I LOVE MY DEAD GAY DUMBLEDORE
Ahhh, ahhhh, name the film! Name it! NAME IT.
Nah, don't really, I'm not bothered. It's far too cold to be bothered about a friggin' thing, here in Yorkshire. Not even dressing up like one of the kids from the Narnia Chronicles can change that, I'm afraid- I have a faux fur coat (FAUX YOU GUYS. FAUX. DO NOT THROW RED PAINT AT ME) and several wild and varied layers of material covering my delicate frame, and yet. And yet.
University's bloody rubbish, isn't it? God. I have to write a 10,000 word novella- a frigging novella- in 19 weeks. I've decided on writing about some bollocks about satirizificying Deep Impact after spending five minutes staring intently at one of those posters urging me to worry about my carbon footprint and taking entirely the wrong message from it, I'm sure. See, this guy's going to find out that we all have five years to get the frig off of the planet before it electrocutes us or burns us all as witches or whatever, and subsequently goes on the run from the police when they're not actually chasing after him at all. A man who tries and fails to commit suicide will also be in on it all. Global warming will be a massive lie. It's going to be about littering.
... it's really one of those ideas that sounds a lot better at 3am, garbled and confused over MSN. It sounds genius then, I swear. I tried my best to convey the sort of drooped eyelid mess that suits the idea just then, just for you special people, but I think perhaps your keen youthful minds will have seen through that to the real heart of the matter. So I'm not going to pretend that I wouldn't have picked something else to write about if ideas weren't always so scarce to me these days. I'm just not a bloody writer, that's the real issue. I'm a bum, destined to die falling up some stairs at the age of 27. If only society catered for people like me.
Fie to this anyway, I'm moving to Mexico soon enough. All I'll need is a dvd player and series 3 of Teachers, fourteen last packets of Benson and Hedges and Brad's 'The Big Sleep' book mug.
Nah, don't really, I'm not bothered. It's far too cold to be bothered about a friggin' thing, here in Yorkshire. Not even dressing up like one of the kids from the Narnia Chronicles can change that, I'm afraid- I have a faux fur coat (FAUX YOU GUYS. FAUX. DO NOT THROW RED PAINT AT ME) and several wild and varied layers of material covering my delicate frame, and yet. And yet.
University's bloody rubbish, isn't it? God. I have to write a 10,000 word novella- a frigging novella- in 19 weeks. I've decided on writing about some bollocks about satirizificying Deep Impact after spending five minutes staring intently at one of those posters urging me to worry about my carbon footprint and taking entirely the wrong message from it, I'm sure. See, this guy's going to find out that we all have five years to get the frig off of the planet before it electrocutes us or burns us all as witches or whatever, and subsequently goes on the run from the police when they're not actually chasing after him at all. A man who tries and fails to commit suicide will also be in on it all. Global warming will be a massive lie. It's going to be about littering.
... it's really one of those ideas that sounds a lot better at 3am, garbled and confused over MSN. It sounds genius then, I swear. I tried my best to convey the sort of drooped eyelid mess that suits the idea just then, just for you special people, but I think perhaps your keen youthful minds will have seen through that to the real heart of the matter. So I'm not going to pretend that I wouldn't have picked something else to write about if ideas weren't always so scarce to me these days. I'm just not a bloody writer, that's the real issue. I'm a bum, destined to die falling up some stairs at the age of 27. If only society catered for people like me.
Fie to this anyway, I'm moving to Mexico soon enough. All I'll need is a dvd player and series 3 of Teachers, fourteen last packets of Benson and Hedges and Brad's 'The Big Sleep' book mug.