10.04.05..2:38 pm

O man am I tired. The Birth Week has begun and while I've been having a wicked fucking time of it so far, but my GOD I'm STILL knackered after Friday. I�ve obviously been off the drugs far too long. I�ve no stamina to stay up to 5 in the morning, and still manage to get up at 9 to continue studying. I�ve no resistance to things like impending dawn, waning starlight or fading night. I can no longer eat a bowl of Gorilla Munch* and baked beans because we had no milk as my supper and not wind up needing to compensate the next day by downing half a family sized pizza. Hence, yesterday was a complete write-off. We were in bed until about half5 watching Strangers on a Train twice and ordering family sized pizza's, popped out for a quick celebratory (It�s Saturday!) drink and headed over to M�s parents to do the family thing and pretty much kept very nearly falling asleep in the piles of home-delivered chow mein and crispy shredded whatever, accidentally throwing forks/glasses/plates on the floor and dumping home-delivered mushroom-fried rice over the prawn balls while trying to be helpful.

We ended up cancelling the four-way birthday house party in favour of going to a warehouse party in Elephant and Castle. This was an excellent idea because, on the one hand, the thing we went to was held in a loading bay under the arches of an overland bridge for British Rail. On the other hand it meant that I had a vague hope of not waking up in a cess pool Saturday morning. They had an awesome combination of art plastered on the walls, bands plastered on stage and various kids from various social 'seens' (you know the type I'm talking about: hip hair, hip clothes, the personality of an umbrella on valium) as well as people we actually wanted to talk to. The Seensters kill me on a regular basis, both because they crack me up with their unaware pretension and because they make me want to slit my wrists if their carefully strewn tresses and dutifully smudged kohl come anywhere near me. One of M's friends, Sandell, and I had a delightful time pointing and laughing at people who were standing in front of exhibit pieces and watching them try to figure out if we were mocking their pin stripes, sneering at their high button broaches, or simply deeply engaged in the charcoal and acrylic portrait of a bush baby.

Incidentally, NOT having the party at home was a moderately good plan as while I did end up waking up in the South London equivalent of a paludal dungeon, it didn't turn into the sinks-pulled-off-walls spaghetti-on-ceiling affair like the last time we had a party. The marshy bog, formally known as our livingroom, resulted out of Paddy [M's flatmate] bringing a pair of the most vacuous turds I have ever had the displeasure of meeting, Snuffy and Puffy from the land of Those Who Are Too Cool for You and Everyone You Know BOW BEFORE US YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHIT HOW DARE YOU NOT APPRECIATE OUR PRESENCE and some guy, who girls like that flock to, apparently called Skinny Nick.

Skinny Nick looks like a Dickensian ragamuffin. He's impossibly thin with an enormous head and huge hair, his weedy little body squeezed into disturbingly skinny clothes that he may have just put on one day years ago and sort of moulded into. That's not to say he smells funny or anything, merely that his clothes are THAT TIGHT. Why he's so attractive I can't quite understand. Though he had some form of personality beneath the cover of coke induced arrogance, his clothing! It was just so tight! Cutting-off-circulation, near-self-castration tight. Tight enough you could VERY EASILY DISCERN he'd taken far too much coke in his very young life. Am I making myself clear here? I hope so, because I wouldn't want to just come out and say he had taken enough coke THAT NIGHT to ensure his balls wouldn't drop back for the next three years, but that it would matter because his jeans are so tight they'd never make it anyway. Where was I? O right. Snuffy and Puffy, the gormless eyeliner-drenched hat stands.

God they were boring. It took surprisingly little time before I stopped bothering with subtlety entirely and just started being openly derisive to their ersatz superiority. As My Honey commented yesterday: 'I was walking around wearing my sombrero and they just looked at me like I'd slithered out from under the carpet and peed on their shoes.' They left shortly after I collapsed in bed, but not before pouring half a bottle of red wine on the white sofa in the livingroom. I hope they come back again.

Today I'm trying very hard to get my head around the narcissist project of reconciling Self/Other in postmodernist ontology. I'm not getting very far. This is worrying. I've now less than four weeks to get these essays finished.

O man, I just spent an hour writing this WORK WORK WORK. That's my pep talk done, roll on Thursday, roll on..

****meep 25 in FOUR DAYS