"fancy a lie down?"

I remember back in the old days I used to write about everything I did in this blog. Now I occasionally write about how ill I feel and how much of a whore D is. I just find it hard to summon up any enthusiasm for anything anymore. I used to be so passionate but it's like all the life in me has been sucked out. I was trying to explain last night to #1 that although I should be happy, I'm just not, and that there is something wrong with my head. But that goes back to the whole debate about whether it's okay to admit you're depressed (and in my experience, I've had a whole load of shit from so many people - being called "defective", simply "mental", "stupid" and so on) but it's completely fine to admit you have asthma. At least my lungs work properly, mofo. One good thing about being completely emotionless (or having emotionless periods, as my mood is so cyclical) is that these things just don't matter to me. Or at least, I think they don't and then it all gets a bit much.

But anyway, what I've been up to goes a little something like this... I keep intending to stay in, I really do, but then I go out instead. I also intend to go swimming, but stuff keeps happening, such as forgetting my contact lens solution, or going to the pub with F instead. On Tuesday I decided I love my coursemates, but possibly made a tit of myself, and then came home and drank gin and definitely made a tit of myself. On Thursday I went to my friends leaving drinks (and not to Gay Against You), which was lots of fun. Though I was talking to someone and I suddenly thought "hang on a second, it was YOU, you two faced bastard!" You know when someone is nice to your face, and you just know that they've been saying stuff about you (and this idea is reinforced by being told that "an unnamed man in your department" has been calling you a slag) but you have no proof... And then you get proof. See, these are the things that used to bother me but now, I just think whatever, and with people like that I follow the policy of humouring them and milking them for all they're worth ("Oh, are you passing the bar? Get me a drink, will you?"). It's liberating knowing that you're going to be slagged off - you have no fear and, if anything, it's an incentive to act really badly. Anyway, it was nice to see everyone, and despite making a rather large social faux pas, it was all good and at least no one ended up in a bin.

On Friday I went to a BBC recording of some Brazilian choral music at St Giles' church in the Barbican. I know next to nothing about Brazilian composers, other than obvious ones like Villa Lobos. The first half of the concert constituted about seven Ave Marias, which was nice, but I preferred the second half as it was more folk-type songs, ending up with some Christmas carols! It's going to be broadcast on Radio 3 in the new year sometime. I liked the church too, actually - it seemed so at odds with the Barbican centre. Anyway, afterwards I went to Hackney with SB and her sister, and although I'd said I'd just have dinner and then go home, I ended up at the worst house party in the history of the world. Seriously, SO BAD. Are all UCL people so rubbish? A girl was sick right in the centre of the living room. I left and wandered through a council estate. Yesterday I fell asleep in the library, only to wake up half-choking as I couldn't breathe, thanks to my blocked nose. I had a gym induction. It was kinda terrifying and kinda gratifying, and I plan to get very fit and thin and pretty and then at least something will be okay. I went out with #1 and #2, and we drank far too much champagne, resulting in hilarity.

Today I am contemplating going to the library but seeing as I am at home in my pyjama's, I'm not doing a fab job of it. In mind there is a constant struggle between what I want to do (lethargy) and what I should do. Plus the eternal dilemma of how to get the boy I love to love me in return.