(no subject)
I leave for Brighton. I’m going back to work for EvilChill Tonight and tomorrow night in between which I will be doing bits and bobs of ghastly Christmas shopping. Only on standby tonight though, in which case I will invite Patrick and Kuchenga round and we can listen to Erykah Badu and sing showtunes. I knew I would never escape the world of the Uber-gay. It plagues me.
Why is there never anything fucking Stealable in my house?
The last few days have been leisurely and crisp, just ambling around town seeing films and reading in cafes and visiting Tinu at work, where she drowns in awful clothes and an even worse lack of customers. Last night we sat in Village (god, why did I think it was possible to maintain an important conversation with euro-trance pounding above our heads?) and she talked about how she feels she has nothing to offer and worries about it a lot. I’m used to this from my own melodramatic psyche and also from Candy’s deluded rantings about her supposed rubbishness, and it makes me wonder how it is that such a large proportion of my friends are either tormented writers, highly insecure, or a combination of both. Maybe we are all destined to sit and huddle in moley corners in bookshops and talk about the outside world in mockery. It does seem like self deprecation has the potential to get a little too much air space and start to solidify as an acceptable personality trait, as a definitive factor- which in view of people that I know, is restrictive. There is of course no way that I could instantly change the way they feel about themselves. Like me, they learn the hard way, and that’s fine.
Why is there never anything fucking Stealable in my house?
The last few days have been leisurely and crisp, just ambling around town seeing films and reading in cafes and visiting Tinu at work, where she drowns in awful clothes and an even worse lack of customers. Last night we sat in Village (god, why did I think it was possible to maintain an important conversation with euro-trance pounding above our heads?) and she talked about how she feels she has nothing to offer and worries about it a lot. I’m used to this from my own melodramatic psyche and also from Candy’s deluded rantings about her supposed rubbishness, and it makes me wonder how it is that such a large proportion of my friends are either tormented writers, highly insecure, or a combination of both. Maybe we are all destined to sit and huddle in moley corners in bookshops and talk about the outside world in mockery. It does seem like self deprecation has the potential to get a little too much air space and start to solidify as an acceptable personality trait, as a definitive factor- which in view of people that I know, is restrictive. There is of course no way that I could instantly change the way they feel about themselves. Like me, they learn the hard way, and that’s fine.