Sheds, Beds and Running Reds

Should some higher being grant me the finance and freedom to impart my mundane wonderings on a wider audience, the above would be it's title. This I concluded whilst on one of my many rainy rides home from university. Our university years are sold to us with the premise of a life-affirming time, a pivotal point in our development from youth to adult. If i'm being honest, I wouldn't conclude that my behaviour has become any more mature/socially acceptable. Though the numerous failures of shop assistants to ask me for ID as of late would suggest otherwise - perhaps it's true that a gruelling BA in architecture really does age you about a decade. If you are lucky, whilst at university you may have the revelation of "finding yourself". Well, i found out a hell of a lot about myself. Notably that i'm a cunt. Yes, a cunt. It's like Seal sings isn't it? "We're never gonna survive, unless, we get a little cunty." Or something along those lines. But it's that somewhat profane term that i attribute to my survival tactics over the last three years. Life has thrown a supposed shit load of lemons my way. I never did get around to making lemonade, but i did run those lemons through an unholy trinity of computer software, workshop machinery and traumatic presentations, until finally i scraped my citrussy ass over the finish line and handed my portfolio in, and be done with it. This lemon-cultivating proved a valuable break from some of the more stressful notes of my career thus far, notably my eternal frustration at my ineptitude with men, and my somewhat undecided position between wanting to be a 10k-a-day girl and [in actual fact] being a 10-a-day girl. All we can hope for is that amongst the melee, there are more rights than wrongs to be found.

Keep Calm and Clam Up

Penultimate day of second year architecture, effectively. The sheets are bound and ready, films are set to go on discs and the models are (for the most part) newly housed in discarded appliance boxes. So am I feeling relaxed and dare I say, a touch complacent that I have nearly reached the finish line? If only.

This morning started in time honoured fashion with the demolition of several unattractive varieties of cereal poorly amalgamated in a teacup. Washed down with a good helping of french toast and an industrial quantity of sugar. Wait, I'm not finished. There goes another slice of bread. The day spiralled out of control into a vast, food devouring tornado and by 6pm the best part of two slab cakes had gone down the hatch. Cue a choc-ice palate cleanser.

CRY.

But I can't, can I? Even that primordial human right to feel guilty at the concept of comfort eating has been stripped from me. For recently, it has come to my attention that I am largely deficient in several emotions. This, I discussed in some depth with Our Kid earlier, and we concluded that by and large, our emotion states could be categorized into some sort of bastardized trading game. I.e I'll swap you an excess Manic Depression Spate* for a glut of Woe Is Me. Or so on. Evocative of the playground, isn't it? Anyway, right now the very act of crying eludes me. Worryingly so, as I fear I am hurting subconsciously. I've tried. And tried. And tried. And bar a few crocodile tears, my tear ducts are for the most part redundant. I can't even remember unleashing my sadness. Nowadays it manifests itself grotesquely in insolence, denial and mindless apathy. Occasionally I am wont to throw destructiveness into the mix. Lately my phone has been bearing the brunt of this physical display of discontent, however inspection I deduced that my walls were coming off worse than the handset. Not wanting to lose my precious deposit, I carefully dismantled said phone (something been launched at a radiator had not accomplished) and dropped the pieces into the bin.

*I am in denial over the now more politically correct "Bi-Polar disorder." MDS is a more brutal extent of FFM (funny five minutes).

Wild Seuss Chase

"You’re in pretty good shape for the shape you are in."

Dr Seuss

Easter went by like a little whirlwind. One I felt verged on the edge of destructive, each time just allowing me to escape. From the outset it seemed my return was of humorous value to my sisters, my newfound immunity to embarrassment still puzzling to them. On a deeper note, it was uncertain how seriously others might perceive my state of mind. Having spent the last year largely fighting to stay afloat, I had actually strived to maintain a front of happiness and solidity in the face of adversity. In short, I refused to grant anyone the satisfaction of me being Any Less Than OK. This, it transpired, was a lifestyle not without it's ramifications.

