Our internet has been capped for the month, so my interwebz is being really really ridiculously slow. It's making blogging hard, but I'm still sticking in there.

Boyfriend bought me a camera for my birthday back in July, and I barely use it, because I barely remember. I'm thinking of starting another blog, and doing the 365 project. Does anyone have any tips? Specifically for a newbie photographer who isn't very good?

Boyfriend said to me this morning while we were laying in bed You're my teeny tiny little package of love

I love Boyfriend.

Today has been the first nice day we've had in ages, despite the lady on the news telling me it was supposed to be like this yesterday, and rain was supposed to come 'til next Wednesday. Since it has been so gorgeous, I've emptied my washing basket. I now have washing swinging on the line in the sunny breeze. Lovely.

I should be doing uni work, but it feels too nice, so I've cleaned my kitchen and polished my stove, and I think I might go ruin all my hard work by making scones for dessert. Berry scones. A lovely purple colour. There's nothing more satisfying than baking something yummy for Boyfriend to come home to.

I went to the optometrist yesterday and got two new pairs of glasses. One of the pairs was a pair of reading glasses. I've never been prescribed reading glasses before. Hopefully I won't have to change my glasses too much. I kind of want one of those awesome librarian chains to keep them on.

I've always loved wearing glasses. I wanted them so much that my mum didn't believe me when I said I couldn't see the board at school. She said I was just saying that so that I could wear glasses. I've been wearing them for almost ten years now.

Choosing new frames always takes the longest time, but that's half the fun, right?

I have this fabulous friend called Rose, who is absolutely fabulous. She's a Brisbane based photographer, who is like my bestest friend and who is completely awesome.

I want to get married in this dress, for serious.

Visit her on flickr or on her blog

She finds him one winter evening at a gallery in the middle of the empty city. It is so out of context his head reels. She stands in front of him in a taffeta ball gown and the highest heels he has ever seen on a woman outside of the pages of a magazine. Her hair is twisted up into a fiddly knot, and it takes him a moment of blinking silence to realise who is standing in front of him. He hasn’t seen her in eight years.

She looks down with a shy smile, “I saw your name in the paper, and I needed to come, just to see if it really was you.” Her tone is apologetic, but the blue of her eyes shines. He is so used to seeing her in some sort of tiny bikini, her skin tanned and glimmering, her hair a tangled mess of knots around her shoulders. He remembers the summer they were sixteen, her lips under his, misty beer breath mingling in one common space, her fingers gritty with sand as they rubbed unconsciously across his bare chest. He remembers, mostly, the way her skin glowed luminously in the moonlight. It is all in direct contrast to what she is know, this person he does not even know, who is standing in front of him nervously. He is aware of the fact that he has not said a word, is more than aware of the fact that his tongue is sticking gummily to the roof of his mouth as his salivary glands give up their job. He clears his throat and attempts to smile instead.

“Liv,” he attempts to curl her name around his tongue, rubbing the short hair at the back of his neck while looking down at the beat-up canvas of his shoes, “I – uh – what are you doing here? I mean, wow. It’s great you’re here, but why are you here?” His infliction seems to refer more to her dress than anything.

“I needed to make sure you’re still real. That I didn’t dream you up.” The words that you still love me hang ethereal around them, binding them in the sweet caress of two people who know each other intimately. She touches his soul with her big blue eyes.

He takes her by the hand. Her skin is pale as though she spends most of her time out of the sun; he can see the brilliant cobalt blood running through the parchment of her skin. Her thin fingers are cold in his as he leads her to the back wall. Her dress gushes against his legs as they walk through the sparse crowd to the painting he has hidden right at the back of the room. He has used watercolours on a giant canvas to paint a picture of a young girl with blonde hair that flies in invisible wind peaking out behind her hands at the viewer. The sea is behind her, a white and frothy wave frozen in perpetual motion. He has painted a snapshot from his memory, and she recognises herself in the face of the girl. It is all she needs to know.

© Rachael Young 2009

I'm attempting to find the inspiration to write.

I have a confession to make

...

I'm obsessed with TV cooking shows. We don't have foxtel (cable) so I'm stuck watching the shows that are on afternoon pay TV. I most specifically love Hewie. He's so lovably kiwi. And he makes adorable mistakes all the time and laughs at himself. He's like someones awesome old jolly uncle. I wouldn't cook the food, but I enjoy watching him make it.

Can't write. Can't read. Can't breathe. Don't know how I'm going to find another 10k to graduate. Don't know how I'll find the money for post-grad studies. Don't know what I'm going to do when I graduate. Don't know. Don't know. Dontknowdontknowdontknow. Not the end of the world, I guess, but I want plans and goals and something to strive towards. I'm a procrastinator by nature. I'd much rather be in a comfortable chair reading something than sitting down and working towards the only thing I know I can do: write.

I don't know how James Patterson does it (Well, I do actually... he hasn't written his own books for years. Definitely not someone to strive to be.)

I just... want. And I feel like, with the one obvious exception in Boyfriend, I have no support system to get me where I want to be. To what I want to do. I am Lost. With a capital L. God, I wish for the days of high school, when it was all so easy.

All I want is something I can be proud of.

Sunday went really well, I think. It rained, but that still didn't stop us. We had probably about 35 people in our tiny little house. Everyone had a good time.

I haven't done any uni work in a week and a half. I'm very behind. It's obvious to me that I just really don't want to be there. I'm less stressed about money because I got my tax back, but I'm just so over the study.

But then... I get books like thin in the mail thanks to amazing people on eating disorder forums, and I want nothing more than to write my PhD thesis, the one that has been floating around in my brain since I was 15. I guess I just have to grit my teeth and get through the next year and a half til I graduate. There's always going to be money problems, unless something amazing and we win lotto on our housewarming-gift lotto ticket.

It all makes me very glum.