Time for an angry rant! Uni gives me such long word limits for subjects so boring I'd rather gouge my own eyes out than do the work yet give limits in the hundreds for creative writing! I have to find another 700 words for my damn journalism theory essay, but I had to cut more than double that from my last short story. I can't think of anything else damn it! I've done my task in a tight, concise way (which is surely the point of journalism), anything else I add will be rambling and stupid to read. And the fucking library has absolutely nothing realting to my question, so I had to fork out another £40 for books I don't want and bore me to tears. Sigh, I'm really more of a practical writer than an academic. Well, off to bang my head against the wall till my brian starts working again. Or at least until I find something else to distract me.

Do all artists have this dilema? I'm happily working on my writing and theatrical work, and making great headway. But, in the process, I've had to put my friend to one side. I fear she is heading for heartbreak, but as she rufuses to listen to me, I can't help her. Still, is it right to abandon someone just because they're being so bloody pigheaded? At the same time, I don't have time for my charity work anymore because I write everynight till about 2am. I can't be in the Childline call centre or working for Amnesty internation right now. I've increased my financial donation (small as it is coming from a student), but I still feel guilty. Am I selfish to go after the arts? But then, if I didn't I'd be so miserable I'd be no help to anyone. And when (when, not if, I'm thinking positively) I make it, I'll be in a better position to do good work. Oh, damn it. Whether to help save others or save myself? What's better? What's right? I suppose it doesn't really matter, it's not as if I could ever stop, I need it to survive. If I continue moaning I'll just turn into a whiny little emo kid. Jesus, that's awful. Stopping now.

My friend Debs, more pissed off at my ex than me, has decided to turn me into a 'flirting machine'. Apparently the first lesson will be 'how to jump on a guy you like'. It's hard to diswade her when she gets and idea in her head, I hope something will distract her soon. True, I trust her more than my other friends, but I'm still so damn picky I don't think she'll succeed in her mission.

Besides, I need time alone after Adrian. I was an idiot, and as I'm not often moronic it'll take a while to adjust. I thought I was in love, that's hard to bounce back from. Anyway, I've never been the type to jump on an attractive stranger. I like to know if I could love them before I even consider going to bed with them.

Oh well, she said she's discuss her masterplan over lunch, her treat. So at least (in my present dire financial state), I don't have to worry about food.

It's so odd. In my life normally I meet people, have thier friendship for a while and move on. I've lost touch with so many friends and never given it a second thought. Now, I'm trying to detatch myself from two friends, and I feel like I've lost part of my soul.

I'm sick of being the one they come to as a last resort, the one they expect to carry them home when their drunk or comfort them when they break up with thier boyfriend yet again. They forget me when they either get a drink in thier hand or a man in their bed. To be honest, if they can't appreicate how much I care about them I don't think they deserve me. So why can't I just break it and carry on like I did with all the others? Hell, I haven't felt like this since I had to leave Adrian behind.

They have whole new lives, lives that I do NOT want! I don't want to crawl home at three in the morning, drunk and losing all my dignity. I don't want to settle for the first guy to come along, even when I know he doesn't love. I don't want to settle for anything, and the sad truth is, they're holding me down.

They take and take and never show any warmth to me anymore. I wish I could forget how it used to be. I wish they...well, I don't know. Do I wish they hadn't changed? Or where they always like this and I just didn't notice? Is it the new vastness of the world that is open to me that had changed my view of them? I can't understand anyone who doesn't strive for the things they want. Where has their passion gone? What happened to all their dreams? Or did they never have any, did I give them dreams to make it easier on myself?

They didn't even know when I was broken hearted over Adrian. They always interrupt my writing, telling me to join in with them, trying to set me up with guys or getting me absolutely legless. Can't they understand how much my writing means to me? They used to, I'm sure of it. Now, I think they have labled me their sensible friend, who can never have any other role than to care for them.

When I'm with them, I feel so lonely. All I want to do is run away. I want to scream at them. I want to tell them how moronic they look when their drunk, how cruel they are to me (they never remember in the morning). I want to tell one how she has settled in a passionless relationship just because it's easier, and the other how her boyfriend told me he didn't love her, and would leave her when something better came along. I want to scream at them! I want to wipe those smug smiles off their faces as they tell me I'm so sulky and dull these days! I want them to know what they're doing to me. I want to ask them why they won't believe me when I tell them their new friend felt it was right to throw me against a wall and try to beat me to a pulp? Why take this newcomers side when I would have gladly given my life for them if they were ever in a fraction of the danger I was in?

