My sea of agnostic, atheist and occasional Christian friends: if you've got nine minutes to spare, read this for a little thought-provoking theosophy on why a tsunami wave can kill almost a quarter of a million people and how this does not nullify the possibility of a god, and a good god at that.

My own personal philosophising is over for another term and now, it is the day of the sun: in other words, it is Sunday. In a mere sentence in this paragraph I have thus far provided you with two facts, one useless and inaccurate; the other something you already knew, unless of course you are in a different timezone, or have problems with ascertaining reality. Goe neuro. And your team of isolated and slightly mouldy brain cells.

So. The exams are over and I have been drinking to celebrate. Whisky, beer, Toilet Duck, you name it, I've downed it. The housemates are concerned but as far as I am concerned, they are the MAN, and they are KEEPING ME DOWN. I am having enough trouble keeping the Toilet Duck down as it is, thanks. (This is making no sense, but who am I to judge?) Toilet Duck has more than one use, you know. Today I used it for cleaning the bathroom. In fact, we gave the house a mighty overhaul today, and it feels good: meeting my approval on the zen-master scale. Everyone is so chilled out in the glow of fairy lights and no dust that they're practically comatose, which is useful for me, because I can empty their wallets.

I am increasingly feeling that it is just me writing and reading this blog. I feel as though, instead of vomiting onto a few close friends as is fitting, I am vomiting into the vast expanse of the internet and this puke echoes. I do of course mean brain-vomit, which is kind of nice to think about, because it personifies my brain, as though it were a small entity living inside my skull. If it can vomit, then it must have a mouth, oesaphagus, stomach, etc. And it must eat. Presumably lots of gone off things, as it is always hurling. Not playing hurling the sport now, but hurling up puke. I am sure you understood that but I am a sucker for clarity. Understand me! I cry. And maybe that little brain person has a name, and is mad at me for how I use it to do even the smallest of things, like taking a breath, and I never acknowledge it on National Secretaries Day. I am a bad brain-owner. Would you look at me! Claiming ownership of a brain I don't even know.

Perhaps it is a problem that I think it is nice that a creature lives in my head.

I watched some American Idol pap on television yesterday, and found my personal hero. Perhaps you saw her too? She was blonde, wearing pink, singing atrociously, and was schizophrenic. She told the judges that the voices in her head were telling her that despite what they thought, she was going to be the next American Idol. The footage after her slating outside was even more psychotic: I think it was the eyes. They were beadier than mine. She was devastated. I guess she'd been relying on those voices and they'd been telling her lies. Men, eh! Hmph! Let's just hope Paula Abdul doesn't end up in that young lady's freezer.

It is worth noting that by the time this journal entry was finished, the day had soared onwards into Monday, but we all know how I feel about that.

neuro-praxis -- The Dancing Queen, Young And Sweet, Only Seventeen