tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62529512011-04-22T06:11:23.558+01:00Boy BewilderedA better life through self-expression. Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.comBlogger2021100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1128210628151044192005-10-02T00:31:00.000+01:002005-10-02T00:50:28.166+01:00Daphney I'm still with, but I know I won't be forever. She's taking more from me than I can take from her. Her friends are out of bounds, when she knows all of mine and spends time around us. When she's closer to half of them than I am, and I have to watch as she sits on the couch with them, showing me unwittingly what things I'm missing. Then she tells me she has no friends, and my heart hits myFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1127321428277749912005-09-21T17:46:00.000+01:002005-09-21T17:50:28.283+01:00I'm never amicable when tired, and I get scared. Everything takes on super-significance. Does she hate me now? Why are her feet so metronomic? Why is everything so loud? What are people thinking? What does it matter if the world runs on money? What's the point of debates? What's the point of this day? Why am I still here?It's like my brain is shivering, coming up with these absurdities to keep Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1127158523123929802005-09-19T20:28:00.000+01:002005-09-19T20:35:23.130+01:00Analytical and explorative is the mood on this day on my timetable. 4 Lessons of pure, pure maths (at least today, when we're not doing silly numerical methods). And then 3 of stealthy German literature.Mmm... I love sitting, pressing the headphones as close as possible to my skull. Drowns out morons as I attack the next problem, smiling, smiling as I've got them right or next to right, or even Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1126721530499353602005-09-14T18:47:00.000+01:002005-09-14T19:12:10.530+01:00Watching the people get excited about Kaiser Chiefs in the common, room, jumping around and looking pleased with themselves. Then a ten minute music channel flip: are there even that many?Peering through my glasses at objects, having fun with the world. Slinkys look magical as ripples, sines, are shot along them. I got up a standing wave for a few minutes, but the beauty in the metal distracts Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1126300480308621162005-09-09T21:54:00.000+01:002005-09-09T22:14:40.313+01:00My summer's been great, but arriving back my mother and I fractured our relationship. I'm not grateful enough; she has a different persona for each different guest. Which leads to me ignoring her: if she's not going to play at being a mother, I won't bother with being a son.I don't like how she sees America: a bastion of friendliness. Homely. She still thinks England is how it was back in the 70sFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1121958124744710262005-07-21T15:53:00.000+01:002005-07-21T16:02:04.750+01:00Abandoned at the end of school, all my real friends gone away with no glances up as I walked away yesterday. All in this case means two, but I love them and they mean enormous things to me. Another friend I had plans to do nothing with, to absorb the odd, swirling calm at the end of things. She cancelled.Today was the real last day, and I played football in the complete vacuum of activity. Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1118789855404652662005-06-14T23:29:00.000+01:002005-06-14T23:57:35.423+01:00The shag carpet looks like mincemeat to her. She softly laughs, holding her tears in check. Talking on the phone and watching TV, she neglects the conversation. Murmuring disagreement instead of pity, she realises that that particular friend is over.She doesn't really care tonight.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1118446479333031402005-06-11T00:04:00.000+01:002005-06-11T00:34:39.360+01:00The absence of any weight acting on my pressured brain has created one, right through my heart, drawing on every breath. I have five more exams, but they're not for over a week so they may as well not exist.Limbo's funny.Reading John Updike, my own thoughts feel more full and rounded. Every subconsciously phrased, personal message seems to me beautiful and worthy of paper, but I don't have any Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1116371980528288802005-05-17T23:52:00.000+01:002005-05-18T00:19:40.566+01:00Damn, man. Tired and lonely isn't where I wanted to be. It feels nice to make the clack of the keys though, and watch the words appear, disjointed as ever.Billy Corgan's blog is amazing.Sometimes it seems like no matter how happy I get, there's always something lurking. Secretive Daphney and I feel inadequate, out of the loop. Promises look hollow and vague.Waking up with her is the nicest. Legs Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1115494969327661912005-05-07T20:00:00.000+01:002005-05-07T20:44:06.346+01:00Why is the sky so beautiful?The sky has majesty, but it's open to anyone. Just look up! The black clouds are chasing the ones tinted orange by the delicious sun. That cloud looks like a scribble in my work. I wonder what it's hiding. The skinny ones behind it wisp about, static on the conveyor belt that brings me cloud upon cloud for pleasure and interpretation and love. It brings the same Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1114292781459992982005-04-23T22:29:00.000+01:002005-04-23T22:46:21.460+01:00I've been online way too long, and I'm going to write.The world still makes no sense at this time of night, which is reassuring. Continuity is important, right? Yesterday a cokehead threatened to smash my head in, for looking at his imaginary girlfriend.I've changed... I can't revel in being the best at anything, because I've worked for it, same as everyone else. It used to be constant triumph, Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1113948048919892782005-04-19T22:40:00.000+01:002005-04-19T23:00:48.920+01:00I'm finiskity, all of a sudden. Yesterday I worried my hair wasn't red anymore. In my dreams a precocious girl of nine told me I wasn't good enough to coach her. I asked Daphney if we're drifting away...My head's off kilter. Things go... Writing's been lost to thinking. Panicuniversitypanic, as I try to think what happens when Cambridge reject me. (It's not that I love the place, it's just the Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1112807379409151612005-04-06T17:59:00.000+01:002005-04-08T18:00:15.110+01:00It's half past tired, which is into the realm of graveyard. It's been holiday so long that school's a vague memory, just like whatever I've ever learnt. Can't do the tests, I pout as I try and force myself to work. Target upon target I've set myself until they list themselves in bold on my desk.Laying in bed trying to coax a tear out of hiding, I'm thinking. The thoughts are leaving dirty, Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1112265247608847022005-03-31T11:32:00.000+01:002005-03-31T11:34:07.606+01:00Thoughts rush through my spacey head, walking through aisles at bargain jumbly stores. I have a five pound, wonderful blue duffel coat.I had something to tell as well, but I've failed in remembering. I've had a lovely few weeks, and now I'm on holiday with chocolate from easter. I'm going to do awesome amounts of work, and memorise my demonic German 100%.I'm going to learn to love my underpoweredFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1111160679050692682005-03-18T15:34:00.000Z2005-03-18T15:44:39.050ZCrystal cascades of memories open into me. Forms transient, as my mind yields views and colours that probably weren't there.Memories are the most proud things I possess, but every time I browse through them they corrupt. And then sometimes, something so clear drops into me that I can't doubt it at all.I'm sitting here half naked, because Summer's beauty is here early, and it makes me so cheery toFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1111081324657266602005-03-17T17:32:00.000Z2005-03-17T17:42:04.660ZI watched her watch hands as they sternly counted. It made me feel uneasily tranquil, to watch the seconds flee from the present.On Sunday I baked a lovely cake, and Monday was back to school after a mellow weekend. Sunday nightI ignored what I could and held my head in my hands, trying to remember the facts that just slipped by. There one was: chemistry practical tomorrow.Completely surreal nextFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1109798482458980912005-03-02T21:00:00.000Z2005-03-02T21:21:22.460ZI had given blood in the day, ignoring their safety precautions to cycle home, pale as night. In the night I woke, groggy, feeling the house's air weigh me down. I needed to be touched, on the stomach. I wanted her to be there, but I put my palm flat down on me and pressed with both hands until my stomach forgot.I wrote 'touch' on my hand, to remind me.My skin's bruised where the tape on the Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1109023586306659832005-02-21T21:58:00.000Z2005-02-21T22:06:26.306ZIt's snowing (isn't it wondrous?)For half a moment, which really isn't much at all, my North London street is white. It melts of course, leaving shit-smeared suburban streets.Snow might be my favourite thing (ever). When I was sevenish, I lived outside Chicago and there was record snowfall. Bulldozers piled it up in the car parks, leaving man-made hills. And the awesomest of all the man-made Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108921712659671782005-02-20T17:31:00.000Z2005-02-20T17:48:32.660ZShe loves meShe does, really deeply does. Love to the point of rash proposals and midnight vows. Staying up stupidly late (with stupid consequences), promising things and listening and snuggling up. If we were older, would you marry me? I ask it with nonchalant sincerity. She replies yeah, indignantly.She got hilariously drunk too. To the point of forgetting times tables and how to count or standFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108770625307036592005-02-18T23:38:00.000Z2005-02-18T23:50:25.310ZI had a post and it went, thanks to me (although it'd be easier to blame blogger).I can't write long, but earlier I tried to say that I had cyclopean pain in my head, that I was withdrawn from Daphney and that I needed to sleep early.At the moment I'm just waiting for my watch to come back to me (I couldn't have lost it down the plug), considering the leftover homework, and thinking about my Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108759837392281322005-02-18T20:42:00.000Z2005-02-18T20:50:37.393ZTomorrow night's about old friends and future plans. Marigold's crazy about our 'Americas Tour' for 2006, after school is done forever for me. And Daphney may well be coming to America with me this year, with my family.We'll get mildly pissed, I guess. My hair's so long...Tonight's wistful, slightly hazy. I can remember about half a page of my German when I need to know two.I'm yawning and Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108658210135588912005-02-17T16:20:00.000Z2005-02-17T16:36:50.136ZOk, I lied.I'm sitting here scared. The internet lets me go farther into myself than I wanted. Idle browsing shows purpose over hours of idle amusement.Every link clicked lets the computer know me better. I've read and read, and my head hurts from knowledge, fear.I need someone to hold onto when I'm like this. No one's close enough to anchor me to the real world. Only my eyes resist the melding Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108637718456976952005-02-17T10:21:00.000Z2005-02-17T10:55:18.456ZHey,I've been away from here for a longer time than I had planned, but.I'll be sporadic I think. I think I've lost something.I'm trying to work through papers and papers of German and chemistry and maths.I've forgotten how to write anything that doesn't come in the form of a chemical equation or that's not stupendously boring. I can't write like anyone I admire. Nothing here seems to be real.I'm Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108059813096941432005-02-10T18:19:00.000Z2005-02-10T18:23:33.096ZI'm clearing stuff up, moving into my room. Making it my space for the next however many years.
I've found photos and a note telling me the counselors in the summer were there if I wanted.
On the other hand, I've got massive speakers :)
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1108053220419914232005-02-10T15:42:00.000Z2005-02-10T16:33:40.420ZIs it Thursday already? Oh well..
My coach driver thinks I'm gay. Not that it's uncommon, but still. He picked up his friend on the way, and the guy talked about 'faggot clubs'. The driver corrected him: 'mate, they're called gay clubs'. Fair enough I thought.
