Sleepwalking my way through life: January 2007

Late night/early morning paranoia

Sunday, January 28, 2007
For the first time in months I find myself groggily awake at 6am. Damn. Might as well use the time effectively.

It happens to most people at some time in their lives – whether it’s down to a drunken night on the town or a sticky situation involving you to get from A to F in a short amount of time – you have to call a taxi. And if you’re me (which I sincerely hope you aren’t) then you have to call taxis a lot.

I usually have a specific local taxi company that happily carts me around my various destinations. More than once they have ensured that I caught the train on time and quite a lot more than once have they guaranteed that I arrived at work on the stroke of five. Their drivers are friendly; smiling and talkative when you enter the taxi. They retrieve lost items, let you keep the change on a fare or two, and always wish you a nice day. These are friendly taxi drivers. These are taxi drivers you can trust.

But what happens when you’re stuck in the middle of Glasgow at two in the morning? The rain is pouring, the wind is slicing and the happy voice on the other end of your phone is telling you that the nearest taxi is thirty minutes away. Do you huddle in a bus shelter? Do you go back into the bar and pass the time with a few drinks (ever conscious that the taxi could come early and just leave without you)?

Of course you don’t. You skulk round the darkest of corners and wait on the loneliest kerbs for that glowing little light coming down the road. The Hackney cabs.

They are very large, and very very comfortable (especially for me, with long legs), but this comes at quite a price. There are two types of Hackney drivers, both similar in appearance with a toothy, yellow grin and livid scars on bald heads/unshaven cheeks; ones that ask you for a straight payment upfront, usually the approximate amount a private hire taxi would charge, plus ten pounds; and there are ones that tell you about boundary charges and turn on their cash meters with small, shit-eating grin before announcing that, unfortunately (insert regretful look) that it’ll have to be the price on the meter plus a third on top of that.

The first type of driver I have no problem with, I pay him and he drives and I do not have a care in the world about the direction he takes, the second one is the one I have trouble with. I become suddenly aware of the route he’s taking. Every swerve, lane change, brake, and acceleration is noted and critically examined in my minds eye. I stare at the counter as the cost increases twenty pence by twenty pence and I silently mouth calculations whilst counting my fingers. Approximately eighty pence every sixty seconds, meaning an average thirty minute journey would cost twenty-eight pounds (two thousand, eight hundred pence, including the four hundred pence – four pounds – that the counter began on). A third of that would be just over nine pounds, which would make the grand total of thirty-seven pounds, which means oh crap I don’t have enough money.

And whilst I am silently counting and sorting out my money in my head I glance up at the counter, quickly doing a double take. Did that just go faster? Did that twenty pence add itself on faster than the twenty pence’s before it? Is the taxi driver trying to cheat me?

And through all the panic and all the desperation and all the misery I fail to realise that I am actually home. The light flicks on and the driver smiles his gravestone grin from behind the plexi-glass protection. Turns out I had miscalculated the rate and over estimated my fare by over ten pounds, meaning I had plenty of change to jingle in my pockets. I handed over the money, completely bewildered and aghast as he counted out the change. My perception of him was totally wrong; and the man who I covertly glared at, muttered at out of earshot, and overall called a glorified thief, was actually a good guy; a nice guy with no tricks up his sleeve.

I stepped out the Hackney and he drove off, leaving me outside my house in the dead of night with my change in my hand. With dismay, I looked at the coins in my hand and sifted through them with my free fingers before I gave an inward jump for joy. I was right all along, my fears were just and my thoughts exactly on the mark. He short changed me a fifty pence. Bastard.

That's right, I'm back

Thursday, January 25, 2007
Skritch skritch

It happens suddenly. On the train, during lectures, in the midst of night, when listening to that song; one minute you’re happily idle, and the next minute you’re squirming and fidgeting. You flex your fingers – coiling and unravelling them in desperate anticipation. What is it? Why are you feeling this?


Work seems suddenly unimportant; TV becomes surprisingly bland; people begin to talk monotonously; and sleep? The dreaming hours drop away as you are forced to sit up and stare at the glowing screen. Your dark eyes dart back and forth over the screen. Your thumb nail is slowly worn down by your grinding jaw. Your arctic white feet writhe with inactivity.


It’s an itch. It’s an itch that’s spreading all through your body. It begins in your fingers, of course, and spreads up your arms and down your torso as it engulfs you whole. Your mind is slowly taken over by it. Slowly. Very slowly. You’re overcome with the itch – it happened so gradually – and every waking moment is spent in temptation of relieving yourself of this itch, this hell. Your finger is ready to drag its nail over the irritation, to silence the need once and for all.


