Bracketed

I know it's been several days since I posted anything coherent in here. I apologise and will try to catch up.

Last weekend I was more or less eating normally again. I was avoiding anything hard or that would require too much effort to eat, but I was determined to try and regain normality in my life.

Unfortunately it seems that I over-stepped the mark with the ice cream, when I bit on what must have been a piece of still-frozen cookie dough and realized that I had done something very very wrong to my jaw. So back once again me and San went to accident and emergency, where we spent most of the night. And they eventually told me what I thought I already knew -- the fracture in my jaw that was once non-displaced was now thoroughly displaced. And at 3 am they said "come back at 9 tomorrow morning".

The next morning my jaw was still too painful to open or close, and it hurt to so much as swallow. I must have looked like a retarded person, with my mouth hanging open and a glazed look in my eyes.

The hospital had lost my x-rays from the night before (thank you, NHS) so they had to do a bunch more and again told me what I knew -- that the fracture was displaced. And that it was going to require surgery -- either the wiring shut of my jaw, or cutting my face open and putting metal plates in it. They told me to come back on Friday.

So I did, though by now it wasn't hurting any worse than it was this time last week -- my bite was just looking kind of crooked. This time they decided that maybe surgery wouldn't be necessary, and have instead put brackets onto my teeth with elastic bands effectively holding my jaw closed. As uncomfrotable as it is, this has got to beat surgery.

In other news, I told my Dad that I slipped on some ice earlier in the week and fractured my jaw. He did ask how I managed to land on my face, but seemed to buy it. I suspect however that since then he has spoken to my older brother and told him my story and my brother has said he doesn't believe it -- and given my Dad his opinion that I must have been punched in the face.

I guess that Steve has been in more than his share of fights -- and I would expect that he started more than half of them. This is ignoring his competition-level Muay Thai Kickboxing of a few years back. So he'd know how a jaw gets fractured -- just like he could tell by looking at my arms that the scars are not burns, but instead from knives. I doubt even he would suspect them to be self-inflicted, though.

Just the same, I have insisted to my Dad that I really did just slip on some ice -- and I don't regret it either, my parents are worried enough that I'm apparently this clumsy. They don't need to know the rest of it.

Note to self:

One week after you fracture your jaw is not long enough to wait before you start trying to eat normally.

Yes, kids -- I have now upgraded my fractured jaw to a displaced fracture. If I am lucky they will just wire my jaw shut. Otherwise they are going to cut me open and put metal plates in my face.

Now I just have to figure out a way to mention it to my parents. My story so far is "I slipped on some ice" and fractured my jaw, and I'm hoping they won't try and work out how that's possible.

These things happen

So it's Wednesday morning. This morning I discovered that it isn't getting up in the morning that pisses me off, it's the reason why I am getting up. My alarm goes off the same time every morning. Normally it goes off, I shout obscenities at it, and eventually get up. This morning it went off, I knew that I had to go to the hospital and not to class, and I had no problem with getting out of bed. Maybe I should do something different every day for the rest of my life...

But yeah. I had to go to the hospital so they could look at my jaw some more and compare it to my x-rays from Friday night and make sure it's straight. Which, of course, it isn't -- but it wasn't straight to begin with. My bottom teeth overlap the top, and they don't even meet in the middle. Maybe next time I have to go and have it looked at I will ask them what it would take to put it right -- but I think the answer is going to be major surgery on my face, which ain't gonna happen.

Looking in the mirror this morning and I could almost convince myself that I have just been staying awake too late and that's why I have dark rings under my eyes. But I'm not quite there yet -- you can still pretty much tell I had the crap beaten out of me.

My head still hurts more or less all over. And I hate it when the doctor asks where it hurts, I say right here, and here, and here, so she feels the need to press those places. Fuck. Yes. Yes, that is exactly where I told you it hurts. Stop doing that.

I'm still not allowed to eat anything much harder than mashed potato. I've been pushing my luck by trying other things -- like fish, and chocolate, though not together -- but gingerbread is probably just asking for trouble. Still, I expect by this time next week all the bruising and cuts will be gone. I don't know how much longer I will have to stay on mushy food, but maybe if I concentrate really hard I can will the fracture in my jaw to heal over.

I don't know how much longer it will be before I stop being so jumpy. I don't like being outside my flat, even here in the library I get uneasy every time that someone walks in. I won't begin to talk about the fear of walking home at night after class or you most likely lose all respect for me entirely.