More and more it becomes apparent to me that bouncebackability is really a nice word for manic-depressive (N.B: Let's not be using the more PC "bi-polar". I mean, at least the "manic" element of the former shrieks productivity). With one week of fairly consistent and lively quotidienne under my belt, without warning, darkness was descending. A family gathering looming, I was suddenly gripped by a desire to reject happiness. Indeed, I was exhausted by the prospect of it. Wounded pride, frustration, and anger all resided, and in a pent-up state I was unable to convey these emotions. My unhappiness resulted in rejection of those around me and for some time I spent my waking (and sleeping) hours in a state of discontent. As had happened before, I toyed with the idea that somehow I would not be able to shake this state of being, that it had finally "become too much." Thankfully, the episode passed and I was able to return to liveliness. I am hesitant to try and employ the word "normal" - for I feel that my mood is liable to veer between a state of near euphoria and invincibility to a downward spiral of self pity, at the metaphorical drop of hat.

Dogmeat, bus food and The Curry Mile

"Frankly, my head's not enjoying being attached to my body" - Venetia Solly, 20.02.11

Whilst I can't vouch entirely for the above, the prospect of limbs disowning me is right up there on my nightmare list right now. Gentle slide back into recreational biking was it? Quick gear change and punting along the seafront? Hellfire it was. Try being thrust into a woven tapestry of Biryani Gansters, Bashy-blasting Nova drivers and blue and yellow monsters belching eye watering black smog at tidy intervals. The Fallowfield-Manchester cycle path. Gulp.

That coupled with the regular bouts of "conditioning" my body's been undergoing over the past six months meant for a very sweaty and rather nauseous arrival, and despite thighs screaming bloody murder for the duration (and a momentary lapse in faith outside Chicken Cottage) victory was mine for the taking.

I kept the endorphins flowing for a good three days before cracking pre-crit this Thursday morning. I'd put the fact i'm still alive down to a canny traffic navigating ability and ninja-like reflexes. That said, a few rosary beads/horseshoes/stray leprichauns in the Geekpack of Doom never go amiss.

Impractially Perfect In Every Way

What a difference a day makes. What are we looking for, ultimately,in this lifetime? Can we put a price on happiness, or even a definition? Do we differ in our emotional needs or are we all still searching for the same, unknown. When the lines blur between thinking with our head, and with our heart, how can we decide. It's easy to cite that love is blind, but harder to determine whether it was ever present.I took a risk. I put my feelings out there and i'm hurting, so I gather that something at least was real. I've only recently rediscovered my tear ducts and I'm reluctant to let go of what [we've] had. I don't regret my actions but I can't fathom yours, maybe we don't believe in the same. My tried and tested method of "If he likes you, he will call you" is all over the place. I put a lot of faith in you and now I'm doubting your words. You say you put it all into words for me, that this is how it has to be, but denial hangs in the air. I want to know how you're feeling. I'm only mortal after all.

You Me and The Bourgeoisie

OK so i have not a scrap of makeup for the immediate future, i will have to live with that. I've always got my acrylics if times get desperate...

Instead i have some pepperami, chew-ball-on-a-rope and several poo bags. D'ya think my friends would take offence if i turned up with that lil lot and shouted "walkies"??

My room smells like a hotel which is OK, i can work with that. The flat seems very tidy and orderly which is pleasing. Kevin is apparently panicking about being diabetic and doling out all his chocolate to us! Arriving tonight while it was still sunny was good. Everything seems better when you sprinkle a bit of sunshine on it! On the bus through fallowfield and i was thinking "Oooh how cosmopolitan; oooh rusholme isn't it funny with its little quirky shisha bars and sparkly gaudy jewellery shops..." (i was getting quite poetic about it, rather nauseating really...) Concluded i have a heavy case of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder for you cats who aren't quite hip). That's about all you're getting by way of treats for now, until my creative skills return (yet another thing i'm convinced has been stolen by Sailors, the total is running pretty high right now). xoxo