re: re: re: re: repeat

Today would be an excellent day to repeat.

I figured out how to fix myself, and boy, do I wish it was duct tape rather than my current coping mechanisms. Well, just the one. It's not plural.

So I've shared the blog with another human being IRL and now am cautious 'bout what I'm writing. To be completely honest I'd rather keep being candid (SMILE! You're on candid camera!). The writing is more fluid that way anyways.

I'm also quite torn between recounting things and just answering a questionnaire. I've always been a fan of the battery of questions that just drills you until it has enough weird information out of you to -just- frighten your friends. Actually, one of my favorite one of those I think I still have posted somewhere. (Rummaging through files of cyberspace binary). Indeed. It exists. All my best posts are facebook ones. Damn. Though its not nearly as exciting as I thought it was.

Also parts of it are no longer true. Like the thing that I've never broken a bone you can cast. I've fractured my wrist. Woo! (This is the part where you flail your arms wildly above your head).



I'm reading old love poetry. To remember. I'm 'inking' paper. To center myself. I'm not crying. To keep my heart from breaking. Later on, I'll pull out the sabre and strap on my boots and man-up. Right now, Imma pull an Ophelia.

Axis of Crazy

Check this.

So I'm certifably crazy. My boyfriend tweeted it.It's that kind of crazy. Basically I went to the library, sat myself down with an abnormal psych text book and the DSM IV (Diagnostic and Statistic Manual of Mental Disorders and the IV part stands for the fourth revision--Being homosexual is no longer a disease. Hooray!) and figured out what I have. The fun part about being a psych student that I miss is assigning your friends, family, pets, pokemon and self mental disorders to help yourself remember them. In this example, that was not the case. In this example, I figured out what was wrong with me, went through it statistically, emotionally, reviewed my history and compared notes. I've got cyclothymic disorder, which is an Axis II disorder. Axis III is like schizophrenia and being a psychopath and everyone who's got a personality has Axis I something or another probably. I haven't got full blown bipolar disorder, but its damn close.

I have also found out that one of my close female friends here has a blog, which has gotten me motivated to write more. ATM I lack -much- to talk about. I am doing well. I am going to tell the psyciatrist I am going to see on Tuesday I have this disorder. I'll unroll a big scroll and announce it to her. That or just have her watch the new Alice in Wonderland movie-for the March Hare. That twitchy awesome-ness. That's my mania.

Mwhahha. (Btw, there is nothign sexier than a boy who can do a good evil laugh. Just sayin.)

Boys, Boys, Boys (In the genre of Lady GaGa)

My hands are cut and bleeding from the night before. I can't open doors, carry food, or switch the light on. All necessary things to continue living. Metaphorically, of course.

Following a discourse with the Italian and Welsh components of the infantry, I equiped myself with the German resitance fighters trained in hand-to-hand combat. I even pulled out the womanly gusto, brand name "Bitch Slap" and shined up that beauty. It's on loan from the Italians, but I figure I can use it without fear of of infringing on its usage ability. Ireland had, as of this morning, yet to feel my rage. Insert "The Foggy Dew" here. Thus, with these armaments prepared, I went in for the kill and sent a message to the enemy, forcing it to make the next move. Response was quick, and soon I was marching forth to the banks of 59C, having dispatched my supporting flanks. Upon disembarking from our ships, the local inhabitants seemed calm, if quite tired. Following the amount of inebriated they left in last night, I was not surprised. Having seen all that I have, it becomes difficult to surprise me anymore. That happens to veterans. We, at first, were welcomed right into the natives camp, which was surprisingly tidy, considering scouting reports we usually received. They gave us reports of certain employed women sweeping through the simple abode of the natives and cleaning anythign they saw fit. This is not an uncommon practice for the area, but for this particular locale it seemed quite abnormal. The natives in this dwelling often repulse the so-called 'cleaning-ladies' as they are frightened by them. Continuing on our campaign, I pushed rapidly forward with a frontal assault which left the remaining troops mildly battered. Luckily, I was straightforward and began my attack by calming my troops and then dispatching them. I was told once that cold anger can be used, whereas hot anger just boils over and consumes you. This static worked remarkably well, and the enemy did not simply barricade themselves into their bunkers. I drew them out enough to have a good go at them. Following the first few minutes of pitched battle, staying calm, I dispatched another round of troops to attack the flanks of the enemy's army. This they rebuked with a sudden and surprising defense I had been expecting, but I employed the heavy artillery instead, in a methphorical rain of fire smashed his retreat. It ended up successful, though not without some severe trauma to my own troops concerning their psychological health. ( In layman's terms. I yelled at my boyfriend today. And I bit off all my nails whilst doing so. It wasn't a yell, actually. Because I knew he wouldn't respond well to me getting loudly angry at him. Although I was screaming, nearly, at the Italians earlier.)

So really today: my heart hurts, mt head aches, my hands are scratched and filled with prickles, my legs are also scratched up and bleeding, and my back hurts tremendously. I wish for a backrub. I wish for a cuddle. I wish for the sun to come out again.

Occurances.

In no particular order. Occurrences that have happened recently.