The funny thing about it all is that I don't really feel the least bit angry about it and I don't know why. I'd far rather that it had never happened than get any sort of revenge on my attackers.

Today I found the following text in the source code of a junk email that ended up in my inbox. It's very strange:



Or maybe not. People are talking behind my back. We have certain immutable properties. We all have to make some kind of plans for ourselves.

I see your point. Then again:

Just one moment longer. Let me collect my thoughts.

This can't end happily. This isn't really sustainable, but it's better than the alternative. I don't want to be predictable. Maybe this will help us all in the long run.

Look: Help me ! I'm trapped in an e-mail factory! Like they say: Are you making up for something? Probably.

It's all just a big joke.I had fun when we talked on Tuesday.

I won't try to get in the way. This will end well. I am a boson. It's always up in the air.

I am not the wavy carpet. I am the happy kind. I don't believe in telepathy. Or astrology.

Maybe this will help us all in the long run. This is what happens: I see your point. But that's OK--lots of people feel that way. And I respect that.

This isn't much worse than an infomercial. This isn't really sustainable, but it's better than the alternative.

This can't end happily. Hey - Thing will tend to fall apart. You are precisely on the money.

Can't we just be friends? This isn't much worse than an infomercial. It's all just a big joke. Or maybe not.

Kick me when I'm down

I have a fractured jaw.

This is along with all the lumps and cuts and bruises all over my head, and general bruising all over.

This is all thanks to three kids who were looking for trouble on a Friday night and they found me. I have learned that if people are walking towards you blocking the pavement, walk around them. Don't try and walk through them or shoulder barge them like I did.

Becuase if you do they will beat the living shit out of you, and then keep kicking you when you are on the floor. And then the kicking stops and they disappear and you lie there until you think they've gone.

but you only get a little way down the road before you are risking your life, running across four lanes of traffic just to get away, and they catch you anyway, beat you some more and give you a further kicking until they are scared away by some passers by.

it's 3am. I just got back to San's from the hospital. I'm too scared to go back to my own flat -- though this fear probably only extends to it at night. so I'm going to be something more of a shut in. a shut in that can't eat solid food, and will probably have to get taxis to take me home after class if it is dark at the time.

the police were very nice to me though, and it's to their credit they stayed at the hospital with me to get the paperwork done, and didn't just say "we'll do it another day".

So where does this leave us? I was depressed to begin with, questioning my choice of career and hating my course. Now I am depressed, hating my course, questioning my choice of career, afraid to go out alone after dark, in a lot of pain and unable to eat solid foods.

I don't think I want to play this game any more.

I've been down so long it looks like up to me

I'm actually seriously considering a revamp of this diary into a Richard Fariña themed journal, borrowing the title of his only novel "Been down so long it looks like up to me". I believe the title of his novel (along with the anthology of his work that was published after his untimely death "Been a long time coming and a long time gone") was taken from an old blues song, though I haven't found the original song anywhere I believe I did find one by Lee Hazelwood of the same title. But I'm digressing. I'm going to toy with ideas for such a layout, but the chances of anything but the title changing are slim -- since I have none of the necessary skills. I'm still trying to work out a way to have the comments box appear as a small, seperate window.

The point of all this is not that I want a new layout -- that idea only just occurred to me. The point is that I am once again in another of my moods. Did I say at the beginning of the week that working for Leicester News Service had restored my faith in journalism? I think it was just the novelty of doing something else for a change. On Monday classes start again, and we are back to the issue that I hate my course, and am being trained for a career that I'm really not sure I want.

But I don't know what I do want.

I figured that, once again, trying to deal with my moods just wasn't working out too well for me and so I should see a psychiatric counsellor. But the health center tell me I can only see one if I am referred by a doctor. I really didn't want to do that, I hate seeing doctors. I hate them looking at my medical records and every time questioning me about a suicide attempt. I hate even more having to explain it was not a sucide attempt, I spent that night in hospital because I just wasn't to be trusted with sharp objects. I made clear to them at the time I had no interest in killing myself, but it seems they ignored that in my records. I so do not want to have to see some disinterested and over-worked GP whose only interest is writing you a prescription and getting you out the door for the next patient.

I feel as if I am alone all of the time -- because even with people around, I just can't seem to relate to others. I feel cold and frustrated, and although I want someone to hold me and tell me it's all going to be okay, I can't seem to warm up enough to respond.

