Oh dear

I've turned into one of those insanely successful people who win everything.

God I hate those people.

(I don't hate winning Christ Church Regatta, though. Not even a little bit. AAAAH!)

Holding out for a Hero

Crazy, masochistic week of drama was rewarded with places on two award shortlists!

We are the awesome. Fear our win.

In all seriousness

I am SO freakin' tired of myself. Everything is an internal battle. YAWN.

Life is over.

I will never be even a tiny part as talented as Alexander Petrov. What is the point of existence?

Oh, by the way, I'm miserable and mucusy again. Wahey!

You know that feeling...

Where you find something which you already know is going to be really bad, but it appalls you how bad it is just the same?

That's how I feel about this.

Must kan shu.

No more internets.

On the plus side, I got my groove back for now. No more morose whiny AJ for at least ten minutes.

I want to crawl inside something and die quietly.

Winter is poo.

emplooooyment

it is 4.00 and Waterstones have not called.

Why have they not called. Waterstones, why have you not called? I am not a happy bunny. Call. Give me a job. I will carry your books and you will pay me £900 and then I will live like a Queen for another semester. It'll be a match made in heaven.

I am floating in and out of reality.

Oh for heavens' sake.

Here we go again.

(Incidentally, if social skills were textbooks mine would not be written by Hal Varian. Make of that what you will; I personally am very depressed about it.)

It is a sad state of affairs...

... when the only things keeping my intellectual sanity alive are propositional logic and the German political system.

If I wanted to study Maths, I would have picked the degree CALLED Maths.

(The more astute among you will note that I picked the degree called PPE. HENCE. Unhappy.)

I'll allow for logic, though. Logic is HOT.

If you know what I mean.

A contingency plan for climate change

OK, so some other PPEists (and E&Mists, and Economics and some other rubbish-ists) I went to a lecture on the Political Economy of Climate Change, because we're awesome like that. And it was pretty cool, but it was also deeply deeply terrifying.

The basic message? We're fucked. Even if we set ourselves targets we probably won't reach, we'll still be well within the boundary for catastrophic climate change. It might not happen, but it probably will. The End.

Soooo, in light of these facts, and the fact that we probably have until 2050 to enjoy the world, I have formulated a Cunning Plan:

1) Die before 2050. This is probably the most instrumental part to avoiding ANY responsibility for how screwed up the world is.

2) Before this time, spend most of my life building an underground bunker full of important cultural relics, many of which will be created by me and many of which won't, but which I'll ascribe to myself anyway. This bunker will contain copious references to my good self, including plenty of missing and/or conflicting biographical details, in order to create an air of mystery. I might rewrite a couple of epic poems to be about me anyway. This bunker will then be sealed against all natural disasters, and the location encoded in a load of clever but not impossible clues (hopefully scattered all around the globe, probably on tops of mountains to ensure against rising sea levels.)

3) Probably not reproduce. I don't know, kids would be fun but then I'd be responsible for bringing them into a very bad world and if they pass down REAL details about my life, that will spoil the fun.

4) Years after my death, after most of the population of the world has been wiped out and civilisation has regressed etc, my bunker will be discovered by some clever archaeologists/scientists/plucky kids with too much time and money on their hands and VERY neglectful parents. They will then find the tools to rebuild society using things they attribute entirely to me. Hopefully this will start, if not a religion, at least some kind of worlwide following where I am considered the epitome of pre-global warming society. I shall be famous in the best possible way (i.e. the mysterious, biographically inaccurate way) and I will have not only escaped climate change, but capitalised on it to ensure I am remembered for thousands of years.

... it's times like these when I wish I wasn't an atheist who didn't believe in an afterlife. Then I could look forward to seeing all this first-hand.

Also, one of the first things I will steal will be Volker Halbach's Logic Manual. Just giving you the heads-up there. It's gonna be mine in the future.

On narcissisim.

I'm probably one of the least genuinely narcissistic people I know. I mean, is there anything I think I CAN do? Not as such, no. Probably, therefore, my rush to constantly define myself as the best person in the world is yet another symptom of my deeply ingrained emotional and psychological problems. Probably.

