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the workings of the FranJoe [05 Aug 2006|03:40pm]
This is the first day I have been at home for about a week and a half. My life has morphed into a brand new routine whose focal points are Joe, Tanny, work and lots of alcohol. It generally goes, go to work hungover and deathly pale, make it til lunch, meet Joe and pretend to eat sandwiches which my stomach crumples at the sight of, finish work. Then I meet Joe at Little Fifteen and sit on sofas and pretend we hate each other and drink buy one get one pints until the music reveals its on a loop and starts repeating everything (Snow Patrol Chasing Cars, She Moves In Her Own Way, The Kooks). Our conversations revolve around who loves who more (we have an infamous five pound bet going on right now that it seems noone is capable of winning), horribly un-PC long-standing banter about rolling people with no legs down hills, generally mocking everyone around us and remaining in our own little private eyecontact twosome, making out without much regard for audience (sorry Tan), quoting Anchorman and Chris Morris to each other in the hopes of alienating any idiots we are with (in Bar Lounge, starting off our own seperate conversation as Greg and Victoria discuss the best regions for olive growing, "You sir, have BAD OLIVES!!") and generally loving the fact that noone else gets it, lying in bed with the lights off and talking about books we love and getting so excited about it that we can't physically keep still, going off on random tangents and just running with it "if ever there was a vowel that had a light-sabre it would be 'y'", "so you are actually just saying that Hitler was honest", falling off stools, falling off beds, falling off sofas, having coffee fights in our underwear, smoking on our backs in the middle of the night him teaching me how not to shiver, walking to the cross and seeing him waiting for me with 'Vote The Duck' childrens book propped up next to him (his reasoning being, that books are the best presents but our minds are so fucked at the moment this is the only level we can really understand), watching South Park sitting between his legs, listening to Wayward Song by the Earlies in the middle of his room at 3 in the morning, singing Regina Spektor to each other (Somedays), hanging out of his window and smoking shitty Lambart and Butlers, drinking Leffe in Telfords, dangling our legs over the canal edge and telling each other stories. Wake up next to him every morning, scramble up with a horrific hangover, get a cab to Tan's, try and wash myself in her bath, dress in inappropriate clothes dry my hair whilst attempting to do my makeup and apply cream cheese to bread with a spoon simultaneously. Scramble out, get a cab to Starbucks/"medium coffee frappucino light to go please", run to work, fall over and make it beihind the desk for 9.01am. Repeat.
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I am British [23 Apr 2006|11:12pm]
[ mood | exhausted ]
[ music | a very loud Tiny Dancer ]

I'm so tired now that hysteria comes in waves. All I want to do is go to bed but the fucking idiots who live directly below me are playing their obnoxious bass crap r&b bollocks and no jumping up and down on my floor is going to stop them, goddamnit. This weekend has been fucking fantastic. And it's only Saturday. The mind boggles. So yesterday The International Group of Bad Accents and Great Drinking Skills set off for camping, under the (misguided) impression that we would somehow miraculously get to Tennessee in 3 hours. We do not. Luckily, Suzie, Katur, Dejan, Steve and I are in the Car Of Fun (as it came to be officially and universally known), banging out the classic rock, Suzie and Steve the two resigned parents handing back sweets and threatening seperation of us kids in the back, who spent most of the trip kicking the shit out of each other and shouting expletives for no reason.
So yeah. We got hopelessly confused, lost, split up - why we attempted to drive in convoy formation Harrison Ford style is quite, quite beyond me - there were many frustrated phone calls involving Chevrons and exits and traffic lights, a random smoke break in Waffle House (great foreigners pictures of us under the yellow neon sign - we have no shame in exploiting our accents to get away with things that would otherwise seriously taint our reputations).
Finally (finally) made it to the campsite (the wrong campsite, as it turns out, but it all worked out). Trying to set up tents when one's technical and scientific sensibilities stretch only to an unusual capacity for improvisation when it comes to opening bottles of beer is silly. There were 19 of us, attempting to assemble shitty tents in the pitch black, in a campsite we don't understand, simultaneously chainsmoking and beginning the cider process. With Suzie sitting on a picnic bench at the bottom of the hill overlooking the lake and Stone Mountain, and the air just smells heavy and damp and the winds hit you from both sides simultaneously. Everyone talking about how it looks like rain and then being inexplicably surprised when the rain comes. And, my God. It was ridiculous -we are literally in the MIDDLE of a fucking massive thunderstorm, every thunder crash sounds like a tree being felled (we are surrounded by trees, which was not comforting), lightening is reflected off the lake and lights up everything for 3-4 seconds. Tents are floating serenely across the site, People are running around trying to salvage the beer, I'm lying flat on my stmach spreadeagled across the inside of Rachel's tent to make sure it doesn't do a Dorothy and Toto. We think that it's going to be ok, but within minutes of smoking in the boys tent everything is soaking. We reconvene, chainsmoke under the toilet overhang, have long drawn out pseudo arguements about what our game plan should be (pseudo because really, deep down, noone could give a shit). Decide to stay, get shitfaced and lean breakfast club style against the wall, everyone just talking shit until 3am or something. Ladies toilets and cockroaches, waterlogged tents, 3 hours of sleep, up at 6 - I never saw that campsite in daylight.