Sometimes I think what I need is a rest, to be someplace where I don't have to worry -- I don't need to think about essays and grades and exams, or about getting up for work, and if I'm earning enough and where my life is going. I can't go back home because it won't be like that. Sure, they'd say it will be -- and for a day or two, maybe it would, but before the end of a week they'd soon be bugging me to do something. And I don't think I could stand being around my Dad all day now he's retired. I certainly can't do it here, because there's bills and rent to pay and food to be bought.

I guess this all anyone ever wants -- and you have to work forty years of your life to get anything close to it, unless you're born into luxury.

Return to the land of the rain

I've been back in Leicester for a few days and it doesn't feel like I left at all. Christmas feels like a dream, and the few times that I saw my friends could just be memories from any other time I was around.

I got back Thursday, and I saw San on Thursday night as she was still unpacking. I'd missed her in the time that had passed since I saw her at New Year, even though her flat is cold (because the university to have heating that stays on if you want it on -- or even adjustable thermostats) it was good just to sleep beside her. Friday I had arranged to go to Derby to see my old Goth friend Owen, since I wanted to interview him about Urban Exploration for a feature I have to write. We also planned to explore a secret basement where he worked, and hoped to find a way into the city's catacombs.

It didn't work out exactly like that. Owen is working two jobs, and as luck would have it he ended up working both on Friday. I got some time to talk to him, and then called [Matt] to hang out with while Owen worked that night. Owen found us in a bar when he finished work early, but I should have remembered how Owen seems to dislike social settings like that (which is probably a major reason why he doesnt seem to carry his wallet half the time, that and he's just cheap) and he was antsy to go exploring.

And because we went exploring after several pints of beer is why I have a cut on my head, and on my hands, and feel bruises all over my chest and back. We thought we found an entrance to the catacombs, it's hard to explain why and where it was -- but basically it was a tunnel that had been bricked up. Fortunately, Owen spotted a hole and proceeded to climb inside of it. He convinced me to try and after I insisted I couldn't get in and he enlarged the hole, he did get me to climb -- head first, into complete darkness -- into the hole. He said he would catch me, which to his credit, he did. He didn't, however, give any thought to a safe place to stand -- so he fell over, and dropped me on my head.

The tunnel wasn't a way into the catacombs at all, but instead seemed to be an abandoned garage unit -- or else, a dumping ground for old cars and car parts. It was very dull. And the other end was sealed with a sheet of corrugated metal, which was only half closed, which meant we could just walk out.

I ended up sleeping on Matt's couch because Owen claimed his girlfriend was waiting up for him and she was going to be mad at him for going out. Owen has always made her out to be -- in his words from Friday -- a sociopath and a misanthropist. She has apparently an irrational hatred of him spending time with anyone else or going out, but always has seemed friendly and normal to anyone who meets her. Most likely they both have their issues, and we aready knew that Owen is a compulsive liar. I think he just didn't want me to sleep on his couch, so it's just as well that Matt had no problem with it after I woke him up at 3 am. He even cooked us breakfast.

The rest of the weekend was quiet. San and I have decided that even though we have been together for ages we will start doing date-like things, for the fun of it. So I ask her out, and she accepts, and I pick her up and take her out somewhere. So that was Saturday night. Sunday I cooked breakfast, we watched tv, then went shopping because I needed more smart clothes for this week.

And that brings us right up to date, because this week I am working for Leicester News Service -- a news agency, basically. After one day it has restored my faith in journalism. I may hate my course, but I could handle a job in journalism -- and possibly in particular a job for a news agency.

And no, it had nothing to do with the hottie who graduated off my course last year and works there.

4-5-6-7, grab your umbrella

This morning I dreamed that I was getting married to San. The church was full of relatives, and I remember seeing their expressions as I walked down the aisle (why was I walking down the aisle?) -- they didn't seem happy, more nervous or worried. This seems to have escaped me in the dream.

However, when I get to the front of the church instead of getting married, I am strapped into a chair that resembled an electric chair -- with the leather straps and all the rest -- and forced to take a test. What the test was in, I couldn't tell you.

San told me it was ok really, because what she hadn't told me before was that she was already married to her friend, Jill.



I told San about this dream and she laughed, but said that it had disturbing undercurrents. Like what? I asked her. Like that Jill is an obstacle between us.

Ahh... Jill.

As far as San is concerned, the only issue with Jill would be that I am or was resentful of her trying to convince San to leave me for her. I will take to my grave the secret that I have a little bit of a crush on Jill.

