I am so tired.

I can’t even drag myself to bed. Did I mention that my new Wing Commander book has arrived? I’ve read the first chapter and I might try and read another if I can stay awake long enough.

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Gotik

German Goth girls, on average, are way more attractive than British goth girls. Mind you British women are, in general, not to be touched with a barge pole. As S says, because she’s a bitch which is partly why I like her, “In Britain women are like, “I am obese therefore I am alternative”” .

One of the things that I’m mulling over with the whole Dakota thing is that she is emphatically not Goth, although she is a bit of a hippy, and I have a massive thing for Goth girls because my brain associates women who look like they could casually beat someone to death with a hammer and think it was cool, with security. For fuck sake I hang around with a woman with implanted fangs……this is my idea of normal. I am a screw ball.

Anyway; I’m off to bed, toodles.

Sleep

Random memory; we’d been travelling for fucking ages and I was tired. This was wearing black and assault boots and nothing but. We’re on the platform waiting for the train and we have an hour to kill, so I pull out my roll mat, and go to sleep using my Bergen as a pillow. Cadets do this all the time; anywhere there’s space everyone just plonks their kit down and gets some sleep; after five years in the cadets you can sleep anywhere. I don’t know how much time goes by but I’m woken up by chattering and I open one eye and look up and S is chattering away to some little old lady; I’m tired so I roll over and go back to sleep.

The train comes and we get on and the little old lady gets on with us and sits in the seats to the side of us; I stretch myself along two seats with my feet dangling almost dangling out in the aisle and go back to sleep and S and the little old lady chatter away. Time passes and there is different chattering which wakes me up, a sandwich is on the table along with tea and S is kicking me under the table to wake me up. Sandwich is scoffed, tea is knocked back, sleep is cracked on with.

Eventually I wake up and S, of course, is reading and the little old lady is gone.

Grandiose perfectionism.

I find this course boring; it is too easy to the point where attempting to make it intellectually enjoyable actually ends up hampering me. C tells me to stop showing off but I’m not; it’s just if you ask me to write six-hundred words on Protagoras I find it boring; I can bang out fifteen hundred in a blog post about something I’ve read if I really want to, and I chose this course because it’s something I’m interested in, so I can write reams and reams about it and reference the fuck out of it and do an awesome job.

What I’m being asked to do is in fact so easy that I find it boring which is dangerous; a recurring theme in my educational life is being bored because things are too easy. I screwed up my GCSE’s because basically I was bored rigid at school, getting 90% in a test was normal; once I got 99% on a biology exam and I’m talking without revision. So I never really developed study skills; I just never needed them. In fact truth be told if I hadn’t have had depression I’d have probably done quite well. My chemistry resits I did in about fifteen minutes flat with no study. My teacher came over and I slowly leafed through the paper as he looked over my shoulder and he gave me the thumbs up and as I sauntered out he’s like “A’s on all papers”.

Now the problem is that I have the study skills but I can’t really put them to use. S continuously reminds me that not everything has to be a magnum opus, this annoys me. I suppose I feel that something is only important if it’s massive. I can hear C telling me that I don’t always have to be larger than life. I’m an intellectual size queen; if I’m not stretched then the whole thing just fails to wet my appetite.

The only positive, immediate positive, of the course is that I’ve found that the workload, as if mine isn’t insane already, actually keeps me in a near permanent state of hypomania, which, thinking about it, I may now be experiencing.

Women.

It’s not that women have suddenly started throwing themselves at me, it’s that now I’ve placed a restriction on myself I notice how much sex there is on offer. Tonight I was out with J and it was just everywhere. I’m drinking my beer and this milf keeps looking at me, but I wasn’t interested. Then later there’s this woman in her early 20’s and some guy is with her and I could see that he just didn’t have the balls to make a move. He was what I call a “button up” one of these guys that wears an untucked shirt with the collar and cuffs done up and so ends up looking like a five year old that hasn’t been tucked in by mummy yet. These guys are invariably total losers.

So she’s the other side of a screen in the pub, she’s quite chunky, but kinda cute, and every time I look over she’s looking at me and there’s constant eye contact. I’m telling myself, “No, you need to be good” but it’s just there. You people don’t know what it’s like; I hit thirty and every woman under thirty is now so easy. In a room full of button ups and lumbersexuals I look like the most relaxed and confident mofo going.

The button ups look like mummy dressed them and they don’t have the balls to make a move, and the lumbersexuals look like they’re trying too hard and they all look alike so you can’t tell one from the other. Also lumbersexuals can’t do what I do which is catch a woman looking at me and hold eye contact with her until she looks away because lumbersexuals are manginas. Lumbersexuals are woman pleasers and women do not like women pleasers.  Then there’s me in my white Oxford shirt and purple chinos, collar and top button undone, sleeves rolled up, swinging on my chair, hands behind my head, not giving a fuck.

Ugh. I tell her that I’m not going to sleep with other women and now all I see are these fucking opportunities, literally, which would be fine but her response to this has literally been muted. She has said nothing, which I expected because she doesn’t reply to anyone’s messages about anything.

On the plus side I’ve had much praise from the women in my life, about half of which now want to fuck me, which is predictable; the moment you show that you can actually be a good bf everyone wants to bang you. It’s why sob stories about unrequited love get you laid. Bitches be like “OMFG, he could feel that way about me if I bang him”, obviously this happens on a subconscious level. Or maybe it’s totally conscious, either way Dakota has got me more sex than I care to admit.

I don’t even know where I am now; stupidly horny. I think it began the moment I sent the bloody text. Now I’m like, and I feel bad about this, if I have sex with random women she’ll never know about will it do any harm? On one hand I want to stick to my word but on the other I suppose I don’t feel that it is useful. I can’t believe myself; in four days I’ve gone from not being interested in other women all that much to wanting to bang every woman in sight all because I told Dakota that I wouldn’t sleep around. What sense does this make?

Aliens and PTSD.

If you want to screw up a human being, have it kill another human being. In On Killing Dave Grossman presents evidence that killing another person is actually far more traumatic than seeing your friends and family killed. Watching Space: Above and Beyond and other sci-fi I wonder if that would apply to aliens. I wonder if we ever had to fight an alien species whether this would register as killing another human being or whether we could kill them en masse and never have it emotionally register in the same way that we can kill animals en masse and never end up with PTSD in the way that soldiers often do when they know that they’ve killed someone.