Mollusc.

I wrote a big entry the other day, but was thwarted at the last minute by my computer. Ah well. All I need, for reference, is to know it was emo drivel (surprise surprise), four good points about myself (of the ilk, "1. I've got nice handwriting"). And that I ate under 1300 for the past few days. Today I ate:

A caramel square (200)
pic n mix (200)
chips (300)
chocolate and cream (100)
an apple (40)
a vegetable biryani (500)
some ice cream (100)
a pint of cobra beer

so at least about 1600. Ah well, won't happen again for a while. I've walked a bit too. I also had my first run of my play, which went ok aside from flubbing my lines at the end, which made me feel a complete knob. And the audience didn't laugh at all, which is ok for my monologue as it's quite tragic, but the rest of the cast could have done with a few laughs. Ah well. We went for curry after and I am very tired. I want to reread 1984.

My housemates are off partying; I wish I was. I can't believe my writing is so shoddy, I'm not even drunk.

I had a bit of interaction with her today; she's ill (just flu) and didn't want to see me. She called me darling, which isn't a good sign; darling is like babe, the word you use for people you don't really care about or can't stand. It is for her, I've seen her use it apologetically on people she hates. Anyway, she's been saying she'd like to have tea with me for a while now; and I want to have tea with her, but we haven't done it, and she keeps calling me darling... so I don't think she does want to have tea. I think she's trying to edge out of our friendship and I've been too blind to see it.

A niche in the cold, hard rock world to lay my head upon... Blanche said, in Streetcar Named Desire. That's what she needed. Well, I am no delicate butterfly, no moth. I'm not even a caterpillar with potential. I'm a snail; I'm boring to look at, I store everything inside, I'm slow, I'm strange looking, I get stepped on, everything sticks to me and I keep all my woes fixed on my back to stop things getting through to the soft slime underneath; but everyone knows a good hard stamp will smash me forever. A snail's not as lovely a metaphor as a pretty, fluttering butterfly, is it? Though they're both vulnerable. Anyway, Blanche Dubois. A lot of luck she had. Tenessee as well; if you live your life in a haze of drugs and shortly after top yourself, it can't be much of a riot you're having can it?