Wait... dude... what?

So I finished my degree. Yay I guess.

However, it all begs the question 'What now?'

Quite.

What now indeed.

Thus far I have been eating and sleeping and watching TV, the sort of TV that rots your soul and leaves you thinking that if this is the pinnacle of human civilisation after years and years of evolution then we are all basically fucked.

Having said that, oh my god, Quantum Leap is seriously awesome.

I've also been spending an inordinate amount of time dwelling on all the flaws I happen to carry around with me, falling in love with Zach Galafianakis in that borderline-psychotic way I do, and having dreams where I go on secret missions to save the fate of the world but end up getting distracted halfway through and making out with whoever happens to be my co-star that particular night (I don't think we have to dig too deep into my subconscious to unroot the particular genesis of those particular flights of fancy). That's it. That and thinking about writing, going to my laptop to write things, opening up Word and looking at a blank page, closing Word, opening up My Downloads folder, rolling a joint, watching Six Feet Under instead (In the name of My Super Sweet Sixteenth, how much more awesome are shows like Six Feet Under when you're stoned? I so totally get the character's motivations and, like, dude, he totally wants her to think that he thinks that when in actuality he thinks this but he isn't consciously aware of that fact and yet she is! Yeah, it all get's pretty deep round my way let me tells ya's).

Yet somehow, and God knows how, doing all this isn't really that fulfilling. I know right? Who woulda thought it?

I sort of feel stuck at the moment. I had this thing (i.e. my degree) that I was working towards and I DID do work, for the last four years, and it all paid off and I got good marks and I sort of have a vague idea with what I'm doing next (for the coming year at least) and yet, here we are. I was expecting to feel more like a proper grown up but I don't feel like a grown up. I was expecting to feel a sense of relief but I don't feel all that relieved. I was thinking that I'd probably feel kind of sad when it was all over but I don't really feel sad. I just don't feel anything. I keep waiting for something to happen, for a bolt of lightning to shoot down from the heavens above bringing with it a handy instruction manual for what I'm supposed to do and feel now. But it doesn't. So really, seriously, honestly, what now?

There's a mouse in my house

This isn't the start of a witty poem or whimsical folk song.

There's a mouse. In my house.

He seems to like me whereas I am wary of him*. Maybe because on our first encounter he tried to make me look like a damned fool by running away and not coming out till the wee hours when I pointed out to Chloe; 'look, there's a mouse there!' Before the last syllable had escaped my lips he was gone. Boy, can he move. I'm convinced he has a hoverboard, or at least hovering capabilities built in, as I refuse to believe any creature can move as fast as him naturally.

He sits under my chair eating the crumbs between my carpet tiles (yeah. I live in the 1970's. Deal with it) and I sit atop the chair terrified to put my feet down in case... well... I'm not really sure what 'The Dude' would do (I'm calling him that as he came out of his hiding spot and revealed himself to Chloe in order that he could inspect an ashtray containing the remmants of soft drugs) but I'm terrified nonetheless. The fear is slowly subsiding but I still don't like the idea of waking up in the middle of the night and having something sat there looking at me. My three main fears are:
1. The thought of touching dead things (whether it's a deceased moth or the ashes of my dearly departed great aunt escaping into the atmosphere when I am in the nearby vicinity of her ash-scattering** ceremony),
2. Pigeons,
3. Being stared at.

He is cute. I'm going to grant him that but I think he knows I feel this way and consequently he's taken the authority position in our relationship (as all males are wont to do) as I'll be chatting away telling him to leave; 'Dude, I can't cope with strangers running round my room. Seriously, get out' whilst he ignores me. It's not great for one's self-esteem to be openly and wilfully ignored by something smaller than the palm of your hand.

Still. I guess he IS The Dude. The Dude does what The Dude wants. And what The Dude wants is to make my room smell of mouse. Which it does now.

Great.

*This phenomena is also apparent in babies, although in their case I'm not sure it's that they like me. It's more that they'll stop whatever they are doing - crying, playing, pooing, and just look at me with wide eyed astonishment. I'm starting to think I engender feelings of fear within them but I'm not sure how yet.
** Is that the correct term? I'm pretty sure there's something more formal I could have used there. My mother didn't believe this was a genuine fear of mine until I started getting hysterical that it was a windy day and I couldn't cope with getting dead person ingrained on my clothes. Papa M calmed me down with the comforting words 'don't worry, you breathe dead people in all the time don't you?'. He always knows how to make me feel better.

Someone made a computer game out of my face.

It's awesome

(Click on 'toons')

Procrastination Masterclass

The concept was simple enough: three essays in three days. I'm reasonably smart, I am an extremely quick reader, I have all the journal articles and books I need to write the essays. Three essays in three days? Piss easy mate.

I then started laughing in the face of time. I openly mocked it's stupid, perfectly round, clock face.

'Ha' I said. To it's face.

But then time turned around, raised one of it's time-eyebrows and said...

'I think you might be forgetting something Ms Mulholland'

'What's that?' I smirked

'You have the attention span of a ritalin addicted three year old. You might have more than enough time to do these essays but no way will you stay focused enough to complete them'

'Oh yeah? I'll show you time. I will show you good'

So here we are. The deadline I set myself is 5 o' clock on Friday. Right now it is 1am. I have 16 hours left.