I'm angry at myself more than anything else. I'm angry at my silence, then I'm ashamed at my desire to get back at them. I hate that I can't just move on, and then I hate them for always calling or turning up, all smiles, when I only feel the deepest sadness when they're around me. I never used to hate like this. I forgave everything, this rage is new and unwelcome. I want them to leave me alone. They're only using me as an anchor, because they're scared of their new lives, just like everyone at this stage of thier lives. They need at least one person to stay still. I won't be that person for them, but why am I the one who feels set adrift?

I wonder if one day, they'll turn around and realise I've gone? Will something click? Will they see I've been avoiding them at every opportunity? Could they ever think that perhaps they way they treated me could have been wrong? Or will they turn up crying on my door again, expecting me to welcome them and confort them when the truth about their choices catches up with them? And what will I do? Before, i would have taken them in any time. Now, I have no choice. For my writing, for my dreams, for the life I want, I will have to shut the door to them. I only hope they will forgive me.

I´m glad I didn´t give in. All the time I was in France I was so worried about meeting Adrian again. And as I grew more annoyed at my traveling compainions I came so close to calling him up. At least (I thought to myself) he would appreciate the art, the beautiful unicorn tapestries, and the Palace of Versailles (on a side note,I finally got in to the Palace Opera, it was absolutely breathtaking. I´ve dreamt of being on it´s stage every night since I saw it). My friends spent most of their time complaining that nobody would speak to them in english and continually being annoyed at me for eating proper food instead of going to the nearest fast food chain. It was a little sad having to go to all the wonderful places alone (Versaille Adrian and I had talked of visiting together many times) but at least I got the time and the peace to appreciate them.

Now I´m in Spain, I feel released. I´ve learned that all I can do is go forward. My friends and I have simply grown to different, so it´s for the best we will go our seperate ways on our return to Scotland.

As for Adrian, I wrote him a letter, explaining that I forgave him, but that we can never had what we did in the past, and wished him a happy future. I posted it early this morning, and he should get it before I arrive home. I hope he will understand and move on after that.

I´m taking a bus into Figueres tommorow to go and see the Dali museam. I can´t wait. Dali has always been one of my favourite artists. My parents were there yesterday, and thoughfully booked me a seat at a showing of Rocky Horror before they started their journey south. I think they felt for me when I told them about seeing Adrian again. On a positive note, since breaking up with Adrian, my parents have given me a lot more freedom. I don´t feel like I have to do everything they planned for me when I was a child.

I suppose this is the start of something better.

I wonder if I'm cruel. I know I'm not as gentle as I could be, but I don't think I'm cruel. I certainly don't mean to be.

I ran in to the only man I ever loved yesterday. He cheated on me, and after being publicly slapped by the other woman, on my birthday of all days, he hadn't called, or seen me. Then I run into him in Brussels and my whole world turns on it's head again.

If anything, I think he's the cruel one. He made me love him, to others, he seemed so cold and aloof. But he was so kind to me. He never laughed at my obssive writing, saying I was 'anchoring civilation itself', but he said that that was the purpose of any artist. He even took me seriously over the family legend. He encouraged me and inspired me,and made me feel so happy and loved I thought I'd explode.

When he left, he took my heart with him for a while. I know that because I couldn't write. My creativity is all heart. When it's broken, I can't do anything.

Then suddenly he's there again! He makes me so weak I almost gave in again the moment he caught hold of my hand. But I held my resolve. I treated him with curtosy, he bought me a drink. I thought at first it would be closure. Then he said he loved me. The reason he hadn't got in touch was he couldn't bear to hurt me again. He said he was moving on to Paris for a few days, and that I should go with him, meet my friends later when they arrive in the city. I nearly said yes immediately. But I can't let him near my heart again. But he's in my head. When I close my eyes I see that pleading look in his eyes.I hear him calling after me in my sleep.

Instead of going to meet him at the station, which he had a asked me to do, I went to the nearest shop, bought the biggest bottle of vodka I could afford, and downed it in the hotel room. When I woke up this morning, he'd left a message on my phone. He said I was cruel, but to meet him in Paris when I got there.

