self-preservation

Lie with me

So, like, they were about to have sex, right?

And... she hadn't seen him in a month, right?

And so they're kissing and groping on the bed and suddenly he stops.

'Um...'

'What?"

'You're sure it's okay to have sex?' he mumbled.

'Why wouldn't it be?'

'You haven't done anything while you were away right, anything that would make this unsafe?' Or something along those lines basically he was asking her whether she'd been sleeping around.

'Erm. NO! What the hell are you talking about. Why are you even asking this, NOW?' she protested, and all her appetite for loving was gone. Erased. She froze. It wasn't hot anymore.

'Okay'; nonchalantly continuing to kiss her, as if he hadn't just insulted her two second ago.

'Well...Should I be asking the same question I mean do you want me to ask the same question is this why you've asked I don't -'

'It's fine, it's fine, it's all good,' he said but his eyes flickered upwards away from her face.

When he was done, she couldn't remember any of it. And this was supposed to be one of the good times, like, they'd just seen each other after a month of craving. All she could think about was that flicker, that physical evasion that although minute and short-lived was so telling.

She tried to reassure herself that it was only a sign of nervousness for having asked what he did.

But then, a week later, when he decided she didn't fit in his wonderful life of being permanently stoned and playing online poker, she asked again.

'Did anything happen in -?' coming forward; maybe leaning backwards; yes, I believe she said she leaned back in the chair to counteract the sentiment of aggression.

'No.' and the flicker again. Forwards, feeble, and away from her.

Why didn't she think to ask anything more? Why did she not demand elaboration? Possibly because she knew even then that he'd lie in her face. And she couldn't stand another flicker. Another sign of that male cowardice - the worst kind of cowardice. He was so pathetic when he lied.

Disclaimer.

I have had various comments regarding this blog, from various people. I am grateful and thankful to everyone that read it and give me feedback; it's extremely interesting perceiving how someone besides yourself understands what you've written down in a moment of weakness/passion/happiness/doubt etc.

There is one thing that I feel I need to clarify when it comes to the style and tone of the blog entries. You must have realized by now that the blog is fairly personal, as I always chose to write about things that have happened to me, affecting me positively or negatively or neutrally, even. I have had comments that I sometimes sound bitter, or that I might appear more serious than I intend to. For people who know me, as a very good friend pointed out, it is easy to recognize from my writing when I'm in a particular mood. I urge those who don't to take a lot of the sentimentality (we can even call it hyperbole) that I superimpose on events with a pinch of salt. It's not as if I'm exactly adopting a persona when I write; it's more that the blog has been, from the very beginning, a space where I could experiment and exercise and fuck up and perfect and try out new stuff, meaning that it is not a diary, a journal or the reflections of the abyss of my soul. On the contrary, it is very self-aware and everything that goes on here yes, might be impulsive, sentimental, bitchy etc but it is always considered by me as an artistic endeavor and not a case of psychological venting, a venue where I can disclose my innermost secrets and desires.

To be absolutely honest, I hate that sentimental bullshit. I have no 'innermost secrets and desires'. I am such an outspoken person, that I cannot remember the last time when I wanted something (or someone) and didn't make it quite clear. I am not a romance-stricken damsel, nor an air-head who is blown away by that enchanting effect that literature and writing has on people: they make them think they are more important than they actually are. Or, in other words, people consider that because someone 'writes something', it means they do so with the aim of being in touch with their sentimental side, in order to express their emotions and communicate their thoughts in a generous, pathetic, self-indulgent way. I admit there is a degree of self-indulgence in writing, of course, but what I am trying to say is that writing isn't a necessarily a mushy activity. I will give an example that hopefully will clarify my as-yet-failed attempt to articulate what I mean.

