Refugee

So, I'll admit it. I've not had the best of times recently, even if I have been playing incessant Literati and talking through relationship confusions with girl readers in America (for a guy with an interesting life, I'm really quite boring, n'est-ce pas?). TD has been away and even though she's back in the wonderful greyness of the UK now, I've had minimal contact with her during her absence. 47 has retreated into a shell due to circumstances both unforeseen and unexplained. I played a gig on Sunday but that was brief and surrounded by revision for the horrifying exam I had this morning which was so surprising in its obscurity, even Chris Tarrant would be bemused.

Oh, and the first page of a comic I wrote has been art'd up, and it's great to (finally!) see that, too.

I haven't written in ILB for a while, but I've been following the goings-on of my Twitter every day at least once or twice, and it's great. I've come to the realisation that I use ILB as a sort of escapism. In my humdrum everyday life (and yes, I am talking about work/college here), I have to be squeaky clean, and that just isn't me. I'm not totally a sex-obsessed boy, but yes, my main interest is matters of the heart; ergo, ILB is probably the closest to the real me you'll get, even if I am a multi-faceted guy.

This blog has been my route of escaping for a long time now, and considering the fact that I'm actually escaping into myself, that seems strange, because (unlike a surprisingly large number of people) I don't really like me all that much, and yet this side of me - the one that falls in love and has sex - is the side I do like. So, all in all, when I type in ILB, I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone.

I'm just blocking out life for a while.