Here it goes again…

Nothing I say ever comes out right, does it?*

—
*not even that.

a girl sitting beside me with dark glasses and long, elaborately pulled up, straight hair. She is wearing a grey cardigan with a deep blue shirt under it. I cannot see her legs, they are under the desk, but I can catch a glimpse of her shiny silver bag.

She knows I’m writing about her, and she’s sneakily watching while trying to look interested in her social networking site.

I’m listening to At the Drive-in. They are giving me a headache, but I still really like them. They’ve got a strange lyrical genious.

I think I know the girl sitting beside me. She may be from a long ago class or chance meeting. Who knows these days?

Oh! And I just found a bottle of coke in my bag. Score.

another note;

“Creative process usually accompanied by flash of insight, as reported by Darwin and Mozart. So the four phases would be Preparation, Incubation, Illumination and Verification, the middle two phases being highly debated in psychology. I don’t know why, but he’s so unassuming. He just sits there being an unassuming genius, and he just knows things. He doesn’t need to think, he knows. Is that admirable or scary? Several studies have found that incubation has no effect on solving a problem, no matter how varied the times are. Though it has been found to have an effect in children.”

I wonder to myself if I realised that I was writing that at the time.

an extra side note on my lecture notes saying;

“Hand is too sore to continue. Sorry Future Jonathan who is studying really really hard and is now pissed off with Past Self.”

Damn him indeed.

I have finally updated the Writings page. Go check it out to see how utterly amazing and swamped I am with ideas and strokes of genius.

and analysis I have found that;

Approximately 65% of people prefer my hair wild and curly.

30% prefer it straight.

5% are neutral.

(it should be noted here that this experiment consists of 10 people, but Charlotte holds an extra 5% sway of the vote, and the 5% neutral - i.e. half a person - can be explained that they were neutral/didn’t give a damn)

For the majority of voters, I have only this statement to clarify why people prefer my hair when it’s curly compared to straight:

“… ’cause you’re always gigglier whenever I’ve seen you with it. You’re like some sort of curly giggly thing.”

However, this statement was received by someone who was very tired and almost blind in one eye, so I cannot hold this as irrefutable evidence that curls=giggles ergo a more cheery, approachable character. Further evidence needs to be collected.

Though, all subjectiveness aside, I’d prefer not to be considered a giggly wistful person (though I have been known to sit on a summers day and smile at the sky), so my dictatorial reign over my hair shall remain the same; straight straight straight.

Unless, of course, it rains. I may be a totalitarianist leader of my features, but even I cannot defy nature.

where not being able to sleep becomes less of a bother and more of a problem.

Yesterday, as mentioned, was my final day of relaxation before plunging headfirst into slides and notes of a class that I probably should’ve really turned up to. But ah well.

I had made it my goal of today to have as much fun as possible. This included lying on the grass and reading a good book or listening to good music, chilling out with friends and baking slowly in the sun. However, as the fates conspire against me, it rained and was cloudy and boohoo. However, I decided that should no put a dampener on my day and set out with overly curly hair and a pocket full of wonderful wonderful money. Met everyone in the bar in the cinema and started off with a kick of good old fashioned alcohol to set me up for the suffering of the really really shit film we watched. It was so shit that it was funny and good, but then it turned shit again.

Afterwards, in the toilet, I was flanked on both sides of the urinal by elderly, obese men. They both unzipped at the same time, and they both shook their farewells at the same time, so, to be honest, I had no idea which one of them stank of sex. There was this waft of it constantly bombarding me, and for a moment I thought it was me smelling of sex, but then I realised that I haven’t had any for about a week now so that was totally out of the question. So it must’ve been one of them.

Headed to a bar afterwards and got fairly away with it. Decided to stop over at Pizza Hut for food and ended up on the receiving end of more than a few looks after our loud discussion of giving handjobs to old, blind men.

We (all eight of my followers) were knocked back from another bar for being too drunk so we migrated to Jame’s flat where we watched soft porn and laughed ourselves breathless as I tried to dissuade everyone not to continue my new nickname of “Mini Mercer”.

And now I’m home, staying up because I can’t sleep and wondering to myself what I find more fun; lying in the sun with a book, chilling out with friends in a bar, or wandering the night-lit streets of my city with a flask of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes. They’re all fun, but different kinds. I realise suddenly that I experience these separate events with very different people. Or maybe that’s not right. They’re the same people, but different circumstances. No, that doesn’t make sense.

I get in these moods. I have these feelings. Sometimes I want to write and write these feelings away, but at the same time I just want to live them. There’s so many beautiful moments out there, you know? I feel as though I’m missing them.

Isn’t it strange when I switch styles mid blog?

Oh, and I smoked twenty cigarettes today. Go me.

the city of Barcelona stretches below my feet like a child’s play mat and my toes wriggle over the edge of the stone yellow cliff. My arms are crucifixed in the middle of a swan dive and the wind teeters me on the edge of the blazing precipice. I smile and I leap, plummeting the several hundred feet before the hard summers breeze catches my arm and brings me soaring over the buildings and churches and cathedrals. Pockets of heat play at my feet and seagulls cry with jealousy as they circle below me. The sky and the sea melds and I feel vertigo from looking straight ahead.

Eventually it’s the vertigo that brings me to the ground. It’s the dizzying sense of going too far, of running too fast, and it’s terrifyingly amazing to fall all that distance.

–And, again, on another note, why why why ON MY ONE DAY OFF DOES IT HAVE TO START RAINING I WANTED TO READ BOOKS AND PLAY FRISBEE GODDAMNIT–

One beer: No change.

Two beers: Lightheadedness.

Three beers: Woozy.

Four beers: Even woozier, and a little sad for drinking four beers by yourself.

Five beers: Drunk. And no longer caring about drinking alone.

Call me a lightweight if you will, but I’d rather think of myself as a cheap date.

a motherfuckin bee in my motherfuckin room.