Most of the time I have got to thinking I imagined it all, or that I have control over my feelings, but then I meet her again and something goes "phrreeeeee-owww".

On New Year's Eve we went to an indie club in London -- we as in me, San, Jill, Jill's boyfriend and some friends of theirs. The night was uneventful as nights out go. The club was badly organised as there was only one bar open in the place, which meant epic length queues for a drink. San and I were stood in a queue at the bar when the clock struck midnight. I tried to be enthusiastic, and I think San wanted to be too, but the feeling just wasn't there.

But anyway. I know perfectly well what the attraction is with Jill -- it's the same thing that has all the boys wanting her. She just has this way of focusing her attention on you, and it makes you feel special. She has this upbeat, laid back way to her -- and sure, she has her issues, and probably more of them and more serious than I could speculate -- but she seems like the universe was created just to compliment her.

I honestly don't know her very well. I've never had the opportunity to have a real conversation with her, to talk to her about how she feels or what she wants from life. It is just a crush and nothing more. But I've told San that I admire her self control to not leave me for Jill when Jill asked her to -- sure, I could never leave San for Jill, either, but that's an entirely different prospect. All the same, I sometimes wonder if the two of them wouldn't be better together.

Something needs to be done

Something needs to be done. This stress over what I am going to do about my course is starting to interfere with my normal life. My dreams are disturbed and I almost welcome the chance to get out of bed today. I have dark circles under my eyes that look like bruises -- what causes these dark rings? I mean, I know that it's from not sleeping properly and feeling like shit -- but what actually causes the circles? My appetite -- what little appetite I normally have -- has more or less packed its bags and left for another town, and to round things off I have that sore-throat feeling like I'm coming down with something.

The way I see it right now my choices are more or less limited to:
-- Quit my course; get some random job or jobs until I work out what I want to do
-- Quit my course with the view to taking a job as a bar supervisor or assistant manager some place
-- Don't quit my course; continue to feel miserable about it

And to think that I was so desperate to be accepted for a place. I saw it as my way of getting out and moving up, the beginning of my life properly, and wasn't sure what I could possibly do if I didn't get accepted. Now I almost wish I had never applied to begin with.

I've upped my standards: now up yours

So Christmas came and went largely without incident. Christmas Eve night was spent in a pub with only a couple of friends watching a band play covers. I think my group of friends are more fragmented than they were this time last year, because some won't talk to Nick any more which isn't really any of my business but it means that any more nobody is ever all out at the same time. Last week if we hadn't met at the pub where I used to work I doubt so many of my friends would have turned out.

It was a good night though -- the band weren't entirely bad, and I spent mostly the entire night talking to Jon. We were even home before 12, which isn't exactly usual most nights.

I can't say that the novelty of being back home for Christmas has worn off, but I am desperately trying to think of something to do with my life that means I don't have to go back to my course. After the earthquake in Iran recently I remembered how for years I have been wanting to do relief work, been wanting to do something real with my life. Back in September when I was doing work experience I was saying as much -- I wanted to feel like I was making a difference.

The trouble is, you can't just do it. My idea of what relief work is seems to be largely voluntary work, when I start looking at jobs in the area all the seem to be is, well, jobs. Office, administration, accounts -- I'm not qualified, and I'm not interested. I want to be hands-on helping people. But it doesn't look like it's going to happen.

Anyhow. I refuse to jump on the "Christmas sucks" bandwagon, as I have enjoyed it this year and actually do enjoy it most years. I'm sorry for anyone who hasn't had a good time, but I'm not going to pretend I hate the holiday season.

-- Update: I have updated the comics section of the links page. Hardly earth-shattering news, but I am sure none of you actually ever look at that page unless I mention it.

It feels like somebody put something in my drink

I think I might be coming down with something.

Yesterday, I felt fine. I felt fine when I got up this morning. But now I am feeling increasingly strange, and I can't explain it. Either I am coming down with something, or I have reacted uncharacteristically badly to donating blood this morning.

Donating blood isn't normally a big deal for me. I don't enjoy the experience, but it doesn't take long and I feel I should do it. Today things just seemed wrong. First, there was it taking longer than normal. It seemed to hurt more and be generally more uncomfortable, too. Then there was an issue with the bleeding not stopping as quickly it should do afterwards. And then as I was about to leave, I began to feel strange as my vision started to be replaced with a bright haze, so they made me lie down with my feet raised.