Inside, he pulls me over: 'Fran, I'm sorry about what he was saying. He didn't know'. I stood confused for a minute, then accepted the oddFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107806711270797432005-02-07T19:59:00.000Z2005-02-07T20:05:11.270ZWoah. Sit down.
I searched the house for ten minutes. She didn't say she was going out. Mum? MUM! Hello?
I got so nervous, I'm flushed as the t-shirt I'm wearing. I checked her bathroom like I walk around the corner to my bike. The same tearing sense; 'will it be there?'.
Her body wasn't there.
It isn't anywhere (of course). I'm just jumpy. Other people are home now.
Calmer...
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107623287931275172005-02-05T16:42:00.000Z2005-02-05T17:08:07.930ZMy hair is practically long enough for me to tie back into a ponytail. My friend is almost definitely joining the army. He has to do 1.5 miles in 9 minutes, effortlessly complete 50 sit-ups and 50 press-ups and then chin-ups.
At fencing, his job's being taken over by someone who's not me, which I regard as a personal slight. He won't be going for a couple of months though.
Oh, what's with me? Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107539402833019892005-02-04T17:21:00.000Z2005-02-04T17:50:02.833ZI can't even think, but I totaled up my homework and estimated four hours of concentrated learning (I think about concentrated acids, and know that acids that are strong dissociate readily into their ionic constituents). Chemistry is taking over, because it makes me work.
The other day we saw orange peel boiled and distilled into limonene (which is an alkene, you know?) It smelt of orange.
Maths Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107463065981104042005-02-03T19:55:00.000Z2005-02-03T20:37:45.980ZThe library gave me more terrible CDs, but at 30p for two weeks I don't care. I forgot to hand in the slaved-upon chemistry, so tomorrow will involve early entrance to apologise and acting tired enough to be pitied.
I was up past midnight trying to understand which part of the German made sense, failing miserably. But oh well.
Tomorrow I'm going to plan my weekend. Tonight I'm going to continueFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107282463443005212005-02-01T17:51:00.000Z2005-02-01T18:27:43.443ZI'm going to whine now, because I miss English and my stomach's constricting just thinking about it.
At the beginning of the year, I lined up all my subjects (approved by the head) and felt gaps everywhere. Only five subjects?
I picked according to teachers and the wishes of others I vaguely felt. My parents told me to take English, I think, but I thought teachers knew best. I took German on Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107191914062736512005-01-31T17:02:00.000Z2005-01-31T17:18:34.063ZSo Saturday night was like, the drunkest ever!
Actually, it probably was for me. Drunk enough to remember only shards. I remember beautiful smiles and asking to hug, and making sure platonic hugs weren't misconstrued and then some more hugging. And trying to impersonate someone sober (which I'm sure I wasn't that bad at) and falling over and sitting on the stairs, head in hands, wondering what Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1107017728911745102005-01-29T16:34:00.000Z2005-01-29T16:55:28.910ZAnd as I came back from fencing a demon stared at me from his car window, intent on running me over. I didn't like him or his beard.
Car drivers don't like me. I ride a bike and do stupid things. Their fear expressed through horns. Their insults bouncing off of my shiny yellow helmet (not).
I hear someone shout 'ginger' at me. It's ridiculous to the point of laughable, the issue of hair colour.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106929916444336332005-01-28T16:08:00.000Z2005-01-28T16:31:56.463ZI'm home early because the world has left me loose, out of school due to kindness and fast work. I went to the library and discovered the concession fees are only for CDs, not movies. Which left me with no money.
Today's been empty. I even had lunchtime free. It felt so weird. Let off a leash for the first time in ages.
I've almost got manageable homework as well.
So my plan is to watch Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106845519623316032005-01-27T16:27:00.000Z2005-01-27T17:05:19.623ZI'm the distracted one today. Looking around for my memories. My brain handles one or two things only.
Homework exists as well, and so does real work. Shelves being put up.
I can't wait to be in my new room. I almost am.
German involves words that we don't know and a waste of life. Chemistry was fun. Stupidly badly prepared of course, but I filled two beautiful sheets with writing that Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106691548997885652005-01-25T22:14:00.000Z2005-01-25T22:19:09.013ZI looked at the streets, and wondered why it wasn't odd to think that the sodium-yellow stains will disappear come morning. (I have five minutes on this computer).
My brain accepts too much. I want a part of it to regress back into eternal wonder at the world. I can't stay here longer. My back hurts.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106589952445387942005-01-24T17:48:00.000Z2005-01-24T18:05:52.446ZTwo things, because my feet are frozen and work needs to be done.
A) Leticia is writing again. (I don't know what else to say about it).
B) I fenced ok, hit my goal.
I was going to stay up there the whole weekend, but caught a lift so I could see Daphney on Sunday. I don't understand everything that goes on in her head. Or even more than the eensiest bit of it, to be honest. Anything I've Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106247559063847832005-01-20T18:57:00.000Z2005-01-20T18:59:19.066ZI'm going to a fencing tournament this entire weekend. I'll be gone, from almost everything. Up into the wilderness of Stoke...Bye!
