Update from the Bedoin Apprentice
Went to University of Sussex with Deb yesterday. The place seemed cool, but since it was utterly devoid of helpful people I didn't get as in-depth an examination of the psychology facilities as I'd have liked. I just swiped as much helpful-looking paper as possible and wandered around a bit. The buildings are ridiculously hard to navigate around. It looks very simple on the map, but the map is the wrong way round and all the signs point off at different angles, so two signs to the same place are pointing in different directions. Or at least the signs to the Life Sciences buildings were. They did everything to confuse me except physically leap out of the ground and dance around in front of me. It was like being Alice in Wonderland. After two hours of intense sun, no shade and unhelpful campus-ers, we decided to head for Brighton.
Brighton rocks. It is motorbike city, and the best place to be on a blazingly hot day. We wandered through the town down to the marina, stopping every few seconds to go into lamp shops, gun shops, random nick-nack shops and to examine henna tattoos being peddled by a rather sexy latin gent, and lad-spotting all the way, because we are sad. We went to the pier, to eat Belgian waffles and fudge, and to comment on how the pigeon is in fact a higher class of bird (when compared to the Brighton mascot, El Seaflyingrato). We laughed at young children being swept out to sea in an inflatable dingy, and made various comments along the lines of "It's hot", and "Wow, the seagulls are massive here". I played air guitar to the catchy riffs of Bruce Springsteen, which have absolutely no guitar solos in them. Debbie gave me funny looks. By then it was four o'clock and we'd been on the go for seven hours, so we went for some traditional seaside fish and chips. Despite being right on the seafront, it took us a twenty-minute walk in Southern Egyptian conditions to find a vendor. Then we sat down on some block to eat. People kept walking around the corner, seeing us, and laughing. Which I think is quite rich actually, when you consider that the average Brightonian physique is that of a foetus (blokes) or a whale (lassies). It's the reason Brighton Council have put so many "PLEASE do not feed the birds" signs around the place - Brightonian women only come in two sizes: portly and oh-my-God-abandon-ship-it's-coming-towards-us.
So there we were, eating our chips, drinking our cokes, and I was writing a post card to that old love of my life, Joe. It took me as long to write as it took Debbie to eat her chips - considering that I write quite fluidly, and that Debbie currently holds the world record for World's Slowest Eater, and that a postcard is usually a two-minute job max, I'm sure that indicates something. It's weird. You're closer to someone than anyone else on Earth, and then one day it takes you a million years to send them a postcard. I always send postcards, wherever I go. If I know your address, I'll send you a postcard, even if I'm only as far away as Brighton, and only for a day. I just like postcards. But I still put Debbie's name at the bottom of it. Because even though it's only a postcard, there's something inside that makes me think he wouldn't read it without someone else's name on it.
Or maybe I'm just pessimistic.
After posting the card, we walked around for forty bloody minutes looking for the sexy henna artist. When we found the street, he wasn't there - but a tattoed, pierced older, black-nailed latin gent in some kind of black robe on a taro-mat told us he'd return shortly. And he did, and he was quite possibly the sexiest manimal I've seen. Long black hair, black beard, dark eyes, beautiful smile. Amazing smile. Very good artist. The Che on my arm looks very nice. I may get a proper one some day. So we talked to him while he decorated me, and it turned out he was from Columbia, and that his name was Brian. (...) Plus he had a girly laugh. But he was still the sexiest man alive.
Then we attempted to go home (it was about six by now), and found that someone had killed themself on the line; consequently it took us a good twice as long to get home, since both the fast train and the earlier stop-train to Victoria had been cancelled. We finally boarded at Brighton at about six thirty - it took me four hours to get home. I don't really have it in me to be pissed at suicides, but still, if you want to die, why not do it in a less painful and annoying manner? Of course, it may not have been a suicide. They just said "Fatality". Sympathies either way, but I think if I ever kill myself I'll try to be as subtle or comic as possible. Unless it so happens that everyone on the train I'll interrupt are gits. In which case, rar. Feel the wrath of my angsty self-destruction.
My week has been quite groovy actually, but I haven't been able to enjoy much of it, with the sole exception of yesterday, because so much shitty stuff has happened as well. Some creep at work thinks he could be in love with me, which is scary, since he's known me for around six hours when he tells me that. I hope he's just got an odd sense of humour, but seeing as he's not unlike Weird Amy, I am a little wary. I managed to stick my foot right in it, by saying something along the lines of "I love to walk, walking is great, I do so like to walk" to someone on the bus, without realising he didn't have any legs until he got off the bus. The only way it could have been any worse is if I'd said "I feel really sorry for disabled people; if I didn't have legs, I'd kill myself." Nice one Kay. Fucking brilliant. It's almost funny in retrospect, but it's not, because he didn't have any legs and I was going on about how great walking was. Jesus Christ. Plus this is another week without Joe. And work ballsed up my contract again, so it'll now be a further two weeks before I get paid.
