Unsure, indecisive.

Today's eating:



half a biscuit-100

a pakora with tzatziki-300

a bread and butter pudding-400

a chocolate bar-222

biscuit -200

two oranges-40

bits-50



1300, I make out... though I cannot be sure. I don't know about the biscuits, so it could be more; but I've been running about a lot and stuff. I've probably burnt it off at any rate.



I was a little bit disappointed by today; I spent a lot of time with people I like but didn't do any work, and also there are flies in my bedroom and I don't know why. I'm worried about the rada audition; I've barely rehearsed or organised my pieces. And I couldn't talk properly to Little Bird, because maybe I like her a little bit too much...



I have decided that I don't like him anymore. He is tolerable, but I cannot say that I like him; self pitying, self important narcissist in short. It died not with a bang but with a whimper. There was no argument; it's merely an unspoken attrition, assertion that I don't want him to come round anymore.



We saw a play, my friends and I, that was comic and had two brilliant actresses in that are very thin at our student theatre. One of them (the prettier) was a complete cow to me once; and I have never forgotten it. Unluckily, she is funny and witty and clever, the sort of person that I could like to be and befriend. Unfortunately, I am silly, chubby, me. So I can't and I'm relegated to the position of prey rather than predator or herdmate. I simply wish that I was prettier and better. Scratch the first one. I don't care about pretty (my new mantra). I just want to be the best. But now I feel very jealous of them both, yes, that they are pretty, but more that they are so talented. I don't need to be thinking this now when I've got an audition not far away.

Oh, Academia.

To sit in a glaze lit bunker staring at the half-accomplished feats of academia
Is not half as pleasing as it would be to have you lie in my arms
Radiating a soft luminosity and telling me all the things you hate
Or like. And to warm my feet on you and hear your voice in my ear.

I succumb.


Something that interests you and I;

apricots-50
half a biscuit-100
caramel shortbread-100
sweets-100
soup and two slices of bread-350
apricots-50
egg fried rice and seaweed-4-500

So 1250. What would you think if you knew this count happened nightly? You would assume, that far from being healthier than usual, I am slipping back. I am eating what I feel like, which is not much. You keep saying I am getting thinner; is this worry that you are lagging behind and I am winning, or real and true worry about me? Why do I always think in terms of competition, it isn't right, it isn't right. I feel I am winning. I might be falling back; I shouldn't calorie count, that way lies despair. But similarly I cannot forego it altogether; you know full well. And I am trying so desperately hard not to care at all about the way I look, or to value myself for other things than how I appear; but it is hard. And you need to learn this too, though for different reasons to me; because you think you are ugly or fat, when you are neither, but saying this would make no difference to you. So, if you cannot accept that you are not ugly or fat then start to accept that it does not matter because you are socially adept and wonderful and comic tragic all at once, with your graceful flippant ways, and that, my dear, is the most wonderful thing. You do not need the beauty that you blindly possess. I would adore you with or without, it makes no difference to me but a world of difference to you. It makes a world of difference to me; but I am learning.

I wonder what my Grandma would think of me. I am not ladylike; nor am I pushy enough to get what I want. I am not family-oriented outside those I like. I think she might endure the calorie counting.

Oranges are the only fruit. Suck on that Jeanette.

I had thought to bring you oranges to soothe your ill stomach. But then the day got in the way, the lassitudes of not doing and the unbearable burden of what I should do, the furthest thing of which was bringing you food, which you would not have wanted anyway, and not from me at least. I do not feel I know you because all the more I adore you I worry myself with the thought of the discrepancy; that you hate me and the chasm widens between that. I do not know if you do love or hate me, my laziness and passivity, my various attributes. But I adore the soft roundness of your stomach and the down turn of your soft mouth, and your raucous laugh, and you. But I did not bring the oranges. And I do not know if you are truly ill.

Percy changed

Percy regarded his enemy. Now was the time. The rose axminster carpet proffered purchase for each toe, newly wrinkled from the long bath, and each digit clawed the pink, ready for the task ahead. He had loved her once, her glistening surfaces and chrome-plated curlicues, but now the disused, overpolished tuba cloaked him in a thin crust of three decade old rejection, , faded and yellowed as the letter that Percy read and re-read,

"March 1978. I regret to inform you that subsequent to audition and interview, you will not be offered a position with the Band this year."