Ever since then I've just been feeling wrong. My head feels fuzzy, and I just had to abandon my shorthand practice, not because I couldn't concentrate but more like it seemed something was getting lost between my brain and my hand. I do feel tired, so maybe I need a nap -- it could be simply not enough sleep. But I feel almost feverish.

Of course, all of this won't stop me from going out tonight -- I'm not going to be back home for very long, and I want to see my friends as much as I can.

--- and by the way, Happy Christmas to everyone I know here.

I can't tell you why

Last night I dreamed about Fiona. I don't think I wrote here about how I met up with her a few days before I came back home.

I'd said after my entry "Here it ends" that I wouldn't bother with her again, since she didn't appear to want to remain friends. Perhaps I haven't stuck to it as much as I should have done, since I asked her at the time why she was being cagey about meeting up with me, and have since answered any emails from her -- although not instigated any.

So I was of course surprised when I got an email of her asking if I wanted to meet up. I did want to see her, but tried to make my reply as casual as possible -- rather than "I would love to see you" I told her "I think I would like to meet up". The fact alone that I had to deliberately phrase my reply suggests that I have feelings still for her. So we met up, and she was just the same as ever. A few years older, a little wiser perhaps, and a little more grown up than the 15 year old I met one day in June, nearly 5 years ago.

We didn't spend long together, since a friend of hers had arranged for them to go to the cinema, but we had a few drinks and talked about everything. I learned my lesson last time around and didn't tell her I loved her or that I wanted her back, although we did talk a little about us. She mentioned how it has taken her three years to get over me -- although there was a slip where she said something like she was getting over, rather than was over me, but I choose not to jump on that. She told me that she had felt the same way about me, last time, although that annoyed me more than anything since she refused to consider me at the time, or since. Sure, it was probably the best decision -- but she could have been honest about how she felt. How she feels now I don't know, and don't care to ask. I don't much entertain my lingering feelings -- they obviously aren't the same feelings I once had, and even if they were there can be only heart ache for one or both of us to act on it.

I haven't heard anything from her since then. I've come to believe that I have the wrong telephone number for her, and she probably hasn't had the chance to read her email. I'm not reading too much into it, I can't see any reason why she would ignore me deliberately now.

All the same, last night I dreamed of her. As you might expect, the dream involved us sleeping together -- it wasn't a sex dream, it wasn't focused on or even actually feature the sex itself. Just that we had done. There was no great revelations, no extremes of emotion one way or the other. Most of the dream featured us wandering around her university campus -- not arm in arm, or hand in hand, in fact I can't remember how we were at all -- but remembering it now, the place clearly seemed more like a movie studio than her university.

I think I woke up from the dream with us in her bedroom. I had to leave to get something or find something at my own flat, and invited her to come with me. I don't know if I had an ulterior motive, or just hoped for something to happen. Either way, she said she wouldn't go. I asked her if she didn't trust me, or words to that effect, and she said that was true.

I don't know what to really make of the dream. I would blame the novel I'm reading at the moment, Don De Lillo's Americana, where the protagonist sleeps with his ex wife -- but I am sure that there was no hint this was going to happen in the story before I read it today. I don't know what the dream was trying to say at all.

I'm like a soldier with no cause to fight

So it's Sunday, I got back home early yesterday evening -- having had at least two phone calls from Laura on my way home wanting to know if I was back yet and when I would be back, since everyone was going out in honour of my return.

We ended up going out about an hour later than planned, since Jon was attempting to dye his hair blonde and was distraught at it going basically ginger. But we made it to the pub, if a little late, and although it was the first time in months everyone had apparently been out together, it felt no different to normal.

Perhaps it's just me. Maybe going out in honour of the return of an introvert means that the night really wasn't going to be a big deal. All the same, it didn't feel like I was the centre of attention -- which makes me an attention seeking introvert, if you follow.

It wasn't so bad though, it was just old times. I talked about Leicester to Austin who used to live there himself, and he asked me for relationship advice (I know, it makes little sense) since he and his girl had broken up this week after a year and a half together.

It's good being back home. It doesn't feel strange, like it has done before, it just feels good. I guess I really have been unhappy or lonely being away. But that troubles me -- I remember the feeling when I came home for the weekend before, the feeling of wanting to not go back. I remember when I'm away the feelings of wanting someone to just come and take me away. And everyone keeps saying to me "There's not long left" but that doesn't comfort me, my skills are still very rough and my confidence is still pretty shaky. Can I really be a professional journalist before the end of the year?

