May I talk about my sexuality for a while?

Excellent.

( It's a funny old business. )

I am currently sitting on my bed, wrapped in a towel, with a pungent lathering of purplish-red gunk on my head, having made a mess of the bathroom ( Read more... )

Well, here I am; eating my second bacon sandwich of the evening (which can't be a good idea), watching the Torchwood fandom explode with rage, from a clear distance, and I have a meme, nabbed from the Queen of Newport herself; insevens. Have a look!

Leave me a comment with "Across the stars" in the subject line. I'll respond by asking you five questions ( Read more... )

Fuck, I'm all over the place. Look no further than the tags.

Listening to I Cried For You by Billie Holiday isn't helping, either, yet I'm still doing it. I'm clearly a bit of a sadist.

I'm going to have a bath and read Northanger Abbey, I think. Or possibly Maurice.

This is a media pandemic, above all else.

Also, apparently, I'm discouraged from "complaining" about the media's treatment of this at the dinner table, yet it's fine for my mother to rant and rave at length about the trees overhanging our garden. Double standards, much?

May I present, for your delectation, a picture of me trying to cut a birthday cake whilst ever so slightly inebriated?

( In which there is a party. )

Well, I've done it.

Cardiff University as my firm choice, and Lancaster my insurance.

...eek. Somebody hold me.

I was going to post in detail about my birthday, but I think I've run a little out of steam. Needless to say, though, it was fantastic; ate my weight in cake at school and had a brilliant time. Everyone was lovely to me, all day, and I ( Read more... )

There are few words to describe quite how angry this story makes me.

( Lengthly, but for the first time in a while I have some first-hand experience. )

Dear advertisers,

When will you stop presenting cars as sex objects? Unless they attract truly shallow and materialistic girls, men are not going to suddenly become twice as classy, successful, and attractive just because they've got a new sex-mobile. Frankly, if you're blatantly showing off zooming down the road in your shiny carbon-guzzling ( Read more... )

I'm not sure what's wrong with me at the moment; first I cry at O'Brien talking about how to crush humanity, to Winston Smith whilst he's tied to a slab and refusing to give in, in the John Hurt film version of Nineteen Eighty-Four, then I well up at the priest in Titanic on the sloping deck, and now I keep sniffling over the Beatles' Here Comes ( Read more... )