A Cliché A Day...

I started writing a script a few weeks ago, and I'm in the process of nit-picking (editing) it.  It's about four writers living in a house together and the dramas that inspire them to write what they do.  I'm a firm believer in the importance of writers, and also that to be a great writer (of any kind) you need to experience some sort of emotional turmoil that you can pour into your writing like me when I'm putting gravy on to my roast dinner (I like to drown things).

The script that I'm working on is the first part of six, and the idea was to have each episode a play on a cliché.  For instance, the first one is called "Wham, Bam, No Thanks, Man" after "Wham, Bam, Thank You Mam."  The second one is currently called "You're Not The One That I Want" but I don't like it.  I came up with a better title a while ago, but I can't remember what it was, and it's really starting to piss me off.  Damn me and my stupidly bad memory!

Even Googling clichés hasn't helped.  It takes me to all the same sights and they're useless for finding things.  Perhaps I should change my ways (for once) and go for a different angle on things.

We shall see...

Warning: Extreme Sentimentality Ahead

I've always found that certain times of the month turns me into a contradictory cocktail of irritability and sentimentality. Not a fun combination. Funny, for those around me that aren't the target of it, though.

And so I'm sat here, watching one of my favourite episodes of Charmed (season two's Heartbreak City) and feeling maudlin. As much as the character of Phoebe annoyed me during the latter episodes, in the earlier ones, growing up I had a lot in common with her: she changed her hair a lot, she was the baby of the bunch, she didn't know where she was going in life and ended up at university (studying psychology, which I once had an interest in until I realised that I sucked at it), and even though she appeared fearless, she was afraid of the greatest thing of all. Love.

I love my family, and I love some of my friends, but I've always found it hard to let guys in. Growing up in an all-female household they were like some weird alien species to me, and it took me a long time to be able to open up to them and not just view them as something shiny with a six pack.

When I was seventeen, I fell in love. He was my best friend, and to be quite honest, he was a complete douche bag too. One minute he was flirting with me and couldn't wait to see me, and the next minute he'd rather hit on my best friend (or anything else that wasn't me) and make out with her behind my back. Given that they were both my best friends, you would've thought that they'd realise just what they were doing to me, but they didn't care. They were both selfish attention whores, and to be honest, I should've known better.

It took me a really long time to get over not being good enough for him, and I went through a few more (short-lived) douche bags before I met the guy I'm with now. When he first came into my life, I never expected him to stick around. Everyday I was expecting him to stop texting, stop talking, decide that he wanted someone better. But he never does. He wants me. And for the girl who grew up with a cold-heart and thought that she was destined to be alone, it's still a weird feeling, almost eight months later. But I'm not complaining. We know that we're not perfect and that we have our issues, but who doesn't? What matters is that we love each other, and as the old cliche goes: love conquers all.

Frankenkrissy

See, I have this problem. Several, actually. One is that I quite like the talk about myself, but that when I do, what I'm saying seldom makes sense to anyone who doesn't know me. The next one is that when I do speak about myself, I often drag the people in my life into the conversation with me, which leads on to my next problem of constantly putting my foot into a giant pile of doggy doo-doo. I tend to either over or undershare. There doesn't seem to be a halfway point when it comes to my talking. And it gets me into a lot of trouble.

It was bought to my attention the other day that although I find it (relatively) easy to write about how I'm feeling, I can't say it. If something is bugging me, I'll sit there in silence, desperately trying to figure out what I want to say. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. And if I don't, I turn it into a poem or a metaphor or I start speaking in some sort of foreign language that not even my best friends or boyfriend can make sense of. And when they can't make sense of me, you know things are bad. Because those guys are awesome. And they know me far too well.

They also know the golden rule: Never. Take. Me. Seriously.

It sounds silly, but it's true. If you take me seriously when I'm throwing a diva strop, I'll get carried away and turn into Frankenkrissy.

The best, fail-safe methods for dealing with Frankenkrissy are:

Best Friend 1: Laughing at me

Best Friend 2: Telling me to shut up

Mum: Asking one of the following: "It's getting near that time of the month again, isn't it?" or "What have you eaten today?" (I tend to be crankier when I haven't had enough to eat)

And so folks, the golden rule of reading to my blog if I do manage to keep it up is this: remember that everything I say is a big fat stinky pile of crap covered in glitter.