What am I going to do about this revelation? Nothing. I'm too awesome for change, remember?

PS. how is it I came to university with loads of great plans for doing lots of things among which rowing did NOT feature, and suddenly I'm in freshers' first VIII and technically out on the river at 7am? Oh dear.

Matriculation

Yesterday, I matriculated. This is an event which involved getting up early in the morning (well, 8.00), dressing like a penguin, taking photos, having photos taken, going to the Exam Schools, standing in a room, listening to an Australian speak Latin and then an Australian speak English, eating brunch, going to Sainsbury's, buying wine, drinking wine (I personally had 2 bottles in 12 hours, and would recommend the fairtrade red but definitely not the fairtrade white), going punting, being punted, going into bushes on a punt, coming back, ordering pizza, changing into normal clothes, eating pizza, whining, celebrating a moral victory, going to a house party, playing I Have Never, telling strangers personal things, coming home at some point, failing to get into my (unlocked) room because I couldn't find the key in my pocket and finally falling asleep in the "women's room" next door.

Today involved waking up in the women's room. And then moving, sleeping and now the internets. I also have to row and do some SERIOUS hard work, but... ehhhhh...

Is death particularly funny?

Possibly, the answer to this question is "no". In which case, I have not written a very funny sketch for Friday.

Still, nobody ACTUALLY dies, so maybe I am on the right side of scandalous.

I feel I should write a bit more about what's actually been happening to me. Well, things have got a bit quieter since last week, by which I mean I have been in my room before midnight every day since Friday. Buuuut I have still been doing plenty of things- Saturday, I went to an auction being filmed by BBC1 for daytime TV at the Oxford Union, which was surreally awesome and meant I now have a fun painting of a garden which I wouldn't otherwise have considered owning. Earlier this week, I saw Josie Long (writes for Skins, was apparently on Never Mind The Buzzcocks recently) at the Free Beer show, which is this tiny venue which (also allegedly, remember I know nothing about most culture) has lots of fun semi-famous comedians in a really intimate setting, and which was brilliant except the room was hot and I had to stand up and she dragged a bit at the end. I already have my tickets for Reginald D. Hunter next week, who is (ALSO apparently, I should stop believing what people tell me) a legend.
Then yesterday was an open mic at the college chapel which was SUCH a cool location for it, the acoustics were lovely and it was really fun to be in this old old building with only candles and really low electric lights listening to some very intimidatingly good people playing and singing songs they'd written. I came back early though to blitz this ongoing mysterious audition thing, which I can EXCLUSIVELY (that is not an exaggeration, of course news regarding me is exclusive. It's not like anybody is going to tell you except me) reveal is for the Oxford Revue. I don't have high hopes, but if it did come off I would be a very very happy bunny.

I am learning to be a rower, and going to the gym. I am currently right on top of the workload, which is brilliant. And tonight is a big free chocolate fountain at the Oxford Women in Politics (OxWIP) freshers' thing, so life is generally still very, very good.

Oh, all except the dinners here. Those suck balls. But at least it means my diet is better than if I were cooking for myself, particularly if you are of the belief that courgettes are a special food group all of their own and you need to eat them at least once a day. Then I'm a paragon of health (except for the chips I keep eating for lunch. Yummy!)

This place is still a big slice of awesome pie.

However, I have now made an executive decision to subject myself to at least one audition, and now I am wishing I were intelligent enough to unmake it. Auditions are Not Cool. I ought to do lots of things that I don't need to be good at to do... like... the internet. Not things that people have to do well.

This is a recipe for disaster, and more importantly, whinging. Hence, blog! Wahey!

I have developed a strong aversion...

... to being by myself.

Seriously, this room is DULLL, where's the peeps at.

FREEEEEEEE NELSON MANDE-EE-LA!

I'm still SO FREAKIN' HAPPY about everything that's going on here; never in my life have I had the opportunity to meet so many pleasant, friendly, intelligent, open-minded and fun people. Clubs were found, IDs were lost, Bops were had, drinks were drunk. It has been very, very win.

Of course, now I have a loooot of work to do, so maybe I won't be saying this again any time soon. But right now, I am most chuffed. Wadham till I die, yo.

