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  1. I don't bother posting blogs here anymore and haven't in ages.

    If you want to know what I'm up to, follow me at:

    I post regularly. :)
  2. Pasted from my external blog.

    The other night my darling boyfriend took me out on one of our awesomely customary dinner and film dates. I got to see a scary movie (or was it? We’ll get to that in a moment) and chomp on deliciously spicey, snot-enducing spaghetti and prawns and strolled hand-in-hand through the darkened, moonlight streets of Southend. It was lovely, as ever.

    So don’t go thinking that the bitch-bomb I’m about to drop in regards to my cinema experience ruined my night in any fashion; I just like to rant, that’s all. I’ll begin by briefly mentioning that Paranormal Activity 2, whilst being quite a clever sequal, lacked in the same way the first did. It was long, boring and repeatitive, barring a couple of genuinely scary moments. These moments, however, were only really scary because of the sheer volume of the screams and BANG! noises, which aren’t very original for such highly acclaimed horror films. Matthew aptly named one of these events ‘The Great Kitchen Sneeze’, whereby our leading lady is scared out of her slacks by all the cupboards and doors bursting open in one great calamity, whilst she’s supping a coffee and nose-deep in Marie Claire. This scene was quite clever, I thought, and did make me crush Matt’s dear little hand to oblivion.

    However, I saw it as more of a tribute to Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense, when Col is amidst the same spooky occurrance in his own kitchen. A little subtler on the creepy scale than PA2, I have to say; PA2′s version was jumpy, as were many scenes towards the climax, but it lacked that skin-slithering gruesomeness that every good horror film should have. This was a movie that, rather than filling you with dread and really screwing with your mind, it did the ol’ clap in your face thing. The director might aswell have popped out of the breadbin and said ‘HAH! You blinked!’.

    Yeah, big deal? My dog’s scared of fireworks, clapping, and balloons for that very same reason; even she would’ve said this technique was average. In one of the less-jumpy scenes, where the baby-born doll toddler appears to slide from his cot by the hands of some invisible demon, the crowd actually started laughing. Yes, I know it’s difficult to make this stuff look real, and I know you’re trying to create suspense – but we all know there were strings attached. This isn’t the silent film era – give us more to chew on, I thought.

    So anyway, I have a question for you guys. Why do the Paranormal activity films attract cluster upon cluster of Cheryl-obsessed, bleach-doused bimbos? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not their image that bothers me the most; I’ve been looking like a cross between Little My and Snuffkin from The Moomins all year and gotten away with it. It’s those loud, obnoxious, irritating voices that come in those packages! Every bump, jolt and scare in this film made every girl wearing Uggs shriek like they’ve just spotted Will-I-Am in the rows in front of them, and that’s not all. They then proceeded to laugh about how awfully frightened and dainty they are, before having a not-so-intellectual discussion about what just happened. Loudly.

    All the while the film is rolling, my teeth are grinding, and we all die a little more inside. If I had a tank of petrol and some matches, I’m not sure who I’d rather cast ablaze first – them or me. I daresay they’re more flammable with all that cotton wool padding out their heads, you know; where their f/cking brain should be.

    Bugger me, is it the 25th already? I have two dvds to review. What’s that popular, appropriate saying? F/ck my life?
  3. Copied and pasted from my external blog.

    Today we reallygot back into the swing of things at uni. We were given a writing excersize in a certain teacher’s class; a teacher who, last year, would always ask us to read our ‘efforts’ to one another in our groups, before picking the best and reading it to the entire class for feedback. Last year I found this nerve-racking enough, even after I got used to it. This year, after having gone months and months happily submitting and publishing (sometimes mostly rejecting!) away without prying eyes or ears from anyone, I have to say it was worse.

    Don’t get me wrong, I don’t suffer with a stutter, nor do I slip-up on my words or throw the papers down in disgust. I’m a surprisingly good reader for a social spazz. What I suffer from is a chronic case of blushing. No, not adorable rosy cheeks, not a mousy little flush – we’re talking cherry from the neck up. I can’t help it; sometimes I blush for no reason in conversation, just because the attention is on me. It comes in little bursts around my fish-belly-pale skin too, making me look like some sort of leper; think Bianca Jackson with an allergy to air or speaking.

    What’s worse is when people point it out. I know, I know, they’re just trying to comfort you by acting like they’re familiar with your anxiety and in turn making you feel more relaxed, but frankly, it don’t work darlin’s. The best way to make a pale girl go from cherry to fire engine in 0.2 seconds is to actually voice the fact that she’s blushing, and as an almost-ginge and a recoverring goth, this was never a favourable look for me.

    I’ve often found that stress is actually the problem; I get the same thing whenever I’m angry or frustrated. So I guess, visually, it’s not all that difficult to tell exactly how i’m feeling, and this is always an utter pain in the arse. Not only am I forced to be honest in every respect, because lying is just futile, but I get to look as much of a fool as I feel. Now I know people probably aren’t judging me badly. They probably think, ‘Aaw, she’s trying.’ Nicer, but is pitty a good thing? No? A-thank-you.