Guess how many essays I have completed since the start of this ridiculous adventure?

None.

And do you know why?

Because I have the attention span of a ritalin addicted three year old.

Amongst other things, I've watched three episodes of How I Met Your Mother (Doogie Howser MD is my hero on it), two episodes of Dexter, one episode of the Gilmore Girls. I have renamed all my downloads so they adhere to the same naming system and therefore look much neater when you open the folders. I have spent time daydreaming. I listened to music. I had a nap or two. I wrote a blog.

You will be surprised to learn that none of these things are helping with the essay writing.

Martyrs Unite

So I gave up.

I went home for dog cuddles and soup and homemade rice pudding and my moms.

Martyrdom really doesn't suit me. It looks better on people that have a soul. Or an ounce of dignity in their body.

I left The Ford at 21:48 on Wednesday evening. It was the exact point in time where I was starting to feel better enough that I could actually appreciate someone looking after me but still ill enough that I wouldn't have to fake being ill to garner appropriate amounts of sympathy.

Which was nice.

Now I know, for one, I hate those stories and bon mots that start 'My dog does the funniest thing...'

But.

The red dog has really enjoyed my 'visit'. Pretty much every one of my used tissues has been taken out of the various bins we have around the house and torn up a little. Why? What does it mean? What does it achieve? Why does red dog do this?

Because she's nuts. If she were human she'd be Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction. She is needy and weird and obsessive.

The fact that it only happens when I leave her alone in a room for more than three minutes twenty seconds makes me think it's either a punishment of some kind or a present. Especially as upon my return she's always sat back in the last place I left her (behind the sofa, on top of the sofa, on her back with her head on a cushion). To be honest, red dog is starting to creep me out.

Illness does not become me

Let me preface this by saying that:
1) I'm a hypochrondriac
2) Everyone knows that hypochrondriacs never get ill

With that out of the way comes my first question:
How did I end up getting ill?

And by 'ill' I don't mean 'oooh I feel a bit peaky this morning, best stay in bed and watch This Morning'.

I mean I havent eaten anything for three days because just the thought of standing up for longer than it takes a kettle to boil (I may be ill but I still need tea) makes me feel exhausted. But also I'm just not hungry anyways. This isn't a problem I've encountered in a while as I normally lose my appetite in connection to the male of the species (either due to being lovesick or heartbroken) and the male of the species haven't exactly been bothering me lately*.

I mean I've slept pretty much non stop for the last 72 hours. And therefore missed TWO consecutive days of seeing my lecturer crush. Trust me, when it comes to crush days ('Crush days: The best days of all the days') it would normally take a Biblical flood to keep me away.

I mean I've been unable to watch The Wire (The motherfucking Wire man! I love that shit dawg!) because it requires some degree of concentration. (Unlike every other television programe on channels one through four. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. I knew I'd been spoiled what with all the downloading and the skyplusing and the DVD boxsets. But... I just... I didn't realise how bad it had got in normal telly land. But there's the rub: Has it always been this bad or has all the well-written, subtley acted, emotional engaging tv that I've almost exclusively been exposed to for MONTHS now (minus the intentionally trashy so-bad-it's-good shows like ANTM and Come Dine With Me) changed my perceptions irrevocably? For now, for ever, and for always?**)

I haven't even been able to put pen to paper to plan my radio shows this week. Even with my laziness gene managing to make a mockery of a sham of all the tasks on my to do list EVERY SINGLE DAY, I actively enjoy doing that (my procrastination superskills only kick in on things I don't particularly want to do. Like essays. And everything I'm being made to do for the sake of it rather than the love of it. Which is everything.)

But now, as it approaches 2 o' clock in the morning... I feel a little better. I even feel a little hungry. My voice is sounding slightly less Marge Simpson-y with each passing minute. All things we can safely store under the 'yay' column. However, I don't feel TIRED. I've never felt more awake. I guess sleeping for 72 hours will tend to have that effect on a person.

* This is something I've been meaning to talk to y'all about. I've had a couple guys ask me out recently (definition of 'recently'? Within living memory) And both times THEY have asked me out. Both times I have said yes. Both times a time and date have been agreed upon by both parties. BOTH times nothing has come of it. To coin a phrase: wat up wid dat? Seriously?
**And this from the girl that used to obsessively watch Doctors.

Things that improve my life by (approximately) 78%

1. Curly straws
2. Drinks umbrellas
3. Stories that start 'You know when you have an awkward amount of cereal left?' and end 'so I had to graze at it like a horse'.
4. Never having to do statistics again in my life AS I GOT MY BLOODY DISSERTATION DONE INNIT. (How to celebrate? Pizza, beer, tidying up my room. Rock on)
5. When my mum ends phone conversations with the phrase 'rock on'

Women want me, fish fear me

So said a bumper sticker I saw on the back of a van whilst wandering into uni yesterday.

Let's examine this a bit closer shall we?