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106158982852198622005-01-19T18:22:00.000Z2005-01-19T18:23:02.853ZThat post's gone. It wasn't any good anyway.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106158426805203842005-01-19T17:54:00.000Z2005-01-19T18:13:46.806ZMy girlfriend's going out with her girlfriend today. The most insane bolus, perched between joy and jealousy rose in my stomach. I love the thought of her with a girlfriend. All fuzzy. (By the way, they're not going out. But I consider them like that). Some days the absolutely beautiful thought of them hugging or dancing has me all tingly.
But still, I want to see her so bad I can feel it, hard.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1106069664568902582005-01-18T17:01:00.000Z2005-01-18T17:34:24.570ZThis made me laugh. Seems to capture the essence of her writing rather perfectly.
I plodded to school as well as I could on a bicycle. I've never been hit. I've hit one person who stepped out from behind an ice-cream truck, and he dropped his ice cream. His friends asked me to buy him more, but I said no. He's lucky he avoided the calories.
I'm kind of obsessed actually. With body, form, Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105981743211751492005-01-17T16:50:00.000Z2005-01-17T17:09:03.213ZRaining today, which isn't surprising or exciting. It soaks into my jeans, making me wonder how cold my thighs can get, and whether rain water will stain my clothes.
Today I wore a (pink) small (pink) H+M (pink) top underneath a comfort jumper. It got too hot, I took my jumper off. And remembered, belatedly. I was mildly embarrassed. The teacher got some sunglasses.
I also remembered how vain IFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105898636430564782005-01-16T17:45:00.000Z2005-01-16T18:03:56.430ZI woke up, rolled over and looked at my hair. It was moving to my heartbeat. After fights, breakfast, I went looking for hooks for my room. There's a wall full of them now, each with an imaginary purpose that I'll remember wistfully later. Shoe hooks, big hooks, metal hooks, book hooks...
My favourite device is a spring-loaded clasp. It says push on one side, and reminds me of Alice because of Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105828307575174822005-01-15T22:05:00.000Z2005-01-15T22:31:47.576ZI watch the sky when I'm walking. People tell me they watch their feet, to know they're making progress. Can't take looking ahead, to see their destination still at the horizon of the cluttered vision.
But yeah, I look up. The stars are drowned out by the raucous light pollution of the sleepy houses, but I still see Orion. Unrelated:
There are about 6.02 * 10^23 molecules in a mole. There have Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105554431368390532005-01-12T18:03:00.000Z2005-01-12T18:27:11.366ZWhen I read, or think, or look around, unhappy people spring out. I want to help them. Every one, I want to reach an arm around and hug, until barriers between us rot open and the tidal wave of maggot-infested, dark thoughts spring into me and out of them.
Or at least, I think I do. How can I be sure? People around me suffer, and I feel myself disengaging with them. Why? For myself. Because I Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105490265611416652005-01-12T00:31:00.000Z2005-01-12T00:37:45.613ZI got my first ever paycheque today (fine yesterday, pedants). I feel unalive. It is, however, far too late. Tomorrow afternoon I desire to cash the cheque, finish my book, and go to bed early.
Team America comes out Friday here. I expect a terribly unfunny film, but being surprised would be lovely.
I've been dreaming a lot of words. Last night I read a novel, by my dad (in a dream...) It was Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105464940194007312005-01-11T17:20:00.000Z2005-01-11T17:35:40.196ZA learner driver was in front of my garage, but not all the way. I cycled into the driveway; he reversed.
The FUCK?
MAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah DRIVEWAY! Primal man leapt from my soul and beat its fists on my chest, my face livid.
Then I shook.
Today also, we created a demonstration of Brownian motion. Blew smoke into a chamber, watched the light circle around. It looks like dust. Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105378207233243272005-01-10T17:11:00.000Z2005-01-10T18:10:13.276ZI woke up today with words around my brain. I had pieced them together in the night, and they're gone now. I need a book by my bed, to write in.
The whole weekend I was tired and with Daphney. Today I was invited to a birthday party, and I can't go because of fencing. I've finally found some people I genuinely love and want to be with, and it's not happening. On the positive side though, I'm Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105084925016893342005-01-07T08:00:00.000Z2005-01-07T08:02:05.016ZMorning cold, shower burns my nipples. Fuck the plumbing. My eye's aren't even open yet... And two hour's homework to fit into 40 minuts.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1105037310573328372005-01-06T18:22:00.000Z2005-01-06T18:48:30.573ZI'm wearing red. On another note:
Do you love me?
Cheap question.
Do you?
Do you?
I asked first.
Yeah, so? You wanna know more than I do.
ohh... Why are you like this?
Like what?
You know.
Yeah so? Because.
What?
Do you love me?
Where did that come from?
Well exactly. You're unfair. You can't ask me and escape declaring it. That's a shit way to say I love you.
I know... But... I've never...Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104952191153665822005-01-05T18:56:00.000Z2005-01-05T20:31:20.713ZBlogger just deleted my post. Fucker.
Oh well. School makes me ill. I lose my mindset of enjoyable learning, and get one that makes me do no homework, until late late late. Oh well. I'm pleased my German oral went well, and pleased that the internet hasn't ruined my eyes yet. I've been chatting for a long time. Wasting my life away , trying to supplement other people's.
I love people. Mainly Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104861383779603632005-01-04T17:31:00.000Z2005-01-04T17:56:23.780ZI'm avoiding German work.
The rain
strings of beady light
illuminate the air underneath
me. But I walk through it.
My movements are underneath
me. Me is where I see from.
the lamp lights through
the rain. It drizzles into
me.