We eat random crap we find in the bottom of car-boots and back pockets. I begin a long and sustained whine advocating the Importance of Wendy's. Subsequently we find out in the next 30 minutes that finding Wendy's is both complicated and useless (it doesn't open until 10.30. Ejits. I hate that ginger hooker anyway. Creepy pigtails).
Everyone in the Fun Car is not so fun. But what we initially thought to be a lack of funness was actually a lack of Egg Bacon and Cheese McGriddles and coffee and after another stop we were back on track. That drive up to Tennessee has caused a new theory about these scattered American "towns" - the less windows/the uglier the shop, the more enthusiastic the superlative is that is included in it's name, e.g. the big grey windowless metal shack with the swinging letters "The Only American Warehouse", the yellow boarded up one level ..thing "America's Favourite Grocery Store". Or the infinitely ambiguous "We Buy Houses" sign outside some random house. Thanks for that, I'm happy for the size of both your wealth and property holdings.
Singing Sinead O Connor, Avril Lavigne (shut up), Bryan Adams, Queen along with the radio, being ridiculous because we are cracked out. Finally reach the white-water rafting place, it is this woody place with ridiculously hot outdoorsy extreme Jackass boys who tell us that "key to rafting is staying in the boat". The Fun Car banded together once more,looking sexy as hell with big red helmets nad lifejackets on, driving the 25 minutes up to the top of the rapids, beginning to regret the 2 hours of sleep, 30 bottles of beer/cider, pack of smokes and general lack of energy/will to live that did not seem especially conducive to surviving "Level 55 Rapids", all with names like "Slice and Dice" and "Hellhole" etc.
Got out of the bus and proved my fantastically damaged coordination by immediately knocking over every single paddle. Big rafty things, complete lack of hand eye coordination when it came to paddling, constant hungover hysterical laughter which pissed off our guide girl person thing. But it was so cool. They should totally do buy one get one's on white water rafting. We got completely soaked, almost died, and the paddle just cuts through the water, we are in this ravine which is covered in trees, waterfalls, old slate-grey rock. I did the Coupland reverse blink to try and capture it forever, but had no faith and took pictures too. Jumping off into the water at one point and just serenely floating down a river, Dejan being "sent to the back" of the raft for being silly, our idiot guide who was in turns both frantic "FORWARD!! FORWARD!! GOOD GOD NO!!!" and completely nonchalent "Relax, we're ok" (both statements usually follow each other in quick succession). We did a spinny thing where our entire raft span down an eddy, Rachel fell out - great picture just of her feet sticking straight up in the air Witch-style).
The trip back on the bus was ridiculous, lifting up different layers of clothing released whole new loads of water, we all got that hot musty smell of wet anoraks and human bodies drying in an enclosed space, we all needed changing and acted like small children. Ate real ham sandwiches with mustard that we made on closed carboots, true picnic style. Took more photos that are only ok if you are a foreigner. Tried to make everyone take a rock with them but the symbolism of rememberence and material groundedness was lost on them, fools. I want to do it all over again.

I can't believe I am still awake, and I can't believe it is R&B's fault, how do you fight that?

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DISCLAIMER: Adrien Brody is clearly God, however... [23 Apr 2006|09:05pm]
[ mood | sleepy ]
[ music | the imminence of sleep ]

This monkey film is ridiculous. The mysterious process by which cool people align and proceed to make total shite truly upsets me. Except, to be fair, Naomi Watts always pisses me off. But anyway, I am beginning to think that Special Effects will never look right to me ever again. This is a very worrying predicament seeing as my all time favourite hangover cure is watching aliens implode or ruddy-cheeked youngsters die in unexpected and ridiculously gory ways. But I have the beginnings of a theory on this. CGI effects are getting better and better. We can have a big monkey jump around now, no problem. We can create new worlds and blow up planets. And I loved Independence Day and all that jazz, and I believed Lord of the Rings. But the problem is that now filmmakers who are making these big production films use CGI for when characters are walking down a busy street, or to pan over a large audience clapping. I believe in the T-Rex and the raptors in Jurassic Park (clever girl!) but I can't even bear to look at the ones in King Kong, all I see is Adrien Brody running in front of a blue screen, it's as annoying as in the old films when people don't look where they are driving, but less forgivable because at least they weren't bothering with reality in order to swap cool dialogue, or for Cary Grant to look all drunk. I swear the last 2 hours of this film (discounting the screaming, the new and improved and totally "as dinosaurs would definitely have sounded" sounds) was completely without dialogue. And Jack Black without a fake air-guitar mime every-so-often is disorientating.
But this is all beside the point. What I wanted to point out was this weird cycle of filmmaking. When the first films were made, men and women screamed in the cinema because they couldn't understand that the projection of the oncoming train they were seeing on the screen was not reality. Yadda, yadda, yadda - lots of technology, moon landing, slept through film class so getting onto stuff I just know about anyway. And we are back into films I know about, technology that allows for the telling of mythic/fantastical/apocalyptic/magical stories without omission of key explanatory scenes, and I had just got used to it. Example through the clear and scholarly link of stomach rippage; I knew that Tim Roth was going to show up for the premier. I just did. And although there was no special effects, film asks you to create this boundary between reality and fantasy, actor and character, fake blood and real blood. You know it is not real. But in the physical context of the filmmaking process, it is real, they have to wash blood off. Similarly, I knew that Ian Holmes wasn't dead in real life when his stomach was ripped apart in Alien, it seems real and for actors, it is real, Tim Roth has fake blood, Ian Homes has fake plasticy alieny thing. (No research was done on the writing of this entry). But in KingKong, I not only doubt the presence of that stupid monkey, but also even of the minutia, the physically tangible objects and environments that surround the actors. And it changes the way you look at the process and value of filmmaking and acting. King Kong was nothing to me, other than a strange collage of CGI scenes, where all contact between character and environment had been removed,where it was the actor who was the object, thrown into impressive CGI to subtly suggest to the audience that yes, yes this has a plot, this is an epic, this is Peter Jackson remember?! He won all those Oscars. This is a good film.
It seems now that with the increased use of CGI which is approaching almost dinner-party-worthy-embarrassing-moment proportions, the boundaries of reality and fantasy are dissolved once more. Or maybe they are switched around, erased all together, or reinforced even more. I can't tell because, well, I'm not smart enough. But it's something like: in an effort to make the fantastical story (big monkey epic) seem truly real (ooo that's so real-looking), we need to employ massive amounts of special effects. In so doing we remove any grounding of the film in reality. We have real actors, real makeup and real blue-screens, but that is about it. You can't buy props on ebay anymore because there are no props. I remember being actually surprised when I watched the Special Features on Pirates of the Caribbeanand found out that the sets they used were real, they had been painstakingly constructed and (despite their demolition after the film had ended production) they had existed in place and space and time. And the fact that I was shocked is shocking. Yeah. So...basically.. rent Jurassic Park and kill anyone who tells you that King Kong is a good film.

