now i've got no money I can finally get the writing done

i'm skipping the next rainy day man. i've been putting it off for 2 years. and now i'm putting it off for more.

i'm working on a future one, set after the next one. hopefully it should make me buck up and write the important put-off one. sounds a bit confusing but i think i know what's happening.

these ones are going to get a bit more challenging one to write. but i won't be getting any better if i don't push myself.

My mind is doing that thing again

  Doing university work has once again reared its ugly face and is pointing fixatedly in my direction. The worst part is there isn't actually that much to do. That's what makes it so much worse. Talking to everyone else I live with, they have such a mammoth load of work to get done, it makes my work seem incoherently insignificant. which makes me feel bad. Why is my workload, a mere 2,000 words or so, so frustratingly diff-
  -No, not difficult. there. why is my work so there? Why does it sit and look t me with its big, work-y eyes? It doesn't like me and I don't like It. and everyone else has so much to do, It makes my lack of interest in what is only a short essay look so ridiculously insulting to everyone else. They have overflowing bundles of near impossible mind-blowing things to do and I have to talk briefly about the BBC and what I did during filming.

  Work brings out the worst in me. Because it gives me the time and procrastination to think about things. Usually I think about good things, like story ideas or visiting Bold Street Coffee. But during workloads I always think about all the annoying things that bother me. There's a certain amount of self loathing that comes out when you find an annoyance in something. Like if you can't find something you've just put down, you hurl torrents of screaming abuse at yourself for bieng the biggest most useless bastard you know.

  That's what work does. It points out all your character flaws and presents themselves to you in an exaggerated light and then, like a smarmy twat, gives evidence to back it up.

  I'm not saying that I don't like myself, I am very happy with me. I like my Optimism, my love of books and writing, and my introvertedness, to name a few. But everyone has things they don't like. I, for one, am not a fan of my nervous disposition. It can be quite a hinderance, especially socially. Shyness and friendship do not go together. Shyness and love don't see eye to eye. It also brings a slightly paranoid overthinking with it - will spend hours trying to think what others are thinking. Too find out their secrets and hear their silent opinions.

  Thanks a lot, work. Thanks for bringing that up. For pointing out the moments that lack of shyness would have been better. I blame University, and also the Tories, for negative thinking. They both know that i'd be rather watching the Hour, reading and drinking tea, and writing a story about the Thimble Ghost. Yet they set us all this work instead...

not wanting to sound rude to anyone...

returning to university, everyone i knew last year seems different and evasive. a bit like something big happened in the summer and i missed a meeting.
  it was probably my fault - i'm probably not the best friend in the world. introverted, bookish, not that talkative and pretty antisocial, i'm not made for talking to people. clubbing is uncomfortable due to all the pressure put on me whenever i go - dance, drink, talk to people, get drunk and buy someone a drink. no, i say! fancy dress? no, fuck off!
 
  alright, it's becoming pretty plain why i'm not Mr. popular. i'm unwelcoming and not easy to talk to. it's not uni people's fault - it's mine.

never mind. despite this, i shall continue to be this way. because it's fun and fitting to me. and i'm probably liked, by a select few. those people - thankyou. very much.

im not angry at the other people. not angry at anyone.

i'll be hiding in the quietest corners of the bookshops, if you need me.

glass bottle got stuck on finger.

i'm not sure what made me do it. but i wanted to see if my finger fit in the bottle.

it didn't.

tried to remove it, with all the strengh i could. after ten minutes, i was quite paniced, and i took my hand, bottle akimbo, outside and placed the bottle and hand on the floor.

i also had my hammer.

tap. tap. tap tap. bang. Smash!

ahh!

the bottle was broken, but still wedged on finger. and thumb cut on glass where hammer hit.  mix of flat cola, rain, and blood.

more tapping, this time around neck of bottle. little bits coming off, and more cuts.

suddnely, success! bottlecap broke in two. more cuts.

i'm one of those people who bleeds quite profusely. dried blood all over hands. got the worst off with kitchen towel and had some trouble applying a couple of plasters.

it was thirsty work. now sitting, watching Derren Brown, typing roughly with plastered fingers. am quite thirsty.

i have a few more colas.

broke another bottle out. good old cola.

