Early Morning Domestic

What's happened to my book?  Well the short answer is, 'I'm still working on it'.  The long answer?  'Please give me money so I can buy a computer'.
Since moving out I haven't been able to write much, only because I used to do all my writing on Dad's computer, and Dad's computer is well...with Dad.  So as it turns out, my estimated completion date might be a little later than I originally thought.  Please, publishers, try not to act so devestated.

In other news, on Tuesday night I fell victim to one of the wackiest dreams I've had for a while now.  It started off with me going on holidays with my friends Julia and Emma, and ended with my sister and I forming an alliance as bank-robbing serial killers.  Bonnie and Clyde style.  Only we're both girls, so I guess it's more like Thelma and Louise.  Except without Brad Pitt.  Look, there isn't a movie that perfectly reflects the relationship I have with my sister, okay?  Alien vs Predator is probably as close as it gets.

Anyway.  After that, I woke up at like 4:30am (thanks to our neighbours and their candid decision to have an early-morning domestic) and couldn't get back to sleep.  Damn it!  I suppose it could have been worse, considering Wednesday was my day off so I was actually able to stay in bed until 12, but still.  This sucked.  Probably the worst part was that I couldn't even use a book to read myself back to sleep.  I'm reading this book at the moment called Second Glance.  It's a Jodi Picoult book where there's no under-paid lawyers and no one dying of cancer.  I know, I was surprised too.  It's actually about ghost hunting, which is why I couldn't read it.  Not that I've got a massive phobia of ghosts or anything, but there's a time and place to read about haunted houses, and alone in a dark room at 4:30 in the morning isn't it.  For all my claims about 'loving horror movies' and 'not being scared of anything', if there is anyone on this planet destined to be murdered by some sort of flesh-eating ghost, it's me.  I think that's what they call irony.

When I finally did get back to sleep (at around 7), I had another dream.  All I really remember about this one is being licked on the face by some kind of bulldog.  For an extended period of time.  What?  I have no idea.  Obviously my subconcious is scoring way stronger weed than I am.  Kidding, Mum!

Let's talk a little more about these neighbours of mine.  God and everyone else knows that I'm a fan of the dramatic, and would usually have no problem with the couple next door having a swearing competition loud enough for me to judge.  But at 4:30?  In the morning?  And we're the one's getting noise complaints?  I sure hope that bitch on the floor below who tells us to shut up from her balcony every Friday night gave these people an equally hard time.  Though I doubt it.  Being new, and young, AND practically the only renters in the building (everyone else owns), Alex and I have fallen victim to a little bit of apartment-block bullying since we moved in.  Ridiculous.  We're not too phased by it; Alex has enough confidence to be sure that we haven't really done anything wrong.  And while I may take the term 'self-doubt' to a whole new level, I also grew up with Catherine Trew.  Yes, I'm a lover not a fighter.  That doesn't mean I don't know how to fight.