Back By Popular Demand!

Well, less of a demand and more of a prompt. And a growing sense of undocumented life events building up. And unreplied-to emails... *points to self* I suck. Man, it's a good thing overdue blogposts aren't like overdue library books or I'd be looking at a hefty fine along the same lines as Meejin's (£10.35). 

So.

Life has been rather charming recently. I’ve met some really inspiring people and lovely seeing-eye dogs called Milo and experienced lots of quirk with cherries on top. Sure this year has thrown some curve balls, but everyone is dealing with them with lots of fortitude and optimism and moxy. I like it. I like this year’s vibe. I was going to try to describe it in words, but I’d be describing a picture that I could much more easily show you, so:

(I like piers.)

Anyway, I apologise in advance for the total lack of cohesion in this post. It’s just as though I inhaled the heavens and spat the stars back out onto your screen in the form of a paragraphed summary of Life, right?

So, second year drawing to a close this week (yikes) means exam season is right around the metaphorical corner (fuck). And I SURVIVED Reading & Writing Week. Reading & Writing Week? you ask. Yeah, you know, the twice annual 5-day extravaganza wherein I misplace my sanity, have multiple meltdowns and generally end up sitting in a corner, rocking back and forth, eating my hair? What can I say, it’s a tradition. But I lived to tell the tale, so it’s not all bad. Also, remember when I compared double English to running a marathon with weights, and the added onus of Classics to a fat man on my back whilst I ran said marathon? (Just nod.) Well, happily I am still running the marathon and either through endurance or littering I have ceased to notice the weights. The fat man that is Classics is still on my back, but he has awoken from his slumber and now tells me interesting facts about Imperial Rome in an Italian accent, so it’s all good.

Another dollop of good news is that my formerly ill Nanny is no more! Ill, that is. Turns out her brain has super spongy powers and like sucked all of the leakage back in. And after a looooooong hospitalization she’s finally been allowed to go back home. Catch is, she has very bad (read: zero) short term memory, so after 75 days of my dad and uncles reciting over and over WHY she was in hospital in the first place, she still can’t remember, and they have gone slightly doolally. Ironic, eh? One good thing that came out of that whole episode was that my uncle came over from Australia for a month and he’s kind of legendary to me. The highlight of his trip had to be getting to second base with a marble statue of some naked chick in the Art Galleries (picture to come).

Know what’s really nice about life right now? That every time I run into someone from high school one of the first questions that comes up in the conversation is ‘SO HAVE YOU BEEN WATCHING THAT KEVIN BRIDGES THING?!’ And then we jump up and down and squeal and generally gloat over the fact the guy went to our school (both if you’re one of the St. Mary’s crew like moi!) and that our little town and our little school which no longer exists has national recognition. Seriously, everyone is so proud to be Scottish right now, and more specifically Clydebankian.

And now for magical bulletpoints because I’m bored of trying to paragraph my nonsense:

v  I have given up Coke for Lent, and possibly for life.

v  Lying in bed with someone at 3am whilst dancing to Mambo Number 5 is one of The Funnest Things Ever.

v  I officially began reading The Hunger Games in a hotel room in Coventry*, and so far I love it! It’s kind of nice to be on this side of a phenomenon as opposed to the other more feral side that comes with the bastardization of something you are unhealthily possessive of and obsessed with love passionately *cough* Twilght.

v  Because uni turns me into a vegetating zombie for 22 weeks of the year, I have taken to renting lots of movies so that my vegetation time holds some approximation of purpose. The highlights so far have been United 93, The Road, Tyrannosaur and Peeping Tom with a special shout-out to A Single Man.

v  Also, I think I have become a little obsessed with Wolf Creek. Texting your nocturnal friend during all hours of the day about it seems to suggest so (sorry David). In fact, I have to confess, I am watching it even as I type. BUT IT IS JUST SO DAMN GOOD.