I took the pen in hand and wrote a few sentences. Already, as the pen scratched its way over the paper, I could feel the need leaving me.

You're it!

Tuesday, January 23, 2007
This is one of the first times I’ve ever responded to one of these, but after being tagged by the lovely Meredith I decided to give it a go. This one seems fairly humorous to think over (though I did become slightly manic when I couldn’t think of a sixth one… perhaps that should be added as my seventh crazy thing).

Anyway, the point of this little exercise is to think of six things that make you (for lack of a better word) weird. Also I’ve to tag six of my fellow bloggers so they have to go through this horrible ordeal. So I’ll get the tagging out of the way first;

, Aidan, Matt, E, Erin, and Vivian.

Here we go.

1. I love trying out different accents, but I can never hold them for more than ten seconds. They always always always turn into an Indian drawl.

2. I am obsessed with how efficient my route is. I used to make myself breakfast in the morning and curse myself for wasting valuable seconds by not grabbing my bowl and the milk at the same time.

3. I love playing the devils advocate more than I love arguing the point that I believe is right.

4. I am double jointed in all my fingers, my thumbs and my knees. I often let people bend my fingers back, watching as they marvel at my deformity, before I scream out in mock pain and laugh as they jump back in fright.

5. I have MySpace, Bebo, Facebook, and Orkut accounts. I am very ashamed of this.

6. Despite my almost disgust for it, I think that – if done right – smoking looks really cool.

The Spiritualistic Atheist

Saturday, January 20, 2007
There’s this specific memory that sticks in my mind to this day, a memory that floats to surface whenever I feel a sense of serene adventure, or a calm beginning. It seems like it happened years, even decades ago, but it was only mere months.

It was very late, so late that it was actually considered early; the rising sun silently giving life to the world with a soft glow. I gazed out the window at the incredibly empty streets and kept watch, in vain, for any sign of life. Apart from us, there wasn’t a soul to be seen for miles, with every door, window and curtain shut tight from glorious sight. The car – as silent as the air itself – pulled into the car park and sat itself near the middle, neatly parked between the white lines despite it being the only car in the area. My companions and I stepped out and headed towards the all-night supermarket in the quest for food.

There was a soft breeze in the air, enough to cool me down and enough to create the smallest of sounds on the air. It was so tranquil; the early hours of the morning, everything was empty and unmoving, yet so full of life. Even the supermarket seemed to hum with solitary existence as we walked up and down the empty aisles. A few items later and we were back on the streets.

My companions walked back towards the car with our snacks in tow while I hung back, admiring the vista before me. The breeze blew again and I turned to watch a plastic bag become caught in an updraft and being carried up and up and up into the sky and the world that lies beneath it. And that’s when I saw it; the sky.

This is where I find my words failing me, where I find myself a fool for even trying to describe the sight before me. I want to call it orange, but I can’t. It wasn’t red, it wasn’t carrot, it wasn’t flesh, beige gold, or yellow. I want to say that it was as if a soft fire was dancing on the clouds, throwing shadows in the soft crevasses of the floating blankets, but that does not do it justice. It was as if there was no such thing as darkness, as if this light permeated anything and everything and I wished I could be as lucky as the clouds who were able to bask wholly in it. And still that does not do it justice.

I felt a squirming in my gut. A realisation dawned on me and filled my entire body – head to toe – in tingles; exciting pinpricks of possibility that flooded every sense and muscle. I could do anything. It was possible to do anything. To borrow a phrase from my favourite PostSecret postcard; in that moment, I was infinite.

When I think of that moment in the present day I feel the need to run. I have the tremendous urge to run as fast as I can until my legs fail me, and then I want to run more. I want to achieve something. I want to see something beautiful. I want to create something beautiful. I want to be seen. I want to see the possibility in every moment. I want to make every fucking second count towards something. I want to hold on and never let go. I want to hear true laughter, and I want to truly laugh. I want to be there, to do something. I want to be that guy. Fuck, I want to make something of myself.

But as I stood in that car park, and as I gazed at that sky, all I could do was smile.

72 hours and eighteen candles

Friday, January 19, 2007
Saturday 13th : Midnight

We were in the only good club in town, sidling in from the cold and sitting round a scratched metal table that stood inches from the dance floor which was populated with a spectrum of people tossing their hair and shakin’ their thangs. Soon a round of drinks was placed in front of us, and we all raised our glasses in merriment, coursing in unison to a happy birthday.

