Monthly Archives: August 2011

On the eve of the results..

So, here I am, sitting in my bedroom, eating a banana, alone apart from the crane fly in the corner whose murder I am currently planning. The Facebook statuses are being updated at a rate only comparable to the eve of the Leaving Cert itself, and I’m lamenting the fact that there’s only a glassful of orange juice left in the house to go with my Jameson in the morning.

I’m strangely calm right now, but when I start to think about walking through the front doors of the school again, seeing the principal, teachers and fellow students, and, most of all, being handed that envelope, it makes the whole thing seem a little too real.

In fairness though, this is nothing compared to June. It’s hard not to get worked up about it all, but the exam’s are done and no-one can change that now. (Well, maybe a corrupt State Examinations Commission employee, but that’s unlikely. Hopefully.) And, unless something terrible happens, like failing maths, we all get to go crazy tomorrow night and drink ’til we no longer remember what the Leaving Cert is.

I’m excited too. Excited at the thought of finally escaping from the clutches of secondary education. Excited at never having to think about a state exam again. Excited about what the future holds…maybe.

I went to the pub to meet a few friends earlier. Everyone was just going a bit insane at home and heading out for a drink seemed like the best idea. I had a mojito, which was suitably pretentious of me. People were planning tomorrow’s activities on an hour-by-hour basis, but I think I’ll go with a more spontaneous approach to things, it’s more my style..

Whatever happens there’ll be tears, either of joy or despair, and plenty of alcohol to intensify those emotions and help in the creation of much drunken debauchery. Right now though, it’s time to find that feckin’ daddy-long-legs’ hiding place, murder it with my trusty weapon of The Irish Times, and get myself to sleep. G’luck folks, it’ll be grand..

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I’m going to put it out there: I have a love-hate relationship with writing. I don’t think I’m particularly good at it, and I definitely don’t think I have anything interesting to say, or at least anything that hasn’t been said already, but when people ask what I want to spend the rest of my life doing, the answer is usually journalism. I know journalism and writing aren’t the same, but scribbling down a few words now and again is the closest I’m going to get for the time being.

I love writing in that, when I start, it seems to flow. I can ramble on forever about things that have no meaning to anyone but me. Letters become words, words become sentences, and sentences become ideas that have no substance, but I type them anyway.

Recently, though, I’ve found it harder and harder to start that first letter that goes on to become a blog post. And this is a bad thing. It’s not so much that I don’t want to write anything, but I’m stuck for inspiration, for something I want to talk about, for something I can talk about. At this stage, I’m almost contemplating opening up the Leaving Cert English exam papers and completing old compositions just so I’m writing something – anything – even if it is as sad as tasks from an exam I’m (hopefully) finished with forever.

You might think this lack of ideas is a reflection on me and my life, but it’s really not. Quite frequently, I get a desire to analyse some facet of my horribly clichéd teenage life, but none of that would be fit for public consumption. It’s best for everyone if the comprehensive critiques of my emotional wellbeing remain under lock and key, at least until I’m dead and they’re worth millions…

Writing about writing seems a bit futile. It’s like a vicious circle that I’ll never manage to escape from, and I’ll spend my life typing this very blog post day after day, week after week, until no-one ever wants to hear my woeful story ever again.

On numerous occasions over the past few months, I’ve meant to make a list of possible things to write about, but never actually got to making the list. Now that the Leaving Cert is over, there are no longer refill pads and notebooks scattered around my room, and pens are increasingly hard to come by. On the rare occasion that I do make it to the pen-hunting step, that day’s Simplex crossword from the Times catches my eye and I engross myself in that instead.

Then again, maybe a blog is the wrong way to go about all of this. My main problem with blogs is that I open a new tab, along with Twitter, 4oD and various other time-wasting websites, without a clue what the purpose of my ‘New Post’ is. I might manage a title, possibly an opening paragraph, but it goes nowhere. There should be a purpose to one’s writing, and right now my purpose is to explain why there are no posts with purpose, which is a reasonable enough purpose in my book.

Perhaps I need to go back to pen and paper, and do it the old-fashioned way. Oh and I sorta cracked my laptop screen so that’s probably a good idea anyway.

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