    It doesn’t help that when I speak aloud it feels like I can’t breathe, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I actually did hold my breath ’til the point where my blood rises to the surface to desperately scream for help. Anyone else suffer from this problem?

    Anyway, either my body gets the f!ck over the stage fright or I’ll never be a successful author; we’re expected to do public readings, after all. But maybe it isn’t so bad; you couldn’t accuse me of being pretentious, arrogant or vain, could you? I mean how many self-righteous literaries blush when all eyes are on them?

    Then again, how many self-righteous literaries would give two sh!ts either way?
  4. Copied and pasted from my external blog

    I’ve just started my second week back at university, and I’ve already developed cranium-throb. The work load has doubled, and although it’s managable, it’s still dawning on me that this time, there are no second chances. I can either get it right the first time, or be miserably second-class. I know, I know; writing isn’t easy – you think I don’t know that? I pride myself in the knowledge that I’ve only taken a few steps further into the writing world than most of the students on the course right now. That’s not to say that I’m more talented than them, or harder working at all; just more experienced. So the fact that I still find myself worrying about ending up with 2:1 at the end of next year, rather than a glittering first, is a little bit silly. I should know by now what it takes, and that once the work has been handed in, the ball has rolled right out of my court.

    However, I’ve made plans to make life for myself a little easier. I’ve decided to get up early, and stop rushing to class with one minute to spare. I’m going to keep on top of my work, and be bright eyed and bushy tailed, even at the ungodly start of 9:30 am. Don’t think that’s early? Well, I never said I’d grown up – just that I was trying to be more responsible.

    So anyway, this experienced writress was a big idiot and set her alarm for 8pm instead of 8am this morning. After being shaken awake, I had fifteen minutes tops to spare, in order to go to the loo, get washed, dressed, smellified, straighten my hair and apply make-up. As well as this, I had to email my tutor to tell him I was going to be late, to avoid the humiliation of bursting into the room, red-cheeked, just to be marched back out again.

    I then had to dash out of the door without my obligatory diet-breakfast-banana, and walk briskly (I don’t run) for 15 mins to the Cat Hill campus. Sadly, there were no cats when I arrived; just a grim looking secretary and a few 3rd year students who’d lost so much heart in the business that they couldn’t even be arsed to help me find my new classroom. After two tries finding room 172, I went and asked the secretary if she knew where I could find it. ‘Down the ramps,’ she said. I blinked and replied, ‘I’ve already been down there, and couldn’t find it. Can you be more specific?’

    She pursed her lips and retorted with, ‘I’m not sure. Just go down the ramps.’ Yeah, really helpful, moron behind the desk. So off I trotted, the face of the clock on the wall practically burning a hole in my back as I went. I went down the ramps yet again, turned a few corners, looked bewildered at passers by and begged a few others, all to find myself outside. So I turned some more corners, and ended up back where I started. Time was ticking. Now I was pissed.

    ‘I’ve been everywhere, and I still can’t find the room I asked for. Do you have any idea where it might be?’ I ask the pug-faced secretary once more. She folds her arms, narrows her eyes, and says, ‘I really don’t know. You might have to go down the spiral staircase.’

    A spiral staircase now!? I just give her the stink-eye and march off again, just catching the words ‘That was the girl from earlier…’ being hissed maliciously to some other member of staff, before making my way “down da ramps” once more. This time I find myself turning into a corridor of freaky self-portraits, apparently by photography students, and go through the maze of corridors to search for the mysterious spiral staircase, which the middle-aged bitch at the front desk had conveniently forgotten to mention the first hundred times I asked.

    It’s only when I peek into an open door that has a sign saying, ‘Stairs to lifts’ that I catch a glimpse of a stairwell going down, and somehow, by some miracle, I find this spiral staircase. I decend, probably looking as lost and enchanted as the kid from Pan’s Labyrinth, and find myself in a some Jacob’s Ladder inspired basement.

    I was afraid. But I wonder along and eventually find some large red doors, and at the very end, is room 172. What a ****ing battle that was, I think to myself. So I breeze in, trying hard to be silent and respectful, only to hear “It’s actually past the 15 minute mark, so…” behind me. I plonk myself down, and, quite ****ed-offedly yet reservedly say, ‘I sent you an email explaining I’d be late.’

    I was let off, and although I wanted to add that I’d just had to treck through ****ing Nania just to get there, so he should be grateful I arrived in one piece, I decided against it. I got on with the class, and actually really enjoyed the excersizes. I just made myself a mental note to climb the front desk and take a massive, steaming, satisfying **** on the secretary’s head on the way out. That’ll show her, I thought.
  5. Please check out my external blog, for links to my reviews and news about my fiction acceptances. This is just a quick update.

    Three of my film reviews are now up at VideoVista(dot)net!

    .Review of Tears For Sale
    .Review of The Haunting Of Marsten Manor
    .Review of Zombie Women Of Satan

    Recently I've also sold a piece of dark comedy to the Rotting Tales anthology at Pill Hill Press, and two pieces of chick lit to; Your Daily Dose Of Chick Lit

    I also have other things sent out, and I'm awaiting my responses. Fingers crossed!