12 HOURS TO LIFT OFF

I'm calm, collected and cool as a cucumber.

ZOMG WTF SDFSDFSDFSDFSDFSDFWOEgiuhsreogeahggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg.

Sex-sex-sex-s-s-s-s-s-sex crime! crime! cr-cr-cr-cr...

I am going through a glorious phase of Annie Lennoxing right now, and that involves a lot of listening to this clearly beautiful song. I love how ridiculously uncharacteristic of the book and film it is, and yet all the Eurythmics music actually IN the film is pure win and awesome.

Actually, we're allegedly getting a new movie of 1984 (in case you didn't figure out from the previous paragraph that that's what I was on about- in which case YOU MORON and also yes I am talking about 1984 and the UNREPEATABLE beauty of John Hurt and Richard Burton and whoever the heck that semi-emaciated woman was) in 2009. I will be there, watching and heckling. Or maybe I will be impressed. The second is far less likely.

Oceania, 'tis for thee. You and your New Zealanders, and your dubious status as a continent.

(I'm sorry that my last few entries have been poorly expressed rubbish about TV and movies, but it's far better than poorly expressed rubbish about "oh my god I want to be at university", honest)

(Also, guess who I met working on reception at LA fitness? Lisa Molyneaux! It's amazing the people you forget exist, really.)

I am surprised...

About how much fun House was this week without Wilson.

Don't get me wrong, if Robert Sean Leonard leaves forever I will forever be sad about Hilson never happening, but it's nice to have a break from well-established relationships for a while. Season 4 spent too much time trying to slot in cameos of the old team and doing the whole CTB thing and not enough time developing the new, and now we're actually getting to see them (AND more Cuddy last episode, hooray!) it is revealed that they are in fact pretty fun. And so is the PI guy.

There will be no shark jumping on my watch...

Eh. So, I just watched the first episode of Heroes on the BBC (I would do a double dose but my bro wants to watch Fonejacker at 10 so no episode 2 for me until I torrent it). I watched it with the aforementioned sibling, who has never seen an episode of Heroes before in his life, and... well, it was a struggle. Each character got about 2 minutes of screen time to do something that they were probably building up to in the second season but that I'd forgotten all about by the time we got there. I sat there trying to give information about the characters to my brother and quite frankly, it has all got a bit too insaaaanely complicated. There are a bazillion quests and a bazillion hang-ups and mysteries left right and centre and quite frankly it just made no sense whatsoever. I am unhappy.

I'm hoping that this is fallout from the writers' strike and the fact that, if some Hollywood bums hadn't wanted more money, this would have been the second half of Season 2 and therefore things would have been built up in the first half of that and it wouldn't just be like "hmm, we need to kickstart all these storylines now. OVERLOAD!" Maybe episode 2 will be better. It BETTER be better, quite frankly, because despite the high quantity of attractive males I can and will stop watching if this continues. Besides, where did Claire's tall hot flying sort-of boyfriend go? I swear, her male teen friends have the longevity of a mayfly. First her so-not-gay best friend's actor gets cold feet about being gay, and now... no fitty.

Therefore. Meh meh meh.

Romance, crocodiles!

I would talk but oh my god VIVA PINATA

I wish I were cool enough not to be obsessed by a glorified gardening sim.

Meanwhile, in the Quarantine Unit...

At the insistence of my brother, I finally got around to playing Halo 3. Cue a few days of swearing, dying and one very sleepless night caused by horrific cold (unrelated) and constant worrying about the part of the level I couldn't do. In general, I approved of the whole thing, although the plot really passed me by this time. Oh, and I had to wiki to make sure he didn't die in the end. Which, if you are good enough to play Legendary (ahahaha), you discover he didn't. Grand.

I am tired and very ill. Hopefully I will be better in time for my LA fitness induction on Thursday. Failing that... I'll think of something.

I am limited only by the closure of the universe

That, and a horrible sore throat.

Oh and by the way

My argument in the post below makes absolutely NO sense whatsoever. Ignore it.

The Great American Chip-on-shoulder

I am so addicted to Star Pirates it's not even funny.