Women [Ok, yep, with you. The gender that isn't 'men']
Want [Right. Women want... a lot of things I should imagine. Be interesting to see where you're going with this Mr Bumper Sticker]
Me [Huh. Are you... are you sure? I'm rarely attracted to men that have bumper stickers making such bold proclamations but fine, I understand the qualities that attract me to a man are not neccessarily the same as what everyone else goes for]
Fish [The species of animal. I believe I'm familiar with them]
Fear [The emotion I feel when a pigeon is in a five yard radius to me. Yes, I'm familiar with this also. I'm not entirely certain how impressive it is to be able to strike fear into a fish but for the sake of argument let's roll with this for a bit]
Me [You've lost me].

I don't even... am I missing something? I just... I don't...

Women want me,
Fish fear me.

What?

Let us disregard the fact that it's possibly slightly delusional to think that an entire species of animal is terrified of you personally*. Instead, I have to ask: Is one statement here influenced by the other? If you are popular with the ladies do fish start jumping out of their tanks upon your approach in a deluded effort to flee the scene? Or is it that the 'womens' these days love nothing more than getting a piece of action from the infamous fish frightener?

I DONT GET IT.

However, it is nice to know where you stand with people isn't it? Saves on small talk and the like. We should all just start wearing badges/have bumper stickers that give the world two interesting facts about ourselves.

Mine will say:
'Babies are hypnotised by my face,
Pigeons are out to destroy me'*

Make of that what you will.

*Of course thinking that an entire species of animal is out to DESTROY you? That's perfectly sane and normal.

Sometimes 'GOLF SALE' just means there's a golf sale

You know when those guys are stood in the street advertising a 'GOLF SALE'? It turns out that it is actually advertising a GOLF SALE. Directing you to a shop where they sell you golf things.

I know right!

Because I had thought that this was sort of euphamism, some kind of cultural knowledge that everyone else was in on ("Oh look, this way to the 'golf sale' [wink]") except me because really, why do you need to advertise golf products more than any other? Why aren't there people holding signs for things like 'SHOE LACES SALE'. (I would actually quite like that, I often bemoan the lack of neon signs directing my attention to the things I need to buy. I would love it if you could press pause, press the L and R keys down and an arrow pops up in front of you flashing 'shoe laces this way'. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. If you are a crazy-haired inventor I would really appreciate you getting to work on this immediately, for me)

It's just that, surely if you are the sort of person that golfs then you find out where to buy these things from your golfing buddies or from the club where you a member. It's not the sort of hobby that you just randomly take up. And even if it was, how many people are tempted into it having seen a swarthy dude in a street holding a big luminous yellow sign that says 'GOLF SALE' on it?

I don't know, it just seems sort of poetic that 'GOLF SALE [arrow]' actually means 'GOLF SALE [this way]'.

And it also means that I spend far too much time being paranoid that I'm missing out on something and thinking that there's things in the world that are more complicated than they actually are. Thus my new slogan is going to be: "Sometimes 'GOLF SALE' just means 'golf sale'".

Recreating scenes from your favourite movies

I am so in love with my lecturer it's slightly ridiculous.

Every now and then I would catch myself, chin resting on hand, throwing adoring gazes in his direction and realise... You're looking at him like you love him. You're one of those girls from Indiana Jones' class with 'I Love You' written on your eyelids.

Stop.
It.

I was even moved to speak up in class. Like, a lot. THAT'S the power of love right there. I want to impress him and for him to realise what a stunning intellect I have and for us to have long red-wine fuelled discussions on the nature of reality and whether our view of the world is what actually exists or just a subjective construct that is filtered through our language, and historical and cultural backgrounds. And stuff.

And he got passionate talking about how shite the Daily Mail is. And he was talking about this book and said it had changed the way he views the world. THIS is what I signed up for, THIS is the university experience promised to me by Saved By the Bell: The College Years. Getting inspired by intelligent, attractive men.

Ugh. Look at me I'm gushing. I don't gush. (I so totally do).

I know I do this. I fall in love every week with a different one and then talk about them incessently but still. I can't help it. I am a girl. It's what we do. (And by 'we' I mean 'me').

Plus, I got a first for an essay I did in the module that caused me the most headaches last semester. (An essay that was 'fascinating and beautifully written'. This from the man that told me I don't 'fizz with enough energy' to be a successful writer. SUCK IT BITCH. To be fair I did write it all about me and me is my favourite subject). I would come home from those lectures with adrenaline coursing through my veins and fired up with righteous anger because OH MY GOD people can be dumb. And learning about 'positive psychology' is basically like being strapped down and forced to watch 20 hours of Dr Phil with matchsticks propping open your unwilling eyes.

Not good basically.

But today? Today was good.

But then but then there's the little matter of this FREAKING GOD DAMNED dissertation. From today I have 5 days left to get the draft done and another two weeks after that for the final thing to be handed in. Thats three weeks. T-H-R-E-E W-E-E-K-S. I'll get it done. I always get these things done. If it means having four hours sleep for the next 19 nights I'll get it done. But it's the doing it you know? The doing it when there's TV to watch, Crash Bandicoot to play, books by the person you ('I') would be if you ('I') were a gay man to read. That sort of thing. Things I enjoy more than considering whether I need to apply Bonferoni's Correction to my data and how exactly to do a multivariate ANOVA test (I don't even know what half these things actually mean).

New Years Resolution

Do not add any inflection to the end of your sentences, producing awkward silences with the impression that you'll be saying more any moment.
Ha. I might make it my new years resolution to do everything on this list at least once in 2007. I've reached a bit of a plateau in my mad annoying-people skillz so it might be worth cranking it up a notch or two.