And he had not played since; sentencing himself instead to a servitude spent in beeswax and dusters. But today, this Sunday, would be different. Percy laid a finger on a single button and quashed the urge that rose from his bowels to spit and wipe away the imprint of grease cavorting over the bright metal. The tinkling of horns and trumpets sounded outside the bay window; the regiment, sweating proudly in their brown and red poplin serge, were fast approaching. Percy hoisted his adulterous nemesis onto his shoulders, bowed legs and wrinkled knees straining to a wooden creak as he refamiliarised himself with the weight, and tested his teeth on the mouthpiece. All in order for the final rebellion. He would show them.

Through the quiet pomp and ceremony of Sunday in the English Village, forcing his way between the tight starched ranks of the marching band, came a sagging white streak carrying a tuba, attired in nothing but a thin red sash across his narrow shoulders, upon which was emblazoned the slogan "TUBA MASTER 2008", in fresh black ink. The euphonious notes of Beethoven's fifth rioted and tumbled over a shredded shrill Amazing Grace, the very last tinny triangle stamped into submission, as Percy, head high and stark naked, gloried in his last triumph.

Percy unchanged

Percy regarded his enemy. Now was the time. The rose axminster carpet proffered purchase for each toe, newly wrinkled from the long bath, and each digit clawed the pink, ready for the task ahead. He had loved her once, her glistening surfaces and chrome-plated curlicues, but now the disused, overpolished tuba offered him only rejection, three decades old, faded and yellowed but nontheless ever present as the letter that Percy's sadomasochistic compunctions led him to read and re-read, "March 1978. I regret to inform you that subsequent to audition and interview, you will not be offered a position with the Band this year."

And he had not played since; sentencing himself instead to a servitude paid in beeswax and dusters. But today, this Saturday, would be different. Percy laid a finger on the mouthpiece and quashed the urge that rose from his bowels to wipe away the imprint of grease disrupting the bright metal. The tinkling of horns and trumpets sounded outside the bay window; the regiment, sweating proudly in their brown and red poplin and serge, were fast approaching. Percy hoisted his nemesis onto his shoulders, bowed knees protesting with a wooden creak as he refamiliarised himself with the weight, and tested his teeth on the mouthpiece. All in order for the final rebellion. He would show them.

Through the quiet pomp and ceremony of Sunday in the English Village, dividing the marching band, came a lone white figure carrying a tuba, attired only in a red sash upon which was written in something like beeswax polish, "TUBA MASTER 2008". The triumphant notes of Beethoven's fifth rioted and tumbled over the pithy overchewed Amazing Grace as Percy, head high and bare naked, gloried in his last triumph.

Semantics of dying

A headteacher of mine died the other week, and it is strange to think that whilst I was writing about her and trying to reconfigure her as a human being instead of a terrifying ogre, that she was having chemotherapy, in the process of being a normal human being. It is strange that I never thought of her as one because she scared me so much. And strange how death makes one fonder, how an obituary changes everything. How will I be remembered? I should like to write my own, but I would better like to know who will write mine and what they will write.

I wonder if she thought, hooked to a drip, about her own obituary and how they'd wipe out her elitism and replace it with the word drive, and if she worried she was being wiped out too, and if she was a bit relieved to join her husband, and how sad she felt about her life, or how happy. I wonder if she thought of the pupils at her school at all. I wonder wonder.

I need to worry about an essay rather than what death is meaning.

I ate OK today but I still feel fat. Fat fat fat.

I hate, hate, hate my blonde haired female housemate. She's so incredibly dull- her and her long term boyfriend- and so selfish. She gets a bigger room than me why? Because she thinks she's better and I'm too reluctant to cause a fuss. Twat on her and twat on me. She's got no real friends because she's so boring and mediocre and hesitant- she doesn't go out and noone comes to call. I said I might get a desk out of the room her boyfriend's furniture's taking up space in- she just told me to be careful of his TV. Who frickin' cares? If he wants me to be careful he should move it into his own fucking space and stop being a cross eyed silent pockmarked cunt that breathes heavily. And she should stop being so self congratulatory and generally smug. Cunts, cunts, cunts.

