I had totally forgot how much I utterly and completely hate writing history papers! Yes, I'm still being bugged by Margaret Thatcher, but as you could read from my previous entry, I get easily distracted - especially when the topic is something as dull as tax reforms - so it makes sense that I take my time. Even though I really shouldn't. I have three exams this January, one of them being Literary History which means British and American literature from 1350 to the present. Enjoyments! Plus I'm moving on the 27th. I'm renting a room at my friend's flat - that way I'm closer to uni. Oh, my stress level just hit another dimension.

'The way they were just huddled together on the back seat all four of them made them look ridiculous - and drunk, which they were, of course. They were all touching each other in some way. A hand here, a leg there, pressing down; creating heat.'

Hmm, strange...

First entry and all. I'm working on a history paper about Margaret Thatcher and the Poll Tax at the moment and I'm just taking a little breather. This is what I have so far:

'I love it when he comes to see me. We never see daylight together, but it doesn't matter, it will never be love.
I love it when he comes to see me after a gig with the smell of smoke and sweat mixing deliciously with the lemon soap he always uses. I know his black clothes leave a trail from the door to the bed, although I never see it as I'm already lying in the darkness when he stumbles through the door and I will not get up before he's left again.
Drained and numb after the adrenaline of the gig has left his body, he falls down flat on his back not bothering to remove the heavy layer of kohl around his eyes or wash out the flour, made to resemble chalk, from his dark hair, and I smile as the bed wobble by the impact.
I settle onto my side and snuggle into the pillows. I watch his profile in the light from the city outside, his mascara-covered eyelashes flutter a few times before he turns his head and looks at me, his eyes half-closed, and then he pulls me towards him. His naked skin is damp and hot against my fingertips, but still I feel him shiver and I bask in that feeling while my lips make brief contact with his salty skin. Yes, I love it when he comes to see me.'

Okay, maybe I got a little sidetracked...