Just be yourself...

Why lie? I've spent years studying literature; for me, it is the reason for living. In all honesty, I am an over-enthusiastic amateur, who is avoiding her fate as an administrating office monkey for as long as possible, by writing a meaningless thesis on something that nobody (except maybe some other geeks) care about or will ever read. It is a shying away from the outside world, escaping into the world of books and exploring that world through the microscope of critical theory.

It's sad, but I've lost the fire in my belly from my travelling days, and after a few years of clutching a broken heart wrapped up in tattered dreams, talking about literature is about as close as I ever get to that adventure. It stops that feeling that I get from day to day life that somewhere along the way we've all been short changed. I'll perpetuate the hope there is more to life than death and taxes, such as great loves, the aesthetic of language, travel and the meaning that ripples under the surface which hints of something more than this life.

Should this make me pretentious, then so be it... I'll sit in an Ivory Tower of ideals (with my hat and gloves on as this place is freezing) reading about lovers I will never have, wars I will never fight and mourn people I have never known, as this will always be preferable to me than dreaming of cars I will never own, shoes I will never wear and the elusive moisturiser that will enrich the flawless skin I will never have.

Judge me if you want to, but it won't change the way that I feel.

Saturday night's alright for fighting...

Another Saturday night, another fight.

It's getting to be a regular occurrence...

Man one: my boyfriend, the present: Clean-cut handsome, tall, kind, gentle, steady, pragmatic, funny (in a bit of a naive way), all round good guy. He's a complete scientist and heart to hearts generally involve him assessing my words, then presenting a diagnosis; he is a physician both professionally and personally. We go to bed at 10, listen to radio four every night until 11 o'clock, and then we go to sleep. He works hard and I love him, and I am the most successful I have ever been through his influence but... There is a huge BUT...

Man two: my ex-boyfriend, the past: Scruffy, sexily, ruggedly handsome, tall, selfish, charismatic, unreliable, passionate, funny (in a fucking-hell-you're-a-sexy-bastard way), all round bad news boyfriend. I traveled with him during my early twenties. We went everywhere, never had any money, and he had the single philosophy of pushing everything to the limit, attempting to experience everything: both positive and negative. We would talk until dawn even after 5 years together. I left him because my life remained in a perpetual moment with him. I needed to move on and reflect on my experiences, whilst he slowly destroyed himself by never gaining from all he did. I've never met anybody like him; he lived his dreams, but he paid the price... I never got over leaving him.

Man three: my flatmate, the future (?): Short, (prematurely) bald, muscly arms, the biggest, palest blue eyes I have ever seen. My other flatmate, who needless to say prides herself on her honesty, once said to my bf: if there was ever a man who was made for me, then it was flatmate. It's true. It's not anything that I can put my finger on... He's not handsome (really), a penniless post graduate student (like me). We sit mainly in comfortable silence or watch the TV, quietly sharing a bottle of wine, but there are times when I notice him looking at me or looking at the same thing I am, and have the over-whelming feeling that he is thinking the same. After a year living together I barely know him, yet I feel as if he knows me better than I know myself. At night when I lie in bed with my boyfriend, pretending to be asleep, I hear him playing the guitar in the room below mine...

I am insane. This is ridiculous. An infatuation. It's stupid, ridiculous. The product of reading too many French novels... I am 26, but am behaving like a schoolgirl...

I flit between, creating pathetic arguments with my boyfriend and feeling ludicrously guilty, then over compensating. Needless to say this behaviour only makes my boyfriend adore me more, as I quietly hate myself.

Life's a bitch (and then you marry one).

My boyfriend's bought me a ring for Christmas. Great, fucking great. It looks like an engagement ring.

There is no rhyme or reason for it. I haven't ever hinted marraige was on the table; in fact I remember saying, "A wedding and a funeral are pretty much the same thing - either way your life's over." Very mature, I know, but that's it: I am not ready for the picket fence dream. I have never lusted after it. The thoughts of having children leaves me with a feeling of mild bewilderment, and awe of people who can be so selfless for the greater good of their offspring.

Oh, I am also utterly in love with my flatmate, who isn't my boyfriend.

Fuck. I feel sick.