You are my sweetest downfall.

This is getting out of hand. Some smoke. I drink Diet Coke.

I cannot stop. Today I took note... it's gotten to the six cans a day stage.

I get a tenner a day for lunch from my loving mother (until such time as I get my first pay lodgement). 60% of that goes on Diet Coke, 20% on buses... which leaves me two euro for food. Which does me. Packet of skips and a Wispa... sorted. But alas, this lacks a key element of eating... nutrition.

I calculated it out today. At this rate, I'll be spending over two grand a year on DIET COKE. I'm Diet Coke-ing myself out of house and home. This time next year, I'll be living on the street, toothless, after my beloved enamel gives up the ghost because it just CANNOT TAKE THE ACID EROSION ANYMORE. I'll be the poster girl for capitalism gone wrong.

I'll drop out of college because it's eating into my Diet Coke consumption time. Maybe I'll sell my body to the corporation for experiments in exchange for unlimited beverage.

"Thou shalt not buy Coca Cola products" should continue as "for thou shalt end up homeless, twitching and stump-mouthed".

The MNC's bitch.

When did it become this way?!

Four cans a day this week. Three cans next. Two will be my minimum, but by then I'll be human.

Say NO to Diet Coke.*




* (on the off chance that one of their lawyers reads this and takes me for everything I'm worth, allow me to note that I think Diet Coke is rather yummy)

Ever get the feeling...

... that someone's watching your life pan out, and laughing at your expense? I'm really starting to believe that may be the case.

So, me being Maeve, I was all cosy watching Canada's Next Top Model, when all of a sudden, I got a mad craving for Diet Coke. This is highly regular, aforementioned craving happens most evenings around the 8.30pm mark. So, as Diet Coke addicts are wont to do, I decided to trot on down to the local Centra, where they know the combined price of a packet of Skips and a Diet Coke off by heart from my nightly expeditions (€1.64, by the by). As I approached the Centra, iPod blaring in my ears, I crossed the road, only dying for my fix. Now, have you ever noticed the way the kerb dips where you step onto it? Well I stepped onto the kerb, not picking my feet up because as far as I knew,I was stepping on to the flat bit. However, there was a weed blocking my view, so I was unaware I was actually stepping onto THE DREADED SLOPING BIT.

And so, I tripped. Utterly. I also fell at the feet of two 14-15 year olds... mortifying. "Ehhhh... y'aaaaalright?" Yes. Just say yes. This needn't be any more difficult than it has to be.

So, after a sleepless night, ridiculous pain and endless frustration, a trip to the A&E was in order. Thanks to the mother's job in the Mater and a sneaky bit of nepotism, I was only waiting about 10 minutes before I got an x-ray.

Anyway, turns out I have a broken elbow, or a "fractured radial head" in fancier lingo. I'm due to start work on Saturday, in a job I've fought tooth and nail to get, so of COURSE I broke my elbow this week. What makes it even sweeter is that it's my first broken bone. Ever. Nice sling, though.

Someone's definitely taking the piss.

I am vair pleased.

After a very extended hiatus of messiness, everything is now finally beginning to fall back into place.

Long overdue.

Since mid-June, when my lack of job in Hawaii was causing me all sorts of upset, I have been plagued by financial woes. I came back, figuring that nothing could POSSIBLY be as hard as job hunting in Hawaii... and oh, how wrong I was. I have since spent my Irish summer lazing, handing out CVs, going for failed job trials (see earlier post, The Great Employment Hurdle), interviewing (and doing badly) and stressing.

Today I have finally managed to procure employment. Officially. I am now a sales assistant for O2, thank you vair much.

With this new employment, I can now afford to:
- Move in with Christina and Bernie on Collins Avenue. About 3 doors down from DCU. No more forced inflicting myself on other people! Yay!
- GO SHOPPING. Oh my god, the clothes. Think of the clothes!
- Go on the Broadway trip. Eeeeee!
- Officially sign myself up for Vancouver 2009.
- Pay off my looming credit card debt.

Sweeeeet.

Also I've just discovered a new series, 90210. I watched it on a recommendation from a friend. Download it, it's fun!
Friday Night Lights is being renewed for a third season. The world is saved! And Private Practice has also apparently been rescued from the chop.
Grey's is back soon enough...
...as is Heroes.
Lost isn't back til February. (yes I did look all these up at once...)
I love September. I think it's my favourite month. Back to DCU, and all my shows come back... what more could I want?!



