy Pigs. They are damn good. Expect, they are peculiarly wrinkly, which is a facet that I am not all too keen on. I don't think that any food should be wrinkly. It insinuates oldness, and I do not want creased, old food. Although, these are tasty, wrinkly sweets, so they might be forgiven perhaps, mainly because they are too good to ignore. Yum yum etc.

This week, I also like my new red hair. This is not really a new thing, being that it is quite often red. But now the shower matches me, so it's all good. As do all my pillows and towels. And my face and neck. There is a lot of red here, let me tell you.

Other news: Well, I have none. This is why I do not blog. There is nothing to say, except the usual - the house is mouldy, I have no money, I have too much reading, and I love Gilmore Girls. The end. I think I shall leave it at that for now. Good night.

I Am The Orchestrator

I am a total embarrassment to myself. No, I haven't just realised this - it has just been brought further to my attention today. In order to remedy my uselessness in class, ie. not saying a damn word for the entire two hours, I attempted to say some very intelligent things to the seminar leader (a man I like to call Ed Wood. I don't know why, so do not ask), as well as to the class. Instead I spouted some very suspect, peculiar words, said "um.." fifty time in thirty seconds, apologised for being stupid, and then shut up. Which would have been fine, but I then did the exact same thing again, not six minutes later. Thankfully, this time I was rescued by a kindly group member who said, "what she means to say is...". At least someone knows what I'm talking about, even if it isn't me.

This weekend, to conclude my week of embarrassing things, we are having yet another rubbish party that no one will attend. I do like to pretend that I am insanely popular, so it comes as a particular blow when no one you know comes to your party. This time, I have a plan. I just haven't invited anyone. That way, when no one turns up, I will not be surprised or hurt. I am the queen of optimism. And also logic.

On a more surprising note, I have finished one of my essays. I am excited by this fact. I may do a dance. I say finished, I have done the brunt of the work, and am ignoring all the typos and ugly sentences. Which, inevitably, I will forget to correct, and will therefore lose A THOUSAND MARKS for being careless. I only care slightly.

Not much else to report today, for I am going out shopping to buy the Boy a Valentines gift that costs only £1.20. Not a joke.

Gonna Burn This City

Well, the long and short of it is that we attempted (unsuccessfully, I may add) to burn down our nice prison house.

Due to the excessive laziness of two persons snuggled warm on the sofa, and a little bit of stupidity from one persons and his (apparently horrifically dangerous) halogen heater, we set the house alight. Well done us.

It mainly started because Steve had his heater on in his room, and his vaire expensive coat draped over the back of his computer chair. Steve would then lean back etc, inspiring the little button from his jacket to get entangled with the meshing on the front of the aforementioned heater. He then gets a phone call at about midnight from his favourite housemates (Mel and I, that is - Seb, Sarah and Molly were Arena-ing at the time) to come down to the living room and join them, and nice things like that. As Steve pushes his chair back to vacate the room (imagine this in slllloooowwww motion, if you will), the button remains caught, and the coat is left dangling very very close to the heater. Downstairs, we are having a lovely chat about many nice things when a horrible, disgusting, ear breaking noise starts - it's the fire alarm. We leap up - I spill my drink all over my pyjamas and blanket - and try to search for what has made the alarms go off. My first thought is that Molly, who had borrowed my straightners, may have left them on in her room, and in a bizarre and very unusual act of bravery, I run up to the top floor to turn them off. Except, half way through this running, I think through what I am doing, entirely rethink this bravery thing, and run back downstairs. Yes. Good isn't it. Anyway, as I pass Steve's room, I smell acrid smoke, seeping under the door. Which makes me panic. A lot. So I yell. And then Mel insists we all go outside. At this point, Steve rushes into his room and closes the door.

Outside the house, in the rain, wearing attractive pyjamas and panicked expressions, stands me, Mel, Dani (who had been asleep on the top floor) and Alex. No sign of Steve. We call the fire brigade, in practical hysterics as Steve has still not emerged from his room. Whilst talking to the fire brigade phone lady, Mel is screaming, "GET OUT OF THE ROOM, STEVE, COME OUTSIDE, STEVE, STEEEEEEEEVE" etc. Smoke is still pouring out of the room, and the alarms are still sounding. Our ASBO giving neighbour is standing outside his house, smoking a cigarette and looking mildly interested. Steve eventually emerges from his room, telling us he's sorted it out, that it's nothing, and everything is all fine now.

We ring back 999 to inform them that, thanks very much, but we won't be needed their services.

They tell us that they're going to send someone anyway. At this point, I had managed to silence the alarms (somehow - no one will ever know), and now we are just five freezing students standing on the door step of the house in brightly coloured pyjamas. Looking a little bit mental, it has to be said. My spirits drop further when I see in the distance flashing blue lights. My heart sinks as a full blown fire engine with actual firemen on board pulls up outside our house. With embarrassment, and a tiny bit of hysteria, I notice another fire engine parking up behind it, and I start to giggle at the absurdity of having two fire engines, and no fire. But they're not done. Yet ANOTHER fire engine arrives directly behind the first two, and by now, I am laughing so hard I can barely contain myself.

As the first fireman enters the house, I find myself apologising profusely. And then also to the next one. And the next one. Mel and I are a mix of giggles and apologies, as our house fills to the brim with about ten dashing firemen - one each and a couple to spare. As we are ushered into the living room, they bring out a MASSIVE fan in order to blow all the toxic plastic smoke out of the house. They take Steve's name, give us a lecture about the dangers of halogen heaters (Steve's is now in the bin, being that it has melted all down the front, and gives off a smell of death). They leave, but forget three of their firemen, which we are not to disappointed about, it must be said. Sadly, they also leave, the fire engines drive off, and we are left alone, fireless, and a bit depressed.

Mel and I refuse to go to sleep, as there are now no fire alarms that work in the house, and so therefore stay in my bed til eight in the morning, talking about nonsense, and worrying about fires.

The moral of the story is: fire brigades are nice, if a little of exuberant with the fire engines.

Turkey, Mainly.

So, as it turns out, the entire Prison household may be getting ASBOs. Now, I say this. But actually, we have simply been threatened with one. I, personally, would not be too upset with the acquirement of an ASBO. In fact, I rather think that it would add some pizazz to my, frankly, quite dull CV. I wouldn't want a prison sentence, or anything as drastic as that, but an ASBO for annoying the neighbours by shutting the front door a little too loudly, as it is over 150 years old and no longer fits within the frame, I think, would be quite an achievement, really. So, I'm not going to fight this. I will allow this ASBOisation to flood over me in a wash of hilarity. My housemates agree. What's an ASBO between friends anyway? We are all pretty keen to join the chav population and become hoodies and whatnot.

