18 days until the end of term and counting. After two solid years I am so bored of sitting in cafes reading poetry. It is hard to convey to anyone how incredibly depressing this has become. Every time I hear someone say how they'd like to live alone in the mountains writing all day every day I shake I my head and try to tell them how bored they'd get. Though I suppose it doesn't matter, seeing as that scenario will probably never come to be.

I even find it hard to write because I am saturated in literature all the time, and after thinking about other people's writing all day I need a mental rest, and because nothing happens in my life except other people's writing, so I have nothing new to write about.

Before this becomes disgustingly and absurdly self pitying I will reassure any concerned/envious readers that despite how bored the process of sitting around reading is, I do actually still like Hyperion as a poem, which is what I've sat-around-in-cafes-reading most recently, (although Keats's earlier stuff is a bit meh), I also just about still enjoy escapist fiction, and 'not writing much' actually means only being able to squeeze out a fragment of something each day.

Besides which, I am only writing this entry for procrastinative reasons. I was meant to start the Keats essay today. But I haven't. I will therefore be forced to write it tomorrow. Possibly in the library where I will have no internet access or other forms of distraction.

So what I've actually managed to achieve recently is:

* One short story about the cat who fell in love with a dog and defied speciesist prejudices to be with him.
* One extended experimental poem called 'The Democracy Song' of which you will undoubtedly hear more.

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18 days. Then I want a nice summer job which is mostly doing things rather than thinking things and involves no creativity whatsoever. And I want my car. Freedom and my lovely lovely car.

My head has a very nice scar with stitch marks. I will show it off at parties. Along with all the other scars from all the other things I've managed to inflict on myself over the years.

My God that sounds sinister. I have never cut myself. I am simply very accident-prone. When I say I have never cut myself, I mean intentionally. I cut myself accidentally nearly every time I cook, which is every day. My fingers are in ruins.

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SO.

Politics.

I'm a dirty lefty with purple Doc Martens who will sell her soul before she votes Conservative (yes that's right, I did just characterise myself politically based on a fashion item. Any more superficial than all those voters seduced by David Cameron's nice smile and cute kids? I think not.).

So things are really going well at the moment for the left, yeah....?

(It's 9pm. I can now justify procrastinating by watching the Europe election Results instead.)