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Wednesday, July 2nd, 2003
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| Time: | 11:57 am. |
| Mood: | pained. | | Music: | Esthero - Song for Holly. |
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I don't think my Spy will follow me over to this journal. So I could vent my spleen as regards the House situation and the exboywhowontfuckoffanddielikeheought situation - but I truly cannot be bothered.
The texture of my throat is reminiscent of sandpaper. Hurts when I swallow. And I never did like dust, especially when it makes me sneeze. In short I am unwell, an' plannin' on wallowin' in self-pity for th'rest of th'day. Yes, with my pseudoaccent. It's all I have left.
I am no longer an Archaeology student, but a member of the Literary Elite. My pores ooze poetry, my words drop from my lips like shinin' tears that drown the innocent, I yearn for tempestuous movements in unlit rooms....
I deserve to be killed for that. I give you full permission to stab me in the eye next time I see you.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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...because despite your valiant attempts, this journal remains Weasel free. Do not be discouraged, darling, but turn your energy into something constructive. A nice Ginny icon would go down a treat. I needn't say that pro-Ron icons need not apply, need I?
O and the resurrection of the band-lyric survey.
( pampered wisps do not a cloth doll make )
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Comments: Read 5 or Add Your Own.
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| Time: | 7:22 pm. |
| Mood: |  predatory. |
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So, no email from my strangely unattractive personal tutor as regards the Course Change. This doesn't surprise me - the Archaeology department is still using stone tablets and papyri for their memos, and they take a lot longer to send than a simple email. Time to move into the twentieth century, methinks...but O, I'm still lagging.
There was going to be a rant about the British justice system, and how one's future could be dependent upon the whims of twelve undoubtedly plebeian people, selected entirely at random - but I haven't the heart now. These sunny days are just too dispiriting, and the pollen is very cruel.
I think it's perfectly acceptable to kill your own babies, you just shouldn't deprive other people of the joy of killing theirs.
....I want scones.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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When I concentrate on my breathing, I can feel my chest tighten and the air catch in my throat...ought I be anxious? Shall I become, as my mother fears, one of those tragic cases who see life only through anti-smoking adverts?
Perhaps I'm consumptive, now there's something to look forward to. And it's contagious, so anyone who's had physical contact with me recently will also be hacking up the scarlet spot. There goes half of north-east England. A petty revenge, but mine own.
And oh, Bellatrix! I can say naught more about OotP, save this. Somebody on the Light side dies, and I'm not overly concerned. Fucker had it coming.
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Comments: Read 10 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, June 18th, 2003
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My head hurts, I have sore feet, I wish to sort out these disgusting default LJ colours, yet I cannot be bothered. I also want icons of an interestingly patrician nature - but again, I cannot be bothered.
And my tea has gone. Woe, woe to the world, and may you all suffer as I do.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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jeneli's journal
pensive.