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The Woods

18 Sep

So, this play thing happened, where I somehow found myself tangled up in a story about a perpetually-titillated Red Riding Hood figure exploring a forest with a pot-plant for a side-kick, meeting some twisted woodland folk, and then melting into a tree while people in the foreground got naked and smeared paint on each other, with ‘Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ playing on a child-sized glockenspiel.

It was received quite well.

I finished a handful of books from my holiday reading list, including Shades of Grey by my personal idol, Jasper Fforde, and Looking For Alaska by my other personal idol, John Green. I’ve almost finished The Great Gatsby and I think I’ll read Good Omens next, which looks intriguing and has two fantastic names on the cover, (Terry Pratchet and Neil Gaiman) so I imagine it’ll change my world.

Reading. It’s so foreign. Science students aren’t supposed to read. I hadn’t read anything (fictional) since highschool, until this recent reignition of my love of the written word. There’s probably some shallow motivating force in here somewhere, (she said, gesturing vaguely towards her brain), but it seems to be encouraging self-improvement, so it can’t all be bad (she said, hopefully).

This makes me laugh:



This excites me in more ways than I really should admit:


And this makes me happy that music exists:



15 Sep

…does not have an ‘e’ where you seem to think it does, strange-blog-surfer.



Seems appropriate you wound up here though.

Addressing some other frequently asked questions, Jon Richardson and Russell Howard have not fallen out, nor are they pursuing an illicit homosexual relationship (as far as I am aware).

And Misfits IS a good show. At least, season 1 is fantastic and full of great music. Season 2 has a whole lot less going for it plot-wise, and while there’s a really nice character-arc (to do with buff-Simon-in-the-shower) it’s lost in the general weirdness of the show. So in conclusion, Misfits is well-worth your time. You’ll watch the first season and fall in love with the characters/really enjoy hating them, then the weaknesses in the second season won’t seem like that big a deal.


The third season is likely to be a car-accident. No more Robert Sheehan. They’re getting in some other curly-haired fellow, but I don’t think he’s Irish, so really, what’s the point?


I’ve been getting mighty philosophical of late. I’ve been wandering around my neighbourhood, breathing in the change-of-season smells, sticking to the shadows as much as is practical because the UV index is climbing and I’ve worked hard for the past three years to eliminate all unnecessary sun/skin interaction (because my freckles make me look like a 12 year old and I’m NOT a 12 year old. I’m NOT!). The point is, I was  working hard on a recipe for happiness, and I realised yesterday that I’ve been well and truly beaten. Happiness can be summed up in the following five letters;


And that is why I bought this poster.


I am now going to grab a pillow, some chalk, and a book, and go to the park to be awesome and fall asleep on a swing, IF and only if, said swing is currently in the shade.

Have a wonderful Thursday.

Spring Clean

11 Sep

I have some drafts sitting in the sidebar, mocking my inability to string more than a line or two together on a topic before getting bored. Rather than try to make them into their own posts, I’ll just summarise all of them here, and then delete all evidence of having ever tried to write anything half-insightful on any of the below topics.

The Middle Path

Don’t really remember this one. I think I was going to ramble for a bit about Buddhists being pretty together philosophically, with their stringed-instrument analogy, (tuning the string to the perfect tension and such), then try to draw a comparison to something else really clever… It’ll come back to me.

Study Break Poetry Time 

I tried to write a poem about proteins to distract me from studying proteins. This is what I’ve since come up with:

Glutamic acid, histadine,
Try to learn what all this means,
I’m in a protein-induced haze.

Shuttle protons place to place,
General acid, general base,
Then you drift into my mind
And histadine is left behind.

This poem I suspect is not
Going to help me learn a lot,
Distracted by a falling leaf
And all the meaning pinned beneath.

I’ve written worse poetry about proteins.

The Overly Specific Question Game

This was going to be the first of  a series of posts in which I asked an overly specific hypothetical question, then answered it. I fell at the first hurdle; coming up with an overly specific hypothetical question. I’ll brainstorm and try again some other time.


I don’t know what this was going to be about. I think I was going to post some songs. I was probably going to post some songs. Possibly two songs. I have a sensible post-naming system.