Actually, would that be an ASBO each? Or a shared one? I am not too sure. Hell, I'm not even sure which I'd prefer? What does an ASBO actually entail? The nice policelady who came to visit did not exactly specify, and I did not ask, as I was more interested in how I could actually attain one of these exciting things. Perhaps we will receive certificates. I will frame mine, and stick it next to my A Levels. Hold on, I am going to find out what this ASBO thing is all about:

Anti-social behaviour orders (ASBOs) are court orders which forbid specific threatening or intimidating actions.

An ASBO can ban a person from:

• threatening, intimidating or disruptive actions
• spending time with a particular group of friends
• visiting certain areas

ASBOs are in effect for a minimum of two years, and can be longer. They are designed to protect specific victims, neighbours, or even whole communities from behaviour that has frightened or intimidated them, or damaged their quality of life.

These are civil orders - not criminal penalties – so they won’t appear on a suspect's criminal record. However, if that person breaches an ASBO, they have committed a criminal offence, which is punishable by a fine or up to five years in prison.

Well, there we have it. By shutting the front door, and giggling in the hallway, I am now - almost officially - a criminal. I feel empowered. I may shout rude things at innocent passers by. Perhaps I will kick a squirrel. MAYBE I will shoplift a pepperami from Tesco. The list is endless! At last, I am freed from the shackles of society and now, I can realise my dream of being a hardened crim. I am like totally a proper hooligan now.

Moving on from my new life as a chav, I think I should update you on the progress of my exams. I. Failed. Well, I don't know that I did, but I'm pretty certain. But I don't really want to think about it too much, so let's discuss another topic. Liiiiike...... guitars. Mel is currently trying (note: trying) to teach herself slash get Seb to teach her how to play her brand new baby pink guitar. So far, she has vaguely learnt Summer of 69, and also, the first few chords of Wild Thing. This is a delight to us all. Seb owns a nice blue electric guitar. He let me have a go on it. It was fun. And then he licked the strings, to see if he would die. Sadly, he did. No, not really. The actual outcome was much less interesting and only involved a tiny tingle (wink). Mel's guitar does not have any electricalness, which, in my opinion, makes it far less exciting. However, I have taken great joys in detuning it as a hilarious joke. Which is only funny until Mel continues to not notice its lack of tune, plays it anyway, and BREAKS MY EARS. Yes.

Jon has just gone home, and I find this rather sad, especially being that my feet are really cold, and he is an expert foot warmer. In fact, he is just warm all over, and as I am so damn freezing, I would be grateful if he would return in order that I might not be so cold any more. Thank you. Also, I would like him to do the washing up, as it is totally his turn. Apparently, it is going to snow tomorrow, and I have already had a phone call from the maman informing me that it is snowing in Weybridge, and also from the previously mentioned Jon to tell me that it is snowing in Yeovil. If it snows tomorrow, there is no chance in HELL that I am leaving this house. I do not appreciate getting chilblains on my ears as I think I may have got, from when I was walking Jon to the station. Also, being that my nice - if insanely and HORRIFICALLY painful to wear - zebra striped wellies got nicked from the porch of my tent at Reading, my little pointy toes will get cold and wet, and then I shall be greatly angered, and this is not attractive. In any way. Unless you have an anger fetish, and then it is very attractive. But you would probably be a weirdo if you have an anger fetish, so you've got no chance anyway. And plus, Jon wouldn't be very happy. Actually, it would probably make him angry, and that would just turn you on, so... it's all very cyclical you know. Gyres and swirling vortexes and whatnot. So just stop it.

I'm not sure I have much else to say. Stalling for time, really, before I start watching Gilmore Girls again. I don't know what's wrong with me; there's no explanation for this awful infatuation. What am I do, except indulge my passions? Ah well. Bon nuit etc.

Wear The Golf Suit, Please

Damn you, Seb, now you've found this I cannot write the rude things I was planning on writing about you. Like how your face is far too big. And how you constantly smell of stew. Perhaps after your first viewing of this here blog you will not return, for it is compiled of only nonsense and mind squiggles. Although, I have to tell you, Sebastian dear, if you had not informed me of your findings, I may have continued to write secret thoughts about you, for example, expressing my undying love for you and all you stand for. So, all in all, I think you lose. Sorry.

This weekend was mainly filled with me pretending to revise. Look, I'm sorry, but until five pm on Friday, all you are going to hear about is how little revision I've done, and how I'm going to fail, and what I'm going to do once I have been thrown out of uni for being entirely useless and unable to complete any sort of intellectual work. Feel free to check back next week, when instead of my many revision moanings, there will instead be inane chatter, on subjects such as: what shall I do with my hair? What two nail varnish colours go together best to make my nails look totally awesome? Should I write my essay, or just go back to watching many episodes of Gilmore Girls? See? You don't even need to read any of this, as I have just outlined the next few weeks topics, at least. My life is so damn exciting.

So instead of revision on Saturday, Jon came to visit, and, as I am sure you can imagine, he is entirely distracting. Along with Alex's creepy friends who slept on our sofas, and complained about the cold. We went to Oddfellows, of course, being that we are too lazy to walk to anywhere other than there or Firehouse. Both of which are less than five minutes walk away from our nice prison house. So, I proceeded to get drunk, in order to try to catch up with Jon's insane amount of inebriation, and at midnight, we skipped off into the dark to find disgusting food, and then back to Oddfellows, where I removed my top, and then Seb flashed his homemade breasts at Kreepy Kai, who look violently ill afterwards. I, personally, was rather impressed with Seb's newly acquired mammaries, made solely of my socks and my bra. Jon was less impressed however, claiming that it was his favourite bra, and that Seb had tainted it with his transvestitism. All in all, a good night was had by all. Except Alex's friend Paul, who I believe subsequently vommed all night. Good good.

God, my life is entirely dull now. I am bored just typing all this nonsense. Anything to escape from the monotony of Kant, and Pope. Shut up, please, you bastards of Enlightenment. I am tired of you. I no longer am interested in what you have to say, so please be quiet.

I may just sleep til Friday. This seems to be the only solution.

Just A Small Map. Com

In a similar theme to that of my last post, revision has been pushed to one side in order to make room for exciting things like macaroni cheese, Gilmore Girls, and wearing pyjamas. Oh, now, don't get me wrong; I have been ATTEMPTING to revise. Hell, I've even been setting my alarm clock for 10:16 (reason: the snooze button goes off every nine minutes, but stops alarming me completely when it's been about an hour, meaning that I have to get up, or remain in slumber until a much later date. So if I have it set for 10:16, then it should stop nice and exactly at 11:10, which is a lovely round number, especially if you consider that the clock itself is exactly ten minutes fast). Now that's early, let me tell you. Also, I have been escaping the distractions of the house and instead of accidentally watching hours of Celebrity Big Bother (if the remote has gone missing, of course) from the comfort of our dusty faded sofa, I spent four hours yesterday being almost entirely swallowed up by a dusty faded sofa in Boston Tea Party, whilst partaking in a bit of munching on some very tasty lemon cake. I managed to do, oh, let's say, a good forty five minutes of revision, I reckon, what with the distraction of a certain Miss Daw to drag me away from the fascinating pages of my already read book, and then the arrival of Mel to amplify to me the fact that I am never, ever going to be able to revise. Even now, four days before my first horrific unintelligible exam, I am planning on curling up in bed and watching some sort of mind numbing rubbish in order to distract me from the pain and death that revision itself brings. Who cares if Enlightenment is man's release from his self incurred tutelage? Not me. Nor am I interested in whether Winnie in the Secret Agent is more or less crazy than Undine in Custom of the Country. And, whilst we are whinging in this self important manner, why do they all have such stupid names? Who would name their child after a french crimping tool? Not me, that's for sure. As you know, my child shall be named Rain. Rain Bowman. Watch out, future baby.

