I can’t sleep. It’s only 00.26, but over the last year or two I’ve become old-mannishly afraid of late nights. If I’m not in bed after 22.30, whiteheads appear around my nose, the corners of my mouth crack and I spend the next day yawning incessantly, worsening said cracks. That’s why my family’s assumptions that I live the wild, borderline alcoholic life of a stereotypical student confuse me. What I’m actually doing is attending live opera screenings, attempting to fine-tune my vitamin intake and covering my face in jewels so that I can send painstakingly orchestrated Snapchats, complete with costume changes and well practiced lip-syncing. Then I go to bed. Really, really early. And by the way, if you’re not receiving those Snapchats, you are MISSING out.
As I was saying, I can’t get myself to sleep yet. As a way of putting my mind to rest, I decided to click on that daunting “New Post” button and finally publish something new on this terribly neglected blog. This is me brushing away the cobwebs and clearing out the tumbleweed.
Now that I’m here, there’s the small matter of what to write about.
Oooooooh, isn’t that last line profound!? Isn’t that what writers have been asking themselves for centuries?! Stream my consciousness and call me bipolar, because I’m totally Virginia Woolfing write now.
Okay, so I’m making progress. I’m writing about Virginia Woolf.
Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Not me! I’m taking an entire Virginia woolf module on my English degree course this term, and loving it, obviously. Nothing gets me going quite like a Woolf novel. I won’t subject you to an inevitably lengthy argument about her impeccable genius, but I will say that I’m head over heels in love with her (or at least her words), and that if anybody wants to accompany me on a trip to ogle at her various homes, I won’t hold it against you. It would be a logistical nightmare to take full-length shots of myself posing beside those little blue plaques, and I’ll be needing someone to hold the camera.
Oh, and another thing I’d like to say is that Nicole Kidman’s performance in The Hours, in which she portrays Woolf herself, does no justice to Ginny whatsoever, and whoever is responsible for the white plasticine lump they squished onto her nose in an attempt to achieve an accurate likeness should be forced to eat kale on a bed of nails for the rest of eternity. Furthermore: Nicole, honey, I don’t know why you think whispering qualifies as acting, but you really need to speak up sometimes.
I guess that I’m writing about Nicole Kidman, now. I’m not quite sure how that happened, but I’m going to roll with it.
When I was about 14 I was irrationally obsessed with the 2004 adaptation of Stepford Wives. Back then, I loved Nicole. I was too caught up in the ridiculous melodrama of the movie, and wasting too much energy pretending that the homosexual character didn’t have a weird and incomprehensible emotional impact on my deeply closeted mind, to notice that Nicole has been tricking Hollywood for decades by acting every role with the same rotation of incredulous frowns and dramatic whispers. I was young and naive.
On that note, with a mind soothed by the therapeutic power of writing (a power which Virginia Woolf would surely vouch for), I’m going to try again to sleep.
Sweet dreams, and I’ll see you in the morning.
P.S. I apologise if there’s a gaudy little advertisement flickering away below this post. If you’re not happy with it, be a dear and send me the $30 which WordPress are demanding that I pay in order to get rid of it.