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.