Peppanpine - n. Pepperoni, Pineapple
and Jalepeno Pepper Pizza

After sitting in the KPA/Manchester listening to Stretch
make up new songs for his "Peppanpine" creation followed
by two days of "Let's get takeaway! Let's get Peppanpines!"
I think us Creative Writing types probably need a new
craze already.

Other people are peppanpining it up too, it's bemusing.

Mainly because they're clearly wrong; Jalapenos are disgusting.
I'm definitely rallying on the side of Peppanpine Lite.

I was in the pub with a group of Creative Writing friends
a few hours ago and I suddenly had an epiphany.

Everything is going to be ok.

So, you know, if you're really this right now and feeling
low, don't worry. It's going to be alright.
Really.

I should not be allowed near clothes.

Things That Scare Me Vol. 2:

1) Anything to do with Zombies that isn't Shaun of the Dead.

2) Ollie's bizarre luck, where other people get injured instead of her,
coming true and me dying in an unexpected and
possibly ironic way in Manchester.

3) Pigeons and Seagulls. I don't trust them not to poo on my head.

4) The Gentlemen from Buffy the Vampire Slayer

5) Dying before I ever have a poem written about me.

the date

I don’t want sympathy. I want a deadpan facial response. I want answers that can be conveyed in three syllables or less. I don’t know. I like you. I want to fumble and drop things adorably at your feet. I want the poems of Sylvia Plath to narrowly miss your toes. Giggle. I want us to not-quite make eye contact when we talk to each other. We will struggle and there will be gaps in the conversation. Jokes about something cute, like cats. I won’t ask you about food and music. What is important to you? I want you to take my number and put it into your pocket next to your coins and your keys. I will feel a sense of accomplishment and celebrate by going home and doing nothing. You will have my number but you won’t call it and I will be forced to spend long hours on Facebook typing your first name and searching through the local network. I hope you’re not from out of town. Eventually I will find you and send you a message and eventually after a considerable period you will reply and say you lost my number in your pocket with your coins and your keys. I will say ‘ok’. You will say ‘would you like to meet for coffee or something?’ I will say yes and then I will probably picture you without your clothes on but I won’t tell you that. I want you to think that I am not a weirdo so you will meet me for coffee so I can picture you without your clothes on. I meet you in a coffee shop. I buy the drinks myself but am thankful for your half-hearted protests. We sit down at a table with a menu and two chairs. My palms are damp. I am probably not a weirdo. I pick up the menu but don’t read it. I know that I need to say something witty and charming in approximately ten seconds time or you will finish your drink in approximately ten minutes time and make a hurried excuse to leave. Instead I sit there smiling at you because all I can think of to do is look at you just-below-the-eye and say, “from the moment I saw you I have been in love with you.” I smile. You smile. We are sitting at a table smiling at each other not saying anything. Say something. We don’t say anything. I want you to hold my hand and say ‘it’s ok. I know.’ I want to exhale dramatically and say ‘phew. I’m glad that’s out of the way.’ I don’t want to see your eyes snake under your shirt sleeve searching for your watch. I don’t want to know that you’d rather be somewhere else. I sip my coffee. I smile.

Steven and Roxanne have been reading out passages
from Twilight and Notes On A Scandal and replacing
key words with "pants" for over an hour. And it
definitely hasn't gotten old yet.

"I could tell from the smell that I was the first person
to enter Alice and Jasper's pants in a while"

Ollie and I are sitting in Starbucks.
I am drinking a mocha frappuchino and
writing my essay on my notepad laptop
whilst making insightful comments on
feminism.

Welcome to Yuppie-ville, population: me.

i want to fuck you because you are lonely.
i am not. i am popular
and surrounded by boys who want me
but i want to fuck you because you have nobody.
maybe you would fall in love with me or
maybe you would forget it almost instantly.
it doesn't matter.
i want to fuck you to make it just a little bit better.

Someone is playing the guitar and singing
in the room above mine. I wish I could play the guitar.
If I could play the guitar I would go upstairs with one
and walk into their flat and start playing and everyone
would be amazed that someone had just come into their
flat and started playing the guitar. We'd spend all day
"jamming" and writing songs and it would be wonderful.

I am staring at my notes I made for my exam
on Tuesday and contemplating not turning up for it.

I am bored. So very bored.

WANTED:

8 to 12 men
of any shape, age or colour
willing to let me draw on their
nether regions with a black sharpie
and take a polaroid of it
in the name of art
(d.i.y admissions also accepted)

I will then collate the polaroids and arrange them on
a canvass. I will name this project "Elephant" and I will
think of a deeply profound reason for doing it.

men. email me.

(this is definitely a good idea.)

