Yes, that's right, friends, you heard it here first...
I have started snorting when I laugh!
I'm not quite sure how it happened...all I know is that today, when I met up with Lou, I couldn't stop laughing...and snorting! Lou thought it hilarious, saying it made me sound like a nerd. She's probably right.
It was nice though, we ate Subway sandwiches and drank hot chocolate and I was wearing a beret, which always makes me feel very good about myself. However, I'm reading 'Nausea' by Jean-Paul Sartre and was sat on a bench reading it, before Lou came along. There I was, reading my French book, wearing my French hat and huddled in a blue military-style jacket to warn off the cold. 'Pretentious arsehole!' I hear you cry, but you wouldn't say that if you'd heard me snort...
I'm in a very chipper mood today actually. Sara was taking pictures of me for her photography project and kept making me laugh, so there were lots of pictures of me pulling hideous faces. Sadly, Sara's camera had a major freakout, deleted all her photos and then broke completely. She was most agitated.
We have new furniture in our new flat (moving in this weekend I think, woohoo!), so our sofas have been given away to those less fortunate (family friend Dean, who is currently sat on garden furniture). The living room is so bare!
As for the boy front (read my last blog for more info), I told him I still liked him and asked if he would let me know, even if he wasn't interested....and he hasn't! What a hypocritical arse, eh? Why get in touch with me, to apologise for ignoring me, only to do it again?
Oh well, I don't care. He's a wanker. A big wanking wanker. And I mean that too.
Maybe I'll become a nun...or a lesbian. They don't need men to have a good time.
On that note, until next time, my friends!
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Of course I'm being productive, darling
Yes, alright, I have a free period this morning, so what do I do? I write a blog...God forbid I read 'Frankenstein' for English Literature or work on my UCAS application.
Well for your information, I actually tried all of this, but UCAS can make typing your own name a fete of Olympic standards! My head is buzzing with so many things this week and I just have to get them out or I'll go barmy.
It's a fact acknowledged by all that private renting can be a bitch, particularly if you have our landlord. Yes, he may have seemed like an angel, but when he refused to fix our oven and often dodgy heating system, we saw cracks in the Happy Home plaster. THEN, my friends, then he decides we may have to move out as he is considering renting the house to a relative. Thanks very much, landlord!
Luckily, it's all come up rosy in the end, as Mum, somehow, I suspect by being the Sheffield equivalent of an Amazon tribeswoman, others suspect drugs smuggling, has got us a new flat! And not just any new flat...a gorgeous apartment complex just off of the town centre! It has a sun terrace and security and everything! And only £70 a week for rent! There's a two year waiting list, but WE managed to bag one. Perhaps someone finally took pity on us...
In other news, it's all 'lost in translation' on the boy front. Sometime in early August, I was asked out by a gorgeous, talented musician. We went for a couple of drinks and then back to his, where I showed him...ah-hem, some of my etchings. So imagine how upset I was when he did not text or message me back!
"That's what you get, you loser." I scolded myself, "You gave too much up front and now you'll be a lonely spinster wearing jumpers covered in cat hair and drinking warm milk." What could be so unappealing about me that I didn't get asked out again? I spent the rest of the summer holidays questioning myself, my usually stable self-esteem thrown into disrepute.
Imagine my shock, then, when, over a month later, I get up for work on Sunday morning, open my MySpace account and have a new message...from the very same musician! "Bugger me!" I thought, my heart about to explode from my chest (anything to improve my uniform).
He apologised for being so rude and not replying to my messages. Apparently, he had had things to deal with, after our meeting up, completely unrelated to me, but he took it out on me, by being, in his words, "a dick".
I suppose I could have given him 'what for', but I didn't. Suppose these things to deal with were really very serious, I wouldn't want someone having a go at me at a time like that. So, I very politely told him I would have understood had he told me sooner, but that I was glad of his apology and hoped we could be alright. I got a reply: "Your kindness is more than I deserve. I'm really very sorry."
In the words of Nina, Queen of Understatement in purple skinny jeans, "Wow, that's a bit heavy."