v  My favourite lecturer for English Lit was giving only one lecture this entire semester so I was determined to go because he like, blows my mind. (It was a great lecture.) But at the end he shocked me by giving a valedictory speech. I couldn’t believe he was retiring and wouldn’t be there for Honours to inspire me about Victorian literature and Shakespeare and all those things I don’t really get but love to dig my teeth and my nails and my everything into! Paraphrased, he said ‘I’ve so enjoyed teaching you and watching you go from 1A to 2B and I wish you all the best in the future. And if I may be so unpolitically correct as to tell you my favourite book, I will tell you it is the Bible.’ And then my heart broke in two. Seriously, I think all 400 of us were choked up.

v  Speaking of, yesterday Dr Fox gave the final Classics lecture on the beginnings of Christianity in Rome, and I kind of had to restrain myself from jumping him the whole time. You know those people who just have natural magnetism? Yeah. Describing him will do no justice to his potent sexual allure, but FUCK. < And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

v  And last but not least, I have A Purpose in life. Starting in May I’m going to be volunteering a few shifts a week at the Save the Children charity shop in Partick along with Possibly Gay Josh & Gandhi and some others whose names I don’t remember but who are all SWELL. Also: tea.

So, that’s life recently, in a nut shell. The last thing I want to say is this: it’s an incredibly satisfying and liberating thing to be able to say that last year, and the year before, and for the tail-end of 2009 I was deeply, deeply unhappy (I liked the way Nicole Kidman said this in an interview relating to her part in The Hours!). But I’m not anymore. I had this strange notion that in order to be legitimately unhappy, I had to commit to it, or I didn’t deserve that description. Which is bullshit. People are changing all the time—that’s part of what makes them so beautiful, that you can never really define them. Sometimes they are happy, and sometimes they are really genuinely unhappy and they need help. Just because someone is able to pull through something shouldn’t diminish or invalidate whatever unhappiness they were previously experiencing. It seems like a really obvious thing, but it’s something I had to learn. I don’t feel indebted to that unhappiness anymore. I am ALLOWED to feel good, and I do :). And so should everyone.

*I fucking want a double bed.

Word of the day: smirr (it’s different from ‘drizzle’ – rescue the Scots language by dropping it into awkward weather oriented conversations!)

Catch yeez x

Cum-Wot-Mei;

LIZ: Hey, let me tell you my big, exciting news!
LUKE: Uh-oh.
LIZ: It's not an uh-oh. It's good, unless you don't like babies, in which case it's not so good.
LUKE: You're pregnant?!
LIZ: Oh, it was supposed to be a surprise. Who told you?
LUKE: You just did.
LIZ: Wow, I blew my own surprise.
LUKE: That's great, Liz. It's great, right?
LIZ: Amazing. I am over the moon.
LUKE: Well, sit, sit. You're in a delicate state.
LIZ: I am gonna take care of myself this time, big brother. I'm gonna do all the healthy things for me I did not do last time I was pregnant--like not binge drink.
LUKE: Good plan. So, where's T.J.? I mean, he must be thrilled about this.
LIZ: Ah, he's gone.
LUKE: Gone? You mean gone out of town?
LIZ: He's gone, the big "gone out of my life." Do you have Matzo Brie?
LUKE: What? Liz, no.
LIZ: Okay. How 'bout a Denver omelet?
LUKE: I mean, no, T.J. can't be gone. He's your husband.
LIZ: Since when does that keep guys from leaving?
LUKE: He left you?
LIZ: He left.
LUKE: How can you be so calm about this? You're so calm about this.
LIZ: Because I got my new come-what-may philosophy.
LUKE: Your what?
LIZ: My philosophy. It's about accepting what comes your way, whatever it is. If a bus is heading right at you, let it come. If a piece of space junk comes hurtling down at you, let it come.
LUKE: Or you step out of the way.
LIZ: You know, that's probably better, and when I said what I said now, it felt wrong.

