Oh deer, Im’a gettin’ the trembles.
Just had a mild panick attack pertaining to Xavier’s arrival tomorrow. What am I going to do? He’s a different person! In my house! Doing… French things! What if he’s not normal anymore? I mean, he was French before, but what if he comes here dressed in garlic, screaming the Marseillaise at the top of his voice? HOW WILL I COPE?
No, but seriously, the next few days are going to be a little difficult, not least because of the guilt. I’m abandoning Xavier on no less than three occasions (Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday).
Ooh. Controversy abounds. Completely unrelated to this. Gotta go.
The wheels on the bus fall off, sending hundreds tumbling down into a ravine.
I found my glasses. Might still get new ones, but I found my other ones. Which is good.
Today, I got my laptop tested. It was a wholly disturbing experience. I trudged up to the Estates office, which is tucked away out of sight next to the IT drop-in centre, where a man by the name of Neil with absurdly gelled hair, a repulsive green sweatshirt and a patronising yet utterly pathetic lisp was sitting. I asked - no, wheedled - about maybe getting my laptop tested, despite not having an appointment, and he stared at me. Silence fell. He stood up, still staring.
A sheen of sweat began to form on my forehead. I couldn’t tell - was it the heat, the light, or this creature of a man?
He broke the silence, telling me that yes, we can test your laptop, but we’ll have to go down to the sports hall. Shit. This could end in a myriad of ways.
- I go down to the sports hall, a place I avoid at the best of times, and get roped into some perverse game of football, or rugby, or whatever strange and unusual torturous practices they engage in down there.
- I go down to the sports hall, and he takes me into an office, whereupon he reveals himself to me and performs horribly suitable acts upon me (suitable, of course, references the fact that this is a Catholic college).
- We go down to the sports hall and he tests my laptop.
Now I was panicking. Trembling. What horrors would await at the Hall of Sport? Awkwardness? Exercise? Torture? Rape? I didn’t know, and I was beginning to think that I’d rather take the risk of being electrocuted by my perfectly safe laptop than go down with this scary-looking-and-sounding man.
To cut a long story short, I got my laptop tested, I didn’t get roped into the s or the r-word (sport and rape respectively), and I eased myself out of the workshop (Aquinas has a workshop, apparently) with what could almost be called ease.
The countdown has more or less begun for Xavier’s departure - not much is going to be done from now until the end (tomorrow, about 8.30 AM), though we are going out to the Chinese buffet place tonight for tea. Which should be nice - it’s a while since we’ve been there.
I’m beginning to realise I had absolutely no idea for what to write when I started this. Hasn’t turned out too badly, I guess.
I’m happy. I suppose that’s the problem, in some bizarre, perverse way. I can’t get sad - I get angry, annoyed, even pissed off, but these are all random and temporary tangents from the norm of feeling great. I’m not used to this. I’m used to feeling stressed, or upset, or depressed, and I’m not sure how to deal with this. I feel love for every little tiny thing in the world, even the dicks (mainly metaphorical), and it’s the perfect kind - a non-exclusive, non-sexual, non-romantic sort. I feel like my brain has turned into a fountain of thin, fluorescent goop, firing into the air at a million miles a second with no sign of stopping.
The only thing I do not feel is beautiful. The spots are coming back.
He breathes out.
The French coursework - at least, the amount that I’d hoped to get done - is completed. Out of the way. Slap, bang, kadum.
At the moment, I’m reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which has turned out to be a much better book than I expected. Intense stuff, but still accessible. Maybe only after you’ve seen the film, though. Not quite sure. I reckon it probably helps. It’s all quite visually stimulating. Nice illustrations from Ralph Steadman, too, the Withnail & I artist.
I’ve also just finished Watchmen, which has reawakened my interest in the film. I won’t say much about it - you can read it if you’re interested - but it’s very different to a lot of comic books out there.
As far as New Year goes, the mad, destructive, crazy party in Marple I finally convinced myself to go to is no longer an option - the girl who’s running it has put about £1000 into it, which in my eyes actually provides more reason to go, but OK - so I’m off to Amelia’s, then the pub, then Theo’s this evening. It should be alright. Not exciting, not necessarily fun, but alright.
Finally, a few media-related things; I’ve done 12 pieces of microfiction now, and I’m aiming for a hundred before I put that out, so that’s… what? About an eighth of my target. This tumblelog’s got a new design - I was sick of shamelessly ripping off other ones, so I figured I’d vamp it up a little, complete with Mac-style shadows and the Red Circle (Chewy Cerebrum) font, and Hiatus Press has been reworked to advertise more as a service-based publisher rather than a conventional one.
OK, I’m off - gotta kick a mongoloid in the face go and let some kids into the cinema where I work.
See ya next year.
Incredible. Ah well, deserved it.French ERYX Missile test (0:32)
You gotta wait for the very last second
New layout.
Let’s see how long this one lasts.
French listening tonight. Torture.
Thriller
One-man, 64 track, acapella.
AWESOME.
This blew my socks off, just a little. Though the guy’s voice isn’t a patch on Jacko’s, obviously. Still, worth a watch.