__________________________________
Anyway, don't know why I started that. I don't know if I love blogging. I love it more than work, but not more than the thought of itFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104833627049387162005-01-04T09:59:00.000Z2005-01-04T10:13:47.050ZI dreamt of taking an English exam by accident, and doing worse than terribly. Then I walked up a long, circular flight of stairs and then into a school, where it's open as an orphanage because of the tsunami. Then I'm about to play chess.
Today was harder to wake up to. I have school in 40 minutes. Can't remember what's on my timetable, or how much work I have(n't) done. Ah well, I know I did Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104707320908928462005-01-02T23:03:00.000Z2005-01-02T23:08:40.906ZThe office door's wedged open, we're working on my room. It is going well, and the lights I picked out are black and dominating; they watch like sentinels. I hope they give me nightmares.
I watched Spirited Away today, with Daphney curled close. Romance is in my mind. I think I'm as close to love as I've ever been. Night.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104601249101565102005-01-01T17:09:00.000Z2005-01-01T17:40:49.100ZLast year (last night) I found a party to go to, at around eight. Lucinda gave me an invite into the odd filmic world she inhabits. At least a score of movies swirled in my head, all finding a way to superimpose themselves onto reality. Every time someone got off the bus, I would see them at a later stop. Odd...
So on the way there it was one bus, with only one gang to negotiate. They left me Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104359212521081532004-12-29T21:50:00.000Z2004-12-29T23:18:20.436ZI look at Daphney and she's my bedroom Nefertiti. Not in any real way of course, just that it's what my brain calls her. Pale skin, black hair. In my shirt looking curled up and safe.
Today we went round her friend's house, sat on the couch and joked and talked and I love it. I love seeing her: how she fawns and makes people feel safe and genuinely believes it all too. She's trying too hard, of Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104172219822687562004-12-27T23:25:00.000Z2004-12-27T23:38:31.066Z"the heels stretched my height to a good 6'2'' or so" says Etoile, and that's made me wow for at least a day. Women I know shrink themselves. If you're above 5 10 as a girl, well dear, heels are out and demure is in.
But this is England, and although things have changed, they haven't gone far enough. Still women use that irritating falsetto, and pantos and fart jokes are the classics...
I don'tFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104153716728080062004-12-27T13:18:00.000Z2004-12-27T16:18:59.943ZI've spent time compiling a backlog of every post of Leticia's posts ever, and it's kind of closure. Should I read them all again though? It's just going to re-open every emotion I ever felt reading it (which was practically every emotion), and she's gone forever. Hm.
What I mean is, I've copied and pasted every word in case it disappears. I can live with memories, but not shadows of memories. IFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104091870700099992004-12-26T19:42:00.000Z2004-12-26T20:11:10.700ZNow today I have eaten too much, and my relationship with my mother disintegrates like a newspaper umbrella. I'm sure she's losing it, because she's irrationally angry and finds all the wrong words. Which I then find in every other sentence of hers. But oh well.
I'm writing this on my knees, because the chair is downstairs to accommodate our guests. These holidays aren't relaxing at all, really.Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1104014085225158422004-12-25T22:08:00.000Z2004-12-25T22:34:45.226ZToday's a day for being festive and stuff, and I'm all suffused with dusty love...
Daphney got me a Leticia Mckenzie t-shirt, which I absolutely adore her for. And her present isn't even made yet, but will be somewhere approaching cool I hope. Oh, speaking of Leticia Mckenzie, she's maybe dead. Or gone, but what's the difference? I can sorta understand it if she is just gone, but, y'know. It'd Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103832074439317282004-12-23T18:40:00.000Z2004-12-23T20:01:14.440ZI'm all jazzed up.
Tomorrow's action packed, including a visit to make a return at a boring store (yuck) and having a jovial Christmas Eve. It should be ok I guess. Up before nine, out of the door and running to the train.
Anyway, I've got a couple gigs in the next week or so, and live music gets into me right from the moment my jeans begin to vibrate.
We're going as a family to a family Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103757349850339652004-12-22T23:04:00.000Z2004-12-22T23:15:49.850ZI saw 'Garden State' with my family. It was rubbish. Utterly vacuous and predictable and yuck. Oh well. It makes me want to see 'Eternal Sunshine' again, which is approximately 935862 times better and with basically the same premise.
I tried to write a story, I really did. I started three and realised two were the same, and gave up because it was pain. And playing after I couldn't see the ping Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103726206185834262004-12-22T14:18:00.000Z2004-12-22T14:36:46.186ZYesterday I collapsed into my grateful bed after talking to Lucinda for hours, and Daphney's smell was everywhere. I hugged my duvet and tried to inhale her. So near, so far. I want her as part of me; the feeling keenest when she's nowhere near. I think it made me woozy, and I'm still not recovered.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103722706285245772004-12-22T13:29:00.000Z2004-12-22T13:38:26.286ZChristmas is a prime way to spot normality. I know a few normal people, and frankly, I can't believe it. I spot them when they've bought a facial massage for their mother, or some other meaningless and completely average gift. I mean, it's not that it's not a nice present. It's meant well, it'll be received well.
But how? It's all in the same vein to me as, I dunno... Maybe proposing to someone Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103650202718045422004-12-21T16:54:00.000Z2004-12-21T17:30:02.716ZMm... I saw Daphney and we shopped. It was good. She got a cute fiftie's dress, I got stuff from H+M. Then we went home... It was good. There was a blog post that was writing itself in my head, but I'm tired from last night with her.
