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Monday, October 3rd, 2005
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Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh cough.
This is how every single thought process goes now, if I'm thinking cough.
No matter what I try to cough.
I always just end up cough.
And then I lose my thread because I'm too busy cough.
How can I be producing this much phlegm? Why am I the only one to keep a damn cold for more than just a few cough cough cough cooGGHHurrrrk cough.
Damn you, cough.
I mean throat.
Cough.
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Friday, September 30th, 2005
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For a while, I suppose I've wondered why I had a livejournal. I don't talk much about myself unless absolutely necessary. I guess the revealing of various layers of myself to people, even people I consider friends who, let's face it, will be the only ones bothered enough to look at this in even a semi-regular basis, does not appeal to me at all. In terms of myself, my mind, my innermost thoughts, I tend to be very reticient. Of course, this has always lead to problems when initially meeting someone, because all you have initially to make a connection is the possibility of shared experiences or something like that. Also, I simply don't find my day-to-day life particularly interesting. And private thoughts about myself? Not in general.
Of course, when your private thoughts leak out into the public domain, then that becomes a different matter. That which is private becomes, to a degree, public. And it has to be explained.
I've always had my dark moods. So, I guess, has everyone. When you can't really be bothered about anything, when you think that nothing you can do will be worth anything so it's not really worth trying. It's just a general part of everyone's life. In general, recently, they've got worse. There's a lot of times when I'm just not enjoying anything at all, I'm bored yet everything bored me, I need to think but there's some kind of cotton wool wrapped around my head, stifling me, suffocating anything I can do. Days when I will not leave my room for most of the day. And of course, to try and stop yourself from looking like a miserable prick, you put on a happy face, or at least, I do. I also lend myself to intense moments of self-introspection at these points. And, being at such a low ebb, it's never pretty. I'm sure everyone's gone through a sort of "Sliding Doors" scenario, where they look at what happened but think "what if?". I've collected a whole set of them by now, which can be used to beat myself up about with regular opportunity. Why didn't you go there? Why didn't you do that? Why can't you just say it? Hesitation has become my watchword. And it wraps itself up into the general, well-hidden but absolutely terrifying sense of paranoia and neurosis that is my conscious mind. Fuck knows what my subconscious is like. And, of course, what makes it worse is that I recognise that in the grand scheme of things, I am fortunate. What right have I to be miserable when there are so many people who do not have even the most basic comforts that I take for granted at every available opportunity? How dare I claim I'm hard done by compared to everyone else. And thus the cycle begins again.
This was the frame of mind I was in at that time, with a cold adding to the sense of misery. I stand by what I said, but not the way I said it. I meant to sound tongue-in-cheek, I mean to be funny. Instead, I put forth the worst parts of myself. And then, realising that, felt wretched. More wretched than before. It's been a surprisingly short withdrawal, though. Normally they're a lot longer. I've caused some people on VR some offense before when I've been insensitive, rude, just fucking stupid, really - I'm sure they don't remember, but I do. And, in the end, I suppose that's the problem. I don't forget the bad times.
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Wednesday, July 13th, 2005
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Fuck me, I'd forgotten I'd had one of there.
No, really, fuck me. It's a cure for cancer apparently.
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If you do not do so already, read Something Positive, and it's sister comic, Midnight Macabre. I must whore these out to everyone because a) they're so good it is like the visual equivalent of an orgasm (which is not equivalent to just looking at an orgasm, though some people do enjoy that), and b) because the universe will implode and leak out of your ears if you do not.
One of these is Lie #4.
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Is it just me who thinks that made me sound like a pretentious goit?
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I'm sorry I haven't said anything recently. I've been a bit depressed, and very, very lethargic.
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Oh, I also now have a haircut.
It's shite.
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It's amazing, really, language. I mean, take just ten words. Just ten of them, like, say, the ones in the title. I mean, said, or delivered, effectively, the effect can, and usually is, totally devastating. Those ten words can just be taken and jammed straight into you, hammered in and splintering throughout your ribcage, piercing everything. Words fucking hurt, and they can do so more in a more lasting and more terrible way than any kind of sharp implement.
I'm sorry, I'm being emo. But I think I have mitigating circumstances which allow me to indulge in that madness for at least a while.
As you can probably tell, unless of course you are a fucking moron who needs everything spelled out for them (hello, all of you!), the above words were mentioned to me by my girlfriend, Kirsty. Well, I suppose I should get used to saying ex-girlfriend now, as that is what she is. Ex. She has ceased to be. It wasn't just those words that hurt, but the way in which they were delivered. By text. Yes, people, read on, for you are reading the journal of such a complete and total pathetic nonentity that they can be brushed aside by some black pixels. I mean, text, for fuck's sake. That's how unoriginal screenwriters decide someone should look callous when they can't think of anything to actually develop a character properly. It's not how anyone actually dumps someone, or at least, I thought so.
