Alacrity

It's not the stuff that powers your television, stereo or egg-cooker. It's the stuff that powers my quick witted responses to your collective attempts to kick me due to my quick witted responses to your collective inability to cook me some eggs. And it's going to come in handy tonight. The alacrity, that is, not the eggs. Debsoc is having its impromptu speech competition. There are prizes - including cash and chocolate. The woman inside me is excited (if she'd cooked me some eggs I wouldn't have been hungry).

All this means that I am a little hyperactive. Not the type of hyperactivity that Tim gets into after skulling a case of KGB (see Arnie's comments on the girlie-men). More like the hyperactivity of a small child, neglected by parents but loved and cherished by television, coke and food dye. I'm bouncing off the walls, baby. Hoohar.

Hyperactivity can come in handy when giving impromptu speeches. It is far better than the traditional Dave response of looking out into the distance and seeing meadows filled with buttercups and the goat-women whenever anybody says something - probably explains why I appear distracted and grumpy all the bloody time. It is also better than freezing on stage and giving an adequate impression of a possum in the headlights.

Problems with hyperactivity do occur when they resemble the effects of crack cocaine. I've spent three months and four visits to various detox facilities (now closed - bastards) and only one of them was technically legit.

Damn time's moving slow. Feel like I've been staring at the ceiling and wondering what an earth a 'goat-woman' is - I was thinking a Swiss girl who milks goats in a buxom and environmentally friendly yet temptingly available way. You lot probably thought that I was after the female goats. I can deny that. I'm waiting for an appropriate time to roll around so that I can go and get some 'food' from the UCSA, watch the telly and then go and win that booty. 6.15 now. Started at 6.

Time for stream of consciousness. Brought to you by Ritalin which helps prevent them.

The problem with the steam of consciousness is that as soon as you attempt to tap in to the wonders of your subconscious psyche, your subconscious invokes it's R.O.A.R policy. Bastards. For me, and probably most of us although as I'm talking complete bollocks I can't really quantify that, my subconscious is a vast bar-like facility where all the decent stuff takes place. There is the id, hiding in the corner and oogling at most things female, the drunk and half-mad author who is determined that his craft won't be corrupted by the yawning open spaces of my conscious, there's probably a goat woman or two slinking around the back somewhere. And there is also that annoying little twat who manages to blurt out the most unfortunate, inappropriately amusing comments in the most unfortunate and inappropriate times. Like during scholarship interviews (cost me $50,000 - wanker), courtship proceedings (cost me potential ladyfriends), court proceedings (cost me 'freedom'), and drinking sessions (cost me teeth). The disturbing thing about this whole stream of consciousness (other than the fact that I'm writing a stream of consciousness) is that my subconscious is more and more resembling Dylan Moran's character in Black Books, whom I suspect is based very heavily on Dylan Moran himself. This is terrifying for a number of reasons. 1) I'm going to end up surrounded by books, Based on my recent library fines - and the fact that I am a 'student' you may think that I enjoy being surrounded by pies and piles and lines and lines of the world's most fantastic literature and thought. But, no. I hate it. It's terrible. Books scare me. I don't really like intelligent and intellectual discussions. That's why we get on so well. 2) I imagine my mouth shooting off would become far worse if I was under the influence of alcohol. I suspect the drop to the head I suffered when I was several weeks old, and then every second year for the next 12 may have resulted in a permanent state of intoxication. At least that makes me cheap. But not easy and that leads me to argument 3) He never scores. I don't like that and it seem to be a familiar plot device in that made action movie that is Dave. Action with no action is, well, lame. Frankly, if my life is odd enough to have the things that happen to me happen to me, it deserves action. How many people have been cut open by the worlds most surgically talented but woefully inept car-pirate? Not many. How many people wake to find that the council has put a bus stop around their car during the night and fined them for the profiled? Not many. Ergo more action and less Moran for Dave.

6.35. I'm going for food. Vote for the girlie-men.