Okay, so I'm with Luke in that if anything which could potentially flatten you into human pâté is hurtling your way, best thing to do is take a couple steps in the opposite direction. But if you've studied philosophy at all, you'll probably know that no single philosophy is foolproof. There are always exceptions. But on the whole, I think Liz's Cum-Wot-Mei philosophy is a pretty darn good one as long as you don't end up becoming a total door mat. As pointed out by Luke, certain situations do not provide exemplary conditions for Cum-Wot-Mei thinking, and that's where you gotta be selective. Space junk? Not unless you are a dinosaur. Big red bus? Maybe stay on the pavement. Pack of hungry rhinoceroses (I'm having total James & the Giant Peach flashbacks)? Run for your fecking life. Certain people who say one thing and do another? YOU BETCHA.

I know you're all getting tired of this back-and-forth, up-and-down, yo-yo thing I've got going on, and believe me, I ain't exactly thrilled about being a spineless turd either. But for better or worse, this is my venting space, so I will defend myself to myself no longer. At least you guys have the option not to read—I have to deal with my own whining on a till-death-do-us-part basis. 

ANYWAY *clears throat*.

So, last week I'm out having ho-cho (say it like Lorelai Gilmore or not at all) with Markus, and we're watching a guy having sex with his own nostril catching up on life, and he's all "Check out my chocolate powder star. I got it cause I paid extra worked my charm on the barista." Yeah. Anyway. Towards the end of the day the conversation turns to me and Markus asks how the ol' love life is ticking along. After much face-making and coaxing I explain to the best of my ability what is going on in that strange Venn diagram area through a scattering of disjointed phrases and mumbles and sighs, and Markus, nice gentleman that he is, and not at all for his own amusement, tells me to text the stupid bastard, to which I'm all "Dude, NO, because if I do then he will not reply and I will cry and you will have to sit here with me crying and you will feel very, very awkward because you are made of stone and that will just totally ruin our nice ho-cho outing." Markus then points out that girls cry all the time anyway. And I spot the cumulus nimbus hovering above my head and I SWEAR it is darker in here than it was five minutes ago, and I'm all "URGH FML. He makes me feel SICK." "Sick in a good way?" "Yes Markus, I love feeling like my oesophagus is going to yank itself inside out at any given bloody moment." Etc, etc. Then Markus, who can be quite a wise old bird sometimes, says, "If he's a good guy, you should hold onto him." Now, I don't know whether it's because this was the first male perspective I had on the subject and directly conflicted with all other advice, (which has been along the general lines of replying to my immature explosions of "Stupid bastard" and "Assmunch" with supportive sequiturs about my not deserving it anymore and concern over my future well-being etc.), or because Markus is one of those Man of Few Word types, so that anything succinct that comes out of his mouth invariably sounds like the wisest thing you've ever heard in your life and you pay it more attention than you might otherwise. Funny thing is, my reaction to his words o' wisdom was not in any way influenced by the fact it was what I wanted to hear, because, honestly? It wasn't.