Anyway, afterwards and in the languid search for missing clothes, I picked up her panties (hate that word but not gonna do anything about it). Inside was white Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103487045111058052004-12-19T19:45:00.000Z2004-12-19T20:10:45.110ZFirst off, I'm sorry so much of my writing has been about Daphney. It's thoroughly ridiculous. I used to refrain from mentioning her, but I decided to just write what was in my mind. And I guess that's her.
Oh well. Also, does anyone know how to update their Blogger profile so that it doesn't give me the same post-number every time? I'm sick of seeing that I've written 103 posts. It's a most Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103463033241677332004-12-19T13:07:00.000Z2004-12-19T13:30:33.243ZI wrote last night but it's somewhere else, and I'll put it up some other time.
Quelle surprise, Daphney's busy again. And she hung up on me this morning. I feel like I've had enough, really. I can't remember the last time we had decent sex and she's becoming moody and insincere. Of course, I'll probably change my mind when I see her next, but still. I'm all kranky this morning... Sucks. She wasFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103485525038516852004-12-18T23:33:00.000Z2004-12-19T19:45:25.036ZI wrote this last night, but was d/c so am sticking it where it should be...
My family's delayed Christmas by a week, which suits me fine and makes me feel part of the 'oddball' family I always thought we'd look if we were dramatised. My dad walks around naked, my mum affects an English accent when people come around, and my brother is just hyperactive and large. Oh, and of course I'm the Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103313033684530212004-12-17T19:19:00.000Z2004-12-17T19:50:33.683ZI went to the cinema and saw the Lemony Snicket movie, which is fantastically anachronistic and is generally funny (in parts). And I like Jim Carrey in most things anyway, so thumbs up.
I went with a girl, called... Seph. There's some history between us (a kiss and nothing more) and we're (to me) excellent friends. She asked me out for today and I agreed, and it was perfectly pleasant and well Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103221339875803702004-12-16T17:55:00.000Z2004-12-16T18:22:19.876ZI took the trains to Camden, walked around with a map in my hand trying to find a store. The trains there make crying-baby noises, and the people come straight out of comic sketches.
Someone's dog got loose and bit a guy in the thigh as I watched. I was fairly nervous of all the kids who walk too near me,with a glint of threat in my mind.
Anyway, I Don't really like the dark at all. I'm phobic Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103154302493800922004-12-15T23:31:00.000Z2004-12-15T23:45:02.493ZToday was meant to be a free afternoon, with cookie-baking and maybe some gentle canoodling. Daphney fought with her parents and was late. We tried to set up a ping-pong table and failed, leading to my father forcing a bolt somewhere wrong and breaking it. Shit.
It's ok though; we're a handy family, and things will work out. I sent Daphney a text telling her I shouldn't treat her like such a Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1103068782759159652004-12-14T23:44:00.000Z2004-12-14T23:59:42.760ZI'm going crazy firstly: I'm reading random words as Leticia.
Ahem. Ignoring that, I dreamt that I slept with someone from class, and she assured me that it was a dream so I was allowed to cheat. Then she disappeared.
Marigold seems to want more LSD and other assorted drugs than sleep or a future... She sounds pretty out of it, and all I can do is crack shit jokes and tell her gently to cut it Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102896035905292722004-12-12T23:51:00.000Z2004-12-13T00:00:35.906ZI'm in this house now, and writing this laying in bed (uncomfortably) on a wirelessly-connected laptop. I haven't done any homework (I know; how daring) and won't.
The house is big at least, even if we have to wait for a shower to come in. I guess it'll provide me with plenty of excuses to complain at least...
I found some writing during the moving I had done ages ago. Not only did it mainly Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102797053657897252004-12-11T19:51:00.000Z2004-12-11T20:30:53.656ZIt seems like a time since I wrote. Friday I went to a poetry reading at at teacher's house. After everyone but me and my close friends had left, we sat in his lounge listening to Small Faces and pondering out loud.
There was a musk of poignancy. His house must be so cold usually, with no one there and just volumes and volumes of books for love. For about three moments everything focussed in my Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102611183887462572004-12-09T16:18:00.000Z2004-12-09T16:53:03.886ZOh it's Christmas time, has been for months. Everything's glammed up in a way that says 'buy', and still the days are still zipping.
Everything in this temporary house smells, so I perfume it by eating digestives. I'm avoiding any work again, and hope the weekend has some semblance of vacation about it. It should. With any luck Daphney's father's returned, and I'll be able to bring her over to Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102541523866723982004-12-08T21:24:00.000Z2004-12-08T21:32:03.866ZDaphney's worried, her father's disappeared and she seems grey to the point of fade. Being useful, I'm going to write for it momentarily here before worrying, or going to bed.
(Don't worry, disappeared is only temporary and not important yet)
Going to bed looks preferable. Night.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102528066768434892004-12-08T17:24:00.000Z2004-12-08T17:47:46.766ZMy early day's already gone, spent sparingly on dog-walking and talking. Wise? No. But oh well...
