Here are some things that happened this morning.

A white butterfly flew through my garden.

I watched the washing machine spin for ten minutes.  I've never seen it working before.

I mistook a knock on the door for the noise the washing machine makes and missed a call from a door-to-door gardening salesman.  I call that karma.

I sent more texts this morning than I have for two weeks prior to today combined.

I waved at my rabbit in the garden.  She looked at me, somewhat nonplussed, and hopped away.

I heard my song of the moment on an advertisement.

When I was little, I thought love was a serious thing.

It seemed as though you needed to be stony-faced to express it.  In all the Disney films the Prince was fairly stoic, after all - all this Very Dangerous rescuing-from-a-tower and dragon-slaying; not entirely fair, actually, and I never found murder very becoming on a handsome prince's criminal record, but to my younger self it was fairly heroic.  It probably wasn't quite as common to find the princess just as lovely, but all the same, my impression of love was very grey - almost inhumane.

With a few years behind me, though, I'm ready to reassess that judgement.  I'm no expert - is anyone? - but now I'd say that love is laughter.  Love isn't serious at all - it means a lot, of course, but it's about whimsy and happiness, not duty and definitions.  It's all things to all people, though, I suppose.  Personally, I can't wait.

Last night I dreamed I had a kitten.

He was given to me by my mum as a present, and I couldn't think of a name to give him, so I temporarily called him Kitten. He was almost pink, and I adore him. He's like a ghost-pet now; I want him very badly, even if I know I can't have him. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when I've left university and am living by myself, me and Kitten can be reunited in the real world.

I've always wanted a cat. I think I'm kind of like a cat myself, aside from the mice-chasing and milk-drinking. They're affectionate, but they need their own time too. They can be alone.

I look forward to meeting you, Kitten. We can be off-colour together.

Cathy has a thing for obvious beauty.

Cathy has a thing for obvious beauty. Her room, though tasteful and inarguably her, is decked in photographs of or representations of aesthetic masterpieces - naturally occurring, human and human in origin. Her garden is dominated by flowers - bright flowers; pretty flowers. It's overbearing. Cathy's not the sort of girl - woman? - who appreciates the subtle beauty of simple leafy plants or ivy, and sometimes my eyes complain if they're made to admire the flowerbeds at the foot of her garden for too long.

Of course, I ignore them. It's Cathy. She won't be satisfied until I pretend to be thoroughly appreciative of her efforts. I smile.

"They're beautiful."

"Thank you."

She takes this as an indirect comment on her own beauty. It's possible that it is. Even if I pretend not to be, I am always taken aback by her. Traditionally speaking, she's no Helen of Troy, but she has an outstanding ethereal quality to her which cannot be ignored. Freckles rest on her face like snow that won't quite lay; not supposed to be there, but awfully nice to look at all the same. Perhaps her hair is too hot for snow. It falls down past her shoulders in red waves, floaty and uncontrollable and honest. She pretends to dislike it, but she's just as taken with it as I am; as we all are.

"Shall I take a picture?"

"Is there space for it on your wall?"

It goes without saying that she intends to immortalise this summer's crop as part of her wall display; maybe it's silly of me to ask, because if Cathy wants there to be room for another photograph, then there can be. She's a passionate woman, declaring that each latest addition to her wall is more inspiring than the last, but they fall like leaves as the seasons change and she becomes enamoured with something new.

Some photographs are evergreen. Part of the reason I've stayed by her side for so long is because one of them is of us - it was taken at a festival of some sort, so far as my memory serves. The sun wasn't shining and the bands were all awful, but we loved it all the same; reason being, I loved her, and she loved being loved. This picture of us doesn't say a thousand words - it only needs three. Kiss, smile, love. Cathy has helpfully cut these words from two magazines and a newspaper and stuck them nearby. It's a good thing only me and her close friends are allowed into the sanctuary - I'd feel somewhat vulnerable otherwise, with my heart spelled out in those thirteen damning letters.

Thirteen. Is it unlucky? I can't tell.

"Of course there's space. Smile."

"What... with me in it?"

Under the scruntiny of her camera lens, I flush. Cathy has a thing for obvious beauty, and I am neither obvious nor beautiful. To allow her to capture me like this for analysis later would expose me. If that happens... no, it can't happen.

"Of course with you in it, silly."

"Cathy, don't."

She doesn't understand; I can see she doesn't understand. She's a vain old thing, Cathy; has reason to be, I suppose. I adore her - she knows I do. She's allowed to be vain in my presence. It means she can't possibly comprehend how I feel, at least until she's developed the film - does it herself, of course, because this is Cathy, and every picture she takes has to remain hers every step of the way. I can see her now, developing the film in the dark and holding me up to the red light, squinting; finally realising my inadequacy. She can't have it; I need to carry on decieving her, because she is all I have.

"Sarah."

I have a horrible habit of forgetting what I want to say when she says my name like that.

"Sarah, I think you're wonderful."

It isn't that I've forgotten what to say this time.

"Let's be in the picture together."

I don't care about the picture. I vaguely register the lens snapping shut, preferring to take in the beautiful paleness of her extended arm; the odd bend in it, and the flutter of her eyelashes against my cheek.

She lowers the camera gently as I kiss her. She doesn't want to damage the film.

Photograph by Courtney Carmody // OpenEyesPhoto at Flickr.

I should probably wake up.

It's getting on, but I can't resist the temptation to hit the snooze button on my alarm. Doesn't matter, right? I've got plenty of time yet. There's still university before I need to get up; grow up.

No.

Everybody knows that the early bird gets the worm. I don't want to waste my day bored in a job I don't want - I want to write. I want to write until it gets too dark to see the page, and then some.