Fast-forward to later that evening. A text is sent. No nausea. (And by nausea, I do not mean the nice butterfly kind that you get when you're like fourteen. I mean omg, get me a bucket.) Instead there is a kind of subdued meh. A shrugging of the shoulders. An almost boredom. This is usually a sign that I KNOW I'm going to get nothing back. I'm psychic, you see. And, hey presto! Nada. Niente. And, I don't know, something in me was like, HOKAY-COKEY, TIME TO MOVE ON.ORG, BABE. Like, for real this time. I'd said it many times before, but I just wasn't ready, you know? This time it seemed to flow naturally. It's a funny old situation, moving on from something you've never really allowed yourself to be on in the first place, mixed with letting a really great friendship go. But whatever. I'm a fan of the whole "things happen when they're supposed to" philosophy, and that goes both ways, not just for stuff that you gain and which progresses you forward, but also for stuff like this, where you might appear to lose, but you gain in the long-run. So the night wore on, and I examined how I felt about the whole situation, cause that's what I do. It's my thing, let it go. And at the same time as it was difficult to feel the emotions, it was also a relief because it meant I hadn't gone numb, the way I did before, and the way I told him I didn't want to again. I, like, MOURNED, right there and then, like A Big Girl, like an adult. I was kind of proud, if I do say so myself, because I'm usually such a mess with these things. (I'm usually all FINE THEN, F U WORLD, I'LL WEAR MORE EYELINER AND LOOK ANGRY ALL THE TIME AND NOT GIVE A FLYING FUCK AND I'LL DELIGHT IN PEOPLE'S FAILED ATTEMPTS AT BEING CIVIL HUMAN BEINGS & LAUGH WHEN THEY STAND IN PUDDLES cause I'm nice and dramatic like that. It never lasts long, don't worry. It's just like my way of giving the two-fingered salute to the universe without looking like a total eejit. Or, if I'm more on the self-pitying end of the spectrum I'll be like FINE THEN, F U WORLD, I'LL JUST GO LIVE IN A FUCKING CAVE AND NEVER CUT MY HAIR, ALRIIIIIIIGHT? AND NEVER GET MARRIED AND ALWAYS BE ALONE, OKAAAAY? SINCE THAT'S SO OBVIOUSLY WHAT YOU WANT, I'LL JUST TAKE THE FUCKING HINT, SHALL I? DON'T NEED TO TELL ME TWICE, ASSHOLE. And then there's some greeting. Uhuh. Catharsis and whatnot.) Anywho, back at the ranch, I'm laying in bed and I'm letting all the stuff I've been fighting against losing for a wee while kind of settle on top of me like this really fine layer of snow. And I'm totally breathing through it. And, okay, yeah, I'm crying a bit, okay? I fess up. I'm not PERFECT. Nor am I an insensate boulder, so, yeah, there's a few tears. But they're different from the usual kind where I either a) scream the place down and sound like a cross between a yowling coyote and someone giving birth to a cactus, or b) bite my knuckles under the covers and sound like I'm laughing (and we all know quiet crying is not satisfying in the slightest, so option b always sucks). These are like tears that are just let go of. They literally are letting go tears. They're totally great once you get used to them. (Yes, yes, I am talking about varieties of tears, do not judge me too harshly.) And I'm thinking of all the things we ever shared together, big and small, silly and significant, and all the things I wanted to show him and experience with him and take your filthy minds out of the gutter! Look, I'll give you an example: I wanted to show him the Fairy Field my dad used to take me to as a kid where I always found silver coins left by fairies. I wanted to climb Ben Lomond with him. I wanted to show him my stupid amateur photographs from Australia. I wanted to see the Northern Lights with him because that is something we always talked about. I wanted him to see me without makeup, the poor bastard. I wanted to watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants with him. And as each thing floated into my mind--they were like petals of tissue paper or something, it was all very lovely--whether it was past, present, or future, I would watch it breezing in and I would feel its full power gracing me, and I wouldn't try to hold onto it when it got lapped up by the tide. Like little scraps of paper I let them all go into the wind. Like autumn leaves flying away and exposing the bare branches underneath. It was sad, but good. I would be happy again. And there was no hate, or anger, only gratitude. I was grateful for all that he'd taught me, whether inadvertently or not. He taught me how to be more open, how to feel again. He woke me up from a very deep sleep. He taught me how to love people again, and how to lose them.

And as I was thinking all this, words began to form in my mind, words that encapsulated how I felt. That kind of formulation usually only comes to me when I'm ready to move on from something. My dad once paraphrased one of those famous philosophers (I don't know which one, and Google was of no help), saying that as soon as you are able to express something in words, the feeling is dead inside you. I thought that was pretty apt. I totally wanted to get up and write it down but a) I was waaaay too tired to move, b) things you think of to write when you're between asleep and awake never appear quite so nice on the page, and c) I prefer typing emotional stuff like that because I can detach myself and be objective, whereas carving it out with a pen onto paper is like reliving it all, and when you're trying to move on.org, that ain't always a good thing. So I went to sleep.

