In which I magically become boring as soon as people add me.
I cannot explain how much I dislike every single thing on the "go to bed, go to sleep, get up, go to college" front at the moment. Actually BEING at college is - while frustrating - fine. Because I'm THERE and getting on with it. It's the bit where I know I have to get onto the most uncomfortable fucking bed on the planet and try to force my brain to sleep and then drag my idiot self out of the bed with a head full of bad thanks to my subconscious being made of hate, and then go and sit on some very crowded buses for hours because BOB CROW IS A CUNT, A CUNT WHO DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THAT "RECESSION" DOES NOT MEAN YOU MAGICALLY GET PROTECTED FROM REDUNDANCIES. HEY BOB, YOU SEE WHO IS IN POWER RIGHT NOW? YEAH? I DIDN'T VOTE FOR THE TORIES. STOP MAKING MY LIFE MISERABLE, YOU FAT BACKWARD MILL-WALL SUPPORTING COCKNEY SHITSTAIN. PS no you are not a socialist, you are protectivist, and I hope your testicles explode and kill you.
So that's why the next ten hours or so are going to be wretched. However, delightful project of self-indulgent self-indulging continues beautifully and continues to make me very happy, and I sort-of and slightly cheatingly got through my to-do list for today (I even cheat myself. Hahah. All hail the would-be queen of bullshit) and emailed my tutor and nothing exploded and no one died. I still want to remove chunks of my flesh and feed them to a wolf or something though. I hope I give it a bad case of being me. Werefuckwit.
Status of twelve_tales is that I will look at it, and something else I've been sent, on Tuesday (tomorrow is class from 9am to 6pm and then I have to type up my notes and cry a bit). Then mass editing and selection will take place, five people are going to be pissed off with me, and I really, really, really need to buy a holepunch and other boring things. Disorganised Derek.
Rain
And,
After the rain,
Our umbrella
Becomes a cane,
And, "Whatever will become of us?"
Becomes "...became."
by David Thewlis
[I include because it's the poem that the keyboards for this icon are taken from. The icon itself is the illustration for Nails & Rope. NEW PEOPLE YOU SHOULD TOTALLY READ THIS FIC BECAUSE THE PAIRING DOES NOT GET ENOUGH LOVE. And I am also babbling because I don't this post to consist entirely of me whining and whining about having to get out of bed before noon a grand total of two fucking days a week. PS: I STILL WANT A TOM HARDY MOOD THEME. WHERE IS IT]
27 days until I have been on this earth for 28 years without achieving a single damn thing. \o/ I might even make it to thirty.
So that's why the next ten hours or so are going to be wretched. However, delightful project of self-indulgent self-indulging continues beautifully and continues to make me very happy, and I sort-of and slightly cheatingly got through my to-do list for today (I even cheat myself. Hahah. All hail the would-be queen of bullshit) and emailed my tutor and nothing exploded and no one died. I still want to remove chunks of my flesh and feed them to a wolf or something though. I hope I give it a bad case of being me. Werefuckwit.
Status of twelve_tales is that I will look at it, and something else I've been sent, on Tuesday (tomorrow is class from 9am to 6pm and then I have to type up my notes and cry a bit). Then mass editing and selection will take place, five people are going to be pissed off with me, and I really, really, really need to buy a holepunch and other boring things. Disorganised Derek.
Rain
And,
After the rain,
Our umbrella
Becomes a cane,
And, "Whatever will become of us?"
Becomes "...became."
by David Thewlis
[I include because it's the poem that the keyboards for this icon are taken from. The icon itself is the illustration for Nails & Rope. NEW PEOPLE YOU SHOULD TOTALLY READ THIS FIC BECAUSE THE PAIRING DOES NOT GET ENOUGH LOVE. And I am also babbling because I don't this post to consist entirely of me whining and whining about having to get out of bed before noon a grand total of two fucking days a week. PS: I STILL WANT A TOM HARDY MOOD THEME. WHERE IS IT]
27 days until I have been on this earth for 28 years without achieving a single damn thing. \o/ I might even make it to thirty.