I got a call from my mum (who, by the way, has no idea what a blog is and how it works etc) saying that a friend of hers called her, saying that she had read my blog, and asking her in quite a sly - I found - condescending and even sarcastic manner: 'Does mummy know about this or have I made a mistake in telling you?' My mum of course wanted to know what the hell all this is about. I explained in due course and she liked the idea, I'm planning on guiding her through the internet jungle once I get home. My mum is one of those people that are torn between a very modern, progressive and liberal attitude and the parent-imposed frame of mind of a war-and-poverty stricken Cyprus of the 1970s. She clearly thought that I must have something ludicrously provocative on the blog. And in turn, her friend must have thought that I actually am what I write: she must perceive writing in its most simplest, crudest form. I think the thought process must go like this:

1. I am feeling something (which I, only, consider poignant and significant)

2. I have to write it down in the most sentimental terms, the cliches of bygone modes of regurgitated language

3. Most of the times it's a pile of crap that I produce, but I think it's the best shit in the world

4. I sit and chat about it with friends, as we exchange and analyze each other's poetry.

This, is bullshit.

I write because I love language, and I enjoy manipulating my own feelings and stretching them into words. It's fun. It's a game. It's a serious - but unserious in so many ways - puzzle. It's genuine, but in un-genuine terms. While you're reading an entry that makes you think I'm heartbroken and makes you pity me, guess what, I'm probably out clubbing, dancing and having the time of my life. It is the writer's conceit. The feeling is true, the vehicle can be whatever I want it to be. That's the magic, that's the exciting part of it. If I sat down and wrote all the sentimental crap that I detest the moment it comes into my head, well, then I'd be sorry for everyone that reads my blog and I'd want to apologize for the sewage I'd served them. But I flex, I twist, I adapt and play with expectations. So next time someone wants to hint at my mum about what they perceive to be 'secrets' please know that, if I put this stuff on the WORLD WIDE WEB, then the likelihood is that my mum knows about everything I mention already.

Back to the initial issue. I am not insincere in my writing. I am just dedicated to the sense I want to convey each time, not IN the literal terms I use but VIA them, in a way. Words become avatars (to use a popular culture reference), bodies which I hopefully successfully mold in such a way so that they can carry the unexplained, evasive quality that is what is great about Language and Literature. It is me who is typing the words, my fingers hitting the keys of the laptop. But who is speaking? Don't take it at face-value. Gerard Genette mentions the unfounded trust we have for a narrator and makes an excellent point (think about it): 'the role of the narrator is itself fictive'. I am an actress, and as all my friends and family have borne testament too, a drama queen. So it's only natural that I hem things up a bit.

Your English is excellent.

I had a smile on my face because that's the instant effect he has on me. Then I remembered, grappling forks and knives, rather a fork and a knife - possibly a spoon for pudding, what had happened and how he completely ignored something that took a lot of courage for me to say and my face dropped into a grimace of disapproval. I mumbled something insignificant. His face changed, too.

I didn't want it to be like that (I go on peculiar guilt trips with him) so I approached, tray in hand, and casually asked:

'So you're staying for the holidays, then?' A look. Not as gripping as I remember.

The answer was affirmative, I responded that I was too, to finish my dissertation. He asked was I alone? - I said yes - and would I like to sit with him? I fumbled with some words in my mouth like 'maybe', 'should I', 'I don't know', 'yes' and next thing I know I'm facing him and his plate of curry turkey mixed with rice. Scooped up rice which he overturns onto the chunks of curry turkey as we're talking.

He looks tired. I ask all the questions I ought to ask and questions that interest me, because frankly I have been a bit worried and concerned and wanting to know what he's doing next year and how this year was going etc etc. I want to help him, weirdly, there's an instinctive tendency to want to care for him. I even thought I could help with the 3000 word essay. What on earth am I thinking? I try to be normal, I laugh and flail my hands all the while choking down everything I really want to ask which are of no purpose, whatsoever, anymore, I guess. But I don't want him to fuck up and leave this place. I want him to do what he has to do to stick around. And I've transcended the point where I want that for me. I'm over what has happened. I just want him to have his plans go as planned, whatever he planned.