Being that it is 11:40, and my hilariously ignored revision timetable insists that I begin this farce at 12:00, I possibly should be making some sort of move towards getting dressed. Or getting out of bed. I have -laughably - planned myself EIGHT HOURS of revision. What was I thinking? Have I met myself? I haven't even been able to do eight hours of revision in a WEEK. I haven't even got through Heart of Darkness yet, and it's less than a hundred pages.

On a vaguely less depressing note, Dani has decided that she wishes to stay in our delightful prison house next year. Oh yay. More unwashed dishes and bitchy ignorings from the sore thumb blonde cheerleader/rower who dwells in the baby pink and fluffy room adjacent to mine. What more could I wish for. On the other hand (which has different fingers), it means we don't have to have some new scary person who could possibly be worse, messier and also an axe murderer. We struck lucky when Booth left, and Seb moved in with his colourful trousers and bagpuss hair, and his penchant for stealing everyone's food. That sounded sarcastic, but he has motivated the house in very strange ways, for example, most of us barely left the house last term, but since the arrive of our multicoloured guitar playing friend, we have barely been in the house. And although Alex and Steve have not yet, as such, warmed to him, it is only a matter of time, I am sure. Mel, however, is totally in love with him, which is nice, and it is a shame he is not of the hetero variety as he and Molly seem to get along like quite a number of houses on fire. Perhaps he is Mary Poppins. He sure looks like her in my cord jacket.

Learning Not To Be A Tudor

I would say that this is possibly the most extreme form of procrastination that I have so far partaken in. Although, the washing all the dishes in the kitchen thing would probably make the top ten list. And the visiting of the nearby cocktail bar, to drink custom cocktails. tailored made to our own precise specifications (umm... something sweet, and uhh, pineappley?) would be pretty high up too. The procrastination is mainly to do with the revision that is glaring at me from the other side of the room. Ruled paper with incoherent felt tip scribblings scowl in the corner, and the scrunched post-its with illegible, completely unintelligible scrawls plot silently. Books I have not - and most likely will not- read continue to mock me with their cheap lime green Penguin covers ("Not only did you only spend two pounds on us, you miserly rascal, you won't even attempt to read the wonders that lurk inside our garish pages. You are obviously too thick. Run, run away and join the circus. You are both stingy AND stupid. Well done to you."). Of course, I have done some revision, let me tell you. I am not about to let myself down with false bravado, and whatnot, when really I have read something. For example, I reread a tiny Kant extract whilst revising in the cocktail bar (the dashing good looks of the bartender, by the way, were most certainly the cause of us returning home at eleven not just a little bit drunk), and earlier that day, I had read the Preface to the First Dictionary. Now, I would like to inform you - as I have informed all my housemates - that the only thing more boring than actually reading the dictionary is reading the preface to it. This is most certainly a True Story. Try it. I dares you.

It is now just an hour until my final Shock of the New seminar, with the delightful Tim Kendall, Wart Nose, Joe's Friend, Annoying-Girl-Who-Steals-Other-People's-Points-And-Then-Pretends-They-Are-Her-Own, David But You Can Call Me Dave, Angry Kelvin, Bagpuss, Silent Alex (female) and Silent Alex (male). Each of them displays their own unique skills, which involve either being loud and obnoxious, or quiet and invisible. Not so much unique, I suppose. We will sadly, this week, be discussing the forthcoming exams, which is a topic I am neither keen on nor able to escape. This is mainly my fault, due to my obsession with asking people, "OMG, how mmuch revis have you done, I've like totally done none, and I am well freakin' out!". This is how I speak, by the way. It's good, isn't it. Makes me sound super intelligent.

Combined with this going to seminar malarky, I must also pick up some essays that I do not, as such, want to pick up. I am pretty sure that I have done very badly and may be kicked out of uni, be forced to work in Tesco, and live with only cats. This is possibly an outcome I would be keen to avoid, mainly because I like the expensive prison house I live in, and so you would think that I would do much work in an attempt to stay put, but this is not so. Even as I was writing the aforementioned essays, I could feel the drivel in my brain seeping through my fingertips into the keyboard and magically appear on the screen in front of me. The waffly nonsense I was writing was shocking, and yet, I could not stop it, as if I was possessed. Or simply stupid. Of course, I would have just re-edited it to make some sort of coherent sense, but where's the fun in that? The essays remained horrific, and I handed them in. Possibly a misktake.

I am not, as such, dressed, but am instead cross-legged in my underwear infested room, on my psychedelic duvet cover, wearing a proper "I support Kazakhstan" tshirt in a dashing shade of aqua-marine. Of course, this is written in Kazak, so I may have got the translation wrong, but as far as I'm aware, it is their national anthem emblazoned across my back. I hope. I am procrastinating again, but this time in deciding what to wear out. Is it hot? Is it cold? Shall I wear a summer dress and biker boots anyway, and let the weather go to hell? Perhaps I shouldn't go, that way my getting dressed problem is entirely solved, as I just won't. I think this is the best plan. In fact, I may just go to sleep.

Pigeon Stealage

Well well well.

Fancy seeing YOU here. Or actually me, being that I haven't blogg-ed since October, and that, my friends, was a long LONG time ago. I have no good excuse for this non blogging malarky. It boils down to one simple thing: laziness. For although I spend copious amounts of time staring blankly at the screen, playing solitaire, or watching badly pirated movies, I have not quite been able to get into the whole blogging thing again. Which is a shame, as, at one point in my life, anyway, I used to like the ol' blog, and its self-indulgent nature. I COULD tell you that my reason for ignoring my trusted readership (and by that, I mean no one) is that I have been so busy with my work that I just haven't had the time. This would not be true. I could say that I have been cultivating my romance with a certain forklift truck driver with a shaved head, and this is the sole reason for my desertion. But this would only be partly true. The whole fact of the matter is that I am just so lazy that you could call it a disease, an affliction of the nature. I am so lazy that it hurts.

But this is by the by.

Instead of making excuses, I should be getting on with telling all of my fans (ie. me) about all the fascinating things that have been going on in my life.

