Dearest readers,

I have four draft posts of vayring styles and quality lined up for your delictation however before we begin, let me tell you of a touching experience I had today. I happened to find and read my diary entries from the beginning of this year. I sounded fairly broken, filled with anxieties and heartache. I can now barely remember or recognise myself from just five months ago, before the start of this hobo journey and the thing that I now call my so-amazing life.

In tribute to Angela Chase in My So-Called Life, the 90s series that inspires this blog’s name and latest edition to bisexual culture (as voted by Jess and Nic), I present you with a blog post from my younger years, while I was studying for my degree in Fine Art, that I find charming and hilarious.

the mean reds

Hiding from my film in the library because it can’t get out of the media studios. Don’t know how to “finish” what I’ve done and don’t know if what I’ve done is even what I want (wanted) to do. It’s a case of the post production blues. The only high left for this piece is the dubious thrill of showing it to someone else which is more akin to realising you’re in the middle of a huge crowd and about to crap your pants.

I’m doing lots of running and hiding – leaving the house in the morning for uni because it’s ‘the thing to do’, once here just hiding from work and wanting to go home but when I get home I cower under the weight of FREE TIME. I feel I’m hiding from my friends here, hiding from sex, trying to hide from myself.

Maybe after this party that EVERYONES talking about will I feel I’m not waiting for something and I can get on with it. Finishing this film does highlight the fact I have no idea what to do next aswell. Ok I do have some ideas, fuck it. Interesting that I take refuge in writing.

I’m quite suprised to realise that not everything in life is gradually improving as you get older, in many cases quite the reverse actually, and this is possibly known as getting old. I always thought that if something hadn’t affected you in the past then it wouldn’t in the future, that if you were shit at something you can only improve as time goes on, and if you’re good at something you always will be, in the sense that you can’t go backwards.

But that’s all wrong. You can get worse at things. You don’t get better at things. New things to be shit at appear all the time. Not to mention your body giving you jip all the time, eve if you’re nice to it. It’s a slippery downhill slope and dying is when you give up trying. I’m suprised we live as long as we do, really.

On the other hand various sources (my mum, books, the bank manager) all implied to me that once you’re past about 18, you’re pretty much gonna stay the same the rest of your life: have the same interests, think the same things, be the same person. This is a big pile of bollocks.
Which is great, it means you can do what the fuck you want. And no-one knows you. A tragedy in some ways, but, to know someone is to have power over them and knowing that no-one really knows you means no-one controls you. But I can’t emphasise enough how utterly bollocks that ‘staying the same’ thing is.

So yeah, problems with sex feel like they’re getting worse, I feel more and more annoyed with people at uni, my rage at fundamental christianity builds every day with no sign of abating and I feel totally enclosed and ridiculously free all at the same time and it’s making me impotent.

A man called me a fag hag the other day. At first I wanted to deliver a good hard fist to the stomach of the guy but I realise I should have simply sat next to him and whispered in his ear ” Your children are going to put you in a home.” I felt much better after I thought of that. Idiot should have said ‘dyke’ or something though, a fag hag just hangs with gay guys, she doesn’t look gay, like I suppose he thought I did. Tard.

So, I’m pissed with everyone, especially my parents, I want to take drugs and generally tear the world apart: I think I just became a teenager.


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