... but the 3rd ep of ANTM Cycle 11 isn't up on alluc.org yet. Freaked.

I accept...

... that sitting in listening to Sade is punishable by embarrassing geek status, but doesn't this song just bring you warm, fuzzy feelings inside usually reserved for a log fire, a cup of tea, a blanket and a comfy armchair in winter?

Things I like.

There I was, revelling in my new typing joy (I can do this --->  with my keyboard ALONE now), chuckling away to myself and generally allowing myself some merriment, when I thought, wow, this symbolic typing malark is simply spiffy. Then I thought, this is dreadfully sad. I'm getting JOY from this. Then I thought, feck it, no it's not sad.

My final thought on the matter is that it definitely is sad, but no sadder than my usual brand of sad.

Then I got to thinking, I really do spend a highly unhealthy amount of time basking in the glow of embarrassingly uncool things, or things that equate to general social reclusiveness or emotional instability (crying at a lion reunion? anyone?). Oh well, sure don't we all? So I decided to list all the things that either tickle me pink or fill me with happy gold dust. Seeing as I recently renovated my Bebo and deleted my lengthy blurbs, I no longer have a big long list of the things I like staring me in the face every day. It's not half bad, having a gander at them every so often. Documented version plz. And I like making lists, me.

My sparkles:

• Replacing Fs with PHs.

• Spelling "skillz" with a "z"

• People falling over. Funniest thing ever.

• I've recently been shown that I'm not totally averse to the humour in pretend farts.

• Popular reruns. 

• Regina Spektor... and phucking proud. Lyrical bleedin' genius.

• Randomly hearing a line in a song I love, even if it doesn't mean anything to me, and having it run through my head all day. Today it's "Forever is our today". ♥

• Sylvia Plath poems. Ok, I am definitely not a poetry expert by any stretch of the imagination, and her stuff is shockingly depressing, but it's depressing... nice. Wordy nice.

• Empathy. My favourite favourite thing is when someone knows exactly what you're thinking, good or bad, without you even hinting. Especially if it's really obscure.

• A nice cup of tea. Or five.

• Spar rolls with MILLIONS of mayo. Heart attack waiting to happen... but it's worth it.

• The idea of cow tipping. 

• Catching the giggles at really inappropriate moments. The more people involved, and the more inappropriate the situation, the better.

• My Special Pillow.

• Flipping the pillow over to the cold side in the morning and going back to sleep. Mmmmm.

• Wayfarers. I recently acquired a turquoise pair and a red pair within two days of each other. Best week of my life. (Clearly phakes. What am I, rich or something?)

• Speculating about people. Fun!

• ... and getting it right.

• Walking down the South Kihei Road (Maui's southwest coast) for 3 hours a day...

• ... and trying to get the same effect on the Malahide/Portmarnock Coast Road. Not happening, love.

• Writing so I can blabber on about nothing without annoying anyone.

• Laughing lots. Joyjoyjoy. 

• 90's nostalgia.

• 80's nostalgia, and maintaining I'm an 80's kid even though I was born in 1989 and definitely can't remember a second of the decade.

• Attempting gymnastics... with sexy results. *ping* ...(bit of a gleam off my teeth there, that's how smooth it is)

• Gratuitously sad movies that do exactly what they aim for and make sad blubbering eejits out of us otherwise controlled (swear) suffragettes. 

• Clothes. Clothes. Clothes. (I don't really get the whole shoe and bag obsession, look at all the lovely lovely clothes!) At the moment it's those checked manshirts. I gotta get me one of those.

• Lying awake in bed, with my really feathery duvet, when it's raining out and feeling very snuggly indeed. And yes I did just use the word "snuggly". It's fitting. (Altogether now, "that's SCHAAAADENFREUDE...")

Lists are fun.

Communication works for those who work at it.

People say you realise a lot about yourself when you come to college. I somewhat doubted the validity of that general, sweeping declaration before I started myself, thinking that an 18 year old must have themselves pretty sussed, but I think I learned more about myself in the last year than I did in the eighteen before that. Some things were minor, like the fact that I actually prefer Diet Coke to regular Coke. Some were completely circumstantial, such as the discovery that I am quite willing to live as a nomad, should the situation arise. Some I kind of knew already, and some completely changed the way I observe my own behaviour.

Going in, studying Communications, I hoped I had a solid enough grasp on the English language to get by in my course. I knew my course content was going to be very articulate in parts, so when I was doing my Leaving Cert I focused on English to give myself a bit of a headstart for the next year. I went in to college confident in my ability, believing I had my head firmly screwed on and I would only build my knowledge base with more skills and information, rather than change what I thought I already knew.

