Pilfer is a good word.
GET TO KNOW
———————————————————————————————
Time started: 22.06
Name: V
Single or Taken: Single
Sex: Female
Birthday: 6th September
Sign: Virgo
Eye colour: it changes, but Gustav Wood blue
What are you wearing: demin shorts, red bra, knickers, medibracelet, paper wristband from Swansea, LP plectrum necklace, big cut-up purple MISSION DISTRICT tshirt.
Where do you live: Hertfordshire, England
Righty or lefty: Righty
FAVOURITE
———————————————————————————————
Where is your favorite place to shop: Hotel Chocolat.
Colour: Purple or blue. I don't mind which shade.
Number: 42
Boys' Name: Iunno. Something from mythology, or with a cool meaning.
Girls' Name: See boys' name. I like Adalia.
Animal: Cat or horse
Month: August
Movie: I can't pick just one! Maybe Mean Girls or Avatar.
Juice: Pomegranate
Breakfast: Cooked - scrambled eggs, beans and potato scones (i had them in Scotland, nomnomnom)
Favorite cartoon character: Lisa Simpson, Cero from Cardcaptors, Bakura from Yu-Gi-Oh The Abridged Series ;)
HAVE YOU EVER
———————————————————————————————
Given anyone a bath: Yes, my cousin's little boy
Smoked: nope
Bungee Jumped: I wish!
Gone skinny dipping: No
Eaten a dog: ... No.
Put your tongue on a frozen pole: Yes. It's not good.
Loved someone so much it made you cry: No
Broken a bone: Not yet!
Played truth or dare: Yes
Been in a physical fight: I don't think so... well, only with my brother.
Been in a police car: Nope
Been in a hot tub: Nuh uh.
Swam in the ocean: Well, the sea...
Fallen asleep in school: All the time
Ran away: Not properly
Broken someone’s heart: I HIGHLY doubt it
Cried when someone died: Of course.
Cried in school: Yeah
Fell off your chair: Mmhmm
Sat by the phone all night waiting for someone to call: Nope
Saved AIM/MSN conversation: Yes, once.
WHAT IS
———————————————————————————————
Your good luck charm: my LP pick that tBO Bob gave me :)
Best song you ever heard: Horrid question. No idea.
What’s your room like: walls painted with murals from when I was a kid, lots of cuddly toys, posters on (starting to fall off) the ceiling, stacks of old magazines.
Last thing you ate: Bourbon biscuit and a cup of tea
What kind of shampoo do you use: Whatever is next to me at the time.
Do you believe in karma: No, but I like the concept of it.
HAVE YOU HAD
————————————————————
Chicken pox: Yes. And then I had shingles too >.>
Sore Throat: Of course
Stitches: No, but I;ve had steri-strips.
Broken nose: No
DO YOU
——————————————————————
Believe in love at first sight: I'll believe it when I see it
Like picnics: of course!
Like school: No
What schools have you gone to: Beechwood Park Prep School, St Albans High School For Girls
Would you eat a live hamster for $1,000,000 dollars: No wai, man.
Who was the last person that called you: Unknown. And then... probably Aimee.
What makes you laugh the most: jokes with my friends when we're all sleep-deprived.
LAST PERSON
———————————————
You yelled at: Probably Mum.
Who broke your heart: Never had my heart broken :')
Who is your loudest friend: Torii.
DO YOU/ARE YOU
——————————————————————————————
Do you like filling these out: Yeah, they're fun.
Do you wear contacts or glasses: No, luckily. Apparently I might need reading glasses when I'm older though >.>
Do you like yourself: Sometimes.
Do you get along with your family: More often than not.
Obsessive: I don't think so.
Compulsive: Not sure.
Anorexic: HAHAHAHAHA no.
FINAL QUESTIONS
—————————————————————————————-
What are you listening to right now: The news.
What did you do yesterday: went to school, had lunch, had more school, came home, watched TV, played Peggle, had tea, had a bath, did homework, went to bed, played Pokemon, went to sleep.
What car do you wish you had: That one powered by liquid hydrogen. Is it liquid hydrogen? It's liquid something. It's gorgeous and totally eco-friendly.
Where do you want to get married: Not for me.
If you could change anything about yourself, what would it be: I'd have naturally blonde hair so it's easier to dye crazy colours, and I'd be more focused. I procrastinate too much.
How many remote controls are in your house: TV, DVD, digibox, other TV, other digibox, remote games controllers for Wii x2 and PS2.
