...She Said… *Starts mumbling incoherently in the singing voice of the The Strokes*
Believe it or not that was possibly the only musical reference within this particular blog, today instead of reviewing or giving my opinions I'm going to open up to you all.
The title last night, refers to the moment at which it proved just how quickly my life has crumble since the beginning of the Easter Holidays, and now my happy readers I shall tell you why in the short space of less than a week I now lay surrounded in an un-measurable mess of rubbish, and my eyes are blurry.
Two night ago was brilliant, the Gayes were in town, I saw them, I got a t-shirt, I hugged them, what more could any human being want. Then I retuned back to Nikki's and deciding it was too cold to go all the was home I slept the night on her floor.
This was quite possibly a mistake, because when I'm with people I tend not to shut up, and before you know it, through sheer talking we had found ourselves awake at 4am, and then with nothing to wake up for, we got up at 1:30pm. A bad move, now my body clock was miffed, and ready to get its revenge the up-coming evening.
Last night arrives. I have some nice phone call with Kayleigh where I give her permission to call me at 9am the next morning - mistake number two, At this point it is ten o'clock, if I'm woken up at 9, that's fine, as long as I get to bed before the next day. But that moment of calculation was an awful one.
Suddenly, in the words of Shreddies, hunger strikes. So far on this day I have had a bowl of cereal at Nikki's and a sandwich bought from an unsanitary shop on Byres Road on the way home. My stomach churns a little, but I fully know there is little food in the house, and certainly nothing I can combine to make a meal. I have pasta, but no sauce, I have ham and bacon, but no bread, I have cheese for an omelette, but no eggs. I could've had a bacon, ham, pasta, cheese, mix in a disgusting mesh of dry food. However I decline, and decide that my stomach will suffice with something from the vending machine until I can get to Iceland tomorrow.
I look for my keys, fifteen minutes later I find them underneath a pile of unopened bank statements, and scrap bits of paper, a pile only searchable with a couple of days to spare. I didn't have a couple of days, I just picked up the pile and saw the keys slip from within and onto the floor below. Success.
I head downstairs and outside to the Central Services building at my halls. Now the halls are empty, no one is around but the occasional foreign student and the odd weirdo like me. I walk inside to central services, walk up to the vending machine and buy the inevitable can of coke, and a Yorkie bar. I know, it's unethical, they feed babies to cows to make them produce more milk and what have you, I know buying from Nestle is wrong, but at that moment, at that moment in time, I needed that Yorkie. It wasn't just the plain kind either, it was the one's with nuts and raisins in it that melts in your mouth along with your conscience as you eat it.
I head back inside Block 1 and climb the stairs to my flat. Back inside my room I switch on the Klaxons and open the wrapper. The music isn't that quiet, but there's no one left in my flat to wake up anyway, so I can get away with what I want. I eat the Yorkie and drink the coke, before chucking the wrapper and can onto the desk in front of me. It's at this point I realise the repetitiveness of my life as I notice the Yorkie wrapper land in a pile of three other Yorkie wrappers and the can rattle against four other cans that currently crowd around my speaker.
The hours start to tick by, my mind becoming numb with boredom. I resort to switching on my Play Station and playing Pro Evolution football by myself, not a pretty site, particularly when you start to actually enjoy it. But soon my mind was transfixed on a football match that didn't exist, and all this coming from an avid hater of football.
However at least now it was eleven. But strangely as if from nowhere the urge to write kicks in, the ends of my fingers twitching as the writing hormone floods my brain. I open up the book I've been working on for the last eternity, 175,000 words of creativity that now need transforming into something readable. I get to work, word hitting the screen but I'm getting nowhere. I keep typing, keep inserting new sentences, but there only words I will have to type over again. I'm not improving just replacing, and now as each word hits the screen the will to type becomes stronger but my tiring mind loses its concentration that little bit more. Suddenly the mental tiredness really hits and Klaxon lyrics start subliminally creeping into the text. Atlantis to Interzone is playing and now the words and beat are controlling my fingers not the creativity behind that novel at all, and now I am trying my best to write a novel but instead I'm repeating the words of the dictatory Klaxons instead. I wouldn't mind, but their lyrics aren't even that greater imagery.
I give up. Yet again my stomach rumbles. Unhappy with just a Yorkie bar and some coke. It wants more, it wants something that could constitute a meal. I'm trying to resist so that I don't have to resort to the one thing I know is in my cupboard, and also so that I might lose enough weight, and maybe height, to fit into the I Say Marvin t-shirt Jonny gave me 24 hours ago. I try to ignore the rumbling, the Klaxons go up a little bit louder as though if one more sense is intensified the other might shut up.