How I Spend My Days

Sleep sleep sleep.

See housemate and housemate's boyfriend in state of near nakedness.

Shout 'MY EYES MY EYES'.

Eat bowl of porridge.

Look at pile of work to do.

Go buy more stationary.

Rain rain rain.

Frizzy hair, frizzy hair, frizzy hair.

Walk past hippy/crystal shop for millionth time.

Realise (for the first time) it's called 'Apache Tears'.

Be sick in mouth.

Rain rain rain.

Look at pile of work to do.

Play Crash Bandicoot on Playstation.

Look at pile of work to do.

Faff and organise new stationary.

Eat sandwich.

Look at pile of work to do.

Sleep sleep sleep.

Top 5's from 2006

Top 5 Lessons Learned in 2006

• 5. If you're going to do 'sit down dancing' don't let it be filmed...: ... because you look like a twat at the best of times anyway.
• 4. Confrontation isn't as scary as my middle-class British upbringing would have me believe: So I'm sorry to the guys I dated this year who thought I'd be a pushover. That was just sooo 2005 dahlinks.
• 3. Not everyone analyses their own (and others) behaviour as closely as you do: So don't be surprised when people you know repeat the same mistakes again and again and aren't even aware they are doing it. You might consider it 'common sense' but not everyone has a therapist-in-training as one of their best mates.
• 2. Rejection isn't that bad: As long as you have learned to like yourself first. Simple hey? Although drunken, tearful 'seduction' attempts are probably never going to win anyone over in the first place if we're all honest.
• 1. How to be happy: Cos I actually think I am, for the first time in like... ever. However, it turns out that everything Ive done to become comfortable and content with myself have nothing to do with the bullshit lectures we did on 'positive psychology and well-being'. Funny that.

Top 5 Adverts

• 5. Gillette Fusion Gift Set: Quite obviously this guy he's buying a razor set for is his 'sugar daddy' and not his father which, when you realise this, gives the whole thing an even deeper level of creepiness than it already had.
• 4. Clearblue Pregnancy Test: Is this an advert for a pregnancy test or the next Star Trek series? It's difficult to tell.
• 3. Old El Paso Dinner Kits: "Yeah I'd thought I'd get Neil [lets call him Neil] to cook tonight"
  "What's he making? If it's fucking 'authentic' Mexican again I'm seriously going to kill myself"
  "Umm..."
• 2. Harpic 2 in 1: 'What does your loo say about you?' I hope and pray to little baby Jesus that it says FUCK ALL as its a T-O-I-L-E-T.
• 1. Virgin Credit Card: I keep rewinding the bit where 'Harold' is doing a shimmy. I have never loved the expression on someones face more than I love Harold's at that moment.

Top 5 Comedy Heroes

• 5. Simon Amstell: My love for him on Popworld is surely well known by now and I think he's carried on his fabulousness with his Buzzcocks presenting (and he has great hair).
• 4. Larry David: For obvious reasons.
• 3. Steve Carell: His portrayal of 'Michael Scott' in the American version of The Office is the funniest character on TV at the moment. There's also loads of clips on youtube of his 'Daily Show' days which proves he's always had mad comedy skillz yo.
• 2. Armando Iannucci: You want satire? You got satire. Time Trumpet was a triumph and having 'borrowed' Carlos's Armando Iannucci Show DVD I've been reminded a thousand times over of his genius.
• 1. David Cross: He writes! He acts! He blows other stand-ups out of the water! (not literally) He can turn even the most mundane character, script or situation into comedy gold (please see: 'She's the Man')! Just having him in the world improves my life by approx 76%.

Top 5 Mixtape Tricks

• 5. Include a couple TV theme songs in places: The laugh of recognition from people around you to the accompaniment of the opening bars of 'The Golden Girls' theme tune is one of the nicest sounds in the world.
• 4. Dot two or three TV/movie quotes throughout the tape: The 'and then...' clip from Dude Where's My Car ("I refuse to play your Chinese food mind games") will never stop being funny just as the 'Ezekiel 25-17' passage in Pulp Fiction will never stop being supercool
• 3. Keep in mind your purpose: A road trip comp will probably not be enhanced by the 10 minute version of Yes's 'Heart Of The Sunrise'. An 'I love you snookums' comp will probably not be enhanced by the works of Mötley Crüe (unless your loved one tastes swing that way in which case let it rip)
• 2. Keep in mind your audience: Like the bit at the end of High Fidelity where Rob is all 'I'm making a tape, for Laura, full of stuff she likes. I think I finally get how that's done'. But, you know, don't go overboard on that philosophy otherwise they could have just made it themselves.
• 1. Don't be fearful of including so-called 'Guilty Pleasures': Because there is nothing to feel guilty about when it comes to Huey Lewis or The Captain and Tennille. Everyone E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E secretly loves shit like that, it's just some people are more afraid to admit it.