I am also reading my third Philip Roth book, and am enjoying it. It was, however, touch and go for the first 30 pages or so for the simple fact that I am SO DAMN SICK of Jews in Newark and Roth's carbon copied heroes and their carbon copied childhoods. I mean, OK, Zuckermann is your alter ego, and therefore he had a similar childhood to the Philip Roth in The Plot Againt America with the notable omission of sinister Nazi overtones. But oh my god does my face need to be rubbed in it EVERY TIME you write a book? Do I really need the opening pages of "oh and by the way JEW" in order to fully appreciate the rest of your story?

Actually, I can think of a lot of 20th century American writers who do exactly the same thing. Well, I can think of Kerouac and Vonnegut and Brett Easton Ellis, anyway, and extrapolate from them (what can I say, I'm startlingly poorly read in some respects). Parallel autobiographies and fictional alter egos are common, and they're usually quite entertaining, and I do have to concede that every semi-serious writing attempt I've made has also generally been a parallel autobiography so I can't exactly whinge about them being a waste of space. But. If you've got a chip on your shoulder about your national or racial identity... write Trainspotting. Or a Hundred Years of Solitude. Or the Kite Runner. Or, quite frankly, anything that isn't about your Jewish New Jersey wartime childhood. Please.

Yarr!

I'm a star pirate!

Also, I am reading Brideshead Revisited. Also, I just got paid £20 for absolutely nothing. Hooray!

Madame Malcontent

I am malcontent, morose and miserable. I have also fallen so far into my pit of meaninglessness that I am no longer able to articulate the reason for being malcontent, morose and miserable other than making strange groaning noises. I can talk about anything under the sun, as long as I have no emotional attachment to it, but when it comes to anything I really mean I am unable to say anything. This is probably a terrible thing, and perhaps something that I will have to Get Over in the future. On the other hand, I am officially a blogger who cannot whinge endlessly about pointless parts of my own life. This is undoubtedly positive. I will quite happily trade my emotional wellbeing for a more readable blog- I am a child of the internets, after all.

I have 15 versions of Joni Mitchell singing Big Yellow Taxi. 15 DIFFERENT versions, including the 7 minute 53 second "NYC Cab to Club" mix. I am not sure how I feel about this fact. Other things I now own include a kettle, a wooden spoon, a wok and a 12 piece Tesco dinner set.

I just had one of those moments...

... where you realise exactly what your life goal is going to be.

And my life goal is to be an interviewee on one of those TV nostalgia programs. They will ask me things about the nineties and noughties, I will respond and people will laugh. It will be the best moment of my life EVER. When it happens.

Your stupidity is going to kill you

I was going to write a one-liner about how I am not going to write anything until I have more exciting things to say than "Oooh I am living in a random staircase" or "Oooh I read the Affluent Society, it was very interesting". But not only would that be pointless and self-defeating (as clearly I AM writing about those things), but it would also be false.

It is false because I would also like to say that I watched some random BBC three program about people getting beauty treatments GONE HORRIBLY WRONG (yes, I did theoretically have better things to do. Yes, I watched it anyway. Deal with it.) And I would like to say right now that I am very glad that I am not beautiful in any way, shape or form because... well. What the fuck. Eyelash perms? Daily tanning sessions? Fat injections? Back facials (Oxymoronic AND moronic!)? And my earlobe piercings have never given me strokes. So I am obviously generally superior. Although to be fair, they could show the horrific dangers of armpit shaving and I'd be sitting there going "haha I win!"

On the minus side, my hair is probably going to fall out from dye and I am seconds away from developing horrific bunions. And I am fat and unfit and my armpits have hair*. So even I lose. Tear. Still, no strokes yet. And I am not having to dream up methods to smuggle my non-existent hair straighteners into Oxford, and can thus spend my time thinking of imaginative alternatives to blu-tack. Hmmm...

*I refuse to say "I have hairy armpits", because that would be a lie. If I had shrubbery down there, rest assured I would be removing it. I don't, so I don't. Hooray for logic!

Quote of the Moment

"We cannot reason ourselves out of our basic irrationality. All we can do is to learn to be irrational in a reasonable way"- from Island by Aldous Huxley.

