'I want the weekend off. I want a life.'
"This is life! We suffer and slave and expire. That's it!"
'We have needs! Fran wants to learn the piano, I want some time to myself, you want to go out with a girl...'
"Don't make me laugh - bitterly. Fran will fail, you'll toil your life away, and I'll die alone, upside down on the floor of a pub toilet..."
Bugger all sleep last night. Brief weird dreams about a play I was in (although it was real too - scripted reality?) with Lucas North. For reasons I never quite got he slit his wrist down to the bone and was taken to hospital in agony (apparently severing your tendons completely quite hurts). I was his friend?wife?sister?whatever and was meant to talk sense to him. But before I got there he left hospital (wearing a gorgeously theatrical 18th C military-style coat) and either went totally crazy or was set upon by thugs and ended up with a surgeon's blade in his neck and was dying. I was hugely pissed off because scenes had been skipped and I was sure this was ad-libed and I didn't approve. Also the effects were shoddy and if I could see what was latex and fake blood I failed to understand how the universe could buy into it and make it real. Tsk. No, I don't really know what was going on, it didn't make much sense but it was very gory, pretty and dramatic, so I guess that counts for something.
I finished my sketches of a bunch of 18th century lawyers and whores. Need to ink and scan them before I return London ways. 18th C underwear vexes me hugely. So do their wigs and hats, but the bint I need to make look cool and kickarse when she's wearing a nightie, she vexes me the most.
Also kitchen wenched a lot and played with sprogs. And drank a lot of coffee and a lot of wine which is probably how I'm still awake (as has been proved previously if you give a Corvid enough caffeine and alcohol and things to do she can go from friday morning to monday eve bouncy and functional on a net total of five hours sleep).
Same again tomorrow, hopefully I'll be compos mentis enough to manage it.
In other news: I look like shite. And, pathetic though it is, I think I really do need a boyfriend. If for no other reason than I make at least a token effort to look after myself when there's someone I love next to me. My penchance for smoking is rendered nearly nil, for drinking only on occasion, and for trying to kill myself on an ad-hoc basis there could be years in between attempts instead of mere days or weeks. (Any applicants, please forward some sort of missive to Corvid, 78 George Lane, Shamblyland.)
I'm really tired and talking wibble.
'We have needs! Fran wants to learn the piano, I want some time to myself, you want to go out with a girl...'
"Don't make me laugh - bitterly. Fran will fail, you'll toil your life away, and I'll die alone, upside down on the floor of a pub toilet..."
Bugger all sleep last night. Brief weird dreams about a play I was in (although it was real too - scripted reality?) with Lucas North. For reasons I never quite got he slit his wrist down to the bone and was taken to hospital in agony (apparently severing your tendons completely quite hurts). I was his friend?wife?sister?whatever and was meant to talk sense to him. But before I got there he left hospital (wearing a gorgeously theatrical 18th C military-style coat) and either went totally crazy or was set upon by thugs and ended up with a surgeon's blade in his neck and was dying. I was hugely pissed off because scenes had been skipped and I was sure this was ad-libed and I didn't approve. Also the effects were shoddy and if I could see what was latex and fake blood I failed to understand how the universe could buy into it and make it real. Tsk. No, I don't really know what was going on, it didn't make much sense but it was very gory, pretty and dramatic, so I guess that counts for something.
I finished my sketches of a bunch of 18th century lawyers and whores. Need to ink and scan them before I return London ways. 18th C underwear vexes me hugely. So do their wigs and hats, but the bint I need to make look cool and kickarse when she's wearing a nightie, she vexes me the most.
Also kitchen wenched a lot and played with sprogs. And drank a lot of coffee and a lot of wine which is probably how I'm still awake (as has been proved previously if you give a Corvid enough caffeine and alcohol and things to do she can go from friday morning to monday eve bouncy and functional on a net total of five hours sleep).
Same again tomorrow, hopefully I'll be compos mentis enough to manage it.
In other news: I look like shite. And, pathetic though it is, I think I really do need a boyfriend. If for no other reason than I make at least a token effort to look after myself when there's someone I love next to me. My penchance for smoking is rendered nearly nil, for drinking only on occasion, and for trying to kill myself on an ad-hoc basis there could be years in between attempts instead of mere days or weeks. (Any applicants, please forward some sort of missive to Corvid, 78 George Lane, Shamblyland.)
I'm really tired and talking wibble.