This brings me nicely on to my biggest learning curve. I may have spent the two years before college honing my vocabulary and syntax, and it has served me well. I haven't had much trouble with the Communications course, but what came as a shock to me is that outside the lecture hall, I am the worst communicator ever. I always have been, I just didn't notice. I have also found that the older I've gotten, and the more words I've learned, the harder it is for me to know what to say.

Take, for example, my classes. My written assignments are only delightful, and while the idea of doing them may appeal to me as pulling my own teeth would, they're comfortable. I can do them. But presentations are another story. I know what I want to say, I just can't get it out without shaking or stuttering. I also come across either really stupid or really self-assured and arrogant in general public speking scenarios. I just cannot present myself as a remotely acceptable human being. Same goes for interviews. I'm an absolute nervous wreck.

It's pretty detrimental sometimes. Things that should be said, aren't. When I started writing this post, I searched the internet for an apt quote on communication for the title (due to my lack of quote knowledge off the top of my head, shoot me), and on the way I found one by Robert Frost. He said "Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half have nothing to say and keep on saying it". Over the course of the year, I have found I am both of those people. I go on about pretty much nothing most of the time, but when I really need to say something, it's on the tip of my tongue, yet never gets said.

I suppose I kind of hope that these things will speak for themselves.

I should probably work on that.









Blogs are great. You can go on about yourself for ages, no one tells you to shut up, and you know you're not boring anyone because if they're bored, all they have to do is stop reading. Yaaaay.

Bummer.

I need to write something. I am in the mood to write.

Nothing is coming to mind. I think this is my fifth attempt at writing in this box. The other stuff I wrote was there for the sake of writing.

The truth shall set me free, so here goes:

I am decidedly uninspired. I'm in writing mode, but nothing's happening in the head. It's windy in there.

FREAKED.

A Whopping Rediscovery

What a choon.

What better thing to do of a Tuesday than warble about one's pet rat?

When you believe in things you don't understand, then you suffer... superstition ain't the way

The other day, I slept in my friend's house. I had a horrible dream that night, and ended up waking up with palpitations (which may have had more to do with the drink, but anyway). It was only the second time that month that I'd had a bad dream, the time before that being when I stayed in another friend's house. When my friend woke up, she said that she often had odd dreams when she was away from home as well.

My theory on why this always happens to me when I stay out is because I don't have my trusty dreamcatcher. It's kind of a cream suede circle supported by a thread web, with a bead in the middle. Underneath the circle, a few feathers hang down on suede strings. The legend that surrounds the dreamcatcher states that all the nightmares entering your room are caught by the web in the middle and stored in the bead, and all the nice dreams of bunnies and clouds are passed through by the feathers, so every night you're guaranteed visions of sugarplums.

Generally speaking, I would be the type of person to think "you're relying on a piece of string and some feathers for a peaceful sleep... get help". Believing in the power of inanimate objects, or weird rituals, to influence the course of your life has always seemed a bit far-fetched to me. Will crossing your fingers really help you win the lottery? Is seven years of peril really guaranteed after you've clumsily knocked your make-up mirror off your dressing table? The answer, I would generally say, is no.

Last night, when I was thinking about my dreamcatcher's role in warding off bad dreams when I'm at home, I realised that even the most cynical person probably has some little superstitious thing they always do. Think dreamcatchers are a load of crap? Chances are you knock on wood, afraid of jinxing your luck. I know I still try to avoid the little lines between the slabs in the footpath.

It's weird though, isn't it? Who decided that knocking on wood would save them from whatever devastating circumstance they were talking about? And since when has breaking mirrors brought seven years bad luck? Okay, I can see how it could be unlucky in the short term, it's highly probable that you're about to get a shard of glass to the foot, but isn't seven years a bit much? Do very superstitious people live in fear for the rest of the time? If you break another mirror during your seven year sentence, will the universe implode?

I remember hearing somewhere that superstition lies in the space between what we can control and what we can't. When I think about it, I'm pretty sure that it was good old Meredith Grey waxing lyrical over the opening credits of Grey's Anatomy. I'm also pretty sure that the great Philosopher Grey was right again. I suppose no one really has that much control over what course their life takes. No matter how well you plan out every detail, there's always an unforeseen spanner waiting to be thrown into the works. With a lifetime's worth of cock-ups under our belts and burned into memory, we kind of accept that we always have to play it by ear, and fate seems to be in the driving seat. That's where superstition comes in. We can control our own behaviour, so we do, and hope that fate takes heed. My own opinion is that no matter what we do, some things just happen. Control over our lives is always that little bit out of reach.