Well.

To start with, I spend most of my evenings in my pyjamas watching rubbish television with my equally lazy flatmates. Considering I am a uni student, you would expect me to be spending every night out in the town, getting lashed and feeling guilty about one night stands. But no. Instead, I watch Hollyoaks, and eat variations of potato. Sometimes, I push the boat out, and eat some chicken too, whilst watching Torchwood. But this is only special occasions, of course. At the weekend, I shocked myself by physically buying a bunch of bananas. Time will tell as to whether they shall be consumed.

The amount of work that I produce is minimal. I barely do the reading that I need to, and even when I do, it is highly unlikely that I will understand any of it. My essays are of an average standard, and although I am not failing, I could be doing better. I am only interested by half the books we study. Maybe less. I am also very much less intelligent than the people here, and I have decided that this is not allowed, and I will not have it. I am inclined to kill people now.

At the weekend, I do nothing except watch television with the lazy boyfriend. He has now been the blight of my life for six odd months, which is quite impressive, as I am easily annoyed. And annoying, in equal measures. I am never exactly sure what to say about Jon. It's all rather confusing for me, and I quite often find myself at a loss for words. Suffice to say, I haven't, as of yet, run off with a Byron type from my seminar group, so let's just say that all is well on the Eastern front. Whatever that might mean. On the other hand, he took me out for a meal on Friday, which was both nice and also shocking.

In these last few months, I have travelled the world, traipsing across its wonders. For example, I have been to Scotland, and also to Bristol. Actually, that's it.

This is all I have to say on the matter of my life. I might post again tomorrow. But then again, I might post again in thirty years. That's the joy of it. No one knows.

Creature Feature

I did a lot of work today. Well. I say a lot. What I actually mean is more than usual. Which isn't really a lot, to be honest. But what I am getting at is that it is a lot of work for me. Okay?

I went out last night. I'll tell you the truth - I wasn't sober. At all. I also made enemies with the girls in my flat by telling Steve and Alex some pretty sick dead baby jokes. And I don't mean sick in the good way. Ah well. Who needs friends, huh?

Tonight I think I will be staying in. Mainly because I am lazy. Also because I am poor. I could watch some films. In fact, I might go to sleep for a bit soon.

This weekend, the Frances and the Leyla are visiting for a bit. It should be many jokes. I hope it will be. I also hope they will like it here. And want to visit more. Although it means I will have to tidy my room for their arrival. I don't want them to think I'm a slob or anything. Cough. John is also visiting again, but on Saturday. I think Fran and Lal are "accidentally" avoiding being here when he is, due to much embarrassment on their behalf to do with some Reading antics. Tut tut, you massive tarts.

I have nothing else to say.

Goodbye, Mr. A.

I am so tired. I had to get up for a NINE AM lecture today. I very nearly killed myself. It was not pretty.

I didn't even go out last night.

No. Instead, I spent TWO HOURS doing my laundry. That is right. Mainly because I couldn't work out the stupid machines. Mainly because I am stupid. And I didn't know how much washing powder to put in, because there was nothing telling me what to do. I WANT INSTRUCTIONS, PEOPLE. And it's not even that I've never washed my own clothes before, because I have, and I frequently do at home, it's just that these crazy mofos are useless and don't display in clear terms what to do. Then there was the tumble dryer calamity. I have never even SEEN a tumble dryer before. I sort of stood there, staring at it for a little while, trying to work out which buttons to press, and how much money I'd need, and how long it would all take to dry, and whether I would ever finish reading the Bible (not random, we had to read Genesis for the lecture today, which was exceptionally boring, I might add, and I did nearly have to stab myself in the thigh with my biro in order to remain awake). In the end, I just shoved all my clothes in there, slammed the door shut, shoved 80p in the little slot, and continued to read the Bible.

It was fascinating.

True story.

Hahaha.

John stayed this weekend. All we did was watch music channels, and the X Factor. We are cool like that. He is staying again this weekend. I assume all we will do is watch music channels and the X Factor.

It's good.

Nothing else of interest to report.

I'll probably be back blogging again soon.

Mwah mwah etc.

Sonnet 155

Lamenting lonely seagull, lost his love.
Seated sorrowfully, shrouded by the sea,
His mournful yearning touches Heav'n above
As the rolling, surging surf surrounds he.
Hark! The desperate silence is disrupted!
Could it be the affect'nate squeak of his
Speckled dear, echoing from the sea bed?
He reflects longingly on their last kiss.
Where she lies alone, he cannot wonder;
Taken by the sea, a cruel twist of fate.
How to unite, he can only ponder;
Lost in his love, seagull is a right state.
Plunging into the waves to be with her,
Poor seagull, consumed like Ophelia.

Many LOLs. Uni is funny.

I Like It When People Cook For Me.

I have not gone out in the evening for ages. Do you want to know why? Sure you do. It is because I am super lazy, and always tired. And also, the main problem, is that I have none of the moolah. Surprised? No, me neither.

Uni is still excellent, though I had to write a sonnet today. It was pretty much shite. But amusing, as I had to do it with a random person in my seminar group. We wrote it about a love sick seagull. Yes, we are THAT cool. I have more work to do tomorrow.

John stayed last weekend. It wasn't as strange as I thought it was going to be. Except for the fact that he used to be a rollerblader. Many LOLs indeed. And he's staying this weekend too. Many people are staying this weekend, actually. It is going to be a very full flat indeed. But also very funny, I feel.

Tomorrow is more sonnet writing shiz. But at least I don't have to leave the flat til 10:30. Thank the lord. I had to leave at 8:30 today, and I very much wanted to murder myself. And then I have to meet random seminar people at a CAFE. And this will mean I have to talk to them, and they seem sort of strange. And I think I've met enough new people, thank you very much.

So all in all, that is the end of that.

"Would You Be Interested In A Kiss?"

How weird is this?

I am living in my new flat with an array of interesting flatmates.

They are ALL GIRLS. But this is okay, due to the fact that I am indeed a massive lesbian. And we have male types upstairs to make fun of and whatnot, so it's all good.

There are eight of us here, and as of yet, there have been no arguments. But then, I have not unleashed my meanness yet. So you know. Swings in roundabouts.

Last night we went to Timepiece, which was hilarious (and not too expensive, either), and there was much salsa dancing. I actually got accidentally drunk in my room prior to the club, which was quite embarrassing, but we will wash over this, quickly. I spent most of the time at Timepiece with Mel (who likes Mcfly, and lives in the flat above), or sitting outside, making friends with people from other accommodation. It was hilarious. Then we came home, and had a rave in the kitchen until four in the morning, with the guys upstairs. There was much bad dancing, and painting of Steve's (who looks a lot like Guy Fawkes) face. After the dancing, Steve then proceeded to vom in Sarah's toilet, whilst we laughed. And took photos. A lot of photos. I then gave him my bin to vom in (see, I am nice), which I now regret, as I have rubbish all over my floor. Never mind. At six, I left Sarah and Steve to be ill together, and went to bed. I am now hugely tired, and have only just had lunch and showered. Mmm nice.