Next day I blitzed through my uni work, went to my bookcase where I keep my DVDs, and was unequivocally drawn to Into the Wild. This is a Special Movie, guys. You can't just have it on in the background. I've owned my copy for three years now and have watched it as many times. Yes, I sometimes do treat my DVDs like people, but whatever, if you've seen this movie and/or read the book (WHICH YOU TOTALLY SHOULD BTW), you'll hopefully know what I'm on about. Look, I'm not trying to draw symbolic comparisons between the events of that movie and my own life, believe me. All I'm saying is, I think it is somewhat significant that I felt free enough to watch the movie on this particular day. Let it be shown on the record that I was not wallowing. OKAY? That's the whole point. I didn't HAVE to wallow. There was noooo negativity floating around my head. I just felt very "ahhhh", like when you're at the ocean and it's freezing fucking cold but completely brilliant and you just don't want to be anywhere else, ever. Not that I've ever wandered into the Alaskan wilderness with fifteen pounds of rice and lived in an abandoned bus, or kayaked into Mexico, but I can identify with Chris McCandless. I'm not condoning everything he did, or everything he was about, but I definitely admire him. He is a constant inspiration to me, so after watching that (and spending the last half hour wailing "CHRIIIIIIIIIIS, CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS" in true Streetcar style) I felt like I'd come home, almost? As though I'd forgotten myself for a while and now I remembered what I was all about and what matters in life. SO THAT WAS GOOD.

But, of course, it was not The End. Cause The End in life is called Death, right, so you don't want to get there too soon. But still, COME ON COSMOS.

A few hours later, I am minding my own business, and my phone starts ringing. I'm thinking it'll just be the mother. BUT OH NO. That would be muuuuuch too easy. It's you know who. First thought: he's evidently dialled the wrong number/it's his workmate/it's just accidentally dialled in his pocket. Second thought: he is calling to say FUCK OFF, I HATE YOU, GET OUT MY LIFE BITCH, I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON A SPIDER ON YOUR WAY OUT. Third thought: Rosie, if you don't answer the phone in the next two seconds you may never find out which of these two fabulous possibilities are true. Note: no nausea and/or fluttering insects. GOOD-O. So I answer. The gist: "Heyyy, I'm just calling you cause I forgot to text you back yesterday. I've gotten into the habit of looking at my phone and then not replying. Oh that's funny, Meejin does that too does she? Har har har. Fuck uni. Fuck SAAS. I'm so behind. Want to die. YES I'D LIKE LUNCH PLZ. You free tomorrow? I finish at 11. You finish at 12? You're busy? Okay. OH HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOON? IT'S FUCKING BRIGHT AS FUCK. Go find it. It's ehhh, in the north-east of the sky? I think? Fuck second year. I have two grand. Yass. Business meeting. I'll text ye later, okay?"

AND JUST LIKE THAT, all my nice move on.org business gets blown to smoke and ribbons. Like, poof, gone. And to make matters a little more spooktastic, he happened to phone on the same day we went to see Ludovico last year in our little bubble of loveliness. Cause life likes to keep you on your toes. Look, Cosmos, I know I'm kicking up a fuss about this whole business, but please don't interpret that as me being an ingrate. I'd obviously much rather have him in my life than not. I would just prefer it if I could trust a damn word he said, okay? Think you can work on that for me? I don't think I'm asking for much. Failing that, an opportunity to punch/defenestrate him would suffice. Cheers.

So, yeah, getting back to the title and point of this post: for the time being, I have decided to just let it be. Come what may, indeed. This is how I was last year, at the beginning of the whole rollercoaster, when I was all "Okay, you know what he's like, so don't get attached, just go with the flowwwww", except this time it is "Okay, you really know what he's like, so don't get attached, DO NOT TRUST HIM, and just go with the flowwwww. And possibly deck him next time you see him. Like, on the twelfth of Never. KIDDING. Not."

