None.

I'm missing something and I'm not sure what it is. Was it that feeling, at 4am of looking into the eyes of someone that understood me? It's that euphoria - of being high on valium at 6pm in Paris, with that beautiful girl in the bathtub, asking me to join her. I wish I had. I feel like there is one person in the world who I could of fallen in love with, and I can't bear to say her name aloud. I feel a tantrum coming on. 'Angry Inch'/Hedwig and the Angry Inch, is quite possibly one of the best songs ever written, and Hedwig isn't real. I could watch that film every day.

I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me...

Right now I am listening to 'Shadows' by Warpaint - it's so beautiful it's sort of sick actually.

I don't think 'romantic love' actually exists. Our need to posess someone, completely, confuses us. It's a compulsion, not an actuality - the lines are diluted by sex.

I want to do a PHD and specialise in Gender/Queer Theory. I want to write a new sort of Literary Theory - I want to change the fucking world.

I am prone to short, sporadic, intense bouts of depression which disappear as soon as they come and are triggered by nothing.

I'm involved with an eighteen year old boy at the moment. Up until November, I was pretty certain that I would never have a female/male relationship again, but he changed my mind. He makes me laugh, and forget that anything is serious. And I think soon we'll either be officially together, or just decide to stay friends. It's a grey area right now and I can't do things like that - I'm an 'allornothing' type.

I don't get jealous.

When I am out at a club with a group of people, I wander off. I'm not being rude, I just like to walk around on my own for a while. Most of the time I don't even realise I'm doing it.

I'm never going to get married, which means that my Father will never walk anyone down the aisle.

My Father is my world - he is the most intelligent, interesting, passionate man in my life and without him, I would be a completely different person.

I have known my Best Friend for seventeen years, and I'm twenty one.

I get a real sense of mild euphoria when I've got a pile of clean washing in my hands.

I am obsessed with Angela Carter - her writing is like a feeling exploding.

I am bored of this.

VikingFem

This was mooched from someone on Deviant Art - I can't remember who. This is me stating that it is not mine: it is very much stolen, and lovely in that.

Your Exam will begin in 5 minutes...

Oh I know, people think I'm mad..
I enjoy exams. The build up is dull: nobody goes out, everyone's in that snappy mood...the kill-joy mood. But the actual exam is a different story...

It is a test.

Essentially, on an English Exam paper there is one question that every first, second and third year student is being asked:

Have you seen something that nobody else has seen?

An examiner is probably a middle-aged, heterosexual, white, British male. He doesn't give a fuck about my post-feminist agenda, my gender politics... he doesn't give a fuck that I am having a bad day, or that I found the material boring or repetitive. He wants to read a sentence and see something he hasn't seen. And that's why an Exam is fun (correct:fun).

An Exam is your chance to give a massive 'fuck you' or a huge french kiss to that bastard who's already bored when he's reading your name (and don't believe they don't uncurl those little dog-eared privacy folds at the corners, because he does. I would and you would).

So mess with him. Have fun. And if you fail, fuck it.

(edit)- (ps)- If you didn't read the fucking book, you really are the idiot he's expecting you to be.

Can I smell cigarettes?

I can definitely smell cigarettes, because my jumper, hair, blanket and attic bedroom generally reek of them. Saying this, I will now light a cigarette.

I want to quit - of course, but they are my most favourite vice. My favourite for one reason - you cannot articulate why a cigarette is enjoyable. There's no high, no dip into euphoria... not even a gentle diazapam-effect of lulling you into comfort. They're just habit, and they're mine. And I don't give a fuck.

I smoke when I write, when I think, when I work - so today about 20 cigarette butts are in my ashtray (a pop can)... but my Essay is becoming solidified, so it's a sensible trade.

It's so hilarious that Bill Hicks didn't die of lung cancer.

Angela Carter: Revelations in Drag

I'm a Gender Studies student, which means, by extension that I am the following: a lesbian, feminist, man in drag, pussy coveter, Winterson-worshipper, book sniffer, pot smoker, dungaree-wearer.. in short, I am my course. So it's wrong now to adhere to this stereotypical ascension, nevertheless I am compelled to confine.

Angela Carter was a faceless fictition for me, that is until 'The Passion of New Eve' was set on my 'Writing on the Body' module this year. I'm in ecstacy: the sick, sordid, awfully pretentious type of love. This book was described as 'pyrotechnic', at least Carter's writing style was, and this is the perfect inscription. It details the story of Evelyn, a ferociously sexual and (obviously) sexually deviant male, who has an enforced sex change and is thrown into the obliqueness of life as a woman. I'm not a professional blurb writer so I'll try to stop digressing, but needless to say it is a world of exploding sexual vision, an exploration of the body as an intellectual extension: it's the mothership of feminist fantasy fiction. Carter is the thinking woman's Winterson.