I keep hoping that someone will find my blog or my diary and like my writing and give me money to just write and not have to see anyone if I don't want to -- and certainly not walk the streets in the cold and the rain looking for a story. Nor write 110wpm shorthand. Or know about the role of elected mayors in local government.

How did this become my whining? I don't know. The cat says he doesn't know either, but if it's all the same he quite likes my writing and would pay me if he wasn't, y'know, a cat and all.

Dead letters

There is an explanation as to what is going on with the junk email. At first, things seemed to be getting even more strange. I would read an email on WAP, and as mentioned before it would contain what looked like an extract from an essay. However, I found that when I looked at these emails on a computer they had mysteriously changed to the junk email their subjects suggested they would be.

Apparently it's like this -- some of these emails can only be read in html, and rather than show up a blank page or an error message, they have these 'essays' embedded in the email. Who knows how many emails a day we are getting with this stuff hidden in them -- you can only see it by viewing the source, and laboriously searching through that -- or by viewing them in something that doesn't support html.

Of course, now I am going to be searching all of my junk mail for hidden messages. Who knows what is being sent -- among my dozens of junk emails every day there could be any number of secret messages.

What this all reminds me of is Clive Barker's The Great and Secret Show where the protagonist spends his days working in the dead letter room of a sorting office, opening endless reams of undeliverable mail and soon discovers, through a series of cryptic dead letters, an alternate reality.

What? It could happen.

(and, yes, I've taken off comments for the time being. Maybe for good, I don't know -- but if you really want to comment, you can email me)

Ever read your junk mail?

Every once in a while, junk email slips through the yahoo bulk mail filter and ends up in my inbox. Normally, I just tell them it's spam without opening it, and it's gone. Sometimes I open it, for the sake of it. I always check my mail in my bulk mail folder in case something I want has ended up in it. Sometimes I open mail in that, usually if I want to delete something but I am reading on WAP and don't have the link to just empty the folder.

Do you ever open your junk mail? Because something very strange is going on in mine,

There will be an email like "Jay! Rates fall for the third week running!" or "Slash your debt by 70%!", and nine times out of ten the email matches the subject. But every once in a while, it doesn't. I appear to be getting emailed what I can only describe as extracts of essays. In an email the other day with a subject about interest rates was part of an essay about the poet Alderman. Today in an email with a subject telling me I can slash my debt, I have an essay about what the deforestation of the Amazon is doing to indigenous tribes.

They aren't whole essays. They aren't public appeals for something to be done. They aren't mailings from charities. They can only be described as extracts. Someone is seriously trying to fuck with my head.

I was reading my Zen guide the other night, rather than working. It's difficult to get your head around -- but it could be the answer to why I get strange things like this going on, because none of it is actually real.

-- and own up -- who has been reading through the archives? I'm not complaining, I just like to know who is reading what...

Random and often strange things

ou kids choose to read the most random entries sometimes, I swear. I largely ignore now the number of readers my diary stats say that I have (even though it does say more people are reading than are leaving comments), but I know for certain what old entries in my archive I have or haven't been reading. And nearly every day when I check it, I see particular entries that aren't even in chronological order. I guess people must just like the titles, I don't know.

It's been an odd few days. Not least because something very stange is going on with my floppy disks -- they will disappear in the short journey to or from my house, or work I know that I saved on it will just not show up. If I get home and my disk isn't there, my disk with my only available copy of the news story I wrote for tomorrow on it, I will not be happy.

Other odd things include that Fiona, she who seemed so reluctant to keep in contact, temperamental about answering text messages and more than a little reluctant to even acknowledge the idea when I suggested something that might involve seeing me -- the very same Fiona emailed me. Not only this, but she emailed with the specific purpose of asking me if I wanted to meet up. Perhaps because after the last time I asked her why she was being weird about answering me on the meeting up idea she explained it was that her boyfriend wouldn't like it. I guess now she has decided he doesn't need to know, but I have to ask her why now? Why after over two years, and after however long I have lived in this city, why does she suddenly want to see me now? I don't know what to expect from her, but I'm feeling strong enough not to make an arse of myself by falling for her.