Things I’m confused by

Believe it or not, this was going to be a brief summary of some things that confuse me. I got bored of it when I realised how menial the things that confuse me the most are. Prime example; the message of the Disney film The Frog Princess. What was the deal with that? Hey girls, if you have a dream to open a restaurant in New Orleans and your best friend is a princess, or something, and your dad is dead but he left you his gumbo pot, you actually can’t be happy until you marry a foreign prince, because romance is better than hard-work and ambition.

I don’t know. That’s what I got from it. Not really worth an entire post of ranting. Maybe I’ll do a dissection of Disney films some time on the break.

More likely, I’ll just keep playing with StumbleUpon and achieving little. Mmm… breaks.

Love to your mothers.

Taking notes

6 Sep

A Rhyme

21 Aug

Sparrow on my windowsill,
Oh won’t you shut your beak?
Your singing makes me love you so,
I feel like such a freak.

You flitter through the morning air
Your beady black-eyes glazed,
A clueless bird-brained little twit,
Forever fly unfazed.

White whale on that distant line
Between the sea and skies,
Pleasant looking from afar
But what does that disguise?

Are you rich in whale wit?
Or is your skull packed full
With flowers, feelings, hats, and bells,
With clouds and cotton wool?

To chase a fox or drown a bird,
Or watch butterflies play,
I’d hurl a harpoon at you, Whale,

But let’s face it, you’d probably just end up in somebody’s sushi.




This diver is thinking about his dinner.

And over to you, Subconscious

19 Aug

The other night, I dreamt this:

I was at a beach (with the Weasley twins initially, but they’re not relevant to the plot), sitting in the sand with my back against a huge stone cliff, let’s say, 100m tall. The waves were washing in and out and everything was quite relaxing and nice.

Then the tide swept in, freakishly quickly, and I found myself being thrown against the cliff by waves. The water had surged up against the stone, about 50m deep now, and I was clinging to the cliff, terrified.

I had this conflict, you see. I didn’t want to let go of the wall because I could be pulled out into the ocean. I didn’t want to keep holding onto the wall in case the tide swept out again, leaving me 50m in the air with only my poor upper body strength keeping me from falling to my death.

The only thing to do, as far as I could see, was climb to the top of the cliff. So I began my struggle, pulling myself out of the water and onto the stone wall, finding purchase for aching hands and feet. I got part way up, tumbled back into the ocean, and had to start my climb again.

Up and up, I pulled myself, the ocean surging beneath me, until finally, I reached the fence at the very top of the cliff, dragged myself over it, and collapsed on the other side. I was exhausted, but proud. I had single-handedly escaped death by drowning or falling.

So at this point, I thought the message was clear. When necessary, you can accomplish anything. Anything at all.

That’s not what my brain had in mind for me. The dream continues;

I’m home with my family, still shaking from my harrowing journey up the cliff, when the news comes on.

The newsreader talks about the freak event, where the tide swept in 50m deep, causing mass panic and damage to boats. They cut to footage taken from a helicopter, and I recognise myself clinging to the cliff. They’re going to show the inspirational climb!

They show my fall. The few metres I slipped before climbing the rest of the way. It is the humorous conclusion to their report. There may as well have been a laugh-track.

The moral, it would seem, is that you’re more likely to be remembered for the few tiny mistakes you make than anything else.

Thanks, dream-fairy.


As an aside, this is a nice song:

Skinny Jeans

18 Aug

An Appreciation or You’ll Never Understand

What is there in this world
That rivals the majesty
The might
The scarily tight
Form-fitting functional plain black
Skinny jean?

The versatility!
The changeability!
The uphill struggle
To fit feet, calves, thighs,
Then inhale and zip.

But breathe with caution…
The ricochet of a button fly has velocity enough to embed shrapnel in human bone…

“A man should be able to support his lover’s weight,

And that guy looks like he’d topple over if his backpack was a little heavy…”

No. You will never understand,
The mark of a man is no longer his wits,
Or words,
Or haircut,
Or ability to rock a T-spin in a time-trial-Tetris-tourney.