That's all really. Schollage today.
I hate it when I start one of these things in a good mood, and then it all goes to hell when I start writing it and realise that it's not as good as I thought it was, and feel worse than before. Stupid livejournal.
Brighton rocks. It is motorbike city, and the best place to be on a blazingly hot day. We wandered through the town down to the marina, stopping every few seconds to go into lamp shops, gun shops, random nick-nack shops and to examine henna tattoos being peddled by a rather sexy latin gent, and lad-spotting all the way, because we are sad. We went to the pier, to eat Belgian waffles and fudge, and to comment on how the pigeon is in fact a higher class of bird (when compared to the Brighton mascot, El Seaflyingrato). We laughed at young children being swept out to sea in an inflatable dingy, and made various comments along the lines of "It's hot", and "Wow, the seagulls are massive here". I played air guitar to the catchy riffs of Bruce Springsteen, which have absolutely no guitar solos in them. Debbie gave me funny looks. By then it was four o'clock and we'd been on the go for seven hours, so we went for some traditional seaside fish and chips. Despite being right on the seafront, it took us a twenty-minute walk in Southern Egyptian conditions to find a vendor. Then we sat down on some block to eat. People kept walking around the corner, seeing us, and laughing. Which I think is quite rich actually, when you consider that the average Brightonian physique is that of a foetus (blokes) or a whale (lassies). It's the reason Brighton Council have put so many "PLEASE do not feed the birds" signs around the place - Brightonian women only come in two sizes: portly and oh-my-God-abandon-ship-it's-coming-towards-us.
So there we were, eating our chips, drinking our cokes, and I was writing a post card to that old love of my life, Joe. It took me as long to write as it took Debbie to eat her chips - considering that I write quite fluidly, and that Debbie currently holds the world record for World's Slowest Eater, and that a postcard is usually a two-minute job max, I'm sure that indicates something. It's weird. You're closer to someone than anyone else on Earth, and then one day it takes you a million years to send them a postcard. I always send postcards, wherever I go. If I know your address, I'll send you a postcard, even if I'm only as far away as Brighton, and only for a day. I just like postcards. But I still put Debbie's name at the bottom of it. Because even though it's only a postcard, there's something inside that makes me think he wouldn't read it without someone else's name on it.
Or maybe I'm just pessimistic.
After posting the card, we walked around for forty bloody minutes looking for the sexy henna artist. When we found the street, he wasn't there - but a tattoed, pierced older, black-nailed latin gent in some kind of black robe on a taro-mat told us he'd return shortly. And he did, and he was quite possibly the sexiest manimal I've seen. Long black hair, black beard, dark eyes, beautiful smile. Amazing smile. Very good artist. The Che on my arm looks very nice. I may get a proper one some day. So we talked to him while he decorated me, and it turned out he was from Columbia, and that his name was Brian. (...) Plus he had a girly laugh. But he was still the sexiest man alive.
Then we attempted to go home (it was about six by now), and found that someone had killed themself on the line; consequently it took us a good twice as long to get home, since both the fast train and the earlier stop-train to Victoria had been cancelled. We finally boarded at Brighton at about six thirty - it took me four hours to get home. I don't really have it in me to be pissed at suicides, but still, if you want to die, why not do it in a less painful and annoying manner? Of course, it may not have been a suicide. They just said "Fatality". Sympathies either way, but I think if I ever kill myself I'll try to be as subtle or comic as possible. Unless it so happens that everyone on the train I'll interrupt are gits. In which case, rar. Feel the wrath of my angsty self-destruction.
My week has been quite groovy actually, but I haven't been able to enjoy much of it, with the sole exception of yesterday, because so much shitty stuff has happened as well. Some creep at work thinks he could be in love with me, which is scary, since he's known me for around six hours when he tells me that. I hope he's just got an odd sense of humour, but seeing as he's not unlike Weird Amy, I am a little wary. I managed to stick my foot right in it, by saying something along the lines of "I love to walk, walking is great, I do so like to walk" to someone on the bus, without realising he didn't have any legs until he got off the bus. The only way it could have been any worse is if I'd said "I feel really sorry for disabled people; if I didn't have legs, I'd kill myself." Nice one Kay. Fucking brilliant. It's almost funny in retrospect, but it's not, because he didn't have any legs and I was going on about how great walking was. Jesus Christ. Plus this is another week without Joe. And work ballsed up my contract again, so it'll now be a further two weeks before I get paid.
That's all really. Schollage today.
I hate it when I start one of these things in a good mood, and then it all goes to hell when I start writing it and realise that it's not as good as I thought it was, and feel worse than before. Stupid livejournal.