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Argh! Shite week at school! But enough about that later, I have meaningful things to bore you with!

So this week at school I heard someone say that the day she got married would be the saddest day of her life. There is background to this comment but it's not that that I want to talk about. It is why we do these things to ourselves when we know they will hurt us, why we make ourselves suffer in the eyes of others needlessly. We've all done it, I know I have. But why?

Attention seeking is one reason. As the youngest I naturally fought for attention. I don't think I ever threw myself down the stairs or anything as serious as that, but I did enjoy it when I got my sibs in trouble and I was fawned over. It's natural. But later in life I would put myself under unnessecary stress so people would feel sorry for me but I would still do well. That way I got both ends of the stick plus the bit in the middle.

But was there any point? Yes, people paid attention to me, but then yes, my hair began to fall out. Was it worth it? No. Does anyone care now? No. Do I even care? Not particularly, no. But why do we put ourselves up to be knocked down by our own conscience? Do we seek that security we get from others' insecurity? Why would this girl even ponder getting married if it will leave her in torment? And so it goes on. I'm not here to question other people's ethics and plans for life, but does it come down to the aforementioned insecurity?

So many questions!

Perhaps this is a case of regret. She will regret getting married as I regret stressing myself out. There are many things I regret and that is now one of my look-before-leaping things: 'will I regret this?' Often the answer is yes, so I just don't do it. This philosophy then makes me ask, "But where is the fun in that?!" No regrets? You always did what was right? How boring that could get! Some regrets are bigger than others; never turning down Coopers is a regret of mine, but it had no real life changing effect. I was going to turn them down anyhow, It would only have given me something to boast about, and that could be worse. But what I really really regret is something like not saying sorry sooner to Laura. Condensed, we basically excluded her from the group for a silly reason and though I never genuinely hated her, I sheeped with everyone else as not to make myself an outcast from the rest of the group. That I regret. I don't know whether she trusts me properly anymore, and though she says she does I will never be able to quite believe her after how I acted towards her.

So what can I conclude from this waffle? That I completely veered from the subject, that's one thing. But I think it ended with a valid point (albeit a quite unrelated one), so that's something.

Chew on it, it might never happen.

 
It's Sunday now, but when this will be posted I do not know.

The Survey is finally published! But my computer is muffed. I guess it's a compromise. But today I put my sites into various search engines, I can expect them to be put in the directories in 2 weeks to several months, but it's quicker than my IT teacher marks practise coursework.

So this past week saw, literally, the downfall of the helium balloon. Finally succumbing to gravity, the teddy bear head floated down onto the lecturn in the middle of assembly on Thursday. But not before captivating an audience of about 800 on Monday...

It all began in Kum bay Ar (is that right?) on Tuesday. The balloon had been spotted in various areas at the front of the hall in th week before, floating discontentedly between the panels in the ceiling. These panels are painted the nastiest shade of red known to man, and I don't blame the balloon for being restless. So we stood there singing weakly as we always do, when the balloon began to slowly drift downwards, then towards the balcony, where we were, and the up and away again on the line "Oh, Lord, kum bay ar", this being the only line that anyone really knows. We are supplied with hymn books, but no one wants to sing, really we don't.

So the balloon wafted around as Mrs Tann, she of the deformed toes, gave another of her demeaning, belittling assemblies. I can't remember if this one involved fuzzy-wuzzies or not, I wasn't listening. And neither was anyone else. We were all transfixed by this single pocket of helium in the hall, floating dreamily above year 9. Lucky for us we were on the balcony, so we could watch it all t eye level.

And then it happened. After being told to ignore the balloon, and after ignoring being told to ignore the balloon, we watched, horrified, as it ducked under the front arch of the stage, only to rise again in the panels above, out of our view! Was all lost? Was the saga's ending lost forever? An audible sigh left the mouths of every upperschool girl as we lost, seemingly forever, our morning's entertainment. Never again would assembly be so amusing, and never again would a helium balloon offer us such light relief (ba-dum cha).

Or so we thought.