That means I need to start now, and keep going. I plan to. In fact, no. I promise to.

Corporate love.

If you sat and listened to a day's conversation, what would you hear? Compliments, maybe; sincere or otherwise. Relationship troubles - and boasts. Plans being forged and broken. Politics. Slights against a person's character, sometimes swiftly followed by an uneasy justification. Declarations of love for a human or a thing or a concept. Descriptions of the weather. Laughter. All of these; none of them.

One thing, at least, is absolutely guaranteed. You'd almost certainly hear complaints - mainly, I contest, complaints about work. People who think they're not valued enough; people who can't stand the sheer monotony of it anymore. People who abhor their superiors - people who want to be their superiors, even if the outlook isn't good. People who want longer breaks, shorter hours, better customers, a comfier uniform, more challenges, a company car, staff discount, greater satisfaction, more holidays, and/or new co-workers. Of course, the most common complaints revolve more closely around money. Why aren't we being paid more? Don't I deserve more than this? Should be paid a King's ransom with the type of work I do.

On the face of it, business doesn't love us. I beg to differ.

Without money, any company would die. Money pumps around the vast, oddly-shaped body of every facet of the business which it keeps alive; money defends it against attack, and money makes it stronger. As any parent or lover might, corporations bleed for us. It hurts, and the blood might be desperately needed elsewhere, but they bleed for us all the same.

Isn't that what love is about? We need each other, us and The Corporation. We support each other, and empower each other. We fight, we curse each other and we blame everything on each other, but in the end it doesn't matter. It would still bleed for us; can we say the same? Unless forced, how many of us would willingly sacrifice that which is so important to us for the corporation under which we slave - our time?

We ruffle our feathers. We're not working for charity. Someone's got to making a living and pay for food and frivolities around here. We need our wages. We need our wants to be fulfilled. It knows this, and it provides for us, even though it knows there's really nothing it can do to make us sacrifice a second of our time back. Unconditional, almost; your money is your manna, and it's guaranteed monthly if you keep up your side of the bargain.

Some might say that it doesn't bleed enough for us; that it gives just enough for sustenance, and sometimes not even that. But you're not that kind of lover, are you?

Roll over, Spielberg.

Perhaps I'm biased, but I've just seen Inception, and I'm quite confident that Christopher Nolan is - rightfully - about to take the top seat in directing. It's arguable that Steven Spielberg is currently 'The Big One', perhaps chased by Peter Jackson and... yes, alright, James Cameron after Avatar. Now, though, after The Dark Knight and this new triumph, it's quite possible that Nolan is about to usurp him - yes, even with Mr. Spielberg's wide and wild fanbase and vast variety of interesting and somewhat cult films. Inception, though, is arguably far cleverer than Jaws or Jackson's Lord of the Rings - far more innovative than Avatar, even, in every corner save special effects.

This isn't to say, of course, that the CGI in Inception leaves something to be desired. It doesn't. The sequences in which gravity takes its own course are incredibly fluid and believeable; a stray avalanche towards the climax of the film could perhaps have been more polished, but it isn't as though it detracts from the overall experience as is. Frankly, nothing but a horrible decision to make Inception in 3D could have distracted from its brilliance, and thankfully Nolan is far too mature for that.

The absolute genius of the film of course lies in the ending, so I can't discuss that, but it's disappointingly rare that excellent films manage to do themselves justice in their closing sequences - take The Matrix, for example, which is what people have tended to choose to compare it to despite the distinct lack of PVC in the costume department. It's an excellent film, but did it have to end with Neo flying off into the sunset - sorry, clouds - in the middle of a crowded street? According to the Wachowski brothers it did, but Nolan prefers a far more subtle and thought-provoking end, and it's much better for it.

In a nutshell - go and see this film. See it now. You will not be disappointed.

I don't want to introduce myself.

I'm a writer, and I like exploring the weaknesses in human nature. If the Greek legends are correct, I owe a lot to my blog's namesake. I love reading, film and the smell of books, but 'love' isn't an adequate verb for the way I feel about writing. I'm eighteen. Biologically I'm female, but really I'm genderqueer. The Müller advert with the cow that wants to be a horse running along the beach makes me smile. My idols and heroes are a varied bunch - Oscar Wilde, Harvey Milk, Carol Ann Duffy, Stephen Fry, Lady Gaga and the Beatles. My favourite books are Let The Right One In, The Beach and the Harry Potter series.

The Twilight franchise makes me ill, but it also gives me hope. If Stephenie Meyer can get published, why can't I?

Today I did more or less nothing save for writing. I adore those days - and there are plenty of them now that college is over forever. There's nothing to distract me from what I love except family drama - and that's almost a motivation to sink further away from the social circle and leave interaction behind. It almost helps. Of course, if it's noisy, it's no good at all, but squabbling is natural. Silence isn't; not here, anyway. I'm not used to it.

Sometimes, before I sleep, I'll turn the fan on my bedside table on, but face it away from me. The hum it makes is comforting. I hear my gerbils biting at their cage, demanding attention, another cardboard tube and chocolate drops. I see the standby light from the extension cable by my bed and my various games consoles. Sometimes it's so late that I see real light creeping in, curious, around the edges of my blinds. It's relaxing, but I still can't sleep. I can't sleep when I'm myself, because that just doesn't make sense. There's too much to think about.

I think that tells you enough about me to begin with. As Kat von D decided on her website, it's impossible to learn anything about anybody if they merely describe themselves. I intend to update frequently; I'm sure you'll learn more about me from my posts than you ever will from my hapless attempts at self-introduction. Pip pip!