There's an excuse, and it might actually qualify as a story. I was browsing some of my favourite blogs, surfing the links and seeing where I ended up. I found a girl's blog of the kind I adore: all raw emotion, filtered through bad spelling and a peculiar style. Every post the style evolves, like Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102464331967566872004-12-07T23:56:00.000Z2004-12-08T00:05:31.966ZWell it's almost the new day, so I'm going to stretch, rejoice in finished homework, and nab the chocolate from the advent calendar.
I've been working to bad music, seeing as it brings back fond memories and the accompanying mood, which is perfect for concentration. If you're wondering, today tipped far far far towards the spiffy, and my woes were all unfounded.
It's that time of night when Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102443538217339522004-12-07T17:43:00.000Z2004-12-07T18:18:58.216ZSorry I've been away, but it's been a weekend of working. Fun, but work nonetheless...
I'm sure I had a post sitting in my stomach, prepared to burst onto the page, but maybe I lost it when I had lunch. Can't remember now anyway.
Today's been a mouse-trapped night-time kitchen floor, where you should turn on a light but won't, because it's a fun game this way. Oh, and because waking people up Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102091941747725302004-12-03T16:16:00.000Z2004-12-03T16:39:01.746ZMy face splits into a blur on the webcam, my mouth twisted up in a rictus of wrongness. Long sleepless days make the world a fractal...
Today has been a long sleepless day. I'm moving back into my semi-finished house soon. I woke up dreaming of the maths problem I spent hours on last night, only solving later today (after a lot of head-crushing frustration). It wasn't even that hard a problem.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1102010621885906332004-12-02T17:39:00.000Z2004-12-02T18:03:41.886ZI re-read Northern Lights over the last few nights. It's beautiful.
There are some things I like a ton and some I stop at and think about. Some passages make my heart flutter like there's a bat in my ribcage, and some leave me thinking he's tried too hard. And some where he gets lazy.
Spoilers ahead though... Highlight to read.
Something I've looked at again and again is: 'Farder Coram's smileFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101920457360260162004-12-01T16:22:00.000Z2004-12-01T17:00:57.360ZComfort words are great sometimes. They feature in my personal (speaking) vocabulary way too much, and mean to me a warm, fleece-lined hug with someone so great at it as to render you a part of them for a minute. As in an imaginary, furry puppet filled with hot-water bottle entrails that radiate their heat onto you.
> Huggy (huggable, huggly, etc.)
> Snuggly (snugglicious)
> Cuddly
> Nuzzling
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101681599163767092004-11-28T22:22:00.000Z2004-11-28T22:39:59.163ZSunday nights are so grim. Daphney came around today, and we moved boxes and boxes into the loft to help ready the house for moving into. It was fun, in an exerting kind of way.
And then we fucked, which was fine. Well, a whole lot of things, but it's not that interesting.
And then she left, and I was left in the car with my mum, bickering and hearing that she 'doesn't feel appreciated' , and Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101594904543943792004-11-27T22:21:00.000Z2004-11-27T22:35:04.543ZLet's see what I can write in eight minutes.
I love Hendrix. I love becoming familiar with his music, so it feels known despite the strangeness and intuition in is his playing. Althought I don't get it all, it feels like I can work on it. I don't know, for instance, why "Electric Ladyland" begins with what sounds like a wind tunnel.
Oh, and now I have some of his albums, I can't listen to the Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101513638512901032004-11-26T23:38:00.000Z2004-11-27T00:00:38.513ZOhh... Tonight was the party I had mentioned. It was crap. My sole ex (called... Maria) ended up getting off with some boy who claimed to be an old mate of mine. The other people I knew kept with their lousy girlfriends. I don't understand it all really, but hey.
I mean I don't get why you would honestly keep a 'girl-counter' for the evening when your girlfriend is with you. Or why someone can't Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101333627479346922004-11-24T21:27:00.000Z2004-11-24T22:00:27.480ZSometimes stuff falls into place.
Tonight, I was scheduled to sit at my council's cabinet meeting. The time came, and my colleague hadn't yet turned up, so I sat and delivered a hesitating, stuttering talk with her notes. Halfway through she arrived, looking bedraggled and powerless. Not the entrance the control-queen would like to have made. Indeed as we had tried to contact her beforehand, I Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101252722715037392004-11-23T22:45:00.000Z2004-11-23T23:32:02.716ZThe hit-counter at the top of the page is ugly. I won't pretend it wasn't my poor command of html that means it's there, but it's staying. Besides, it's kind of ugly-pretty to me. Like the centimetre-wide scrollbars I have (I hate the skinny ones), it's my style.
So, what do I get from it? (the counter I mean)(apologies for brackets). Not accuracy, not quite a popularity-meter. It's like Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1101143752992223422004-11-22T16:47:00.000Z2004-11-22T17:15:52.993ZI hate my school sometimes.
They decided that re-doing the toilets was what needed doing (instead of paying for experienced teachers, naturally). So out go (comically) grafittied stalls and a school atmosphere, and in come contracted workers who fit pre-fab, service-stop toilets. This means blue for boys, expanses of mirror and a feeling of continual limbo, saying: get in and get out.
So what Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100971356044480552004-11-20T16:46:00.000Z2004-11-20T17:22:36.043ZMy eyes don't want to be open, and neither does my heart now.
Daphney came round and it was superficially great. But as our sex gets better she's further away from me. I'm having fun when she's around, and when she's not I miss her. And she's away most of the time. Her parents want her not to see me weekdays, and she's busy and I'm busy. When she first told me (about draconian laws), she was Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100885642377520772004-11-19T17:11:00.000Z2004-11-19T17:34:02.376ZI'm a gamer, by the way.