I have accidentally dyed my whole shower blue, as well as my hands. Not that the shower actually works, I keep having to have semi-cold showers. But this is okay. I am not looking forward to the winter-like months though.

My room is bigger than I thought it would be, and I aime it very much now that I am used to it. Even though the bed wobbles (damn, no bringing boys back, then), and the mattress is as hard as rock. But it is indeed live-able. Tonight we are going to see stand-up comedy, which I assume will be hideous, but hey, it's something to do, is it not?

But all in all, everything is excellent. Particularly as I have Jaffa Cakes.

Virginal Beauty

Oh there is so much to say.

So much.

Spain was flabulous.

I got three As (what the fuck indeed).

I'm going to Exeter.

V Festival was immense.

And Reading was HILARIOUS.

I just don't have the words.





I'm going to leave it there.

I will continue to update when I have stopped being the lazy.

Goodnight little ones.

You Used My Face As A Cloth

Hello, my children.

I have something of great importance to tell you.

I am actually a woman.

NO DON'T WORRY I'M LYING.

Anyway.

Now, I am going to Spain. I am away for a month, so do not cry too much, or the world will FLOOD, and then there will be tears at Christmas.

Rose has balls in her hair.

Omar is a werewolf in Paris.

I, on the other hand, have different fingers.


THANGUE ANT GOODNIGHT.

Venus And Serena

Now that I have finally finished my exams (and yes, I did manage to fit The Rocky Horror Picture Show into my Advanced English question, and yes, I am proud of myself), I have decided that this summer, I am going to use my time wisely. I am not going to squander my precious three months on sitting in my pyjamas, eating toast, and watching the tennis, no. Instead, I will go and volunteer in a soup kitchen. I will learn the bassoon. I will teach myself to french manicure my nails. I will donate ALL of my blood.

This was the intention.

Unfortunately, as I type this, I am sitting on my sofa, in my pyjamas, eating toast, and watching the tennis.

Well, you know what they say. It's the thought that counts.

Last Thursday was the leaver's service. I did not cry, surprisingly. I was quite annoyed at this lack of emotion, actually, as I have thrown on the nonwaterproof mascara and a mass of eyeliner with gay abandon, in hopes that I would leave the school in the style of a leaky panda. But this was not to be. No, not even in the midst of Shine Jesus Shine did a drop of salty tear juice drip from my sparkling eyes. Not even during our fantastic apology did my eyes fill with liquid emotion. Nor during Mrs. Creagh's inspirational speech involving Economics jokes, and stories about fishermen did I let the sadness get ahold of me. And so I remained dry, tearless, and oddly confused.

The BBQ after, at Fran's house, could have evoked the tears, due to the very short gazebo that we erected (oo er), and also the lack of Jumbinton bats, as I had accidentally smashed one the week before, with my superhuman powers of joy. I also took a bite of raw meat, which, more than filled me with sadness, made me feel a little ill, but still, no tears.

The Ball, however, was even more of a fiasco. On the morning of the Ball itself, I received a text from "date" claiming that he could not, indeed, be bothered to attend. Right, I thought. I need to find a boy. So I went on the internets, and there a certain William Hall was, like a knight in shining armour. Well, a wrinkled tux, and skewed bow tie. And yes. There was a beard. This was much better than a wetsuit, I thought. I thought he would drop us off at Fran's, and then disappear, but imagine our joy when he remained till 11 am, having kept us up the whole night, with the lovely game of "objects". Yummy.

On Saturday, I drove, sans any sort of sleep whatsoever, the two hours to Westonbirt, or wherever it was. It was a very interesting ride, involving several accidental changes of lane when I dropped off to sleep at the wheel. But no matter, for we survived the ordeal, only the spend the night in a tent during a hurricane. I did actually comment on the tent's lack of guy ropes, but it was 17 quid from Tesco's, so we weren't complaining. We found the guy ropes in the bag yesterday. Shh. Whilst we were in Westonbirt, we went to see a little band called The Feeling, as they were doing a series of gigs in forests. I fell asleep standing up, but I am happy to note that this was only during the support act, and I did, in fact, stay awake during The Feeling's set. And they were very good, and very gay. And that is just what I like.

The journey home was less hairy.

And still I have not cried.

Doctor Who was on on Sunday. I like how Jack was the Face of Boe, but not so keen on the mini ancient Doctor. Not a good look, Mr. Tennant. I advise that you do not age.

And so, since then, I have been sitting watching the tennis. Except for last night's exciting trip to Tesco's at midnight, where we decided on many nice things to buy. We like Tesco's.

I have nothing else to say really.

Other than: SPAIN SOON, AND I AM SUPER EXTRA EXCITED, AND MAY INDEED CRY WITH JOY. Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrray.

I'm Happy Wondering

So.

Everything is super exciting.

I am not even joking.

I have so many SECRET THINGS bubbling up inside me. And it is going to be EXCELLENT. Many many excellents indeed. I can barely contain myself.

It's only three-and-a-bit weeks till SPAIN. Hurrah and huzZAH.

And soon my exams will be over.

I am actually going to cry with happiness when they finish.

And then I'm going to dance.

Also I get to dye my hair soon.

And wear a really stripy dress.

But there is no food in the house today. This is the down point. And also, I have to revise. But I'm not. I'm making CDs instead. Which is just as useful.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaah.

I'm going now.

Morality And Mercy In Vienna

At last, my blogging sabbatical has come to a close. For a bit, anyway. I have been concerning myself with, firstly, the topic of the exams of doom. Very much doom, and quite a bit of despair. But never mind. I shall slowly disintegrate into an unemployed wretch, whereon I will scrounge off my friends, and steal from my parents. So like now, basically.

And yes, I have indeed sent off my PN1 form, so some time soon, someone I don't know will be giving me a large sum of money which I shall promptly squander on sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. Or, more likely, trashy magazines, DVDs and floaty dresses. I am very excited about this whole 'let's give Cassie some money' jaunt, although it doesn't sound exactly sensible to me, as we all know that it will just burn a hole in my pocket. I'm not happy unless I'm living in poverty, eh?

Also, I have not seen Pirates of the Caribbean Three yet. I think this is appalling, and I should be shot. I really do. I did see Magicians though, and that was freaking FANTASTIC. Seriously. I wanted to eat my own face. I have also been to some radio recordings, which was extra exciting, due to the presence of the oh-so-yummy James Lance, and a couple of the writers of Green Wing, which we all know, excites me NO END.

I also - the best part of the exam period, I have to say - played a lot of bizarre giant badminton, both with sex noises, and then also at midnight. Excellent to the extreme. I shall have to marry it. And I bought my ball dress. It's so stripy, and zebra like. I want some zebra-like shoes too match. And zebra hair. And a zebra FACE. Yes indeed.

