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.

Faith moans about her friends.

I haven't posted in 4329760 years, so I feel I ought to pay the few of you (who may be worried for my descent into technology-related madness or fatal ketamine overdose) some respect into my currently socially crowded (this sounds like I'm joking but I'm really not...I know you must all be shocked. Give yourselves a moment of recovery) diary. I've basically been injuring myself, both voluntarily and unwittingly, getting caught up in shit and playing guitar.
Primarily, I've been chill'en at the pub with various boys with stupid hair (facial/head). We wandered sort of over to Bournemouth hospital and played abhorrent amounts of Tallest Man on Earth covers on primetime 'Hospital Radio Bedside'. We then got up at some God foresaken hour of the midday and went to his house, watched 13 Assassins while complaining about the lack of samurai-style sword-sculduggery and furnished his room/cupboard-under-the-stairs. Oh, I also got this:

A neck piercing. Like the badass rebel I am.

As a sidenote, though, I've been incredibly happy recently. I suddenly have some friends - a contrast to those I had before, i.e famous people that I imagine to enact scenes with when there's no one else home. Namely, Spicepuss. She's the most beautiful, wonderful, sweet, intelligent little thing I've ever had the fortune to find, and I know she'll call me a lesbian for declaring that to all the blogger world but I care not. She's going to leave me at the end of the summer to find something bigger and better and more fantastic than anything any of us here in the chilly South of England could ever hope to discover, and I am so very proud of her because she deserves every plee-eh and fondu in the world. I'm going to miss her so much that I doubt she could really understand, and as she and Alex are...like...my only friends, this is a huge blow to my minimal buddy-base.
I actually love you, Rika. I'm going to miss you with every fibre of my being and I can't believe we weren't friends before now. Suddenly I'm faced with unbearable lonely lunchtimes and total absence of any real CCC lingo. I know that you're going to do so well, and that everyone in New York/Pah-ree will see everything that we see and give you all the attention you deserve. Please don't forget about me.

Faith moans about the general public.

So, I ventured to Poole town centre to busk because it has been a glorious day indeed. Clad in my finest Summer attire (a men's Harry Potter shirt, a skirt that no longer fits me, black 60 dernier tights and a pair of broken sandals) I trotted off, my huge drednaught Ibanez clinging unwillingly to my spine, with some pretty high expectations of the appearance of the sun and it's ability to make the townspeople more cheery and charitable. I did not, however, expect the following:

1. To be hit on by the town crier, whose valiantly declared chat-up line began with the statement 'At 54 years and one week of service I'm not the oldest crier, but I am the longest serving in the entire world'.
2. To recieve a Trucker Tan,…well, trucker burn. My entire right arm and a respectable portion of my right cheek/ear area are sore and pink. But it’s all cool. Time will merely peel this layer of otherwise potentially bronzed skin to reveal another slab of offensively pasty white far more blinding than its predecessor.
3. To proceed to be hit on by another middle aged man whilst sat outside Wetherspoon's, who slurred something about my being 'gorgeous' and his liking 'my dress'. I can assure you now that I was wearing no description of a dress, as addressed earlier in my listing of clothes.
4. To earn £37.50 IN 3 HOURS! Boojah! I am a God among men!

Henceforth, I am instilled with the questionable festivities of a good day.

Over and out

Legit reasons to be an elderly woman.