I wrote that down last month whilst reading Island, and now I just randomly found the piece of paper it is on. As I am chucking the paper, I thought I ought to retain the thought.

But don't worry, I'm not serious.

Girl Anachronism Rapes Pianoforte

If I did not like Amanda Palmer's solo album, the above is the kind of thing I'd say about it repeatedly. Unfortunately, I can only use it this once, and worse still I have to qualify it, as I do like over 50% of Amanda Palmer's solo album. In fact, I would say I love 33% of it, namely Astronaut, Guitar Hero, Oasis (OMG Oasis) and Point of it All. I like Leeds United, Blake Says and Another Year, which takes overall likeability to 7/12ths. I can't be having with percentages of that, but it's over 50%, like I said. A significant part of the remaining 5/12ths is a bit shit, but heck, you can't have everything. Not even Harvey Danger have made an ENTIRELY brilliant album, and they are clearly the benchmark of awesome.

I am currently downloading a full Joni discography, which is going to take a while on this damnable connection. What I did not notice before I started downloading is that one of these albums is in fact a Joni tribute with lots of assholes singing her songs. Worse still, this part is the part that is furthest along in the download. Bah.

I am in my final stretch of home life before I disappear up a dreaming spire. This should involve packing lots of stuff, sorting out my bedroom at last and generally getting myself in order. Instead, thus far, it has involved reading two Lemony Snicket books, taking a bath and moping about minor tooth pain. To be fair, though, I've only been back a few hours and I did have a painful mix of hangover and travel sickness when I got home. Also, did I tell you my tooth hurts? Yeah.

OMG OMG OMG

Ice the Gladiator went to Hinchingbrooke School!

And now for a little bad taste

If you put a gun to my head and gave me a choice between blowing several weeks worth of food money on this or eating my own fourth digits, I know what I would choose. Somebody pass the kitchen knife.

Then again, the more people with sanity who say this, the more unique, memorable and collectable yours becomes. What a tough choice I am giving you...

GTFO of my cinema, woman.

OK, double post today, but for good reason: There was the most ANNOYING WOMAN EVER in the cinema when we went to see the Duchess today.

At every single dramatic moment, she would say "oooo" or "eeeeh" or something, in a really flat northern accent. When there were drawn out conversations, she would answer questions before the actors onscreen did. And when Kiera Knightley was getting raped by Ralph Fiennes (yes, this was a 12A film; it also contained breasts, male nudity, two other major sex scenes and lesbian erotica), she sat there going "oooh, what a family, eh?"

DIE IN A FIRE. Seriously, fuck. the. what.

Other than that, it was a really good film. Although I hate that in modern culture, a story like that ends up having a "sad ending" because she didn't end up with her One True Love ever (sorry for ruining it but it's not like divorce existed, yo). She had a load of children she loved, she found some sort of equilibrium with her husband, she was friends with everyone and had a really fun political career! How does lack of sex turn that into misery? I'm not currently getting any and I'VE never felt more awesome. So there.

An official warning

I am still at Hannah's.

Things Hannah likes:

- Shopping for tights
- Topshop
- M&S sandwiches
- Juno
- Some random In Shanghai waiter

Things Hannah dislikes:
- Me changing her wallpaper to pictures of micropenes
- M&S not having a supermarkety section
- Me laughing at blind people in the street (they were funny! And they couldn't see or hear me)
- Me laughing at pictures of facially disfigured people
- Her dumb internet connection.

Just so you all know.

Newcastle = awesome.

I am with Hannah in Durham, city of students and roundabouts and other things. It is entertaining.

I think I have written too many rants about regions and people of the united kingdom recently, so I am not going to go into how listening to Geordies speak carries EXACTLY the same level of initial intelligibility as listening to Polish people.

Northumberland: like Poland, but gayer.

A slight miscalculation

The more astute among you may have noticed a slight amendation to my persona. Yes, I made a mistake. Once. Ever. Just now. I don't intend to make a habit of it.