I don't want to meet him. He scares me now. Because he's so kind, but he could hurt me so much. I haven't said a word to my friends. But every time I see him in my mind's eye my chest aches. It's a pain that throbs through my whole body,right into my soul. Am I being cruel? Am I being clever? Or am I a pathetic fool drowing her sorrows to avoid a scary decision?

I just couldn't take him hurting me again.

Amsterdam is a good as I remember it. Unfortunately, I seem ill suited to my travelling compainions. What is the point of going on a trip, only to insist on staying in bed in the hotel until 3 in the afternoon, then do nothing but wander at night. I did manage to get the into Boom Chicago last night, and they seemed to enjoy it. They enjoyed the free beer certainly. I just hope the rest of the trip isn't wasted in the same way.

In the end, I had to leave without them this morning. I breakfasted alone, and it was delicious. Then went and saw the Rembrant exhibit. I've always liked Rembrant, there's always such expression and beautiful lighting in his work. I'm hoping to see the Dali meuseam when we get to Girona, but i suppose I'll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

I'm contemplating what to do next, and I'm hiding out in an internet cafe until the weather brightens. I seem to have brought the scottish climate with me, I can only hope I can leave it behind as we go further south.

Amsterdam is so very laid back, I have no fear of wandering the streets alone as I sometimes feel when travelling. Perhaps I could live here for a while, as I plan to re-new my passports before ID cards are compulsory, and leave the country before one is forced upon me. I really don't like the road which my country is taking. I could live here I suppose, but then I do still dream of Venice. Either way, it will take a lot of work at the languages to succeed, I'm far to deeply emersed in my own language. I suppose, givin my chosen occupation in life, there is little to be done about that.

I'm facing a great dilema. Years ago, I lost contact with one of my best friends. I'd known her for as long as I can remember, and once, when I fell out of a tree and my leg peirced by a branch, she saved me from bleeding to death. Now I finally have a chance to be in her life again.

But there is a problem.

She and my brother had a major falling out. He had been in love with her, she was with someone else. I wasn't even told the details until two years afterwards. My parents simply told me I could never see her again.

And for a long time that was how things were for a long time. Even passing eachother in the street I couldn't say a word. Now, I want to make up for lost time. My family, mother and brother in particular, still hold a grude. My friend sent an invatation to her birthday party, my mother burned it before I even saw it, and only told me weeks later.

I'm angry. How can my family force me to chose like this? What about all that forgiveness preached in my mother's religion? It's so hypocritical. Besides, how can they expect me to side with them if they continually lie to me? They can't expect me to brush aside all those years of friendship just because they say so! I'm an adult now, and I shouldn't have to desert a friend that I love because of some silly childhood arguement. But I have to work out how I can maintain my friendship, without hurting my family.

The Last Unicorn plea for help
Have you ever read "The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle?
Have you ever seen the animated feature?
Heard the music?
Dreamed of unicorns galloping the foamy crests of waves?


Do you know the author has not received a dime from his work?


Browsing the net I came upon this:
www.the-last-unicorn.net


Excited that there was a movie project, I went to check whom was the producer, there were non in the credits.


So I went to google and found this in Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Unicorn
# 4 New film development


And inside I read that the Author Peter S. is currently in a public conflict with Granada International, successor to ITC Entertainment, seeking to be paid what he is contractually owed for the 1982 film from these sales, other distribution, and merchandising.


From there I went here:
www.peterbeagle.com


And finally here:


www.conlanpress.com/youcanhelp/


I couldn't believe that one of my favorite author has have such a hard time.


Please go read this:
www.conlanpress.com/ht····eak.html


And help to spread the word.

I'm writing an essay called 'Pavlov's Dogs', either to use for a later univeristy task or perhaps to submit to a suitable newspaper or magazine for publication. It centres on the youth culture of today, the current trends of 'tribalism', the impact of the war on terror, globalizaton, mass media, realiy tv etc. I just want to get some opinions on people to see if what I'm writing has any credibility to it. Rest assured, I would never use a direct quote without first contacted the person and asking for permission. I really want to want to know what 'tribe' (for want of a better word) you think you belong to - goth, emo, hippy, ned(chav for those who are English) Metal-head etc. Why? What does it mean to you? Do you even like being classed in such a way? How do you think the general public views you? How do you view yourself? Anything you think you need to express about yourself or your chosen livestyle, just message me.

