Lovestruck

I have just bought the most BEAUTIFUL jacket ever made. It is tweedy with leather covered buttons and- get this- leather elbow patches. I don't think I will ever tire of it's seemingly infinite loveliness. It shines with it's own inner grace and dignity. Seriously, I think this might be the one...

Rock on Down

Well, the White Stripes rocked. Literally and metaphorically. Jack has a cute little 'tash on aswell, which somehow lends him a certain sleaziness reminsicent of a nineteenth century opium dealer. Very appealing, I assure you. I was right up the front, just behind the little seven stone girls they line the barricades with so the security guards can pick them up and carry them off to their evil security truck for 'interrogations'. Well, that's what I think happens. I have an over-active imagination.

Music sounds really cool outside. It's like...louder. And beer tastes much better outside too. Its like...wetter. It's embarrassing how many pathetic people from my UCD English class were sitting around at Marlay Park being vile and hippyish. And yes, they were actually sitting in the mud, rubbing their vile little goatees and pawing their poncho-clad girlfriends. Ick, ick.

In other news, the Rose of Tralee competition concluded its festivities for 2004 last night. I had the good fortune of happening upon a few of the lovelies on Monday's show and was forced to swiftly flee the room to empty my stomach contents. One particularly obnoxious rose trilled delightedly on her joy at being a primary school teacher, her love of gaelic football, and her spooky beyond-the-grave connection with her dead mother before launching into a rendition of I'm just a girl who can't say no so camp it surely had Twink rolling in her grave (what do you mean she's not dead? She looks it.)

As I was otherwise engaged last night, I sadly missed the awards ceremony but I rushed excitedly into work this morning to see the papers and discover the lucky winner. Imagine my horror when little Ms Perky from Kilkenny, the aforementioned twit whose interview I had somehow managed to see on Monday, grinned and blushed smugly from the front of the Independent. How is this possible, I ask. I spent many moments scoffing the twit's chances on Monday, had the rest of the roses really been that bad? I am truly baffled. I should enter next year. I will work on getting Seven Nation Army on the tin whistle up to Tralee 'talent' standards.

Updates from Shanard Road

Oh my God. I am so tired. All last night I kept having weird dreams about going to see the White Stripes- in the canteen at work, at a hospital, with my mother who was drinking Guinness. Also I kept waking up at odd hours, casting around for my watch, thinking Aoife was sitting on my bed feeding me ice-cream, realising she wasn't even in the room then dropping back to sleep. Hope I didn't wake anyone up screaming 'get off me you tool, Aoife, I have to go perform with the Stripes! They need my tin-whistle on the chorus to Seven Nation Army for God's sake woman!' Thankfully the happy day has dawned, albeit in a dubious-looking grey way, and I am leaving this godforesaken place in a few hours to rock on down in Marlay Park. Quite.

Aoife is trying to scare me. Having spent two nights in my new accommodation, I am gradually adjusting to living with people of the male persuasion. They are not too bad really, a bit untidy and verbally-smutty I suppose. Aoife, however, regards them with a wary eye and warns me against leaving anything of value out of my sight. She would know I suppose, she has lived with these particular buchailli for two years. To emphasize the general untrustworthiness of boys she tries to shock me by pointing out their base animal instincts.

'Do not leave your shampoo in the bath' She says. 'Or they will wash their willies with it. In fact, do not leave anything anywhere other than your bedroom or they will eat it or fart on it. They are disgusting'.

I have not actually observed either of the two boys farting or eating excessively so far (though they do fart and eat worryingly often) so I can not be sure whether she is being truthful or just communicating an old grudge. Surely not all boys are like this, are they? I worry for the future of male-female relations if they are.

Oscar Wilde Look-alike

God, I hate my hair. I didn't think it could get much worse after the scalping and dismembering on Thursday but as it turns out, it can. After washing and blowdrying and several painful minutes wrestling with it, it assumes the attractive aspect of a shaggy bob with a tendancy to curl displeasingly. Oh, the pain. Ever seen a photo of Oscar Wilde from his university days? In a velveteen jacket and exotic buttonhole, and hair in lank waves around his shoulders? Have a gander at my frightful wig and you will be reminded of the great man. Only I am less of a wit at dinner parties. And less flamboyantly gay (I hope).