Moving swiftly on from that, you know what really annoys me? When something utterly retarded that nobody else has to deal with happens to you TWICE. Like, the Chinese police don't go to kick other people out of their sleeping areas at ridiculous hours of the night, but it happened to me in Kashgar and again in Kaifeng. I met a random Australian who called Uighurs wiggers and then somebody did it on debriefing (although to be fair they didn't press the point like the first arsehole did.) And yesterday I discovered a second person who believes that the best way to learn about a culture is to have sex with somebody from it. Yeah, way to get my grudge against you upheld for another five years- although that was what you were angling for, wasn't it. Moron.

I have a lot more perspective than this time last year, honest I do.

Dentists go home

I am going to start a racially insensitive campaign to get dentists out of this country, I swear. Racially insensitive because, let's face it, ALL dentists are from different countries to the one they practise in, even my new "British" dentist is from north of the border (which, I have discovered, means that in the English language she really IS from a different country i.e. Scotland not England: it's called a "constituent country", apparently.) Even when I lived in the southern hemisphere, the people drilling through my teeth without anaethetic (NOT KIDDING) were not homegrown Aussies, oh no. So, racism it is.

I am going to do this because I have now had two dentist appointments in two days and frankly I have had it with this whole "teeth" thing. Yes, mine suck, but I don't need that rubbed in my face now, do I? I don't need you to poke and prod around in my mouth and make cryptic comments. I certainly don't need you to tell me you need to extract my wisdom teeth in the distant future but won't do it now because you might paralyse my face, so now each time I am going to go in terror of your big stabby knives. Which may or may not stab me at any given time. My mental health is always questionable and you, dentists, may just tip me over the edge. In short: Forget being healthy, I'd rather be in denial.

I started playing the Sims 2 again yesterday, and now I am sensing that it may become my life again. I deliberately called my new town Macondo so I don't have to worry about aging everybody roughly at the same time- it's magical realism, yo! Clearly this is a better way to spend my time than working my way through "Logic".

SIGN ME UP FOR THE PARALYMPICS

I am officially a cripple. Over 24 hours of not being able to walk properly definitely affords me the honour. What a pain in the... well, the leg. I suppose.

I am now trying to figure out how to fill the next month of my life. Theories include reading a minimum of two novels a day, getting on with the Clever Books, writing my own autobiography, painting my bedroom, terrorising Durham or, my personal favourite, wandering from room to room of my house sighing like furnace and telling anybody present how bored I am. Perhaps I shall start some Facebook groups, that'll be interesting.

At least I'm not tired any more.

London Stanstead: Bare Sick, Innit.

I think I am going to start a petition to make the above the official slogan of London Stanstead, to reflect our colourful local language and cultural heritage i.e. Scene music and Chavism. Granted, I am basing this assumption on Bishop's Stortford being a more south easterly Peterborough, but I think there are more places in the world which are a geographically different Peterborough than would like to admit it. I genuinely think it is the way forward...

This reflection is brought you to by Glasgow Prestwick's slogan: Pure Dead Brilliant. That's just the kind of thing I think would give non-English speakers (or sorry, non-Scottish speakers) the best possible impression of my "country" and inspire trust and friendliness in the local population. Although actually, being patronising to your customers seems to be the way forward for most businesses these days. I can't even buy a bottle of juice without it giving me nursery school flashbacks. I would frankly prefer "fuck off and die" brand juice to all this innocent rubbish telling me it'll return its library books and that I can visit it for a nice chat and a cup of... well, juice I suppose.

Oh, I came back from Scotland, and it was in fact Pure Dead Brilliant. But the airport wasn't. And I am tired and can't walk.

Lies, all lies.

So, I organised my reading for the next month. It turns out I'll have to read just over a book a day if I want to get through everything on my shelf... not too tall an order for the awesome. Well, OK, maybe it is. But it's not like I have anything else to do with my life other than absorb knowledge. And trawl Facebook for people I might meet in October, that's important too.

I have packed my things for debriefing (i.e. getting over not being in China any more) up in Scotland, now all I have to do is go there for five days. I am flying, which is a mixed blessing as it means time goes quicker but also gives me a lot less time to make a dent in the aforementioned reading, shame. And also I have an afternoon to kill in Glasgow. Sweet Jesus no. Personally, I don't think going to Scotland is the right way to get over not being in China any more. I mean, I'm going to a minority area peopled by angry sounding men who wear silly clothes and may or may not stab me. In what way is that not regressing back to Xinjiang?

