Sometimes life should only be about the simple pleasures.
Walking into a cafe and finding they’re serving the dish you’ve been craving all morning. Tubes arriving right when you get to the station, especially the interchanges. Reading a book you forgot how much you used to love. Cherry blossoms outside your bedroom window.
I wish that were enough.
Grow up.
I can’t think of anything I can write here that doesn’t come off as incredibly judgmental but I wish I could tell you how ridiculous people think you’re being.
Stop making people do your dirty work for you and victimising yourself and refusing to take responsibility for things. I know you are upset at each other, but we’re really losing patience with you. And especially me.
(I haven’t posted music in a while.)
She’s really weird, in a sort of space cadet way. But I think it would be funny to make a living with this stuff.
I’ve developed this really bad habit: I only consider posting here when I’m feeling particularly passive-aggressive. Which is bad.
Tonight I had the really weird idea to go back to an old blog site that I used all the time in high school. I couldn’t remember my most recent blog, but I remembered the one before it, and I logged on.
A whole lot of blog entries fromsix years agospill out. And they’re really weird, because they’re about things I would probably never have thought about again if I hadn’t looked at them. There’s a lot of weird musing, some pseudo-poetry from when I was going through that phase, and some things from my screenwriting phase, and every so often there are really hilarious Ta-and-Bart or Tash-related anecdotes (the latter of which make me need to say: T, you were the best thing about all my years at ISB. I hope you know that).
I also found some private entries from when that thing happened three months before my GCSEs and I stopped going to school less and less. There was this really scary entry which I don’t remember writing; it’s filled with more rage than I can ever remember experiencing in my life. What happened? I read the other entries and they’re sort of a greener, more immature, more free-spirited version of the person I still feel like today. But then I come to those entries and it’s really funny; I know it happened a long time ago, I know I finally made peace with everything a couple of years later and have never looked back, and since then everything has been relatively normal and wonderfully dysfunctional with the person in question.
But man, that’s a scary time to revisit.
These days the people I know can roughly be divided into two groups: there are normal, nice people that I really enjoy the company of, and there are people that I also really do like but keep catching myself subconsciously avoiding lately because it’s really hard to be around you if I try, and still can’t take you seriously as a person.
Maybe it’s something about the time of year, isn’t it? Like there’s this unwritten circadian law where every year I’ve got to be really restless and disbelieving of the world because everything is too ridiculous.
(Like, for example, why I am spending today writing about people’s coffee preferences.)
I like that spring is springing its way into London with sunlight flooding through my shades and pink cherry blossoms outside my window.
I like spring because it inevitably gives way to summer, and happiness is much simpler then. Rolling up the windows and dozing on the couch in the evenings. Playing tour guide to all the friends that flock here in July and August at the Southbank and Piccadilly Circus. Stretched out next to A in the park talking about who-knows-what until the blue sky fades.
That’s all I wanted to write about today, really.
Today was the first KFC-in-the-park-worthy day of the year: blue skies with not a cloud to be seen in central London, so I obliged like those silly shamrocks of Sal’s still sitting on the kitchen window reaching blindly for the sun.
Also, I’ve decided on my ideal career: for a living, I’m going to be Lea Salonga!
… Well, it works for her, doesn’t it?
Stop it.
Just stop leaving me.
Stop being away.
I’m being self-centred and spoilt again. But how is it the only people I want to talk to these days are people I don’t know when I will ever see again?
I like to talk, but I don’t think I will ever be able to get rid of that overwhelming, sometimes overpowering need for privacy.
Having said that, I really wouldn’t mind if more people knew this: When I am quiet from “tiredness” in contexts where I have had no alcohol and there are less than six people present, it means that I’m uncomfortable or upset and need to remove myself from the situation as inconspicuously as possible. I tire pretty easily but am actually rarely, rarely so tired that I don’t have anything to say.
If those contexts are taking place in my house, it means I want to be alone and can’t think of a polite way to tell you: please go home.
If you are ever lucky enough to come across this absolute gem of a book, read it aloud for the first time with someone who doesn’t mind pretending to be a hippo or a bird. I stumbled across it with Ta the other day, with whom I share an affinity for finding kids’ books with, and for a fleeting moment wished I had kids just so I could buy it for them.