I was with Maddy, Laura, and their respective boyfriends; celebrating stage one of my birthday bash. Stage one involved a few people gathering at a local club and getting rat arsed in celebration of my eighteenth year still standing. There were more than a few people I knew passing too and fro, and more than once I found myself being accosted with hugs and slurred birthday wishes. Drink after drink was given to me, and bit by bit the world began to spin in the best way possible.

Soon I was up dancing and having shots and laughing and laughing more.


We finally decided to leave; after practically three hours of dancing and drinking. We walked through the down centre, the walls echoing with an eloquent version of Queens Don’t Stop Me Now. I hung back with Hannah, who was completely wasted and lucky to still be standing, and as a result we lost the rest of our group. Maddy and Laura had left the previous hour so I migrated to my usual lets-go-out-and-get-drunk group – the group that were now disappearing dots on the horizon as I steered Hannah away from anyone who would take advantage of her drunken state.

We stood in the taxi queue and phoned our peers, asking where they had disappeared to. Turns out they were a few hundred yards down the street at a chip shop and I promised that we would wait for them to grab a collective taxi home. I hung up the phone and explained the situation to Hannah who drunkenly sighed and climbed into a taxi with two random guys.

I rolled my eyes and climbed in after her.


“Look! Ish him! Ish Mr Brightside!

“I know, you pointed him out in the taxi.”

“He’s a pretty good dancer.”

“He is?”

“Yesh. Wait, where’s he goin?”

“Home. As are you.”

“Wait Joe, wheredyou live?”

“Over there, but I think I’ll walk you home first.”

“Aww, you’re sweet.”



“My feet are fucking sore.”

“I’m guessing it’s those shoes. The heels are pretty big.”

“You’re right. Oh my feet are so cold!”

“Hannah, put your shoes back on.”


“My feet are so fucking sore.”


“I think I’ll just have a coke-“

“NO!” shouted the mass of people at my table in unison.

I sighed and looked hopelessly at the waitress, “It appears I’m having a Jack and coke.”

My family cheered and laughed before they returned to their menus, chattering amongst themselves. They peered over each others shoulders to see what their neighbour could possibly be picking and I squeezed Jane’s leg. She gave me a weak smile and I smiled back reassuringly. This was the first time she was meeting anyone outside my immediate family, and later on that night she would be meeting my friends for the first time – a double whammy – and she was nervous.

“Toast toast toast!” they all shouted when my drink arrived.

I looked sheepishly at the glass in front of me and reluctantly picked it up.

“I’m a man of few words.” I said, and took a drink from my glass before setting it down.

Everyone booed.

The dinner was fantastic; I found myself brimming over with meat and sticky toffee pudding. I talked with my cousin and his girlfriend for their take on moving house (“Horrible. Horrible horrible horrible. You never realise how much junk you have until you have to lug it to a new flat) until I was nearly asleep with all the food I had eaten.


Jane and I sat in a bar with my two eldest cousins and their respective partners, trying not to fall asleep with all the food and drink.


I’m asleep.


After we visited numerous overcrowded places in Glasgow, we finally settle in The Garage. Jane and I grab a few seats and talk the night away while taking drink after drink. Owen, being my ever handy drinking buddy, came up with the rule that whatever was put down in front of me, I had to drink. This, unfortunately, meant that I downed a drink of the young couple who sat across from us. I gave them a drunken wave and finished their drink with a smile.

Sunday 14th : 12am

I give myself a silent toast to a happy birthday.


The taxi driver laughs again and falls silent as his attention returns to the road. Owen is talking to Sarah on his mobile phone – her drunk at her best friends birthday party – and Jane is asleep on my shoulder. She really hit it off with my friends; talking animatedly to Jeff and Owen even when I wasn’t there. She was the definition of a lightweight when it came to drinking, so a few alco-pops sent her over the edge. And she really enjoyed herself, which I was very happy about.


Jane has a seizure.


After watching old American sitcoms on TV, Jane and I decide to head back up to bed and catch some sleep.


After seeing Jane off (and receiving a bunch of flowers from her mum for coping so well with the seizure) Chris, Mum and I head to the other side of town to see a flat up for sale. As soon as we arrive we’re told we have to leave due to a booking fault, and we head back home cranky (sadly the house was sold before we could arrange another viewing).


Meet up with my brother and have dinner whilst talking about the events over the past few days. I had the steak raw and loved it.


