This time we're not giving up, let's make it last forever
I just watched the third and final part to a mini series on TV with my dad, called 'Tin Man'. It's been described as a modern reimagining of the classic tale, 'The Wizard of Oz', but technically it's a sequel. It's based in Oz, or as it's called in this version, the 'O.Z.', and the plot is like a modern adaptation of the story, kind of, but it's supposed to be history repeating itself many years on. It's a lot less complicated than it sounds, and definitely worth seeing!
I spoke to Tyler today. I was telling him how I need a haircut. My fringe is getting to that length where it's too heavy to sit right when I blowdry it. I want a change. I thought about getting it cut to about chin-length, but I think I like it this length after all. It's long, but not so long that my frizz comes back because of the weight on the curls. I think I'd like to go blonde, but I'm very lazy when it comes to maintainance, and I don't want to get stuck with awful dark roots. It's a shame, really; I'd love to try blonde. Maybe one day when I have more time and money to look after it. And so, I've now come to the conclusion that I'd like highlights. Not great glaring flashes of blonde like my sister, just nice and soft, maybe a caramel kind of colour.
I have an addition to my list of things I'd like to do if and when I have the time: I'd very much like to learn sign-language. This is a result of watching an episode of Cold Case, in which the plot circled around a teenage boy in the deaf community, where it was frowned upon to be close in any way to a 'hearing person', as it was seen as an act of betrayal.
Tomorrow's a bank holiday, and for the first time in a long time, my family are planning a day out. We were at the dinner table, and all I said was, "So are we doing anything nice tomorrow?" and suddenly (to my utter surprise), Dad started making plans with me. So now we've decided, we'll go shopping in Peterborough (because Queensgate Centre is indoors and it's apparently going to be miserable weather, just like today), and then later on we're going to go see the new Indiana Jones movie at the Showcase, and have dinner at Pizza Hut or somewhere.
On the room-cleaning front, I'm starting to get somewhere.. I guess. I've emptied and chucked my old Crayola super storage tower, and seriously condensed the contents of my smaller drawer unit. I've also gutted out the cupboard above my bed and filled it with the boxes that dominated the top shelf of my big cupboard. I cleared out my bookcase, putting all my old books in a box, which now sits on the shelf that I cleared, along with my knitting box and my mailing stuff box. Dad put a bunch of bags in the attic, containing materials from my course and masses upon masses of sketchbooks. Now I think about it, I should have gotten him to put this stupid flipping cardboard-box-alphabet-sculpture thing up there, too. I think next I'll tackle all the drawers. Desk drawers, so I can put my computer and stationary stuff away, bed drawers, to make some extra space for random bits and bobs, and my chest of drawers, so that I can put my clothes away and stop living out of a suitcase.
One of the things I found amongst the debris of my being was my Yearbook. As I flicked through it, I wondered how many others felt the way I did back then. Nine tenths of the people in that book, I'd punch, given the opportunity, but none would tempt me as strongly as Kathryn Robinson. She was my best friend, until halfway through the trip to France in Year 9. She started hanging out with some other people, and all of a sudden she became this cold, ruthless bitch towards me. To this day, I don't know what I did wrong, I simply know that we never spoke a word to each other again, and that it's since then I've never been able to keep a friend for more than a few years.
I really am trying to do this thoroughly. My room has been full of crap for so long, I just feel like it resembles my life too much. I'm getting rid of all the junk that makes it so hard to find homes for new things. I can't trust, or love, or befriend anyone anymore. The past year has been as much of a nightmare as the rest of my God-forsaken life, and now that I've happened across some people who actually enjoy my company, who don't just put up with me, who don't have a hidden agenda, and don't set expectations for me to live up to, I don't plan on letting them slip away.
To finish, have a poem. It was in a notebook I found while cleaning, one I bought in Canada. I suppose it's slightly fitting; it's about the poet, Philip Larkin (grumpy, racist, morbid old git), whom I studied for English Literature in Year 13, and loathed with a burning passion.
Stranger
How he could chime,
Like a heavy mourning bell.