Thursday met us with the second half of the Africa appeal assembly, which I actually found interesting, but I think I was a minority of 1. But then, suddenly, a glint caught the communal eye. Everyone turned hteir heads slightly and there, wafting in its own, lazy style, fell the balloon, into the lap of Mr Mancey (what DOES he do? No one knows!). He hustled it off into the wings of the stage, spending longer than can be healthy with this balloon, in the wings.

And so the story ends. What fate befell the poor balloon, no one except Mr Mancey knows, and by the amount of time he spent off-stage, I'll be glad if he takes it to the grave.

 
So who was it that made Mondays suck so much? I don't think it was an act of God, I think there might be someone else to blame. The god Mandidgo? No, I don't think it was him either. By the way he is out of an actual thing so you can't steal the name. But despite him being a git, I don't think he was to blame either.

The economy? Was it the powers that be who decided to start the working week on a Monday? Was it the loner that no one likes but no one would suspect? Was it Colonel Mustard in the hall with the candlestick?

Whoever it was, I have a feeling that they are long since dead. Not being a reincarnation person, I doubt they have been born again to torment the world, and if they have it would probably have been as either a traffic warden or a blackfly.

So what have I been doing and thinking? There's the small matter of school, just an inconvenience I guess. But something that really is annoying me is my stomach. On Monday I felt totally crap, so I had one of my please-don't-throw-up pills, and I didn't throw up. Yesterday I had to have one again and I didn't throw up. Both of them were in maths lessons, I thought a pattern might be emerging. But today it was in IT, and I had to take it under the table with a swig of my drink and a bite of sarnie. But why? I don't know anyone else who gets this, throwing up for no real reason. Boys, this will probably never happen to you, and if it does I will be worried, but I'm in an all-girls school and I don't know of anyone else who get it. Why me? I'm disfunctional enough, you don't have to remind me with large quantities of vomit!

I'm sure this post had a point when I started it...

Ah! I remember!

Stoppit and Tidyup, and here's all their friends...
Comb your hair,
Wash your face,
and Hurry Up!
Go And Play (with his favourite toys),
poor little Calm Down,
and nasty little Not Now!
The two bees, Bee Have and Bee Quiet.
Sleepy old Go To Bed, and
Don't do that!
Take Care,
Clean Your Teeth,
and the big bad
I SAID NO!

Oh, how they rule! But I'm sure that's wrong, where are Say Please and Say Thankyou? I know they exist, we have one of the books with the characters on the back. Do you know if this song is wrong? Do you know the other words? Hmm. But hardly anyone I know remembers them, and they are just so great!

But I've finally managed to start the Survey page, I just need to upload the graph now. There will be link in the side bar over there <-- somewhere soon if there isn't one now. Toodle-oo!

 
First week (well, 3 and a bit days) of school is over and what do we have to show for it? A teacher who looks like Hannah Gordon, a ton of coursework and a lecture basically on how stupid we are. Encouraging, I'm sure.

But what is the point of sending us to school at 1:30, just to send us home 2 hours later? There is none! All we got was a planner and rough book - no, 'General Work Book'. What is with that? We don't do general work in it, we do rough work, crappy French exercises and scribble about how much we hate certain teachers. No general work in sight! But that took an hour to give out counting the continual lecture we received, so that basically left a whole hour. Ample time for form tutors to be given locker keys to give out. But no! The school has to do it the complicated way on the second day. Why? Because they're silly.

Lessons, nothing much happened. We went back and heard tales of drunken roudiness from some of our friends while we just caught up on stuff we'd seen and read, rumours about things (like Farscape, how can they do that?!) and working out who was lending what to whom.

There is also a helium balloon trapped on the ceiling in the school hall. We're trying to decide if it's a dodgy monkey or a strange teddybear. But it's on the ceiling and it's showing no signs of coming down.

I'm not going to talk about *that* first anniversary or Iraq bacause I have earlier, instead I'm going to talk about 4 minutes and 33 seconds. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you may as well leave now because I'm not going to explain it.