On the upside, Bonfire Night was faaaaaaaaaaantabulous. My friends and their burds are lovely. We did not stick to our original plan because for once we actually had common sense and the rest of the world did not. But this was like a thousand-billion times better with cherries on top. I was the Official Photographer, so here are the better shots from the evening. Also, I recorded the entire twenty minute display of fireworks, so it's obviously way too big a file to upload here, but besides the fireworks it's mostly me laughing, me and Madleen trying to explain to Stewart exactly which type of crisp a particular set of fireworks resembles, palm trees, hash leaves, and the occasional Dalmurian "SHIIIIIIIIIITE". Also, a chick wearing white pants, black tights, AND NOUT ELSE. Lovely.

Sparklers, duh. Me and Madleen totally didn't scream
for our lives or anything. Nah, not us.

Pyromania and whatnot.

Madleen, Stuart, Meejin, K-Dawg + Aimee doing some great product placement.

Meejin, Aimee, Rosaline, Madleen & Stuart.

Aimee, K-Dawg, Rosaline, Stooah + Meejin.

Look, I don't know why my lips resemble a hotdog, or why my fringe is being a lesbinem.
Let's just not talk about it okay? LOOK AT THE PRETTY, PRETTY HATS INSTEAD!

Natural banter (Y). Also, mega Stop The Bus-related stress.

K-dawg does straight lines COZ HE CAN. Me and Madleen cannot.

Stop The Bus is theeee most stressful game in the known universe.
Stuart had never heard of or played it before.
Like, what the hell did he do during free periods?

For November, you know.
Some beach in Australia, October 2009.
This was my last day! 

Word of the Day: epitoming; verb; the act of sawing off one's feet and replacing them with porcelain vases. Don't ask.

A is for Armistice, B is for Banana;

My head and I are having one at the moment (not a banana, the other thing), which is rather pleasant. I haven’t felt this...amorphously good in a long time. I say amorphous because it’s not a set-in-stone feeling, or a particularly grounded one, or one that will be around for a while to come. Words like ‘content’ and ‘positive’ and ‘ambivalent’ don’t quite fit the bill. It’s more this kind of heady scarlet cloud of sedateness, so maybe I’m a little high on it, I don’t know. But I am going to suck the marrow out of it, that's for darn sure.

A is also for; avocados, which I have reintroduced to my diet because they are full of GOOD FATS GUYS, and they look like nature’s little cups of lime sorbet; for Archie, Stephie’s alpha male collie-cross-something hybrid dog, who has developed an immunity to chocolate and the closing of doors; for August resits at 9.30 in the morning grumble grumble; for my deep, undying love of Amazon; for ¡Ay caramba! because if Bart Simpson was real I’d be in deep shit *swoons*; for Aunty Dave, his anger issues and his mystical tea powers; for new baby Abby (who should have been named Summer since she was born on the summer solstice, goddamnit); and last but not least for ARGHGHAUKDYJKHDUDYYYEUSGYDDJG, i.e. ineffable frustration of the artistic kind.

It’s also, duh, the first letter of the alphabet (and it’s at the beginning of the word alphabet, harharhar!), which kind of nicely parallels this After The Storm business when you begin again. (I would have said A New Beginning, but again that’s not an adequate description.)

So what’s been going on?

Well, Rosie went to the doctor (whose name began with an A, funnily enough) and was all YO, I FEEL LIKE ALICE FALLING DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE, HELP US OUT WILL YA. Although she put it a little more eloquently than that. The doctor was beautiful, there is no other word. He was philosophical on the one hand and theological on the other and he chatted to Rosie about Prozac Nation and how he ought to read it and Rosie got very excited and gushy and did everything but Superman it home and Superman it back with her own copy to give him. The doctor gave Rosie a questionnaire to fill out about how she feels (she and Meejin later laughed at the ‘I feel cheerful’ statement and how it was completely uncheerful), asked her to compose an A4 sheet of DARK STUFF for him to ponder over, handed her the contact details of a reputable therapist and advised her to enroll in Zumba classes…

*segues out of third person lunacy*

Ahem.

