(no subject)
Week Name/Date/Time: 'Minister Maladies' / Saturday, 25 February 2006 / 4:29 PM.
Location: Library
Open To: Rylie
Currently Involving: Avis
Really. Sometimes I ask myself if this whole journalling thing is just a large-scale waste of time. If I'm ever going to actually look back at these volumes of filled-up pages and go "Avis, you were so naiive back then." Is that the purpose journals serve? Because honestly, mine are just a load of bollocks. Half of them from last year were me in study hall describing how much I loved Foxe Daniels. Great. So something that is supposed to be my life's work has turned into a teenage, dear-diary, girly travesty? This will not do. I should really start trying a bit harder. Stop being lazy and using my journal as something to paste pictures of Jarvis Cocker in and draw doodles of kelpies with Tam-o-Shanters on. I need substance.
But what is there to write about?
Avis stopped writing in her journal and instead looked up a bit, as if snapping out of a hypnotic state. Only now, she was faced with mere bookshelves, sitting alone in the library. Yawning lazily, she tapped her pen (muggle pen, of course) on the tabletop and looked reluctantly at the half-finished Potions essay beckoning her to complete it.
More like nagging, really.
Biting her lip, Avis got back to writing:
So apparently my journal has become a pastime for me to slack off in classes. I'm positive Hemingway and Steinbeck and Orwell never did this, sit alone and journal and rant about useless bollocks. Unless someone gives me substantial proof that in one of Ernest Hemingway's Moleskines there's a doodle of Lady Brett and Jake sitting all sad in a Parisian taxicab, I guess I'll have to stick with being a lamearse fifteen year old.
And keeping my subject mostly centered around "What the hell is wrong with (insert name here)?!" or fawning over blokes who I have no chance in hell with. Or, according to page 3, a detailed description of why my legs are too stubby and short for my body, and how in general I simply look freakish, and no wonder said blokes are completely out of my league.
But I don't have a league to begin with.
OY! THIS IS NOW PITYPARTY JOURNALS WITH ABERNATHY.
Go figure.
Though even The Sun Also Rises in doodle form is useful. . .
Hey. That's an idea.
Bullfights would be fun to draw. And so would Count Zizi!
She had to admit. It was much better than working on Potions. She had all of Sunday to finish that up. And Monday. . .until 10, of course. Though chances were Avis would be finishing up said essay DURING class. . .
Location: Library
Open To: Rylie
Currently Involving: Avis
Really. Sometimes I ask myself if this whole journalling thing is just a large-scale waste of time. If I'm ever going to actually look back at these volumes of filled-up pages and go "Avis, you were so naiive back then." Is that the purpose journals serve? Because honestly, mine are just a load of bollocks. Half of them from last year were me in study hall describing how much I loved Foxe Daniels. Great. So something that is supposed to be my life's work has turned into a teenage, dear-diary, girly travesty? This will not do. I should really start trying a bit harder. Stop being lazy and using my journal as something to paste pictures of Jarvis Cocker in and draw doodles of kelpies with Tam-o-Shanters on. I need substance.
But what is there to write about?
Avis stopped writing in her journal and instead looked up a bit, as if snapping out of a hypnotic state. Only now, she was faced with mere bookshelves, sitting alone in the library. Yawning lazily, she tapped her pen (muggle pen, of course) on the tabletop and looked reluctantly at the half-finished Potions essay beckoning her to complete it.
More like nagging, really.
Biting her lip, Avis got back to writing:
So apparently my journal has become a pastime for me to slack off in classes. I'm positive Hemingway and Steinbeck and Orwell never did this, sit alone and journal and rant about useless bollocks. Unless someone gives me substantial proof that in one of Ernest Hemingway's Moleskines there's a doodle of Lady Brett and Jake sitting all sad in a Parisian taxicab, I guess I'll have to stick with being a lamearse fifteen year old.
And keeping my subject mostly centered around "What the hell is wrong with (insert name here)?!" or fawning over blokes who I have no chance in hell with. Or, according to page 3, a detailed description of why my legs are too stubby and short for my body, and how in general I simply look freakish, and no wonder said blokes are completely out of my league.
But I don't have a league to begin with.
OY! THIS IS NOW PITYPARTY JOURNALS WITH ABERNATHY.
Go figure.
Though even The Sun Also Rises in doodle form is useful. . .
Hey. That's an idea.
Bullfights would be fun to draw. And so would Count Zizi!
She had to admit. It was much better than working on Potions. She had all of Sunday to finish that up. And Monday. . .until 10, of course. Though chances were Avis would be finishing up said essay DURING class. . .