Apparently I've left a black hoodie at his place. Do I own a black hoodie? He assures me multiple times that it's mine. Whose else could it be? It's mine, surely. It could be no one else's. This is relieving in a way although his words aren't the most reliable vehicles of truth.

I look at his bitten fingernails. Stumpy fingers. Watch. Palms as I remember. Everything the same.

'I didn't know you...' (the continuation of the sentence was lost somewhere between me feeling tense and me wanting to scream at him and me wanting to be just fine with him).

I said well of course you didn't know, I haven't spoken to you in two months, almost.

'You're right, yes...' he says incomprehensibly.

I don't know how to act in these cases. I want to be nice because I feel all these nice things about him but then my cerebral alarm rings and informs me of all the remembrance, it re-members the pieces of the puzzle which I've glossed over in my mind with his pretty blond hair instead of with the ugliness he spurted out one evening.

I can't eat my food. The chicken is fine, the rice is great (safest thing you can get in hall) and I am a big fan of sweet corn. But nothing will go down. I cannot eat. It's as if my stomach has forgotten it was grumbling of hunger only ten minutes ago. Am I so full of thoughts of him that I have no space for actual nourishment? It's a tingle, almost, from the pit of my stomach up my oesophagus, an emotional block of my physical functions. Not paralysis, but stasis, at least. I need to get moving. So I pick up my tray, after putting my coat on and replying affirmatively, almost authoritatively, to an awkward question whether we're going now.

I want him to be walking towards the same direction as me. He's not. Well, if he's not I better not look him in the eye then. Better turn round casually.

'I'm going to the supermarket,' he says, simply.

Turn around turn around sunglasses on head say something like: 'I'm off to the library see you, bye'. And walk away. Open the door, the short wooden door, walk down the stone steps, face the Wren, feel confused, go over your expressions in your head, trot on cobbles, get to library, open Walter Benjamin, read that and forget about it. Forget about him. He's in another place, altogether.

Damn it. I shouldn't have let my face drop.

Sundays

'I hate Sundays. They make me horrified of my own mortality.'

'Let me remind you,' he giggled, 'what you looked like last Sunday.'

lazy london

Spent Saturday/Sunday/Monday gallivanting around London and sleeping snugly in my friend Emilia's double (miracle) bed. It was soft and warm and comfortable and it made me never want to return to my single Cambridge bed ever again. Unfortunately for me, I am writing from my desk in Burrell's.

London was pretty amazing. For those who know me, you might've heard me moan about the city and how I hate it and it's chaotic and it turns you into a beast that basically bashes into people on the street/ in the tube/ in stores and doesn't give a fuck (that was me in the summer when at RADA) but this weekend the weather was so perfect that the entire city transformed in front of my own eyes. Not to mention the diagonal pedestrian crossing at Oxford Circus. I have to say I felt like a naked person on display while running across the massive junction but it also got you places quicker. It was about time.

At one point, Thalia, Emilia and I lost my aunt and Afxentis who were hovering some meters in front of us while we were loitering on Wigmore Street. We spent a minimum of half an hour absent-mindedly walking circles around the same block without realizing it, or possibly without wanting to regain purposeful direction in our route of travel. I think we all secretly wanted to have the sun continue to kiss our faces for a bit longer, a bit longer please, before we dived into yet another hotel lobby. I was carrying a Selfridges bag, including my only purchase of the day (non-edible at least, we basically raped Lola's cupcakes store): LOVE magazine. Biannual 'Fashion and Fame' (as it says on the cover) publication which I enjoy very very much. They do multiple covers for every issue (or at least they did two for their 2nd issue and eight for this one out now) and the Spring/Summer 2010 cover features some lovely naked ladies, from Kate Moss to Naomi Campbell and Daria Werbowy all looking like the goddesses on earth they truly are. Damn it I left the magazine on Emilia's kitchen table.

