I am unsure of whether or not this will have been a good idea, but I uploaded this because I thought it might make me feel better (having had one of the worst days in existence) and it's just hanging around in the restricted section of youtube.

Faith moans about employment.

I have to go and train tomorrow at 8am. There is no applicable string of words to accurately portray the true distaste I feel towards that notion. Perhaps I will merely skip it, or, in some extreme bid to avoid an early morning, hit my head against a wall for a period of time long enough to discharge me from the responsibility of attending. Needless to say, I am now questioning the validity of my employment - fuck wages, I want sleep!
I also have to visit Jack tomorrow and give him his phone back, dressed in appropriately abhorrent business attire and, inevitably, receive copious reams of abuse from him about how ridiculous I look. Tomorrow is going to be a horrendous day. Please, someone put me out of my misery now and poison me in my sleep.

Over and out.

Faith moans about death.

There have been few occasions in my lifetime so far that, as a result of which, I have truly accepted my own unhindered mortality. It is a product of expanding human essence for one to protect oneself from such an acceptance, at least for long enough to fulfil the criteria of an accepted evolutionary and naturalistic life: grow, reproduce, maintain the short-term dependent lives of the offspring and then die - thus returning that which one borrowed in existence to the earth that so steadfastly recycles it.
In accepting death, it is widely (and misleadingly) thought, among those whose understanding is limited to an overview of physical earthly life, that one consequently surrenders one's ability to live in such a way that respects the brevity of earthly existence. In reality, the acceptance of death allows one to witness, in an entirely untainted light, the magnificence and glory of existence as a whole; not merely that short period of dusty awareness between birth and death, but the potential continuance of that awareness beyond a comprehendable level. Death, I suppose, is thus not something to fear, but rather one's birth into something new. Whatever that proceeding state might be is an insurmountable mystery.

Faith moans about Stanley Kubrick.

I'm pretty self-righteous on this topic, and apologize profusely to anyone who reads this because you will undoubtedly disagree with me, but I think I could have done a better job of A Clockwork Orange than Stanley Kubrick. I realise that the man is a revolutionary and uninhibitedly innovative director, and I am quite partial to much of his work (obviously The Shining was an unbeatably well-cast, written and organized film).
The Shining is a perfect example of Kubrick's tendency to make very subtle 'mistakes' that work to build a psychologically challenging character frame that he fails to build in any other conventional manner. His work is clean, faultless and calculated to such a degree that it's difficult for one to make such a bold statement as my previous one, especially one who is not trained in directing or any other form of cinematography. But, controversially, I do not believe that A Clockwork Orange is an example of his better achievements.

In the novel upon which the film is based, Anthony Burgess' use of euphamistic and, often, difficult to understand slanguage dialogue is...poetic, beautiful and artistic. His mixture of childish, unintelligent metaphor and contrastingly complicated symbolism and scenarios, proves the endearingly profound nature of each character, in particular, Alex:  his propensity for mischief and violence is so blatant and largely unrelatable and disgusting, and yet we still manage to uncover some kind of attachment to the character. Whether that's a result of Alex's tender age, or of Burgess' incredible ability to manipulate the reader through characteristic development, or  that of both factors, these are two key points overlooked by Kubrick throughout the cinematic adaptation.
I felt the casting was poor (in a regard similar to that experienced after watching Baz Luhrman's 'Romeo and Juliet', in which none of the cast appeared to understand any of their lines), thus the impact of Burgess' long-thought-out modern English slanguage is slashed dramatically.
In particular, the presentation of modern Britain in the film mirrored the expectations set forth by Kubrick's style: imaginatively clinical and clean, and underratedly simplistic. But it also portrayed a post-modern generic, stereotypical conception of modern architecture and society that rubbed uncomfortably against the dim, primal development of community and youth drawn from Burgess' masterpiece.
All in all, I'm sour and expected more because it's my favourite book and I have too much spare time.

Over and out.

