And I feel right at home in this stunning monochrome, alone in my ways.

I feel despondent and distracted 99% of the time; 2012 has not really started well.

Well I don't know; Christmas was beautiful as was New Year in France with Triston and my parents. On New Years Day it was unexpectedly sunny with clear blue skies and crisp cold air so we semi climbed up a snowy mountain with beautiful views and oh my god I'm not sure that I've ever felt quite as happy.

But since then it's really gone downhill - as soon as we got back from France I just didn't feel right and was miserable and boring and cried. Then on the drive back to Brighton we stopped at a service station to get cigarettes, and there was a huge puddle on the slip road leading out which we couldn't pass - Triston and I argued about which way to go and I ended up violently stalling the car and yelling at him and slamming my hands on the horn and swearing and eventually I burst into tears which didn't stop for a long, long time.

Bits have been okay since we got back; we went to visit Doig who has alcohol poisoning from spending New Year's in Scotland and had curry and watched silly films, I was sort of happy then. And Cat briefly came over to pick up her flatlet keys and i hadn't seen her for forever, and I had pretty good sex yesterday, um. It's hard to explain: it's like I'm just indifferent to people and and my course and Brighton and my finances and my appearance and food and drink and music and pretty much anything that has ever happened, is happening or will happen. The only things I really ever feel myself wanting to do are smoke cigarettes and sleep. Occasionally I also want to play on The Sims 3 or go for a walk or have sex.

I'm writing an essay on Madame Bovary which is pretty relevant I guess.

'Deep down, all the while, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she kept casting desperate glances over the solitary waster of her life, seeking some white sail in the distant mists of the horizon. She had no idea by what wind it would reach her, towards what shore it would bear her, or what kind of craft it would be - tiny boat or towering vessel, laden with heartbreaks or filled to the gunwhales with rapture. But every morning when she awoke she hoped that today would be the day; she listened for every sound, gave sudden starts, was surprised when nothing happened; and then, sadder with each succeeding sunset, she longed for tomorrow.'