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Queer Visitors.

Train delayed due to fault on line outside Paisley. No surprises there.

Being pinioned into my seat by a gaggle of enormous and very chatty Girl Scouts from Oklahoma? Unusual.

So, this is probably the last entry I'll make from the Glasgow University Library, otherwise known as the Towering Bastard of Knowledge. I'll miss it.

I just came up here to print out the confirmation email from the robemakers, but felt a little wave of valedictory sadness as I lumbered up the infamous stairs. Has it really been four years? Good grief.

T minus one week for the House of Charlotte!

Liminal Zoned Out.

Upheaval makes me snappy and disagreeable. I've been freaking out about the next few months lately, because it's one of those transitional periods. Michael and I are moving, but we haven't had much luck so far in looking for a flat; my parents are moving, but they don't know where to go; teacher training starts in August, and I'm nervous about it. 

Then there's the wait for my degree results, which has made me uncharacteristically superstitious. While a rational part of me knows I've done enough to at least pass, I don't want to throw out any of my notes yet just in case. Similarly, I had a lurch of dread in my stomach when I was enrolling for graduation - it feels like tempting fate, enrolling to graduate when you can't be sure you've passed. I hate pomp and ceremony as it is, and I would have graduated in absentia if my parents didn't insist that I went the whole hog, so I'm not looking forward to the big day.

Speaking of big days, Michael posted a picture from a friend's wedding we recently attended. It's actually the first wedding I've ever attended, and despite my earlier statement about not liking big official dos, it was a lovely ceremony and reception. Anyway, in the photo Michael posted, he looked fine but I looked like a drunken, melting waxwork, so to redress the balance here is a picture which is a little more flattering to me than it is to him!

While we were down in Manchester, we met up with shootempolitely and Seth, with whom we caught a screening of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? at the cinema in the Printworks. I actually really like Manchester as a city in general, but I was slightly bewildered by the Printworks, a dark and airy indoor-outdoor entertainment complex with some sort of fascination with neon bees. 

You know what I've discovered recently? These yoghurts. They're like crack.

By the way, thanks for the comments on my last entry - we reported the incident to the school, who will hopefully take appropriate action. I'm working with the same school again on Tuesday, though, which I'm not looking forward to.
Five down, one to go. It was the turn of my BFF Shakespeare today, which was the one chance to rest on my laurels a bit studywise. I wrote loads and loads of admittedly wanky stuff for the first two questions, and then realised I only had about 40 minutes to plan and write the final one, but I managed to rustle up an argument. 

It sounds odd, but I'm really looking forward to doing some proper cooking when the exams are over, because then I will not feel guilty about wasting valuable study time for frivolities like breathing or sleeping, let alone pottering about in the kitchen and cleaning up afterwards. Hooray for the domestic sphere!

While I'm doing all this navel-gazing over here, it's becoming increasingly clear why I stopped wanting to update my Livejournal before. I know it's really stupid, but I get quite self-conscious and uncomfortable - there are so many people on my friends list with all sorts of tastes and different sense of humour that I don't really know who I'm addressing with these posts. As a journal, I can't even say it's for myself in a few years time because I don't like reading back over it. I know that's something a lot of you guys will agree with, but it's something that bothers me; I'm not a natural writer. I get cripplingly embarrassed about the act of writing. Michael came and sat beside a moment ago, and I had to pull up a different screen because I just can't type in front of him. It takes me ages to write anything on the computer, because I just sit and graze over what I've just written, delete it and then try again. Sometimes it's trying to make my point clearer, sometimes it's trying to sound less like a prat.

That's another thing; I feel awkward about writing here because I hate coming across like I live up my own navel, but at the same time I want to do more than just posting Youtube videos and doing memes all the time. At the same time, I refrain from posting anything really personal, and I don't want to bore people with the minutiae of my day. The only thing left is transcribing little bits from my brain's running commentary, and quite often I hate my brain for being a pretentious arse and talking a load of shite.

Love is the Light Inside Your Heart.

It's fascinating, the lengths you go to when you're procrastinating. TV Tropes, a Wiki cataloging all sorts of literary and media devices is my latest favourite distraction, although trusty old Wikipedia itself never lets me down when I feel the urge to look at different sorts of fruit or find out what the "bo-" in Botox stands for (botulinum, fact fans).

On today's Wiki cruise, I found out that I have recently worked at the primary school formerly attended by comics legend Grant Morrison, whose series The Invisibles I really want to read. I might pick up the trades once we've moved to our new flat, so I'm not just replacing all the stuff we need to clear out.

Meme of the day: post a Youtube video that reminds you of your childhood.

Here is inspirational Disney ballad pastiche "Love is the Light Inside Your Heart" as performed by Rickie Lee Jones in the role of the Blue Fairy in Filmation's Pinocchio and the Emperor of the Night. The video was a favourite of mine as a kid, despite (or perhaps because of) the nightmare-inducing, truly disturbing elements. Pinocchio ends up drunk and hallucinating in an underground carnival of evil, is forced to perform a somewhat inappropriate song and dance number by Kid Creole and the Coconuts, accompanied his young lady friend who has been turned into a puppet while a badger and monkey in drag provide back-up, and eventually faces up to SATAN. Yeah.

Anyway, the rest of the songs are actually very good considering the obvious low budget hastiness of the project, but I fell in love with RLJ's voice after hearing this number, bizarrely cast as she is. I'll have her heroin-streaked admonition of "don't throw it away" haunting my sleep tonight.

