ouch

I feel a certain pressure. I put a pressure on myself to write well on here, because I know people read it.

I've been diary-writing more this year (just when you thought I couldn't stare up my own arse any more frequently), the book that I labelled '2006' is over half-full already. Where do I get the time to churn out all this shit? Look at my timetable. Problem solved.

It's 2:17 and I'm awake, listening to Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and rubbing my mascara into my eyes.

Went shopping today. Catherine's 1920s themed birthday party and the need to buy steel-toecapped boots sent Kate and I to Reading, where we sat in Pizza Hut, people watched for almost two hours and got a free meal because Kate found a bit of plastic in her food. Bonus.

This lovely dress. I was so excited about buying it that when I got in I put it on and skipped up and down the corridor, showing it to everyone who was in. Today, I was a real girl. I put on lipstick, tried to curl my hair and, when it didn't work, straightened it again, shaved my legs, high-heels and hair-clips, perfume, my black dress and the sexy scarf I got free with a magazine.

I walked with Rachel to the party, pyjama trousers on under my dress to keep my legs warm, trying hard not to be scared walking past St Judes cemetery. Charlie said I looked beautiful and, when you've really put the effort in, that's the loveliest thing to hear.

Not so lovely. I'm in the hallway changing back into my heels and there's these guys sitting on the stairs holding an empty bottle of vodka. They're staring at me. In that way, you know, that some guys have, when they're too drunk to care if you see but still think that you can't.

"Nah, I don't think so."
"I dunno, she's alright..."
"Nah, I really don't think so."

Then they both laugh, and ask me how to get a dead scorpion out of a vodka bottle.

What I like is that I don't give a shit what they think of my appearance. I could just laugh at how little I care because I know I'm worth more than that snap-judgement. It's amazing to me that I don't burst into tears at that because, seriously, that's happened before.

What I don't like is that feeling of so obviously being sized up and found wanting. Not even so much that they did it, because, to be honest, I do it, I was doing it in Pizza Hut today with Kate and it won't be the last time. But not like that. The lone girl in the hallway who obviously doesn't know anyone, the one in the dress and the heels who you've obviously figured out is a Fresher because I heard you say it when I walked in... You should know better than to pick on her, and so loudly, so blatantly.

I don't like the assumption that they're allowed to judge me, that I'm somehow up for their debate just by standing near them and putting my heels on. Makes me wonder if any guy's ever heard me sizing them up. God, I hope not. Makes me think, though. The assumption that I'm allowed to judge someone...

These bubbles burst so easily. I thought I was ok... No, I am ok. Comparatively speaking, in comparison to my normal state of mind, I'm bouncing off the walls right now. What's not ok is that I've been pretending not to hurt recently when I really, quite obviously, am.

Ouch. Y'know?

Perhaps it's no coincidence that my diary's getting fuller these days, now that there's stuff I don't wanna say.

Edit: Ssh... there really is stuff I don't want to say, so we'll pretend that last bit didn't happen.