I have been unprecedentedly social over the past fortnight. Allow me to elaborate.      

Davidoff came to visit and to bestow gifts of metaphysical tea and assume the persona of Aunty Dave. This was lovely, even if he did deliver earth-shattering news that prompted me to scream for about ten minutes and then to periodically shudder like Sideshow Bob stepping onto all those rakes. It was still lovely despite the fact he spieled the synopses for European torture-porn films and laughed derisively at me when I began dancing to Splish Splash by Bobby Darin. We now have this little unofficial tradition (and unofficial traditions are the best kind) that when he’s walking home from work at ungodly hours and knows I am on the cusp of sleep he will phone me and I will not pick up and he will leave me a voicemail and I will reply to it via text and then he will leave another voicemail and you get the picture. It makes for some rather entertaining conversations, if you can call them that. (Seriously, if someone opened up my inbox they’d think I was off my rocket.) During said visit, we talked about What We’re Going To Do When We Grow Up, and I voiced my empathetic terror for those who don’t know what they want to do because I have always known and this reduced Davidoff to an even paler shade of white, because he does not know what he wants to do when he grows up, which happened in February, since he’s already twenty. So during this most recent transaction he yelled down the phone, and I quote; “I can’t deal with working with people. I’d rather work with the dead. I’m thinking of becoming an undertaker. Is that ambition enough for you?!” This was followed by his high-pitched freak-out on crushing a snail. The downside to this otherwise glowing friendship is the fact Davidoff does not care for The Simpsons, and in my world that is quite a faux pas.

I experienced déjà vu when I accompanied Meejin on her BlackBerry quest, although I was of absolutely no help at all, not only because I am technologically incompatible, but also because the tariff I signed up for was an introductory one and no longer exists and all the other Bold options were not student friendly. However, Meejin resorted to the Curve and Cheryl hooked her up and Sean was a grumpy bastard and in a hop, skip and a jump Meejin became the proud owner of the aforementioned Yay For Homogenization & Social Conformity/Nay For Independence-pushing contraption, thereby contributing to the World Domination Conspiracy. But don’t worry, Mulder and Scully are onto it.

We continued on to Stephie’s new house, which is like a loft apartment with the convenience of being on the ground and near a Greggs, with the intention of finally getting around to our long-awaited Movie Night. But inevitably, as with all planned Movie Nights, we watched a total of zero movies, instead opting for a four-hour bitterathon with hot chocolate made in a sexy little Italian machine and a helluvalotta junk food. There was even a mini-vending machine for cans WHICH YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO INSERT COINS TO GET, dates with convicts and chaetophiles, and this; “I’m kinda hating my dog right now for being a forty-two-year-old paedo called Archie.” Golden.

The next day I went to register with a new swanky dentists’ and then utilized the early start by resolving to WORK when I got home. Of course, first I had to eat, and by the time I sat down to actually make good on my promise, it was already three o’clock. I don’t know how. Now, no sooner has my ass made contact with the swivel seat when my phone beeps and this appears on the screen from Meejin;

MEEJIN: How was the dentist???????

ROSIE: A telt ye already D: it was f9, but a need aboot four million fillings X_X

MEEJIN: Fuck mannn Btw me and aimeee are at hardgate its sunny do u want to come out a wee walk???xXx

ROSIE: Awwwh :O <3!!! I really really would but I am woefully behind on writing and I will have to kick my own butt if I procrastinate any more :(!! I’ll be there in spirit (Y)

MEEJIN: Awwwww man just for like half an hour Its nice and sunny :(

ROSIE: Quit tempting me :(! I really really can’t, or I’ll be writing this till am toothless (N)

MEEJIN: No I respect your writing but it is sunny and u will do it later :(

ROSIE: You smell mccanny :(

MEEJIN: Okay? Its gonna be pishin all weeek

ROSIE: It better be or al batter you like a fish m8

MEEJIN: It is my mother told me very gleefully

ROSIE: Cool whip

Half an hour turned into three hours and a walk turned into a trip to the shop for crisps and chocolate and then vegetating on my bed. Swell times.

