2004-11-17..4:51 p.m.

THIS IS THE PART WITH LINKS:

In my quest to supply the world with joy and anticipation of fabu things to come I decided to get linky with it:

There is going to be a fucking JAMES BOND DOUBLE BILL at the frightening aspirations of Leslie Hall (courtesy of Ms. Smartypants) months ago, but I promise you the second glance is even better than the first. It just keeps getting better. If nothing else, the gold spandex alone will make you go slightly weak at the knees. And it's not just that page either! If you click on the arrow, you delve into a world of bugeyed blank expressions and beehives that have me tiptoeing around the outer wall of madness.

If I didn't think I'd get fired for staying here all day long, man o man would I be a happy camper. Just looking at this site makes me feel like I've had one of those popper candy things, you know? That powder shit that crackles and fizzes on your tongue like a catherine wheel was just set off in your nose? Like that. Except in my brain.

Thanks to Schmutzie I was able to be utterly horrified by this while sipping my morning coffee. This sort of unmitigated bigotry is possibly the most terrifying thing I could think of. It�s the ideological equivalent of being forced to watch your toenails being peeled off one by one.

However, NOW�s coverage cheered me up immensely. I�m still a bit irked by Michael Moore�s holier-than-everyone-yet-completely-self-commodifying practices, but he�s got a point. And it�s a good one.

This little article also makes me rather pleased. I�m a total fence-sitter when it comes to famous types going political as well-informed and intelligent does not celebrity make. HOWEVER I�ve had the utmost respect of the Redgraves for as long as I can remember. I don�t care how famous you are, if you have consistently fought for a system based on fairness, equality and justice then you are worthy of every respect.

THIS IS THE PART THAT HAS NOWHERE ELSE TO GO:

'Pooh on a stick'. For some reason this is a phrase that has become increasingly present in my day-to-day vocabulary. Last weekend I used it to describe myself, ie, I look like pooh on a stick - in reference to my fuckmunch-still-here bronchial woes, which were at the time being exacerbated by fluey nose flowage, glazed redness in the eyes and a steamy-headed fever. A culmination of sick smell and pillow head.

Ah.. 'Pooh on a stick'.

THIS IS THE PART WHERE I ANALYSE MYSELF:

For the past couple of weeks I�ve felt increasingly like I�m on a constant swing of bipolarised emotion. Everything on this pendulum becomes heightened, exaggerated, blown up and made visible. I�m not sure if this began with the advent of being back at uni, or if perhaps it has always been like this and it�s only now that I�m able to appreciate it. In the past week the sad mental paralysis of not being able to read while sitting at my desk has caused me to lash out almost violently twice. Not a physical pummelling or flail at some unsuspecting one, I�ve so far managed to refrain from attacking with my desk lamp the next person who asks me if I could just photocopy this 36945 page document and ship it to Nairobi by 3 o�clock. It seeps and marks a slow flow of venom that erupts mutedly from my pores and veils me. It causes me to launch into bitter tirades and bite fiercely with all the contempt I can muster at other people�s stupidity. Thick mud days. Black mood days. In the past week a heady euphoria, a drowning happiness has flooded me more times then I can count. I seethe with smiles, I boil with ecstasy; I could lie on the floor and sink three floor, such is the weight of me sheer unadulterated glee and delight with the world. There are times in which I've never been so exponentially happy. It�s a happy that just keeps getting bigger; it pushes against my ribcage, forces its way up my arms and through my fingers. I get short of breath with the urge to sweep people up and hug their woes away until they sob with relief. I need to touch things with my toes, seize things with my tongue, put things in my ears to hear them all the better, shut my eyes to see things all the more. This is the sort of happy that could eat me, and I�d be glad to be eaten.

Monday was a tar black day. A furore just ran over me and infected everyone I came in contact with. I was fucking exhausted - I had a lump in my throat from the sheer frustration over having to be awake for most of the day; there was a burning feeling in my chest that I couldn�t shake - just off the slope of my right breast; I photocopied two tracts of Derrida that I needed to get through for yesterday and despite it not being wholly busy, I had no time to sneak read at all; the day just wouldn't end. It was all because M came home at half2 in the morning all boozy and loud; he passed out leaving Paddy and some pub stragglers crashing about the livingroom yelling at the football and so it was me at three o�clock that had to go downstairs and tell them to shut the fuck up. I was furious all day. At nothing more than because I felt hungover and hadn�t gone through the pleasure of getting pissed beforehand.

I think I was so mad as well because how is it possible to start a day sipping coffee and clambering onto M�s lap and looking into his eyes and hearing him say �Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have you,� and just be so enrapt by how lucky I am to have him, and end the day storming downstairs to yell at people HE (and his flatmates) dragged home?

And then as bleak and helium-awful as Monday was, was Monday night bright and heavy with excitement. Monday night M told me he loves me.

****meeped by being loved