Sex and the Pity

I just got back from watching Sex and the City 2 at the cinema, and I'm still torn between whether or not I liked it. It was enjoyable, sure, but the storylines just seem to repeat one another. (If you haven't seen it and don't like spoilers don't read ahead). Carrie cheats on Aidan with Big in the show, however many years later, she cheats on Big with Aidan...in a foreign country. Was there really any need?

The show was popular because it pushed boundaries, it was controversial and it was empowering for women, and this was your classic, cliched click flick. Even more so than the first film. God I wanted to kill Big and Carrie by the end of that one. And steal their shoes.

I preferred the fashion of the second one, but it seems a little like they've lost their individual styles and now just dress in what's pretty. Miranda isn't half as conservative as she used to be and Charlotte is less cutesy. Sure, people mature with age, but in a franchise that's all about the fashion, and fashion being about expressing your individuality, why make them all the same?

Yeah. I'm rambling. I'm allowed to. I haven't been able to write anything decent on my stories since we finished coursework at the start of the month. *Sigh*

How to not get laid

It's my friend's birthday today, so we went out to Mosh (an alternative night club) to celebrate. As we were dancing away, a guy taps me on the shoulder:

Random Guy: My jumper's wet. Will you wipe it for me?

Me: I'm taken.

Random Guy: What?

Me: No.

Random Guy: Pleeeeeeeease.

Me: No. *Turns away*

What I should have said was: "Why don't you take it off instead? ;) " but I didn't think fast enough, and I'm scared as to how he would have reacted. He wasn't hot, either. No wonder he had to resort to such bad pick-up lines.

On another note, I have discovered the three types of dad dancing: barely dancing, almost acceptable and appalling.

Yes folks, that what the dancing standard of the male species was like tonight. Entertaining and yet scary at the same time. It almost makes me glad that my boyfriend won't dance...(however, one day I WILL get him on the dancefloor...mwahahahahahaha)

Yes. I should be off to bed now, given that it's past my bedtime.

Green fingers? No, no, mine's red...

I've always quite liked plants. My nan loves gardening, and so does my mum, (and our dog, George, quite likes to help out too by digging massive holes in the garden...) so it's only natural that I quite like gardening too. Minus the part that involves creepy-crawlies.

The thing is, plants don't really like me.

In my twenty-year lifespan, I've managed to kill two banana plants; a venus fly trap; a cactus, and bamboo. My aunty (who lives in Australia) has bamboo surrounding her entire back garden, and it lasted through their drought, but it couldn't last a fortnight in my ownership.

Over the summer, I decided I wanted a new plant, so I got a pretty peace lily and called it Daisy, just to be ironic, and because I like naming things. All summer I looked after it and it was great. Lots of pretty flowers, she was a perky, happy plant.

...Then I took her to uni...

Within a few weeks' there, she wasn't happy. Flowers started dying, the leaves were drooping, she wasn't absorbing water and she looked more depressed than me when I haven't had a Starbucks for a month. So I took her home.

And within two days of being looked after by my nan, she'd returned to how she'd been all summer.

I wasn't impressed. But I was kind of happy that I hadn't killed of another plant.

Last weekend, I thought I'd try my luck with another plant, thinking that maybe peace lilies just weren't the right kind of thing for me to have at uni. So I bought a campanula in a pretty polka dot pot. It didn't last five minutes at uni before it a) started wilting and b) began to set off my hayfever. After three days I'd had enough and gave it to my flatmate to look after. I was ill enough - I didn't need hay fever being added to my list of ailments.

I bought it home when I was dragged home on Thursday purely from the sound of my voice (yes, I apparently sounded THAT bad), and when my nan saw said plant, she wasn't impressed.

"Look," she said, pulling it out of the pot. It slid straight out. "It's bone dry."

"But the last time I checked it it was fine!" I protested. This had been the day before. I wasn't impressed.

I've now officially given up on plants.

Or at least, the idea of keeping them in my poorly lit, strangely temperature room at university. Stupid plants.

If you want something done right...

After posting my last blog, I had a "genius" idea - I figured I could transfer my shiny new blog on to a subdomain of Mystic Ways, my incredibly geeky fansite for supernatural television shows. So I went ahead and downloaded WordPress, then realised something - I need a spare MySQL database on Mystic Ways for it to work.

And guess what?

I don't have a spare MySQL database on there, because it's taken up by the pretty gallery, which is going nowhere because it's taken me forever to find some of those pictures.

Grr.

I suppose I could just be happy with what I've got here, but then again, I'm a spoilt only child who always gets her way...