Resuscitate
Spent the last couple of days moping around, more so than usual. I've just been strolling around parks and things. Sitting on the swings in a frown and a trenchcoat. It's all very film noir. I'm convinced that Exeter aren't going to accept me. I've read, drafted, re-read and re-drafted my personal statement, and I wouldn't accept me if I was an admissions tutor. I'd probably ask me to come to an interview just so I could hit me with an ashtray.
Wrote another script for a short film over the weekend. It's ok. Plus it's nearly half in German, which was nice to do. I like being able to write auf Deutsch. It makes me feel like a proper scholar. Where you learn for the sheer pleasure of it, and not because someone in a suit is telling you you have to do it or you'll fail an assessment, or they won't accept you to their institution.
Maybe a university isn't the kind of institution people like me get into anyway.
I've been to so many job interviews recently, and I must be so bad at them it's unfunny, because I'm still unemployed. Today I had one (admin position at Weird Amy's Sainsbury's) that went pretty well. But I've learned to not bother hoping really, because so far the better the interview seems to go, the more I don't get a job. Bumped into someone I knew there. I didn't realise I knew them at first. I just sat next to him in the interview room and thought "Kayleigh, don't look now, but you're sitting next to a GOD." Got talking. Found out he goes Dirty Habit... and the Goose... Knew I'd seen him before. Joked around. Bitched in a friendly way about Karl. Went home on the bus together after the interview. He gave me a cigarette. I made various sarcastic comments and he laughed. We talked about bands we like. Said I'd copy a CD for him. Then after I got off the bus it suddenly hit me that I'd met him before. We'd had a brief chat in the beer-garden at the Goose. He's died his hair since then. Still looks good.
He's got a girlfriend, naturally, but it's not like I'd make a move. It's just nice to know that people (in particular, attractive and drop dead, tongue rolling out in cartoon fashion, undescribably gorgeous men) still find me approachable, and that I'm not a complete troll-woman.
Chaz has a mate now. As does Grim. I don't need to worry about them so much anymore. This is good, but now it means the only one of the three of us I actually need to concentrate on is myself, and I really don't want to have to. I'm running out of things to occupy myself with. I don't want to. Frankly I'd be perfectly happy spending the rest of my life avoiding the fact that I have issues. I might have them, but for someone with misanthropic tendencies, bouts of near-psychotic self-hatred and emotional detachment, I'm remarkably well-adjusted.
Something I found quite annoying a couple of days ago: Ali came over and we were looking for something to watch late at night. We stumbled across Jurassic Park: all around good film (shut up, it's great). Both the bits where the guy gets rudely interrupted in the men's room by the T-Rex and the bit where Samuel L J's severed arm lands on the blonde one's shoulder were cut. Now, call me pedantic, but why on EARTH do you need to cut a PG film? The bit with the bloody bits of lamb weren't cut, nor was the bit where the cow gets ripped to bits and the bloody harness gets brought up, and neither was that bit with the freaky screaming dinosaur that spits venom into fat-guy's eyes. So why those two bits? Bear in mind that the film didn't start running until about 11:30pm. How many small children are really going to be scarred by those scenes that are going to be awake that late? That really fucked me off. If you can't be bothered to babysit your kids and make sure they're not watching potentially scarring material then you shouldn't have films editted especially for you - you should just not be allowed a TV.
I looked after my godson yesterday. It wasn't so bad, but it wasn't so great either. It was miserable weather, meaning he had to stay inside. He's only six, so he spent two hours being Godzilla (which basically involved running around the house knocking over magazines he'd carefully piled up for the purpose, and creeping up on me every five minutes and roaring in my ear before rushing back into the house to demolish another stack of magazines). Plus he kept pulling my braids, which got a little boring after the first six million times. On the other hand, he's very quiet if you read him Jhonen Vasquez/Tim Burton/Roman Dirge graphic novels (which you probably shouldn't. Still. He's very mature for his age, if you ignore the whole being Gozilla thing). And I managed to shut him up by telling him Karl was actually THE Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, and if he didn't stop pulling my braids and shouting in my ear I'd take him to house 777 for a knife party. So in the end it all works out.
My ear hurts.
So does my ankle.
And my head.
Karl. I still can't get him out of my head. Why? Urg. I don't know. It wouldn't matter if it was just physical attraction. That can happen with anyone. But not mentally. The more I find out about him the less I should like. Still. Everything's great in theory. It never works when you put it into practice.
Spend all my days thinking about Joe and all the little things. Where to go from here. Spend all my nights lying looking up at the ceiling, thinking about the different things I could draw there. Thinking about how he looks when he's moshing. The way his hair falls over his face. Hard eyes. Face. Skin. The angles of his body under the fabric. Thinking about all those things you should say in moments where you always say something stupid instead. What would happen if you had the inclination to not care about rejection. What would happen if you were thinner. Nicer. Better socially-equipped. Less self-effacing. More funny. More talented. Less gloomy. Older.
