Well If Everyone Else is Doing it, I might as Well Jump Too.

That's right: I'm back - a statement that implies I was here in the first place. It's september, a time for fresh starts, and new haircuts and new pencil cases, none of which I will be doing, as I'm moving into 3rd year with one decent pen and no money to terminate my shaggy mane with.

So what's new? Nope, nobody asked me that question. Nothing is new, I still want to finish my course, I still want to do a masters, but what has changed is that I now need to find £5400 to pay for rent and the masters itself. I haven't yet panicked about this, but must say right now that a quick shuffle around my cardboard box yielded no hidden fortune. It did yield spiders. Lots and lots of spiders. Oh dear God, the spiders.

There is one thing that mildly (and I use that term to sound like less of a prick) irritates me: The number of people who have decided "Hey, I don't know what I'm doing in life, why don't I do a masters so I get another year to think?" Well, that's a great attitude. I mean, some people (me, the prick) want to do a masters to further their chances of getting published (a masters in creative writing, obviously, a maths masters only increases the chance you'll kill yourself) and now the time for people to actually get a job is looming I'm finding my career path oddly busy. Not that I'm worried there will be competition to get on the masters - there wasn't last year, there were free slots - rather I'm annoyed that the second highest academic qualification is being considered because people aren't ready to finish university. Pick a real reason, please.

Moving on from what could be construed as an attack if it applies to you (don't worry, I like you, it's not about you) I still play a little poker, more for fun than an attempt to make any money, and I still procrastinate instead of writing my book. You would think the jealousy of hearing a friend has completed his own book would spur me into a competitive fervor, working day and night so I can scream "EN GARDE" in his face with a red correcting pen, and begin the arms race of who can finish proofreading first. But I haven't. My book is in my head, and whilst it's in my head it is a fine piece of literature. If I allow it a lifetime pass to paper, what if it becomes mulch, catches Syphilis, murders a hooker? I can't have that. I've been planning this book out for 5 years, and although the fine points have changed, the story is much the same.

I will write my book, just not now. For now, I'm more concerned about finishing the year on a 2:1, somehow amassing £5400, and not writing my book. I won't lie and say I'll blog more, because that implies I think somebody cares if I don't, and it also implies that I actually will, which I probably won't.

I'm at war with sleep, I won't let it take me, and it won't release me.