i'm okay. i think.
i have far too much going on in my head. sometimes i want to extract them and keep them in a pensive. harry potter style. i know a pensive is for re-living memories, but surely it could store my thoughts too? maybe i should ask jk rowling. my thoughts are a messed up jigsaw. one of those million piece ones. one with lots of sky, pieces of the same colour and shape. a lot of my thoughts are like that. about the same thing, but slightly different.
i'm tired of being lied to. boys lying to me. i ought to be precise with this. i'm sick of hearing sober slurs. 'i really fucking like you, babe.' no you don't. 'i'll text you.' no you won't. i waited days to text this boy. i actually really liked him. probably the second drunken meeting of a guy i've actually liked. i tend to attract the intoxicated and the hideous. not this time. he was attractive and sweet. until i insisted i needed to go home rather than back to his friends house. so i debated on whether i should text him or not. then i did. and a week later, i got nothing back. i've always been so cautious with guys. i'm the heartbreaker, god forbid, i'm ever the heartbroken. i tell these guys i have a boyfriend who lives in some far off place (usually lowestoft, thinking of one of my old flatmates) but i'll kiss them and dance with them and let them buy me drinks and take their numbers and promise to text them. i guess now i know how it feels to be one of those boys i do that to.
i want to quit my job. working men's club. bleugh. i'm filled with dread at the thought of friday rolling around. i'd rather have the middle of the week than the weekend. i've been there almost two months. but i can't handle it. the hours are pretty much my bedtime. i'm dead on my feet most of the time. i'm paranoid whilst i'm there, constantly looking over my shoulder and on edge. the boss is a total bitch. i can't do anything right in her eyes. i was only hired because my grandad dedicated most of his life to that place. he was on the well respected commitee. if i wasn't given the job, she'd have probably gotten shit from the remaining members. i'm sick of it. the pervy drunken men talking about me, eyes glued to my chest. i don't put my boobs out there, i never wear anything low cut or revealing, yet i am still made to feel uncomfortable while i'm collecting. this past weekend, i've realised i don't like any of the bar staff. i'm complained at, bitched at, and made to feel like absolute shit. i broke down on sunday about it. i'm already searching for something better. i don't want to just up and leave, i need a valid reason, and another job would be as good as anything.
university's alright. i'm low on inspiration, but i'll probably get a creative burst at some point. always do. i'm just trying not to stumble in late after sitting in traffic on the bus or having to endure the delayed train. i'm talking to new people. things might be different, but i'm scared to speak too soon and jinx it. i'm trying my damnest to not cut out my only ticket back to derby next year, but she's making it so difficult. things are okay. my friends are being my usual life support, listening to my crap and letting me drunkenly slur on their shoulders on saturday nights. i love them.
maybe it's because i'm ill. nine days now. i've got another eight days of penicillin tablets and barely being able to eat. maybe once this is over, my head will be less fuzzy.
