Perfected :: Her Body :: Greek Necessity :: Deep Throats :: Scrolls

You look like the perfect fit for a girl in need of a tourniquet "They say goldfish have no memory, I guess their lives are a lot like mine; And the little plastic castle Is a surprise every time." - Ani Di Franco, 'Little Plastic Castles' No sleep and less food, running on caffeine and adreneline, appears to have fucked my body royally. It may technically be a reasonably minor case of the flu, but to me it feels like plague. The virus appears to be running around the flat - Laura woke up feeling hellish this morning after I crawled into her room with demands to be hugged and read to (thanks to her new collection of vintage She-Ra books), and now her computer is sick too. I made the screen freeze and now I can't undo it. Hence everyone and everything in this flat being sick or broken in some way. The Other Flatmate (who I believe I have yet to complain about here, but I'm sure that will come. He hasn't stolen my painkillers to kill himself with yet, but he did ask if he could snort my Dragon's Blood powder. It's highly toxic, so if he pisses me off he can have the whole lot.) has sensibly run off to Paris with his *very* attractive, rather naive and upper class new-ish girlfriend. He's going to be bohemian for the next few days, he claims. I didn't feel bitchy enough to ask him if he could spell it. Either way, it's taken my work ethic and done unspeakable things to it that would be illegal even in Amsterdam. Bollocks. I curled up, foetal-like under my covers last night, and decided I was dying. I generally do this, because I can't possibly have something as pedestrian and bourgois as flu. If I'd been living, say, 150 years ago (damn the progression of time for preventing me typing 'last century') then I could conceivably have been bed-ridden for days, clad in some flimsy white linen shift, dark mass of hair spread across the pillow like a bloodstain. This notgood, since I have a mountain for work to get through if I want to be able to hand in two spectacular essays over the next three weeks. Easier said than written, of course. Perhaps the new-found apathy has less to do with my run-down bundle of flesh and blood and more to waning enthusiasm about my subject. It was all very well quoting Monique Wittig and Judith Butler in reference to Thelma and Louise when Susan Sarandon in denim neck-tie, tank top and jeans was the sexiest thing onscreen, but now I've seen The Hunger, which has her wearing substantially less and a sex scene far more erotic than a 1980s lesbian vampire film has any right to be. Really, by rights they should throw me out of that Feminist Fictions class for being objectifying. The fact that this entry is reasonably coherent, except for the parts where I cough and hit the wrong keys, gives me very little excuse for not pressing 'Save' on this entry and opening up my essay. There's coffee (Thornton's Almond Amaretto, no less) in the cupboard, I summoned up the strength to walk down the road to a cafe-bar I'm not quite fashionable enough to sit in and bought a halloumi wrap with roast vegetables. They should provide them on the NHS, get Favorit to do their catering, never mind Lloyd Grossman. That's how good they are. So I'm clearly healthy-ish right now. ______________________________ we have come so far :: it is over

Accomplishment :: The Moon :: Toga :: Night Flower