I've been forcing myself to write poetry all day, so bear with me.
Last proper entry on here - bit grim? Thought so. My apologies. Let's just say, since then, things are improving.. I didn't even panic today with one day to face up to the fact that I've done less than one week of work for the assignment due on Friday.. Still. Poetry. What's it all about, eh? Well, drunk Irish men and my Grandad, actually, but they're both stories to be told with the luxury of a computer, or some qwerty setup, at least. I am in fact typing this in on my bloody mobile, which is held together with a complex assembly of finger and masking tape. It's unique, I'll allow. So. Poetry. Yeah. The word makes me want to smash things. That's bad, isn't it. Lets not dwell.
What can I update you on? I've been to see some kind of tribute act that never was, full of prancers, everyone knew each other, everyone a performer. Some I've seen before. Quite a tight group. But it was funny, and even though the cider has given me stomach ache, and Fizz chewed up my headphones while we were out, I'm glad we went. A fair few of the people there are part of a trapeze group that I really ought to get involved in, and stop grumping about being an outsider. Y'know, people that'll appreciate the hair dye dilemmas (can you believe, my mother laughed at me when I said I was nearly 26 and still debating whether to dye my hair again) and all that shit. Or not. The trapeze stuff looked fun, anyway, last time I watched those people doing that stuff. Except Richard the Gymnast will kick arse at it and make me cross. Which brings me to my next point - I need some drumkit in my life. That's right. The eldest Jordan has no rhythm! I don't know why. He can dance well enough. So I have one chance to excel where he cannot. Other than being able to flex both wrists and straighten both little fingers, neither of which I really consider true talents; more a result of my not knackering myself in my earlier years. The hibernation years, we'll call them. So I'm calling all egg eaters to save their egg boxes for me. Can't have the neighbours putting a stop to my superiority plans. I will reign supreme! Also, I have visions of a cute sibling drum duet. A bit of QOTSA, the Dave Grohl era, oh yes. And whatever else. The sibling doesn't know yet.
Yes, well. Bit tipsy, we are. Sleep we shall. Wish me luck for poetry TMA 3, Y'all, yo?