I'd really rather like a job.

Auditions, auditions everywhere. But not a job in sight.

Why did I decide to talk a Literature/History degree. Someone please explain my logic.

I want to act, I like to act. I like directing, writing, designing. I don't like watching other people have the fun while I write about Charles bloody Dickens's use of onomatopoeia.

I just stumbled upon a film I was in a few months ago that I'd practically forgotten about and now I wish I was treading the boards rather than treading on the verge of what's acceptable in terms of university attendance.

I'd really rather like some advice on where to go and what to do and where there's some acting jobs for me. Really, really rather.

See, I can even smoke without dying. That has to be worth a job...

(just for disclaimer purposes, I don't smoke. Hence why I'm proud of the fact I could look cool with a cigarette for five minutes of my pointless existence).

Hello stress...

And thus I welcome back my old buddy, Mr I'm-so-stressed-pulling-my-hair-out-seems-a-good-idea. The third.

I've come to a surprise conclusion this week. Despite my long bouts of procrastination whenever I have an essay due in, I've realised I'm actually a work-a-holic. A worker rather than a partier. I love working. I love being stressed. I love doing anything that promotes that little egotistical monster inside me called achievement. Speaking of monsters inside of me, I'm currently still suffering from the worst throat and chest infection I've ever had despite my lungs first informing me I was leaving the world of the living well over three weeks ago. And this nice little illness has been whilst all my exams for university are going on meaning one had to be missed and two others have been written whilst sucking on a boiled sweet filled to the brim with anaesthetic for my red-raw throat. I have one more on Friday that I've yet to revise for but I have a many more things I need to do before that sensible option is approached.

I literally take on everything I can in the vain hope it'll one day mean I have a good job but it's driving me to the point where I can't even concentrate anymore and 'marrying well' (the type of woman who I'd rather cut my hair off than be) seems the best option to save me from falling into a pit of disappointment after trying to jump over hurdles I've set for myself that are just too high for my little legs to get over.

Oh, and the hurdles made of solid concrete due to the British wind knocking the normal ones over. This means I can't even cheat and run under the hurdles. It's the weather's fault. Every failure in life is due to the weather I've thus decided. I can't even remember what this extended metaphor was about.

I'm off to down my sorrows in a lemsip and the poetry of a one William Blake.