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Well

Not the best of days. Wandered into the loos to read 'Count Zero' (William Gibson), and came out to find that the Monday morning meeting had already started, and hence I was the only one of my department around. Could have gone to the meeting I suppose, but I didn't like the idea of going down there and drawing attention to myself, so devoted the time to thinking up a plausible excuse. Saying, "I was feeling ill, and didn't want to have to rush out of the meeting half-way through" with a defensive arm laid across stomach seemed to do the trick, though making it seem plausible involved convincing myself that I was feeling ill, which was irritating.

Jo was feeling ill and hence off work today. I called her to see how she was, and to see if she was considering coming to Laurie Anderson with some of the Oxford crowd. I had sort of assumed that she wouldn't, because as far as I know, she hasn't actually seen or heard any Laurie Anderson, but I was wrong. I think the reason is partially that she fears being 'left out', as a few of her mates are going. I thought these fears would decrease now that she is certainly moving back to Oxford, and hence no longer has to jump at chances to hang out with me and our friends, but apparently not. I'm being unfair, really. Not only is it perfectly reasonable for her to assume that she'll like the concert, but she's also ill at the moment, and hence feeling that much more vulnerable. Ah well. The reason why this is a problem is that one of my friends, Tanaqui, has taken a more-or-less irrational (by her own admission, I believe) dislike to Jo, and also intends to go to the concert. Tanaqui won't want to be part of a group containing Jo, Jo doesn't want to spoil the evening for Tanaqui but does want to come, and I don't want to exclude either of them. Chicks, eh?

Jo has called me a couple of times today, feeling lonely and ill and basically wanting a hug, but settling for half-an-hour of unfocused rambling from a boyfriend technically distracted by work, and at least by the need to seem as if he is... I'm afraid I came across as somewhat distant and unsympathetic. I've only got myself to blame for usually being so fucking fantastic and caring, I guess...

Work sucks (well, duh. That's why they have to pay you to do it.) I've been trying to work today, but have succeeded only doing what I will unfairly term 'Archie-work'. This involves worrying about and getting frustrated by the work you're supposed to be doing without actually doing any of it. I give it this name in memory of our final term of maths, in which I would sleep, read, play computer games, go out, smoke dope and generally do fuck-all, while Archie would agonise over his work in his room. So far, so 'Grasshopper and Ant', but when the tutorials came, we'd both actually achieved approximately similar amounts. Thing is, I used to be exactly the same, until anti-depressants temporarily removed my inclination to give much of a shit about anything. I'd always tended in that direction, but they constituted a final chemical kick off the cliff of caring into the pillowy-soft, smothering plain of indifference, where I have wallowed ever since. I now seem to live a basically happier live, but problems occur when the people paying me to work for them realise that not only can I not really summon the energy to do so, but I very rarely even attempt to. So far I have dealt with this by going and getting another job, but this seems somewhat stressful (in the transitions) and ultimately unsustainable. Meanwhile, Archie seems to be slowly but surely actually teaching himself to work effectively, and will presumably end up with a proper job and sustainable life-style. 'Archie-work'. Ha.

The work I'm currently supposed to be doing is correcting trivial but ubiquitous HTML errors in a medical journal about depression. Ho ho ho.

I'm probably just tired. This Saturday I got up (relatively) early in London (visiting Jo), bussed back to Oxford, and spent nearly 12 hours in a club (45 minutes out for eating, and that was it) watching 9 bands playing, then clubbing for 3 hours, with some mates. The bar bill alone was enough to cause me deep spiritual pain matching the mild hang-over, tiredness, and complaints from my wussier internal organs which had been doing a hitherto unparalleled amount of vibrating thanks to certain bands using what was described by one of my companions as apparently military-level sonic technology. Fun, though some of that fun was feeling very rock'n'roll for having actually done it. 'Knight's Tale' and therepeutic beer the next day with some of my fellow survivors, both pleasantly undemanding.

I got to talking with my companions about why I was actually keeping this journal (surprised to find that one of them actually reads it (Hello, Adrian). Well, if I will put things up on the internet...) I realised I wasn't sure, really. Possible explanations included:

- Something to do. Hell, I'm reading humour web-sites faster than they can write the things, I've got to do something.
- Peer-group pressure. Well, I say peer-group, but I mostly mean Archie. I thought it would be interesting for us to both keep journals, and at least it constitutes something creative that we're both doing. And now Jo's joined in. I think our journals make an interesting contrast...
- Narcissism. Seems unlikely, given that I'm actually vaguely embarrassed to find people read this thing. Still, I'm obviously not that embarrassed, or I wouldn't keep doing it, would I? Must be an element of truth in there...
- Honesty. By implying/pretending that this is written solely for my own benefit, I can write things about the people that I know read it without it seeming so targeted, so perhaps feel able to be more honest than I would in direct communication with them. Or just get away with more. Who knows? Oh, and by the way, I secretly hate you. Yes, you.

Well, screw you guys, I'm going home. But not before:

Autobiographical Fact #10:
(I don't honestly know why I'm doing these. It's probably safe to say that anyone reading this either knows or doesn't care about all this information. Still...)
Archie and I are potential comedy gods, hampered only by our individual and collective failures to write very much in the way of proof of this. 'Archie-work', mostly.

Current web-site: Other People's Milk.

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oxfordhacker
Drifting in and out of consciousness

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