A Sad Affair

I am not now writing a treatise, but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much at random.

The Murders in the Rue Morgue, Edgar Allan Poe

I have just had my hair cut. It is frightful. Armed with a very particular style in mind which I had seen on a girl in the street I explained it carefully to the hairdresser.

'Y'know, shorter. With layers to about here and... the fringe shorter. But not too short.'

'To about where?' The busty stylist ventured boredly, holding a thick strand at a right angle to my head.

'Eh... here. ' I said, gesturing vaugely to the back of my head. Bad move. Shoving my chair savagely towards the mirror and stamping on a lever so that I bounced up a few feet, she picked up her scissors and got to work. She pursed her lips and lopped a large chunk of hair from behind my ear. Barely able to surpress my gasp, I stared openmouthed as she began to slice ruthlessly around my skull. Thick hanks of hair fell from her fingers on to my shoulders and drifted from there to the tiled floor.

'Gemma!' she roared suddenly and I jumped. 'Go upstairs and get me my bag, it's white with buckles, and find me a fucking trainee to do my two o' clock! Hold your head straight' she muttered at me and jerked my chin up with two fingers.

How long will I have to keep chopping at her hair until she says something? her cruel, fake-tanned face seemed to say. My permanant wince said it all. A few minutes later, she stopped cutting, put down her scissors and picked up a hairdryer and burnt my scalp for a while. Greasing her palms with a handful of slime, she ripped her fingers through my hair until it was slick and plastered to the side of my face. Adjusting her thong (or something inside her trousers; I didn't dwell on it), she stood back to admire her handiwork.

'Now, how's that for ya?' She barked proudly to her own reflection in the mirror.

'Great, thanks a lot' I whispered and slid meekly off the leather chair. My self-respect and dignity in tatters on the floor with a large portion of my hair, I sloped over to the front desk with my newly shorn and basted head and paid €38.50 plus tip to the wanton harlot. Yes, I am pathetic.

In response to an enquiry as to how I managed to put my underwear on upside down I am now furnishing you with a detailed description. Because I am so modest and ladylike, I will use an analogy. An analogy is something us clever people use when we want to appear clever. Pay attention or this may go over your heads!

Right, imagine you are putting on a jumper. Your head goes in one hole and your arms through the other two, right? Now imagine you have put your head through one of the armholes and everything feels a little bit wrong. But you dont usually wear this kind of jumper so you're not sure what it's supposed to feel like. Maybe the people who wear this kind of jumper are used to the discomfort and maybe you will get used to it too. So you head off out and get drunk and forget all about your uncomfortable jumper.

Do we all understand now?

Murders in the Rue Morgue

Got it! First ever mystery story to solve a crime by focusing on the workings of the criminal's mind and first ever detective story! First ever detective also, the eccentric C. Auguste Dupin. Read with caution; twist ending is a bit surprising.

http://bau2.uibk.ac.at/sg/poe/works/murders.html

Literature Online

Wow, this is the coolest site ever. It has loads of full texts by authors whose copyrite has elapsed (ie. dead for seventy years or more), complete and unabridged! Great for whiling away tedious hours at work! Brontes, Dickens, Poe, Conan Doyle, Mary Shelley, Brahm Stoker and Mark Twain all appear. I reccommend any of Poe's short stories if you want a quick gothic thrill! Doesn't have Murders at the Rue Morgue but will look around for it!

http://www.literature.org/

Exam Time

Just took a load of personality quizzes on this site and I am sad to say that my scores are very uninspiring. 40% a hippy, 60% a bitch, 51% an evil genius and 54% a tortured artist. Very depressing to be so middling! Also, I am a little disturbed by the pass mark in the Hippy test- I do hate them after all. Think I will go take the White Trash one now, I know I can come tops in that!
http://www.fuali.com/tests.aspx

Roommate Ramblings

I have an insane roommate. Seriously, she is the oddest little thing I have ever met. Last night while we were all sitting around enjoying a peaceful hour of TV watching, she winced and jumped up from her chair suddenly during an ad break.
'Eek!' she shrieked. 'I hate those Budweiser ads! It always freaks me out when I think what those horses are going through!'
With a girly whimper she ran into the other room, leaving me to eye the television warily as the Budweiser carthorses ran wildly through the desert. Animal cruelty it isn't.