And I'm toying with ideas for a webcomic called The Amazing Adventures of Sandwich-Girl and Dork-Boy. It would be about a girl San lives with and her boyfriend, or the characters based on them, with the story just being some weird and outlandish crazy thing. Okay, yes -- I don't have any ideas for what the story would be, and I can't actually draw so that is a major setback. But I like the idea. Maybe I will stick "webcomic author" under my list of jobs I would like to do. Speaking of webcomics, I miss rts.

*Update-- I started a blog, for the mundane, day to day stuff in life. But I can't really work out what I am doing with it.

A wet news hound

Note the change of template. I don't know if made it clear before, but I am currently running with a dual template idea. I was originally going to use the dark template for my alternative diary, then I decided I'd just stick the darkness right in here and I could use the other template for my darker days. And so I have. It's a real quick way to judge my mood -- dark template means I am largely depressed, this one means things are good, or at least okay.

And things today are pretty much okay.

My feet are soaking wet, because the soles of my boots are coming off and it has been raining to beat the band all day. Why was I out in the rain? I've been looking for news. There was so much to being a journalist I didn't know about -- and making contacts and finding the news is one of them. I know that technically sounds like two things, but I say it's one. In small groups we are news gathering from various parts of the city, as I may have mentioned -- and my group has landed itself in the an area of urban redevelopment.

If I call it the ghetto you would probably get ideas of gang wars and drive by shootings -- and while this takes place in Leicester, I don't think it's there. But there are the houses with the steel barriers over the windows and doors, the vandalised security cameras, the broken traffic lights, the unsurfaced roads. There's the look people get when you tell them you are going to Beaumont, and the way they say "be careful...".

By Tuesday (I think) we all need to have two stories -- a main story, and a nib (news in brief). I might already have one or the other, from someone I was talking to the other day out there, but I need more contacts. So with one of classmates I headed out there today, in the pouring rain.

For one thing, the street signs that said it was three miles or however far were strange. They started off at three or so, and seemed to decrease gradually, until around one and a quarter miles when it went down to one, then back up to one and a quarter, before going back to one again. And then there was a sign that said the city centre was only one and three quarter miles back in the direction we had come -- it seems it was a shorter distance to travel back than to travel on. Maybe they just want to discourage people who aren't "local". All the same, some phone calls to the council will be made, asking if anyone has ever tried following these signs on foot.

Technically, I didn't really make any contacts. I pointed out to Dan a letter in the window of a neighbourhood centre, about localised flooding and the council's lack of action, so he talked to a contact of his about it and will be following it up. I've got some numbers for domestic violence groups and mediation services...but no real people. And did I mention I haven't eaten today and my feet are soaking wet?

All the same, I don't really mind. I need to go home, call a local paper or two and a news agency (still chasing work experience), and maybe call these groups I have numbers for. Oh, and eating would be a good idea.

I can't tell you why I am feeling better (if a little light headed, and tired), but I just am and it's probably best not to question it too closely.

and then, and then, and then

I wish that I could tell you that things are better, but if I'm still using this template then the answer is going to be that they aren't.

Right now I am confused more than anything. I am in a pretty thoroughly unhappy place with my course, and unlike perhaps when I was an under-grad I don't think it's as simple as just carrying on. I was told by the head of department that I wouldn't be here if I wasn't good enough or couldn't do it. They were ludicrously over-subscribed. She says they took me because I can do it, and they don't make mistakes. This was weeks ago, months maybe. But she also said that if I am that unhappy and if the last thing I want is a job in journalism then naturally that was another matter completely.

To be honest, I don't know what I want.

I call home or I talk to San and talk about how I feel and I'm always being told "but it's only 6 months" -- and I say but I'm unhappy now and I don't know if I even want in a journalism any more. But what else will you do? Always that question. And I don't know. Then you should probably just stick it out...it's only a few months... And around and around we go.

Looking at my drinking recently, I can't say it's a problem. I don't remember when I was last drunk, or even when I last drank a lot. I know my limit and know to stop even if I don't feel drunk. That has to be good, though I don't really feel one way or the other about it. The whole idea of using diet pills or just speed if I could get it was never really going to get off the ground for the important reason that I have no job and no money.

I haven't even cut myself in months. The desire is there right enough -- I barely even shaved for last week, but when San commented on it I told her it was just because I didn't feel I could trust myself with a razor. I think it made her sad. But I'm clean-shaved now. My clothes are mostly clean, at any rate they aren't noticably dirty and don't smell. I need a hair cut, but I guess I will get one when I go back home for Christmas.