Last time you took a bath: yesterday
The last movie you saw at the cinemas: Avatar
Do you like scary or happy movies: Happy :)
Black or white: Black please
Root Beer or Dr.Pepper: Neither
Vanilla or chocolate: Vanilla
Silver or Gold: Silver ^^ But in terms of Pokemon, Gold.
Diamond or pearl: Diamond.
Sunset or Sunrise: Sunset
Sprite or 7up: They're both teeth-rooting lemonade. So both :D
Cats or dogs: Kittehs!
Coffee or tea: depends on my mood
Phone or in person: In person
Are you the oldest, middle, youngest or only child: Youngest ;)
Indoor or outdoor: Indoor
Time ended: 22.38
If there's anything else you want to know, leave a question :D
Friday, 23 April 2010
Monday, 19 April 2010
Carnage and Glitter
So I wrote a story at 2am, and one person liked it, so I'm going to post it here:
Once upon a time, the world ended. It was not big, or showy; it was not a grand procession of colours and light and magic, moving in some pre-determined order to meet the end. There was no symmetry, no neatness, no slow stirring music to serve as a soundscape to rolling credits. The world ended, and there was nothing in the galaxy, in the universe, to show we’d ever been there at all. It was just carnage and glitter.
I watched my daughter sleep, the light from the moon reflecting off the metal posts of her bed. She insisted on keeping the curtains open, in case something happened outside and she missed it. In the summer, she looked at the stars from behind glass. In the winter, she sat on her sill and crossed her fingers and wished seven times for snow. She was the most curious, philosophical, naïve sixteen-year-old in the world.
I moved to close the curtains, and one of her eyes opened.
“No, Mum,” she murmured, her voice a hazy blur. She could still be dreaming. “No…”
“It’ll be warmer in here if I close them, honey,” I said softly. “I’ll wake you so that you don’t miss anything.”
She regarded me, her cynicism and lust for excitement balanced with that warm dozy feeling of sweet dreams.
“Promise?” she said, her voice beginning to slide.
“Promise,” I said, as she closed her eyes and turned heavy and limp, asleep. I closed her curtains.
Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
“Mum, why were the roses in rings?”
“They were like daisy chains.”
“…”
“…”
“Mum, what’s a posy?”
“A little bunch of flowers.”
“Mum, why were there ashes?”
“Because everyone was a heavy smoker.”
“…”
“…”
“Mum, what’s the difference between fairy tales and real life?”
“Fairy tales are things adults made up to make their kids behave, and warn them about what can happen in real life.”
“Mum, what’s the difference between being awake and dreaming?”
“Dreams are things which never really happen.”
“But – then, Mum – how can dreams come true?”
The Chav looked at the Goth with an expression of supreme superiority.
“I’m better than you,” he stated in a nasal tone.
The Goth smiled.
“Is that so?” she asked, light and cheerful. “Can you tell stories?”
“No, but – ”
“Can you sing?”
“No, but – ”
“Do you think of death as the end of meaning or as a means to an end?”
“I don’t – ”
The Goth smiled at the Chav, regarded coolly his branded tracksuit trousers and hoodie, his oversized trainers and fake gold chains. Her rings sparkled. Her teeth seemed to glow against the black of her lipstick.
“Then why, uneducated sir, do you think you’re better than me?”
He pulled out a knife.
“Oh, please. Stop perpetuating your negative stereotype.”
And that was how it began: the beginning of a world where Chavs and Goths became separate races, and their children avoided eye contact on the street, and wars were fought not on battlefields but in boardrooms; and if a Chav ever won an intellectual battle with a Goth, then people in black took him or her away, and nothing was ever said of it.
“Mum, where are we going?”
“To the doctor.”
“Why? You’re not ill.”
“…”
“I’m not ill!”
“It’s a special kind of doctor, love. It’s a different kind.”
“NO!”
“What is it?”
“NO! Mum, I know what it is!”
“What?”
“You’re taking me away!”
“Honey, stop being ridiculous.”
“You’ll take me to a psychiatrist. And he’ll tell me – he’ll say I’m crazy, because that’s what they always say.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“If you don’t think I’m crazy, why are you taking me to the psychiatrist?”
“…”
“…”
“It’s to help you.”
“They can’t help me if they lock me up.”
“They won’t lock you up.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. Don’t lie.”