Incidentally, after listening to a woman in Huntingdon call her daughter "India" this morning, I have decided that my girl children are going to be called Antarctica, Patagonia and Xinjiang. This is to go with my boy children, Ghengis, Milo and... I can't actually spell the third one, but it's Italian, designer and dumb. Plan or PLAN?

Also on the subject: I have vague plans to firebomb Next and their ridiculous sizing. I have NEVER been a tight size 14 before walking into that shop, I swear. Tight size 12, sure, but that's only to be expected in a curvaceous future leader like myself. Now I just have to hope none actually GET firebombed and I live to regret making that clearly throwaway remark. Hmm.

I have to read Economic Philosophy before the world ends. It's going to be a close one.

Blah

What on earth am I going to do with myself for five whole weeks?

The DLR is where it's at.

Last night, I had a dream where I found a book full of extremely important criminal evidence, except it wasn't very interesting and then it was full of Mars Bar ice cream and I ate the ice cream. And then I felt terribly guilty about eating evidence, so I ate donuts. When I woke up, I was incredibly relieved that all this was just a dream, otherwise I'd be a lot fatter by now...

Today, I went to London, for the purposes of my Pokedex (not kidding). I got to travel on many railways and listen to many languages being spoken by the citizens of our glorious capital. I also went to Matalan, which I am very impressed with. I am less impressed with all the other fashions around at the moment, for the simple fact that they all appear to have come from Xinjiang and I wasn't exactly Xinjiang fashion's biggest fan. No frills for me, thanks. I'll have that nice knitted vest though.

Good gracious

I appear to be bored out of my excessively cultured mind.

DEUTSCH

The real reason I made a new blog was so I could share things like this with an imaginary audience.

Oceania, 'tis for thee

There comes a time when one must move away from abstract numbers and towards interesting things. I have decided to make that time now as regards this blog, otherwise we will be talking about my Pokedex forever. 486, by the way. I have 486 Pokemon. 95% of the Pokemon-aware population probably never even knew there were that many of them.

It is impossible to find the soundtrack to the 1984 (1984 edition, none of this modern shit) for torrent. I'm not sure why I care about this other than as a sort of vague follow-up thought to that title, but it bothers me now. The only way I get hits for 1984 at all is by typing in "Oceania"; then I can have an e-book. But I don't want an e-book, I want the Eurythmics. Is that so hard to understand?

My days are not exactly filled with excitement. I finished my China scrapbook/"community report", which is beautiful apart from a glitch on the penultimate page I designed. I can't believe I went so long without sticking the text in the wrong order, and then I screwed it up so many times on that page it defies belief. Afterwards, I retired to my other favourite activity- reading and drinking alcopops left over from my party weeks ago. Currently I am reading "The German Polity" by David Conradt, which is not as dull as it sounds, though that doesn't mean much. I also read the second in "A Series of Unfortunate Events"- those books currently take me just over 45 minutes a piece to digest. They do appear to get thicker as the series goes on, however. I am waiting for my copy of "Aberystwyth, Mon Amour" to come from Amazon Marketplace, then I can get on with reading the ones of those I have. And the rest of the German Polity, too.

Whilst committing spider genocide last night, I was reminded of a thought I had where the afterlife involved getting killed in all the ways one had killed creatures during life. Which makes me wonder if I would rather be squished or sprayed, really. Anyway, I think I lifted the idea from Crash Bandicoot which makes it even more disturbing a concept, really. I wouldn't particularly want eternity to be based on a Playstation platform game, even if it was one I was pretty good at.

My mother bought the DVDs of the things I was torrenting. She's so helpful like that.

I thought it was about time...

... I started blogging again. Life is ongoing, after all.

Currently, ongoing life stands at the following statistics:

Pokedex: 483
Scrapbook: 34/36
Clever books read: 1.25
Torrent Progress: 25.9% but NO SEEDS. WHY ARE THERE NO SEEDS. hnng.

As you can see, I am in a state of transit.