Reportage #2

I found my way to the Oxford Road, and I found the student bar Font. £2 cocktails, need I say more? Admittedly they are very basic, but definitely drinkable. I just slurped down a Cosmopolitan in record time. I think I'll go soon, there are too many students :(

I've now made it to Grand Central. Shaun text me about it and said that it was a rocker pub. I just saw long haired boys wearing black outside and decided to come in. Now I'm drinking Stella and waiting for something, I know not what, to happen. I guess I want someone to randomly talk to me, but I'm not sure if that happens in cities. People are once again looking at me funny as I'm sat on my own writing. There's a nice Kerrang metal flavoured jukebox here at least. I feel somewhat at home. My head is spinning. I have eaten two baked sweets today, and yesterday a yogurt, a packet of crisps, 2 grapes and 2 biscuits. My alcohol tolerance must be really low now. Might go to the bathroom and drop a pill in a bit. The anticipation is killing me.

Human beings are quite insular creatures, especially metalheads. They are possibly the geekiest of rock tribes, but still. I have noticed that less people approach me now I look more weird. Am I too much of a loser? Just too odd for them to engage with? Or maybe the fact that I'm always writing, rather than engaging in the real world. Even when I'm not actually writing, I'm thinking, 'Hey, this would make a great blog post, I'd say this, and present it from this sort of angle.' Maybe I just look self-sufficient. Nobody fucks with the girl with the notebook. I am an impartial observer. Or something.

By the end of the night I hope I'll have written maybe one useful thing. Most of this is drunk drughead balls, whatever spills out when I put pen to paper. I hope at least that I'm developing as a person and as a writer.