I watched my daughter talk, and I couldn’t believe what she said. She spoke calmly, relaying everything to the doctor who sat there and nodded and made notes; he asked questions, she was flummoxed, and she couldn’t understand why he didn’t understand. Then she started questioning him, and she wouldn’t stop. Later, he took me aside and looked at me sternly.
“Your daughter seems to be unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams. Fairy tales. Nursery rhymes.”
I blinked. Were there tears, waiting to fall? I prayed not. I didn’t want to cry in front of this man, who had cross-examined my daughter like he was a lawyer and she was a hostile witness in court; this man who had made her cry so the invisible jury would talk.
“So,” I said, hating myself for it, “what can we do?”
I woke up. I opened my curtains. I looked at the frost on the ground. I looked at the shattered glass at the top of the window and decided to ignore it. I sat on the windowsill and counted the stars. I pressed my nose flat against the glass and breathed until all I could see was steam. I ignored the constellations with the stupid names and made up my own. There were hundreds of patterns in the sky. It’s just that nobody ever sees them, because they only look at what other people have seen. Nobody opens their eyes.
“Honey,” Mum said, “it’s late. You should be asleep.”
I looked at her.
“Mummy?”
“What is it, baby?” she asked, sitting down beside me. She pulled me into her lap and looked out with me. She hummed a nursery rhyme under her breath, watching me. She tapped her fingers on the metal bed frame. She waited for an answer. When she gave up, she opened her mouth, and I answered her then.
“Mummy, don’t let me grow up.”
It’s happened, you know. The end of the world. It happened a long time ago, but far away. And because the world is so big, it’s taking a long time for us to see it. But the order is breaking down, everywhere you look. Even the stupid are asking questions, and there aren’t enough men in black in the cosmos to stop them. The light is seeping in through the cracks and everything obvious sparkles; everything obscured casts eerie shadows.
This is how the universe ends. Everyone goes to sleep, so they don't see it anymore. We all live unhappily ever after in carnage and glitter.
Once upon a time, the world ended. It was not big, or showy; it was not a grand procession of colours and light and magic, moving in some pre-determined order to meet the end. There was no symmetry, no neatness, no slow stirring music to serve as a soundscape to rolling credits. The world ended, and there was nothing in the galaxy, in the universe, to show we’d ever been there at all. It was just carnage and glitter.
I watched my daughter sleep, the light from the moon reflecting off the metal posts of her bed. She insisted on keeping the curtains open, in case something happened outside and she missed it. In the summer, she looked at the stars from behind glass. In the winter, she sat on her sill and crossed her fingers and wished seven times for snow. She was the most curious, philosophical, naïve sixteen-year-old in the world.
I moved to close the curtains, and one of her eyes opened.
“No, Mum,” she murmured, her voice a hazy blur. She could still be dreaming. “No…”
“It’ll be warmer in here if I close them, honey,” I said softly. “I’ll wake you so that you don’t miss anything.”
She regarded me, her cynicism and lust for excitement balanced with that warm dozy feeling of sweet dreams.
“Promise?” she said, her voice beginning to slide.
“Promise,” I said, as she closed her eyes and turned heavy and limp, asleep. I closed her curtains.
Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
“Mum, why were the roses in rings?”
“They were like daisy chains.”
“…”
“…”
“Mum, what’s a posy?”
“A little bunch of flowers.”
“Mum, why were there ashes?”
“Because everyone was a heavy smoker.”
“…”
“…”
“Mum, what’s the difference between fairy tales and real life?”
“Fairy tales are things adults made up to make their kids behave, and warn them about what can happen in real life.”
“Mum, what’s the difference between being awake and dreaming?”
“Dreams are things which never really happen.”
“But – then, Mum – how can dreams come true?”
The Chav looked at the Goth with an expression of supreme superiority.
“I’m better than you,” he stated in a nasal tone.
The Goth smiled.
“Is that so?” she asked, light and cheerful. “Can you tell stories?”
“No, but – ”
“Can you sing?”
“No, but – ”
“Do you think of death as the end of meaning or as a means to an end?”
“I don’t – ”
The Goth smiled at the Chav, regarded coolly his branded tracksuit trousers and hoodie, his oversized trainers and fake gold chains. Her rings sparkled. Her teeth seemed to glow against the black of her lipstick.
“Then why, uneducated sir, do you think you’re better than me?”
He pulled out a knife.
“Oh, please. Stop perpetuating your negative stereotype.”