Strangeways Here We Come

Christmas was... Christmas. I think the festive season somewhere along the way lost its appeal for me. I eat a lot, I get stuff I asked for, am sometimes pleasantly surprised by the things I get that I didnt ask for (hello David Casssidy fridge magnet, Best of Smash Hits, 'Gods Gift' pocket book, watercolour painting set) and then it's over. Now what? Well, as it happens I'm being a right nerd and 'playing with all my new toys' as I am wont to do. This means when I haven't been reading my Andrew Collins books I've been watching the Russell Brand DVD (two days, two viewings and I have a feeling I will keep watching till I know his routine off by heart). (Seriously). (Also, please note, I'm becoming more and more obsessed with radio personalities. When Sazz starts a new hobby she really goes all out). What is so weird about these items is that what I love most is that I can really relate to what these two, ostensibly polar opposite, individuals are talking about (plus, you know, they're GUYS). And yet... I get it... reading Andrew's diaries from when he was 15 makes me feel like I'm reading my own diaries from that age... we didn't even grow up in the same decade! AND HE'S A MAN! Yet it's all very nostaligic for me. It also makes me feel better that I wasn't a child prodigy with language or observation. Andrew gets paid to write for a living now and he was just as self-obsessed and rubbish with words as I was in the crazy, heady days of youth (and, you know, now). Maybe life isn't like in TV when it's only the extremely-gifted-yet-somew

hat-awkward ugly ducklings who grow up to be the self-assured and successful winners. Maybe the average-recognised-as-being-quite-good-at-most-stuff-but-unlikely-to-blow-anyone-away-with-their-talent-yet-somewhat-awkward ugly ducklings ALSO grow up to have their dreams realised. (At some point). (Maybe). (One day). (Hopefully). (Oh god, my life is going nowhere).

Similarly, on the surface I couldn't be more unlike Russell Brand if I tried (I don't backcomb my hair, I don't wear skinny jeans, I don't sleep with a host of different women at every given opportunity) and yet, for instance, when Russell talks about the 'pixie of embarrassment' who, just as he is about to fall into a slumber, comes and reminds him of the painfully embarrassing things he's said and done... I GET THAT! IT HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME! I have this mild tourettes reaction to recalling embarrassing incidents; 'Remember that time in Year 6 when you were sat in the school hall and you were falling off your chair and for some reason decided to haul yourself up by pushing yourself up with your hands, only problem being your left hand was placed atop Paul Gradiges right leg, yet this didnt register until the hauling up process had been completed?' Yes! Shitfuckshit! He MUST have thought I was coming on to him (as much as an 11-year-old CAN think that)! s'barrasing! The other times this happens is when a song comes onto my MP3 player which reminds me of embarrasing incidents and as I am mostly in public when I have my MP3 plugged in I have the double whammy of flushing with embarrasment about the recalled incident AND my tourettes reaction to it." I [insert embarrassing moment here]? OH SHITFUCKHIT I just said 'shitfuckshit' in public, I'm going to get myself a rep as the twat-in-a-hat (I bought a beret, did I tell you that? It's awesome) mentalist girl."

The other thing that confuses me is that I LIKE feeling connected to these two disparate individuals. Just as, when you watch a film or a tv show or hear a song and you're convinced that 'this was made just for me' thus making the feeling of not belonging just an illusion - because, look!, these people have created things that express the same feelings that you feel! Or reference the same cultural points that make you the person you are! You're not alone! If connectedness (its a word) is so important to me then it begs the question of why do I despise conformity quite so fervently? If I could go back in time and talk to my 13-year-old self (the one that was forced to move secondary schools at such an evil age) I would be like; 'Seriously kid, I don't think anyone here is truly happy with themselves. Conformity isn't something you want to pursue in any way really. Make sure you question e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, from stuff your teachers tell you to pretty much all the guff your peers will tell you. They might pick on you as you stand out a little; you don't know the 'implicit rules of cool'* that distinguish the popular kids from the sad, you're kind of smart and shy [the most lethal of all personality traits at that age], and you don't know a soul here so you have to make a good impression on everyone right from the get-go [never gonna happen] but it really doesn't mean anything. All of this... it means shit. Don't try and impress anyone, like all the things you want to like and don't give a fuck what anyone else has to say about it. But, to be on the safe side here's a copy of 'Strangeways, Here we Come' as well as a list of other bands you will want to become aquainted with BEFORE your 17th birthday, some GHD straightners [if these had been readily available in 1996 my appearence would have been VASTLY improved], and some outfit choices that don't make you look like Karl Howman from Brush Strokes [waistcoats? dungarees? PURPLE cord flares? REALLY?? Sadly the answer is yes]. Now go out there and just... enjoy it as best you can. I know that's virtually impossible but not caring REALLY improves your chances'

It seems I would have quite the wordy diatribe to bestow upon my younger self. If I am honest, up to the age of about 21, everything I did was done to try and be the sort of person that that 13-year-old would be impressed by and less because I actually wanted to do certain things. Now I am the sort of person my 13-year-old self would be impressed by so it seems less important and I can just 'enjoy it as best I can'. A curious chicken-and-the-egg situation.

