Party After Death.

It’s FRIDAY! The best day of the week -ever. Everyone must agree. So I just have a happy happy post today, full of anticipation and expectation for a fun night out -hopefully. As long as nothing goes wrong. Which it might. Never mind. Let’s keep hopefully and expectant and enjoy the weekend! -Before I must go to school again on Monday.

Will You Be My Girlfriend?

Um. Nothing much to say. Sorry about the delay; I’ve just been working on a short story Oh –> lyrics.

Nail Art.

A mistake? Probably. But the attraction is still there, and I’ve wanted him every since we stopped talking. And yesterday- yesterday we spent a prolonged period  of time just talking -about sushi. A mistake? Yes. But one I want to make again and again.

My Journey Across London on the 35 Bus.

I found myself, a couple of days ago, on a bus, with a long journey ahead of me, and a laptop on my hands. So I thought: what better way to spend this time than writing a short story? I haven’t, after all, written in a while (mainly due to time issues). So here it is, a short piece, a social commentary on a London journey.

My Journey Across London on the 35 Bus.

Est. 1689. We had come to a halt once more. Te shop windows displayed coats in a manner that one would think they were in the early 20^th Century, but not enough to fool anyone; right in front roadworks obscured the ‘£100 off overcoats’ sign. We were moving again. Back into this century. More roadworks filed past. And stop. This time it was due to the customary bus stop. Two people got off: a woman with a hat and a gentleman in a hoodie. He got off again, and we moved.

My bus journey is to last 78 minutes, but from the traffic I predict it will be longer. Monument Station. It always makes me think of the Central line, or red, and of –well, I have no feelings towards this station. We stop again. A short, tired-looking lady gets on with a man two heads taller than her. I suppose that is how the world looks at me. She is wearing a raincoat and her hair is dyed. Who is she? No-one remarkable.

As we cross the bridge, I cannot get my eyes off the beauty that is the Thames –at night. Yes, during the day it may look grubby and unsavoury, but at night it lights up, and there is that breathtaking moment everyone living in a major city must get every now and again when they realise they are living in such an amazing place. There is constant movement, constant happenings, and always people to run into. Even the less pleasing areas are with their charm; a charm of being alive, of people fighting for survival, for everyday bettering their lives, even if just in the simplicity of drinking. Judge at will, they claim.

The bus has slowly been filling up with people, but few remarkables have stepped on. It’s a pity, because that does not mean a fault in the people themselves, but rather a fault in my own eye. The interestingness in people come though the beholder, through he who assigns them lives and personalities beyond their own. A man sits in front of me. All I see is the back of his head, half bald (bald patch the call it), half with gray stingy hairs growing at will. Elephant & Castle –the station of the latinos. A perfect example of struggle for life, with its market and its constant traffic. At the bus stop alone, tens of people stand in wait, and over twelve individuals file in.  I observe a Chinese restaurant. Named the ‘Dragon Castle’. I wonder what happens there- the doors are majestic (well, cheesy almost). My interest soon fades as it is no longer in my sight.

Again, in front, a young woman with long, well-cared for hair stands. She grabs her shopping bags and leaves, talking to herself. No; I correct myself; she has a phone. She chuckles. She exits the stage. Two other women take her place. They look like they’ll stay for a while. I start craving a cigarette. Although I do not smoke much, I can get cravings from time to time, but they pass quickly if they are not attended to. Why is it that even though we are told not to smoke, this is still a large industry?

Light has gone; the sun has set, and now this city is ready for its night. It’s ready for the drunks, for the sluts, for the night-shifters. For some, the evening is commencing. They make their way to their meeting places, they make last-minute arrangements and prepare for long-planned nights. I drive close to my friend’s house –and close to my school. It brings thoughts of work, of commitments, of to-do lists. It reminds me that I must phone my parents, that I must be responsible. It makes me recall my ‘business’ mode and the contrast with the ‘going out’ mood; the juxtapositions of the same self.

At last! An interesting man gets on the bus. He is short (there must be a reason why I find the short interesting), wearing a faded jean jacket which would look better on a woman. His small black moustache combined with a goatee reminisces to a time when that did not signify ‘creep’. He sits there and I notice his greasy hair is tied up in a pony-tail. And yet ‘creep’ is not the word I’d use to describe him. He looks innocent; more like a lost puppy appeared in the wrong decade, not sure how to manage the modernities of life. He stands up, and sits back down. Yes; definitely lost. I leave him for the time being; his out-of-this-decade appearance is almost sad to watch. He stands up, and this time decides to leave the bus. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to be OK; then we leave him, standing by the bus stop, clutching his bag and staring into the distance.