And that was how it began: the beginning of a world where Chavs and Goths became separate races, and their children avoided eye contact on the street, and wars were fought not on battlefields but in boardrooms; and if a Chav ever won an intellectual battle with a Goth, then people in black took him or her away, and nothing was ever said of it.
“Mum, where are we going?”
“To the doctor.”
“Why? You’re not ill.”
“…”
“I’m not ill!”
“It’s a special kind of doctor, love. It’s a different kind.”
“NO!”
“What is it?”
“NO! Mum, I know what it is!”
“What?”
“You’re taking me away!”
“Honey, stop being ridiculous.”
“You’ll take me to a psychiatrist. And he’ll tell me – he’ll say I’m crazy, because that’s what they always say.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“If you don’t think I’m crazy, why are you taking me to the psychiatrist?”
“…”
“…”
“It’s to help you.”
“They can’t help me if they lock me up.”
“They won’t lock you up.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. Don’t lie.”
I watched my daughter talk, and I couldn’t believe what she said. She spoke calmly, relaying everything to the doctor who sat there and nodded and made notes; he asked questions, she was flummoxed, and she couldn’t understand why he didn’t understand. Then she started questioning him, and she wouldn’t stop. Later, he took me aside and looked at me sternly.
“Your daughter seems to be unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams. Fairy tales. Nursery rhymes.”
I blinked. Were there tears, waiting to fall? I prayed not. I didn’t want to cry in front of this man, who had cross-examined my daughter like he was a lawyer and she was a hostile witness in court; this man who had made her cry so the invisible jury would talk.
“So,” I said, hating myself for it, “what can we do?”
I woke up. I opened my curtains. I looked at the frost on the ground. I looked at the shattered glass at the top of the window and decided to ignore it. I sat on the windowsill and counted the stars. I pressed my nose flat against the glass and breathed until all I could see was steam. I ignored the constellations with the stupid names and made up my own. There were hundreds of patterns in the sky. It’s just that nobody ever sees them, because they only look at what other people have seen. Nobody opens their eyes.
“Honey,” Mum said, “it’s late. You should be asleep.”
I looked at her.
“Mummy?”
“What is it, baby?” she asked, sitting down beside me. She pulled me into her lap and looked out with me. She hummed a nursery rhyme under her breath, watching me. She tapped her fingers on the metal bed frame. She waited for an answer. When she gave up, she opened her mouth, and I answered her then.
“Mummy, don’t let me grow up.”
It’s happened, you know. The end of the world. It happened a long time ago, but far away. And because the world is so big, it’s taking a long time for us to see it. But the order is breaking down, everywhere you look. Even the stupid are asking questions, and there aren’t enough men in black in the cosmos to stop them. The light is seeping in through the cracks and everything obvious sparkles; everything obscured casts eerie shadows.
This is how the universe ends. Everyone goes to sleep, so they don't see it anymore. We all live unhappily ever after in carnage and glitter.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Friday, 2 April 2010
Script Frenzy... Day 2
Script Frenzy has started, which I am almost inevitably going to fail... mainly because I have no inspiration, and my laptop's mouse keys are broken.
So I'm sitting here reading through my script wondering what the hell to write, and whether I have time to scrap this and start again. I'm not going to bed tonight until I have reached seven pages. I'm on... two and a half.
This can only end well...!
(In other news... Slam Dunk looks amazing, I can't wait for the new Sonisphere and Slam Dunk festival announcements, and I am going to Reading festival. Wins all round.)
So I'm sitting here reading through my script wondering what the hell to write, and whether I have time to scrap this and start again. I'm not going to bed tonight until I have reached seven pages. I'm on... two and a half.
This can only end well...!
(In other news... Slam Dunk looks amazing, I can't wait for the new Sonisphere and Slam Dunk festival announcements, and I am going to Reading festival. Wins all round.)
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
If it matters at all.
What's one thing that matters to you? Just one thing. One thing, no matter how tiny and insignificant. One teeny weeny thing that you could write pages and pages on - or one huge thing, whose significance to you is impossible to articulate.
I could tell you about anything.
Spotify. Gigs. Wikipedia. Rainbows. Manga. The NHS. The number 7.
Supporting unknown bands and discovering new music. Windows. Wrapping paper. Tutus. Boys' jeans. String. Hair dye.
Idividuality. People with big noses. Toothpaste. Text messages. Scars.