I liked her a lot, perhaps even loved her, although I'm not sure on that point, and I had hoped it would have gone on longer. I had actually not heard from her for about a week, maybe more, so I was already suspecting that something was up. This gave a kind of weary inevitability to the whole thing which, funnily enough, made it all the more devastating, much like knowing someone's going to die soon but not knowing exactly when.
Anyway, in general, I am very much annoyed and depressed, although much more of the latter than the former.
I'll stop being emo now.
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My boiler has been making odd noises for a few weeks now. A sort of gurgling, scraping sound that makes it sound like it is probably in the last throes of death. I am quite sure it will explode very soon, destroying all near it in some kind of firey scalding deathsplat.
I hope by then I will be away.
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Firstly, I apologise profusely for the use of a certain song whose certain singer should be attacked with some kind of STD, especially the kind that makes you feel really uncomfortable in the genital area. But it fitted, so I felt the need for it.
As you can probably tell, unless you have your head in the clouds, this is about the G8 summit. Specifically, the route. Now, I'm planning to go to the protest on the G8 summit, because I'm a hardcore leftie (of the best kind, naturally), so I have more than a passing interest in the whole thing. The route that was supposed to be part of it went right past the Gleneagles Hotel, and of course makes a quite significant point by doing so, that we are there, and we demand to be heard. However, the police, and I suppose, the government, have decided that this route is not available, for "safety and security" reasons of the people of the nearby village, so they wouldn't be disturbed. Funny, really, then, that the original route doesn't go into this village, but the new police route does, but doesn't go past the Gleneagles Hotel. It would seem that the safety and security is the safety and security of the eight leaders of the nations in the G8, although I myself wonder how a few posters and pamphlets hurts them so. These leaders do seem to be rather thin-skinned, if we have to protect their precious behinds from the slightest chance they might see criticism of their policies in the flesh. Poor delicate flowers.
On a different but related note, I am incredibly annoyed by the continual hyping up of the small anarchist elements that will probably be in this kind of protest by the tabloid media. By focusing on them, they discredit the vast majority of peaceful people who merely wish to express their dismay at economic policies which leave millions of people dying of malnourishment.
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Wednesday, May 18th, 2005
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Kudos to all who get the reference. You are kings (or indeed queens) of lazy daytime TV watchers.
I'm still not liking Biology, although I did sneak in at least one reference to marmosets which was totally unneeded. Marmosets are great because you can get lots of them in a sack. (LIE #3: One tends to struggle enough to fill the whole bag.)
My next exam is in 5 days. As Noel Coward used to say, "Bugger."
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I hate to moan just like everyone else (LIE #1: I love to moan, it's what makes my life whole and connects it into one bitter and wonderful whole), but I have an exam in... oh, just about 3 and a half hours. Biology, to be precise. I must admit, I've not liked Biology at all this year. It's been incredibly dull (I've actually fallen asleep in some classes, although that may be more to do with my internet addiction than anything else, and the teacher, a bald-headed sort called Mr Malcolm, who looks amazingly, astonishingly like "The Brain" from "Pinky and the Brain" would look like if he were human, is perhaps the most useless Biology teacher in the history of the Earth after the people in America who teach that all the bones in the Earth were put there by God 10,000 years ago just to confuse all the archaeologists. (On an unrelated note, there is nothing worse than a smug religious person when you're an athiest, like myself. Conversations have all the pleasantness and intellectual effect and rigour of smashing yourself in the face repeatedly with a brick. (LIE #2: Said smug religious person trying to convert you is worse))
So, I'm just sitting here, whiling away the hours to an exam that doesn't really matter because I have a university place anyway, wishing I was somewhere else. Like Prague. Prague would be nice. Or maybe Venezuela, assuming the rich people haven't tried another coup d'etat there.
I think I'd like Venezuela.
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I've been thinking about getting a livejournal for quite some time now, as a way to put down some of the thoughts that I wanted to remember and not just lose because of random violence/excessive alcohol consumption. So, eventually I did, as is obvious here. Now, of course, came the hard part - actually writing things in it. When thinking about how to introduce myself to Livejournal, I tried to do so in a way that was both witty, stylish, and interesting, but also didn't come across as overbearing, pompous or overserious.
I failed.
Where I failed, of course, remains a matter of opinion. But I did.
As you can tell, I'm a cheery, optimistic sort.
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