No wonder I don't get any sleep. I spend more time bitching about things at night than I do during the day.
Wrote another script for a short film over the weekend. It's ok. Plus it's nearly half in German, which was nice to do. I like being able to write auf Deutsch. It makes me feel like a proper scholar. Where you learn for the sheer pleasure of it, and not because someone in a suit is telling you you have to do it or you'll fail an assessment, or they won't accept you to their institution.
Maybe a university isn't the kind of institution people like me get into anyway.
I've been to so many job interviews recently, and I must be so bad at them it's unfunny, because I'm still unemployed. Today I had one (admin position at Weird Amy's Sainsbury's) that went pretty well. But I've learned to not bother hoping really, because so far the better the interview seems to go, the more I don't get a job. Bumped into someone I knew there. I didn't realise I knew them at first. I just sat next to him in the interview room and thought "Kayleigh, don't look now, but you're sitting next to a GOD." Got talking. Found out he goes Dirty Habit... and the Goose... Knew I'd seen him before. Joked around. Bitched in a friendly way about Karl. Went home on the bus together after the interview. He gave me a cigarette. I made various sarcastic comments and he laughed. We talked about bands we like. Said I'd copy a CD for him. Then after I got off the bus it suddenly hit me that I'd met him before. We'd had a brief chat in the beer-garden at the Goose. He's died his hair since then. Still looks good.
He's got a girlfriend, naturally, but it's not like I'd make a move. It's just nice to know that people (in particular, attractive and drop dead, tongue rolling out in cartoon fashion, undescribably gorgeous men) still find me approachable, and that I'm not a complete troll-woman.
Chaz has a mate now. As does Grim. I don't need to worry about them so much anymore. This is good, but now it means the only one of the three of us I actually need to concentrate on is myself, and I really don't want to have to. I'm running out of things to occupy myself with. I don't want to. Frankly I'd be perfectly happy spending the rest of my life avoiding the fact that I have issues. I might have them, but for someone with misanthropic tendencies, bouts of near-psychotic self-hatred and emotional detachment, I'm remarkably well-adjusted.
Something I found quite annoying a couple of days ago: Ali came over and we were looking for something to watch late at night. We stumbled across Jurassic Park: all around good film (shut up, it's great). Both the bits where the guy gets rudely interrupted in the men's room by the T-Rex and the bit where Samuel L J's severed arm lands on the blonde one's shoulder were cut. Now, call me pedantic, but why on EARTH do you need to cut a PG film? The bit with the bloody bits of lamb weren't cut, nor was the bit where the cow gets ripped to bits and the bloody harness gets brought up, and neither was that bit with the freaky screaming dinosaur that spits venom into fat-guy's eyes. So why those two bits? Bear in mind that the film didn't start running until about 11:30pm. How many small children are really going to be scarred by those scenes that are going to be awake that late? That really fucked me off. If you can't be bothered to babysit your kids and make sure they're not watching potentially scarring material then you shouldn't have films editted especially for you - you should just not be allowed a TV.
I looked after my godson yesterday. It wasn't so bad, but it wasn't so great either. It was miserable weather, meaning he had to stay inside. He's only six, so he spent two hours being Godzilla (which basically involved running around the house knocking over magazines he'd carefully piled up for the purpose, and creeping up on me every five minutes and roaring in my ear before rushing back into the house to demolish another stack of magazines). Plus he kept pulling my braids, which got a little boring after the first six million times. On the other hand, he's very quiet if you read him Jhonen Vasquez/Tim Burton/Roman Dirge graphic novels (which you probably shouldn't. Still. He's very mature for his age, if you ignore the whole being Gozilla thing). And I managed to shut him up by telling him Karl was actually THE Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, and if he didn't stop pulling my braids and shouting in my ear I'd take him to house 777 for a knife party. So in the end it all works out.
My ear hurts.
So does my ankle.
And my head.
Karl. I still can't get him out of my head. Why? Urg. I don't know. It wouldn't matter if it was just physical attraction. That can happen with anyone. But not mentally. The more I find out about him the less I should like. Still. Everything's great in theory. It never works when you put it into practice.
Spend all my days thinking about Joe and all the little things. Where to go from here. Spend all my nights lying looking up at the ceiling, thinking about the different things I could draw there. Thinking about how he looks when he's moshing. The way his hair falls over his face. Hard eyes. Face. Skin. The angles of his body under the fabric. Thinking about all those things you should say in moments where you always say something stupid instead. What would happen if you had the inclination to not care about rejection. What would happen if you were thinner. Nicer. Better socially-equipped. Less self-effacing. More funny. More talented. Less gloomy. Older.
No wonder I don't get any sleep. I spend more time bitching about things at night than I do during the day.