I'm going to Cape Town! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Diary

I never write in my diary anymore. I keep my daily planner up to date, but even that I'm slacking with. Don't feel too bad about that coz well, I'm not 13 anymore, but I miss the pride I used to have in them.

I know for certain that the reason I don't write anymore is basically because I'm happy. Sure there are some mild downers here and there, but generally life is great! I have super friends, two of which are returning VERY shortly (almost can't believe it), a super family and a wonderful boyfriend.

It makes me sad though that when I'm dead, the only record of me will be a collection of depressing lowlights and morbid thoughts. I shudder to think. And I'm really not all that morbid, everyone gets like that sometimes and that's when I find it easier to write.

Historians will have a tough time putting my life together. Trying to splice my photo's somewhere into my diaries but it'll never make sense. Photo: Huge party, me happily, merrily festive; Diary: Bleh. It'll be like trying to fit a corner puzzle piece somewhere in the center. This of course because we know that millions of historians will be lining up to study my lifetime.

I just hate that hardly any of my relationship with Matt has been documented. I want people to know how happy I am. Well, "D" is back from Cape Town so maybe I'll have a few things to write about after all. Fuckwit.

Writer's block

I'm no writer so I don't think I can even use that term, but if I did have it, I'm sure this is what it would feel like.

I'm sure most bloggers have felt this at some stage. My head is full of thoughts and ideas but they're flying by so fast I can't seem to focus on one long enough to be able to write about it. I hate this.

But at least I'm finnished varsity. Yay.

I really do feel like writing though so I guess I'll just explain the very disturbing dream I had last night.

I was pregnant. Blacked out during labour. Had the baby. Went to a pub where I put the baby i the fridge to "keep it safe". Had a few shooters and was called to the kitchen. It turns out the cook, a large Xhosa lady, had accidentally cooked my baby. At least I thought it was accidental until I was told that I had been so drunk, I was the one who had prepared my baby for the boil by slicing him up.

The worst part was feeling afterwards that it was a good thing that my baby was cooked to death, that way I wouldn't have to deal with parenting.

I woke up and was feeling very unsettled. Wouldn't you?

Multitask

I connected about 3 hours ago with the sole intent on writing this blog.

I have now forgotten EVERYTHING I was going to say because I was instantly swarmed on messenger. Matt was sending me about a hundred (much needed) files, a chatting buddy needed much consoling over his lost job, an old friend from France happened to be online (and we needed to catch up on every event from the past 2 years), a stoned stranger* had to share weekend events and I was on the phone with Tess the entire time!

I'm a little drained.

*phonetics

Movie maker

I don't want to study film anymore. I went to a shoot last night where the crew had gone to SOOOOO much effort. It took 2 hours for them to set up for two shots. In my books that's just a waste of time. If I don't study film what the fuck am I gonna do?

Tess and I are starting a company pimping out her brothers and their friends. Success? I hope.