I think I may actually be losing it
So I tried. I sat down with my essay plan, and I tried. I thought, how about some stream of consciousness stuff, just to get me flowing. Just to start me writing something, anything. Who knows, with all my notes and research in front of me, it may even be good.
Ahem. Or not. All it seems to have done is prove I'm finally on my way to insanity…
How is the city (and/or the country) represented in the European novel? Is the setting crucial to events and characterisation? (5000 words)
The notion of the city in Victorian literature was an interesting and complex one. The Victorian city was bloody marvellous. It was like Ė woo Ė amazing. And this essay is going to be amazing too Ė I mean, woo. How can it not be, quite honestly, I mean, Iím planning the bloody thing and I have all these little pieces of colour coded paper so I canít go wrong. Come on, woo indeed. La la la. Like Kylie. I could even do a little dance. Watch me dance. Isnít it great? Who needs critical opinion when you can just watch me dance in a swishy swishy skirt. I can jump up and down too, and twirl. Ooh look, Iím twirling, twirly twirly twirl. Like chocolate. Sweet like chocolate. Ooh, you give me so much joy. Sweet like chocolate boooy. God, how can this only be 139 words? I feel as if I have been writing this for all eternity and then some. Maybe this is enough. Can I stop now? I need tea. Tea and biscuits and someone nice to bring them to me. That rhymed. That amuses me. Is that sad? Yes, so sad I might cry, only then my makeup would run, and now that would be a pity.
Oh dear, Lizzie. Surely you canít be this desperate to not write this essay. Hmm, it would appear that I am. Oh dear indeed. MaybeÖ No, I donít know. Forget it. Raaaaaaaaaaaaar work! Come on! Get on with it girl! Write the damn essay! Maybe I should start again. Probably a good idea. Considering. I donít think old Pablo will appreciate this, seeing as he has no sense of humour apparent. Like the heir apparent, but less crowns and stuff. And no waving. Definitely no waving.
Iíve always thought the royal wave was a bit silly. I mean, if youíre going to wave at least look a bit enthusiastic about it. Iíd rather not be waved at if all the person was going to do was limply circle their hand from behind plate glass. Bit crap, to be honest. Bit of a disappointment. Luckily, Iím cynical anyway, so these sorts of things donít get to me. Does this bit count as social-historical content, do you think? Because itís that or literary theory, and to be honest with you literary theoryís a bit pants and I really canít be bothered with it. Leave it to Bennett and Royle. Olí Tin Foil, as theyíre affectionately known. Affectionately being a relative term, you understand. Having said that, they were quite useful last week. I said to them, youíve got to earn your keep around here. I said, this isnít good enough. Said I, this canít go on. Youíre malingering, thatís what. Hanging around on my bookshelf for a year and a half, giving cryptic hints and smiling smugly in your glossy cover. It canít, I told them. Show me what youíve got.
And then they took me by the hand, and led me through their essentialist mirror that represents the self and the world and I and place and the female form and nature and God and the whole of existence (possibly), and showed me all of this and this again, and did not offer me any conclusion but left me there to ramble unaided, and then I sat down and wrote my essay, and gave them a mention on the front page. Absent friends, I think is how I phrased it, because although the book was there they had floated off. I think they might have said their work was done. Watching the movie, the worldís gonna end, and there ainít no place for a boy and his friend-
-To go. Theyíre gone now. Itís just me and the yellow wallpaper. (I chose it though, so I canít use it as a tool of oppression.) I like yellow. Itís sunny and happy, even when the sun isnít shining. Like now. Efilís God is dogís life backward. I never realised that. I just thought the Eels had got all religious cult-esque on me. Itís a bit of a relief. Also a good song. Efil. Ethel addressed by a five year old. ĎAuntie Ehhhfil?í Piss off you little bugger. Auntieís a mad bitter old woman with far too many cats. Hates children. If witches existed, sheíd be one. 741 words. Wow. Funny what happens in the name of procrastination.