It's funny, because, even having said all of that I still had a really stong gut reaction upon hearing that Marianna's boyfriend Ricky thinks Chloe and I are weird. It was neither a good nor bad reaction but just utter disbelief on two levels; one - Am I really 'weird'? (Well... yeah) and two - the paranoia that people are thinking what I think they're thinking is true (at least in this case). I kind of suspected he wasn't my biggest fan which was only confirmed further after our house Christmas party (see pics for evidence). However, firstly it shouldnt surprise me because, to a guy like Ricky, I am weird. I've built my whole persona on the back of wanting to appear weird to the likes of Ricky. I don't listen to the music I listen to or read the books I read or wear the clothes I wear to get on the good side of the 'Rickys' in the world (we've already established that all this was done, at least inititally, to appeal to the construct I have of me at 13. Happily it turned out that I do genuinely like all these things). This isn't a personal attack on poor Ricky - he's just not someone I would ever spend any time or effort trying to impress as he is one of those people to whom conforming is just... what you do. Fitting in is the be all and end all. And I guess that's fine if thats how you want to live your life but I DON'T want to live my life like that and, more importantly, I CAN'T live my life like that. I passed the point of no return into 'Weirdsville' and burnt all bridges leading back into the safer land of 'Normalcy' a looong time ago now.

I guess I'm a little reflective (no, nothing to do with the luminous kind of reflective) due to it being the end of the year. This year has been, all in all, pretty great. My state of mind is definately in a more positive place than it was at the start of last year. There's two ways of looking at this - either, the fact that I'm finally happy with myself can only be a good thing, or, the only way from here is down. We shall see.

*The author of the book 'Queen Bees and Wannabees' (which the film Mean Girls is based on) says that, in High School, kids have to follow a strict set of rules laid down by... God knows who... and if these are not followed exactly and to the letter then you will be given a hard time. The only problem is that no-one actually explains the rules at any point. If you unknowingly go against them then you set yourself up as a target for the rest of the kids ire. Anyone who didnt realise that you could only wear short white socks and not long white socks with your black woolly tights in winter should know how true all this is.

Cliff Richard Can Shove It

Ok, so the Christmas present thing is going better now I've freaking got it all freaking well done (thanks Cap'n!). Now I just need to wrap them. I love and I loathe wrapping. Of course this is qualitatively different to the way I feel about 'rapping' which only has positive connotations. Evidenced by my latest composition 'Rush Home to Rusholme' (this is the area of Manc my bro lives in) which is gritty and real. It goes a little bit like this:

Rush home,
Rush home,
We gots to,
Rush home,
to Rusholme.

What do you think? Am I the next Eminem? Only time will tell.

Anyway, the plan this year is to wrap the presents BEFORE 4am on Christmas Eve. I learnt the hard way that doing this does not endear you to any members of your family, especially your mother, when you are so tired having stayed up till 5am to wrap (not rap) that you fall asleep at the Christmas dinner table. But when Trev-the-semi-professional

wrestler invites you and a couple other pals back to his pad after Christmas Eve pub drinks - you go. You go and you have a great time. Thems the rules. But yeah, won't be doing anything that zany this year.

This has nothing to do with anything BUT I love this mulberry sweater dress. It looks awful on me but it's so darn comfy. AND it has front pockets. God I love front pockets (thats not a frightening euphamism).

Anyhoo, a very Merry Christmas y'all.

Geeks required. Apply within.

Does anyone want to do my dissertation for me? Not the whole thing. Just the stats bit. It's doing me head in. I tried to escape it by going to Manchester and watching TV with my brother for three days (there ain't no party like a Mulholland kids party cos the Mulholland kids party don't stop) but I come back and it's all still here. Looking at me. Doing my head in. A bit like Rod Stewart at EVERY SINGLE TRAIN STOP from Reading to Manc AND BACK AGAIN. If you make that particular journey don't sit in Coach C. Coach C appears to be where the train driver likes to be lined up with Rod Stewart posters. Whenever I loooked out the window there he was - sat there, legs akimbo, sleazing his sleazy look, smirking his smirk-worthy smirk, making me be sick in my mouth. Stewart - put it away. For the love of all that is good and holy. Put. It. A-W-A-Y. Or at least take a leaf out of Wogan's book - (ha! LITERALLY). (I crack myself up). All he needs is a witty tagline ['Warning: Contains mild irony'], a lifted brow and a whimsical look to camera. That's what captures my heart Stewart. Not you drawing attention to the outline of your cock underneath your tight, tight trews by crudely placing your knees as far apart as they will go like some cheap hooker trying to drum up buisness. Try and remember that next time mmkay?

Right, ok, it's nearly Christmas. I still haven't finished my Christmas shopping. I am now starting to F-R-E-A-K O-U-T. And not in the 70's disco 'le freak, c'est chic' way neither. Trouble is, I havent got much money. Actually, scratch that. I havent got ANY money (this may or may not be connected to the number of ridiculously priced gingerbread lattes I've been consuming* and party dresses I've been acquiring). But yeah, I want people's presents to count and to mean something, quality not quantity is the aim of the game this year. Only thing is; what the hell do these people WANT? I'm normally the most awesome gift buyer around. This year, more than ever, all I can see is stuff that appeals to me (this does not bode well for the state of my soul). See, these Wonder Woman coasters and Moomin snowglobes are not the sort of thing that everyone covets in the same way that I do. I KNOW! IT'S CRAZY! But it's true! And what's worse is that even for the people who I have got an idea about what to buy them I CAN'T FREAKING FIND IT ANYWHERE. Like, for instance, Papa Mikey (If your name is Papa Mikey stop reading now). I want to buy him some kind of robot building kit. Cos that'd be awesome. Who DOESN'T want to build their own robot? No-one! (Cap't B - I know you're with me on this). Everyone loves robots (as long as they are the kind that are not programmed to take over the world). We've all watched Short Circuit 1 and 2. We all know how fun it is to have a wacky robot pal to gad around town with. Yet can I find a robot building kit anywhere? No! LITTLE BABY JESUS WHY DO YOU PERSIST IN MOCKING ME? He loves making my life harder.