Geodes. Shoelaces. Smiles.
That feeling you get when you see someone you've been missing.
So right now, I am going to tell you one thing which matters to me. Words.
Think about it - ha, see, you've already started. We think however we like, in colours or shapes or numbers or feelings or sounds, but as soon as we start to try and describe it, we have to use words. Words do their best to take all those impossible things and wrestle them into submission so they make some sort of sense. Words convey impossible thoughts and ideas. Even if you can't describe something in English, there will be a word for it in some other language. The way perfume smells as it lingers in the air, the smell of it leaving - it's a clumsy sentence in English, but in French you have "sillage".
Words create my favourite things in the world; lyrics, poetry, novels, articles, websites. You can explain to people all kinds of abstract ideas. The way you phrase things can change people's moods, and different words can carry different connotations.
"The weather is fine" makes you think of a clear day. Maybe a bit grey. But a typically British, "fine" day. Compare it to -
"The weather is balmy" makes you think of gentle warmth. You can taste the ice lollies and tissues and sunshine like a watery egg.
Words matter to me because without them everything would be done in pictures and sounds - which is all fine, but why do we teach language to children? So they can communicate. Music and pictures speak in ways language can't manage, but words can explain things that music and pictures can't.
So, if you've just read this, leave me a comment about one thing - anything - that matters to you. And your favourite word, while you're at it. Mine is "mellifluous", which has the same route as the name "Melissa" - Greek for honey. Mellifluous is a word to describe things which flow like honey; so, the word mellifluous is itself mellifluous. Aren't words fun?
I could tell you about anything.
Spotify. Gigs. Wikipedia. Rainbows. Manga. The NHS. The number 7.
Supporting unknown bands and discovering new music. Windows. Wrapping paper. Tutus. Boys' jeans. String. Hair dye.
Idividuality. People with big noses. Toothpaste. Text messages. Scars.
Geodes. Shoelaces. Smiles.
That feeling you get when you see someone you've been missing.
So right now, I am going to tell you one thing which matters to me. Words.
Think about it - ha, see, you've already started. We think however we like, in colours or shapes or numbers or feelings or sounds, but as soon as we start to try and describe it, we have to use words. Words do their best to take all those impossible things and wrestle them into submission so they make some sort of sense. Words convey impossible thoughts and ideas. Even if you can't describe something in English, there will be a word for it in some other language. The way perfume smells as it lingers in the air, the smell of it leaving - it's a clumsy sentence in English, but in French you have "sillage".
Words create my favourite things in the world; lyrics, poetry, novels, articles, websites. You can explain to people all kinds of abstract ideas. The way you phrase things can change people's moods, and different words can carry different connotations.
"The weather is fine" makes you think of a clear day. Maybe a bit grey. But a typically British, "fine" day. Compare it to -
"The weather is balmy" makes you think of gentle warmth. You can taste the ice lollies and tissues and sunshine like a watery egg.
Words matter to me because without them everything would be done in pictures and sounds - which is all fine, but why do we teach language to children? So they can communicate. Music and pictures speak in ways language can't manage, but words can explain things that music and pictures can't.
So, if you've just read this, leave me a comment about one thing - anything - that matters to you. And your favourite word, while you're at it. Mine is "mellifluous", which has the same route as the name "Melissa" - Greek for honey. Mellifluous is a word to describe things which flow like honey; so, the word mellifluous is itself mellifluous. Aren't words fun?
Saturday, 20 March 2010
The beginnings of Casper's story
I'm trying to write the beginning of my weird "humans vs vampires in a world war" story. Here is what I have managed to write so far. This is a rough draft done late at night so don't be expecting anything Nobel prize winning. Here you go:
I had figured that there were three possible ways for me to die. I hadn’t expected this to be one of them. For a start, I never thought I’d live to be dead.
The first way I had imagined was what I expected to happen, had life remained the same. I expected to grow up, get good grades, go to university, and end up in a dead-end job anyway. After a string of whirlwind romances in my early twenties, I would have settled down with a polite, well-bred man, ten years older than me, with thoughtful eyes and curly hair. We’d have a few children; they would grow up and have children of their own who I’d dote on, and we’d holiday in Tarriland or the Bai’lai Islands every summer. My husband would die at seventy years old of a heart attack; I would move to a little country house, where my children would visit me every week, when they remembered. After being cooked dinner, I die in my sleep on the morning of my eighty-fourth birthday. Oh, the joys of suburbia.
