(no subject)

Me: OH GOD RESEARCH. ESSAYS. UNI. STRESS.
Me: I shall read something nice and soothing and undemanding in my breaks.
Me: Larklight! Yes! Completely safe! There is absolutely no risk that anything even more insidiously distracting could arise from this!

( Oops )

BODY = FIRED

I was stumped by my incredibly out-of-proportion response to the Grey's Anatomy finale (verdict: what the hell, Grey's. you are so dumped*. if you want me, I'll be in L.A., partying with Kate Walsh** and all of the other hot fucked-up people whom you have not yet made me detest) until I realised that there IS something that unfailingly gives me ridiculous reactions to fictional people, and that is HORMONES.

Sure enough, I am having one of my monthly overcome-by-everything, want-to-curl-up-and-never-move-again evenings. Which is a complete bitch in terms of timing, because I have huge amounts of research to finish before I can sleep, and tomorrow I have to get up and write an entire essay. Instead I am clinging to a cup of cinnamon tea and feeling pathetic, and playing Mika in a desperate attempt to up my mood.

You know I appreciate my boobs and swishy hips and everything, universe, but I didn't sign up for this crap!

* Now that I can think clearly, I think my problem was this: yes, I'm a cynic. I write cynical. I think cynical. I love the cynics on my telly. But at the same time, I expect a certain amount of happy-ending from my fiction, okay? That is what escapism is about.

** Jesus, that woman gets hotter every time I look at her. I cannot even deal with how hot she is.