Microsoft Word 2003

I have sore eyes from constantly staring at the screen, overanalysing words and wondering whether the grammar is correct. If only the grammar dictionary had a little “Paula’s peculiar grammar”-section…

Once it’s post-deadline, I will ask myself “What now?” and I will wonder whether I’ll be able to embark on a new story which is not metafiction and self-obsessed.

I feel so obsolete using Microsoft Word 2003.

4 days ago my laptop wouldn’t boot and I figured that something was wrong with my hard drive, but I couldn’t watch the bloody blue screen to pin down the trouble. I emailed some IT guy whose business card I found at the halls of residence reception. He came round to my place the next day to give my laptop a check. And as already presumed my hard drive was fucked. He installed a new one for me which took almost two hours and in between we did small talk. I hate small talk. He was either of Pakistani or Indian descent, I don’t know, I didn’t ask. He seemed shy, too, he avoided eye contact more than I and everyone knows I hate looking anyone in the eyes. Whenever I was at my laptop, fiddling files, he would look around in my room and feel intimidated by the two masks on my pin wall. He also pointed at the Orozco flyer showing the skull with the black squares and elongated diamond shapes. He hesitantly asked whether I was into horror and voodoo. His lack of interest in art and literature kind of put me off. In general, people who go “Ooopf!” after telling them you study creative writing are getting even more annoying than those who say “How the hell do you want to find a job?” I could tell that he was a conventional type of guy by the way he viewed things and I hated that. I did imagine dating him, but couldn’t help concluding that he wouldn’t be able to find connections between the way I am and the books that I read…because he doesn’t read them and I would have difficulties tolerating his religion no matter how laid-back he is with it.

So he fixed my laptop. I think I overpaid him by choice. And I escorted him back to the station because I had to go to the corner-shop. But I assume he thought I had an agenda or something.

The day after he sent me an email saying that he hoped my laptop was working perfectly and that I was such a cute, DECENT girl with such a nice smile. He was basically asking me out.


I am not sure whether he had dropped by again or what, because today I saw more of his business cards at the reception.

Maybe my horoscope was right for saying I needed to get out more and be more outgoing, so I get to know more people and find a lover. I feel awkward when people say they can’t believe I am still single. I don’t tell them that all I do is sitting on my arse in my room all day. I have no particular desire to show the world that I exist as a person. Or maybe I’m lying, but I don’t think I am. One thing is true though, this room has sucked the colour out of my face. I envy people who go on a night out and immediately get laid. But you can’t be who you are not. I only drink alcohol twice a year. Once on my own and the other time with friends on New Year’s Eve. In Germany only.

When I watch people consume alcohol I wish I was one of them, but the moment they’ve swallowed the last sip, I always take my wish back.

Close before dying I would like to consume LSD and take a similar trip to the place that Paul Groves visits in ‘The Trip’. One final trip through the intestines and subconscious of my fiction.

I am halfway through ‘A short History of Decay’ and it is now that I learnt that Cioran was a sympathiser for the fascist regime, calling himself a ‘Hitlerist’. Despite his stance, I still can’t help liking that book; he is more radical than Schopenhauer ever was and angrier. The book has nothing to do with fascism; it merely portrays a realist point of view. All blissful realists, however, will hate it. He condemns people’s ‘mortal thirst for fiction’, and claims that we ‘could not exist one second without deceiving ourselves’. Bravo, now give me some Dickens.

Do you know where I find my fiction? It’s all hidden within my favourite music. There’s nothing more evocative than music, but of course it’s not relevant to everyone. Art and films! FICTION FICITION FICITONN! Fiction inspiring fiction!

Where do YOU look for fiction other than in your own life?

What’s more important than fiction?

– Your family, of course.

I miss my family, knowing that they are not in the other room makes me feel sad. It’s funny how my mother knows me best without ever having read any of my writings. My father was asking when my ‘EXAMS’ were and I had to giggle. Too cute. My sister doesn’t read me either. This is why my family means to me the most, because they already know my worst of the worst. So why read me?

When one is decent on the outside, you’ll know on the spot that you cannot trust them. Especially not if they are into horror, strange masks and voodoo! Not to mention Giger-based nudity.

My Window version isn’t genuine and the Microsoft Version is doing me head in. It’s all getting slow again, too. Don’t die on me, yet.

Hold on, hold on, it’s not long till home now and I’ll have my CD-ROMs.


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