The result of this is a new list of fabulously interesting people.

Laura is fantastic…she’s frank and honest and writes about herself, even the difficult bits, beautifully. In some entries I can almost hear her screams as she attempts to explain a bizarre, inexplicable feeling, and yet she always seems to succeed. Also, she likes Ab Fab and red lip gloss.

Wendchymes describes herself as one of those true lover of words,I just love the way they taste, the way they feel, rolling around inside your mouth, the pictures they evoke, the emotion they provoke, the echo of sound as it passes your ear. Words are like stars to me, each rare and unique, and all the better to wish upon. Did you get shivers as you read that? If not then sweetie, your soul is without feeling.

I’m not entirely sure of what it is about Todd that interests me. His appreciation of Tom Petty and Mercury Rev obviously help…but there’s just something about the way he writes. Its easy to read and it flows perfectly, and yet…I’m trying to avoid saying its thought provoking (in a probably useless attempt to improve my writing I am trying desperately to give up cliches) but I can’t think of an equivalant phrase. He really has left me lost for words, you’ll just have to try him yourself.

It's somewhat scary how much of Lauren’s diary I so totally could have written. Oh dear, I just used ‘totally’ again. Following strong criticism for that yesterday, I’m trying to give it up, along with the cliches. Anyway, Lauren writes normally…its not lyrical or complicated - its normal. Intelligent and wellcrafted, but normal, which is why I love it. Oh, and she loves weezer. So she’s officially very cool.

And lastly, I’m including this diarist simply because she compiled a christmas song tape that included weezer, snow patrol, the eels and fairytale of new york, and her template includes a picture of radiohead.

In other business, the last two weeks have been filled with exams, the ending of which was celebrated by a party. I felt a just slightly guilty about going out to have this release of tension when I hadn't in fact built any up. Being clever is not always a good thing – it can make you dreadfully complacent. When my mother laments over just how much I could do if only I would apply myself a little, I roll my eyes and ask how precisely I am supposed to please my parents, when coming first obviously doesn’t do so. But when I reflect honestly on myself, I suppose she’s right. I could have done exceptionally well in these exams, but it involved doing lots of hard work. So I didn’t bother, and the somewhat sad thing is that I’ll have done well anyway.

Anyway, I pushed aside my minor feelings of guilt at having done little to no work for these exams, and I went out and enjoyed myself. Just as I was reflecting on how good I’m becoming at casting aside feelings, drinking lots of alcohol and getting happy…it fell apart. I’ve spent so long ‘playing the role of someone always in control’ that I’d forgotten what it was like when you opened up…and had spent so long being in charge that I’d forgotten what it was like to get hurt. And I cried. I never cry in public, not even when I’m drunk. But I did, and everyone who was attempting to comfort me told me this boy is not worth it (I even got the fantastic line the only boy who’s worth your tears is one who won’t ever make you cry), but to me he is. I feel like crying permanently, because I want him so much and it hurts and I know that the pain is all self inflicted, its entirly my own fault. He sees me laughing sometimes and so presumes that it doesn’t hurt, and I want to scream at him. He thinks he knows me so well, so can’t he see? Can’t he tell, can’t they all, that I’m hurting and hiding it well…or do I really hide it far too well?

Oh dear, the ugly face of teenage angst.

< - >

* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to