Itchy feet, itchy feet
Itchy feet.
Gotta go.
And, actually, going to America is probably a bit of a waste. I'll just have to come home and continue pushing paper in my fluorescent hellhole until I can afford to leave again, but on a more permanent basis.
England?
Australia?
Ireland?
Scotland?
Canada?
South Africa? (probably not)
Wales?
I don't actually know if wales is part of the commonwealth?
I think Ireland. I like Irish people. I like the way they say my name. And it's not like London where I'm liable to have a nervous breakdown in the first week. Or drown. I don't think.
I had this dumb friend at school, right. Very athletic, exceptionally mischievous (which was why she was my bestie), hard working, but essentially a kuywie dingbat of the highest order.
She moved to some god-forsaken part of England on a scholarship when she was 17!
And then there was Monique. An ugly, lazy, bitter kleptomaniac, allergic to everything and covered in eczema, her school record was so nasty she couldn't get into the all girls' school on the other side of town and her mother put her in a religious college. From there she's learned about five languagues and is now living in Prague.
Briar-Rose. We went to America together when we were eight. She was about twice my size and cried all day, every day, about anything and everything. She was a sissy whingebag with an overbearing closet-breatheren mother who wouldn't let her watch TV or chew bubble gum. She's just finished a stint as an au-pair in France, and is now at med-school.
Thomas, my gay best friend from third form is also in med-school.
Leigh, just came back from teaching english in Japan.
What in the name of the sweet lord JESUS CHRIST happened to me?
I'm a slightly overweight alcolohic, single, living alone, clutching my wine to breast and licking my lips at the thought of my next trip to the supermarket. The people in the supermarket actually make fun of me due the amount of alcohol I buy. Because I can't drive, I usually buy a few bottles at a time and end up there every couple of days.
These days, they call me a "young insurance professional". Sometimes I get frightened because I actually find it interesting, and then I think "hey wow! I could like, do this for the rest of my life and make lots of money!!". I'm 23. I shouldn't ever think like that. It's all a grand trick. These people have captured me, young and malleable. They entice me to drink with them. They tell me I'm good, they flatter me, put me through courses, send me to 'events', lure me with money. They are good, intelligent people, but they are not what I need.
On the literary front: I have a big fat journal, full of drunken scrawls, promises and tear stained pages. Hooray, emo Jordan. I don't necessarily cry because I'm unhappy, you understand, I cry because it's cathartic, and fun in a masochistic kind of way. I seem to enjoy grieving for things that haven't happened yet, or things that happened a long time ago and were never really that bad. So I howl for a while, and then stare at my big red eyes in the mirror and utter a sigh of peaceful contentment. Back to my arty movies, or to Nina Simone full tit, or to some dry political novel. Whatever works.
I think if you're going to spend a few weeks in a foreign country, it's better to sit in a hammock and drink bloody marys. Otherwise, leave with no deadline and no money. ADVENTURE!
The last time I was happy, I was working in a sheep shearing gang, waiting for the next flatmate or hangeron's pay to come through so we could get a bottle of kristov, a crate of speights and half an ounce. Camaraderie. My first truly joyful human experience.
I know little or nothing of humans, yet.
.. (haha! I just found all these gay pictures of me on here from when i was like.. twelve or something)
.
God I have exams on Wednesday and I need to study.
Gotta go.
And, actually, going to America is probably a bit of a waste. I'll just have to come home and continue pushing paper in my fluorescent hellhole until I can afford to leave again, but on a more permanent basis.
England?
Australia?
Ireland?
Scotland?
Canada?
South Africa? (probably not)
Wales?
I don't actually know if wales is part of the commonwealth?
I think Ireland. I like Irish people. I like the way they say my name. And it's not like London where I'm liable to have a nervous breakdown in the first week. Or drown. I don't think.
I had this dumb friend at school, right. Very athletic, exceptionally mischievous (which was why she was my bestie), hard working, but essentially a kuywie dingbat of the highest order.
She moved to some god-forsaken part of England on a scholarship when she was 17!
And then there was Monique. An ugly, lazy, bitter kleptomaniac, allergic to everything and covered in eczema, her school record was so nasty she couldn't get into the all girls' school on the other side of town and her mother put her in a religious college. From there she's learned about five languagues and is now living in Prague.
Briar-Rose. We went to America together when we were eight. She was about twice my size and cried all day, every day, about anything and everything. She was a sissy whingebag with an overbearing closet-breatheren mother who wouldn't let her watch TV or chew bubble gum. She's just finished a stint as an au-pair in France, and is now at med-school.
Thomas, my gay best friend from third form is also in med-school.
Leigh, just came back from teaching english in Japan.
What in the name of the sweet lord JESUS CHRIST happened to me?
I'm a slightly overweight alcolohic, single, living alone, clutching my wine to breast and licking my lips at the thought of my next trip to the supermarket. The people in the supermarket actually make fun of me due the amount of alcohol I buy. Because I can't drive, I usually buy a few bottles at a time and end up there every couple of days.
These days, they call me a "young insurance professional". Sometimes I get frightened because I actually find it interesting, and then I think "hey wow! I could like, do this for the rest of my life and make lots of money!!". I'm 23. I shouldn't ever think like that. It's all a grand trick. These people have captured me, young and malleable. They entice me to drink with them. They tell me I'm good, they flatter me, put me through courses, send me to 'events', lure me with money. They are good, intelligent people, but they are not what I need.
On the literary front: I have a big fat journal, full of drunken scrawls, promises and tear stained pages. Hooray, emo Jordan. I don't necessarily cry because I'm unhappy, you understand, I cry because it's cathartic, and fun in a masochistic kind of way. I seem to enjoy grieving for things that haven't happened yet, or things that happened a long time ago and were never really that bad. So I howl for a while, and then stare at my big red eyes in the mirror and utter a sigh of peaceful contentment. Back to my arty movies, or to Nina Simone full tit, or to some dry political novel. Whatever works.
I think if you're going to spend a few weeks in a foreign country, it's better to sit in a hammock and drink bloody marys. Otherwise, leave with no deadline and no money. ADVENTURE!
The last time I was happy, I was working in a sheep shearing gang, waiting for the next flatmate or hangeron's pay to come through so we could get a bottle of kristov, a crate of speights and half an ounce. Camaraderie. My first truly joyful human experience.
I know little or nothing of humans, yet.
.. (haha! I just found all these gay pictures of me on here from when i was like.. twelve or something)
.
God I have exams on Wednesday and I need to study.