My Diary

I've been fairly alright with it. I've had it pretty much all through uni and it hasn't bothered me. Because I've got enough hair to disguise it and I generally don't have my body out much, it's not ever been a big deal. There's now patches on my elbows which can be seen but they aren't so bright as to be particularly noticeable.

It doesn't itch or scratch or burn or flake: it's just there, like the feint right-hand margin on a sheet of A4. It's not a big deal: it's not like I'm a wonderfully attractive guy who is ruined by skin discolouring, I'm just a bit average with something that marks me out with "physical character."

Except, yesterday, it got really bad. Well, I noticed it yesterday because I had to walk from the bathroom to my own room to lift a t-shirt and I caught myself in the mirror. It's horrendeous. It's all over my stomach and one side of my chest, and on my hips and back it looks really severe. It's usually just little spots, a centimetre or so wide, but on my right I've got a good six-inch patch.

It's also spreading to my legs and - worst of all - around the groin area. On my thighs it looks like streaky fake tan more than a skin condition. I look infected.

Why couldn't I have a condition with a cause and a cure? Why did I have to get the fungal infection that doctors can't explain away or provide  cure for? That shampoo I got given is expensive and only works temporarily, I would need to use it every day for the rest of my life and that just isn't practical. Will I have to resign myself to looking like this?

I'm not a proud man about my looks. I know that I'm a fair 7/10 and my appeal is in my wit and charm and intelligence and obsequious tendencies. But it's kinda bogging me down that I've got this horrible thing growing on me. I know it seems OTT when there are burns victims and birthmark-wearers out there who encounter prejudice constantly, compared to my hidden, mostly-unnotable pink bits that I can laugh off, but it doesn't make it feel any less disgusting when I look at myself like others could see me.

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and I've started drinking, magical

little boots did her dissertation on "the concept of originality in Jamie Cullum" - how I wish I could follow a similar career path, having finally fucking submitted my 8908 word dissertation on The Knife and the concept of identity and art

elections tonight, time to put a fucking donk on it

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with ten days to go and still no actual ideas written down, it's good to know that A Manifesto For Cyborgs throws itself into at least 1000 words

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Dear All -

As you know tomorrow is our final lecture of the year.

Insane as it might sound, I would like to mark crossing the finish-line by inviting all of you for a drink (that's ONE drink Mr Ramage...) afterwards. For blindingly obvious reasons my favourite watering-hole is O'Neills (Irish theme bar extraordinaire...) in the Candleriggs. So, if you fancy meeting me down there around 1.20pm after our lecture, I'd be pleased to see you.

Let me know if you can make it.

Otherwise, see you all at 11 am in L2.17 as usual.

Best regards,

Eamonn.


Eamonn O'Neill
Website: www.eamonnoneill.net
Home: +44...



There's something about being aware that even the lecturers think you're a bit of drunk that's really depressing.

Less than two weeks to go before the dissertation deadline. Starting the reading today. Hanging myself at the weekend.

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just won't come out, except around people like me, Lindsay G and Katy B

seeing the good in everyone should be a blessing - why do i hate myself for it?

i swear to fucking God, if i see that bitch again I'm going to slash her muff to tit

congrats to Suzanne and Johnathan, such a happy couple, i love them

comiserations to me, i just keep pulling munters, saying the wrong things to the right people and the right things to the wrong people, plus my forehead is looking S4-style greasy again and i'm more skint than a tribal clitoris

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 is good, isn't it?

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in fact, I'm just going to say it, if you don't like this album you don't deserve ears
 

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the foul taste in my mouth that I fear is halitosis, the state of my flat, my laptop being broken, the blisters on my feet, being hungover yet again, Creative Writing Portfolio class, dissertation, Journalism assignments, Journalism classes, Law classes, Law assignment, procrastination, the weight I've gained, the terrible sleep pattern I've fallen into, the way my eyes are glazing over, having no money, credit crunch Britian, not being able to sort out SAAS correctly, the fucked-up Housing Benefit system, girls who politicise a Saturday job, customers, Head Office, public transport, broken glass, the lack of anybody do anything truly desirable with, spending £29 on Modeselektor tickets I might not get to use, friends who are planning to leave the country, friends who have other stuff going on, family who just don't have a fucking clue, people I've screwed showing up at every turn, ex-boyfriends, poor leaning-in attempts, mixed signals, social smoking and the fact I can't even do it right, curiousity about experimentalism, people who think Jack MacFarlane comparisons are a positive thing, conflicting advice, being able to get on with everybody just too well, not having a fucking clue about what I want to do now or forever with my life

most of all, the doctor's diagnosis that I don't have enough symptoms to be seen as suffering a depressive illness, and that I'm just unhappy

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life... this is where I'm at, fucking hell, I'm twenty one years old and I'm genuinely through with things - not in a suicidal way, just in an "excitement and drama" way... I am completely exhausted, I just want to rest and enjoy myself and start to live for me

so I've decided I'm going to speak to someone at uni properly, and try to get temporary academic suspension until I get my head sorted

I don't have a fucking clue what I'll do instead which is terryingly upsetting and completely liberating

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