NEW BLOG

come over here
http://lastservingdaughter.wordpress.com/

I couple of days ago I was reminded that I indeed still have a blog. So, first things first, I need to apologise for my absence. But I have been pre occupied with talk of gap years and University's, Seriously how do you chose what university to go to I need to know the secret as I don't think I can make that life decision right now I cant even make peace terms with my wardrobe on what to wear each day. Recently my limbs have spent most of their time clad in black leggings and men shirts as all my dresses have disappeared, and I don't do trousers.

"Mulberry, yes" So reads my most recent twitter update. Although, technically speaking, it should probably say: “I can't make serious life choices so I will stare at the Alexa Mulberry dreaming that is in my arms” But if I were to write that, it would call for proper grammar, something the internet has rendered a thing of the past. Ha handbags oh the shallow life I lead.

Lying in a tepid bath, pondering just how bad it would be to vomit in it, or alternatively trying to muster the wherewithal to make it to the loo, was not how I envisaged my weekend panning out. It appears I had another Migraine. The morning after the sickness had ceased, I ventured outside in the direction of my school, to learn about writing CVs and first aid, It was a special study day I normally spend my time pondering over difficult maths for about 2 hours every day, but I had to reassure myself that there is life beyond QI on BBC iPlayer. I spent the whole day dreaming of Paris I suddenly feel compelled to take up smoking. It seems that everyone in the pictures I was glancing at while I was bedladen was at it, thank god for fashion blogs when bored home alone. I imagined In dark corners of bars fag-wielding folk playing games of cat-and-mouse with the sharp-suited bouncers who scurry after them and urging them to throw their addiction sticks to the floor.

Sorry If this Blog seems a bit over the place, but that is just how my brain is working at the moment. Ha :)

I WANT TO MAKE A RACKET

SCREAM and SHOUT and dye my hair BLACK or BLUE or PURPLE. I want to rip my clothes into little pieces and stitch them together to make new clothing. I want to run away. Sprint away, far away. I don't want anyone to come after me, I will run into new people. People with spirit, people with ripped clothes and colourful hair. People who eat cereal for dinner and never lunch. People, humans; not dummies. Not mundane creatures living out their pre-planned lives. I'll change my name to Tennessee ...
Anxiety won't exist and my attachments will be fleeting, if at all.

I've managed to push myself into a hole, there are others on top and I cannot get through the, they too are heavy with the expectations laid upon them. They were not allowed to wander and were caught in this trap, this hole.
Not anymore.

http://lovely-lissy.blogspot.com/

I saw this, and its exactly how I feel

YES, Such a good start to the month

"Waterloo Sunset" [by The Kinks] is my favorite song of all time, and it would be so perfect in a gloomy movie about London

I NEED To See Them Live !

I have been to a lot of shows. Likely too many for someone who enjoys occasionally liking music uncritically. I have never seen what I saw at Terminal 5 on Thursday. I have seen the deodorant-phobic and the horn-rimmed scuttle and pine around the feet of Jenny Lewis. I have seen the pierced, stewed, and tattooed rally ‘bout the flagpole legs of Exene Cervenka. I have seen the young girls in their summer clothes flock to the clarion call of heart-throbs like Julian Casablancas and (I eternally regret this) Conor Oberst. But I have never seen what I saw at Terminal 5.
Throngs. Throngs of ‘em. All, to the straining eye (and you can bet your sweet $34.95 that I strained), ostensibly heterosexual. Bridge-and-tunnel tribal markers from head to toe: white flat-bill baseball caps, loose jeans, Billabong t-shirts, dull-eyed and traditionally handsome stares. And until a certain point in the night, I would have expected to see them doing, I don’t know, keg-stands, whatever that rarest species, the straight, white, middle-class guy does for fun. Then everything changed.
Arctic Monkeys took the stage.
Every goddamn one of them underwent a drastic change brought on by the noise and the strobe lights and the artificial.
Suddenly, we were at the Ed Sullivan show and the Fab 4 had just shambled into view. I have never seen so many jocks and stoned out Everydudes cringe, scream, and spontaneously orgasm unabashedly at the sight of four unassuming men. Either sexual mores have widened and transformed for the better while I wasn’t looking, or the Arctic Monkey’s deserve an award. I’ll do the honors. It’ll be awarded via the post. The letter will read:
Dear Monkeys,
You are hereby awarded the enviable title of SUBJECT OF AMERICA’S BIGGEST MAN-CRUSH. In lieu of a trophy, enjoy the sweet, warm wash of bro-love that we can only assume seeps syrup-like through your windows every morning when you awake.
Good job!
Lou Wright
‘SUP Magazine’s Lou Wright on the Arctic Monkeys Terminal 5 show

So Excited For Seeing R+J at Stratford

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.