Oops, I just spat my butter menthol across the room

Sitting, listening to Bon Iver (again), my life seems significantly even less interesting than it did yesterday. As I sit here, wrapped in my own thoughts, even though I’m meant to be re-writing my Psychology assignment, my mind can’t help wandering – to how I wish I could play amazing guitar, and how much I want a coffee, and how much my room smells like stale incense and smoke. I want to move away from here, to somewhere where everything is something, and nothing is dull, and my life has meaning, and there’s always something to do. Right now, nothing is anything, everything is dull, life has no meaning, and there’s nothing to do except write about data, and graphs, and cultural anomalies. I just want to leave the house, and go and walk along the beach, even though the sky is grey, and it’s probably about 3 degrees outside. In my room, the heater’s been on since about 8 o’clock last night, which means I’m wearing a t-shirt; it feels strange to be dressed in minimal clothing, when outside my window, it looks like it’s about to rain.

I need to get a new beret, as Mother washed my beautiful old one, and it went lumpy and felted itself into a ball. But this may prove absolutely impossible, as I have exactly $3.45 in small change. However, the op shop up the road looks very tempting – not that I’ve exactly seen it today, but I expect it would, if I were standing out the front. To be completely honest, what I really feel like doing is lying on the floor of my room and pretending to be a dying jellyfish, which is probably what I am. But as jellyfish have such vivid imaginations, I’ve now realised I’m actually just deluding myself to believe I’m a human being, which, now I think about it, is obvious I’m not. My nails could do with a fresh coat of nail polish too. A cheerful mahogany perhaps?

So far, I’ve re-written 625 words on my Psychology, and I believe it needs to be about 1500, which shouldn’t be too difficult to reach I shouldn’t think. I’ll just bullshit a bit, and crap on about nothing in particular (which I seem to be good at... haha). And then after finishing that, I’m going to re-write my English recount, which is actually already finished, but I hate it, and it’s way too true to life, so I’m going to vamp it up a bit, and pretend I actually used to live in Russia or something equally believable.

I just took a secret break, and leant out the window for five minutes. It’s starting to drizzle, and I can hear the sound of a light plane droning in the distance. I’m wearing Maman’s old alpaca jumper that she bought at the Portobello markets in 1974 – truly retro? It’s amazing, and I think if it was a man, I’d marry it right here and now. Unfortunately, it’s only a piece of clothing, so marriage might not be the most practical thing to do with it. Last night, when I came home from work, I discovered it in a wooden box, nestled in with an old calisthenics leotard of mine (watermelon silk, with silver sequins, and truly delightful pale pink tulle sticking out the bottom), and some dusty old skirts of Maman’s, that she’d been rifting through, to find things to throw out, or alternately, give to op-shops. It itches around the neck, but other than that, it’s practically perfect. Papa noticed it as soon as I got to his house, and mentioned the origins of it, of which I’d already been informed by Ma. Apparently Princess Di had one similar, and was such an inspiration that this one simply had to be purchased!

I’m so amazingly bored, sitting here in this tiny, white room. Papa and little brother, aka une petit Diablo have left me in charge of the house while they’re off gallivanting about, probably making friends with political refugees from Chile, or somewhere equally as exciting, and drinking coffee with them, learning about their amazingly exciting, tragic lives, while I’m left here, bored out of my brain, about to jump out the window, which would probably just break my knees, as it’s only a story high. Or perhaps they’ve actually skipped the country, using Papa’s secret stash of drug money, and are now almost halfway across the world, on their way to smoke cigars in Roman hotel lounges, sip mint tea in Moroccan tents, and swap secret little white packages with Parisian prostitutes. And I’m stuck here, drinking crappy instant coffee, with nothing but my Alpaca jumper, Bon Iver, and a pack of stale cigarettes to keep me company.