(No Subject)

"It seems somebody put out the moon, now the road is a minefield." - Lights: Drive My Soul.

I'm not entirely sure what today's post is really about. I have an urge to write something but I don't know what. It's worse than writers block: writers block is based on a subject - you know what you want to write just you don't know how. I don't know what I want to write. But I want to write. I'd update you all on whatever's dancing around the wires beneath my skull, but something's tipped water all over them and I'd rather let them sink and drown than try and save them. The thoughts I mean. Not the wires.

Maybe I should just waffle. I'm good at waffling.

I bought yet another new journal a few weeks back, and I keep going to write in it but resisting the urge, for fear of messing up the very first page. I probably shouldn't worry so much about such a trivial thing, but I can't help it. The first page has to be the best. The page I try to live up to with every entry. No one but me will read it, I know; but still. I don't want this one to end up like all the other journals I've had in the past year (around seventeen), half ripped up in a red box, drowning in milky tea. Two sugars.

My dinner will be ready soon. My brother gave me a load of old clothes he doesn't wear anymore, which included a studded silver belt with three rows of studs instead of your regular two; I was horrified to find it did not fit me. It was a large, and it did not fit me. Either it was a large for a small child, or my hips are bigger than I realised. It had better be the former. Also in this pile of clothes was the coolest red, tartan hoodie I now own. It's the only one I own, but it's definitely the coolest.

I'm waffling bullshit now.

I don't know what I've done with my summer. It feels as if I've done nothing all summer, promising myself I'd do something brilliant tomorrow. I wanted to spend hours in parks, and on trains and in coffee shops with Soph. Taking picture after picture of Kamaldeep looking like a cock hanging from random sculptures in Brindley Place. Smiling to the sounds of Wrapped in Plastic ripping a room apart with their explicit lyrics and perverse expressions, not sitting on the floor by the stage drunk, wondering why Rosie has just poured half a bottle of water on my head. I wanted to decide to take a bus somewhere I'd never been before. I wanted to have people stay over and write things on my walls until their hearts content. I wanted to do something. Granted, Iceland and Newday were something, but that was just two weeks. I should stop complaining. I 'relaxed'. At least I wasn't constantly bored. I just wish I did something.

Ugh, be quiet Daisy, you're even irritating yourself.