"Your blog makes you sound like a manic depressive"
Such a criticism would be damning given by anyone, undoubtedly, but when it's your own mother you can't help but worry. I really should remove her from facebook.
Anyway, my new windows phone came. It's quite good; no, really quite good. I particularly like how personable it is; such is the enjoyment of seeing your photos flit across the menu screen, I happily spent about half an hour downloading pictures of Alan Partridge onto it. Safe to say, if anyone else were to get their hands on the phone, they would think I was a complete mentalist.
Not much else has happened since the last entry, largely on account of the fact I've been writing my English coursework (because nothing says 'Happy New Year' like comparative literature) for the entirety of this week. Having finished it, I can say it's either the best or most pretentious thing I've ever written. Definitely the latter. Actually, perhaps this dismissal is premature. For long I've regarded my 5000 word beast entitled "Should I be concerned by the increasing accuracy of
George Orwell’s dystopian prediction of modern life in his novel ‘Nineteen
Eighty-Four’?”, as the best thing I've ever written, but in retrospect it's more of a report than an essay, and in many ways a mere excuse to experience the joys of using Jeremy Clarkson as part of a highbrow analogy regarding Orwellian conceptualisations. Indeed, I appreciate that most my age enjoy activities such as seeing friends, loud music and inebriation, yet I'm quite content with my bathos, thank you very much. This observation is made sadder still by the fact that most my age don't know what 'bathos' means, either.
Disregarding my Orwell essay, the only other candidate for 'best thing I've ever written' can only really be my last piece of English coursework, given the fact it's the only thing I've really worked on hard on since. As much as it sounds like I do, ultimately I don't really care if this second piece is better or worse than the last, but if it gets anything less than an A I'll never fucking write again. My primary concern is finding time for, and allowing myself to, essay-writing-wise, 'breathe' before I start probably my most ambitious work yet; an entry to the Cambridge University, Peterhouse College Thomas Campion English Prize. There are many problems to face; I haven't done any of it yet and the deadline is the end of March, the questions are dauntingly lofty, even by my ludicrous standards, and if for whatever reason they find this blog, going on the unlikely premise I'll get anywhere with it, I'd probably be immediately disqualified on the grounds of crimes against literature. But anyway, my point is, I quite enjoy writing essays and like to think I'm progressively improving. However, none of this truly compares to one of the stories I wrote in Year 3. I shall have to dig it out soon; it is probably the most insane thing a child has ever written. Not in that delightfully 'zany', childish way, it's just sad. The teacher's sarcastic comment remains distinctly impressed in my memory, daubed in red ink; "Errr, very imaginative". It's quite telling how the very same riposte applies today.
Anyhoo, what else has happened? I watched the Celebrity Big Brother launch the other night, primarily with the view to write a whole blog entry about it. However, two things have prevented this from fruition. The first is the realisation that doing so would be shooting fish in a proverbial barrel; in other words, it is all too easy and uninspired to mock these washed-up cretins, especially when Claire from Steps looks like she's eaten the other members of the group. Secondly, because my notes gathered after viewing were quite pitiful. They are as follows; "crowd looks like a bunch of idiots. 'Lacy Banghard'- funny name. Rylan actually seems like a genuine bloke". By that last one, you could tell that by then my mind had just surrendered to the mush of it all. But lord help me, he does.
That's it really.