Shakespeare Road. Well, I could rant a bit about him –his presumptuousness, his odd ability to write to remarkably well, and the controversy surrounding his writings. His annoying flattery of HRH Queen Elizabeth I. . . as if the peasants the really wrote for were really interested in that. The two women sitting in front of me are still here. Nervously, inconspicuously, they turn to see me writing. Probably wondering what I’m writing about. They laugh and their mascara-laden eyes sparkle. I cannot hear what they say, and I’m not sure I want to; no matter how interesting their conversation is at the moment, I want to keep them in my mind as the blonde and the brunette; not quite middle class, not quite working class. Out for the night; a one-night stand tonight; one left alone, the other one getting lucky. The life of a Londoner. Day to day, week to week; ultimately, beyond changes, beyond the self, always the same.

In Brixton, and shops are not yet closed. Will they be closing soon? Are the customers going to be politely asked to leave? The blonde drops a large bottle of sprite on the floor, and a kind, large woman smiles at her patronisingly. Clearly she’s wiser and older; she is not going for a night out, but rather to spend a quiet night with friends, or hopefully with her family. I need that smoke. And sleep. . . one would’ve supposed I’d had enough sleep. Getting close to my destination now; in about 20 minutes, I predict I will be there, making the predicted journey time relatively accurate. Another blonde gets on the bus. This is definitely the time that the buses are taken in order to go to the pubs and bars –a true Saturday night.

Looking out of the window, I realise I haven’t done so in a while. A black car has stopped next to us, and I experience that odd moment when one feels taller than other car drivers. I catch a glimpse of a woman in the passenger seat holding a glasses case before we speed past. Now I feel like an intruder in a private party. No; it’s OK. There are still people around me who are here for business and not pleasure. I close my eyes. The gentle purr of the bus is soothing, and I can feel my bed calling me; what would be the point of a bed, however, when what I actually want to do is drink? And that cigarette might come in handy.

Last stop. Clapham Junction. 78 minutes (approximately). My Journey Across London on the 35 Bus is complete.

End.

An Obsession with Me.

18/02/2012

Today I am shifting the focus of these “diary” entries from the past to the present. I suppose that the whole focus of today is on me –not that these terribly narcissistic feelings are not conveyed in every entry, but perhaps, with the realisation that most of the content here may be deemed rude, inappropriate, or just downright crude I realised that I was only showing one side of me; the darker, more secretive side.

So here are a few lighter facts about me. I should begin with my oldest-child syndrome. I am the oldest of five, three of which are under the age of 7 (and there was one time I could say the three were under the age of 4). My house is crowded, and I cannot wait to see the moment I escape. My parents seem overbearing and I am usually the “bad guy”. I recognise that to be the case, so it’s no big deal for me. I suppose there is a lack of communication, a struggle to rebel (which I do fairly well), and a wish to succeed to the point of fearing failure.

In academia, I don’t accept failure, even though they may occur every now and again. No; I have never failed anything which could keep me behind too much –just the occasional Ds in tests and 3.5/10 in spelling tests. Yes, I remember these results. Someday I will be a doctor –this is one thing that I will NOT fail at, even if I have to cut my social life.

My insecurities make my social life very precious. I like to be liked, and the idea that someone may not have warm feelings towards me makes me sad, and my inquisitive nature means that I cannot let it rest at “I don’t like you”. Most people, thankfully, are not so blunt (though I probably am).

Other than defining myself as a scientist, I am also a philosopher. In short, I love knowledge; beyond anything else, I believe knowledge is the most important thing I could possess, and so I turn to science. But where science fails, philosophy steps in. . . even to question the science itself.

That’s me, in short. Or long. Depending how long this was. But hopefully now you’ll see me less as a depressed sex-obsessed, at-the-fringe-of-society and more as a neek. Or both.

My World.

This is the view from a particular place in my room. This I suppose is one of the most private things about me: my desk. My workplace, my falling asleep because I can’t do it any more, my place where most people are not invited into. My desk, my mind-space. 

Money Money Money.

Yes! I’ve made it! I’ve made it to a week of rest which will probably not be enough, but now I may SLEEP. On other news, my school is scaring me with a series of talks on money, which I’m clearly taking very seriously as I doodle whilst some guy drones on and on. Oh, and I’m also terrified. Because there is nothing scarier than having to fend for yourself when you’re getting no income. . . Medical school = £80,000 debt. Woo hoo! Seriously though, money is important. As the wise Oscar Wilde said, “When I was young I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old I know that it is.”

Enjoy the weekend, budget, and remember: money DOES grow on trees, but it’s “false”.