Whenever I get restless, or overanxious, I flit my time away on inane things, while secretly desiring to do something wild or impulsive. Like now, for instance. What I should be doing: reading Seamus Heaney before I have to start getting dressed up for the Dean's dinner tonight. Especially since this week's topic is going to be a bitch. Something about how every poem is actually a metaphor for what's going on in Ireland. But my Irish history is rather sorely lacking. At least I think that's what I'm supposed to write about this week. For some reason, I can't quite remember what Ballam said.

I have all this nervous energy & I don't know what to do with myself. Falling into daydreams about the future, about whether or not I'll end up back here. I think the only way I'll be able to leave is if I tell myself that maybe I will. And I'm going to apply to the English MST just to see what happens. Just to keep all my options open.

I'm not sure what I want right now. Drunken exuberant conversations on empty Oxford streets as night finally falls. A sweaty club. To make stupid decisions & not be hurt by them later. I get attached to people quickly. It's always been a virtue & a fault. One I don't know how to go about changing. That's why I can't do random hookups. Most of the time, anyway. I think I have control, but I hardly ever do. Maybe I just like the image. It's enticing, that act. Even if it is just an act. I fall hard. That's why it's been a month & I still care.

I have been listening to Kate Voegele's cover of Hallelujah on repeat. I think I like it better than the Rufus Wainright version, surprisingly. Tomorrow--read all day, go out for Luke's birthday at night. Saturday--watch Wadham in Summer Eights. Sunday--question mark. Work. Yes. Monday--Che's birthday. Tuesday--another birthday/club outing. Etc, etc.

Who wants to give me a crash course in Irish politics? Le sigh.