Oh, don't you just love it when you 'discover' a band's music which you quickly become addicted to? And tell everyone else to listen to them, even if their musical tastes are entirely different to yours. I have a habit of doing so, it seems to happen to most people, only recently it hadn't been happening much. It made a pleasant change to my humdrum life. Nine Horses are offically awesome and I love them. So there.

Funkadelic funkadelia.

And what is it right now with my relunctance to receive any treatment from the healthcare services? I have major toothache and pain in my mouth, and have run out of medication for my low mood, but cannot be arsed to actually book myself an appointment to see either the doctor or the dentist. It's too much hassle at the moment. There's so much else that's going on, stress and all that kind of thing really takes away any kind of desire to deal with that stuff. Sigh.

So much for promising my parents that I would take care of myself once they left for Istanbul. :/

OK! I promise to make an appointment for both the doctor and the dentist once I get back down to Oxford. One must take care of oneself, one supposes. What does one have if one doesn't have ones health? Nothing at all. And as good old King Lear said so accurately, nothing will come of nothing. So, care will be taken with me, where ever I go.

And another thing, why do my posts seem to be so disjointed and infrequent? Time is of the essence, but time is not abundant at the moment for me. A Levels take most of it, friends, family and bell ringing takes up the rest of it. Not to mention sleeping. However, I haven't actually slept for over 24 hours now. Let me think. I woke up at around 8 o'clock in the morning on the 25th of October, and haven't slept since then. So let me count.

27 hours. Or there abouts anywho. Hah! Well, I'm at my sister's house in Edinburgh, she and her friends are at this moment sitting on the place where my bed is apparently. I don't mind though, methinks I've reached that stage where one is too tired to sleep, and on the way to being majorly hyper. Having chocolate and Coca Cola probably doesn't help too much either, to be honest. I tried to have a nap earlier today, but really couldn't get any sleep, it was weird. Sleeping in the daylight doesn't come naturally to me.

Without any further ado, I go. Till next time, be cool and keep the monkeys hot.

D.

Why is it that I find myself relating to a character who is an ex-prostitute? That's not the only one, there's another who basically lives my life every time you press play on the machine on top of the blabber-box, who is a dance hall hostess. Is that not disturbing, I ask myself, to liken myself and my experiences so far on this Journey of Life to women of disreputable characters and natures?

Maybe not.

I think my boyfriend would think differently.

Of course, who knows what he's on about, I am no different from any common street wanderer. I have no more dignity, no more respectibility than others who work for a living. Do other people feel this way as well? That's something I've just begun to think about; am I the only person who truly, truly believes that I am not worth loving, caring for, or anything else of the sort? People have said that I am not even worth being alive.

Why not agree?

NB. The dodo thing is about the stuffed toys we happen to sell at the moment in the shop where my mother and I work, the University of Oxford shop. But no advertisment here, please.

Seriously, enough is enough.

First you ask me to tell you the truth, so I do, you say then that you trust me unconditionally and have forgiven me. And then you plot for me to leave the country and get another life whilst I am happy in my own little naive world, thinking that I'm going away to better myself for my return to be with you.

I leave, as planned, and you don't even have the guts to come to the airport to see me off. I'm sat on the plane, writing away to you, on the bus back to Oxford, scribbling away, even though it makes me sick to even think about it all. I can barely see anything through my tears, and yet I still write, confessing my love for you again and again.

Once I reach the destination, the Parents' House, I check my emails and see you have sent one. Thinking that it will be pleasant to hear from my loved one, I cheerfully open it and start reading. My face falls and I tremble with disbelief as I read how you had never forgiven me and hated me, you hoped I never came across you again and that I would just continue in my way and stay well away from you.

The shock sets in and Mum comes into the room, finds me bawling my eyes out and asks what's wrong. Between sobs I am able to tell her what you have written me. All she can do is hold me as I shake and cry soundlessly.

After that I lose all sense of humanity. I know it sounds ridiculous, but let me put it this way; other people had to come and tell me to eat several times before I would even hear them. I would sit on the sofa for hours staring at nothing. All I wanted to do was sleep, yet when night came I couldn't bare to face my dreams of you and didn't sleep. All motivation left me, no guitar even looked playable to me. Chores were done with mechanical acceptance, not unwilling grumbles.

Then the pieces slowly started to fall into place, I got a job, a place in college and some friends. It started to look up. Christmas happened and Joy came down from Scotland for two weeks, which was incredible.

It was a Monday and I was sitting in the Tutorial lesson with my chums, whilst they were attentively watching the documentary about ecstasy, I was busy checking my email. Something I never expected, an email from you. Now, Dad told me to never read anything I received from you, but to delete it as soon as I saw who it was from. For some strange reason I couldn't this time.

As I read your unfocused ramblings, the tears rolled down my face yet again, but this time for another reason. You said you couldn't do it without me, that everything was dull and meaningless without me. You even went to the length of telling me about your half-drunk bottle of wine that you were saving for me.

This changed things quite a bit. After several months of actually being able to have a decent night's sleep, suddenly I was thrown into the abyss of sleepless nights. And at one of the worst times possible for me, exam time.

You were intent on speaking to me, over Skype or Facebook, whatever it was you would try and find me. Speaking words that you know would touch me, make me feel sorry for you, make the feelings I still have for you come back into flame...

Then another day, another email. You hate me again. I don't know why, when or how... But to be honest, I'm not too sure that I care. Anyone who acts as manic-depressive as you should not be given access to an internet connection.

Just leave me the fuck alone!

This afternoon something really weird but cool happened to me. I finally figured out what I needed to do all along. Let's just hope that I can stick to it, eh?

On another note, the weather is cold, wet and miserable, but something is keeping my spirits raised. The thought of college tomorrow actually inspires me, rather than depresses me. I've decided that maybe Mondays aren't so bad after all. It's just a misconception, favoured by people who like weekends too much. Not like me. Hah.

Goodness, that was quick... I am poggling around with Itunes, importing CDs and whatnot. My Ipod is going to be the best Ipod ever. So there. Although I only have 4 GBs, those GBs shall be occupied by some pretty darn good music. In my opinion anyway.

By the bye, here is a definition of "poggling":

To poggle: To poggle is to play or muck about with something without seeming to have a particular purpose. Children are especially good at poggling.

See? Good word. It's also my younger sister's given name. Well, no. It isn't, but that's what we call her. The Pogg.

End.

Wowzer...

In the house, no, on the wall. Up the stairs, on the roof. The cat jumps over the spoon, the man just slyly remarked how cold the weather was getting.

"It is snowing, you know."

Not everyone agrees with him. For example, in the little city of Oxford, only a few millimetres of snow has fallen in the past couple of days. This seems rather unfair, compared to the rest of the UK. One shall always feel the strain of wearing fingerless gloves whilst playing the ukulele. Otherwise where is the knowledge of the past? It is all inscrutable.

The question is, do walruses really think about insurance or not? Because many people would beg to differ. The daisies, for example. No one ever asks them how they feel, or what makes the world go round for them. Maybe that is because the answer would be nothing, just silence, because daisies can't talk, and as far as we know, can't think either. Do daisies have souls? Ask them.

Hum. That's the sound of the empty chambers of my mind firing on all cylinders. Not a very loud noise, as you can tell.

To be enough, that's all I ask to be.