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the wife [22 Apr 2006|01:22am]
S: oh where is my fran!?!
S: oh where oh where oh where...is my fran!?!
S: her phone lives in her room, so I cannot reach her
S: I hate school, I hate Buddhism, I hate writing papers.
S:My only love is marshmallow peeps and there is a year until we will meet again
S:where is you?@!
S:kajkfj
S:akdfmk
S:I changed my screen name because of a conversation I just happened with you that actually never took place
S:it is just out there in a different time and a different space
S:and I want to smoosh a doughnut on your face!
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sometimes I wish I had waited two years before I'd listened to anything [20 Apr 2006|09:39pm]
[ mood | worried ]
[ music | Free To Go - Folk Implosion ]

Ahhh, Chuck Klosterman is awesome, he is some of the awe. I really thought he was going to be this pretentious idiot who was really "down with the kids", but the first thing he did was jump out and ask us if we liked his beard. Anyone who opens a talk with questions about facial hair is alright with me. He is like a less-violent Quentin Tarantino, his gestures and his way of speaking and his plain irreverance really reminded me of him, which made me somewhat more attentive, which in hindisght, is pathetic.
Anyway, he makes me want to write, in that all he did was stand up there like it was open-mic or something and yet everything he said was so interesting and really seemed to matter. And I like the fact that he is not all cynical about things, I've always been vaguely pissed off that my generation doesn't have a point, there is no war and no new types of music, everything is "reminiscent of early Elvis Costello, with twangs of Jeff Buckley", you know, but all that really matters is that something means something to you, even if it is not revolutionary, or confrontational, or radical...I mean, rock and roll started as a construct, and now we bitch about how none of the members of the Spice Girls really knew each other before they were introduced by the record company? It's nostalgia replacing memory again, it's this reverence for a past that never existed, that we invent to make history seem like it has somehow progressed, or changed so we can locate ourselves in it easier.
He said that, whether we want to believe it or not, in ten years time, 80% of us will not be the people we are now. We will be convinced that "music got bad two years out of college", that our years were the final ones. And I resist against that in my head, but it sounds like it is scarily possible. And if we decide in our minds to take one kind of music, or one era of film, and make it the epitome of what is good or what makes us us, the perfect record, then we are making it into something it isn't, we attach it to ourselves and our past with such force that it becomes unextractable and we forget why we liked it in the first place. And what is even worse, we don't notice that we don't like it anymore, and because we don't notice we don't bother looking anywhere else, and we stay in this weird statis not realising why we don't enjoy music anymore. I keep my concert ticket stubs because they mean something to me, because it is representative of a time and a place and friends and a certain feeling I had right at that point. But what if, after a while, I had forgotten the feelings and just kept it because I never threw it away? Because everything in life is eventually reduced to cliches, not just big things like families or Vietnam ("if I was going to do a satire on Vietnam films I'd have to include a scene with kids sitting on the floor, smoking dope and listening to the doors, and one looking up and saying "but why are we even here mann??")but worse, personal memories of things that really happened to me. The mind can only remember so many things and as we get further away from things the memories slip and soon my childhood is going to be holding my dad's hand but not remembering when or where, or jumping over patches of daffodils, or dropping pink food dye on the patio and writing a sorry note. And my primary school is going to be jelly sweets and top trumps and the smell of the cabinet that held our lunchboxes. And even though I'm here right now, college is soon just going to be smoking rollups and hanging out of my window, and watching fear and loathing in las vegas with the lights off and a bottle of white wine and no glass, playing the strokes and breaking every pair of shoes I own. And I remember things only because I have repeated them and anecdotalised them, and the best things are the small things that you don't bother to remember at the time. And the moment you write it down it just gets added to the list of things that you will remember to tell at dinner parties, but will never remember how they actually felt at the time. But I guess I'm going to keep writing it down, because it's better than nothing.
I didn't think I'd end up here when I started, but I'm going to click "Update Journal" anyway. Oh, and just an added note to myself, all I need to make myself both incredibly happy and crushingly depressed simultaneously is a good key change, (see Bluebird Of Happiness - Mojave 3, or if you can't be bothered with that, Tiny Dancer never fails).

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why I love the Mighty Boosh [19 Apr 2006|11:22pm]
[ mood | amused ]
[ music | Red Vines - Aimee Mann ]

oh oh everyone go and download Writing To St. Peter by Mojave 3. I bought the album forever ago by mistake and I totally forgot about it. Maybe it's not good and I just think it is because it reminds me of that summer where I spent all my shit British tips on rizlas, drank 12 cups of coffee a day and bought cd's without thinking because I thought I'd never need the money for anything important. Last meal with The Parents today, mum being drunk and obnoxious for no reason, dad not handling it well, my chugging red wine to make things better, is everyone's life like this? Excited about Chuck Klosterman on April 19th, not so excited about the fact that I have a final tomorrow (WHY DO I HAVE A FINAL IN APRIL? Someone please explain). It is on Kakfa and Blanchot, Adorno, Benjamin and Deleuze. Stab me in the face with a fork, but while you are doing it, test me on my notecards. Lots of thoughts about what Im going to do after school, prompted by The Mother's insistent jabs, am thinking Masters and Oxford and then pretentious wine tasting and coffee fuelled nights of intellectual displays of idiocy. It has a romantic, Brideshead appeal. This post is going nowhere.