And now I must revise. Of course, by this, I mean stare at the brightly coloured felt tip pen drawings I did. So not revise.

Lions, And Tigers, And Bears, Oh MY.

So, it's all very exciting, here on Planet Cassie.

For example, I have been to GREAT many parties, been to quite a few pubs, and have worn some nice new dresses (by the way, I didn't wear the prostitute dress, I lent it to Steve, who wore it instead, as she is a prostitute, and so it is more fitting. In more ways than one.).

Recently, I went to visit Rose at her REALLY FUN work. It was worky.

And also, I wore my mum's blue dress.

And, in the past week, I have had reddish hair, orangey yellow hair, and also, more recently, blue hair.

I have bought TWO ball/prom ticket things. And I'm not sure who to take.

I have been swimming.

We have booked tickets for SPAIN.

And READING.

And got a job at V FESTIVAL.

And have been a ginormous agony aunt.

I have accepted an offer to Exeter, which is three As and also veeeeery scary.

I haven't sent off my PN1 form. Yet. I will. I promise.

Yarr.

So basically, I need new dresses. Many of them. Preferably LONGER than the tiny elf dress I purchased in Camden last week with the May-den. This dress is REALLYREALLY cool, it's all blue and red, but it's so SHORT. And this wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact that my boobs practically FALL out of it at the slightest jiggle. Which would be fine, except I'm not a prostitute. Not yet, anyway. I certainly will be after Bob's party, which is the occasion during which I will be wearing the dress. Well. I say wearing. What I actually mean is STAPLING IT TO MY SKIN so that it does not ESCAPE from the MOUNTAIN OF FLESH which is my body.

It's all quite exciting, really. I will be spending much of the night holding my dress down, so don't expect me to speak to you. Or look at you. For the slightest movement may just encourage the dress to ping off, and there I will standing, in the middle of the club, in just my bra and knick-knacks.

I tried it with leggings. Nono.

I tried it bare legg-ed. Nonono.

I think I will have to stick jeans with it.

Which defeats the point of the dress COMPLETELY.

Although, the leggings were fun, as it was like wearing a WET SUIT. Which is always good. Unless you are going to a nice party.

Also, it turns out that Naidu's party is one of these 'dress nicely' malarkies, which can only end badly when there is NOTHING NICE TO WEAR.

/rant.

Well

Despite many offers, I am at home, on a Friday night, wrapped up in my PJs, Peep Show, my laptop and a slightly deranged cat.

It's all good, baby.

Of course, as per usual, I do not have anything to say.

I was supposed to be going out avec Rom and Tose, but this did not happen for a great many reasons. The cat is not a good conversationalist. It sits in silent, on my shin, curled up. Get off, cat of doom.

I would quite like to be a cat.

Not Morgy, though. She's weird.

Tomorrow, I am going to Camden to purchase some clothing for Bob's partay. I am going with May. Yes, May. I am a little scared. It is very likely that she will eat me alive. Or just kill me as a hilarious joke. I hope she doesn't. All pray, please.

Good bye, mon petit amis.

Angie, Are You Ashamed Of Me?

I don't like this week, I've decided. It's been very difficult.

Ahh.

I did do the essay though. So that's good. Not on time, I might add, but it's done nonetheless. ASWELL AS a portrait of Rach, which is obviously fabulous, because I am amazing at ART.

And then there has been annoyance in the car which I won't go into, because I will explode.

And then there has been the usual MAJOR CATASTROPHES. Which is just fine. I don't really know what to say about that.

But on the upside, I have tickets to READING. Yeah baby. I will be CAMPING, and seeing MANY BANDS that I don't actually like. So that's also cool.

Also this week, I've been told that it is UNLIKELY that I will get into uni. So that's also nice. We all like a bit of a shouting match with the gay music teacher.

Hmm.

Also my hair looks like a wig. Hurrah.

Mere Alcohol Doesn't Thrill Me At All

Look, a post.

I like chewits.

I'll Be Cheering For You Tonight. I Promise.

The more I think about university, the more I look forward to it.

I talk to a couple of old friends, occasionally, ones who are at uni, and my God do I envy them.

Of course it is daunting, especially as this will be the first time that I am away from Kris, really, in about ten, elevenish years. It's been a long time. Do I think I'll cope? Yes. I'm pretty certain that I will. But it will be weird. But the question is this: will she cope without ME? Of course not. None of you will. I fully expect you all to turn up on my doorstep, teary eyed and limp with out me there to be teary eyed and limp for you.

Oddly enough, one thing I really am looking forward to is being thrust out there almost completely alone, and being physically forced to make new friends. Making sure I'm not dependent on people. Finding new people to dump on. And of course, who will inevitably dump on me. And so that is exciting. And good. And lots more bland adjectives.

I have been in an odd mood since my whole ill thing on Thursday. Mood swings galore. Up and down. Swing swing from the tangles of. Etc. You know what I mean.

The talk about loans today was the thing that has hit home with me. I am going to be in DEBT. A hell of a lot of debt. So much debt that I will barely be able to BREATHE.


I don't know what to say any more.

FACT.

Fati's party was as scary as I anticipated. Though, I feel that I made the right choice in getting les drunkness on the way to Fati's, in Emma's car of joy.

And I got drawn on a lot. I can't remember enough to say anything more.

Last night, I went pubbing avec Rows and Thom. Twas very nice. And then she stayed over, and we took full advantage of the microphone attachments on my computer. Hahahaaarrrr.

Tonight, babysitting, and then tomorrow, Mother returns.

Hmm.

"Well, Maybe That's Because I'm QUEER"

Well, this is all very exciting, isn't it?

Everything is very topsy turvy this week, it is true to say.

Hmm. Fati's party is going to be very scary, I think. I am a bit worried about what may indeed occur. I might bring a book, just in case it gets mad. And a lot of alcohol.

I am not built for this kind of arghyness.

Saaaaaaaimon

I really should start blogging more often, because I keep forgetting what I've done, and who with, and for how long, and all those other important deets. For some reason though, I just can't be arsed with it all. Which is a shame, because I really heart the blogging on occasion.

Also, I don't know how to spell occasion.

And my nails are too long for the keyboard.

And my teeth feel numb from chewing all that gum.

Anyway, recently, I have been to the cinema numerous times, one of those times to see the AMAAAAAAAAAAZING Hot Fuzz. Truly epic. No Shaun of the Dead though. Close, but not quite. Also, I have had the mocks of joy. Which have been hilarious, more than anything. Particularly as I made up a lot of stuff about Byron. Hooray. I have also spent many a day with Fran, who is very ugly, and this was nice.

Tonight, I went to Simon Haslam's party, filled with all the scariest of people - boaties, and girls from LEH. Not a good mix. A terrifying one, it had to be said. But as I am a fabulous friend, I dragged myself away from the homework de la art, skipped off to Rose's to drag her out of her sick bed, and trundled off to Tom's, toting a large 3 of spades playing card.

