| Current mood: |  contemplative |
*listens to the rain outside in Ireland, watches as it drips down the window, the torrential downpour almost drowning out any possible thoughts she could have. She bites her lower lip, then turns to the solitary desk in the shadowy hotel room, opens her laptop, and begins to type, pushing a piece of chocolatey-brown hair out of her eyes*
What to write. What to say. There's too bloody much, honestly-- and my mum would box me about the ears if she heard me use that word. But this is my journal now. My words. Bloody-bloody-bloody.
This is difficult for me, too. You see, I'm dyslexic. No, really.
So I'll try. And computers hate me. But I'll try that, too.
I'm here in Ireland now, filming King Arthur; I won't lie, it's bloody brilliant fun, but I miss Orlando and Johnny and Jonny and Natalie and Ewan and all of the friends I've made on all of these other films. Colin keeps wanking off about how he's the new 007 and how upset he is that I wasn't cast as the Bond girl, and Ioan just keeps making dreamy googly eyes at the make-up girl.
And I . . . I am alone here in my hotel room, because they all went out to the pub to get pissed, and I'm not old enough. That's always the bloody issue, the age. Can't get a bloke, because I'm too young. Can't get a beer, I'm too young. Can't be the Bond girl, I'm too young. Too-bloody-young.
*brushes the chunk of hair out of her eyes again, chuckles*
I'm not complaining, I'm not. In the states, Bend it Like Beckham comes out today. And I've been getting all of these lovely movie parts. Going to be doing a film with Jude Law soon, and Love Actually comes out soon. I just . . .
*she sighs heavily, bites her lower lip again, shakes her head*
I just nothing. *grins* I'm happy. If not bloody bored.
Call me, new mobile number: keiralurrrvsyou
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