I've been terribly, terribly irritable all week. And do you know the worst of it? I become even more cantankerous from the realisation that I look very unbecoming when I'm irritated. This is NOT good. Especially when the resulting facial contortions are an unfortunate cross between Julia Sawalha' s dowdy expression in Absolutely Fabulous, and that of a frustrated, "but non-retarded" Mary Cherry. Egads. And so it's Friday. And on some self-inflicted saving-money-and-beer-drinking-reducing campaign, I'm staying in. My plan for the evening is to apply for jobs, to start Infinite Jest, to dye my hair and practice running in heels. Instead, I spend far too much time playing the DJ in my room whilst having a stockinged feet groove. At some point, I have to turn the music up a notch as my flatmates begin having sex in the bath. Don't worry though, they're getting married. I really don't know how much longer I want to stay here. But it seems a shame to leave my room o' coolness, especially since I've now got a lovely collage of Christopher Gorham up on my wall. Spunktastic. Noises on my mobile. Fears of yet another message from 'Muba the drunk and dishevelled follower of girls in stripy socks' are happily allayed as Australian pals send messages of love and drunken stupidity. I miss them. And decide to make mix tapes for them all. Which leads me to start making other random presents for anyone deemed worthy enough. It's all very Blue Peter, but the end results are fab. Finally, it becomes that time of the evening when I hatch plans and suddenly the next 48 hours promise to be filled with crush-stalking adventures, sojourns into photographic genius, hackey sac playage and general insanity. I promise myself that this will, truly, be a GREAT weekend, one which I can proudly relay to co-workers whilst they look befuddled and continue to confuse Fischerspooner with a greasy East End fish café. I am, genuinely, excited, but in my heart of hearts, I fear all plans will go awry as I'm sucked in by the Hollyoaks omnibus. At this point, it's 1.40am and in my sudden flit of wanting to do stuff, I'm tempted to call everyone I know in London and demand that they meet me in a 24 hour café in Soho. I want Earl Grey and conversation. I want to sit on the N55 and reply politely to the winos' ineffectual attempts at dialogue. Instead, I resign myself to reading shabubu and random online diaries, only to fall in love with the authors' prose before completely falling for the authors themselves. Gah. Unsuitable crushes - the bane of my life. xx Miss Marianna. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+