'Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep Little Lion Man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head'

Mumford and Sons, Little Lion Man.
Now I dare you to say that this isn't poetic in the faintest.

I wonder, does writing here gives the false impression of substantiality? Of intelligence, of sophistication, of wisdom, of having sound opinions?
Most of my days are spent struggling between working and not working; the time spent doing productive work and wanting a break from it, and the time spent flopping about while feeling guilty about not doing work. I'm a rather crude person, with an all-or-nothing way of emotionally reacting to something, which exhausts me. Being me exhausts me, and I'm rather bored of being me these days, after 20 years, if I'm honest about it. But still, I suppose this is the only mode of living since we're not allowed to be different people on different days. This is the character you're stuck with, which is very tedious.
Oh, I don't really know what's the point I'm trying to make, and this is written very badly. I'm swamped with assignments, and feeling rather uninspired.

I'll play my escape card and show you something brilliant instead of actually writing something.
This is Hugh Laurie, who besides being funny or being a TV doctor, is now also a certified blues musician.




If we can be different people on different days, I want to be Hugh Laurie on Tuesdays, please. Such intelligence, such wit. And I'd get to talk to Stephen Fry loads, which can't remotely be a bad thing.

Fear and loathing.

Something must be done about the cockroach on the third floor.
I was lying on the floor after a bout of migratory reading, having a very short nap. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a large cockroach in my vicinity.
It's disgusting. The shape, the color. The way they move. The way their legs scuttle. The quick, loud scrapping noise it made when it scuttled across the room. Everything about it is positively nauseating. So much so, that I had no pity for the obvious, very potent fear it's clearly displaying.
Is this what racism is about? Is this why they gassed Jews in Nazi Germany? This irrational disgust and lack of pity and empathy and humanity?

I can't kill it, so I'll catch it and dispose of it somewhere. But where?

Well, darlings, assignment fever is upon us again. This is, genuinely, stressful yet exciting. Anything with a deadline and expectations are generally stressful yet exciting.
It's also in times like these that I most often imagine sequences of self-harm. It typically comes hand-in-hand with a sort of desperation, which probably instigated the sequences anyway. Entirely cartoonish, but they would, morbidly, involve stabbing myself in the abdomen with a pencil, or putting a gun to my head and pulling its trigger. The sequences have a sort of tragicomedy feel to them, and are entirely unreal; they're probably an outlet, my instinctive way to resolve the desperation.
Well it's better than beating someone up or overeating or kicking poor kittens, I suppose. Entirely in the head.

Stressed by assignments. Can't write well. Tired too.
Full day of classes tomorrow.
Goodnight.

Look, pictures!

Sorry for the very tumblr-like posts. Please forgive because they are after all pictures of books arranged in a very pretty manner, which surely are redeeming qualities.
From bookshelf porn:

Literary.

I was at the makeshift booksale at KL Central this afternoon, whiling away the time waiting for my next train.
There was this young man there, who I noticed was holding a copy of Shakespeare's Troilus and Cresadia, while he was putting back a book on TS Eliot.
I thought, "You must be interesting", and asked if he'd hand me that Eliot book.

How often do you see another person, young or otherwise, who'd be holding a copy of Shakespeare's Troilus and Cresadia, while putting back something about Eliot?
Infrequent enough that I thought this little thing warrants a mention in a blog post.