Help,
I have done it agin,
I have been here many times before.
Hurt myself again today,
and the worst part is there's no one else to blame.
Ouch,
I have lost myself again,
Lost myself and I am no where to be found.
Yeah I think that I may break,
Lost myself again, and I feel unsafe.

Breath Me -Sia

Aloof? ...Aphasia -that's what it's called.

Listening to: Breathe Me -Sia
That's it! I don't want to write a short story, damnit! I want to write an epic! AN EPIC! DON'T SMOTHER MY PASSIONS! AND IF I'M MAKING YOU CRINGE, PISS OFF!
(pouts)
So much for being calm. But no matter, some of history's greatest geniuses and most tallented individuals were a bit mad (maniac grin) Half of them committed suicide (even freakyer maniac grin) I'm special (Miyavi maniac grin) I am also craving some Haagandazs...no not just Haagndazs, I really fancy hanging arround central London and eating Ice Cream in Lesceter Sq in the evening. This might be becuase I'm stuck in a spice smelling tip of a living room, babysitting builders who are making drilling noises over my music. I'm not moaning, I'm excited because work is finally underway. With the eminent kitchen asside though,

I WANT TO WRITE AN EPIC!

Pish

DAMN JAMES BLUNT!

Ahem, I've been at the laptop for well over 4 hours now, I've actually managed to cut down 300 words of this short story, which apparently isn't short enough, and I still have another 300 to eliminate into the depths from wence they emerged. Blast them! Insolent little Times New Roman typescript pests.
I've almost worked up the nerve to scrap the entire thing and just dish out a new tale...still have that lingerring idea of Post-Second Coming story about an evil Rock Star, but fear it might verge on the cliche and overly dramatic...not to mention, is probably yet another too-big-to-develop-in-5,000-words plot.

...Hey me, have you noticed that I'm talking to myself?
me: So you are! Oh joy!
me: No, not 'oh joy!', me, we've come dangerously close to sounding self indulgent.
me: How so?
me: 'Dear diary, today Mr. Rochester complimented my imaculately pruned rodedendrons. I dare say he has taken a liking to me...I am after all a wickedly charming girl, he a dashing young blade, and the rodedendrons a mere excuse. Not to mention they vex me. I am terribly vexed by them. I shall get Striker to urinate at their roots...it will truely be a test of Mr. Rochesters affections.' -so.
me: aha. I see.
me: What to do?
me: ...umm, go to bed?
me: An Excellent idea! Lets.

Same thing we do every night, Pinky...try to take over the world!

Chatting to Mags online and because it's 4:00 am in Dubai she seems kind of mental (wants me to turn her into a turnip...my insanity may not be entirely inherited but it's certainly justified by the amount of loonys in this family). You know what this means right? And now she's going on about some martial arts move called The Pest of Harakiri -very deadly.

With that asside though:
Hello, Elle est star gazer is back in the country of very few stars. Thank you light polution.
Verdict: Istanbul is beautiful.
I have too much to say about the trip, so I shall opt for the Goth's way out and aloofly say nothing...I shall keep it to myself, because it's MINE!

Hmmm, the sound on my laptop seems not to work. If it was, I'd be listening to Venus as a Boy -Bjork. Do I have anything substantial to write? No.
Fellow Gothling little-miss-'did you go tinkle'-Sarah is trying to convince me to sign up at My-Space...we are not convinced. Presently we are too busy trying to purchase volume 13 of Fruits Basket. (sigh. Manga...ntch, STOP ROLLING YOUR EYES AT ME!)

This is my manic state. Aren't I fun? I'm also working on being a more calm, and dignified individual...And I'm brushing up on my gracefulness- Amalthea, naked but not so that King Haggard feels the need to hide his modesty -style. (Ha ha, instead of, "What is the matter with your eyes? Why can I not see myself in your eyes?" he should have said, "Why are you perving at me like that! stop x-raying me!")
Speaking of which, to answer your question Sarah, he could not have become King Lear in Shakespear's King Lear because his name's actually spelt 'Lir', Prince Lir. :)

3 things about dictators: All of them were short (in addition to which Hitler had a little bumm). All of them had mostaches (Mussolini had one in secret, and Napolian's one was French so you couldn't tell) And all of them pretended to like classical music.

Ok, I'm off... this one goes out to my very brave Tarik. I love you, man. And I know you're doing well, coz I believe you always are no matter what kind of crap you're in.

Today Huden abla said:
We're God's mountains, Elest, He wouldn't burden any one of us with more snow than we could bear. And snow melts. In time there is nothing left of it.

South Park Elest.
He he he.

...No I don't have too much time on my hands, I just couldn't sleep! :(
I have my numerous reasons.

I'm a bit paranoid about my white earpohnes. This is because absolutely every other person I see on the street also has a pair. For the first time it feels like I'm conforming to something, and it's friggin ugly! Like a dead fish, or something equally vile and bloated being carried off by the currant that is mainstream...(sigh) maybe I should have gotten a black iPod afterall...or maybe I'm just making a big deal out of this.

Had a chat with the great aunt today. Heh heh heh...MUWAHA HA HAA HAAA HAAA HAAAA HAA! I love being shameless ;)

And (because there always is one), in spite of my Peter Pan syndrome (/tragic fixation. Nabokov style. (Nothing beyond the 'look at this tangle of thorns' -openning though, because the rest of the novel was far too twisted to finish reading)) I've finally watched Finding Neverland for the first time, after deliberately having avoided doing so, all this while.
(aplause. wild cheering.)
Thank you.

Now, leaving asside the sad things in life. Thoughts of Rivkah Zim (the personal statements have been completed (more wild cheering)) have brought to mind her Bible freakyness (because Rivkah Zim is the Bible-freak-woman, not the hand-bag-lady, thank you Sarah for clarifying that) and that absurd story about Jephtah's daughter. Now, if Jephtah's daughter is Bible-note-worthy, why does she not have a name? This is one of those Cruly's wife in Of Mice and Men things right? Yes, thought so. I'll roll my feminist critic sleeves back down for the time being, because the question really gagging to be asked is: Why the hell does Jephtah's daughter 'bewail her virginity' before her father kills her? (nay! I tell thee; sacrifices her!)
If anyone has an answer to this they will cure me of many a sleepless night.

Moral: don't make promises to God lightly if you have crazy, virgin daughters.
And there was much rejoicing.

The Peter Pan sadness has gone :) ...for now.