But is 4 minutes and 33 seconds a show of musical power or dramatic power? No one would have dared speak because they didn't know what was going to happen next, if something would move or play, if this was an introduction or what. I guess by about the third minute they'd have been getting a bit pissed off, but at the start it must have been captivating. And the fact that the conductor had that much power over the audience to keep them curious that long. Then we come onto the whole thing about how there would be no music if there had not first been silence. But that's for another day altogether.

Or was it a display of dramatics? It must have been amazing to watch, no one could look away in case something moved or it finished. Was it even classable as music since there was no noise? Where can we draw the line? But it could have been more of a display of drama than a musical performance. Did the crowd break into rapturous applause at the end, or did they all settle down and whisper amongst themselves about how obscure it was? But then that depends on the kind of people who went to see it.

Mind you, playing a classical instrument, I don't find some of this contemporary stuff very good. We once played a modern version of Peter from 'Peter and the Wolf', an it was bollocks! It sounded awful, I never was a dissonances person. But it was just the way it was ridiculously fast and clashy.

And then there is Berlioz.

 
Not much to report, but you remember Mr Gaud? The mystery householder? He's a doctor! A letter came this morning addressed to 'Dr U Gaud'. Very posh!

 
OK, so 2 little ducks is 22. But at least I admit I'm wrong.

I did have a post for the 3rd, but it buggered again so I lost it. I also had the first bit for my Thing of the Day, but I think I lost that too. And remember, if you have anything good that you would like put on there (including a plug for your site), just bug me. I enjoy being bugged, except by those Spanish weirdos who keep sending me viruses. Quittit!

So what have I done these last few days? Umm... coursework. Maths, and it hurts. Yesterday I had to count words and word lengths in articles about Anna Kournikova's exit from Wimbledon. Oh, the pain! The immense pain! Damn you Edexcel for your stupid coursework!

Counting newspapers. It is completely pointless, completely ridiculous and completely and utterly not going to get me my expected grade.

On a lighter note though, I was on the radio today! I had Drops of Jupiter played on Virgin. I requested it!

So apart from that? I've been making a ... no ... THE bag. It's a beaded thing, peyote stitch round a tube, and it's going to be the best bag I've ever made. Cooler than the Ladybird, funkier than the Snail, this will be the bollocks of all bags!

Maybe not, but it's bloody good and will take bloody ages. When I'm done maybe I'll scan it in to show it off. If I haven't written it already on here, I have a thing with bags. And a lot of bags to feed that thing. About 30 at last count, but that's mine and my sister's combined collection.

Now I'm talking crap, and this is supposed to me talking about what I've been thinking about, hence being called 'An Outlet for my Mind'. I have been wondering who is the real power behind George Bush, because he definitely isn't running America. But I can't really talk about that in case I get arrested for spreading politically volatile infomation. But when he talks he does look like someone has their hand up his backside.

So I guess we can't ignore the up-and-coming 1st anniversary of September 11th. I remember the day well, it had all the qualities of a bad time in the making from about 9am. Bear in mind we're a few hours ahead over here. I had IT, always a drag, and found out that I had knits. Lovely, I know. My head was itching like bitten hell, and I had come on without any pads. Even lovelier. I was behind on my viola practise so would spend the evening playing that. Then I got a text message that America had been attacked. America, impregnable fortress of the west, had been hit. I'm the kind of person who reacts to things like that by feeling physically sick, and when the words '30,000 body bags' were uttered I had to leave the room. I got no practise done because I was glued to the telly, news breaking every moment. Most wanted man in the world hidden in a cave, suicide pilots trained in America, sveral flights still unchecked. It was the nightmare that was never supposed to happen, only in Hollywood blockbusters, where Bruce Willis came and saved the day before it all went wrong. Had Hollywood finally predicted its own destruction like a hell-sent prophet? Everything buzzed round in a whirr of dust and trapped victims beneath the rubble of the World Trade Centre.

And now we get the trashy programmes about it. Dramatic reconstructions and tales from survivors, we are told about how George Bush and Tony Blair engage in a war on terrorism, which they do by killing their own troops in helicopter crashes. No Osama Bin Laden, he's still in a cave somewhere, laughing at the west as they wage war on an abstract noun.