``Yes, sir,'' said Jeeves in a low, cold voice, as if he had been bitten in the leg by a personal friend.

Woke up this morning in a great cloud of existential angst. Normally this doesn't happen to me - God be praised! - but sometimes everybody has moments of 'What am I doing here? What is the point of my life? Nobody loves me!'
So I got out of bed, went to the kitchen and put some toast in the toaster. As I was doing so a voice boomed from around the doorway, "Look, you've got food, what are you whinging for?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin, until it became apparent that Grandad was talking to the cat and not myself.
I'm not sure what the point of this story is, but it made me laugh and laughter and angst are nearly impossible to sustain simultaneously.
When I sit down and think about it, I'm sort of glad that I don't have a plan (as such) for my life. God's brought me to where I am now (and I happen to like where I am now) without any particular plotting or scheming on my part and I thank Him. It's difficult to trust Him with the future sometimes, but, at the same time, absolutely necessary.
I try not to post here when I'm feeling a bit down, but I feel today's post has kind of a happy ending, so I have indulged myself.

I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me so I can say this is the way that I used to be

I feel like I've been doing a bit of a bad job lately. Not just of working or studying, but of everything in general. Not a totally terrible botch-up mess, but certainly not a very good job.

Am I ready for the bigness of this year?

I feel so little.

Those aren't his eyebrows; that's my aunt and uncle!

Hello all.

It has been a while, I know, since I wrote a blog post that would go into anybody's top ten most awesome, let alone my own... in fact it's been a horrifically long time since I wrote anything worth reading. Shock! horror! So, since Nanowrimo is creeping up again (yes, I know, this year has gone abominably fast!) I think I should ease myself back into writing with at least a few diary entries, hopefully some blogs, some storifying and (I sincerely hope) some luvverly letter scribblings!
I will probably (not certainly, but most probably) have time during these holidays to organise mineself.

Hee, I went off and did some internetty stuff because I was bored with the direction of this post - now I think I shall write a list (not a definitive one by any means) of lame stuff I like.

Doctor Who fanvids. But you already know this.

Cardigans.
Yes, I know, they're not lame all of the time. They're probably not even lame now, but when they are I will still like them.

Michael Crawford.

SAOs

Toilet Paper Dollies


Not buying/owning/wearing shoes.
(Note: I dislike shoes generally, but I recognise their potential for awesomeness. If only I could find a pair of shoes that were pretty, cheap and indestructible. My shoes never survive for more than a few months. And if only going barefoot wasn't such a fulfilling and grounding experience.)

Here we spiral into another random and unconnected tangent.


Woo-bear and I sat up late last night watching the Bela Lugosi version of Dracula. Because this film is black and white and PG rated, one would assume that it would be fairly safe pre-bedtime watching for a pair of young, innocent-minded, rather sheltered girls. As far as the actual character of Dracula goes, your assumption would be right. Count Dracula, as portrayed by Bela Lugosi (I do love that name!), is not particularly scary. You don't even see him sucking anyone's blood - the film always cuts before he reaches the victim's throat. (Good old Hays Code!) Besides, he makes this face: before doing so. This face suggests more 'I'm constipated!' or 'Your pajamas have rabbits on them?' than 'About to feast on your blood, woman!' in our opinions.

But.

The film includes this character.

Please don't judge me when I say that I lay awake for what felt like hours, terrified that this man would feature in any nightmares I might have once asleep. He isn't even a proper vampire, just a vampire wannabe, really (rather like Edward C. really. Ho, ho, ho, I haven't even read Twilight. Does that make my joke invalid?) who eats spiders and rats and stuff. Buuuut he's scary as all get-out and keeps escaping from his comic relief loony-bin supervisor and randomly showing up at Dracula's victim's house. Plus, there's a scene in which this happens:
(Explanation: everybody else runs into the garden, searching for Dracula. The housemaid enters, spooky guy says something and housemaid faints. Then spooky guy crawls across the floor towards her and the movie cuts to somewhere else. The housemaid is not mentioned again.)