I went to the beach today. All my friends are away at Download, so I hopped on a train, then a bus, then a taxi and went to the beach down at West Kilbride. I haven't been there in years. There are housed built up nearly to the shore now, and the beach itself was packed with people soaking up the sun. Still, if you walk far enough there is still isloated areas. I found where I'd played hide and seek with my brother as a child, stowed my bag (containing my usual 6 or 7 notebooks) in a hollow in the rocks and went for a swim.

There really is nothing quite like swimming in the sea. I learned to swim in salt water years before I could in a chlorine pool. I've never been afraid of it. I swam as far out as I used to, to where I could see the seals flitting about in the deeper water ahead of me. Once, about ten years ago now I suppose (that makes me feel so old), I swam too far, and came face to face with one of them. It looked at me, and I at it, hanging in the water not daring to move, that is, until I needed to breathe. I surfaced, and it swam around me, poking it's head out of the water, scrutinaizing me with it's endless black gaze. Then I dived under and swam full throttle for land, knowing my mum would be in hysterics if she saw me so close to a wild animal (that incident at Edinburgh Zoo with the tiger was proof enough of that). Still, it was nice to watch them today, they're so full of spirit, a joy to behold.

I stayed in the water for what must have been a long time, cartwheeling with the waves, weaving and dancing just above the sand. When ever I'm in the sea, I always get songs spinning round inside my mind. This time, it was Tale as old as Time from Beauty and the Beast, quite a lot from The Little Mermaid, serveral Smashing Pumpkins songs, Doro Pesch and some random old songs I only half-remember from my childhood. It was fantastic, rising and fallling with the pulse of the water. In school, when I carried far too much weight, I used to dream about being an aquatic creature. It's the nearest thing I suppose I will ever get to flying. I can do anything in the water without fear of injury with a grace and ease i will never feel on land, and most wouldn't think it to look at me, but I'm an excellent high diver. Shame it wasn't possible to dive at the beach. There aren't any cliffs there. It's odd, but as I've already said, I'm never afraid in the sea. There's never any feeling of being desperate for air, I never feel overwhelled by waves or currents. I simply relax and go with them. If I need to get back to shore in a hurry I simply dive to the bottom and speed over the sand. I always kind of felt like the sea was a caring being, almost like a mother, making sure I was never hurt. Though I suppose if I ever was in the open ocean, or somewhere known for man-eating sharks, I would feel a little different.

I got out of the water when it was beginnning to chill, and sat on the beach to dry off as the sun was going down (I'd forgotten a towel, but I don't really care what I forget so long as I have enough notebooks). The sun was bright red, and the clouds hit by the firey glow cast shadows across the sky. I'd never seen that before. I wrote in various books until I was dry enough to get dressed. Then, I walked up from the beach to the nearest 'Little Chef'-ish place, bought myself dinner and ordered a taxi to the nearest train station. And I got back just in time for Dr Who. Not bad, certainly better than spedning £140 for Download. Even if all my friends are there, I wouldn't want to spend all that time and money on a lineup I really don't want to see.

Yesterday was a great day. I never expected it to be, as I had to wake up at 5:30 to get to my journalism exam on time. The exam itself was alright, got to question the values of mass media and have an angry rant at reality TV.

Afterwards, everyone said they were either going to the library, or to the bar in the union. Niether of which appealed to me, as for once we had a beautiful sunny day in my rainy little country. My parents were in London, my brother organising a gig, I had no reason to return home, so I decided to take a walk up to Kelvingrove Park.

I love when the waether's good in the city, it brings out all the buskers. Street painters, jazz muicians, the bagpipe -african drums combo, singers, magicians, jugglers. It's like the city has a whole new life in the sunshine. I stopped off at Waterstones to get a couple new books, and bought a new sketchbook and watercolour pencils from WHSmith. Outside, there was a band singing 'Country Roads.' Anyone who already knows my taste in film will immediately know that the Whisper of the Heart version of the song was caught in my head for the rest of the day. Which, as it put me in an even better mood, I thought deserved my loose change, so I emptyed the contents of my pocket into the guitar case and went on my way.

