(no subject)

I'll be fine, is the thing, once things get started. Once we swap my bed for the one it's possible to sleep on. When I have to think about my A-level and applying to university (oh god I sound 18 again) and my new job, when there are things and people. 'cos right now it's just me and my mum and I keep involuntarily gritting my teeth when I'm trying to sleep because I'm so frustrated. Because I can't do anything.

I should be tidying my room or reading or writing or working out the million and one things about Aziraphael that really need to be worked out, but I'm not. I'm faffing around and reading fic and playing the sims. (Dan and Casey have moved in together already).

I'm driving myself mad. And I was just so spoiled in America and I fell too much in love with having all the fantastic people there, 'cos now I'm just lonely.

I shouldn't be allowed near LJ in this sort of mood. Sorry. I'll figure out something more interesting to say later.

Milliways folken!

I have, like, STEALTH WANK! On my F-list! 'cos everyone's talking about wank, but it's wank I've not seen hide nor hair of. It's kind of interesting. For the record, I have no idea what's going on but if I can help at all, please do let me know.

My email is annysthetized(at)gmail.com, but gmail is being an utter bastard today so I'm also screening comments to this post if you have anything you want to be sure I'll see.

'k?

'k.

(no subject)

I really don't know why I watch romantic comedies (unless they have zombies.)

Actually, I'll amend that comment. I don't know why I watch romantic comedies unless they have Paul Bettany (or zombies) because Paul Bettany (which I just tried to spell with one T and two Ns, oops) makes anything watchable, really. (As, indeed, do zombies.)

That's enough parentheses.

Romantic comedies, especially those by Richard Curtis, are dreadfully formulaic. Four Weddings I will forgive, here, because it was the first, the wittiest, and it had John Hannah. But everyone in these films has a dreadfully close group of friends, and has a dreadfully (no matter how much they complain about it) successful life, and the understanding is that they will get whoever it is they're after provided they're adorably British.

I'm adorably British, dammit. I'm reasonably intelligent, I am embarking on a decent career path, I'm always willing to be the first up and boiling the kettle, and I haven't yet made anyone projectile vomit purely through looking at me. Other reasons, possibly yes - there's at least two people on my f-list that I have made vomit, and I'm always looking to collect more - but I'm honestly not repugnant. Not to my knowledge. So I watch these films and hope, vaguely, that there'll be a different ending, this time (something, quite possibly, with zombies). Something that doesn't make me feel quite so dreadful and wish I were Hugh Grant, dammit, because that's really just distressing. I don't want to be Hugh Grant so much as I want his little bookshop, really. I'd wander around in it with tea and a variety of stylish dressing-gowns.

Somewhat tangential - Hugh Grant kept making me blink because he really does look a little like a thinner Oscar Wilde.

Poor Oscar.

I forget what my point was, really. General whining, I suspect, and a vague wish that I could meet someone nice who'd make me tea and let me snuggle them an awful lot. Oh well. I shall curl up with Oscar instead. I much prefer him to Hugh Grant, really, when it comes down to it.