Went to the doctors. Now on drugs that I have distressingly discovered are one part of the cocktail my mother has to have every day. Hopefully they will do something to help sort me out. I feel a bit sick. Spent most of the appointment marvelling what a lovely, intelligent sounding person my doctor is. He got into the profession that suits him perfectly. It takes a very avuncular chap to explain suicidal side-effects in an acceptable way. Bluntness is not in his vocabulary.

Exams in two weeks and judging by my vague attempts at revision philosophy and ethics is going to be a royal, royal disaster. I have no interest in it any more. Not religious language, at least. Need to build up some motivation to do revision and not writing, but reviewing things I already vaguely know is exceptionally dull, when I could be producing and thinking about new things.

Big, long, illuminating conversation at the pub the other night. Very odd.

Not sure where I stand on very much. Trying my best to avoid caring. Tschuss!

Quite possibly am the only person who celebrates having no more exams by hoovering.
Am feeling like the skirting boards need a wash too.

Also, thanks to the bastard boiler men, half of my wall is coming apart. Bastards. Weren't even wearing boiler suits. That's just unprofessional.

The last few days have been, quite frankly, shit.
Medicating with ridiculous dubstep music, loudspeakers and salt & vinegar crisps. I am what they call "hardcore".

Also brazenly handing in an Ethics essay late. Rebel.