Things you should know about me

1: I know seven people with the name Claire/Clare. My phonebook is very confusing
2: I like Bluegrass
3: I vehemently opose smiley's, textspeak and chatroom acronyms
4: I only eat green apples
5: Last weekend I put my underwear on upside down and didn't notice for TWELVE HOURS! I won't elaborate on how I managed to do this as it is really quite disgusting
6: My preferred profession is amateur detective. But only if I get to wear a monocle and drive a Vintage Bentley
7: I thought the Streets were cool long before anyone else did
8: When I was five I presented a bouquet to Kathleen Watkins (Gay Byrne's wife) at the opening of the supermarket where my father worked
9: When I hear people say clever things on the television, I write them down and try to think of ways to work them into a conversation
10: I love to-do lists. Putting a line through a completed item gives me a thrill like nothing on this earth
11: When I was in sixth class I copied my entire Summer science test off Grainne Walsh. I got a 98, she got 100. I missed one answer cos she had her hand over it
12: I call glasses-wearers 'Speccy-four eyes' because I secretly think glasses are sexy and am ashamed of my own perversion
13: I make FANTASTIC scrambled eggs. Seriously, you should come to breakfast sometime
14: Politically and morally, I am very conservative.
15: I hate hippies
16: Despite what I might say to the contrary, I only studied history in college because I fancied one of my professors
17: I can't spell
18: My nose is crooked though my mother swears the doctor didnt smoosh it with the forceps during delivery
19: My only true ambition in life is to be disgustingly rich. Everything else can go to hell
20: Subtlety really floats my boat
21: I can fit twelve burger bites in my mouth at once
22: In my spare time, I love to catagorise my books and CDs by author or artist name, genre and mood
23: I really, really don't get Big Brother
24: My favourite place to be, and my favourite time to be there, is Hodges & Figges on Dawson St after six o'clock on a Thursday. Whenever I see someone with a Hodges & Figges carrier bag I am struck with a sudden wave of envy
25: I love to sneak glances at what other people on the bus are reading and make personality judgements on the basis of their books
26: When I get bored I sellotape together little bundles of five cent coins together for bus fare

Bad Habits

It is amazing how many bad habits you can pick up if you really put your mind to it. In the past year I have adopted smoking, nail-biting and knuckle-cracking, a formidable list indeed. Add to these the things I do that make other people illogically mad such as leaving the milk out (pisses off my sister), wearing odd socks for no reason (infuriates my mother), and cleaning the bathroom (severely tries the patience of my slovenly roommate) and you will recognise me as a most annoying person indeed.

I work hard at it though. It's not a title to be undertaken lightly, especially in this age of road rage and high stress (and other modern ailments that I cant be bothered thinking of). Lately I have been experimenting with both hair-pulling and an affected facial twitch, which are testing very well in study groups. These habits are perhaps less annoying than borderline-insane and as it is politically incorrect to mock the mentally unwell, I am overshooting the mark a bit.

What happens however when one ceases to find pleasure in one's own bad habits? What happens when one's bad behaviour is considered as usual and is no longer condemned or even commented on? I dread the day when my sparking of a ciggarette or glugging of alcohol in the early afternoon does not evince a sufficent wince of disappointment from my mother. In such an event, I fear I would be forced to resort to even more gruesome and offensive shock tactics to attract (admittedly, negative) attention to myself. If you hear in the future that I have become a born-again Christian or joined Fianna Fail then you will know that things are very dire indeed.

Idle Hands

Dear diary,
Today I set up a 'blog'. I dont know what it is or where it came from but it is free and it occupies me during the long working hours. Also, I read in Q Magazine that Pete Doherty of the Libertines has a blog in which he details his descent into drug-raddled hell, and he is shitcool so I must be shitcool also. Tis logical, really.