We arrive at the Rock Café in Glasgow and meet with Chris’ friends. Chris implements another birthday rule; that I’m not allowed to buy a single drink. I am pleased at this.

We sit in the bar and have more than a few drinks, talking about tattoos and films and Adam West;

“Nobody messes with Adam We!”

I’m also introduced to the Jager-bomb. A concoction of two shots of Jagermiester and Red Bull. All the members of the table were staring at me when I was given it, and I sipped it gingerly, expecting for my head to explode of my face to fall off or something.


Monday 15th : 12am

We move from The Rock Café and head up to Firewater. The conversation on the way was incredibly interesting, but the content seems to elude me right now.


Singing along to William Shatners spoken word version of Pulp’s Common People. By now I am completely rat arsed and listening to the amount of guys that Mark has slept with (and marvelling at how many of them I knew).

We eventually leave and cross the street to go to the very empty Garage.


Dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. And drinking. There’s lots of that too. Whoo! And more dancing. And theatre dancing. That’s dancing that tells a story, bitch.


We’re huddled low down in the street eating boxes of chips and cheese. It’s strangely filling. Thus far, I have spent a total of £3.50 the entire night.

At some point I leap over a fence to reach an alley way. On the way back from my adventure I leap over the same fence, only to find that the fence was actually a gate that swung open as I was holding on to it.

Laughing ensued.


After finally grabbing a taxi, we are home. Chris pays the taxi driver an extra £20 since someone threw up in the taxi (strangely, I didn’t notice it at all). I climb into bed and sleep.


I wake up, look around, and fall asleep.


Oh god oh god oh god. Hangover. I want to die.


I make fried egg and toast. It is very very welcome.


In work, nursing a throbbing head and dying slowly. They give me a card, chocolates and a HMV gift card, so that cheers me up.


I’m still in work. Since I am now eighteen I stay in work until ten. It means I receive an extra £3 a day for suffering thirty minutes of soul crushing.

Tuesday 16th : 12am

I am sound asleep.

The final count (to the best of my memory):

23 Jack and cokes (approx) (over 10 of which were double)
6 Aftershocks (4 black, 2 silver)
3 Sambuca’s
3 Vodka and cokes
2 Sourz (apple)
1 Vodka and lemonade
1 Vodka and Red Bull
1 bottle of Blue Wkd
1 bottle of Smirnoff Ice (the equivalent to)
1 straight Jack
1 Jager-bomb (double Jagermiester and Red Bull)

1 fucking big headache

Thought of the day

Monday, January 15, 2007
A real update of the weekends events will follow. Eventually.

How come in almost every family-based sitcom there is a fat man married to a sexy, nymphomaniac wife?


Saturday, January 13, 2007
Here I am, with a nice big glass of sobering water, wishing myself a very happy eighteenth birthday.

It’s only four hours in, and it’s already the best birthday so far.

Little tidbits

Wednesday, January 10, 2007
I’m back together with Jane. We talked it all out, everything is good between us and I am willing to chalk this up as a teenage misunderstanding. Hopefully my last one.


My old manager from work was talking to me the other day, telling me how she has reread a chunk of my blog and was disappointed that I hadn’t made another reference to her or work. So here it is. Oh, she also made a reference to a certain post. Her exact words were something along the lines of;

“One of your entries was a bit… erm, rude.”

Ah, I miss her sometimes.


We’re going flat viewing tomorrow. It is very very possible that we have found the perfect flat in which Chris and I can turn into a sty, but there could be a teensy snafoo with the size of the second bedroom (i.e. my bedroom) so we need to sort that out. It’s bloody exciting though.


I love the Wii. So much.


And my birthday is in three days. Everything is coming together, with people confirming they’re showing up for my weekend drink-fest. I cannot be more excited.

One sheep two sheep three sheep four

Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The corridor was filled with people, each of them pushing past me with a ghostly silence. My companion was talking animatedly with someone over a counter, her hair dancing around her in the twilight as she tried to convey what she wanted. She gave up and looked at me with a sunken face.

Any luck?


In a flurry of frustration, she barged by me and grabbed the first bystander she saw, shaking him violently. Despite her furious face and aggressive manner, he just looked at her with his eyes half shut and jaw hanging slightly open.

¿Donde está Mal?

There was no response. I looked on and shook my head.

¿Donde está, por favor?

His eyes rolled.




I looked up. Here?