Voice Post:

165K 0:49
“Hello everyone! This is Callum. Er, I've been challenged by <lj user="abi_w"> to make a voice post, so if none of you have listened to my gloriously wonderful podcasts with Michael then... well, first and foremost you've been missing out, and secondly you probably won't be familiar with my dulcet tones. So, um, yeah! This is what I sound like. I've not got a very strong Scottish accent, so sorry to disappoint you if that's what you were expecting. And, um, as I said, everyone's been doing it - <lj user="abi_w"> recorded her voice post before, and <lj user="morganology"> and <lj user="winterwooskie2"> and <lj user="erlking"> has done heaps of them recently so I thought I'd keep up with the Joneses and, er, yeah. Post my voice. So there you go, exciting stuff for you. See you later!”

Transcribed by: musicallum
We went to see SYT's two-part production of His Dark Materials at the Citz over the last couple of nights. I was quite impressed with how they pulled it off, especially part one - the young actors who played Lyra and Pantalaimon were excellent. The second Lord Asriel was very good too, but caused a bit of Livejournal-related cognitive dissonance - he looked a bit like shootempolitely but, being from Labrador, sounded rather like erlking. I was surprised at how well the big, spectacular set pieces worked on a modest budget, and the costumes were pretty fab. With that said, the sight of a choir of 12-18 year old witches in spangly black dresses singing about the destruction of the Church and the death of God to a backing track that sounded like whooping birds was somewhat alarming. I think a granny sitting in front of us nearly died a few times.

In related news, the five minute preview from Comic Con has convinced me that the film adaptation is in safe hands. Nicole Kidman is perfect for Mrs Coulter, and what a treat of a role that must be to play.

I hate writing.

My writing professor said "I hate writing more than anything in the world. It's my least favourite thing." and I asked him, "why are you a writer?" He said "because I love having written. That's the best thing in the world." 

That's definitely how I feel. So it's sort of like being an alcoholic in reverse, where you have to endure the hangover to get to the being-drunk that you so enjoy. Hate writing, love having written.

Wise words from the rather fanciable Brian K. Vaughan. I've raved enough about Runaways, but I'm working my way through Y: The Last Man which is also fantastic. I'm in a real comics mood; the Fables paperbacks have been eyeing up my wallet, and I would be thrilled if Santa slipped this particular sable under the tree for me.

One week to go until The Amazing Adventures of Luna Lovegood Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, which we hope to catch at the IMAX - OMGWTFBBQ 3D CGI FTW LGBT LOL!  Stardust and The Golden Compass/Northern Lights are still to come, so this is shaping up to be the year of fantasy children's fiction squee at the cinema.

Today I saw the dark-haired Colin/Justin in the Somerfield on Byres Road. I managed not to throw tomatoes, possibly because he is not as insufferable as the blonde one.

God, my Livejournal is disjointed. My actual, proper writing isn't as ADD as this, by the way. Believe it or not, I can occasionally sustain a train of thought beyond a paragraph. You may have guessed that I don't have much worth writing about in my life at the moment. While Michael's been at work, I've been looking after the flat and cleaning things, or going out for walks. I've been a bit of a hermit. It feels like I have so much to sort out between uni work, our PGCEs and financial stuff, and I've been sitting around trying to work through it.  It's all going at a glacial pace. It's occurred to me that I function much better under some degree of pressure; when I don't have a routine my mind goes to the dogs and I end up not taking proper care of myself. I've started back at the Oxfam bookshop to try and get myself into gear.

Note to self: Stockport is not in Sweden. 

FAO mikeisnotatest and other Amy Winehouse fans - please avoid the Jay-Z and Pharoahe Monch "remix"/butchering of Rehab, because it is upsetting, despite namechecking Britney. Seriously, Wine'owws, are you on crack? O WATE.

Is it weird that when she sings "Mr Hathaway", I visualise not Donny Hathaway but Anne Hathaway in Charlie Chaplin-drag? Yeah, I thought so.

Some of you know I am quite fond of the Summer Fruits variety of Robinsons Fruit and Barley. Noting that my current bottle was running low, I went to Somerfields to pick another one up along with some food shopping. After waiting patiently for a woman with a large trolley who was blocking the aisle as she deliberated between the various cola options, I came to find that there were absolutely no bottles of Summer Fruits Fruit and Barley. I may have made a noise aimed halfway between exasperation and ironic despair.

Looking around for a substitute, I picked up a bottle of Robinsons High Juice, which claims to be 50% fruit juice. As for the rest, I presume 49% is sugar and 1% is "laughter". It looked okay; the whole shebang seemed to be marketed as squash for grown-ups, and the bottle was somewhat more aesthetically pleasing than the Fruit and Barley bottle. The flavour? According to the label, apple, strawberry, rasberry and cherry. "Why not live life on the edge and try this slightly different fruit-based concentrate?", I thought. With that, I dawled up to the cash register.

Last night the time came to try my new purchase. How would it taste? Would my beloved Fruit and Barley be usurped by this young upstart of a cordial? In my slightly drunken state, I may not have quite observed the recommended guideline of diluting one part High Juice to four parts water. The concentrate looked kinda weak, so I thought I'd chance it with about a third. As I say, living life on the edge. Then, finally, I drank.

I grimaced. The initial mouthful was watery and seemed tasteless in spite of my generous measurement. Then came the aftertaste, which chilled me to the bone and sobered me up like a slap in the face while walking in the rain and eating a bacon roll. My mouth felt like an orchard had exploded in it, or that perhaps a sugary variation of one of those weird Spanish festivals where they throw tomatoes at each other. "Too much churry!"I exclaimed to nobody in particular. Clearly I wasn't that sober by that point, because I giggled at myself for about 2 minutes afterwards.

I am lame.

EDIT: While I'm on a Tori Amos youtube tip, I really like this performance of Bouncing Off Clouds.