No son, no wife -
Quite natural?
Submerged in a world so small,
Ruled by time and regret
Over many a wasted moment he let
Slip away.
Now the ticking dictator he feared
Still sings its requiem;
What will survive of us is love,
But love does not remember him.
I spoke to Tyler today. I was telling him how I need a haircut. My fringe is getting to that length where it's too heavy to sit right when I blowdry it. I want a change. I thought about getting it cut to about chin-length, but I think I like it this length after all. It's long, but not so long that my frizz comes back because of the weight on the curls. I think I'd like to go blonde, but I'm very lazy when it comes to maintainance, and I don't want to get stuck with awful dark roots. It's a shame, really; I'd love to try blonde. Maybe one day when I have more time and money to look after it. And so, I've now come to the conclusion that I'd like highlights. Not great glaring flashes of blonde like my sister, just nice and soft, maybe a caramel kind of colour.
I have an addition to my list of things I'd like to do if and when I have the time: I'd very much like to learn sign-language. This is a result of watching an episode of Cold Case, in which the plot circled around a teenage boy in the deaf community, where it was frowned upon to be close in any way to a 'hearing person', as it was seen as an act of betrayal.
Tomorrow's a bank holiday, and for the first time in a long time, my family are planning a day out. We were at the dinner table, and all I said was, "So are we doing anything nice tomorrow?" and suddenly (to my utter surprise), Dad started making plans with me. So now we've decided, we'll go shopping in Peterborough (because Queensgate Centre is indoors and it's apparently going to be miserable weather, just like today), and then later on we're going to go see the new Indiana Jones movie at the Showcase, and have dinner at Pizza Hut or somewhere.
On the room-cleaning front, I'm starting to get somewhere.. I guess. I've emptied and chucked my old Crayola super storage tower, and seriously condensed the contents of my smaller drawer unit. I've also gutted out the cupboard above my bed and filled it with the boxes that dominated the top shelf of my big cupboard. I cleared out my bookcase, putting all my old books in a box, which now sits on the shelf that I cleared, along with my knitting box and my mailing stuff box. Dad put a bunch of bags in the attic, containing materials from my course and masses upon masses of sketchbooks. Now I think about it, I should have gotten him to put this stupid flipping cardboard-box-alphabet-sculpture thing up there, too. I think next I'll tackle all the drawers. Desk drawers, so I can put my computer and stationary stuff away, bed drawers, to make some extra space for random bits and bobs, and my chest of drawers, so that I can put my clothes away and stop living out of a suitcase.
One of the things I found amongst the debris of my being was my Yearbook. As I flicked through it, I wondered how many others felt the way I did back then. Nine tenths of the people in that book, I'd punch, given the opportunity, but none would tempt me as strongly as Kathryn Robinson. She was my best friend, until halfway through the trip to France in Year 9. She started hanging out with some other people, and all of a sudden she became this cold, ruthless bitch towards me. To this day, I don't know what I did wrong, I simply know that we never spoke a word to each other again, and that it's since then I've never been able to keep a friend for more than a few years.
I really am trying to do this thoroughly. My room has been full of crap for so long, I just feel like it resembles my life too much. I'm getting rid of all the junk that makes it so hard to find homes for new things. I can't trust, or love, or befriend anyone anymore. The past year has been as much of a nightmare as the rest of my God-forsaken life, and now that I've happened across some people who actually enjoy my company, who don't just put up with me, who don't have a hidden agenda, and don't set expectations for me to live up to, I don't plan on letting them slip away.
To finish, have a poem. It was in a notebook I found while cleaning, one I bought in Canada. I suppose it's slightly fitting; it's about the poet, Philip Larkin (grumpy, racist, morbid old git), whom I studied for English Literature in Year 13, and loathed with a burning passion.
Stranger
How he could chime,
Like a heavy mourning bell.
No son, no wife -
Quite natural?
Submerged in a world so small,
Ruled by time and regret
Over many a wasted moment he let
Slip away.
Now the ticking dictator he feared
Still sings its requiem;
What will survive of us is love,
But love does not remember him.