If his legs are wider than his wrists
And his jeans don’t cling with ferocity
To his too-easy-to-break ankles
He is nothing.

Our fair Evolution didn’t see this coming.
An era when the spindly and delicate
Would triumph in genetic competition…

But Evolution can just shut up and take a back-seat to our new Dictator of Nature.

The plain black skinny jeans.

The Butterfly Effect

16 Aug

…or This Is A Really Clever Name For A Poem If You Understand The Joke

Oh Butterfly,
You’ll never know
The lives you’ve touched and how
You’ve changed the flow of friendships
And the skies we fly through now

You never knew
The way we watched
You floating from afar,
It’s thanks to you so many of us
Landed where we are

So don’t be scared,
I recognise
The weirdness shining through,
You may not know that we exist
But Butterfly, thank you!




9 Aug

I have a secret project that I can’t tell you about, internet.

Because that’s the way things have ended up. I’ve reached an impasse with this blog. I’ve run out of things to say that are interesting and engaging and worthy of being read by the wider public, but I’m not really keen on going too far in the other direction either. I don’t want to have a full-blown emo web-journal. That’s far too 2008.

Whoa, second shoddy paint-graph in 2 posts.

So I’ll revert to music chatter.

I’ve crafted an amazing playlist packed full of unbridled joy and rainbows, and I don’t even care that there are songs on it that old-me might have been ashamed of. Screw you, old-me.

I recognise CMYK doesn’t really scream ‘happy joy joy’ but my fifteen year old sister’s reaction to it amuses me to no end (she’s utterly terrified of it, not in an ‘over-the-top-to-be-humorous’ way, in a proper completely freaked out by it way) and seeing James play it live was a little bit special, so it counts as happy for me.

Other stand-out tracks at the moment are this:

And this:

If you’re the type of person who feels no joy at the ‘c’mon Ginger slam’ line, you are the type of person I shall henceforth avoid.

It speaks to me.

I was thinking about getting a tumblr to combat my horrible blogging of late. BUT if I got a tumblr (which will never happen) (except I do have one, mostly as a place-holder for a name) I would only ever post GIFs of Kit Harington (Jon Snow, Westeros Hipster) and answer hundreds and hundreds of questionnaires about myself, like the one below.

I can’t get to sleep without: 6 pillows, 2 blankets, a fan running, 2 cups of tea, upwards of a hundred glow-in-the-dark stars 

If I were a doll, the accessories packaged with me would be: labcoat, sensible shoes (not in the lesbian sense), an iPod, a strawberry?

I have an irrational fear of: eels

At my grandparents house I usually eat: cake and potatoes

When I was born I weighed: less than I do now

I am most opposed to: extremists, you know, the kind who jump off bridges with parachutes.

On myspace I like to stalk: ha. myspace. but yes, I like to stalk.

I am too old to be: on myspace. 

I find the thought of childbirth: terrifying.

Next door to my house is: another house.

My feet are: room temperature.

My preferred style of jeans are: skinny, for I am a hipster, and it is a requirement of my people.

I know how to cook: lemons and olives (with pasta)

I am annoyed at: english classes.

Men should always: wash.

Women should never: be impolite in company. ’tisn’t proper.

The scariest sea creature is: eel

The world is over populated with: eels

I recently broke: my fruit ninja record.

I last cried because: I felt sad.

I would like to be in an advertisement for: British tourism

My favorite shoes are: my rainbow heels, but they’re impractical for lab-work, so Cons are good too.

My mothers’ greatest fear is: aeroplanes.

And so on and so forth. So really, consider yourselves lucky I haven’t entered the world of tumblr properly (though if anyone can pick which tumblr account I created, I’ll reward them… hint; it’s pretentious and slightly Blur-themed)…

Think I’ll watch British panel shows and knit some things.

Love to your mothers.


On this day in history…

20 Jul

I was not me, but past-me.

On this day 2 years ago, I did not post anything.

On this day 1 year ago, I posted a couple of songs, which I both still like.

This is one of the least interesting posts I have ever.

Two paths of action,
But inaction is warmer
And simpler too.