London was also fun as I got to see a person I always have a great time with, which was out of my life for the past couple of years due to some unfortunate glitch in our strange relationship but it's purely miraculous. the way a person's face instantly makes you smile. The amount of times I accused him of being stupidly funny could not have been taken seriously when I had a massive grin on my face that lapsed into my usual cackle whenever I tried to gobble up all the laughter he induced. Funny, sweet boy. He says I used to not like the word 'sweet', which is true, I did not like the word sweet but now I find there's a weird homeliness to it, a coziness attached to it. He is definitely handsome, he always was maybe that's what I'm trying to say. It's more than that though he's goofy in the sweetest (fuck I can't help it!) way charming in his own way and smiles sideways. Wears fingerless gloves, vagabond style. Might be found reading Bulgakov or 'Candide'. Capable of some very intellectual conversation which feels light and refreshing. Not like the imposing bastards of Cambridge. And makes goofy grammar jokes which I adore. We definitely linger around the same frequencies as sentences have been completed an abnormal number of times.

Sunny London made it even better. Sitting at a cafe with a cigarette and coffee, the sun shining and the roaring traffic's boom temporarily shut out, I faced him and felt I could be in this mode forever. In cafes everywhere. Around the world. Happy and clever, perceptive. In my red coat and his vagabond gloves, double espressos with lots of sugar, please. That way, I'm not bitter.

How did this all start, I don't know.

First there was a Greek-Cypriot-Persian party at Cambridge. Interesting is all I can say.
Then there was a drunken Skype conversation that basically put an end to all conversations in my head because you can't have a conversation on your own now can you? No. That makes you a psychopath.

Then, there was a train ride to Nottingham. I don't know what my cousin Thalia complains about all the time, I loved the place. The romantically named 'Lacemarket' had me from the beginning. The tram - yes, TRAM! - was clean...easy and swift I got off in front of Tesco's and lingered in what is one of the many havens of consumerism in England; admittedly I love supermarkets. There's friggin' Easter eggs EVERYWHERE.

Funny story, my lovely brother, who visited and wanted to be independent so trailed off to Manchester in a really cool Virgin train (as opposed to the shit East Midlands train that I borded in disappoinment) used to get so hyped during Easter time when he was young. The highlight of this excitement was that he thought that whenever he wished 'Happy Easter!' to someone, that automatically entitled him to an easter egg. Let's just say he was as devastated as when he found out that Santa Claus is a fiction of our imagination. I'm sure he still dreams about that.

Anyway, Nottingham. Amazing. I hadn't been around that many Cypriots in a long time and it brought to my attention a couple of things 1. I am secluded like a hermit in Cambridge 2. Yes, Cyprus does have some decent people to show. I had a great time we stayed up till 6am in true Cyprus fashion (as opposed to the lame-ass parties that have been ending by maximum 2am anyway) let's just say it made me miss home.

Had the awkwardest most weird conversation with an ex who decided to call me 12 hours before leaving the country to notify me that he was, in fact, in the country and I should go to London. Well. Can't really do that at midnight and even if I could, I don't see why I was the last person to know that he had spent an entire week in England.

Drunken wake-up in Thalia's bed with the sunlight bursting in and being a pain in the ass and eyes. I think I remember her waking up in the middle of the night and claiming she wet the bed but to my relief I quickly realised it was just water from the bottle I strategically - or not - placed in the middle of us just in case. We ran to catch the 1:28 train to London. Tiredness!

hm.....
I love my family.

xxx

mise-en-abyme

Photography by Ch Christopoulos

Who would've known the weekend would turn out like this.

This is so good

Very very happy song.

I wish I had written it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qlfgBMuZc-E

Jasmine

It's the struggle to know you're there.

That's what it is.

A marathon, long-haul flight across these stupid precipices

of ambition and frustration

hanging

Like a boat from a rope

then a noose; you become one.

The reality of sentiments evades me

I keep on dangling

spine by spine, disk by disk snapping

tut/crack/tut

bending over I look at my feet

last sight of myself

lost sight of myself

Are they shod?

