Spitting my dummy out...

Well the only good thing that has happened this week is that I staggered into a sale at Fopp. Sick to death of listening to Joanna Newsom and Joan as the Police Woman, I have bought myself some excellent musical reprieves in the form of the Kate Bush-styled 'Bat for Lashes', the incredibly upbeat 'The Aliens' and the unspeakably fantastic 'Bright Eyes' album Cassadaga. All great music and is offering some degree of comfort in the face of the rubbishness of everything else.

Flatmate is an arse. Over the last couple of months he has written me a song, slept with me, given me the song, then slept with my (ex?) friend and then declared his impunity from responsibility for his actions by saying that I have been messing him about. True, I slept with him and then ended my relationship with the Doc, but not once have I ever promised him we would at any point get together. I wanted time and space to decide things, rather than feel pressurised into a doomed relationship. It would be a doomed relationship. And I've realised he was the catalyst for the end of the doctor and I, but in no way the cause. He's just a boy.
(There is more to this story, but it's all too rubbish to go into - I'm sorry, I'm a crap and lazy blogger - that's why there is no links to other superior sites on here).

My course is a farce. It is only good for eye rolling and sardonic stories in the pub. I might become a teacher, but I really hate kids. The four week placement I did in a school wasn't too great either: the teacher treated me like an unruly Sixth Former, remarking how young I look and he was surprised I had a degree. This was after I pointed out politely that when teaching the Slave Trade shouldn't it be "black people" rather than "white people and the blacks"? Same way saying "the gays" is a little offensive? He called me "Girly" - I really fucking hated him. He didn't have a degree, let alone two. Shit head.

The doctor has a new girl friend. She is really nice, clever, pretty, young, successful, rich, stylish, fit, sporty, done a bit of am-dram at RADA, was captain of the debating society and turned down Oxford as she felt it wouldn't be best suited to her needs. I'm sure she also loves kids, can cook, produces art that she auctions off for disabled kids, volunteered in some far flung place in an orphanage and has single handedly circumnavigated the globe twice on a pogo stick to alert people to the threat of climate change whilst raising money for the Polar Bears or whatever other zeitgeisty thing needs saving at the moment... But she didn't have time to tell me when I bumped into them at the pub - though if I hadn't wasted so much time telling her my name and she had paused for even less breaths, she probably could have. FYI: I wasn't wearing makeup, had on my beloved 'Belle and Sebastian' tee shirt on (that has discoloured underarms from a red jumper in the washer incident), my weird jeans that don't quite sit right and my hair was still a bit damp. I was in the Local under duress, rather than with glamorised intent... Perfect. I could see in the Doctor's eyes a bit of a smirk - it was justified, I was/am seething.

My parents. Where do I begin? I have spent the Easter Break with them. They are really maddening. I'm from a very small town in North Lancashire, but still my parents insist on having a country retreat. How decadent? How bourgeois? But the truth is my parents aren't that wealthy... My father works in local government, and my mother thinks work is what other people do: she has never even applied for a job. They live beyond there means, and my father has an evening job as a Taxi Driver, or goes on week long, paid medical trials. They stopped buying my sister and I anything other than food/ shelter etc when I was 14 and she was 15. Any clothes, outings etc were paid through washing dishes at the local nursing home. I left home when I was 17 years old, because I was just used to having my independence and had a boyfriend with a flat that was easier to live at than catch two buses to get to. They have contributed no money to my travelling or further education. They have never seen me graduate - as they were late to my under grad ceremony and I never invited them again. They are great people though, very good fun, if they aren't your parents. This weekend, my mother asked if I was okay for money, and when would I be paying them back? For what? I asked. My Dad told her that I had borrowed £900 from them? He has in the past also told her that he paid £3000 a year tuition fees for me (for the last 5 years) - also not true as I have always had fee paying bursaries (when questioned about it I said, I'll get you a refund then shall I?). He is again lying, the £900 it transpires is a fucking library fine from three years ago and subsequent court fines. BTW Mama, no I'm never okay for money, but none of this is exactly news.

All in all. I'm really angry at the moment. Stupidly angry. I feel like having a public tantrum. And I haven't even told you about my sister... Or about drunkenly kissing my gay female best friend... I'm staying in and listening to CDs from now on...