reach for the stars, so if you fall you land on a cloud... BULLSHIT.

Just over a week in to the Christmas break, it's hard to say just what I have achieved. I certainly have not done any work, have not been anywhere exciting, have not really spoken to anyone. It's been a nice week though; a week of solitude and Salinger and snow. I also have the somewhat lame excuse of having been quite ill, but from tomorrow I will be slightly less pathetic. I will do some actual work, and I will leave the house. Probably.

I'm really really bored of cooking curry all the time. I mean, it's delicious and it's one of the few dishes which is not hindered by the absence of meat, but I'm sick of it. Somebody please give me some ideas! I really do like cooking, but I feel like I'm stuck in a bit of a rut, so if you have any thoughts, or if you would like to come round and cook up a storm with me, send me a little message.

I literally slept all day, and as a result, I'm on top of the world! So it occurred to me, the answer to all the world's problems - sleep. I reckon if everyone got ten solid hours every night, we'd all be a bit less angsty and a bit more pleasant. Perhaps all of our problems would dissolve. We wouldn't have family tiffs, the Koreas would get on, every day would be a good hair day. Call me a dreamer, but in the words of Gloria Steinem 'Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.'

I hate supposedly inspirational quotations like that one, don't you? It's like the speaker genuinely thinks that their vague, corny words will have an effect on the life of a complete stranger. And everyone's been at it! Even people I quite like (Einstein, Angelou, Woolf, etc) can be quoted in such a way. The thing is though, it is not these lame affirmations that render these people great. In general, their acts speak for themselves, and they are genuinely rather inspiring with or without their empty words.

Words are always empty though. Aren't they?

My sister is a fuckface.

the ghost of corporate future...

I write all the time. It's a disease. When I was in Europe, I had to buy myself a little notebook because I missed jotting things down and turning my silly thoughts into silly words. I have so many exercise books in my room (mostly robbed from the Languages staff room) filled with endless description and unsuccessful metaphor. This is why I will never be able to do anything else with my life.

I was looking at graduate jobs earlier. Just for a laugh. A lot of them, although not requiring a particular degree stated that 'money driven' candidates were required. Funny then that I would rather eat a leper than consider myself to fall into this category. I am always poor. I gave up my part time job when I started being given a pension around a year ago. Had I continued to sell my soul to a supermarket, I could have been quite well off. Had I not spent so much time being self sufficient this summer, I could have saved up quite a sum. Had I any sort of entrepreneurial skills, I'm sure I would never have to scrape every ten pence piece in my purse together just to buy an ice cream from the village shop.

The thing is, it's all bullshit, isn't it? To become 'money driven' is to sell your soul to consumerism. I think we all do this to a point, but surely it's best to earn just enough to scrape by in life, going on as many holidays as possible and working as little as we can get away with? If we spend all our time at the office, we spend all our time away from our friends and loved ones. If my short life has taught me anything, it's to spend as much time as possible with the people who matter most, and I don't care how lame that sounds.

Perhaps my bohemian attitudes reflect my age and there are more experienced people reading this right now marvelling at my naivety, but that's okay, because this is my idealist manifesto, and things never turn out quite like the business model. I guess my point is that we are all so rich in comparison with the rest of the world, and that should be enough. Those who strive for millions have very little sense of self. Money can't buy me love, etc.

Goodnight.

P.S. the picture is a letter from Virginia Woolf. Just because she was a writer. And I like her handwriting...