It was naise.

Lots of spacky photos, as is necessary.

And I wore my pregnancy dress, whilst Rose looked fit as.

Never mind.

Anywho, is bed now, I think. Good night, mes children.

On Second Thoughts, Let's Not Go To Camelot; It Is A Silly Place.

So drama is done and dusted. All gone and away. Finito.

Well.

The performance part of it.

Which was, I might add, extremely fantastic. Shockingly so, one might say, if they were that way inclined. Which I am.

Actually, I kind of miss it. I miss drama already, and I've still got a whole term to go of it. This is a bad sign. I hate drama. With a passion. We know this. We have got used to the fact that I have committed myself to a couple of years of hell and hate. But now I like it. Most likely because I don't have to do it again. Unless, of course, there was some freak accident where the examiner gets shot in the back of the head, not actually killing him, but somehow causing him to lose all his memory, at the exact same time that Mrs. Sweeney gets taken hostage by terrorists on a flight to Fiji, and her hands and tongue cut off, therefore rendering it impossible for her to communicate to anyone, whilst AT THE VERY SAME TIME, the mark sheets are used to soak up a rogue cup of spilt hot chocolate, causing all the writing to smudge and run, whilst MAGICALLY IN THE SPACE TIME CONTINUUM OF DRAMA DOOM, the tape of the performance itself gets taped over with an old repeat of "Countdown". Then we might have to re do the performance. And I might not like drama so much then.

But as this is quite unlikely, I feel that I can stay comfortable in the thought that I like drama without worrying that all that stuff that I mentioned before might happen.

So what I'm trying to say is this: I am going to miss life without having lines to learn, horrid dolls to create out of three white teeshirts, the inside of a cushion, and a truckload of acrylic paint, having bizarre floor-length-tent-maternity-wear dresses to perch on my body, and cloaks on which someone behind will inevitably stand on whilst in procession, causing a stop-start-giggle fiasco, at the same time as being extremely close to blowing the candle-in-a-jar which is balancing on my shaky, shaky hand.

Drama is weird.

And today, when I was watching Billet Piper, Laurence Foxy and Kris Marshall perform "Treats", I realized that I will very likely never do any kind of performance again, malheursement.

And this is sad.

So anyway, I don't really have anything to say for the moment, due to the fact that I have not really done anything except for drama over the past few weeks. Never mind. This week will be interesting.

Yarr.

And I Can't Get You

The last week has been bizarre, to say the least.

For example, I have almost crashed many a time, I have been on many outings in the afore mentioned crash-mobile, I have been told a couple of interesting stories involving a certain ping pong ball, and certain places that are not meant to contain ping pong balls, I have been out to a very strange meal, which had too many doughnuts, and I have also been out to a bar where I did not really drink much, as I was DRIVING home.

And then there was all the work that I did. Obviously. Considering all that I do is work. Actually, I have been doing a lot of art. Making a mood page and whatnot. Also, Rachelle and my fine self attacked the loos with red paint in order to make it look like some one had bled words all over the tampon machine, the taps, and of course the toilets themselves. Hurray.

Hello Rachel.

Hola Amigos

Ah what's that you say?

New laptop, you say?

Oh yes.

Also, new driver?

Ahhhhhh yes indeed.

I passed. At long bloody last.

I am watching Ally Mcbeal. It is actually quite beautiful.

Aww.

I Heart You, Mac

Dear GOD I love Green Wing.

The ending was so perfect. And so... dignified.

I am totally in love with all of it and everything.

And now I'm going to buy the DVD.

Grin.

But also cry.

I'm Brian, And So's My Wife

It transpired that at midnight, the only resolution I could think of was this:

Learn to speak Arabic.

Which is mainly bollocks, basically. So this year, my resolutions are a sham; nay, a mockery of a sham.

A good start to the year, I feel.

Other resolutions will possibly include the usual pretence of doing some actual work for a bit (maybe. If you're lucky, that is), and also the be nice to people one. Although, I did actually make that resolution last year, and MAINLY KEPT TO IT. And the year before that, I said that I would be more decisive. Which I have been. In fact, I've gone completely the other direction, and become bossy and opinionated. Which is always nice. Actually, when I think about it, things have changed insanely during the past twelve months or so. My grades have improved considerably, I know what I want to do when I grow up (if that ever happens; I only seem to grow out), I have learnt to use oil paints properly(ish), I barely talk to my old friends now, and seem to spend most of my time with people from "the other side". And Tash. But she hardly counts. Ha. Last night, I partly reconstructed old friendships (always good), and today I feel a bridged a couple of gaps too.

You know, this post wasn't supposed to be soppy, but it seems to have wriggled its way into soppyville. I could post my lengthly description of Alex's party last night, but I think that it is not for the eyes of the internet. So back to the resolutions.

• Stop being a whore (jokes, mate, jokes)
• Try to do at least two essays a week.
• Pass my driving test (yeh, right)
• Make new friends

(Actually, that's a point. These resolutions are going to have to include getting ready for uni shizzlemanizzle)

• Do something REALLYCOOL this summer that I will remember forever
• Be more adventurous
• Get a job that I actually like doing
• Tidy my room.

I think that's it.

So anyway.

A new year begins, and so we must continue.

Oh God.

Shit, There's A Field In The Road

So, it is New Year's Eve. Again.

And this year, I shall be spending it in the company of some Tiffin types, and the old Hampton types. And there will be much scariness.

I am more than a bit scared.

This will be the first year in MANY that I haven't spent with a Bish. I don't really know what to think about that.

A couple of days ago, I went to see It's A Boy Girl Thing, with Emma and Mark (Marc? Marrk? Maaaaarc? Marcus? Who knows? All I know is that he's Scottish. But says it is pronounced "Scarrtish". Which is obviously nonsense.) It wasn't a good film. It could possibly be described as shockingly awful, if you were so inclined. It was a kind of Freaky Friday mish mash thing, with a bit of She's The Man, and an addition of Mean Girls. But bad. Very very very bad. SO bad, that, in fact, it was actually kind of funny.

Well, I thought so.

I don't know what to wear tonight.

I may just go naked. Just for jokes.

Yawn.

See you next year.

Good Good Good Vibrations

It is les Christmases.

Have nice times, friends.

I see you when it is time.

I have been out partaying in Caffe Piccolo with old people.

Beth, I can go Rugbying. Call/text me if it's still on.

Hurray.

Dawson, Me Kissing The Gay Guy Was All Your Fault

HOla, amigos.

Yes, with a big O.

Tom's party was last night. It was also insanity.