*Screams but doesn't faint because fainting is dumb as illustrated above*

So Tay and I turned off this horror-fest of horror and watched Elmo in Grouchland instead. Which is also disturbing but features Mandy Patikin (Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.) wearing fake eyebrows and singing.

Freedom Is Stifling

Hi... although somehow I don't feel like a greeting is suitable here today. Inexplicably.

So...

I haven't blogged properly for a while, which I feel mildly guilty about - spring has arrived (in a strange clownish way) and I haven't cleaned out anything, much less my great mental store of bloggable things unblogged. Such a strange place today. And recently in general. I don't know if I'm happy or not, which I guess means not; procrastination is reigning sovereign over my life at this very minute, which is why I'm here, I guess. And I only have one Reigning Sovereign Who is permitted to govern my actions, so it's rather uncomfortable.

When I was 17 I was happy with where I was in life. I knew where I wasn't, what I could be expected to do and know, how to succeed at what I was doing, what I wanted to do, and even though there were unsolved (perhaps unsolvable) problems I was content to do my best and give myself a fresh start - even when other people didn't.
And then I was 18. Besides all the poo that happened that year (there were good bits, naturally, but that's not the point) being a grownup, I find, can have a very bad effect on one's mental health. I'm doing a bit better this year - the weight of two authorities in my life has been lifted off, but I'm finding it very difficult to steer myself without the guidance I used to have - only to be expected I guess. And kind of necessary, even though I probably do a lot worse without my mother's reminding and nudging. (Which isn't altogether gone. I love that woman.)
But I don't have the security of 17. I don't have the sureness of 17. I don't know how much confidence to place and where to put it. I don't know how to lean on my Comforter - and I daren't put too much pressure on anyone else. But all in all, 19 is better than 18. I'm starting to sort out the threads, starting to tentatively peer over the edge of my future. I lack requisite courage - 18 taught me caution - and I lack a proper belief in my own ability, but I think I can get by for a bit without them. I haven't fulfilled the purpose of this year in any acceptable way - loving dangerously, I mean - but I think I was a bit too wounded and weak. There's always next year for a fresh start though... and no harm in practicing now!

I leave here, now, a slightly therapised person trying to shake off the procrastination urge...

I will not say: do not weep;for not all tears are an evil

Hello all.

This evening, as a wave of frustrated lonesomeness crashed over me, I thought to myself 'Why - since I'm not at work - haven't I spent any of today in the presence of people I love? That would have left me not feeling horrible and homesick!' Of course, the other half of my internal monologue was forced to reply, 'Because you're sick in bed, doofus. Which would be why you're not at work.'

The horrible thing about living (practically) by yourself is that there's nobody else to come help clean up when you're sick in the middle of the night. No mum to hug you and help you find clean sheets... ok, that's enough. Mustn't bring on self-induced hysteria!

Well. Today is the one-year anniversary of this blog! Hooray-ooray-ooray. "Forgive me for not leaping with joy, bad back, you know." Nahh, it's just my grumpy tummy that wants to quote Scar and whinge. It's been a... well, it's been a year. Bits of it have been the worst. Other parts have been brilliant.

So yeah. Spent some of my incredibly wasted afternoon watching my extended version of The Fellowship Of The Ring, coz I'm lame like that. The first disc was all scratched and unwatchable, from the moment the Ringwraiths enter the scene until just after they leave it. Grrr. My family; borrowing my DVDs and scratching them up!

I hope God's got a good plan for my upcoming holidays. All my friends seem to be jetsetting off to Fiji, America and the East! Time to get out my Reader's Guide to Writer's Britain, stare forlornly at my poor little ol' bank balance and start dreaming...

"...life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant."

Don't believe anything you read on the net. Except this. Well, including this, I suppose.

I am a sad, sad person. To demonstrate: I cried on the bus this evening whilst reading about C. S. Lewis's death... which happened 28 years before I was born. So... yeah. I also just sat down and watched Mulan 2, which wasn't as horrendously bad as I expected it to be. Didn't cry in that, probably because my beloved Lee-babies explained the twist and ending to me beforehand (they love spoilers. I don't know if I'll ever be able to enjoy Harry Potter - if I ever read it - knowing as much as I do now... because of their desire to remove any surprises!)