On paranoia:
"The walls are full of crack, the cracks are full of strangers -trying to guess my weight"

On family ties:
Julian - "My other Uncle, Boris, was into cryogenics....all my uncles are called Boris - strange"
Noel - "Cryogenics is the new grey"

On the technicalities of jazz:
Julian: "Are you aware of the music known as jazz?"
Noel: "Jazz, what's that, 1984, Matt Bianco (sings badly) What is lo-o-o-ove anywa-a-a-y, does anybody love anybody anyway?"
Julian: "No, jazz. You fear jazz. You fear the lack of rules, the lack of boundaries. Oh look, it's a fence. But, no, it's soft."

On the problems of a two-man team:
Julian: "I'm going on my own. Do you want to come with me?"
Noel:""You know I can't come with you, I have to play the characters when you get there!"

On life's little peculiarities:
"Don't you hate it when you get in a lift and it's full of people?...I hate people..."

On agreeing with legends no matter how much crap they talk:
DB:"Vince, Vince, come over here"
Vince:"Who's that"?
DB:"This is David Bowie"
Vince:"What's wrong with your voice"?
DB:"I'm standing on a lozenge"
Vince:"Eh"?
DB:"Let's dance"!

On the perksof being a zookeeper:
"I can have a gorilla touch you"

All time favourite:
"I've never seen anything less like me in all my life, it's like looking at a cup."

On learning from past mistakes:
"Last time you gave me a pie, I cut into it, and birds flew out of it, hitting me in the face and chin. I was confused. It was a trick pie".

On forming a band:
J:"You wanna be careful, before you know it you'll wake up in a bush singing songs about brooms
N:"You don't know anything about me. Do you know anything about me"?
J:"I know...of you"
N:"Yeah, well, if you knew me you'd know that I don't sing songs about brooms...I sing songs about love...
Lovely lady with the eye
Lovely lady with the eye
You've only got one but it's a good one
Lovely lady with the eye, the eye, the eye, the eye, the eye
coming forward on a string, thats not normal, urgh
Yeah! I'm in a band..."

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ahh the Essay Of Doom makes me waste time very efficiently [15 Apr 2006|05:50pm]
[ mood | indifferent ]
[ music | Freedom Rock - Frank Black ]

Another portion of my day which counts as studying:
How does the world see you?
Hewlett's Daughter - Grandaddy
Well, as far as I can tell it's a little bit about incest, so immediately faith in the "Music 8" Ball's accuracy is waning. Also, I hate the world.

Will I have a happy life?
Perfect Day - Lou Reed
It speaks volumes for me that my life advice is...take a lot of heroin, wear big black sunglasses for no reason and play the piano with feeling.

What do my friends really think of me?
Red Vines - Aimee Mann
So..a cheap knock off of the real thing, yet strangely addictive. Or....red and waxy.

Do people secretly lust after me?
Yes - Dirty Dancing Soundtrack
I'm not even kidding. This Magic 8 Ball Music Thing manages to make me both happy and ridiculously depressed simultaneously.

How can I make myself happy?
Chains - The Raveonettes
I'll think about it.

What should I do with my life?
Into The Great Wide Open - Tom Petty
Ah, Kerouac. According to Tom Petty I need to - go get a tattoo, meet a boy with a leather jacket, play the guitar and make a record. Well, OK then. Could do a lot worse.

Will I ever have children?
Saint Simon - The Shins
Pass

What is some good advice for me?
Pitch The Baby - The Cocteau Twins
Ah, maybe I shouldn't have kids then.

How will I be remembered?
Born In The USA - Bruce Springsteen
You are all fucking idiots...

What is my signature dancing song?
Lucky Day In Hell - The Eels
I can't believe I have albums and albums of Duran Duran, Queen, Spandau Ballet, and I get this. Creepy.

What do I think my current theme song is?
Someday - The Strokes
Still miss the good old days, my fears they come in threes...probably apt, but what the fuck. I thought theme songs were meant to be happy go lucky shiny poppy nuggets of joy like Everybody's Gonna Be Happy, or Walking on Sunshine or something. Clearly not.

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
I Know Enough (I Don't Get Enough) - Theaudience
I was unimportant/When I travelled South/They said you're hometown's sunk/And when you're drunk/you've got a filthy mouth

What song will play at my funeral?
Love is the Drug - Roxy Music
Or crack, as the case may be.

What type of guys do you like?
Pictures of Success - Rilo Kiley
If by success we mean self-destructive boys with no aspirations, long-term goals, clean-clothes or social niceties.

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Well, maybe I had a little bit of fun today after all [15 Apr 2006|12:32am]
[ mood | sleepy ]
[ music | Downtown Train - Tom Waits ]

Blah I am exhausted and have had little to no fun today. Except when Rad told me about the back seat of a car being called a "struggle-buggy" during the 1920's, "I liked the implication of date rape". And being given 21 pretzels bagged in a little bag thing by Mummy Sarah before I went to school, "eat them one by one, they taste better". Also, getting back from dinner and sitting on the grass outside ECV playing some random game involving 2 apples, 2 oranges, one american, one german, one macedonian and one scot "forward, right, left, forward" until it got dark and it was clearly going to all end in tears (I wish we lived in the days before computers and TV, I really think we could have entertained ourselves). Drank too much tea, which was nice. Walked out of my Environmental Lit class (or..how I stopped listening and learned to love the doodling) because I am too cool for the school, "I have to go...do...this...thing.." then sat on a bench and chainsmoked without feeling guilty. Drank beer and watched Finding Nemo at Suzie's instead of studying, eating cheap knock-off mint patties and feeling a little bit guilty. Why noone stocks The Doors Of Perception remains a mystery, however my taxes do not, so I can finally stop rewriting "Stupid Taxes" on my hand. I still want to have a torrid affair with Michael Pitt, except in real life he isn't a junkie which could pose a problem. I'm ridiculously excited that I get to go to the final drunken week of uni when I get home. Long live the Kimbolton girls, white wine spritzers (made into spritzers not by choice, but by necessity. It's the only time I feel comfortable wine-tasting, standing/swaying at the bar, tasting it, spitting it out and then ordering 2 bottles and a pint of lemonade), bad dancing, short skirts and high heels which will inevitably end up wedged in the pavement, running down three flights of stairs chasing the contents of my bag which are falling everywhere, creepy cab drivers and beer gardens and just in general some great photo opportunities. Yayness.

