Conscience In The Gutter

In patches for over a year Leanne has repeatedly infiltrated my thoughts, pity that it’s taken me that long give up on her. After several pseudo dates, even Forrest Gump and a sexy meal couldn’t induce a single kiss, so I’ve accepted that nothing’s going to happen. A few weeks ago I was stuck between failure (which isn’t flattering) and relief (that I’m not kidding myself on any more). Although on the good side I can officially say and do anything to her without worrying if it looks or sounds cool.

On the good hand Onion Terror managed to grab an award at this year’s Fudgees; Best Punk Band, which is ace because we’re not even punk, but shit because almost all the other bands in the category had split up. Lost out on Best Performance by one vote, Gutted, although it still called for a big celebration. The 10 Easy Wishes gig a week later was also a night to remember, but that’s a completely different story involving profuse levels of alcohol and cat food, kinky.

The observation on humanity today is the personal space that dominates everything these days. Mobile phones and music players are just two of the things that ensure everyone has there own private area, detached from everyone else’s. I was on a packed bus the other day and between tracks on my MP3 player I couldn’t hear a single conversation around me; kind of worrying when we’re supposed to be a civilised society.

I’ve also managed to diagnose myself with constant tiredness. No matter where I am or what I’m doing all I want to do is fall asleep. Most weekdays I have a siesta, and I’m even missing lectures because I can’t get out of bed. The worst thing is, my days aren’t busier than they were last month. I can only hope that this is a phase, because the last thing I want to be is a human sloth, although going to the toilet once a week to crap out most of my body weight does sound appealing. Unfortunately in a year, an average person uses the toilet 2,500 times.