I would consider getting pierced again. I was telling San how piercing is the best form of self harm, since because it is so obvious and in everyone's face nobody realises why. There's no need to lie about how I got the cuts on my arms, or cutting my legs where it can't be seen. And I don't think the excuses ever really fool anyone. Of course, I always liked how it looked and that would in turn -- along with the endorphins -- make me feel good. But right now I need a job and need more things in my favour, not less.

Things with [San] are good. It seems I only ever write about her when things aren't going well -- I guess there's more to say when there's drama. On Friday when she came over I hadn't seen her in a week. We spent the weekend together, which was mostly uneventful but largely pretty happy on the basic level. San gets moods like I do. She said she was feeling numb for a while on one day, and said she felt bad because I hadn't done anything wrong. I understand though, it's the same for what I feel. I just distract her and try to make her happy.

But like I say, this week I'm still unhappy. I don't feel welcome on my course by some of the people I have to work with although this could be all in my head, or could be rectified if I made myself more social. I can identify several inter-connected problems that come from me not liking people all that much, and I wonder if this is a problem for journalism.

I told San today that I wish I could see how things will turn out. If just being unhappy for the next six months will be it -- after that I will get a job, and I won't hate it, and things will get better. Or if things will get worse. I guess the answer is that what will happen is what I let happen. If I make the decision to be happy and to do well things will be different to if I keep telling myself I hate it here and want out.

It's just a vicious cycle.

I want...

In keeping with my whole fucked-up-ness recently, or perhaps a sign that I can at least watch how fucked up I am, I have started to watch my drinking. It's never been that big of a deal, but I noticed I was drinking almost every night. I can't say I was drunk every night, or that it was interfering with other aspects of my life, but I felt it needed watching. So I said on Sunday, that's it -- nothing else until Friday night.

I lasted until, I think, Tuesday. Of course, it's only been one drink each day, and my inability to actually get any work done has had nothing to do with that. But all the same. There was a thread in the forums about things we are addicted to -- but perhaps I took it too seriously when I said "I'm like a chocaholic -- but with alcohol".

I asked San to pick me up some St John's wort, since she offered to get me some ginseng to help with the work. I also told her to get me some "diet pills". None of this herbal crap, something that has a big fat warning that too much can give you a heart attack. Even if she gets around to picking up the other stuff I know that she won't get me that -- probably for the same reason that I want them.

She doesn't believe me that i could -- if so inclined -- buy prescription drugs online, without a prescription. I just checked, and I could get myself a batch of Ritalin without any prescription. Sure, it's at an extortionate price and probably illegal, but I could -- if so inclined.

I might just look up the symptoms of ADD online and go convince a doctor to write me a real prescription.

Better yet; on my course we are now into "district reporting", that is producing a kind of mini newspaper in groups from various areas of the city. Luckily for me, if I wanted to be buying speed, I think we are reporting from exactly the right kind of place.

So I am trying to watch my drinking, but at the same time wanting some kind of... speed, or near equivalent, just for the sake of it. I'm thinking ritalin might do me some good, but have no illusions about the rest. I just need some kind of release for all this negative energy.

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I want out.

I have had it.

I don't know why today, because as days go it wasn't so bad. But I just want off this fucking course -- and, most likely, career path.

I think it was perhaps a discussion with a friend on MSN earlier that made me realise. He asked how things were and I have very little positive things to say. I actually like the practical journalism classes, and expect that an actual job in journalism would be all right, but that's pretty much it.

I am hungry. I am broke. I am lonesome as hell, but because I have no money I can't go out more and all my old friends live back home. I hate learning shorthand. I hate issues in contemporary journalism. I hate local government.

Do I really give a shit about a job in journalism any more? No, not really.

Of course this now raises other questions like what the hell am I going to do instead.

I need to find a job. Maybe more than one. But that will only solve one or two problems -- if at all. I will be earning a wage now, but that doesn't mean I will have much more spare income. So I could remain broke and hungry.

I also still wouldn't know anyone.

And even if I manage to somehow solve the no money, no food, no friends problems with a job I most likely will be swapping hating my course for hating my job -- although persevering with the course could get me a job that I might not hate.

If I moved back home I would have money, food, friends and probably a job, too. But it would also mean having to admit defeat. It would mean seeing again all the people who I told I was leaving for good to be a journalist, and admitting I couldn't do it. It's a nasty little town with nothing positive to be said for it and I don't want to go back there.

It seems that all I have before me is a bunch of things I don't want and can see no way out.