Still, I like pretending I have a hand in it. And my dreamcatcher hasn't failed me yet.

Where Are My Endorphins?

For the last three weeks or so, I have been on a health kick. This happens to me about once a year, I decide I'm going to revolutionise my life and everything's going to be only glorious. It's an "out with the old, in with the new" mechanism. Last year, to coincide with starting college, this life haulout took the form of me joining the gym. I went three times. The year before that, I took a creative writing course to improve before my English Leaving Cert, but I hated the writing style they were trying to enforce on us and dropped out after three lessons. It's always something. Sure, when I started college, I joined the Martial Arts Club, having never taken a class in my life. "No time like the present!", I said. Clubs rely on first year eejits like me to pay the 4 euro and then never do anything about it, and as it happens I still don't have any kickass Bruce Lee style moves to behead potential rapists on a dark night. Would you believe? I have found, in general, that three is the magic number. I generally do something three times and then don't do it anymore. I am on Week Three of my typical 2008 life change, as I mentioned before, and I am delighted to note that I have absolutely no intention of giving up.

The main features of my health kick have been better skincare, dyeing my hair back to brown (the red was a bit damaging), eating better and starting to exercise. My skin isn't dry anymore and I actually forgot that I like being a brunette. Those parts were easy. The diet is quite alright, I've cut down on the crap, but I allow myself the odd treat, and everything's fine and dandy.

But the exercise. Oh god, the exercise. I am the definition of what it means to be unfit. I can barely run to the end of my road before I get a little tired. At the start of the health kick, I thought, that doesn't matter, sure we'll build it up. I looked up facts about exercise on the internet, where I should start, what I should do and the whole lot. I started walking to Portmarnock and back daily, but I realised that the weather had to provide. I bought myself workout DVDs because I wanted to do a little bit every day, even when it was raining.

Over the course of my internet research, all I kept reading was about how great exercise makes you feel, sure it's painful to begin with, but once you break the pain barrier you're on a first call ticket to Endorphin City. These endorphins seem to be some sort of endurance reward, supposedly you feel all high and never want to stop exercising. I thought, sure this is whopping, I'll be an exercise addict in no time at all.

As. If.

Three weeks in, and I have come to one conclusion and one conclusion only. Endorphins are a fictional phenomenon created by toned Tessies to make the rest of us mere mortal women feel bad about ourselves. Take, for instance, one of my workout DVDs, the Ministry of Sound Pump It Up workout (for shame). It's hosted by Deanne Berry, who most people recognise as the instructor in the black thong leotard from Eric Prydz's 'Call On Me' video. The DVD is divided into 6 sections, most of which are grand (even for me), but there's one section called the Aeroburn, or low-intensity (ME ARSE) aerobics section. Berry and her slimline cohorts get through the workout with beaming faces, giving it absolute welly throughout. Meanwhile, in Seaburbia, I'm in absolute bits. At one point towards the end of the section, good old Deanne shouts "CAN YOU FEEL THOSE ENDORPHINS?! DON'T YOU FEEL GREAT?!" At this stage, I'm generally on the floor. There's fucking nothing great about the way I feel, I could quite happily curl up and sleep. All I feel is pure pain. I feel like they're mocking me, like they did this on purpose. "We're going to show how unbelievably fit we are, we'll get through the Aeroburn without even getting out of breath, and imply everyone else can too, thus making Maeve pass out and realise it's time she got her act together! Mmmkay, mate?" (they're Australian, on top of everything else)

Endorphins? I'm questioning my faith. Come to me the next time I switch on Deanne and I'll believe.

In the meantime? Fit people, shove your endorphins up your arse, or at least stop going on about them. There's REAL people around!

I'm not giving up. You won't defeat me, Deanne! I will say one thing though, and that's when I'm not squatting the fuck out of myself... I feel bleedin' great.

Farewell to The Amazing Race...

For the past few weeks, I have been in the throes of a new addiction. The Amazing Race has been my heroin. I haven't missed an episode since they started showing Season 9 on Challenge, some people might call that sad, but it was freaking good. I decided that, more than anything I have ever wanted to do, I wanted to do the Amazing Race. I want to experience the Race more than I want a career in film or television, and that's quite a lot.