For a few years of my life I was obsessed. As much money as I had went on them, and I (naturally) suffer the occasional relapse.
So yeah, I own Halo 2. And because I'm sure you don't really want to hear a whine about it, I'll sum it up in a few words: sucky, and disappointing.
Some games are amazing though. The first time I ever played Halo, in a crowded club-hall Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100815829975513742004-11-18T21:48:00.000Z2004-11-18T22:10:29.976ZThere's a song lyric I found on Xfm (oooh! Modest Mouse live in session) that goes (oooh! I just clicked on the radio and they're playing a live version of one of their songs right now!).
Uh, where was I? Oh yeah. The song lyric is by 'The Used' who are emo, which would normally turn me off. But anyway as I systematically browsed Xfm's live sessions I just decided to listen to them. And on 'Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100802862709091952004-11-18T17:59:00.000Z2004-11-18T18:34:22.710ZEngland played an international football (soccer) 'friendly' against Spain yesterday night.
It was shit. I sat here aghast at the TV, the sound stoking anger I didn't even know existed outside of my own retribution fantasies (you know... what if someone killed your family?). In the second half, any time a black player touched the ball a wall of monkey-noises came up and invaded the pitch.
And Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100717485946983382004-11-17T18:22:00.000Z2004-11-17T18:51:25.946ZThis is really quite interesting. Think I'll have to buy the book, even if the actual reality of the situation is terrible. But I suppose you can either laugh or want to kill yourself, and I know I'm better at laughing.
Anyway, tomorrow I only have two lessons (because of cancellations) so I'll probably waste the day pretending to do homework... Anyway.
Is it only my warped sense of cool that Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100623365378480792004-11-16T16:21:00.000Z2004-11-16T16:42:45.376ZClouds are ridiculously beautiful. The orange ones, the grey ones, the pink-tinted ones. Ones with menace and ones that look like marshmellows. Night clouds silver-lined with moonlight. Morning-clouds.
I know it's not an uncommon opinion, which is encouraging I guess. If people recognise raw, celestial beauty and relate to it... Well that's good right? I can even take the numbing millions of Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100541079994705592004-11-15T17:27:00.000Z2004-11-15T17:51:19.993ZI'm slightly less tired now.
I want a diary. One with thin lines, and a colourful binding and a scent to it. So in maths I can relax and lie my head into it for a minute, and then be revitalised.
Oh it's hard to write in this house. My computer's in the hallway, and I have to stop every time my brother walks past. Like now. . .
But yeah, diary... 'I Capture the Castle' makes me want one. Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100301088045173892004-11-12T22:44:00.000Z2004-11-12T23:15:01.593ZEver get the feeling you're not half as entertaining as you usually are?
Well, it's kind of interesting I guess. It makes me scared Daphney's gonna build up a wall of negative behind the exterior wall of amity. And it's going to peek over the top someday and I'll be like: 'woah... shit'. Because I'll have had no idea, and it'll be too late.
So I have to hang up quicker, and curb my speech and Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100100675733824852004-11-10T15:06:00.000Z2004-11-10T15:31:15.733ZAll I see in the screen is frustration. It's staring at me, urging me to fill up the box with words that mean nothing more than the vacuum I started with.
Marigold broke up with her boyfriend.
On the upside, hydrochloric acid evidently washes out :) My jumper is ok once again, for when someone falls in love with me (yeah, it's my 'being fell for' jumper... For no good reason).
So many images Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1100020919873159492004-11-09T17:01:00.000Z2004-11-09T17:21:59.873ZI'm too blank to feel.
I should feel shit because my jumper that I loved earnestly perished when concentrated acid was added to it.
Should be flitting around in the after-light of Daphney coming round, and knowing that she loves me.
Should be grinning at how I woke up at 3am to put the blanket back around her, forgetting she had gone.
Should be something, but I'm not. Time for more homework.
Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1099952004984020272004-11-08T22:05:00.000Z2004-11-08T22:13:24.983ZI love the Daphney that asks if I have to do homework while sliding her arm around me and sitting on me. Love the one that asks 'why has no one ever done that before?' so indignantly, as I grin at her pleasure.
Love how she's come out of her shell, and starts talking like we'll be together, always. Love how she looks at me and says 'I love you when you're this sweet' and... Lots.
I'd love to Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1099853168923300542004-11-07T18:31:00.000Z2004-11-07T18:46:08.923ZSomehow working my way through pages of maths has helped change my mood. Fiddling about with signs that look so small and mean so much...
Sure, it pisses me off when I forget a minus , but it's so easily rectified. And then I can look back and see the order and lines of pure maths, staring back at me. Line after line after line.
The first three terms in the expansion of (A+x)^m in ascending Franhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6252951.post-1099841409013053902004-11-07T15:12:00.000Z2004-11-07T15:30:09.013ZIt's three and all I've managed to do is copy and paste some german into my oral topic. I feel like I've completely lost it. I'm cracked.
I told my girlfriend I was half in love with her (oh surely one of the most romantic sentences). She doesn't believe in that love anyway, which is fine. And I walked around with my mind on a cloud under the sea, drowning and dispersing. Interestingly.
Now I'mFranhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12090272689535492191noreply@blogger.com0