Procrastination of the heighest form.

I am doing this because otherwise I would have to a: get dressed, b: brush my teeth, c: wash my body, or d: come to terms with the reality of waking life.

From where I sit I can see my mothers copy of ‘The Complete Book of Sexual Love’, literally ten Star Trek books, a (probably) swine flu filled tissue that definitely does not belong to me, and, well, that’s about it for interesting things I can see. I don’t know if you think two identical ladders are interesting or not. I think its quite interesting in a surreal kind of way.

Over the last week there have been times where literally everyone I know has been away somewhere really good and I have been ALL ALONE. Also during this time, my burglar alarm was broken and phone line dead, a little like the beginning of a cheap horror flick. I’m still alive though, don’t worry.

My life, during this time, has become steadily filled with miles and miles of green and sometimes white parachutes. This is the glamorous life of a photographers assistance(’s lowest intern).

One of my favourite things to do is walk around listening to very aggressive or sexually charged music to which I have amazing fantasies about saving the world or being terribly tragic in a more-erotic than Lady Macbeth way. Obviously I don’t actually want to be terribly tragic, any terrible tragedy would be, well, terrible. Being in the rain makes this experience even better. But seriously, I think I only partially exist in reality, given that so much of my time is taken up with mentally re-writing situations to make myself a super heroine.

I always think I care loads and loads about things like feminism or gender or queer theory or philosophy or music or art but the MINUTE it comes to sitting down to read something a bit difficult I lose all interest and start touching myself/day dreaming. For this reason, I will never achieve anything of consequence.

Mess makes me feel physically ill, unless it is arranged into piles. These being evenly spaced makes things somewhat more bearable.

I have increasingly apparent difficulties in attempting to reconcile my belief system with my lifestyle. But hey, consistency is the mark of a small mind, right?

I am bored instantaneously when I have nothing pressing to do. If I have loads of stuff to do I am well good at sitting around doing fuck all.

The amount of time I have spent crying whilst listening to Radiohead probably exceeds the amount of time I have spent doing anything else. That’s a complete lie, obviously, but I have spent far too much time crying whilst listening to Radiohead. Also, I cry mostly when I am frustrated or arguing with my mother. I guess that’s pretty normal.

The first thing I notice about somebody else is what they are wearing. If you’re wearing something good and you say something remotely intelligent to me when I meet you I probably fancy you. So the best way to chat me up is to put on something Viv West and talk about how you are reading Judith Butler.

I’m trying to read Judith Butler (Judy Bu) but I don’t understand a word of it. Locus of intractability, anyone?

Oh also, when I’m reading things, or talking, or you know, whatever, I have bares private jokes with myself that aren’t funny at all, but for some reason I think its funny, inside my head. My thoughts are incredibly loud, sometimes I can’t hear because of all the noise.

My mental health is directly connected to the condition of my hair.

I really really really don’t like people who lie. Just don’t lie. Just tell the truth. I would much rather that you were a bit more boring and not a liar.

I think that I can come across as quite aloof and reserved and contemptuous or whatever but really I am just shy and not that good with people at first. But then sometimes I am like REALLY good with people at first and then not very good after, and I don’t know what triggers the two extremes?

But I probably am judging you. But probably for something inane like you have a stain on your top, rather than things other people judge about. I am not really judgmental in the classic sense, like, I obviously don’t care how many people you sleep with or how or whether you engage in bestiality.

I really enjoy stereotypically feminine pursuits like baking and dancing and drawing and playing the recorder and looking pretty and wearing erotic shoes.

I love conversations, but not conversations that are too intense or where opinions are too strident because then it becomes like a strange sort of competition to get your point across and get your word in and I think that ideas are more important than egos? Having said this, there is nothing so satisfying as a drunken bellow, or those conversations you have when everyone is drunk and agreeing about something rediculass, or all arguing the same point and then you realise that you all actually agree, which is AMAZING.

I feel all the time like I am becoming more myself and more the person that I want to be.

My step-dad and I solved the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, whilst on holiday. We decided that there should probably be two states with a jointly held Jerusalem or joint national government. Or maybe it could be a free city. And Israel should probably stop building settlements. And nobody should blow anybody up, because its not very nice. So, there you have it.

Like, in the book of my life thus far, one of the most important and recurring central places has been Soho. So many of my formulative moments and thoughts have gone on whilst just walking around there or travelling back drunk from there or exploring there by myself or whatever. Its a motif, if you like.

It still annoys me on a quite regular basis that a teacher once told me that ‘lack thereof’ was not an appropriate phrase to use in an essay.

Can you tell I don’t want to sit down and edit as I'll get absorbed in some urchins acne or the constant wondering of at what point do they start looking like blokes and less like tall 15 year olds at 22.