Brighton Rock

I just dyed my hair black, and...well...it's gone sort of blue/red. Don't get me wrong, I've wanted black hair for a while but, upon fulfilling this wish, I have decided that I look a little 'emo'.
Besides, I digress; I was in sunny seaside Brighton yesterday for the first time in my life. Needless to mention, it did not prove to be particularly 'sunny' - rather, wet and windy, and said conditions broke my favourite umbrella. In a bid to distract myself from the unsurprisingly poor weather, I took a trip to The Lanes to slither through crowds of relentlessly trendy Brightonians and pine for an existence sufficiently 'with-it' to join them.
I know it sounds incredibly generic and hipster to state (not that you weren't all previously aware of my wannabe-hipster tendencies, anyway: what with my analog camera and homemade clothes and red hair) but I felt so in awe of everything that was going on there: the bustle of the streets, the organized chaos of the bright 1980s marketplace, the pseudo-uniqity of the ink-adorned, modestly clothed shop-owners, sat in the unassuming glow of an open 1973 Green Lantern comic book. I wish I was cool enough to fit in there.
Alas, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my H&M skirt and TK Maxx cardigan, and did my best to hide the shame of my misguided attire by taking an abhorrent number of cigarette breaks, under the cover of my unsalvageably warped umbrella, near a particular gathering of tattood boys with flesh tunnels and perfectly sculpted quiffs. None of them noticed me.

Over and out.

Faith moans about the band.

Today is turning into one of those days where I just wish I could sink into the ground and die. In fact, this has been an entire week of that feeling. On Sunday, I met Kiall to discuss my place in the band he's made. I didn't think that my presence was at all necessary and I was entirely aware that he agreed with me, albeit a carefully unvoiced opinion. He spent 3 hours trying to convince me that I was not going to be asked to leave, in the questionably appropriate setting of a Cafe Nero in town and fuelled by the warmth of four chai lattes, and promised that he wouldn't betray my trust by being wrong on this occasion. I find it increasingly difficult to trust his word, but I can't help but be that person who doesn't learn from their mistakes. In a foreseeable turn of events, only hidden from me by my own insurmountable denial of Kiall Wheatley's indecency, he today informed me that I am no longer welcome in the blues band he has formed despite my inability to contribute anything. He says that Sharon doesn't want to compete with me as a vocalist, or work with young musicians, and so it would be best if I left. I can't help but think, even though I realise that I was the first to suggest my leaving, that this is not what I wanted at all. I told him that I didn't want to leave, but that if that were what he wanted, then I'd rather I stopped now. I just got a text from him saying:

 'I had fun playing with you. We shouldn't stop altogether. Besides, we still have gigs.'

I'm no musician. I'm no vocalist or mandolin player, really. No one wants me and, despite all the promises he made me that he would never ask me to leave, he has. I don't know what I'm expected to do now, except maybe petrol bomb all of their homes/housevans.

Over and out.

Faith moans about being unattractive.

It seems so distastefully indulgent of me to succumb to my own incredible insecurity, reverting to this horrible facade of inexplicable, but entirely founded, self-hatred. Is it completely wrong of me to stay in the comfortable, familiar perimeters of my own personal loathing, or is it my natural, evolutionary duty as a maturing human being to accept that I will never be happy with the person I see in the mirror? Perhaps, one day, I will find someone who appreciates my presence more than I myself. Perhaps he will teach me how to feel something more than apathy towards everything Faith Olivia Newcombe stands for. Perhaps he'll never show his face - live an eternity in the steadfast arms of a woman more readily convinced of her own moral and physical and intellectual importance. I thought I had found you, but I was sincerely wrong. You are not the man to trick me into the security of my own disguised confidence - rather one to push me from the questionably balanced pedestal upon which you thought it wise to place me all those months ago. Only today have I realised, through the stern vexations of my own inconceivably harsh conclusioning, that I am not good enough for you. All this time I have been bartering for a place in your heart, but it has become painfully evident that I do not deserve one. I am not pretty or thin or particularly talented in any field of interest, and I don't think that intelligence and humour are notoriously impressive foundations on which to build a relationship.