now i've just got the solzhenitsyn, the pratchett and the burdett to read. the last two are almost finished, so i could probably read them tonight. i went to the library and borrowed boris pasternak's doctor zhivago, and i've got to re-read the bell jar (sylvia plath) and a thousand splendid suns (khaled hosseini) for possible english coursework ideas.
i'm tired lately perhaps due to the new diet, and the weather. and i never feel like very much at all when it's cold and grey. i feel cold and grey, i suppose. i've been feeling strange this past week. i want to say disconnected but there's enough about me that's clichéd so i won't. i often wonder why i haven't made a screenplay of my life. or written about it in a medium that isn't this, or xanga, or whatever other places on the internet i like to purge my feelings into. perhaps it would be boringly obvious - my life is not interesting, as such. my life is not an exciting deviation. i'm not remarkable. i'm like any other kid whose parents aren't together because their dad shacked up with his secretary, or any other teenager who carves their arm into a mess, or any other girl with no self-esteem and attempting to recover from an eating disorder, or any other young person in britain who drinks too much, too often. i am not special. i'm almost painfully typical. isn't that funny though? i think it's absolutely hilarious, personally. in all my 'weirdness', in all the things that were supposed to make me different, i'm exactly the same as a million other people. it's so fucking funny that i forgot to laugh.
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