The bystander nodded towards the door in front of us; the door that stood out from the rest and now seemed the oh so obvious place to hide the elusive Mal. My companion looked at me excitedly and abandoned the clueless bystander to burst through the door ahead. I followed behind at a walk, smiling happily at our achievement and patting the bystander on the back.

The sun set as soon as I stepped through the door and I flicked the switch on the wall to light up a brightly decorated room. The chandelier cast a golden light over the creamy walls, each decorated with paintings and elegant tapestries. In the reflection of the long mirror I watched the door behind me, made of gold and encrusted with jewels, close with a loud thud. Mal stood in the centre of the room, holding a book in one hand and smiling a knowing smile. My companion was lying on the bed; her hair fell about her shoulders and a slender hand stroked the silk sheets.

The lights cut out and the moon sprang up from behind the curtained windows. My companion stood up, her tanned body illuminated in the moonlight, and stepped up the wall. Her bare feet lightly ran along the wall before she angled up again and reached the ceiling. She stepped over to the chandelier before lying down beside it, curled up in a ball like a cat. Her shining eyes stared at me from behind strands of hair.

¿Y tu?

Mal was up beside her, the book replaced by a glass of gravity defying champagne but the knowing smile remained.

No. Palmer may need me.

And I was on the bed, staring in to space.

¿Cómo puede usted ser seguro?

He always does.

The house shook and I was thrown to the side, falling off the bed and tumbling to the floor. The room tilted and water began flooding in from the window – frothing and bubbling up, absorbing the bed that slid into its depths. I looked up and saw my companion holding on to Mal who was still smiling that damned knowing smile.

¿Qué ahora?


And I woke up.

Just so you know

Sunday, January 07, 2007
I broke up with Jane.

Aaaaaaaaaaand I am a horrible person.

Movie reference week!

Saturday, January 06, 2007
Let me set the scene for you.

The white wooden door swings open without a squeak, light glinting off the shining gloss, revealing the room within. The walls are incredibly bare and incredibly beige. The soft carpet is a burgundy colour – some sections lighter than others where sunlight hit – and it is riddled with deep impressions that serve as monuments to the heavy furniture that once rested in them. The drawers and wardrobe stand solitarily, white and silent, as does the radiator – with its few splatters of dried in coke.

And there is a bed, in the centre of the room, not touching any wall, holding a disconcerted boy.

What happened here? Did a disaster hit? Did a malicious force break its way into the room to sweep away any trace of individuality? Oh how I wish I could say it was; how I wish I could live in fear of a monster that caused so much destruction and trauma. But I am sad to admit that all this – what I can only call – devastation was caused by a singular man, and his paintbrush.

All of my possessions had to be hidden in preparation for his arrival; my clothes, my books, my DVDs all had to be piled into the looming wardrobe, just in case they were in his way. I complied with reluctance, knowing that a newly decorated room would provide a quicker sale on the house and therefore a quicker transition to the flat. So, this morning, I hid the rest of my belongings with a sigh and headed downstairs. A few hours later I came back up and found myself speechless at the change that had been forced upon my room. The walls had gone from yellow to beige, the ceiling went from cream to white, and this was the first time I truly realised how empty it was. I heard my breath echo off the walls and I looked on, aghast at what had become of my room.

Everything was so different from my usual mess of a room, but it was the walls that shocked me the most. Beige! The walls – my walls – were beige! I ran a hand over the now dry paint, my jaw hanging open as I felt the smoothness of the wall. The yellow was gone. The happy, cheery, warm yellow that proudly displayed its many scars of fourteen years worth of blue tack and drawing pins, was gone. A dull, lifeless beige took its place. Beige. Even as I say it I cannot believe it to be true. No one will love beige, no one will smile broadly when the sun lights up their beige room. Beige will be liked, beige will be accepted, tolerated, but beige will never be loved.

As the plans for moving out progress and accelerate, I find myself becoming more detached from the house. The bathroom is no longer my bathroom, the kitchen is no longer my kitchen, the seat on the couch is no longer my seat on the couch. I suppose it had to happen at some point, where my room has suddenly become the room where I sleep, where I keep my things. I am wondering with eager curiosity whether or not the feeling of my room, my sanctuary, will ever come back.

Until then, I think I will browse the Ikea catalogue for a nice neat pile of shit to populate my new room.

Et tu Brute?

Friday, January 05, 2007
Yes yes, I am totally stealing this idea from Angelique.

Friends, bloggers, countrymen, lend me your ears.

The time has come when I call upon your loyalty, where I ask a singular thing to repay the haphazardly decent posts that I have brought to you over the years. We have shared many laughs, many tears, and many baffled looks throughout our time together, why even now I smile at the pleasant memories that you bring me.