So, off I went up Sauchiehall street, with the tune running around in my head. I bought a balloon off a clown because it was in the shape of a fairy, and tied the string to my bracelt so it wouldn't fly off. When I finally got to the park, I saw to my delight that the swings were completely disserted. So, being the incredibly mature 18 year old girl I am, I grabbed one and started to see how high I could go.

Once I was thoroughly exhausted (about an hour in, what can I say, I love the swings), I collasped on a bench that was mercifully in the shade, pulled out my new sketchbook and began breaking it in. The film version of country roads was still in my head, and without realising it, beagn humming it, then singing. I nearly had a heart attack when I heard music coming from the other side of the hedge. Violin music. I stopped singing and peered over the hedge. There was girl on the otherside, very pretty with dark skin, black hair and long slender limbs (so obviously there was a slight pang of jelousy, but it passed in a millisecond), with her violin at he chin.
"Well," She said, looking very annoyed "Are we doing the song or not?"
So, I clambered over the hedge and landed in the flower bed (less gracefully than my pride liked), still trailing my fairy balloon and my new books.
She started playing again, and I started singing an clapping out the rythm.
When we'd finshed, she told me it had been good, not great. We needed all the other instruments.

We walked around the park, and I threw my uneating sandwhiches to the ducks. It transpired she also knew the March of the Sinister Ducks, and wouldn't be satisfied until she had sang all of it, to the bewliderment of the old age pensioners taking an afternoon strool. We talked about university. She was doing maths and said it was an easy skive course. I replied that english was the true skive course. For in maths, you have to have the correct answer, english mearly requires clever sounding bullshit padded out to a four page essay. Like my theory on the varying realties of fiction. After listening to all my crackpot hypothosis, she asked why I didn't do philosophy. I told her it took itself too seriously, English you can have a bit of fun with, everybody knows it's mostly waffle.

When the van came round I bought us ice-cream and she got in the Irn Bru. We talked about coursework, the easy days of highschool, friends, family, how hard it was to get good world cinema or any music that wasn't emo, exams, drawing, music, writing, whether or not ghosts were real, the annoyences of romance, holiday plans and what we'd like the future to be like. Then I saw it was getting late, so we walked off to the bus stop outside the museam, She went off one way, and I went the other. It was only when I was sprawled out on the back seat of the bus, with my sketchbook on my belly, the ballon dancing crazily over my head and a bottle of slightly warm irn bru pressed against my lips that I realised I didn't know her name. Shit.

Still, It was a great day.

Ever feel so apart from the people you love, that it freezes you to the core?

My father is tearing into my brother because he's dropped out of college for the third time. My mother is sobbing and pleading him to stop. Owen's taking it in his usual cool way, though his nerve is starting to wane. And just like when I was a child, I sit and listen at the top of the stairs, hardly daring to breathe.

The words 'fucking fantasist' have come up several times. I wonder, does my father see me in the same way? I have my dreams, I want so badly to succeed in the arts. I know I don't have the looks for acting, and nobody would train me anyway, but God, I miss it so much. My parents ignored the letter my drama teacher sent them, the one where she implored them to support me in it. She believed in me didn't she? Or did she just pity me? And now, I'm so terrified of trying to go back to it. But christ, the examiner couldn't tell me apart from those who had been trained thier whole lives. He couldn't, he looked surprised when I told him how I'd never had thier chance.

God, it's not fair. Why couldn't I have had those chances? I asked, I begged as a child, but my parents where always working, and I had to spend every day locked in a house with an old soldier and a women with degenerative demensia. I couldn't sing without annoying the neighbour upstairs, I couldn't play-act without my grandfather giving me some military lecture, I couldn't dance without my grnadmother taking her cane to me I so wanted to dance, and sing, and act. But I never got the chance.

But, I have my writing, and through that I could get back to that world, be part of it again. Even if it's only in the shadows, at least I'd be near the limelight. Besides, I have three stories that I know will be great novels. They need an emense amount of work. But I'll fight tooth and nail for them. I HAVE to write, it contains everything that i am.