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explanation for skipping class [06 Apr 2006|12:47am]
[ mood | nervous ]
[ music | Imagine - John Lennon ]

Last night, in an unusual move I stayed up until 3am researching American serial killers on wikipedia (God's gift to mankind). WHich meant that when I turned off the light I felt like I was 10 again and had just finished watching Midsomer Murders with my parents. Absolute childlike paralysis, I was convinced that Ed Gein was under my bed, that a decapitated corpse was hanging by its ankles in my closet. Fitful flashes of every horror movie I have ever seen (thanks for the under the bed murder scene, Friday the 13th, that helped), combined with knowing as I'm thinking about these things that this is ridiculous. Dreams about vampires, running in the shadows and a countdown to something bad in newspaper headline form. Ted Bundy didn't make a cameo, but he may as well have. And, to make it perfect, when I traced back this morning as to how i managed to get onto my serial killer thing, the chain of links went as such;
Katie Holmes - James Van Der Beek - Rules of Attraction - Patrick Bateman - Real influences. In four easy stages, you can get from "Hold on, because it's going to be a bumpy life, Dawson" to "When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things: One part of me wants to take her home, be real nice and treat her right; the other part wonders what her head would look like on a stick." Who knew.

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I miss sticky toffee pudding [05 Apr 2006|12:45pm]
[ mood | happy ]
[ music | Dawson and Joey being angsty ]

Blah, if there was one day that Sarah banging into the flat with a oversized bottle of red wine (seriously, I feel like a hobbit when I hold it) was not overly welcome twas today. This entire weekend has been a dangerous swirl of marguerita drinking/faux mexican dressup/dawsons creek watching/nacho eating friday (half a bottle fo tequila in 3 hours, the kitchen in the morning looked like a mariachi band had set up camp and dispersed in a hurry seconds before I emerged from my room, hungover poker/czech beer-drinking/uk music hall of fame listening/chainsmoking saturday with new fun group of funness (this is where I wish I had gone to orientation, hanging out with all the cool international kids makes me feel like I'm on holiday ina basement drinking in the day and shouting "FUCK!" at every opportune moment. Fantastic. Sunday was almost productive, and then I went for a quick smoke with Suzie and got back to my flat at 1am. The drunken pool-playing, ultimate frisbee moments, all lying on our back smoking, drinking pitchers of beer "BECAUSE WE CAN!!", pouring straight gin into the orange bottle, writing enlightening notes on our doors ("Fuck that shit, meet you at pool") and placing bets on whether Dejan was dead in the boot Tarantino style was totally worth it though, although it has rendered this Monday completely ineffectual, more Dawson's Creek (although made a little more interesting as am blessed with the Scot's inexplicably useless running commentary "hey, I'm getting well into this,...oooo DIE BLONDIE!!!"), teatimes and Krispy Kreme guilt are the only actions I'm physically capable of. Yay, college. Pacey is my future husband. Mmmmm....Pacey.

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notes from another Sunday [28 Mar 2006|02:06am]
[ mood | happy ]
[ music | My Old Raincoat - E ]

best sleepy ever last night, complete with random dreams which I have forgotten now but will come back to me for a brief 2 second flash right before I sleep tonight (best thing ever). Spent all day not doing my stupid essay on the porno book which pretends to be all feminist and intellectual but is really just an experiment to see how many times you can say the word 'cunt' and retain some vestige of a plot, and by all day I mean from 4pm (everytime I woke up it was right in the best parts of the dream so I had to go back to sleep). Watched The Emperor's New Groove and thought about llamas, had teatime with Suzie and dunked biscuits for the first time since I've been here, it was v. homely and reminded me of Peter Kay (that moment when you're biscuit disintegrates and everything goes into slow motion, "Mum! Get a spooooon, me biscuit's falling in me breeeew!!"). Does everybody flip over the empty half shell of a boiled egg and place it back in the eggcup when they are done and try and pass it off to the nearest relative as a new one? Maybes it's just the British. It's the kind of mindlessly cruel thing that would appeal to us. Cat Power is great, as it 'The Calendar Girl' by Stars.

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The Cars are the second best invention ever. [23 Mar 2006|09:33pm]
[ mood | anxious ]
[ music | Hit The Switch - Bright Eyes (shut up, he is not emo) ]

Apparently the whole of Nottingham have collectively decided that facebook is cool so I have been whiling away the hours finding people I barely know and poking them. It's great fun, and also is an activity that belongs in my top five 'Things That Count As Studying', so I don't even feel guilty. I am currently reeling in love for Michael Pitt, who is a God and according to Sarah lives in the Building On The Side Of The Road On The Way To Kroger, but I think she could be lying. Either way, I'm going to check it out, because he always plays fucked up beautiful boys who wear the same T-shirt throughout entire films, chainsmokes, kisses other boys, lazes around and sometimes stabs people just for fun. The fact that everything about that sentence makes me want to jump on him does not bode well for my future. So my new mission in life is to see every Michael Pitt film ever, which includes that French incest one and that Kurt Cobain one, another sentence that I'm happy about writing.
Quotes of the week come from a random source, our VCR/VCA/CIA/PTA man who randomly began insulting smokers ("They should make a box for you smokers to smoke in. It's Darwinian. I mean, people who smoke die.", disclosing his morally questionable pastimes "I mean, if you rape the community you have to give something back "(Paul McCartney and Bono, you know who you are) and the best one ever, his utter belief that cat guts are a integral product in the british economy, when asked to explicate: "Cat guts. It's like plastic stuff. I don't know what you use it for. It's really sad. Hey, you're from Britain, you should know...it's a big industry". Genius.

