I'm Not Asleep, My Eyes Are Just Closed

I guess I prefer Richard Madden as King in the North rather than Prince Charming. He has a more real, warm edge to him as Robb Stark as compared to the alarmingly polished 'Kit' (how ironic this name is), but either way, he is still an astonishingly handsome man.

For many years, I have been deluding myself into thinking that I no longer spend as much money on buying books like I used to. One, because I no longer trawl through book websites looking for the next thing to read; and two, because I have not been stalking any of of my favourite authors for new releases. I have a few books strewn about the place that I started reading, but have not finished, which is something I rarely do. And equally, I have books which I know I have finished, but I can't remember anything about the plot or characters or even how it ended. However, in my periodic bouts of cleaning and organsing, I went through my book receipts for the past 2 years which I keep in a file on the off chance my tax claims are audited. It seems that I have, on average, been buying 2 books every month. Most are works of fiction, one or two are reference books for my studies. And here I was deluding myself into thinking that it's okay buying expensive face creams and splashing o

Many, many years ago, when I was still young and starry-eyed I dreamed of becoming an author. The type of author who wrote the books that I loved. The kind of author I fiercely admired. But then other stuff happened, and reality set in. Even if I did do a different course at university, even if I did work in something related to writing i.e. journalism, editing, etc, I'd never really have a talent for writing the kind of books I wanted to write. I can't even tell a story or a joke verbally much less make a coherent story last 300 plus pages. At some point I thought, maybe if I had enough life experience, then I'd have something to write about. (Yeah, life experience, what is that anyway?) Then I realised, there was nothing unique about my existence to make it worth writing about, and certainly not special enough for anyone to invest money in it. Sure, maybe my life is interesting to me sometimes, or to certain relatives and friends, but one cannot base a career on that. At

It's funny how looking at some things make me inexplicably happy. I'm looking at a picture of him grinning and I'm grinning myself. I can't even remember how or when I developed a crush on him. I mean, he wasn't even my favourite *NSYNC-er back in *NSYNC's heyday - I thought JC Chasez was too cheesy, too earnest, too typical of the blue-eyed, all-American boy bander to be attractive to me. I preferred Chris Kirkpatrick with his dark eyes, dark hair, scowly face, ripping sarcastic comments but surprise, surprise, oh so angelic voice. At some point in the last month, I was hit by a bout of nostalgia and spent my time trawling through You Tube and listening to my old records and BAM! It hit me - JC Chasez is frikking hot. Like pour cold water on me now kind of hot. Even hotter when he had the longer curls instead of that awful crew-cut military do in the beginning of his career. He is sex on legs, and I bet he knows it. Ok, so he's less sexy now but he

Weddings can be nice events. Weddings can leave you with a nice warm 'awww' feeling. I enjoy a well edited slide show presentation of the happy couple throughout their lives as much as the next person. (Key phrase here is well edited, people). But weddings can leave me feeling a little blue. Especially when you're there on your own. And when the guy next to you at the dinner table asks you why you're not married yet. And asks old how you are. Ffffffffuuuuuuu----

I haven't posted ANYTHING in a while. Well, that's what happens when Facebook gives you the opportunity to bleat whatever shit you have in your head without the need to form proper sentences. Also, I haven't really had the inclination to write anything. There's a scale to these things. Sometimes frustration and anger inspires you to write and write. But there comes a point where your frustration wearies you to the point of numbness - where writing does nothing but dig up all your problems for you to sniff over. So, I shut up. Because to write about it became like complaining and I wasn't getting anywhere with it. Also before that I dropped into a misery-hole of the mind where no creativity came forth and any energy I had was put into getting up every day, putting a smile on my face and going to work and doing what one has to do every day to be human. I also decide one day to not be so introspective about everything. I tend to direct energy inward (o gawd, I sound