I wonder...

A missed train

My train from Blackpool Pleasure Beach had been delayed by half an hour due to a signalling failure at Kirkham.  So when we arrived in Preston, there was ten minutes, instead of the usual forty, until my connecting train arrived.
  At this point, I decided to do something that I had never occurred to me before, something that seemed pointless and time wasting and fun.
  I deliberately Missed my train.

This self sacrificing move left me stranded for an hour and ten minutes in Preston. I wasn't in a rush, and had given myself some time to kill.
  I thought of all the things i could possible do while i was in Preston for this prolonged period of time.
  in truth, i enjoyed my forty minutes break. it made a nice stopper between the two trips, and i could pick up a Nero's and walk to the Waterstone's and back. and i wasn't in any hurry to lose it.
  i thought about all the people you see in their suits rushing for the trains, when they are missing the place they have stopped at. you never know what you might find here. I have only been to Preston properly once, about seven or so years ago, and looked forward to a bigger explore.

I started with a trip to Nero's.

As I was heading there, I thought of all the things I could do with my extra time. I could buy something new, or start a conversation with someone I have never even met!
  But I wanted to start with the norm, so off to Nero's. But I wasn't taking away, oh, no. I sat in. I baught a sandwich aswell.
  I sat eating, smiling to myself at the thaught that I should really be in Leyland by now - the joys of train truancy had started to kick in. I felt slightly special, going against the norm.
  As the train arrived at Wigan, I arrived at HMV. Having not really been to Preston in a while, I was going to stay on the main road, towards Waterstone's. I didn't want to get lost.
  There wasn't much in HMV, so I left, walked to Waterstone's, and went back to the station.
 
OK. So it sounds almost exactly like what I used to do. It was, really, with some small changes. But the important thing is that I wasn't on the train. I had opted for a slow day as opposed to a rushed one. I had done something different form the recommended. Experimenting with society and collapsing train civilisation.
  So when the departures board displayed that the next Train to liverpool was Delayed indefinitely, I was the only one still smiling.
 
  This time I sat in Preston station café - since the train could arrive at any movement, I didn't want to wander off - occaisonally reading NME, drinking a big tea, and writing this down in my notebook.
  The signal failure at Kirkham was still raging on, thus delaying all trains going that way. At the other tables people were phoning their bosses or mates.
 after about half an hour my train arrived, and this time I got on.
 

i write scripts now

writing scripts is not too easy. though perhaps its because its non fictional. perhaps i should flee away into a world of fiction and fantasy. good old head. there's never a problem that cannot be solved by ignoring all of reality around you and pretend your somewhere else.
 though i should probably get on with some work.

procastinating is such an ugly word. I prefer "dicking about"

I am writing a journalistic script for my Media group.

I have it open, at least. some of the words are there. the other ones, the ones the cursor haven't typed yet, are getting impatient because i'm supposed to be typing them.

i'm not supposed to be reading, listening to my Florence and the Machine record, writing something completely different, or, for that matter, updating my blog telling you all the things i'm doing that aren't work.

i think i mentioned that i have no talent for journalism. I showed you some blogs that have too much talent for journalism, some incredibly enjoyable journalistic blogs, that I follow, and read religiously.

another thing i shouldn't be doing, i suppose. why is it so difficult to write jounalism? i have written lots of short stories. perhaps i only have the writing ability for fiction, and am unable to type a report, or study,  or academic journal, or anything to do with my real human feelings. i can only write fiction things. which isn't a bad thing.

but the journalism people can do that aswell...

i can't (unfortunately) write a news report on something fictional, so i'll have to buckle down and write some good old fashioned journalism, even if it kills me.

or i could play videogames, or give the Violin another go. or iron all my socks...