First off. I have discovered this.
Strange, is it not? I feel it needs at least a name. Perhaps a classification is more apt.

Nextly. Yes, it's a word. Get over it. There will be, and have been, many strange words--so brace yourselves. I have discovered the 'oh god' of Terry Pratchett, aka the god of hangovers. Goodness, today was a long day. But I bought some lovely shoes and found out that massive Nike Store o Oxford Street has some awesome synesthesic vibes. I really enjoyed it, but it made me disoriented to the point that I just wanted to sleep. A bit like Dorothy in the Poppy Field, only not because that feels more like the dark blue gatorade illuminated by florescent lights than the way Nike felt. Mmmm yum. Something about how astroturf, lines of fit mannequins lined up next to soccer balls and glass walling off two floors of shoes fit together makes me feel very comfortable and sleepy. I would nap there, eat at Wagamama's for breakfast and then spend the afternoon haunting people in the British Museum. THAT would be a good day.

More on the Museum fetish later. Or about how I want, very badly, to haunt one after I die.

On Structuring Such Things

Right. I've decided to begin structuring these as much more of a private journal-type thing, rather than something I'm doing for all of you (who don't exist). It is much more for me, and for posterity's sake, as well as being something I feel is much less angsty than a private diary or something in which i would just rant and scribble. Also that my handwriting is horrifyingly bad and that Times New Roman is infinitely easier to read than historians' scrawl. The new structure of these things shall to be to recount the days oddities, mishaps, and then give a synopsis of the overall happenings. Not to mooch or thieve from Bridget Jones, as I'm not trying to loose weight or stop smoking, but these things need structure. Like a bra.

Oddities: Monochromatic women.
Spotted two today. Amazing what you can see if you're paying attention in public places, like the Tube. One at the Euston Station and one at Bank.

First at Bank. She had short fringe in front which had been bleached adn then dyed unto a rainbow and was entirely orange; orange like a pumpkin, not like caution or security. Orange peacoat, tights, lace-up ankle boot galosh things (Harriett the Spy wears them-you know the ones), and the kicker: a cylindrical hand bag covered in the fur of the elusive faux-neon-orange-Yak variety.

Second at the Euston station, clinging to her jock-soccer/chav-football boyfriend like he was a bulldog in heat. Purple this time, and in differing shades: that dark purple hair color you obtain when you don't know how to do black low-lights, purple leotard over shiny purple tights, purple uggs, purple velvet jumper (zip-up hoodie for you Americans). A bit like Violet Beauregarde's costume in the second Willie Wonka film (the one with Johnny Depp as Wonka himself) but with tights. I imagine her gum was some shade of purple as well...

Mishaps: None. Save a very hungover boyfriend.
Following being roofied last night, he was obviously not going to be at the top of his game this morning (I always want that to be one word, can we make that one word from now on? You say it as one word. How odd our language is. And how odd mine has gotten with all this mismatched grammar and slang), thismorning, although he was a much better shade than last night. Weighing nearly 210 lbs and not 95 helps with having one's drink spiked, I suppose.

Summary: The day was good, if markedly unproductive.
I got neither Latin studied, Irish history read, no GRE was practiced (I did look at the questions for a practice test and may have pissed my pants I was so scared) and I didn't get around to the gym. I did have a nap in which my mother get very angry at my little sister and I for going in a ride in little hammocks pulled by a kite and then she and I got in a big argument, and she didn't even care than our hammock had fallen and when the string holding us up broke it had cut my leg. I also ate a bagel, a chocolate Krispy Kreme doughnut (which made many people on the Tube glare at me), and nearly stole a tree from a sleeping man on the Northern Line when coming back from the Wellcome Collection.

Lesson learned: You can, indeed, get both physically hurt and emotionally hurt whilst dreaming. Also that the Wellcome Collection is a bad place to take your girlfriend if you want children and she adamantly does not. Showing her medieval birthing models, forceps and birthing chairs and saying "You'll be using one of those soon!" is not encouraging. Oddly enough. Watching a wee tot get fed banana for lunch while she runs around tripping and stumbling (walking was clearly a nuance she had yet to master) was though. I blame elevated levels of hormones.

Wipe Off Your Feet...

...for the City is dirty and whilst you are reading such deviant posts, it'd be nice if you sat a while and enjoyed them. These are to be the random ramblings of an old soul (fondly known as Oldling to her younger siblings) living in London.

A creative outlet was needed, and once upon a time I did quite a bit of writing in my own hey-day, (hay-day? Never sure. I'd rather not have angry mobs after me with pitchforks, regardless), and I enjoy the anonymity of twitter and just yelling into the void. Maybe a barrel, rather than a void. No fish to shoot, just to catch. Blogging seemed to be the answer. I lack a printer, glue and the money nessecary for scrapbooking, so I figure I'll blog like its a scrapbook, throwing up bits and peices of my life onto the interwebs. Betweeen the weird oddities that my brain comes up with, combined with the cultural difficulties of being a foreigner living in the capital of all Britiandom, the stress of being involved with a University and the incredible insomnia I have, this should be quite the adventure to both read and write.

So. Welcome to my world-I'll try to keep us all in the loop.