The second way I had imagined was that my punk band, Everything Sarah Said, became huge after our debut album – recorded when I was sixteen – became everyone’s new favourite record. Our sound developed from snarling punk into snarling alt-rock, and we became a cult band for the first six years, and gained amazing influence. By the time I was twenty, I’d sold two hundred and fifty thousand records, and yet managed to keep my private and public lives separated. Finally, at age twenty-nine, after a night out drinking with the girls, I accidentally crashed my motorbike into a tree. The whole of the Vessenian speaking world mourned my loss, and I was hailed as a real rock star. That’s the dream, anyway.
The third way was what I was now ninety-nine per cent sure was going to happen. Since the war with Jesnar started, and all the conscription started, I am now sure that I will die on the battlefield, blown up by a Jesnari bomb in Intoh or Genoland. Maybe I’ll be captured and die in a prisoner of war camp. Maybe I’ll be hit by shrapnel or fall from the sky in my shot down aeroplane. In any case, I will die fighting for my country for values I don’t believe in. But I guess it’s better to be killed in battle than be shot for treachery. Maybe I’ll object on moral grounds and die doing hard labour, or run away to West Seminor on a boat. But more than likely, it’ll be this: I will die making sure that Jesnar does not take over the country where I was born.
Well, that was what I assumed would happen, anyway. But it turns out that I’m not allowed a nice, neat death like everyone else. But before I go any further into the present, allow me to explain the past.
I had figured that there were three possible ways for me to die. I hadn’t expected this to be one of them. For a start, I never thought I’d live to be dead.
The first way I had imagined was what I expected to happen, had life remained the same. I expected to grow up, get good grades, go to university, and end up in a dead-end job anyway. After a string of whirlwind romances in my early twenties, I would have settled down with a polite, well-bred man, ten years older than me, with thoughtful eyes and curly hair. We’d have a few children; they would grow up and have children of their own who I’d dote on, and we’d holiday in Tarriland or the Bai’lai Islands every summer. My husband would die at seventy years old of a heart attack; I would move to a little country house, where my children would visit me every week, when they remembered. After being cooked dinner, I die in my sleep on the morning of my eighty-fourth birthday. Oh, the joys of suburbia.
The second way I had imagined was that my punk band, Everything Sarah Said, became huge after our debut album – recorded when I was sixteen – became everyone’s new favourite record. Our sound developed from snarling punk into snarling alt-rock, and we became a cult band for the first six years, and gained amazing influence. By the time I was twenty, I’d sold two hundred and fifty thousand records, and yet managed to keep my private and public lives separated. Finally, at age twenty-nine, after a night out drinking with the girls, I accidentally crashed my motorbike into a tree. The whole of the Vessenian speaking world mourned my loss, and I was hailed as a real rock star. That’s the dream, anyway.
The third way was what I was now ninety-nine per cent sure was going to happen. Since the war with Jesnar started, and all the conscription started, I am now sure that I will die on the battlefield, blown up by a Jesnari bomb in Intoh or Genoland. Maybe I’ll be captured and die in a prisoner of war camp. Maybe I’ll be hit by shrapnel or fall from the sky in my shot down aeroplane. In any case, I will die fighting for my country for values I don’t believe in. But I guess it’s better to be killed in battle than be shot for treachery. Maybe I’ll object on moral grounds and die doing hard labour, or run away to West Seminor on a boat. But more than likely, it’ll be this: I will die making sure that Jesnar does not take over the country where I was born.
Well, that was what I assumed would happen, anyway. But it turns out that I’m not allowed a nice, neat death like everyone else. But before I go any further into the present, allow me to explain the past.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Writing!
So I've managed to get some writing done today, in my Physics class of all places.
Only... instead of managing to write anything interesting and fictional, I wrote a load of cheesy song lyrics.
Well, it marks a change. I have progressed from whiny emo to cheesy pop. Or is that a regression? Aaaaanyhoo, I may stay up late and just do some writing. Because I'm really liking my Vamps-At-War universe, and I need to get fleshing it out.
Only... instead of managing to write anything interesting and fictional, I wrote a load of cheesy song lyrics.
Well, it marks a change. I have progressed from whiny emo to cheesy pop. Or is that a regression? Aaaaanyhoo, I may stay up late and just do some writing. Because I'm really liking my Vamps-At-War universe, and I need to get fleshing it out.
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