• You now bear resemblance to such fantastics as Olivia Dehavilland, GREER GARSON, Vivien Leigh, Laurence Olivier, Priscilla Lane, Audrey Hepburn, Gale Sondergaard, Donna Reed, Alec Guinness, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Eva Gabor, Paulette Goddard, Cary Grant, Walter Pidgeon, Liz Taylor, Bob Hope, James Stewart, Marilyn Monroe, Katharine Hepburn, Ginger Rogers, Rita Hayworth, Fred Astaire, Alan Arkin, Veronica Lake, Jane Russell, Bette Davis, Lucille Ball and Robert Donat, who are all old (or accordingly dead), too.
• You get to make cakes all day and not care about how much weight you put on because you've accepted your mortality and frequently use it as a threat to your children when they don't visit often enough.
• No more work.
• You can feed ducks all day instead, or saunter along the beachfront holding hands with other elderly people.
• People give up their seats for you on the bus. No more standing inauspiciously in the walkway! Those days are long gone!
• You can complain all you like and no one cares because you're going to die soon and you're allowed to be angry with the world, mostly for not providing a cure for old age at any point during your life even though 'The World of Tomorrow' assured you that you would never die.
• You get pension pay for sitting around all day chatting shit about inflation and playing tennis on the Wii.
• You get to wear clothes that you would never as a child because you're old and can't remember how to dress.
• You can get an suitably silvering perm.
• Your partner can never leave you because he couldn't possibly hope to find anyone better at such an age. He is tied to you with the bonds of anachronous social normalities and shortage of life.
• Receiving visitors is pleasant, rather than irritating.
• You know the words to every song played on Heart FM, but can't remember your grandchildren's names. That's got to be a comical situation.
• It's acceptable to talk to strangers at bus stops, and it is expected that said strangers pretend to be interested because you're old and emotionally fragile.

My mum spent most of her teenage life in Pip's

...it was a sort of Mod, late 70s club in Manchester. She used to sit in the rafters of The Roxy Room there, drinking Vodka cran and requesting they play the acoustic version of Bowie's 'Width of a Circle' repeatedly. She was a sort of pseudo-football-hooligan and she once snuck into Paul Simon's hotel as a drunken dare on the premise that she was his cousin, and she met Steve Perregrin Took at a sufragette rally in Southampton. She was a seamstress and a poet and she first fell pregnant at 26 and went into labour in a registry office.

Now she's a nostalgic single waitress. I wish we were chums when she was a kid. I think I fail her as a daughter. I often think that, if she could have seen me when she was that age, she would be disappointed that I was the kind of child she would one day have.

She was dead pretty. I, desperately, am not.

Over and out.

Faith moans about coffee.

I am awash with self-pity and melancholy. Arghhh! All aboard!
I am sickly and ill today, and all of me is unbearably hot. I tried to eat a sandwich, but I got half way through and was sick. Life is hard. Must I continue on in this difficult sandwichlessness, for only a bleakish horizon can be spied!
Questioning whether or not to be friends with Kiall anymore, since he is being sort of clingy and insistant that we see eachother. Suggestions would be much welcomed, if anyone might care so much as to have any? I saw him yesterday and he next-to kicked me out of his house, not to mention never made me a cup of coffee like he promised in my special mug (it's yellow and spotty and the handle is the neck/head of a giraffe. It holds, like, 20 litre of coffee. This is why I have claimed it as my own, you see). He suggests we start a band and has decided that his girlf (kill me now) is driving us to Exeter next week so he can get himself into debt buying a new guitar for this project. We have not a name yet, but I'm holding out for 'Fable & Folklore' because it's suave and underrated and I stumbled upon it on Wikipedia Randomize.
Also, got all ahead of myself yesterday morning and tapped up 30 CVs, printed and delivered about town. Upon returning home, I re-read the file to make sure (perhaps a little late in the process of applying for jobs) I had written all the correct information. I spelt my name wrong. On the plus side, I got my number right, so when someone calls me and asks for a Miss Faith Newcomb, I will know what it is about.
I'm not even kidding. CHRIST. WHY DID MY MOTHER EVER LET ME OUTSIDE?
Over and out.

Faith moans about modern art and questions her own ability to mimick it.

I'm eating a bar of milka daime, listening to alternative-countrytechnofolk and finishing the art coursework that I have been putting off all weekend.
My hair is greasy as a deep fried...ball...of...grease... and there isn't a chance in hell that I am going to drag my sorry animated corpse out of my wonderful bed in 7 hours to wash it, so everyone will have to put up with my not-been-washed-for-three-days hair at school tomorrow in favour of my not-failing-art.
Well...That's actually looking somewhat questionable, as my artist's copy of 'Iris' by Alphonse Mucha, which is supposed to look like this:

Is looking somewhat more akin to an image of this capacity:

Life never gets old when you draw like an underachieving ferel dogbaby, whose qualities are better suited for howling at neighbours and/or drinking dirty water from a bowl.

