Hello! I am theohsocurlyone; in case that wasn't obvious. Welcome to my humble abode.

My flist is rather small (which is fine, as they're all absolutely lovely), and I'm aware that my journal lacks visual gloss, but just in case you wanted to know me, have a look here!

( I am me. )

BUZZCOCKS.

TENNANT.

CRIBBINS.

TARDIS.

"HARDER! HARDER!" "WD40!"

SINGING OOD.

BONKERS TATE.

FUCKING CRIBBINS!

TENNANT!

However epic I was expecting it to be, it well surpassed any expectations. My chest aches from laughing so much. The Torchwood joke nearly gave me a spit-take.

"Barrowmaaaan!"

*flail*

I think I'm going to download this and watch it whenever I need cheering up, if only for Tennant's beautifully weird facial expressions alone.

To sum up, CRIBBINS FOR THE WIN.

...because I'm bored, and I love ego-stroking!

Hmm.

I am far, far too uncool/young/unfunny/uninformed about various things to go for a drink with Ian Martin.

However, he lives in Lancaster. And I'd rather like to go and platonically fangirl him and his writing.

Plus, I'll get a free drink out of it.

Argh. roboplege, degroove - help!

Hello livejournal!

Blimey, I haven't been around for a while. Anyway, all goes as normal; I'm sitting in my room, at my laptop, an abysmal amount of work done in the past couple of days, and eating a jam sandwich. Nom.

Anyway, today is the day. The big one. The doozy.

Today, I see Regina Spektor.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

...and yet, somehow, I haven't got any stomach tingles. Anticipation of the Barrowman was almost paralysing; lillyankh has seen it many times. And yet now, even though I'm seeing a singer who I absolutely adore, who hardly ever comes to the UK, who is so much more talented than anyone I've ever seen (sorry, Barrowman. I'm sure you understand!), and yet I'm getting none of my usual physical symptoms at all. It's odd.

I hope they arrive; it's more fun when they're there. I'm sure they'll crop up when I get to the Apollo and realise it's bloody happening!

Anyway, had better go. Lancaster to negotiate and a train to catch.

Will report all when I get back. Squeeing, probably. Eeeeeeeeep!

The most human colour, bluuuuuue!

Dear Twilight,

Oh for fuck's sake, just fucking fuck the fuck off. I've reached the stage when any rational argument I have against the whole fucking franchise has just been overridden with profanity.

Just fuck off. Fuck off from the papers, from Twitter, from Facebook, from posters all over campus, from anywhere where I have to see it.

Go away.

No love in the slightest,
theohsocurlyone

I'm normally more accepting. It's just starting to grate, now.

OH GOD CAN'T SLEEP AGAIN.

I find it almost inconceivable that I used to up and about this early five times a week, last year. No, six, when I was working at the weekends.

Ack. I only got back at half-four.

It was a good night, though. The following exchange may have occured:

Me: I'm sorry I look like a drunken fool, and...
Cathy: Listen, you don't look like a fool at all!
Me: *gets heel caught in a paving stone and flails around, stuck fast*
Cathy: ...well, maybe now you do.

We also bumped into a Scandinavian man who called us "more innocent than the Virgin Mary!" when we didn't have any cigarettes to give him. As we wouldn't. That was...bizarre.

MUST. SLEEP. Sober, but feeling slightly crazy. Argh.

It's been a bit of wangsty, emotional, long and rainy day (although I've cheered up a fair amount since this morning), which caused me to be annoyingly whiny for the first five minutes of a phone conversation with lillyankh.

The following exchange ensued, which I think sums up our friendship, in an utterly bizarre kind of way:

"Could you cheer me up, somehow...?"

"Right. You want to hear my thought for the day?"

"...go on."

"If cheese didn't exist, pizza would just be hot tomato on toast."

...and then there was when she claimed to have once cried at The Teletubbies ("I was hormonal and DIPSY LOST HIS HAT!") and we had a mini-insulting-Robert-Pattison session.


Am suddenly reminded of something I said to a very drunk, stumbling guy on campus at three in the morning a couple of weeks ago; I may or may not have been slightly tipsy myself...

"You look like Robert Pattison, mate."
"Cheers, darlin'!"
"...that's not a good thing!"

I would wangst, but I'm on a slight sugar high and I don't want to bore anyone. Missing home for the first time in a long while. Accommodation issues for next year. That's all.

Peace out! Gavin and Stacey and QI are back in two days time! Eeeep!

I should really stop copy-pasting things I've been sent by friends or family, but this was too brilliant to resist; a Facebook message from Pete, a friend from my old Politics class:

Liking the hat, and the dingy underground dive. I hope you're plotting revolution and that there are red roses somewhere. Don't argue. It's just how it should be.

Isn't that wonderful? I can't explain quite why I love it so much, but I do. Just what I need to hear. I hope I see him at Christmas!

Much as I complain, I'd have to concede that I'm happy with how I look; the hair's a bit mad, at times, but it's interesting and I'm glad to have curly hair. I've got pretty good skin (I've managed to avoid spots, mostly), and I'm just...normal. I'm fine. I'd never feel the need to change it, whether painfully or by some other method.

However, EVERY TIME a camera is turned on me, I turn into some kind of twisted-face, weird, Krusty the Clown-haired, cringing wreck. Even if I pose beforehand. My face grows to twice its normal size, my hair sticks out (especially whenever there's a hat involved), my eyes...God knows what they get up to. It's driving me mad.

I know this sounds moany and I'm probably exaggerating, but it's starting to grate. It always catches the worst possible angle, and I feel so much less secure about my appearance whenever I see photos of myself. I look stupid. I look ugly. I hate it.

It's made somehow worse when Cathy's involved, because she's so gorgeous that it kind of shows me up (not that that's her intention or fault, obviously) when we're in photos together; the dissonance in looks seems vast, to me. She looks composed, she can smile easily. I look ridiculous. I'll be honest; sometimes, in my utterly insecure moments, I wonder why she's attracted to me. Particularly with those photos on display. There's about five or so public photos of me (Facebook, etc) that I like. That's it. I hate most of them, and yet people I know just...have it. They can appear and look relatively normal. Their hair stays in place, for a start.

Gah.

I'm ungrateful; I know, and I've become a lot more secure in myself since I came to uni, I really have. My confidence has ratcheted up in these past few weeks. But every so often, I just look at myself and wince.

Anyway, I need to cheer myself. I'm listening to the Top Gear team and Justin Hawkins singing Red Light Spells Danger at the moment, something which I find strangely moving, not sure why.



ETA: Oh my God, I've just realised; Red Light Spells Danger - Jack/Ianto. Just look at the lyrics. I can imagine that being Jack's thought process around Children of Earth time.

God, I'm pathetic.