Bleuhhh. I feel like a deflated beach ball or a romantic poet or something. Somebody hug me! Quickly!

Clap your hands if you believe in fairies!

Today I made a giant pot of spaghetti bolognese, whilst listening to James youtubing National Geographic videos about killer whales and helping Joshua make noodles out of playdough...

Ahaha! Just nipped out, mid-blog, to watch QI . Coz I'm cool like that. The only people I recognised (besides Stephen Fry, whose nose is really really wonky... thanks Monica for pointing that out *incredibly distracted*) were Barry Humphries and Bill Bailey. Apparently the red stuff that oozes out of meat when you cook it isn't blood. It's myoglobin, not haemoglobin, and it does something different to what blood does. I love information!


Argh. I hate these evenings in some ways. My brain is broken - keeps playing the same thoughts over and over again. Here's one of the worst for you: what if I never ever meet somebody that I can love and who loves me back? Romantically, I mean; there are several people whom I love very much in the non-romantic way (and you may count yourself in the very selective list, my dear reader. Yes, you may. (unless you are Hurstville library. In that case I feel unsure of my feelings towards you, considering the extraordinary amounts of money you have charged me for overdue books over the years.))


I mean, seriously. Whatever will I do with myself if I wind up a crotchety old lady, dying with the name of God on her lips, without those lips ever having tasted true love's first kiss? (belated Warning: I reserve the right to be as sentimental as I please here) Come on! Please? Please, no?!

Good night dear readers. Please pray that I sleep through the lonely, chilly 3am that is sure to come in only a very few hours.

And Grace My Fears Relieved

The silly, irrational, emotional half of my brain has already defeated the rational half twice today.

I went looking for a future this afternoon, and frightened myself when I couldn't find one. *Deep breaths* Dwelt too much on the things I lack, like credentials, connections and a way to save the world. Had a quick, manic, freak out. Sat down. Read some Bible passages. Learned about some people who are way worse off than I am. Still feel terrible. But hopeful.

150th Post

I just thought I'd blog now, because I the dawn chorus has started up outside my window. Birds are singing. Time to crawl into bed.

I woke up this morning at three after a simply ghastly nightmare in which my family and I were attacked by burglars. Made increasingly scary because, on waking up, I remembered that my family and I are in two separate houses. Not having the option of crawling into my parents' bed and being hugged by my mummy makes this experience all the more traumatising.

They say that you dream more vividly when it's cold.

“In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o' clock in the morning, day after day.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

I explained this to Jeeves and he said the same thing had bothered Hamlet

“He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.”

Hello beloveds,

This is quite possibly the last blog I post from my family home. It's 6am and I can't sleep. Stupid phone alarm. Went to bed at 12, midnight, so I can expect an interesting time at work today...my poor stupid brain appears to be saying to itself 'you're young, you're strong, you can take it. Look, you're not tired now'!

So perplexed. Haven't been thinking about moving much. I mean, I think about the logistics of it every day, but the not-living-with-my-family-whom-I-love-and-adore part... well, I just haven't been letting myself wander down those paths. Now suddenly I feel frightened and sad - what if I end up isolated; stranded alone in my room, becoming some sort of hermit, lonely and miserable..? What if my awesome family moves on and develops their culture until I'm totally foreign to all the jokes and lovingness? Argh! Be praying, dear ones, be praying that my sanity won't crack uder such a load as this.

Super hyper excited about the possibility of perhaps doing 'The Importance Of Being Earnest'. I adore Oscar Wilde's wit and awesomeness.

Oh, and here's some more Jeeves & Wooster happiness. I'd love to see Hugh Laurie dancing like that in House...




"Wilfred Allsop was sitting up, his face pale, his eyes glassy, his hair disordered. He looked like the poet Shelley after a big night out with Lord Byron..."