I've had some time to grow up. There's a primitive blog of things I'm doing at the moment with my course at UWIC at [link], if any of the people on here I used to chat to are about, but otherwise, this site is all too adolescent to keep a hold of. That's not to say I don't think there's loads of wonderful things being made here... Just that here's not where I'll be looking to share the things I find wonder inside of.

Peace dudes.

Whether inside of books, under tables, clearing up in cafes, or from strangers throughout Leicestershire, all of them direct you here.

I don't know if there was a reason for this, or whether the reason will make itself apparent as this keeps happening.

I repeatedly find myself needing to scream at people how wonderful their first impressions on my effusive little world are, and that I am quite happy to gaze in awe at they encompass, but it all seems so horrifically conceited - like pointing out to a stranger that he or she is beautiful in the vain alterior motive of acquiring them - a practice which sickens me to the core. Admittedly it feels a little tragic that anyone of any obvious beauty, internal or external, will have heard these words trodden about their person too many times for their worth to be acknowleged. In fact, so much has been said about so many people that I am left speechless in the very obvious absence of a person who has received no words.

Opinions are unwelcome, but thoughts are far more valid, and if you should find an avian flock of paper has migrated to a town near you, then the location of my university housing is terribly apparent.

All the care, Sleep soundly,

kk.

Ah the pure and unadulterated joy of one's own teen angst - something I am only willing to embrace because the big two zero is looming on the horizon, at which point it ceases to be angst and is instead labelled social inadequacy. oh well. Big sugs go to teenagedeathGirl13 for putting my name on her page wedged between several far more talented people for a brief period. In other news, The whole depressing Ucas-whoring activities are in full swing, although I've finally got an interview for the place I want to end up at, it's just a case of putting together a good portfolio.

Enough.

To the Hot ginger girl who applied for a job, you are indeed hot, and only serious injuries and subsequent drastic surgery will change that.

To Gino, purveyor of all things lost puppyish, you are neither the alpha nor the omega, but there is a certain warm fluffy feeling I have around you.

To Mel, You just failed your driving test and I am trying my best not to take pleasure in your general discomfort.

To the big african american next to me, stop humming and boppin' away, or I don't know what I'll do to myself.


More than enough.

Ok, back to the monologue. I have a phoptography exam on thursday, and I need to take some wonderfully moving and original shots by then. In fact I have three five hour exams to whinge about, but more importantly, The Twins have a house party with Which I can amuse myself................... HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOUSE PAARTTTEEEEEEEE.

Ok, this isn't going well. Have a nice life, Maybe things'll work out better tomorrow.x

Etiolated, White-wash bleached, Ghost we such city streets as these - Italo Calvino.

Working on portfolios for Foundation entry, although the guy I met at the cash machine this morning was fairly adamant that the place I wanted to go was inclined to let anyone in. Tosser. it's number four in the country for what I want to do...

Glomps.x

It's terribly convenient to point to the autism as an excuse for eccentric behaviour, but there has to be a line where I am actually responsible. The thing is I'm no worse when drunk than sober - the only difference is whether I'm aware of inhibitions I've been paying absolutely no heed to regardless. I haven't written anything for weeks, and yet the rough workings of a novel are slowly wilting beneath the edge of my bed, in one of those old waterskin-bound diaries. I think there's at least a small degree of beauty in wanting to share an emotive response or piece of artwork or tale with at least a small group of people in the hope of touching those few lives with what hold you have over them.

[Skip if attention span is waning

[link].lougboro. I mean there's a definite feeling of belonging from the off. Anyway, I get really sick of people living to compare their UCAS details, So I'll digress.
David Mitchell is a god as far as I'm concerned... I mean probably anyone who can cram Sei Shonagon and a prolifically literary goat in the same sentence as the missing link and the idea that yes, hiding at home from the yakuza, Eiji Miyake, employee of a lost property office at Ueno station, has been reported as missing by the waitress with the perfect neck whose name escapes me, but whose afterimage is burnt serrupticiously onto the back of my retina. Although it starts slowly, everyone needs to read number9dream.

because This is where I wax Lyrical about literature... ]

In other news, the general moosh of Starbucks Barristadom is ok, but the tendency to insert random words of neither meaning, consequence or relevance into conversation there is gradually increasing, along with the urge to squeeze poor david until his eyeballs bulge uncontrollably. Usually, one would have to wait to have something to say before adding a journal entry (and I must confess, I'm adjunct to deleting those without interesting titles - Too many lives, too little life to brush against them with), but in this case I'll make an exception, in that surely my presence is highlighted by its absence, and more surely, the epitaph of an ending should be obscured finally by a new message, although in this fairly winding stream of too much consciousness and too little narrative, I think that there's little chance of spewing hope and reconciliation to the veritable masses who encounter it...

I'm still busy meeting one person a day, whether fleetingly or otherwise, and putting an entry down for each in an empty diary... high up on my list was Umbrella Girl, who happened to be carrying a beautiful hand-woven parasol, despite the lack of any weather to speak of. When asked whether she knew something I didn't, the flat reply was to the effect of what it depends what you know, but that it's got to rain sometime. Previous to this was clinton's card girl who received one of the prolific number of origami cranes I give out with stuff written in them - some lady was screaming in the street in a most distressing manner, but no-one in the queue even turned their heads. I questioned quite loudly whther it was wrong to be concerned by this sort of thing, at which point the girl ahead of me burst into raucous laughter, from which only conversation or embarrased silence could be birthed.

Also added to the not insignificant list of phone numbers I'm unsure as to how I came to receive, are those of;

"The girl known only as Millie," whose repeated passing of a friend and I in the street prompted an eventual exchange of biscuits for pieces of a person - by which I mean things about a person, rather than anything that one would expect to find in small sealed jars in the fridge of a serial killer.

"The second Honorable schoolboy," who should probably be the real honorable schoolboy, If I hadn't already applied that moniker to public school educated, tall, cricket captain-chinned Will at work. Actually I rescued This guy from the critical attentions of an aging uber-feminist that was busy haranguing him on the bus. We talked about nuclear physics on the journey for a little while, much to the consternation of the guy behind us...

There's Loads of others, but anyone who has been inclined to read this far probably deserves a medal or something similarly oblique. all the Care, B.