Are they pink?

Toenails

Lost sight of the big picture

Too many years. The me has shifted to a she

but he more strongly is a you

and your trick your prick your dictation

of the situation

dominates tramples on a carpet

objectified. and DISenchanted.

It'll make you fly. I promise.

Aladdin.

πηλιούκης

How do you feel the moment you feel there's someone out there that depends on you? Someone that actually looks up to you not for any particular reason but simply because you are. And for them you are a big part of the 'world'. You are a guardian, you safeguard, you vouchsafe, you protect, you uphold, you are important. I never want to disappoint you. I will always feel you are that little baby that lay yellow in the incubator, and the day you were born I was wearing a Daisy duck t-shirt and denim shorts. In a way, I've never taken them off.

Pow wow

Ra ta ta. Ratata, ta, ta.

Parap. Pap. Pap. Phoo.

Bab ab ababab.

Kalangalangajingjing bala Bam BOOM.

BOOM. BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Yes.

chatroom roulette

He said: 'Come, I'll draw you.'

She had never been the subject of a drawing before.

'Look at me,' he demanded. 'Take your clothes off.'

A quiet acquiescence; inexplicable and sweet.

What has this world come to?

Digital, cartoonish, electronic.

Chatroom roulette.

'Come, I'll take a picture of you.'

'I'll make you famous.'

I had never been the object of desire before.

That boy's a monster

Varsity fashion for real

Myself looking like shit but

C Wu looking amazing in an amazingly detailed

top from Top Shop

Zing who basically encapsulates everything

that is cool about Cambridge. and life in general.

I love the hat; and her tights, shown only a bit here,

were tricolor.

My lovely Paul Smith.

Yes his name is like the designer's.

And his dress sense/sense of style is

even better.

hot off the press (or whatever the expression is, it's based on a false premise anyway.)

A midnight field trip sounded like quite the exciting addition to my week, a pleasant escapade amidst portfolio deadlines and general chaoticness of the end of term.

So yea, of course I tagged along when the Varsity team went to see our last issue of Lent printed.

VARSITY: coming to you LIVE from Milton (apparently a place outside Cambridge which is technically still in Cambridge).

Joe and Charlotte admiring the artistic smudges of a failed batch of Varsities.

Lovely illustrations made lovelier, apparently, by impromptu colors

imposed by printing machine.

Joe & ear plugs. In rugby gear.

Fashion, of course, looked fantastic even when fucked up.

My favorite darling, C. Wu with Lara and matching fur coats.

Where C. Wu might've ended in.

Rolls and rolls of paper.

Fascinating - apparently - machinery that changes gigantic rolls of paper.

(video will feature soon)

Lovely little detail in the printing press floor.

Laurie and Charlotte

Happy fashion editors caught between the sheets.

Of paper. NEWSpaper.

Notice the fashion page directly above us.

A proud Laurie invites the praise of his clan.

Notice that he is framed by Varsity Fashion x2.

(yes it's that green sheet you IDIOT!)

Printing newspapers is quite a trippy process to witness

Do not try this at home; do not witness while high.

Newspaper rollercoaster 1.

Newspaper Rollercoaster 2.

You know, the kind where your feet dangle.

Just go to Thorpe Park and you'll get what I mean.

varsit-ay

Welcome to Varsity. Cambridge University's best student newspaper in the world.

Home to the Derringer, a man who literally knows EVERYTHING about ANYTHING that has to do with newspapers, photoshop, taking pictures, editing operas from multiple camera angles, and many other fantastic and fantastical stuff.

Now, you can imagine what a state the Varsity Office is in: just picture my room on an average day, sans the shoes but with tons of garbage being spewed from the bin and moulding tea in at least a dozen of tea cups lying around. We do work really intensely, guys, that's why.

