to let you know...

...I pulled a post that I wrote at about 1am this morning and published on this here blog. Don't worry, it's nothing but emo shit you haven't heard a thousand times before, it's no great loss to the blogosphere.

It was something I really wanted to say at the time but it involved something personal that someone said to me on MSN last night that I had no business whining about, let alone republishing in public without their permission. So it's gone, the whole thing. I've only done this a couple of times, I tend to stand by what I've said on here but I think the world is better off without that particular nugget.

Stand by for some slightly more cheerful posting. I have pictures of Emilie, myself and Jean-Claude the rubber chicken that need to be shared...

shit

Sorry for the title of this entry boys and girls, but I was sat here thinking, now what shall I call this post? And that's the first thing that came into my head.

I tend to start my posts with the title. I don't know if other people do it that way but I'll think of a title or a song lyric that really gets me and I'll go from there. I like my titles to make sense alongside what I write but I'm better at titles than essays so it's best just to mould my writing to the title.

'Shit' is not a very good title. But I decided I'd go for the upfront and honest approach with this one and just give you the only word that sums up my thoughts tonight. Shit.

Shit the exclamation. As in, oh shit. As in, oh no, I'm unemployed. As in, whoops, I broke my mum's camera. As in, oh dear, I did some monumentally stupid things this weekend.

Also, shit the adjective. I feel shit. Physically, I'm blistered, sunburnt, bruised, hungover, ill with a cold I think I caught from Mike in Dublin. Emotionally, spiritually. Oh god, I'm tired of being a Christian right now. Not bored, not like that. As in it exhausts me, and I'm sick of excusing myself. I'm tired of starting every conversation on the defensive, sick of snide comments and people who set too much in the Da Vinci Code. I'm emotionally exhausted from second-guessing myself and not knowing how I want to live my life.

Tonight we are waiting for something to click.

As in, oh shit, how does one fit in with the other? How do I reconcile the two, when these emotions drag me down? So, Christian, where was your faith this weekend? Was God with you on Friday night and in your dreams on Saturday? At what point in the Reading Festival, you Christian, were you being salt and light in the fucking world?

Repeat after me, Christian. I am not good enough to do this.

I wrote this note down at Soul Survivor, in one of the main meetings that just said "I'm shit but I'm loved". Maybe it's ok to be that way.

I am not good enough to do this. They taught us at SoulintheCity to say I Am Not But I Know I Am. Clever, huh? I am not, I am nothing but I know I am. I am, another name for God. I am nothing other than what I am in him. They said it was ok not to be good enough, because God ws good enough.

So tell me, born-again Christian, at what point this week did God's goodness shine through you?

I mean I'm REALLY not good enough. Not in a modest, self-effacing way. Not to big God up and play down my own achievements. There's no hope in this statement. Right now, I'm not good enough for this.

Maybe in a month's time I will be. A year's time, a week's time. Maybe I never will be. Right now there's no room for God in the way I am because there's too much else. And there's no point to this post, no philosophy to expound. This isn't a sermon. I still say father, I don't know how many times a day, but there's no prayers left to follow it. Father, what? Father help me? Father help them? Father I'm sorry? Well that's meaningless, then, because as soon as that word leaves my lips it's gone into the ether and there's nothing good coming out to replace it.

How refreshing it is to be completely and utterly, negatively honest. I can't sugarcoat this one. Right now I don't have a clue who or what God is and if he's even bothered with me.

I have absolutely no hope for myself right now and I have nothing valuable to say tonight. Nothing that will educate or edify or improve you in any way so I'll just say shit. I'll talk shit and act shit and feel shit until something changes. Until something clicks.

Tell me, Christian, where is your God tonight?

He's watching I guess, like a parent watching their kid trying to shove the circle piece into the triangle hole in the shape box. He's waiting, I guess, for me to figure it out. Waiting for it to click.

i can't wait to read THIS when i'm sober

So, I'm in Dublin right now, will be until Thursday but there won't be much bloggage until next week because I'm going to the Reading Festival so that Emilie can corrupt me and I can wear my wellies and listen to some sweet ass choons and drink Cinzano.

In the meantime, I'm in an absolutely wicked hostel in Dublin with Snow Patrol playing over the speakers and some awesome friends playing pool in the next room. I have 6 minutes and 29 seconds to go before my time runs out and I am done on here.

We found our local pub, it's called the Hairy Lemo.

We went to Temple Bar, it blew. I got charged EIGHT EUROS for an Archers and Coke. How long did I find that funny? Not long. Not long at all.

Also went to the Guiness brewery, but don't be thinking I've done nothing but drink. No no. I've been having more conversations. And I've been taking a lot of pictures. And I realised, wandering around our communal kitchen in flipflops, cooking for 12 and dancing to weird world music on the radio, that, not only do I love pretending to be bohemian, but I AM ready to go to uni.