I fear what the brother is getting me. He keeps saying 'I hope it turns out alright' which for some reason has me convinced that he's been making me a macaroni-based collage. Although I did get him a Vin Diesel calendar last year so I suppose this would be what's known in the revenge buisness as 'payback'.

By the way, while we are on the subject - for Christmas can you get me Andrew Collins? He's my new-old hero.

*This does mean I get to see my two new BRAND NEW FOR CHRISTMAS crushes - Wolfman and Owlboy. They are actually barristas in a well known coffee providing chain that rhymes with barbucks* and not a new cartoon crime crusading combo.
*In 'Trev and Simons Stupid Book' that I have had since I was eight and still have (in fact I have two copies as I stole one from Andrew McGregor) they suggest that putting a 'b' in front of all words makes it instantly funny. I'm not sure bow buch I bagree.*
*To be fair, that does make that sentence more fun to say.

Oh dear.

I just ate microwave popcorn out of a saucepan for dinner having spent the entire day playing a late 90's videogame.

It might be time for one of those 'life makeovers'.

Dude, seriously?

Let me get this straight. This new film 'Flushed Away'... am I right in thinking that it's about a couple of be suited smooth-as-ice RATS that through some quirky twist of fate find themselves FLUSHED AWAY down a toilet? I saw about 47 seconds of a trailer about two weeks ago. It's only just hit me now: this is the plot of children's film? Seriously?

However it's not freaking me out as much as this:

Two things:

1. PENGUINS DONT TAP DANCE (unless they are possessed by the Devil one presumes).

2. IT HAS THE COLD DEAD EYES OF A KILLER.

So these are my main gripes this week. I like to focus on the important issues.

Although even they pale in comparison to last night when some man, some swarthy dude, came up to me just as I had entered a cocktail bar and started stroking my hair saying how lovely it was in a very suspect accent. 'Don't worry I'm a haairdresser' he said. Yet, for some strange reason this did nothing to allay my fears. When random strangers come up and start stroking MY FUCKING HAIR whether they are purported hairdressers or not it still somehow I DON'T KNOW WHY but somehow still FREAKS ME THE FUCK OUT. Although that evening I did get three glasses of wine bought for me and I didn't even have to put out. Awesome.

So yeah, it's like December now innit? Jesus. (LOL literally lololololroflaolotflas). For some reason this has been making me a touch grouchy. In many ways I love December; it means I have a semblance of a social life. In other ways, having to be sociable and pretend I care about other people - it's tiring innit? Taylor likes to play my punk card when she knows I'm grumpy. I was told that prodding me was 'like poking a bear'. How often do you think it is advised that you poke bears? It's not. Because doing that makes the bear angry doesn’t it? And yet she persists. Playing 'Mistletoe and [fucking] Wine' in my ear. It's one of her fucking ringtones. Christ. (LOL LITERALLY LOLOLLOL)

I tell you what else; this egg nog business is bothering me. What is it? WHAT IS IN EGG NOG? Does anyone know? I associate it with American 'Christmas special' episodes of sitcoms. That's all I know about it - sitcom characters drink it at Christmas time, always and without fail. That and I'm pretty sure it's beige in colour. I am always, always suspicious of anything beige. Like, it's something that's just trying that little bit too hard to blend in to its surroundings you know? Like the SAS and camouflage. Sort of. Anyway, housemate Emma is threatening to make it for our house Christmas party. I have this overwhelming fear that I'm going to be forced to try it out of politeness and it'll have the consistency and taste of slightly warmed, slightly alcoholic, phlegm. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Procrastination Update

I have four essays due in on Monday. I have now completed two of them. The other two I have done 1000 words each for and typed up all the references I'm going to use - which is the most boring job in the world. You have to get all the commas and full stops in the exact right place...
e.g.
This is right:
Bradley, L. and Bryant, P. (1978). Difficulties in auditory organisation as a possible cause of reading backwardness. Nature. 271, 746-747.

This is wrong:
Bradley, L. and Bryant, P. (1978). Difficulties in auditory organisation as a possible cause of reading backwardness. Nature, 271, 746-747.

Spot the difference? NO COS IT’S A FUCKING POINTLESSY PEDANTICALLY TINY COMMA IN THE WRONG FUCKING PLACE. Jesus Wept.

So yeah. I've gone through all that. That's done. It’s on the table. We can sit back and forget about that and just get on and finish those two last essays can't we?

No.

Have you met me? The answer is of course NO.

The procrastination monster lives on in me. He refuses to let me do my work. He will not let me be until I finally beat Him into submission (normally around 4'o'clock in the morning) (Dirty!).

