I'll Order It From Zanzibar

I need to do something. Type something and occupy myself, if only to stop myself annoying Tom by sending him meaningless one word texts and then calling him for no reason. He is trying to sleep, which, I suspect, is partially why I am being so annoying. I am bitter, you see. About not being allowed to sleep during the day, even though I am seeing double from tiredness. I am tired so nobody else should be allowed to sleep. Despite the seamless logic of this I shouldn't annoy Tom so much because if I do he'll stop being my girlfriend and I'll have nobody to talk with about ponies, lipgloss and boobs.

I met up with some friends last night in a pub called the Marquis of Granby near Goodge Street station. I was (wait for a thrillingly surprising revelation) pretty tired (I know, shocker) but absolutely wanted to go anyway. I had three glasses (large) of wine (red) without eating anything (stupid) and ended up weaving my way though near-empty streets back to Oxford Street station talking meaningfully with my friend. Before I left the pub a man came up to me and handed me a bit of paper with his name, email address and phone number on it. I hadn't talked to any boys all evening so I don't really understand why he would do that. I concluded that he couldn't possibly be English. I went back to Tom's and taunted him with the bit of paper until he confiscated it and ripped it up. I can't even remember the name on it. I want to say Gillian, but that seems unlikely.

This morning was somewhat torturous, but it was made better by the following things:

- I had a really ace time last night (despite the seeming presence of Other Boys)
- I was at Tom's house, from which it is only one stop to get to work
- I listened to Mr Scruff, Keep It Unreal, which is ace
- It is an absolutely beautifully sunny autumn day
- I went to put on my pointy hurty boots and then realised my trainers were there because I left them the other day, so I slipped them on with no small amount of glee and am feeling very comfortable.

The trainers thing is really perking up my day. Also I am listening to my beautiful little sister's album (see links) and it is lovely. It is "franco-britannique electro-hop", which is my absolute favourite kind of hop. She is very good, and her music is kind of calming and eerie at the same time, which is delivering me into a state of trance-like stillness. Thank you, little Sophie sister.

Tomorrow night I am being forced to go out again. The people I went to Biarritz with have set up a thing called Fun Time Thursday (FTT), which means that every other Thursday it is someone's turn to organise something fun for us all to do. There is usually gin involved, but it is not mandatory. This Thursday it is my turn to do the organisationalisation (it is a new word) (do you like it?) and I have decided that we are going to a place called Bar Kick in Shoreditch, which is very near where I work. Shoreditch is a bit cool and trendy, lots of asymmetrical haircuts and fashionably peculiar clothes that only really look good on very thin people, and this bar is no exception. It has lots and lots of table football tables, of which I've hired out two, for competitions. There will be ten of us maximum, and I think it'll be fun. Of course, I am ultra-terrible at table football, going in more for the 'wildly spinning the bar things' technique than one that involves any real skill. I am organising stuff to showcase my uselessness! Hurray! Next time I will put together a Maths-a-Thon and we can all watch as I don't know my times tables.

Sophie's album has finished now so I have started it again.

Ike just called me about working with someone who sounds uber-cool. I might need to go out and buy some fashionably peculiar clothes. Also diet myself to stick-like skinniness, although I don't really want to do that. My breasts are sometimes my only bargaining tool. The argument "but...boobs?" never fails, and if I lose that I will have nothing left. Let's all eat cake. Or whatever you want. What's your favourite dish?

I'm not going to cook it...

(Do you get it? Look at the title. Now do you get it? Yes, you do.)

Something in my post was in some way relevant to my title. I don't believe this has actually happened before, because if it had all my posts would have to be titled "I Am Tired And Whinge A Lot".