I am so ready. I'm so not ready, but I so am. I walked through Dublin today on my own to get some groceries and it was a big deal. Strange country, wonderful but strange people, and here I am. I feel great. I'm not scared.

I'm not drunk either.

HAHAHAHA.

This is one of the best and most bizarre experiences of my life.

We sat in the Hairy Lemon, me with my brand new Guiness knickers (you'll be seeing them later) and sang The Killers on the jukebox. I drank Baileys and thought yeah, I love this life. I wish summer could last forever. I wish I could do this summer over again.

I'm gonna go, typing is so incredibly difficult and I want to see my friends. Tonight, we're playing pool and telling secrets.

Love it.

if looks could kill, this website would've gotten eerily quiet after tonight

Quarantine is a more social club than the Agincourt, in that you can actually hear things such as other people's voices and your own thoughts. Shame that the music is shite. They play a lot of emo. And then some more emo. And then, just when you thought there wasn't any emo left in the world, they play some more. Gah. They also play some good stuff like The Killers and the Foos which you don't hear at the Ag but one usually can't appreciate it on account of ONE'S EARS MELTING FROM ALL THE EMO. EMOVERLOAD.

On a strikingly similar note, after a couple of hours, all emo songs sound the same.

But I can deal with that. My real beef with Quarantine is the people. They're a lot more normal than the crowd at the Ag, which is not a good thing. They pay attention to things like how you look and how well you dance. I have no time for people like that. Also, Quarantine happens to be the place where my ex-boyfriend and his entire social circle hang out. It seems like every time I introduce myself to someone there, I get the same response:

"Fi? As in, Martin and Fi?"

Admittedly, at the Ag all I hear is "Fi? As in Haggis' little sister?", but for obvious reasons, that doesn't bug me as much. At the Ag, I hang out with goths and weirdos, a load of my brother's schoolfriends and, for some reason, most of the staff of Tesco (some of whom are also employed at the Ag). At Quarantine I get to walk smack bang into the middle of my very own soap opera. A wonderfully hysterical soap opera in which I, for some reason, am the villain.

Boo... Hiss...

I spent most of tonight getting glared at by a group of girls I do not know and have never spoken to. They stared at me and Liz like we were the shit off their shoes. Why? Because my ex-boyfriend dumped one of them. Was that my fault? Did I make it happen? Was I pleased that it happened. No. I'm not that harsh and I am not a boyfriend stealer. But I was there, and I was a convenient scapegoat.

I usually follow the three-strike rule for pubs and clubs. If I go there three nights and have a rubbish time then I just won't go there again (I'd like to have a one-strike rule but you really can't be choosy round here). This is the second time I've left that club feeling as valuable as the mould in the toilets. The only thing more angsty and dramatic than the emo is the people dancing to it. I'm obviously on somebody else's turf in there. No third chance. I'd rather smear myself in Pedigree Chum and go for a walk in Battersea Dog's home. There'd be less barking of dogs.

i hate to talk about money, but...

At the moment, my bank account contains a sizeable amount of dinero that was presented to me today by the Inland Revenue. Unfortunately, I can't actually get to it until my cheque clears a week today.

Currently, my wallet contains another tasty chunk of dinero, consisting of my last ever paycheck and a birthday present from my ma. Unfortunately, it's all in Euros.

As I type this, another part of my worldly wealth, what I'm owed for overtime I did two months ago, is floating within the coffers of Tesco PLC as Jonah floated within the whale. Unfortunately, Tesco aren't very fond of regurgitating things onto the proverbial beach of my finances.

Right now there is a Natwest chequebook on the desk in front of me. It's mine. All of the slips have my name on them. Unfortunately, I don't have a guarantee card yet.

What does this mean? It means that I'm counting ten pence pieces into little piles to see if I can afford to go out tonight because ALL THE MONEY I COULD EVER WANT IS MINE BUT I JUST CAN'T GET TO IT.

AARRGH!!!

a-levels aren't getting easier, we're just getting better at passing them

Farnborough 6th Form College is unique in that its students can get their a-level results online from the comfort of their own home instead of queuing up in the sunshine to get them printed.

I am stupid in that I decided to wait an unnecessary four hours in order to get my results the 'old-fashioned' way. Why? So that Liz and I could open them together and share the moment. No, really why? Because I'm a masochist.

English Lit - A
Sociology - A
Film Studies (AS level) - A
Drama and Theatre - B
General Studies - B
English AEA - Distinction.

The part of me that is a spoilt over-achiever is peeved that I didn't get the ever-elusive A in Drama, but the majority of me is so unbelievably chuffed that I even managed to pass the English AEA that I really am not complaining.

