3:02 p.m.
/
15 March, 2004

I know I say it every single frickin' day, but I hate Psychology, I hate it so much I want to cry... but not here, because it's the computer room and I might explode stuff and end up with a shard of glass in my throat like in 'Final Destination'. Am I sad for loving that movie?

I'm having so much trouble trying to get any books for my psych essay. It's almost as if there is some sort of conspiracy against me... I'll end up having to make it up at this rate.

I have under two weeks until the end of term and the easter holidays. You know, that tradition where christians celebrate their pagan roots? As my favourite philosophy teacher, Mr. Eddie Izzard once said, wasn't it lucky for those seeking to convert the pagans to christianity that Mister Jesus of the Christ family was born on a major pagan festival and died on the other? Convenience is a beautiful thing.

When I was little, I used to be terrified to go to bed on the saturday night, picturing some giant bunny who could pick locks and sneak into anyone's house leaning over my bed and ripping out my throat with it's giant front teeth. I watched Monty Python & the Holy Grail too much when I was little, I think.

Still, I also had this thing about Santa too... Call me cynical and mistrustful, but even as a wee little girl, I used to wonder what he got out of the deal. Creepy old man.

I wrote a rock song last night, while watching a programme about John Lennon's jukebox from the 60s. If I had lived back in the 50s and 60s, I would have loved to have been a rock 'n' roll star. Not now, because... meh, what's the point, but back then it was really something.

This one old musician type was talking about coming to Liverpool for the first time in the early 60s, when he'd never left Texas before. He described the hysteria he saw in the English teenagers (we were so much more fanatical about music). Anyway, he was saying about how these girls were throwing themselves at the tour bus, showing their bare arms, where they had carved his initials with a razor blade. He had never seen anything like it, apparently.

Outloud, I said, 'EURGH! That's sick!" along with everyone else, then thought about the initials I have scarred into my thigh, they're about eleven or twelve years old now. And I have to say, it did make perfect sense at the time (doesn't everything?) I get really embarrassed if anyone notices now... it's difficult to miss... but it's actually nice to remember that there was a time when I was so completely, utterly involved in something, when I used to have a hero that I believed in and would have followed the end of the world.

I didn't trust Santa or the Easter Bunny, I was my father's surrogate mother, I had to raise my brother while my mother was trying to stop us from starving, I grew up around junkies and drunks and violence, but I had something pure and positive. I'm glad I have something that reminds me of that, plus it was cheaper- and probably less painful- than a tattoo.

Oh, but I feel sorry for those girls though, who have spent the majority of their lives- they have to be grandmother's now- with the initials of some obscure, forgotten guitarist of the early 60s forever on their arms.