I'll bet my father thinks it's a silly dream, but I'm not as blind as my brother. He can get by with luck, personality and looks for now. But it won't last. I'm going to stick in at university, expanding my knowledge and bettering myself. I'm going to work like a dog over summer, so I'm in a realistic position to follow my dream. And I'm going to take it. I never had the chances I so longed for when I was young, but I'm not going to spend all my time moping and lose the ones I have now.

I think I'm the only person to be this chilled out during exam time. My friends are all running around like headless chickens and I spend my time my garden blowing bubbles and watching butterflies. I'm in the third day of my 5 day creative writing exam and I still haven't finished the story, but I can't get worked up about it. I'll probably end up doing it at the last minute.

I have a grand master plan for summer. Finish exams on the 18th of May, get a job on the 19th. Save money all summer, partly for the 'Great Euro Adventure' as my friends call it (apparently it's a test for the 'Great Yankie Road Trip'), and partly so I won't be broke next year. I'm going to write like a girl possessed, well moreso than normal, and probably get stressed to the eyeballs. It'll be worth it in the end though.

The only slight hiccup in this plan could be my friends', and my mother's, constant schemes to fix me up with someone. At least Pauline understands. Who the hell could withstand a relationship with me? We had such a laugh about it over ice cream on friday. She says I'd turn a sane man emo in a week. What a horror to unlease on the world! Now, all I have to do is make the others understand.

Still have no idea what to get my brother for his birthday. Maybe if I could find him a toy meerkat. He say's they're 'well metal beasts.' Anyone know where I can get toy meerkats?

I have made, what is for me, a monumental decision. I have decided to stop writing my book, for now. Many writers would look upon me with distain for such a decision, but I truely believe it is for the best.

The major problem is, I am never satisfied with the end result. The story I have to write had been in my mind in some for or another since I was 6 years old. I know there is something good in the idea, but it's shrouded in all my old ideas and childish cliches. I have to seperate the real gems from the rocks.

I'm going to spend a hefty chunk of my summer holiday in research. There are aspects of the book which are beyond my knowledge. Places and cultures which, at only 18, I have not seen. I cannot do the story justice without first grounding it in a solid foundation.

I have to sort out the characters. Why is the villian evil? Is he all that evil at all? Is such and such a character too 2-dimensional? Is this chapter really crucial to the plot? Does the plot have enough fact? Does it have enough heart? All I know for sure I finally have right are the beginning and the end. The ending, from what I have read, and from others whom I have told it to have said, breaks the last rule of fantasy writing. I cannot allow such a thing to be swamped by confusion and bad expression.

Why am I writing it at all? I haven't ever given that any thought. Normally I just write, I never question it. That's fine for some stories, but not this one (well two). I have to know it inside and out, then I have to get my heart back into it. I yearn for the days went I would be up to four in the morning scribbling away. But I can't rely merely on the exuberance of youth. Not anymore, not if I want to make this my best peice of work.

All I know for sure is, if I hurry this, and it is shown to the world, and years later I look upon it's failings, growing to hate it more and more every day, it will be the single greatest regret of my life.

Tonight was the first time I have stepped foot in a church in years. It still makes my skin crawl. My grandfather will lie in there until the funeral tommorow. I heard everyone telling me that I must have so many happy memories of him, because he always loved to tell stories. I heard my brother and my cousins telling eachother of all the great times they had, how funny he was, those fantastic stories. I feel cheated. I was the one who was there for him when he was dying, I helped my mother care for him in his old age, I pushed his wheelchair when he could no longer walk, and he barely ever said a word to me.

What was it about me that rendered me unfit for his attention? Why was I the only girl he never called sweetheart? Was it the way I looked or my personality? I don't understand why he would lavish attention on his other grandchildren and yet bearly look at me.

Maybe, in the end, he felt cheated too, by the time he could have opened up to me it was too late. I'd given up on ever expecting him to love me. Now I guess I'll never know. I did right by him anyway, treated him with the care and respect he deserved, and I can't expect any more from him or myself.

He died at 6 am today. It was better for him I'm sure.

I am fed up with emo kids. Right now I don't care if I offend them. All their whining, 'I want to die' 'Let me die now' 'I haven't found a true love by my 14th birthday therefore I might as well be dead.' WILL YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP (or at least don't bother me about it, and while I'm at it - keep your shitty music away from my ears)!!!!