Which means that I really am going to Royal Holloway in a month's time. I'm not even the slightest bit ready.

After we got our results and Rob had been accepted into the University of Kent within ten minutes of entering clearing (!), we went back to Liz's house and played Ghettopoly. Like Monopoly, but in the ghetto.

Stacey got $50 for getting her entire neighbourhood addicted to crack.

It's been a good day.

why am i awake right now?

I'm back, and I'm pretty sure I'm still only semi-conscious. Tomorrow morning I'll wake up, I mean really wake up, and the enormity of the last few days is going to hit me.

Soul Survivor was great, and horrible, and really emotional. I took a lot of notes in a lot of seminars, I have a lot of things that I'm planning to write, a lot of thoughts that I need to get down. I've had a lot of conversations that I need to record, I've been given a hell of a lot to think about.

First, I need to go back to sleep. A couple of things that I definitely haven't had a lot of are sleep and showers.

Also, I think I've developed trenchfoot. Could be worse, Robbie reckons he developed trenchbutt.

away to shepton mallet

I'll be off to Soul Survivor tomorrow, which means I'll be disappearing from view til early next week.

You do care, I know you do.

I need Soul Survivor so badly this year, I'm a complete tizwoz. Spiritual tizwozerry is a common affliction amongst Christian teenagers. It tends to be caused my a lack of discipline, an excess of spare time and, in my case, too much partying. Not that I don't love partying, but when you usually do bible study in the morning or the evening, and your partying schedule means that the only part of the morning you see is between midnight and 3, and your evening consists of dressing up as a pirate wench and dancing to the Chemical Brothers... well, the bible part tends not to happen. This is not a good thing.

Just to update you, I'm now unemployed, shortchanged and in debt. I just got my reading list from Royal Holloway and have only read one of the buggers. I get my a-level results a week Thursday.

I'll see you in a week, expect many tales of sunburn, bubbles and me sorting my life out. In theory.

*in which fi uses the word blogosphere and enjoys it too much*

According to Suzanne Moore in today's Mail on Sunday (boo... sss...), "blogging is the ultimate form of narcissism". Says the lady with her own newspaper column. Is this narcissism? Well, yeah, kind of. This is a website that exists solely for me to write about myself, what I do and what I think about the world.

But as I ranted rather pompously to my parents today, doesn't everybody have the right to do that? I believe that everyone has something interesting to say. Everyone has done something or felt something or seen something extraordinary in their lives. The reason the internet is amazing is because it allows everyone, or at least everyone with access to a computer (hardihar) to say whatever it is they need to.

And if it's narcissistic, who gives? You don't have to read it. If you find it boring or, yeah, think that it's egotistical self-glorification, then just avoid blogs. Stick to reading the ceaseless, equally vain opinions of those who are lucky enough to get paid for shooting their mouths off. Eg. Newspaper columnists, who invariably just say the same things week after week.

Not that I have anything against columnists. Hell, if someone was stupid enough to hand me a paycheck for doing what I like best, namely waxing lyrical about this and the motherfucking other, I'd be laughing. It just gets my proverbial goat and farmyard when people start slagging off bloggers. Inflicting the boring details of humdrum lives on the general public? Who's the guilty party? Newspapers with front page ads reading "What Joan Collins thinks is wrong with society, page 33" or a young mum from Sidcup starting a blog to detail the early years of her two children? How about the 3am girls in the sun, how about Sneak and Heat and Closer telling us everything we really never needed to know about some useless chav celebrities. Find me the person who decided that blazing red top newspapers and stuck up Daily Mail writers should have the monopoly on what's worth reading. Please make them tell me why their opinions are more valuable than the quiet self-expression of a million ordinary bloggers.

Another twig in the posterior of Suzanne Moore was how the 'democratic medium' of blogging has its heroes and nobodies just like any other form of expression. You know the ones, the famous bloggers who get hundreds of hits a day and break over into other mediums with TV and radio interviews about their success. Apparently the fact that not all bloggers get this kind of attention is proof that the blogosphere is as discriminatory as any other kind of media. "Some bloggers are more equal than others".

Well, no. Every blogger has a URL. They're free. Namely, anyone with a PC can have one. If you want to read the opinion of a famous bod, it's a page away in magazines and papers. Wanna know what Jennifer Aniston thinks about Brad and Angelina? Bam, right there on Vanity Fair. Wanna know what someone who isn't a superstar thinks about anything? Where do you find the opinions of minorities in the mainstream media? Where do you find the voices that haven't been sanctioned and censored?

In the blogosphere, dammit! Man, I love that word too much.

Yeah, there's always going to be the blogs that get more attention because, basically, some people write better than others. And some people do more interesting things, or live in more interesting places. Some people just have sexier html than others. But everyone gets a chance. Everyone can have a voice on the internet (or at least they will do once we've not only fed the world but provided them with PCs too) and they shouldn't be looked down for using it.