The format of the Race is simple. It's divided into 12 legs, with 11 teams. Whatever team finishes last in a leg is eliminated from the Race. The teams are of two people who have to have known each other for a year. There's mother and daughter teams, best friends, couples, siblings... pretty much every relationship is represented by one of the teams. But it's not just a regular race, it's a race around the world. Along the way, they have to perform tasks, known as Roadblocks and Detours. Some of the tasks are pretty tough going, and cost the teams a lot of time, like having to search among 1500 Russian dolls for ONE clue. Some were ridiculously physical, like having to ascend an outrageously tall cliff, while others were just amazing, like having to take a helicopter over Sao Paolo in Brazil and then skydiving out to recieve a clue.

Now, in this particular series, the teams have grown on me. There were Eric and Jeremy, the 24-year-old ex-fraternity brothers from Florida, who were more interested in Dani and Danielle, the 22-year-old college grads, than they were in the race. Then there were Fran and Barry, the 60+ team who had been married for 40 years and wanted to prove they could compete with 25 year olds. They were the nicest people ever, I wanted them to be my grandparents. There was also a few blah teams that faded into the background, of course, and the obligatory team-you-love-to-hate, married couple Lake and Michelle from Mississippi. Lake is a ridiculously chauvinistic, Southern cowboy type who literally punches the air and shouts "YEE-HAAAAW!" on more than one occasion when they complete a task. Michelle is his docile apron-wife, who doesn't confront Lake when he insists he knows everything and she's just there to make up the numbers. Eurgh.

My favourite team, however, were without a doubt, BJ and Tyler from San Francisco, or "The Hippies" as the other teams called them. They stood out for me because of their positive attitude, their complete inability to allow cock-ups to get them down, and also for the fact that they were the only team to appreciate the places they were seeing and the amazing opportunity they had. They actually stopped and took in their surroundings everywhere they went, rather than being all about the race.

Which is what brings me to why I want, nay, need to do the race. Ok, so it's a bit shit because you have to appear in a reality TV show, the idea of which makes me gag a little. But you get a FREE TRIP AROUND THE WORLD. That's the FORMAT of the show. So far this series, the teams have been to Denver, Las Vegas, Sao Paolo, Brotas (both Brazil), Moscow & St. Petersburg (Russian), Frankfurt, Stuttgart & Munich (Germany), Sicily and Rome.

I cheated a little. I Wikipedia'ed the series to see where else they get to go, which includes Athens, Oman (a country I, admittedly, have never heard of), Perth & Darwin (Australia), Bangkok, Tokyo & Alaska.

I just cannot believe that the producers are paying for all these people to travel so far. Obviously only two teams actually travel the whole world, the final two, because everyone else gets knocked out along the way. It's the most unbelievable thing to do, to travel the world for free, and having to do crazy stuff long the way like learn a traditional German lederhosen dance or play kayak polo with professionals in a Sicilian river.

But the most ridiculous part is that the winners of the Race win ONE MILLION DOLLARS. After travelling everywhere they could ever think, they win a million. Sure grand, like.

And if you don't win you've travelled the world. Oh, what a stinger, you lost, don't know how you'll console yourself.

I looked up where else they get to go in future episodes because I turned on my TV today, all pumped and ready to see where they were off to next, only to find that The Amazing Race wasn't on in its usual slot. Instead, 90's gameshow Wipeout (with Paul Daniels, no less) was on. I thought to myself, this is odd, maybe it's just not on today, so I checked my Sky planner and IT'S NOT ON ALL WEEK. It would appear that Challenge have cancelled the rest of the series of the Amazing Race. I wish I'd never found out where they go, because now I know exactly how much of the series I've been cheated out of. If I never looked, maybe I could have fooled myself into thinking that there's only two episodes left, I haven't missed out on that much. Alas, no, they're making me go cold turkey when there's so much left to see.

Can't believe I don't get to see who wins. My money's on the hippies or the frat boys, they've been switching between first and second place every leg of the race so far. I'm holding out hope that maybe Challenge will see that they're being ridiculous by showing half the series and then just not showing the rest, so I'm not going to look up who wins. Maybe.

But the more important question... what the fuck am I gonna do at seven every day?!

Get a life, maybe. Bleurgh.

The Great Employment Hurdle

Well, after many months of sitting on my merry bottom and doing pretty much nothing with my life, I decided that it was time for me to get a job. Now, far be it for me to say this was a new revelation, I have known this for quite some time. I just, quite honestly, could not be arsed to do anything about it.