Over and out.

Faith moans about her weight.

and now I'm dolled up all office chic in appropriately sparkly gold courderoy pencil skirt watching 'My Girl' and inevitably crying my eyes out. I also bought a huge bag of m&ms and ate the whole thing in 15 minutes. Alone. All to myself. That's roughly 700 calories. I know you are now thinking 'oh my god, you beast Faith. How can you possibly be alive after so much food?' but fear not - I am priming myself for a lifetime of sustainant-lessness beginning Monday. My Brockenhurst College interview is on Friday and I have no achievement awards to take with me - they're going to laugh in my face, it's true, but if I haven't eaten all week, they might be like 'YHSURE COME ALONG COZ YOU NOT SO FAT AS YOU ONCE WAS'.
Living the dream. Boojah.

Over and out.

OH NO YOU DIDN'T

Oh yes I did. Why? Because I'm a fearless motherfucking bastard, that's why.

Faith moans about her feet.

It has come to my attention from one of my steadfast followers (don't get excited here, she is a friend of mine. We all know that I don't have any proper people-I-don't-know-in-real-life followers) that I have been somewhat slacking on the bloggery, which is obviously because my life has been so incredible and busy and popular that I haven't had a chance, so henceforth I vow to you a fantastic post about my fantastic life.
LOLJKS I'VE BEEN FILLING TIME I WOULD USUALLY DEDICATE TO BLOGGING TO EATING so this calls for a week of cigarettes and coffee instead of food. I've already failed by eating a bagel, but no one else need know.
Also, my best friend has decided that, instead of going to Southampton university to take an illustration degree and live out her life-long artisitic dream, she is throwing it all away to go travelling for a year, a concept that she only considered yesterday and has suddenly and irresponsibly taken over any 19-year-long ambition of higher education and fulfilling future career opportunities. I'm sort of mad at her, but I'll just have to call her every day and cry at her until she has the good sense to come home and stop wasting her life. STUPID GIRL.
Also, I sprained my ankle yesterday kickboxing, and now it is too swollen and bruised and tender to put my doc marten's on.
Also, I have so much graphics/art coursework due in on Monday and have to go to Westbourne now to buy work shoes because my current pair have a hole the size of my fist in them and thus my left sole has now taken on the form of a hobbit foot. Attractive.

Over and out.

Is about a spider guiz

A sparkling, silver twine,
Like the tender hair of some long forgotten saint,
Trailing weightlessly from a crumbling, tapered sill
Dripping with the neglected upkeep of crusted paint
And the remains of nature's yielding twill.

At its end, she dangles:
A thousand greedy eyes roll in an awry head.
Pincers contract. Her delicate fibres of strength
Stretch comfortably, pulling as tight as her silken thread
Against a chilling and unsturdy length.

Faith moans about photography.

Today, I am feeling like an intrepid photographer. Went to Asdaaa this morn, and got my awesome films processed, and here is the product of a Thursday morning well spent:

My friends are beautiful. They also make me feel like, no matter how pathetic snails treat me, I'm going to be alright. Of course I am. Silly little teenage girl. Of course I am.
Over and out.

Faith moans at parties.

A couple of days ago, I went to a sort of acquaintance gathering, and the product of that was letting one of my other friends down by not spending the day with him when he, unbeknownst to me, missed an important plan to do so, and a bank-breaking taxi home 3 minutes after the last bus. On the plus side, my 99p Ebay jumper arrived and, as you can see from this incredibly informative photograph (which pretty much sums up my night) it has some radical mountains and wooden houses on it. I wish I could live there, tangled somewhere in that 70s woolen cabin. Over and out.

Me falling out of a window. What a night

Faith moans about love.

I would dearly like to believe that there is someone else out there who doesn't have a Valentine love besides me. Everyone seems to have a Valentine, and on Monday I will be sat alone in the cinema watching Paul surrounded by sickening amounts of couples. It's going to be another depressing lonely year. Woohoo.