It rumbles again, demanding more. Eventually I give in, my stomach deciding it needs something. I walk to the kitchen with dread, it's now quarter past eleven, and Central Services is closed, it's too late to salvage another quick snack.. I'm in my kitchen, I know there's only one thing left and that I will regret eating it. I open the fridge in vein hope that something else will catch my eye. Two remaining slices of ham lie in an opened Somerfield packet. I pull the packet carefully from underneath the ten Stella Artois bottles my flatmate decided to place on my shelf of the fridge to keep them cold whilst he spends Easter in Newcastle. They may accidentally get taken out and binned soon. I eat the ham and throw away the packet. I tell my stomach to shut up but it doesn't, like a petulant toddler it just screams more and more. I give in, I open up the cupboard and it stares me in the face, the greatest edible sin of them all.
Lying on the bottom shelf, right in my eye line, at the front, dead centre, is a lone Chicken and Mushroom Pot Noodle. My stomach enjoys the thought of the shitty noodles and soggy mushrooms, whilst my mouth starts to recoil into itself. I turn on the kettle, knowing that to kill off my stomach is the only way to sleep. The kettle boils and I add the boiling hot water to the disgusting pile of dried out ingredients, that quickly becomes a disgusting pile of soggy ingredients.
I grab a fork and head back into my room. The fork turns mindlessly in the pot as I try to distract myself by trying to find a google-whack on the internet. It's failing, the closest I got was thirteen. It was obviously a poor night for google whacking.
I eat the pot noodle, the vile taste of soya filling the corners of my mouth and settling down for the night so I wake up with that taste of stale mushroom the next morning. Everything is going so wrong and all because my body is still vilely awake, and not able to accept the fate of sleep dealt to it by my head.
Suddenly the little yellow MSN box lights up. My heart leaps, someone has noticed the huge "IS BORED" after my name on MSN and decided to talk to me. It's Marina, writing to me from some obscure island in the Atlantic ocean she calls home. In her usual delightful enthusiasm she laughs at my bored pain in the joking loving way I've come to expect. It may be a taunt, but it feels like sympathy from Marina for strange reason.
All of a sudden she reminds me of the twenty odd DVDs she leant me before she departed home. I thank her graciously and bow down to her proverbial feet as I dig out Series three of Teachers and shove it on, trying to kill the last inches of consciousness out of me with a DVD.
I've watched nearly a whole episode, when it happens again. A rumble. "No!" I shout at my own body trying to get it to be quiet, but it won't be, it's demanding more and now I know I have nothing left to give it. I try to ignore, concentrating on the sitcom in front of me, but still I know it needs settling, and now I have to once and for all.
I open up the cupboard, nothing left but various different things that can't be eaten right now on their own. I temporarily consider the raw onion lying in there, but then I spot the box of cereal. I leap at the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and open my other cupboard in search of a bowl. For some strange reason I only own one bowl, and as I pull it out I remember the awful truth. I haven't washed it. The sour, gone off milk lies congealed to the bottom, and now I have to scrub it out just to eat. I pour some hot water, pour in the Fairy liquid and begin to scrub away at the bowl.
A few minutes later it appears clean and I am ready to make some cereal. For some strange reason, it is only at this point, as I open the fridge, that I realise I don't own any milk.
Suddenly it's 3:50 am. I am sitting on a swivel chair, in front of my PC, in the dark, watching Teachers, surrounded by rubbish, Yorkie wrappers, cans of Coke and an empty Pot Noodle, and I am eating dry Crunch Nut Cornflakes from the packet.
This is what my life has become, and I sit there watching two episodes of Teachers before I eventually plummet into my bed at 5am.
The phone rings, it was Kay. I knew it would be. But suddenly I am forced to leap myself across the room to talk to the woman who I stupidly gave permission to ring me. I pick the phone up. Her usual morning-person chirpy voice comes across as I start to realise my head now hates me. We talk for some fifteen minutes, my only replies being a groan, meaning yes, and the words "I miss you too." Eventually she leaves to catch her train, and after that things become a bit of a blur.
The next thing I know, I wake up with my head at the opposite end of the bed to the pillows, with my eyes trying to refocus to the world.
I look at my watch, the one that didn't even come off so I could sleep. It's 2pm. My heart sinks, yet again my body clock is messed up even more as I slowly become nocturnal. Tonight will probably be a little bit later unless I can kill off some alertness now by doing something worthwhile.
But that's why I'm typing this blog, with constant spelling mistakes as my eyes haven't quite become clear enough to see the keys yet. I type because I am not catholic, and in the modern agnostic world a MySpace blog is as close to as we get to confession. This is some feeble attempt at reconciling my sins by bringing you all some laughter at my expense. I am sure I will blog again soon, maybe I will review the MySpace tour, maybe I will write that one about cubicle based debating that I've been wanting to write for a while. But for the meanwhile I am writing for the life that I lead, so that you can all laugh at me, and in the process clear my conscience. So for this blog, forgive me almighty Rupert Murdock, for I have sinned.
