Staggering like birds against a hurricane

Well, here I am again, battling my way gallantly through storms of internet-free days and incompetant PC World technicians (but what can you expect, I mean really, their warehouse - it is bright pink. BRIGHT pink.) Am amazed I made it to a second blog entry, really. I pray the god of the mountain goats that I won't turn into a myspace whore with a post every five minutes along the lines of 'I'm going to get some toast now'. 'OMG, I'm eating the toast, it's amazing'; 'the toast is gone. Woe'. This would be pointless and also utterly spurious, as I haven't eaten toast since I got here.

New Cross continues fine as ever, a glorious No Man's Land between the Peckham boys and the Deptford boys. Why didn't I go to Cambridge again?

The rash is on its way out. That is not the point. It never should have turned up in the first place. Bloody skin.

I went to the cinema on Saturday night to see 'Children of Men' with the flat mates. It was a grim and bleak vision of the future with lots of shooting. OK, it was essentially a shoot 'em up, which some of our number found boring, shallow and irritatingly testosterone-filled. However, I quite liked it. There were sweets and lots of guns. I might read the book. I'm displaying a serious lack of eloquence today. I really want to/need to/damn well should do a couple of posts on Sakura. Or a couple of hundred. But I'm really not happy with my writing at the moment. I can't even manage a faintly entertaining blog. (Seriously, why do my fingers persist in typing 'blog' as 'blong'? Is it Nature's way of telling me to condense my posts?)

My ears have been ringing on a near-constant basis since we moved Thom's record player into the kitchen. And those odd chaps from Cambridge came round again last night, bringing one of their flat mates with them. She was slightly odd and spent the evening coming on to me. I was completely uninterested. It's becoming a slight social stigma here, i.e. the flat mates all moan about not getting any etc etc and I just...don't care. I'd rather go to the Library. I'd rather do nearly anything. I just don't give a flying watermelon. I'm probably emotionally stunted. Well, good. While the cat's away, the mice shall play. Or should that be while the rampant teenagers are doing revolting things behind closed doors, the sensible going-to-get-a-good-degree people are getting into the German Expressionism section before the rush? Ha.

Actually, the idea of there being a rush for the German Expressionism section amuses me. I keep going there in the hope of meeting an actual German expressionist.

I'm terrified about NaNo this year. I really worry, not that I'm not going to be able to write anything, but that what I write will be so much utter rubbish. I think I write better in the summer. Or maybe just this summer. I can think perfectly well at the moment: beautiful things keep coming to me, but the only thing I'm writing are haiku. A lot of haiku. The minimalism appeals to me. I compose them on-the-go and then forget them. They just blow out of my mind like a lot of autumn leaves, and that lipstick that blew out of the window. I love autumn, though. Even though autumn is everything I thought of as bad, up until recently. But now I don't mind, autumn seems lovely anyway. I think it's still going to be special when I'm ancient.

I really do not know what I'm ranting on about. It's all got a bit German Expressionist, hasn't it? It'd probably be much more meaningful if I could sprechen die Deutsch. Then you'd all think I was being dreadfully meaningful instead of spouting whatever pops into my head like an intermittently leaky drain. Well, I say 'you all', but I suppose what I really mean is Stuart. I failed a bit at this blog-starting up, didn't I? It was supposed to be telling you what I'm doing.

I think I sound depressed in this post. I'm not depressed, I'm just contemplative. Say the word contemplative out loud ten times and it doesn't lose all semblance of meaning, unlike a lot of words when you do that. Particularly 'napkin'. I abhor that word anyway.

I miss my friends, simple as that. University students aren't quite the same, somehow. I've sort of forgotten how to be me.