Today I met Suzy for a very, very late lunch (Linner? Dunch?), made even later by the fact we spent half an hour trying to decide where to go. Eventually, we decided on a ritzy place on the top floor of Princes Square and we caught up on eight months’ worth of Life and finished by testing out the BlackBerry barcode scanner (it works!). I love that even though we don’t see each other often, whenever we meet up it’s like we were never apart. If I ever get married, she’ll be at the wedding, because I’d want her there and she’d want to come. (This sentiment should not be undermined by the fact that when we saw a hen party walk past, we both agreed we couldn’t see ourselves getting married. That was probably more a result of the bright pink hard hats, my aversion to white dresses and the fact men are gigantic piles of poo.) A year of higher physics and PSD with eight guys really fortifies the old female bonds, I tell ya. *shudders*

The world is small because it transpires The Other Chick from philosophy works at Meejin’s new place of employment. She remembers the polar bears, bless her.

Also-also, anyone else besides me and Suzy a little discombobulated by the specificity of one particular question on the DVLA provisional license application form? It was something along the lines of ‘Can you read 54mm wide lettering on a registration plate stationed 60.5 feet away?’ I’m sorry, I don’t actually carry a giant tape measure on my daily excursions. Jesus.

In other news, I finally finished writing the long-hand sections of the Extended Short Story and all that was to be done was stitch the whole thing together and then I could write (with a tear in my eye) THE END. But, no. An experimental wondering I thought I’d repressed recurred to me the other morning whilst lying in bed fighting the urge to be vertical and join the land of people, and I am now in a kind of paralyzing void of indecision. I desperately wish I could splice myself into two and have a conversation with my intellect. In my imagination my intellect is sharp-nosed and pragmatic and her hair is always ruler straight and so shiny I could see my face in it, and she wears black and crosses her legs and she can probably walk in high heels and she probably even digs them, and she has a notepad and a pen and prim posture and spectacles and she doesn’t find my rambling amusing in the least. Sigh. Unfortunately, however, I am going to have to go it alone. Double sigh. Do cross your appendages for me.

Additionally, because apparently I just cannot shut the fuck up tonight;

• I ordered more books from Amazon which I really don’t have the time to read. In my defense, I only intended on buying one (A Midsummer Night’s Dream), but Amazon was having a Two Books For £8 deal, so I added Into the Wild to my basket and have subsequently fallen in love with it, and the other book was free because I’m one of the Vine People. Although I did just point out that time rather than money was the issue… Someone stop me. If my rotting corpse is found beneath a mountain of books, I have no one to blame but myself. I have been warned.
• Mazzy Star blow my mind in a very tranquil way… When I listen to them I feel all nice and wrapped up in the 90s.
• I FINALLY got my solid aluminium turquoise elephant! YAYYY!
• It is both lovely and torturous having gorgeous dreams about certain people in which I have no makeup on and am wearing pyjamas and am lying in a sleeping bag next to them and we’re with hundreds of others watching a movie but they don’t raise their eyes to anyone else and I can feel that they are scared but that they care, and I kind of love the blurriness. Of course then I wake up and realize it didn’t happen, but it stays with me all day like a tangible, physical blanket or something. Yum.
• It’s also pretty cool having dreams about fighting in the Battle for Hogwarts alongside Hermione Granger and taking out some bad guys with a flick of my wand and a yell of Stupefy! I was pretty crafty and kept summoning enemy wands and then snapping them muahahahaha. Silly Voldiethingy.

Righto, I think I have sufficiently filled my Rambling About Shit-All quota for the century, and then some, so I’ll be off to agonize over this pivotal literary question; to fuck or not to fuck?

Seriously, someone needs to purchase a giant butterfly net and come catch me.

Word of the Day: exsanguinate