Blogging and journalling on the internet isn't a perfect meritocracy. The most talented writers will still be overlooked. Sometimes blogs are popular just because, well, they're popular. But out here in cyberspace, no one employs you. You don't need a degree and contacts in Fleet Street to sit down and start typing. Perhaps it is all narcissism, but I'd far rather people indulged their egos in the anonymity of a blog somewhere than in the distinctly bored company of their peers. I'd far rather self-expression was open to everyone than only the pretty people and the intellectual snobs.

did you know...

...that the new Harry Potter book has the world 'ejaculated' in it?

I'll buy a pint for the first person who can tell me where it is. Hehehe...

anon meme

The idea for this was shamelessly plundered from a meme I saw on Meffie's LiveJournal (I figure if she wants you to know where it lives she'll tell you so no link). I don't know what the exact instructions were, apparently Meffie did some guess work on that front too, so I've decided to do it the way that seems most fun.

Fifteen things that you want to say to fifteen people. Anonymous in that, should they ever find them, they're probably not going to realise you mean them.

Anon meme - stuff I would say had I the balls to be honest and didn't give a flying one about the consequences.

1) One of these days I am so going to get stoned and kiss you. I'm looking forward to it, because I know that it would be a Very Bad Thing to do. I based a character in a story on you, you know.

2) What happened with us anyway? Why aren't we like that anymore? Maybe we just said all we had to say to each other.

3) I wonder what you'd be like face-to-face? Nothing like I imagine you, I know that much.

4) We used to call each other 'angel'. I could never see you again and it wouldn't bother me at all. I look at you and see everything I hate about myself looking back at me so, I'm sorry, but I can't ever be anywhere near you again.

5) You're gonna grow up to be the most stunning woman. I look at you sometimes and start to feel like a mother. You will cry until your head hurts, you'll hate yourself. I want to wrap you up and save you from the world. I want to watch and see what you make of it.

6) If I drank beer, you would be the person I'd drink it with.

7) I had a dream that I was sitting on this playground and I called down to you as you were walking away. You stopped and turned and I said "I can't remember" and you laughed at me, not in a bad way, and left on your own. I don't want you to drive me home.

8) I want to be back in your bed again. I knew that I would lose you. That's why I held on to you so tightly.

9) Who the fuck did I talk to before I had you? When I turn around and need you, you're already there. I love the way you see the world. You have no idea how much I respect you and how much you are to me.

10) You are utterly beautiful and you have no idea. You've helped me in so many ways and you have no idea. One of these days I really should tell you.

11) You were wrong about sex. These things don't 'just happen'. It takes three people to tango, and one of their names is Wanting To.

12) I forget how I feel about you until I see you. I don't want to let you near me because you really don't know me and I really don't want you to. I like that you like me; you mean to much to see that other part of me.

13) I wish you were half as interested in my life as I am in yours. I told you all my secrets for a reason.

14) Nobody, but nobody, fascinates and frustrates me like you do. I christened you the Cheshire Cat and wrote a poem about you.

15) You had this whole life, and it died with you. I only see your life in photographs. If you came back to life, I promise I would listen to your stories.

i know i have a listings page but, let's face it, can i be bothered to cut and paste this?

I am happy because...
1) I bought alcohol for the first time and didn't get IDed.
2) I didn't get any errors on my data entry test.
3) I've been watching Frasier.

I am pissed off because...
1) I bought alcohol for the first time and didn't get IDed.
2) I have no money to speak of, and lots of expensive things I want to/cannot/have to do.
3) I got sunburnt.

Good moments have been...
1) Sitting on a green in Winnersh with Taz, Paul and Liz, sipping champagne. I was pouring into a plastic flute when I had this incredible Enduring Love deja vu and half-expected to hear the shout and see the balloon in the next field. The beginning is simple to mark... Funny how that's stayed with me.
2) Playing with bubbles at Stacey house and sharing WKD with (and by 'sharing with' I mean 'stealing from') and old friend.
3) Seeing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. They've made the Oompa Loompas gangsta. I liked.

Films that I want to see as soon as they come out are...
1) The Goblet of Fire. Bugger. Me. Sideways. It looks sweeeeet.
2) The Corpse Bride. Same. As. Above.
3) Oliver Twist, the new version directed by Roman Polanski. I'm sorry, what? That's right. I said Roman Polanski.

Things that have terrified me...
1) Quitting my job.
2) Realising that I will start my working life with about £12,000 debt and that I am getting into this debt voluntarily.
3) Realising that when I go to see the aforementioned films it will probably be with uni people that I haven't even met yet. Yikes.