This is what I look like right now. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Work was supposed to happen today but I spent a large amount of time
clicking refresh on various websites and scanning books for exam-related
quotes and failing. Steven, Helen and I had an interesting long conversation
about sex, fantasies and penises. Now I am less inspired to work and more
inspired to have sex.

I wish there was some sort of book you could write someone's name
down in and they appear, you have sex with them and once you
erase their name they go away and forget all about it. I think the
closest to this is dating sites and I don't want to get axe murdered.
I don't know. I'm curious about people and how their bodies work.
But I don't need to be caught up in anymore deep emotional
attachments unless I particularly want to be.

I was interviewed by Ryan Manning.
If my writing career flounders and fails to take off, at least
I can console myself with appearing on the same list as
some authors I admire. Thank you Ryan.

i don't want to write a poem.
every time i write a poem i feel like i give part of myself away.
i wrap my secrets in rhyming couplets
and send them to strangers.
when i write poetry i discard myself,
so i don't think i will write a poem today.

I don't think I have been as miserable
as I feel right this second

Things I Am Scared Of:

1) Wooden Spoons and Lollysticks

2) Inviting someone to a social gathering and
they flip out, hurt someone or shout abuse.

3) Bumblebees flying into my mouth whilst
I'm laughing.

4) Standing in a shop and someone I know
sneaking up behind me and yelling "boo!"

5) Being in a canoe and the canoe tipping
over and trapping me underwater.

Everytime I think Simon is going to beat my scores
on Crash Bandicoot Racing, he does something silly like
bump into a wall or drop the controller. It is highly
amusing. Today I have been mainly outside playing catch
and lounging. I emailed Ryan Manning a lot and
watched Steven make a cake.

I am grumpy. I went to bed really late and Steven woke me
up at half ten by shrieking "What!" and slamming doors. Bah.
What do you do in these situations, say "Hey. You woke me up.
Feel guilty for a bit then don't do it again." or do you ignore it?
Apathetic towards politeness, which is unfortunate as:

Simon is arriving in an hour. He's here to celebrate Helen's birthday
and come to dinner with us, but the meal is at eight so I have
many hours of playing host. It's daunting. I have a lot of work
to do. I'm leaving at ten tomorrow to go to Manchester so I won't be
able to spend time with him then, so I should make the effort.
(Sorry Simon, if you read this. I like hanging out with you.)

I am going to eat a Yorkie and put on my grey leggings.

Things I am not sure about:

1) The affectionate term “hun”. It can’t stand for “honey”, surely.
What could it mean? Hunky? Hungry? Hunchback? I’m not sure I
like being referred to in this way.

2) Why I don’t trust people to mention me in conversation and
not say something like “This girl means well but god, she’s rude/
annoying/a complete freak”. I think from now on you should all
refer to me as The Charming Beautiful One to ease my
growing paranoia.

3) How to make porridge. The Ready-Brek Box sits on top
of the oven, untouched since December.

4) How I’m supposed to do a Masters in Creative Writing next
year when I have forgotten how to write.
“It was only when you got closer that you realised he was a person.
In the distance he looked like a tree, one of those small firs that
appeared around Christmas time in the old world to mark the
coming of advent.”
This is not good writing.

5) Why my fish is still alive.

6) How I’m supposed to turn into a real person with a job and
a house and a network of interesting and intelligent acquaintances
when I’m so bloody confused about everything all the time.

All things considered, we still have terrible communication.

I could play this game for hours. Hours.

Before I attempted to play it for hours tonight,
David, Helen, Paul and I watched Doctor Who.
I guess it takes a bad breakup to realise it, but
The Doctor isn't a hero at all. He's a jackass.
He abandonned Sarah-Jane without letting her
know the score, he invited Nurse Redfern to be
his companion after Martha supported him and
kept him safe for months... He may not sex up
his companions, but he seems to think an awful
lot with his penis. I am unimpressed with The
Doctor right now.

Things I Realised Today:

1) I really like editing and writing other people's dating profiles.
2) Homemade Garlic Mushrooms are really tasty.
3) If my author friend isn't tastlessly misogynistic, he's doing a very
good job of pretending to be.

Conclusion:

I should be a personal councellor who cooks at home a lot, and that
I need to stop spending so much time searching Friction for good but
personality-deforming quotes and ideas to use in my essay.

This somes up how I am feeling right now quite well.

Stupid, Happy and Annoyed.
Can one be "happy and annoyed"?
I think I am.

“You said I killed you - haunt me, then!
The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe.
I know that ghosts have wandered on earth.
Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad!
only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”
(Emily Bronte)

Today I let myself believe that:
I am not some nineteenth century maiden.
I am not not defined by that relationship.
I am my own person.
I am going to get over it.