The awful thing is, I now can't dismiss the apology from my mind. It really does seem too genuine to be read as a last-ditch attempt to get his leg over, particularly since he hasn't messaged me since. The only thing I've ever wanted from the two boys who ever really hurt me (I realise how emo that sounds) was an apology. I truly believe it would have helped me move on from them quicker. However, I never got it. So the fact that I got it from this guy, who was never anywhere near as bad as the two heartbreakers, has made me pretty, well...smitten with him! I mean, I fancied him lots to begin with (talented, incredible dark eyes...Jesus, have you got a week?), but now I can't get him off my mind.
And the awful thing is, I think he's too plunged in the depths of melancholy from whatever's happened recently to be interested in me. Either that, or he thinks he's blown it. I could never raise the question of seeing him again, as I'd be too frightened of rejection.
So, now I'm back to my natural state, permanently confused. Thank God the colourful leaves of autumn lie in the streets for me to kick through. That'll cheer me up.
Until next time,
Mo
xxxx
Well for your information, I actually tried all of this, but UCAS can make typing your own name a fete of Olympic standards! My head is buzzing with so many things this week and I just have to get them out or I'll go barmy.
It's a fact acknowledged by all that private renting can be a bitch, particularly if you have our landlord. Yes, he may have seemed like an angel, but when he refused to fix our oven and often dodgy heating system, we saw cracks in the Happy Home plaster. THEN, my friends, then he decides we may have to move out as he is considering renting the house to a relative. Thanks very much, landlord!
Luckily, it's all come up rosy in the end, as Mum, somehow, I suspect by being the Sheffield equivalent of an Amazon tribeswoman, others suspect drugs smuggling, has got us a new flat! And not just any new flat...a gorgeous apartment complex just off of the town centre! It has a sun terrace and security and everything! And only £70 a week for rent! There's a two year waiting list, but WE managed to bag one. Perhaps someone finally took pity on us...
In other news, it's all 'lost in translation' on the boy front. Sometime in early August, I was asked out by a gorgeous, talented musician. We went for a couple of drinks and then back to his, where I showed him...ah-hem, some of my etchings. So imagine how upset I was when he did not text or message me back!
"That's what you get, you loser." I scolded myself, "You gave too much up front and now you'll be a lonely spinster wearing jumpers covered in cat hair and drinking warm milk." What could be so unappealing about me that I didn't get asked out again? I spent the rest of the summer holidays questioning myself, my usually stable self-esteem thrown into disrepute.
Imagine my shock, then, when, over a month later, I get up for work on Sunday morning, open my MySpace account and have a new message...from the very same musician! "Bugger me!" I thought, my heart about to explode from my chest (anything to improve my uniform).
He apologised for being so rude and not replying to my messages. Apparently, he had had things to deal with, after our meeting up, completely unrelated to me, but he took it out on me, by being, in his words, "a dick".
I suppose I could have given him 'what for', but I didn't. Suppose these things to deal with were really very serious, I wouldn't want someone having a go at me at a time like that. So, I very politely told him I would have understood had he told me sooner, but that I was glad of his apology and hoped we could be alright. I got a reply: "Your kindness is more than I deserve. I'm really very sorry."
In the words of Nina, Queen of Understatement in purple skinny jeans, "Wow, that's a bit heavy."
The awful thing is, I now can't dismiss the apology from my mind. It really does seem too genuine to be read as a last-ditch attempt to get his leg over, particularly since he hasn't messaged me since. The only thing I've ever wanted from the two boys who ever really hurt me (I realise how emo that sounds) was an apology. I truly believe it would have helped me move on from them quicker. However, I never got it. So the fact that I got it from this guy, who was never anywhere near as bad as the two heartbreakers, has made me pretty, well...smitten with him! I mean, I fancied him lots to begin with (talented, incredible dark eyes...Jesus, have you got a week?), but now I can't get him off my mind.
And the awful thing is, I think he's too plunged in the depths of melancholy from whatever's happened recently to be interested in me. Either that, or he thinks he's blown it. I could never raise the question of seeing him again, as I'd be too frightened of rejection.
So, now I'm back to my natural state, permanently confused. Thank God the colourful leaves of autumn lie in the streets for me to kick through. That'll cheer me up.
Until next time,
Mo
xxxx
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