Today I saw her, of the bovine beauty, and she is giggly and sarcastic and bonded so well with me. We simply never run out of things to say to each other. She can salve my problems; not solve them, but coat them in something better, and I'd hope to do the same for her. She's never loved anyone, she says. Or noone that's loved her back. I could grow to. Sometimes, times, I do want to hold her, but not really as much as I do little Bird. I suppose that fundamentally I trust her less; I would trust little Bird with a lot, an awesome amount, which probably I never will and in any case shouldn't. She has enough to cope with and she never treats anyone well that she's going out with- but I can't help but feel that this is because she's never liked anyone she's been with, not properly. I am not joking with myself that I ever could be the first. It's simply that I don't mind if she's thin or fat, if she's drunk or sober, if she's silent or chatty. Sometimes we can sit in silence and that is fine, but we also know lots of things to say to each other. Paradoxically, I'm less honest with her than I am to she of the bovine, but I can't help it. I could be honest. I can accept that she is all of these and that sometimes she wants noone near her, and other times she is desperate for people. I know that she needs people to like her, or even just to see her and acknowledge her. I would just like to be around for her to be her first port of call; which is sort-of what I am now.

Recalls for self esteem

Just as life seemed to be going belly-up, and I thought it was all terrible, fat, untalented weight gain I get a recall to RADA! I am so very excited. Incredibly so. I know it's only the first hurdle of another three. I know I will most likely fall at it. But I have ceased to care at the moment; I'm so happy to be given another chance.

They wanted me to do a speech without significant interjections from the other person, so I don't know what I'll do. A Lady Macbeth maybe, or even the epilogue from As You Like It, though I've got reservations about it being performed by an actual woman. Though I do like doing it. I wonder if they've only given me another chance because they didn't know if I was alright or not with the significant pauses? Well, they must have liked a bit of it to give me another chance, they must have. God, I'm so excited. I can't choose another shit speech.

And yesterday I went on a bike ride, and kept a good eating time. So well done on two things. I'm going to lose weight and be brilliant. And do well in my degree.

Eating

Ham and spinach sandwich-400
Ham and tomatoes-80
smoothie-140
potato and cheese-400
orange juice-80
ice cream-200
garibaldi biscuits-80
apricots-50

He rang today, and all I wanted to do was hold him and nestle into his shoulders. I thought I adored her... but I think it's him. Him, him, him.

Panic and catharsis and sublimation all in one.

Eating today:

smoothie-120
ice cream-200
two slices of bread-300
raisins-200
smoothie-120
2 sausages, mash potato, broccoli-400
1/4 a snickers-80

And I think that will do for today at least.

Little Bird, I have adored you today because there is nothing else to do. I like glass girl too. She is so sarcastic, so clever. She has never really loved anyone, she told me, or at least noone that loved her back. I would perhaps like to be the first; but this is unlikely. I don't trust her; she scares me when I am apart from her, because I cannot read her; I feel there's something she's keeping back. But that could be because of her parents; or because she is manipulative; I do not know. I can't tell. She seems too cool, too clever for bumbling me. I wonder if she associates with me because I am so obviously safe, because she can read any and everything I think? Because I am easy. She wonders why people associate with her, well, are friends with her. Because she's funny and clever; and it's safer to be friends than not to be. That isn't it really. Not because it's safer. It's because she is funny and sometimes insecure (though I wonder if this is to chime with what I want?) and obviously incredibly bright. She isn't too hard on the eye, though that isn't what makes me friends with her.

Little Bird, on the other hand, I trust completely. She is beautiful and clever, and emotional. I feel like glass girl has got an emotional dis-attatchement- which I feel sometimes too. But it still unnerves me in her. Little Bird is so much of the world, and of the people in it. She will entertain a crowd and mingle because she so wants to mask that she feels she's worse than everyone there; glass will sit quietly, masquerading that they intimidate her, but truly she knows that she is judging them and thus in a position of superiority. It's a dichotomy in her. In both of them, I suppose. I could be utterly wrong, but I am willing to accept that.

It's that wish to please everyone all the time that makes me want to grab hold of Little Bird when she's being frantic, to hold her and to say, "you don't have to do this with me", and to let her be quiet. I know that this is part of her appeal, and everyone wants to be this sort of solace for her because there is a solace in being a source of solace. I would be truthful though; if she talked about how she was ugly, I would say firstly that I thought she was beautiful and secondly that beauty is pointless and evanescent. If she worried about people hating her, I would ask her what of them? And if she worried about her Dad, I would just let her talk and tell her I didn't know what to say, but that I adored her. I would let her talk and talk and talk until she wanted to sleep. Or I would lie quiet. This will never happen.

Going back.

I am dreading going back to my university house and having to deal with everything. I am only there for another month, I need to keep reminding myself. Only another month. Damn.

I need to do dissertation, creative writing and my essay. All of those.

Here are some creative writing ideas I could expand upon:

Innocent suivante bombings of the other race in a divided society

writing about the holiday I went on

that's all I've got so far. I don't want to write poetry. I don't know what I want to write because I'm just so worried about everything all the time.