Job hunting, for me, is an activity deemed quite as appetising as eating my own vomit. Last year in college, I couldn't stand my job. I looked forward to the week, so I could go to college instead of work as a full-timer might cherish the weekend. My job, as an Eason's sales assistant/counsellor for enraged customers' anger (over things which were totally outside my control, FOR FUCKS' SAKE I AM NOT MR. EASON. YOU'RE DEALING WITH THE WRONG FUCKING PERSON, I REALLY DON'T GIVE A SHIT), was dull, for want of a better word. I can barely even talk about it. I'm bored already. But one thing stopped me from leaving, and that was that the only thing worse than the idea of working at Eason's was the idea of having to look for a new job.

And so, at the end of the college year, after enduring Eason's all year and trying to avoid Topshop like the plague, I had saved up a nice little kitty to tide myself over for a week in California and a blissful, work-free week in Hawaii, which was only exquisite. And then came the job-hunting. Yargh. In Hawaii, there's none of this handing out CVs and waiting for a phonecall business, oh no, that would just be too easy. You have to WORK for your job. You have to fill out the Dreaded Application Form, for every place you apply. They want blood, sweat, and tears. There are questions like "Describe a situation at work where you have had to deal with an unreasonable customer" or "Describe an incident wherein you gave exceptional customer service", and they give you about five lines to write on for each, and the form is about five pages long, and you're thinking, is customer service not kind of all the same? How do you make it exceptional? And ALL application forms are like that. ALL of them. They don't take CVs. It's an application-only world. Of course, you're applying to roughly eighty billion places as well, and by the end of it your finger bones are moderately exposed. It's like Leaving Cert English paper day all over again. My two friends were lucky, they had interviews lined up within a day or two, whereas I went to all the wrong places. Or maybe it was down to the fact that my answers were so obviously generic and I've-answered-this-question-twelve-times-today-alone-can-we-move-on-please? that I was quite clearly not that arsed with the whole process at all. I am so bad at job hunting and feel such disdain for the process, that I eventually left Hawaii, jobless. It was also to do with the fact that there were 4,000 other Irish people in Maui in the same boat as me, and I had practically no chance anyway, but let's not split hairs.

After forty hours travel, I arrived back in Ireland, in debt. I managed to live off what little I had in my bank account for a fair amount of time, effectively ignoring my credit card debt. I deserve a break from job hunting, I told myself, sure wasn't I driven mental by it in Hawaii? Nevertheless, it soon became clear that I was running out of money to tide myself over and my MasterCard was shooting me evils. I went into Topshop at one stage, big mistake, myself and my friend were full on devastated. Everything was so pretty, but so unattainable.

















Distraught.

At this stage, I knew it was time to do it. I had to look for another job. But far be it for me to actually get up and do something about it. I got CVs printed, but didn't hand them out. I was fully intending to wait for a job to come to me. And come to me, it did. My friend managed to swing me a trial at the restaurant where she works, which I failed miserably after I got a second degree burn and couldn't finish out the day cos the burn was so bad. I was all for sucking it up and getting on with it, but they were all "dude it's illegal for us to keep you here like that". Unsurprisingly, I wasn't asked back. Ho-hum. And so I thought, fuck. I'm going to have to look for a fucking job.

Of course, after the trauma with the burn I had to give myself a few days off. Just to recover, like.

So I photocopied more CVs (I only had 10 because I couldn't afford the printer in DCU), and got ready to blitz town, when lo and behold, I got a phonecall from some flashy recruitment place. Apparently a CV I emailed off (when I was sitting on my arse at home) had come up trumps, and as luck would have it I have an interview for H&M next week.

Naturally, I'm not going to be looking for jobs in the meantime, I mean let's not get gratuitous with the luck...

And so another blissful week of doing nothing.

Let's pray the H&M interview comes through, my bank balance needs it.

This may be the most long-winded blog entry on record...

Caved.

After much resistance, a friend has finally persuaded me to set up residence in Blog City. How very hypocritical of me, seeing as I have, in the past, upon meeting a new person, thought: "Hmmm, he/she seems nice and witty, but in an "oh-I'm-so-over-the-top-eloquent-that-I-probably-keep-a-blog way." I definitely thought of blogging as a sign of arrogance, or lack of other things to do. I fall into the latter category.

I may just have to eat my words. Or thoughts, as it were.

Doubt I'll keep this up long. We'll see.