‘la tristesse durera toujours’, at bar.
there are always some dudes on the dance floor who, despite being consistently turned down, will not leave you alone.
I’ve heard it referred to as ‘bar culture’, as if that makes it okay.
Read morebut no means fucking no.
have-a-life-that-I’m-good-at vs. dance-to-train in vain-at-four-am …
think static, magic, cyberspace and a dance floor … because Cosmic Glitter (Galactic Sparkles over Hardman) and Space Dragon (Galactic Sparkles over Snowfox Peppermint) have come into being, and into my life/nail palette.
reading Quadrant’s ‘QED’ is sometimes interesting and always hilarious and—generally—rewardingly infuriating. but it can also be a ridiculous waste of time in which you could have a lot of better, more reasonable and more eloquent ideas of your own …
so it’s past two am, and I’ve just written nine-hundred words about how some articles I just read were rubbish. but I’ve not done the editing I’d set for the evening.
this happens a lot.
how does this keep happening? it’s already tomorrow and my thoughtful consideration of god and stuff is still called this, still starts with this psalm, is still absolutely not funny, and is in all these different documents.
so drained.
the most terrible thing about being a student again is that I am no-longer able to justify the extravagance of bed accoutrement.
I have the worst pillows. seriously. the worst. ask anyone who has experienced them. they’re all squelchy and pathetic and insubstantial. they’re like paper cut-outs of pillows. they’re so wholly unlike pillows that it’s uncanny they should have been packaged and sold as pillows, and ridiculous that I couldn’t sense their inferiority while selecting them. by the light of day—adorned with my indulgently-hipster, generally-floral, printed Ralph Lauren pillowcases—they make fetching, pillow-shaped bed-decorations. but in darkness it is a challenge to distinguish them from the mattress.
how am I supposed to wake up feeling sexy and refreshed and studious and ready to face the world and accomplish things when—all night—my head has been cradled by these deficient, lamentable, inconsequential fabrications?
I’ve seen more padding on a night-stick.
I was totally pumped to see the King’s Speech tonight, but I am too headachey and disgusting and unable to eat. instead, I am going to have a bath and listen to Stephen Fry reading me some Harry Potter and then spend the rest of the evening wearing jeans and looking at myself in the mirror. holy wow I am lamest ever. send me things please.
on being intense .. I’ve been accused of it, but am mostly made of sunshine.
on it being four am
..
four am is no good.
want: late-night art store. possibly with drive through.