HOT CORNER MOMENT OF CRACKED OUT MADNESS #1
Sarah: "Your mother is like the Energizer bunny, she just keeps going and going and going"
Me: "No man, shes like that Duracell Bunny that goes like..." (proceeds to walk around clapping hands together)
Sarah: *shakes her head*

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turning left for no reason [19 Mar 2006|08:43pm]
[ mood | sleepy ]

Wow. Spring Break sucks. Any holiday without a point should be amazing, but strangely the Day Of Madness with the stupid bath-flooding, tire-flattening, Walmart-meltdown experience was one of the highlights of the trip. Things I have learnt despite the badness:
1. Putting up tents is hard. And when you have no tent pegs, no little instruction manual (are they meant to have instruction manuals? I don't know. Such is my knowledge of tents) and absolutely no burning passion to set the fucker up, it is even harder. On a related issue, sleeping in cars is fun. It makes you aware of how long your legs are and how great beds are. It also reminds you that a car is a little box of glass and metal when you wake up in a blistering heat from the morning sun. First night had great sleepover type thing with Sarah, bitching about everyone, smoking out the windows, waiting to see who would get killed first by the beast making the inexplicable noises beyond the pool. Great.

2. Jason is much more manageable when you are stoned. Sat for a whole hour just listening to him (and laughing uncontrollably until my cheeks hurt) as he talked about his grandad, a half-Chinese Zen-master who catches flies with chopsticks and uses his ability to teleport to slap his grandkids round the head for changing channels without physically seeming to move from his chair. It all seemed plausible at the time. He also bought me a lolly at a gas station which was the best thing ever, he presented it to me and announced that he "fancied me". Adorably awful.

3. Being Buddhist apparently does not necessarily make you Zen, Matt had a mini-meltdown in Atlanta traffic on the way and starts twitching, mumbling "Shit!" "Shit!" under his breath and doing a mummy and forcing us all to get off the phone and "quiet down". Rar. He also drives like a 10 year old, I was stressing out about the fact that my parents would find out I smoked pot when the autospy got back after my body had hurtled through the windscreen at 125mph but Jason made me happy by making Sully dance for me. Good kid.

4. Savannah is beautiful and makes me want to play jazz music and sit outside drinking beer and talking pseudo-intellectual bullshit. I want to go to that graveyard and be all melancholy. The trees hang down and the houses are so old and you can smell the history and peaches and its just very mystical.

5. Savannah on St. Patricks Day is fucking ridiculous, it is just Game Day but greener. I am caught between wanting to kill everyone and wanting to jump into the crowds and shout and be obnoxious. I restrain from violence and choose beer.

6. Bisque fucking sucks. It does. Everyone ever was so ridiculously stressed on Saturday but seemed incapable of making any kind of decision. But extremely capable of giving me and Heidi (the only 2 people who managed to choose a direction to walk in or a restaurant to eat in) dirty looks when we went the wrong way. Was ready to throw things until me Heidi and Justin broke from the group, got a tequila shot in the most cheesy 80's disco bar ever (which looked like it was about to become a scene from From Dusk Til Dawn an any minute) and went down into the madness that was the pier. Very much like The Landing in Jacksonville, just a shitton of people gathering on one mission - to get wasted, wear beads and get laid. So, three missions really. Was so much fun, me and Heidi ran into a bar and immediately got bought Madouri Sours, a fun green drink soon to be added to my favourite top five drinks of all time. Acted as a landmark for a while as the onther two buggered off on seperate missions and got hit on by a lovely gentleman caller called Daniel. Who proceeded to show us where the cheap beer was, the shortest toiletlines were and generally became my fake boyfriend all night. Spent a lot of time taking the piss out of people drunker than me, one guy with a big brown paper bag on his head and all his friends saying they were on a game show to see if girls were shallow (me to unfortunate boy in a baseball cap: "I know there arent any cameras because you would never wear that hat if you knew you were going to be on TV) one guy so drunk he was swaying, me and Daniel telling him to check out the cool ceiling and just watching him as he attempted to look up at the unremarkable ceiling without falling over. Good times. At some point we lost everyone, found them again, me turning to Heidi at some point and shouting "We are going to chug a beer, see who wins", downing them then making out with the boy immediately after. Rock and roll.

7. The drive home was awesome, after all the badness all it needed was the drive away to make me happy. Heidi and I made a bit of a road trip of it, we ate Taco Bell on the floor outside teh fast food place, I became enamoured with a boy at the drive-through because he ordered the same thing as me (how consumer driven our society has become..*pretentious sigh*). We shared jokes and conspiracy theories, sang along to Paul Simon and The Shins, contemplated the madness that is the fact that truckers always seem to have their head at a 90degree angle looking into your car (what about watching the FUCKING ROAD?!?!?!??!). We played the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack and talked about how its ok to fancy Jack Skellington. We turned into random places, looked at trees, roadsigns, watertowers, rusted warehouses, men on motorcycles, old antique stores. We bought shit from Granny's attic, some woman who hs turned her house into some kind of junk heap like in Labyrinth. I bought a rusted mailbox and an old baseball, there is a photo of me squinting into the sunlight outside the store, holding both. Amber slept in the back, and we had big plans of drinking and smoking and going to a jun k ground and walking through old buildings but it turns out we are exhausted and TV is the only viable option.