However, he is quite thoughtful. Today he has:
- Let me go and watch a 'departmental video' on Guns, Knifes and Children. Which was very interesting and He knows I fancy the lecturer who runs these video sessions so it was nice of Him to let me see said lecturer.
- Let me go and see 'A Scanner Darkly' at the cinema. Again, very thoughtful as it's a fucking cool movie and He must have also read my diary and knows I could watch Robert Downey Jr read out the phone book and still be awed by his performance
- Made me go and buy some milk from the garage which meant the garage man could allow me to have free pik'n'mix.

Oh procrastination monster. I can't stay mad at you for long. You only want what's best for me don't you? EXCEPT THE 'BEST FOR ME' IS TO GET THESE FUCKING ESSAYS FINISHED BEFORE TOMORROW SO I CAN HAVE MY FUCKING LIFE BACK.

I hate myself.

I've done all the reading and the note taking and the drafting of these essays. They're all there ready. Ready to be typed up and just done and finished and then I can get on with my dissertation (or just, you know drinking and watching tv). Just type them up Sazz. That's all you need to do. Type. Them. Up. And yet here I am, procrastinating- writing about writing them up - BUT NOT WRITING THEM UP. Just going to get another cup of tea thinking 'ok after this tea, this one now, this is when I will start properly, stop faffing, stop internet surfing, stop finding things to wash up. Just go and sit at my laptop and write up my essays'. Will I? No. I come and write a blog entry. I am physically incapable of getting on with my work. When I spoke to my brother last night he was like 'you have a whole week left to hand them in and you're bothering to do them now?' as I was simultaneously freaking out that I HAVE A WEEK LEFT TO HAND THEM ALL IN AND I'M ONLY DOING THEM NOW. We lead very different lives.

Part of it is sitting in my room, I cannot work in my room. I need my room to be my place to chillax and I need somewhere else to work. The last couple of weeks I have gaily walked into the library every day to be an old-skool geek and draft these essays with pen and paper. Which I did. AND NOW I JUST NEED TO TYPE IT UP PROPERLY. It seems to help if I leave my room as I have much much higher chances of running into cute boys (I rarely trip over such creatures in my room). (Sadly). The rewards of the cute boys seem to motivate me into doing work. Unless I speak to one of them like I have done the last two Monday's in a row and find myself daydreaming about 6 foot tall Greeks that are probably a bit too old for me. But I still manage to get work done even then eventually. And yet now I can't. Today, I haven't left the house all day so I have nothing and noone to daydream about. But I can't get on and finish off these essays. Why why WHY?

I keep thinking of that bit in Office Space where Berg from Sex in the City (I can't remember his name in the film) is telling Dr Cox from Scrubs (I can't remember his name in the film) what his daily output of work is as they are assessing who in the office can be fired. By this point in the film Berg has stopped giving a fuck and doing things like turning up at his desk to gut the fish he caught earlier in the day. Therefore he is brutally honest in his self-assessment. He informs Dr Cox that generally his routine consists of him always being at least 20 minutes late and taking the back stairs to get to his desk so he isn't caught wandering in late by his boss, then he takes an hour or so to sit at his desk and just 'zone out' so it looks like he's doing something but really he's just, you know, zoning out. Berg concludes he probably does 15 minutes of real work, in total, per week. Yes. That's me. That's my life. I do that. I am that person.

This is my life. It hurts my soul.

In order to put off DOING THESE DAMN FREAKING ESSAYS TYPE UP THE ESSAYS DO IT DO IT NOW I'm finding things to worry about. When did I eat all those rice cakes? Didn't I buy them yesterday? When did I become a rice cake fan? They taste of ricey cardboard. How can you eat so many rice cakes? There's rice cake dust on top of your television. How does rice cake dust get on someones television unless they are leaving the ricecakes on top of the television? Why are you leaving rice cakes on top of your television? Why have the number of condiments in your fridge started to outnumber the actual proper food you have in the fridge? I currently own; pesto, sweetcorn relish, red onion chutney, light mayonnaise, cherry jam, dolmio pasta sauce. When did you amass such a collection? Are you Edward Norton's character in Fight Club? His condo blew up and all that remained was condiments? Is that going to be you? Does this maybe explain how you can eat so many rice cakes and not remeber doing it? Do you now have multiple personality disorder?

This is my brain. It hurts my soul.

Elsewhere... I love doing my radio show. I havent found anything I love so much since... well ever. I love every aspect of it, choosing the music and planning it out, designing the posters, and maintaing the myspace for it. I actually get to put my music collection to good use and have as a result fallen in love with music again. I didn't realise I'd fallen out of love with it but all relationships get neglected at some point don't they? You just take it for granted that [music] will always be there and you just fall into a familiar routine with [music] without even realising it and before you know it you're cheating on [music] with slutty [sitcoms] just to add some excitement to your life. But I've rediscovered my love of riot grrl and 80s indie and 60s girl groups - remembering all the things I have loved for years and just stopped listening to - The Fall and Ciba Matto and The Raincoats and The Crystals and Refused and The Slits. When and where and why did these things fall out of my life? How and who and what happened to make that happen?

The only thing is - the other radio station people hate me. Well not all of them. A couple like me I think. They compliment my show and say 'hi' when they see me. That's encouraging right? The others... not so much. 'Hate-filled looks' might be stretching the truth a little but you get the general idea. I seem to have this effect on people. Me and people, we just don't get on.