And now, more than ever, I need you. Yes, you. You, who have been with me through thick and thin, I need you to nominate and – when the time comes – vote for me in the 2007 Bloggies.

Be patient with me, for only once have I requested something in return of pseudo-regular updates (and hell, that was for charity).

Go forth my patrons, my partners in internet society! Spread the word of me to all your dearest, and fill my ego to the brink with blogging stardom!

… Please?

Note: I am only suitable for the following categories; Best British or Irish Weblog, Best Teen Weblog, Best Writing of a Weblog, and Weblog of the Year. Of course, this is me not getting too ahead of myself now.

At last

Wednesday, January 03, 2007
After eight very long hours of fiddling, typing, and a horrible amount of pasting, I finally fix my blog.

Due to the change from Old Blogger to New Blogger (formerly Blogger Beta), my humble little site lost its RSS feed and was suddenly unable to hold comments. In simple terms? It got buggered up.

But now I have sorted it all. I went through three different designs – the first one being a bad design and the second one failing at the first hurdle – before I reached this final product. And I have to admit, it isn’t too shabby. There are still a few things I’d like to tweak here and there, maybe design a new header or change the background colour, but so far I’m happy with it. Good thing I was looking for a change in look anyway.

And now I think I’ll go to bed.

Edit: Oh shit. It looks absolutely terrible in IE. Do I have to fix that too? Dammit.

EditII: Things seem to be working fine now, thanks to my extremely amateur hacking skillz. And a thanks for all the help from the technologically genius RSers.

Resolute Urgency of 07

Tuesday, January 02, 2007
I suppose I should jump on the bandwagon here and welcome in 2007 with a dedicated post to celebrate the New Year. But I find myself wondering; what makes this year so different from last year? All my major changes happened in 06 (loss of security, gaining of maturity – ah, it’s fun to rhyme) so what’s left for 07? What will stop it from being a boring year?

Ah, I have a plan this year.

That is correct; for the first time in X years, I have compiled some New Years Resolutions. Of course I do this every year in an attempt to make myself feel better and not lazy, but this will be the first year that I actually take the time and effort to write them down for all to see.

1. Make more of an effort at university. (Yes, an obvious one, but it has to be noted nonetheless).
2. Get in shape. (Once again, another obvious one).
3. Write uncensored in a personal diary. (So I don’t end up going crazy).
4. Make an effort to write professionally.
5. Make more of an effort to maintain friendships.

Those five listed are my major ones; the ones that, since I have now written them down for the world to see, I have to fulfil. There are also a few dozen “unofficial” resolutions, including “blog more” and “reach my eighteenth birthday” (yes the latter was put in so I could proclaim that I had fulfilled one of my resolutions within thirteen days of making it).

And yes, the latter was also to bring up the fact that my eighteenth birthday is in a mere eleven days. Soon I’ll be able to do everything that I’ve already been doing – namely getting drunk – except legally. To be honest I can’t think of any other good reason to be eighteen; voting? Who needs it? At last I can leave the dreaded limbo that is seventeen years and welcome, with open arms, the warm comforting drunken days of eighteen.

2006 was an exciting year, to say the least, and I wonder how 2007 will turn out.

Another ten people

A filler whilst I try to break through my bloggersblock.

TRY THIS: Write 10 statements intended towards 10 different people. Write about something you would never say to his/her face or something that you wished you had said when you got the chance, but didn't.

1. We should hang out more. Really. Want to catch a film sometime? Oh oh oh, we should definitely have pizza again. And get fat.

2. We need to drink together again. Soon.

3. You’re truly amazing. You really don’t understand how much you helped me when I needed it. I don’t think I’d be the person I am right now if it weren’t for you.

4. Just get it over with. The more you wait the more you’re torturing the poor boy. If you don’t do it soon, I really really will do it in your place. Honest to god, you baffle me beyond belief. Leave me alone.

5. Stop worrying. You’ll get wrinkles.

6. Sometimes, I’m not kidding. Yeah.

7. Please please please be as nice to me as you have been before. Please? Things will be so much more fun and so much easier if that’s so.

8. Get off me. Now.

9. You have my CDs, and I have your DVDs. We need to meet, catch up and trade things. Besides, I’m wondering how you’re doing.

10. I didn’t want you to move away. I miss your ever ready ear and over the top reactions. We should get together and just talk.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

Monday, January 01, 2007
Happy New Year everyone.