7. Quote of the disastrous trip; "Whatever man, we should have taken the sausages". No kidding.

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CAHOOTS!! [17 Mar 2006|03:13pm]
hokay, so. We get up late and on my scramble for the obligatory morning glazed Krisy Kreme doughnut which is now a permanent fixture in our apartment, I realise that I'm soaking. On closer inspection, I see that I am soaking, the floor is soaking, the entire bathroom is submerged, and Sarah is flitting around in her obscene orange dressing gown cursing our toilet. The doughnuts remain unscathed, so in celebration we go downstairs and have a cigarette, and find out that the car has a flat tire. We go back upstairs, seriously beginning to piece together conspiracy theories that goes as high up as God. My boots break, my Zippo stops working and apparently Buy one get one on cigarettes is merely a figment of our deranged imaginations. In Target the bikinis make us want to throw things and in the bank the night depository box makes no sense (NO SENSE!!!!). At this point, we cannot wait to see what the 4 hour trip to Savannah and the night (which, by the way, involves TENTS) will produce in terms of complete random acts of badness. Woo, Spring Break.x
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THE ROOM IS ON FIRE, AND SHES FIXING HER HAIR!!! [09 Mar 2006|01:26am]
waaaaaaaaah just got back from seeing God. He was great. Almost died a few times on the way there because Sarah gets excited when I play The Dandy Warhols, got to the venue and sat in red lighting chainsmoking and feeling rock and roll (which we kind of undermined by singing the Dawsons Creek theme song, we have no control over it, its like Terrible Music Tourettes) and missing Eagles of Death Metal. Bought a shiny red t-sahirt from a guy with good hair, bought $6 beer and pushed and shoved into a decent spot. And then the lights went off, and then the lights came on and God stood before me, all dressed in leather and black denim and straggly fucked up hair. Be still my heart. Was amazing. He played air guitar with his microphone stand, did cool silhouette Elvis moves when the white strobe lighting came on, for frucks sake, the man even did jazz-hands. Got killed by the crowd during the encore (which, btw, was totally worth it because I was right in the front and could see the condition of his cuticles). Left, sweaty, exhausted, still chainsmoking and dying of "Holy fucking fuck that was good" tourettes, staggered back to the car to find that the fucking parking deck was shut. Called the number, got a woman who was clearly filing her nails and considering possible mail order husbands who informed me that i should call some valet. More people showed up and we sat around smoking and lazy, until someone kindly informed us that if we drove out the gate would open. Tahts twice in 2 weeks we have not been locked in somewhere. For fucks sake. Drove home and lost massive cool points with Rob for playing cheesy chick flick music really really ridiculously loudly. Home. Julian is my future husband. The end.
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Essay of Doom, chapstick and spoons [21 Feb 2006|12:03pm]
[ mood | awake ]
[ music | stupid stupid silence of stupid computer lab ]

It is now officially dark outside, I have had an extra week advance on my stupid essay of evil (which, if I could go back in time, I would Capitalise to prove how Evil it really is) because my computer gave me the Blue Screen Of Death and then calmly shut itself down and now gives me a smirk and a "fuck you!" everytime I turn it on, and I still have done bugger all. This is partly because I'm a massive slacker, partly because movie nights with wine and Arnold Schwarzanegger are too tempting and partly because I just spent the last 2 hours being locked in Athens County Park with only some remnants of Wendy's, a spoon and two bars of chapstick with which to fashion an escape vehicle. In the end, we opted out of the Steve McQueen plan and called the police. Who came, looked at the gate, sighed and told us with a strained smile that it wasn't locked. We are dumbasses. Anyway, the point is that after a weekend of handclapping bands, whiskey sours with cherries, mint-chocolate chip icecream and Alias I emerge, for the second week running, essay-less. Blah.

N.B: This is why I miss Fran (mark two)
Where did you sleep last night? says:
i bought yop today!
Where did you sleep last night? says:
yop yop yop

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Fight Club for drunks [21 Feb 2006|11:53am]
[ mood | crazy ]
[ music | A Million Ways - OK Go ]

There have been some great moments of madness recently. Brett's birthday party, the other weekend, me, Amber and Sarah all driving over to Ash's house with "Total Eclipse Of The Heart" blasting, me in my big purple coat everybody smoking and singing at the tops of our lungs with fake microphones (so secondary school I know), we pull up and everyone is smoking on Ash's balcony, it is about 11.30pm and we refuse to leave teh car until the (ridiculousyl loud) song is over, we emerge, still smoking, to rounds of applause and demands for an encore. Brett is already completely fucked "Ive been drinking since....*falls over*", the first image I have of him from that night is slumped against a wall trying to light the wrong end of the cigarette. Spent all evening drinking gin and whiskey, everything slowed down then sped up when the boys decided to go wrestling downstairs, we all go down in socks even though its ridiculously muddy, clutching PBR and parliament lights, quoting fight club "THE FIRST RULE ABOUT FIGHT GARDEN IS...YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT GARDEN". Surprised there werent more injuries actually, especially since the arena had to be navigated carefully, to one side is a massive ravine, right in the middle is a big metal pole. Sean standing there in his fucked up t-shirt, still reeling from the fight before, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking around the boys "Who wants to go again, lets go". Brett preparing to go fight "Hey, can someone who is more sober than me tell me if I have m y shoes on the wrong way round" (he did). Me and Ash wrestle and its amazing how liberating it feels to be repeatedly slammed onto your back and just to completely fuck up your favourite clothes. When we reemerge in the house its a dance party, I piss everyone off my repeatedly playing "My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism" by The New Pornogrpahers and This Year by Mountain Goats. Ash gets his guitar down and plays along, Kyle is dancing enthusiastically in the style of a raving homosexual, shots of vodka, shots of Jack, more PBR, we all run out of cigarettes, I get into Dawsons Creek melodrama with Amber, make out with Sean and pass out.