Occasionally, however, the Derringer sends emails around threatening to LOCK THE KITCHEN FOR A WEEK if someone doesn't get their ass at the office RIGHT NOW AND CLEAN THE MUGS AND CLEAR THE BIN AND MAKE THE MUGS SPOTLESSLY SPARKLY!

C. Wu and I obeyed immediately last Sunday. Washed all the mugs. HURRAH!

When you're an intellectual journalist,

you need this stuff in print to comprehend it.

Editors will resort to violence. Unashamedly.

beautiful, dirty, rich

A friend of mine makes booty calls.

I thought those only existed in Destiny's Child's songs, not in real life.

So what does a booty call entail? Well, if it's after 11 and you text someone saying: hey what are you doing, you are apparently engaging in the sort of discourse that might result in you fornicating some time in the near future, i.e. as long as it takes for either of you to get to wherever you're gonna get it on.

WOW. Man, all my Cypriot conservatism is kicking in and I can tell you I ain't conservative.

Cool, I guess, to be fair, I've had the experience of booty calls but it's always been with an ex which might make it worse or better. Worse because you get caught up in the entire: oh I love him all over again trip, which is bad as you realize on the way back home that that relationship was SOO 2008. Better because he knows everything about you you know everything about him you can get on with it climx guaranteed he's hot he thinks you are too what else do you need?

The disturbing thing, though, is that, even when writing this, I don't feel excited. I told my friends I've lost my mojo. No one believes me though (my past might have something to do with it) but it's true guys COME ON I CAN'T THINK OF SEX ANYMORE.

What the fuck is wrong with me, even my mother said 'she was worried'. MY OWN MOTHER who always lived by the mantra: 'Just be on your own for a while' 'take a break from boyfriends' she now is suddenly worried that I will remain a bitter bitter bitter singleton.

She might be onto something.

And then, when I had lost ALL hope, when I thought the mojo was nowhere to be found...

I went to Soultree. On a Monday. With friends. For a friend's birthday.

And my GOD I didn't even recognize myself the way I went ballistic dancing like a manic stripper in the club (minus the stripping). That made me think that I might have a bit of bottled up energy that needs an outlet.

I think some people call it sexual frustration? This is the reason I'm hyper all the time, even when I'm ill and tired.

How to cure it. A skype conversation ended in the following conclusion: it's called SEX kori.

I said: well man, I can't see anyone at the moment that would 'do' it for me; in the sense that I want someone that mega turns me on. Am I not right in demanding this of life? I mean come on, just because I've got a bit of an itch doesn't mean I'ma go to bed with a complete idiot or a complete fuckup. And the waiting is good. I kinda enjoy it - not being involved in anything just taking a break. I have stated that the doors to this haven will be shut until the summer, or until further notice (aka prince charming) because I'm done with toying around and being toyed around with.

Sex with no strings attached is a great concept, but it's never that great.

So I'm just gonna resort to crazy sexy bitch dancing for the moment. tah.

the library clan

So there really are people that live in the library.

Surely some people think I do too.

It's a strange and interesting dynamic, the library. Everyone has their standard place; I mean, I know I get a bit aggressive when someone else sits at MY place and then I have to gallivant around to find a NEW, TEMPORARY chair and desk to work out my lovely brain.

We've got the scientists and mathmos to start with, they're kinda scattered, occasionally swearing for not being able to prove the Aldiudsrghsekhweeeroii theorem with the Nagayakawaganapa formula. In fact, my friend Rebecca dared to sit in the science realm yesterday and sent me a panicked text (I was in the library too, just some meters away from her): there's this girl that keeps saying fuck. come and see for yourself. I say: what does she look like? she says: a sight for sorry eyes. Well CLEARLY my interest was roused. So I proceeded to the single desk Rebecca and her stuff had occupied. And LO AND BEHOLD A MATHMO! girl/boy it DOESN'T REALLY MATTER now does it scribbling away weird greek letters that represent something like a=b2'΄΄μ χ σξκργησξγη and who got quite ticked off when I whispered to Rebecca. She snapped her head round and looked at as with predatory mathmo eyes. Okay dude chill the fuck out. I'm outta here anyway. D. H. Lawrence is way cooler than your shit.