At the beginning, it was tres awkward, as we did not know a single person there. Except Olly, who we forced to drag us round with. And then I noticed that Elliot Biscuitboy (aka ex best friend of little brother) was there, and very tall, and still looking biscuitboyish. So I hid from him. After many a phone call, Tash and Rose arrived (thank the Lord), and hid me from people for a little time. Emma and Abi arrived, and we proceed to drink much.

Surprisingly, all of our old Hampton Krew were very cheerful. Lack of SWPS it would seem.






This blog is going nowhere. I'll write a play about it later and send it to you, Steve, hokay?

Well, At Least I Don't Look Like A Girl

Ouchay stomachy.

I have nothing to report.

Literally. Nothing at all.

I don't even know why I'm blogging.

Do you know, though, I've rediscovered a liking for Dawson's Creek. I am extremely tempted to buy the serieseses on DVD. In fact, I'm opening up Amazon now.

Seriously, it's hilarious. They've got like 80 year olds playing 16 year olds teenager types, who talk as if they fell into a well of dictionaries, and osmosis occured, so that they know not the simple language of normal teenagers. They also blame everything on Dawson. Which in itself is comedy. I don't know why I'm describing this to you, you've probably seen it anyway. And I feel sorry for you if you haven't. The sincerity of it just kills me.

But for now, it is time for A Lot Like Love. Heart heart heart.

Basically

It's the end of term. At. Last.

No more panto. Thank the freakin' Lord.

Actually, I think it went reasonably well. With the exception, perhaps, of the part when Mr. C thought it would make sense to do his scene again after it had already finished. But never mind. it was actually very hilarious. Even though no-one got the "but I don't like Pimms" bit.

On Friday, we gate crashed a Year Ten chemistry lesson, didn't hand in several bits of over-due homework, and open a multitude of cards. After school had finished, I went home with Rose and Omar. And then I realised I'd left the pantomime cow at school, so we drove back (full speed ahead, and all that) collected the cow, parked in Sainsbury's, and delivered the cow back the the Fairy Godmother. I was sad to see it go - I had become quite attached to the darling thing, and its flappy ears.

Omar, Rose and I watched She's The Man, and also all the episodes of Black Books from series one. Then we ate chips and muffins, and watched QVC, followed by Dawson's Creek. It was fab.

SAturday, I babysat Daniel for two hours, during which we constructed a lego car. And the Lauren came home, and I watched television in their house for as long as I would usually be at school on a school day.

Sunday, I went to Tash's where we watched many a film, and had much discussion about lesbianism. As is the norm with Tash. Fab indeed.

Tonight is Laura's party. I am going to bring a nice big bottle of Malibu to hide under my jacket.

Indeed.

I have nothing else to say really. Yes, I know, no rants, scary non?

The cat keeps headbutting the keybporad;.

Feigns Shock

I have just come home from the dress rehearsal from Panto.

I just don't care any more.

I have realised a great many things throughout this "journey". I now know who my real friends are. I also know that a lot of the people in my year are lazy and so self absorbed that they can't even come a single rehearsal.

Even though I begged.

I've also realised that there are a certain few people in the year who I am going to kill so hard.

I wish I was more violent. And confrontational. But I almost managed to keep my cool today. I was alright till the end. And then I carried the head of the pantomime cow (which I paid a deposit of £100 for, and how much of a thank you do I get?) up to the rostra on the stage, and tried to stop myself going spaz on those who were refusing to cooperate. It worked. Just.

The teachers are good. They are mostly fabness in a bucket. And we have about a third of the year who are trying really hard. And that's good. I am more grateful than a fireplace. To be homest though, I'd had my suspicions about the selflessness of the rest of the year anyway. I just wasn't expecting to have it confoirmed (say it like a Chicago mafia type).

And yet still - somehow - I have faith that it will be a good panto. Not the best maybe. Quite different the the usual type of panto, but I think it will be okay.

The cow is called Wesley.

Ah Fuckity Fuck

Time is going too fast - I cannot get a hold on anything.

Everything seems to have speed-of-lightness at the moment. What to do? Eh?

There is no time for panto rehearsals, there is no time for Anything Goes, there is no time to actual work, and Heaven knows I need to start doing some of that, if I want to get into any unis. Although, I may as well give up now, as two of them want three As, and the other two want AAB, and the last two don't want anything to do with me.

So, in summary, I am fucked.

And not even in the good way.

Also, we have a squirrel in our house. I know, I know, it could only happen to me. It is currently residing under the fridge.

We have named it Simon.

I have not talked to anyone in a long time.

And it worries me that I am only half bothered by this fact.





I can't do tomorrow. I just can't do it. I think I'm going to crumble. Or snap. I don't know, but there will be disintergration of sorts.

I wish I'd done my essays.

I wish I had a proper part in Rites. I'd like to tell the truth.

This blog is starting to feel like a poem.

I blame Zadie Smith. Damn her and her autographing.

I would like to be able to drive, please. If that's not too much of a problem. I'd like time to stop for a week. Just one week, whilst I do some rectifying. I'd like to dye my hair. And I'd like to marry someone rich. Or at least, go out with someone rich, and then they can buy me expensive presents.

The curser is hovering over the button. Never mind.

Don't

The last week has been extremely eventful.

Actually, when I say extremely eventful, I don't really mean that. I mean more, not that eventful, but not totally boring. It has seemed to have lasted about 87 days though. In the past week, I have been to a Muse concert, got very bored in Strodes (shite) common room, been fined twenty pounds on the train for being pretty, painted a giant ship, and discovered that Mark Heap isn't that disgustingly ugly.

I wish I'd bought teeshirts at every gig I've been to.

I have about four, but I want more.

Also this week, we finished the panto.

I hope Mrs. Creagh doesn't censor it.

Particularly the poem.

I shall recount the poem here, as none of the lower years ever read this blog. Actually, no one reads this blog at all, except for maybe a couple of hermits, and you.

Oh Suze,
I don't want to lose
You.
You are so pretty,
And not very twitty,
I want to serenade you,
And marinade you
In my love.
I lost a glove
Once.
Marry me, Suze.

I think they might make us take that out.

I hope not. I will be severely disappointed if they do, as it is the best poem ever made. With the exception of "An Ode To Morven Creagh".

Genius indeed.

This week, I also was told that I am not gifted and talented.

I think this is extremely unfair.

I am very good at procrastination, and not doing work, in general.

Also, I am very talented when it comes to losing things. For example, I have no idea where my lunch pass is, and I'll be damned if anyone can tell me where I've "hidden" my bank card. Same goes for my student planner, and that one essay that I have actually done, but simply failed to find.

Alack and alas.

I have also watched a great many episodes of Spaced this week.

It really is a joy to the brain. I think I shall be forced to marry Simon Pegg. It's a hardship, I know, but I think I'll get through it.

In other news, last week, Mr. Jarrett asked me out, and we've been on a couple of dates, but I'm not sure I like him like that. Perhaps it's the nose hair. Or maybe it's his paunch, I don't know. I just don't think it can work between us, however hard we try.