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sleep-deprivation and crap blurty posts clearly go hand in hand [10 Feb 2006|03:21am]
[ mood | odd and strangely dull ]
[ music | The Man Comes Around - Johnny Cash ]

well I tried sleeping, i just kept hitting pillows into different shapes and watching the inside of my eyes. So now I am up, wearing a stupid big grey Suntrust T-shirt and wishing I could smoke inside like in the good old days back in 11 Kimbolton with my makeshift desk and my roll-up cigarettes and my window which was somehow eternally covered in bird shit, no matter how many times I washed it. I am reading this article about postmodernism and the apocalypse, and am getting excited about writing my essay. Im doing it on "Life After God" and goddammit I love that we get to pick our own titles in this country. I can't believe how fast this year is going. It was not so long ago I was on a gleaming death machine glaring at the poor quality inflight food and contemplating the emergency exit as a viable option if Miss COngeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous didn't get the fuck off the TV, and now it's past the half way point, y'all no longer sounds that weird, I have started saying "store" instead of "shop" and free refills have ceased to excite me. Well, not completely. Free-refills are pretty amazing. It was my mum's birthday today, erm, yesterday, so I sent her a Morrissey e-card, which will please her immensely, now that she has crossed over into the new world of the internet the possibilites of cheap shows of affection are limitless. I remember when she first got her mobile phone and couldnt work out how to use it, I texted her asking her if she had figured out how to text yet. Three hours later, I got a message just saying "Yes". Then another one, saying "Yes". Then another, then another. Was funny.
I skipped all my classes today. Every single one. I've just been having great dreams lately and I don't want to cut them off. Oh, everybody go read "House of Sleep" by Jonathon Coe. OK. My work here is done. I hope I don't have to go downstairs and smoke before I'm happy. I think it's weird that the entire human species has somehow collectively decided that after 1am everyone should be asleep. Who made up that rule? We have neon lighting and caffeine, let's mix it up a little. Line-breaks are for losers. If I turn the lights off again I'm just going to be thinking about stupid profound stuff now, the combination of this apocalypse essay and Coupland makes me think about life, the universe and everything. Which is pretty expansive. I want some late-night whiskey drinking topic-skating talks. I want some meandering, unmotivated, rain-drenched walks. I want to not be a massive cliche. I want to not rhyme. Ahh, lets all play Johnny Cash and smoke. Fuck, I am going to have to go downstairs. The fucking smoking ban can fuck off and die.

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a resurfacing of badness, Jay Returneth: The Attack of the Clones [07 Feb 2006|10:51am]
[ mood | confused ]
[ music | Black Cherry - Goldfrapp ]

am currently obsessing over "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars. Its the all-time best song ever ever, for at least a week, or until my libertines obsession rears its ugly head once more. Last night it was the superbowl, which is REAL as somebody recently informed me(rather patronisingly, I thought),it's not just made up in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. I got angry and said that Jim Carrey had a lot to answer for, but it turns out that the Superbowl was around even before Ace, so I'm packing my sniper gear back up, Jim Carrey will survive, long enough at least for a shitty sequel of The Mask to hit cinemas near you. Anyway, was the perfect college day, I woke up with a hangover and got up/stumbled into the shower at about 2pm, found my hangover hat, went over to Molly's and watched lots and lots of Alias with lots of coffee, lots of cigarettes and lots of coffee icecream. Sark is my future husband. He has a crooked lip and is evil and hangs up his phone like he is a super-villain. He also has sex with everyone, it is great. Made a half-arsed seven-layer dip with five layers, found chips, found more cigarettes, went to Easy Street and basked in the pathetic joy I feel everytime I am within a 5 metre vicinity of Jay. Stupid Jay, just because he is from Nashville and wears mustard-jumpers & Breakfast Club shoes and likes Muse & Blondie and does amusing commentarys of stupid movie trailers and jumps up and down when something happens in the football. He doesnt even like Morrissey, and I bum out all my cigarettes to him without him even asking, its a medical condition, I swear to God. I mean, yesterday he sat next to me and our legs were touching and I almost died. There are those boys you can never imagine making out with, or sleeping with, because they are so unattainable. Jay is unHUGGABLE which is a problem because I just want to lie on top of him everywhere he goes. Also had a very drunk David scrambling through a British edition of Maxim trying "to find British things" to talk about. Easy Street is always very aware of my nationality, I got questions about haggis ("name me some of your shitty British food"), harry potter ("So there actually aren't any wizards in Britain?") and, of course, The Royal Family. I passed on my theor yabout the Queen and hats, but nothing can redeem the UK in that house.
It was great though, I forgot how much I like hanging out with that lot, there was Ashley, Shelley, Molly, me and Emily, Holly; Jay, Campbell, David, Keele, Serny, Eric (Karen's brother), Bender (he didnt get my "bite my shiny metal ass" comment, but he likes Buffy so that's OK) and Coby. Everywhere were chips, boys, cigarettes, beer and whiskey. It was great. Boys shouting at the TV and rewinding on Tivo to PROVE that the ball wasnt over the line, Girls sitting around chainsmoking and tlaking about how great the commercials are, or the fact that Molly may never have children again because her and Coby were messing around in the bathroom, 10 seconds after he had been straining jalapeno peppers with his hands. Ow.
Quote of the day, during the ad-break of American Idol;
"Also...she claimed to have been kicked off the cheerleading team because of her sexy after-school job..coming up next on the 10 o'clock News..."
If I wasn't living in the knowledge that I'm only staying here for another 4 months or so, I would definitely, without a doubt, have thrown my TV out of the window by now. In fact, I may have even bothered to unplug it and take it to the 6th floor just for a more satisfying impact. Its not the news. The news is amusing, I like the way the guy says "FAX CAROLINA" in a really bizarre accent. It's the ad-breaks. I can't take it. I am halfway to Wendy's before I realise I was watching something. I am a corporation's dream.

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[02 Feb 2006|12:10pm]
I HAVE STROKES TICKETS!!!! oh holy god, my life is complete, I'm going to see Julian and his band. *dies*
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