Walking back to my space (in the centre - kinda - of the reading room of our library) I notice the classicists; the classic couple of Etonians working on their lap-rah-top-rahs with loads of shakespeare and aeschylus around them to elevate their st-rah-tus.

Next in line, the standard PhD table with my lovely musician/history of art/ and other subject friends that I am sure spend most of their time checking facebook or 'sending emails' or looking out for concerts and holiday deals. Just now one of them started dancing, as much as one can dance while seated in the library.

Then it's me. Turning my head round to check out who comes and goes. It's the worse. There's usually no one interesting although I have to admit that camping out in the library this year has been great with meeting people and checking out what sort of studious hotties Trinity has. It's not all that bad, to be honest. The shit thing is that you can't really speak/flirt in the library now can you? Thus, there is a need for a library lingo that will help people that are striving for knowledge communicate their intentions in a silent manner.

More on this, later. x

Cardinal virtue

I'm never one for drastic personality changes. But I've realized the past couple of years that change can be inflicted upon you even in your ignorance. BAM! You wake up, and you're a stressful maniac or BAM! You break up and suddenly there's no crying or talking you just keep it to yourself. WHOAH slow down - who the HELL is this person? I can't recognize me sometimes.

Patient...(I have developed that in quite an array of circumstances my mum should be fucking proud most of our arguments focus - or used to focus - around the fact that I 'do not tolerate anyone and that is bad')

Unsentimental (occasionally) - I love this this is my favorite everyone freaks out esp. my friends; I actually subconsciously wrote freaks so I might just call them that - esp. my freaks in London who think I'm turning into this monster that doesn't feel but only laughs. at her own jokes. well come on they're funnier than yours aren't they?

Sarcastic (I swear words just come flying out of my mouth) - I even got labelled as 'so sweet' (ironically of course) by a supervisor. wow.

Stress freak... This i HATE. Like, it takes approx. 5 episodes of brothers&sisters (which by the WAY is friggin' amazing so watch it even if you detest callista flokhart like I do) to get me to sleep and then I purposefully wake up early in the morning to 'get things done' and I never do because I never get enough sleep because I'm a stress freak.

Cynical...Ehh come on. We need a bit of this to survive. Maybe I've taken it to the next level. I look at people and I feel that everything I say should be a smart retort that won't expose me to any sort of situation which is a potentially hurtful one. So no matter HOW HOT that guy is I will not let him know that's for sure because COME ON he probably gets it all the time the arrogant motherfucker and I'm not one to boost already boosted egos plus I don't want any girl's leftovers as a matter of fact I do not feel like being a left over at the moment so can you PLEASE let me say all the cynical bullshit that gives me momentary pleasure? Thank you! Buy me a chai latte if you want to calm me down and don't FLIRT just TALK when you do and then I'll stop being sarcastic and start being me (or whatever's left of me) for a change. (pun: get it? mouahaha)

Well. That's the life low down of Week 8. I can't believe it - this term has gone by so quickly and so slowly. Like, I expected it to be a COMPLETELY different term that what it turned out to be. I couldn't focus for the most part of it, my mind still wanders, but I've done lots of stuff which is cool and I cannot wait to just chill in my room and go jogging in the morning and fix my dissertation by attempting to read the masses of stuff Eric Griffiths suggested. He was great by the way it's true that he's a genius not that I have to say so for it to be true I just want to put it out there. Anyhoot. I have to finish my first Cambridge coursework piece which is freaking me out - the 'I could've done so much better' feeling has started to emerge and I hate it - so toodles and love x

p.s. I'm also going to go see how a newspaper gets printed tonight. How EXciting. meh. x

what do you feel like?

What do I do, when I feel like someone like you?

I feel like that's the only thing I like

Someone you, like, would be like.

I like you. Someone like you.

That's what I feel like.

(You.)