There are quite a few things I should be doing, but I can't be bothered. How terrible.

Back to uni again on Monday. Well, I really only have a few weeks to go, and then I'll graduate. And then? Working and writing and working and writing.

I suppose that's what I've always wanted.

I wonder, though. Do people who achieve the dream job, or the dream career, or even the dream home get sick of it? If I did manage to get part time editing or writing work, and work somewhere else a few days a week, and live with my love... would I be happy? Or would I want more?

But what more is there? Certainly, that is what I want. That is what I dream of having.

Back home again.

I spent most of the trip back writing poetry in my head (and even writing some down for a change) and listening to music. It wasn't so bad. The express bus was worth getting up for.

My morning, however, was truly delightful. I got a lift into town with Mum, and then went to my favourite cafe in Castlemaine. It's called Saffs and I go there whenever I can. The tables are colourful, and the walls are sandblasted stone, with tracings of old signage peeking through. The music was the Beatles today, and the sun shone through the window I sat next to.

I ordered chai, and sat, reading Hobb.

Ah. Perfect moment. And delicious chai.

I am a pale and sickly creature next to my brother. He is tanned and strong.

Obviously, I have been living in the city too long.

The sun was warm on my back, and as I was entering my driveway, I saw something brown waddling across the road.

Garbage, tonight. And before that, shopping for Dale's birthday present.

He will be 18. He will get his licence, be able to come drinking, play pool in bars, and unlock a reward that has been laying in wait for many years. I am glad that he will finally have it.

My brother in many ways, is like me. I can see him going through stages that I went through myself when I was his age. He has good in him. That's the best way to describe it. He is generous and good-hearted and honest and hard-working. Of course, at times he is thin-skinned and impatient. But still. He's a good person.

I will be proud to welcome him into adulthood.

Being strong is harder than you think.

Whew, did I feel strange sitting on that big blue chair.

The thin rubber tube full of my blood was warm against my arm. The nurses were humming along to Tom Jones. My legs started to tingle. I felt like I was floating.

'Is that normal?' I asked a swooping nurse.

'Yes. Just wiggle your toes.'

When she put the needle in, it hurt. It usually doesn't. I gasped aloud, and she pushed the needle deeper into the crook of my arm. I winced and gasped again.

'Are you alright?'

'Yes...' I said, with gritted teeth.

That's the second time a nurse has hurt me when she inserted the needle. At least at LaTrobe, they're a bit more careful.

I felt lightheaded for about another hour afterwards.

Erika gave me jellybeans. I rode the tram home.

It's early. And I'm awake and functioning. How is this happening?

*squints* I know I have not been posessed by an alien entity only because it took me four minutes to put on my socks.

I'm so tireeeed!

Today, I have been talking about creating a small-press publication with a friend. She attended a post-grad lecture on self-publishing, and has ignited my interest. We shall, over the summer, create something. I don't know what it will contain just yet, but it will be ours.

We have, in our friendship group, many willing to participate. We have several writers, as well as designers and ex-marketing students. Surely we shall merge to form something useful.

It will be free, of course. And I'm quite certain that I know of several zine specific stores that would stock it.

We also spoke of a new zine on the streets. 'Isnot' magazine is metres square and called 'a reading challenge.' It is posted on walls all over the city. It's an innovation, yes?

http://www.isnotmagazine.org/

Also, I have been talking honours with several possible supervisors. I stammered my way through an interview with an editing tutor this afternoon. At the end of our chat, she assessed me with a professional eye.

'How's your editing?' she asked.

I felt like a green troop being sized up by a veteran commander.

'Oh, not bad,' I said. 'I'm probably doomed to be a low-grade copy editor for the rest of my life.'

We'll see.

I'm playing with Skype today. It seems such a cool thing to use. Now, if someone would just call me. Anyone from the board want to share with me your Skype details?

I really should be cleaning my room. I have a million bits of paper strewn about the place, and far too many items of clothing on the floor. I should definately enslave an elf or something.

I'm not feeling great, today. I don't know why. I'm lacking my usual bounce. I simply feel out of sorts.

Missed. Lost. Unclipped.

Part of me wants to sit in a dark room with loud music.

Part of me wants to be... kept safe.

I don't know what has caused this plunge in spirits. I am rested.

I was about to type that I have nothing pressing on my mind, but I suppose I do. My world is waiting impatienly for me to shape it, and I'm not entirely certain that I have the courage or power to do so.

I found the Paris CD. And, I adore this photo! I suspect FooFar took it, actually. If you look really closely, you can probably just make out the bedbug bites...

Oh look, another bunch of people wandering past my window singing lyrics to 'Jesus Christ Superstar.' The cast party is being held by my neighbour. I really think it's put me off ever seeing the play.

I really should be in bed. But no, I feel like staying up and having a bit of a type. And why not? I can sleep in tomorrow.

I finally, finally managed to get that essay out of the way. The damn thing took all day to write, and I'm not sure if I sufficently explored the breakdown of sexual binaries within 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' but what the hell. It's done now.

Now, someone is singing 'Voodoo Child.'

Uni will be over in a matter of weeks. Well, perhaps five or six, by the time the last essay is dumped in the Arts Office pidgeon hole. I remember the feeling of the impending end of year 12, and I was much more terrified. Who knows, maybe I've grown up a bit since then. Or maybe I'm just better at taking it as it comes. I guess we'll see what happens next year. I've steeled myself for quite a bit of displacement in the coming months, which I normally hate. But hey, life goes on, and I'm sure I'll have a roof over my head wherever I end up. But it won't be my roof. I won't have this room for much longer, I think. I hate being shifted out of my comfort zone, for all the good it usually does me.

It's worth it, I know. I'd give a lot more than this to be with my love. I just wish it wasn't so damn hard to organise. Sometimes, things should be easy.

Ok, so I'm feeling a ttch better. It probably has something to do with the gallons of Vitamin C drink I've been consuming. I'm almost certain that the kebab I ate for lunch has mystical healing powers, so I should be ready to go this weekend.

Arse! I just remembered that I've got to write a script!

Shirley Bassey High can't narrate itself, after all.

I'm sick. I hate being sick. Especially when it comes to sleeping.

I called in sick tonight. I feel slightly guilty, as I probably could work... But it would be horrible. I remember working last time I had a cold, and having to run upstairs every 10 minutes to attend to my runny nose. I highly doubt that good customer service has ever come of a runny nose.

My back hurts. I should probably get up and walk around for a bit.

Ouch.

... And of course, that post was a whole day early. Well, it's not like I actually planned to celebrate it aside from putting on Muse and sitting around in my pj's. Which, incidently, is what I'm doing right now.

Muse is heavy enough to suit my mood.

I should, of course, be working on my essay, but I don't feel like exploring bestiality in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' this morning. Perhaps I will write some more of my poisoner story. I only have a couple of hundred words to go, and a number of homicides to go. How did that word count fly past?

I think I need some chocolate.

It's Father's Day today, and I just want to switch off. The TV has a thousand related ads, shows and promos. Switch it off. I'm going to the movies with Erika and the boys so I don't have to think about it.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.