Every emo kid I meet seems to be middle class with a free access to thier parents bank account. They're only problem seems to be believeing the world should revolve around them! Jesus fucking Christ - I never meet anyone - well get out of your bloody room you fuckwit. Everyone made fun of me in highschool - your not in highschool anymore, move on. I don't have a boyfirend/girlfriend - hardly surprising if all you do is whine. Besides if you expect one person to solve all your problems your fucked from square one.

Worst is those people who moan about cutting and suicide. I know for a fact your lying you fuckers. People really suffering from depression want no-one to find out, and they want to get over it, not tell everyone in sight in a vain attempt to get some attention. God, not even twenty and already wanting to die (unless you've had serious problems, and I mean SERIOUS here, not going to a school dance by yourself or listening to pish music in your room at all hours) then just shut the fuck up. I've seen people die, I've held thier hand as they've gone. Death is not a fucking fashion statement! God almighty! One emo kid asked my friend to go to her birthday party 'cause, you know, it could be my last considering my depression'.

If you have problems, solve them, don't moan and expect someone else to make everything better. If you need money, get a job, if you want to better yourself go to university, if you hate your parents move out. It's your life, do it yourself. And for Christ's sake, don't come to me with your pathetic little attention seeking fashionable depression! I am sick of being nice to you fuckers. Don't come up to me after fucking lectures and follow me round like a lost puppy, begging for my advice because I look so damn interesting. Don't start inane conversations about how you were traumatised by loosing a toy when you were six. Either say something worth saying (it can be intelligent or fabulously fucking stupid, but make it worth the breath) or say nothing at all. AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON"T TELL ME ALL YOUR PITIFUL LITTLE PROBLEMS. I know what real bullying is, I've seen it, lived through it and stopped it happening to others (not by whining either, by taking god-damned action). I know what pain is, my mother is a nurse for gods sake, I've seen people with diseases you don't want to know exist. Just today I heard a 80 year old man crying for his mummy because he was so afraid of the halluncinations he sees 24 hours a day. So don't come to me and tell me your going to jump under a train because you lost your favourite CD. Right now I AM NOT IN THE FUCKING MOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My grandfather is dying. He's an 90 year old former soldier and army diver. He fought in world war two, and afterwards served in Palenstien, the Mediterrianian, Canada, The Soviet Union, various countries in Africa and he other places I can't recall at the moment. He never smoked, swam and ran at cometeting level, always focused on health, except for when he ate fish and chips, I suppose they were his weakness. The British military wouldn't let him die in Eskine Hospital like any other deserving verteran, why? Because cancer spread to his bowls and bladder and they valued the new carpet more than the dignity and rights of a man who gave up seeing his children grow in order to sevre his country. It's enough to make anyone loose faith in the millitary.

I don't think I've ever had a full conversation with my grandfather. He and I are too different, he's a soldier while I embrace the arts. He loved order, and never understood children. Spending so much time being looked after by him in childhood seemed to open a gap between us, and niether of us ever knew how to close it. He always prefered his son and grandson's anyway. That's what my mother and aunts say. They say it as a joke, but unlike me they've never had any acting training, and the pain can be seen in the back of their eyes.

The hospital he is in is a discrace. The RAH. The walls are faded beige, the floors vomit green linoliem. There aren't enough cleaners, the nurses don't know one patient from another and there is a man a view rooms down from my grandfather who is constantly plaqued by horrendous hallucinations. No one has thought to give him a sedative. He calls out "mummy" and occasionally "daddy", he wants to be saved. I'm not surpised they've done nothing for him. My mum and aunt (both nurses themselves, though not in that hosiptal) had to take it upon themselves to empty the catheter, update the medical charts and rub oil onto his feet.

The room is awful. The curtains are odd, the walls are the same colour as the moldy sweetcorn I found in the back of the fridge last week. The only flowers are half dead and hidden on the window behind a curtain. The radio doesn't work, but ti's constantly left on with the static buzzing. The sheets, pillows and duvet all are covered in plastic, practicallity over comfort for the dying. Worse is the mirror. It's cruel to place a mirror right before the eyes of a dying man, especially my grandfather. He was such a strong man in his youth, from the few photo's I've seen, he looked like a film star of the day, with his typical pre-welfare-state teeth the only thing marring the illusion. He always took great pride in his appearence, and though such precision hasn't been passed through the generations to me, I understand how terrible it is to loose something that you've always taken to heart.

I remember seeing myself in a mirror once when I was ill. I was fourteen, at that time periods felt like my entire body was tearing itself apart. Pain would rocket up my spine, setting everynerve on fire. Some months I would faint, or be unable to walk. That month, it was both. I remmeber being dumped on my bed by my father and brother, and I could see myself in the glass. Pale as death, lips blue, bloodless, eyes glazed, chest heaving, and the trickling blood weaving its way dwn my leg, twisting itself between my toes. It scared me to my very soul, and he has to see himself die. How... terrible.

He can barely speak now. Tonight, I think he said 'I love you' to us all. But it could have been something else. I was sure I heard him say 'Don't let me die like this.' I don't know whether anyone else did or it was just my own fears playing tricks in my mind. I don't want to ask. i don't want to upset my mother. Becoming an orphan at any time in life is heartbreaking, I will not allow her to suffer anymore than she has to.

I only hope my grandfather is granted a peaceful death. It would be kind to let him go in his sleep. I doubt if he'll live to the end of the week.

Jesus fucking christ. How the fuck am I supposed to pass my Journalism and Creative writing course when the assignments are due two weeks before we get any lectures on the chosen subject, the library doesn't stock any of the books on the god damned reading list and the tutotrs don't have a clue what they're doing? Fuck! My journalism assignment is due friday and I still don't have a clue what the hell I'm suppost to do! Where the hell do I fucking start, other than getting drunk and angry and repeating the same angry rant over and over again? The only advice I got from my tutor was 'it will write itself.' No it bloody will not, neither will it be written by me or any others in the class! And the word limit keeps going up 1000, 1500, 2000, 3000. MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND YOU PILE OF FROZEN MONKEY SHIT! I will NEVER be a professional journalist, I haven't been this pissed off since I had the demon snake bitch of death art teacher in high school. She was awful as well, though I suspect she had some sort of deep rooted anxiety and jelously as she had never wanted to teach (failed artist you see). This guy choose to teach, he doesn't need to. He could easily make enough money through his freelance journalism. God! You can't just decide to teach and then leave everything to the last minute and throw assignments at your students that are impossible to do. They keep pileing up, and the ones that require the most work count for the least percentage of my overall mark. What utter bollocks! Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. 'It will write itself.' They only thing that will write its-fucking-self is my complaint letter to the head of department. This course had gone to hell this semester.

Surely it's not right for me to want to quit university ever sunday night? There has to be something wrong with that. I just have no drive, nothing, nada, zilch.

The library has decided that have stolen one of thier books, and are demanding I pay for it. Fuck that! It's a bloody politics book. What the fuck would I want with a peice of shit like that. From what I've heard from other students, the likly senario is - I hand in book, desperate student sees book. Said desperate student can not be arsed checking out book, as they need it on more than short term basis. Steal book. I was last registered with it, therefore, the library want me to shoulder the cost. As I said before. Fuck that!

Philips going to the nunnery, Pauline's happy in academic-land and Heather, well, she's basically stopped talking to me except when I'm feeding her on fridays. I'm drifting in a fog. I know what I want, but see no way of getting it. If I'm not careful, I'll descend into the realsm of pure studenthood. Frm what I can tell from being in university, most students these days are the beige of society, slumped around campas dresses in baggy brown clothes arguueing about crappy indi songs that all sound the fucking same. I seem to be using the word fuck a lot. Wonder if that has any deep psycological meaning.....ah fuck it.

Why has my muse deserted me? I can get through anything as long as I have an idea I need to get down on paper, but without...well, I'm fucked. What to do...? What to fucking do? I can't drink because of my medicine, I can't get high cause I'm too fucking sensible (and poor). No way to escape reality with my creativity on hiatus. Oh shit, I've being avoiding the 'r' word since primary 2, don't want it all crashing in on me at once.

I need to get away. To be somewhere absolutely new, and absolutely alone. Somewhere where I don't have to worry about letting my family down, about failing in university, about having no life and little to no prospect of one in the fucture.

My ears hurt a lot, and all the medication does is make me lose sleep, worry a hell of a lot more and get even angrier at bad actors.