Terribly, almost frightfully baltic today. And there was nobody around while I took my little sister to school. I became an instant hit with the lollipop ladies, as they whinged about how long they had to wait to get through to a doctor, and how ridiculous these "professionals" are. It was only because I was one of the few people too dumb to learn how to drive in such a mundane climate, and was too trolled into counting my steps on my virtual pedometer. I saw an old friend of mines' mother walking past with the same dog that I assumed, should probably be deceased by now. 35 years in the life of a dog is a heck of a long time. An English lady told me she liked "my girl" on the way home. She isn't my girl. She is my sister. I didn't correct her. It wasn't the right sort of break in the right sort of conversation to be so distastefully rude. I can't imagine how many years people are adding to my already unsettling 18 years. I must be one of those people who always looks older, no matter what age I happen to be. I have been told I sound 30 over the phone, and am sometimes jealous of my friend's subtle, femininity-reeking vocal chords.

I've started reading a book finally. I pray that I won't sit it down after a few pages and let my crazed inability to dedicate myself to one book take over me. I have been looking for No Longer Human, which is the second best selling book in Japan, apparently. Thus concluded, the Japanese must be very dark, dark people. It literalises everything, from social withdrawal, to suicide, to guilt. And anything that is described to be on par, or related to Albert Camus must be worth it. I can barely find any of his books either. I'm not the type of person to make a weekly excursion to a local book shop or library and browse ridiculously tall shelves of novels in desperate need of some organisation. I can't walk halfway down the street with no inclination of anxiety. The library is plagued by rodent youths, scrambling for an hour of internet, or trawling their way through PG-13 novels like Goosebumps and Tracy Beaker. I did my work experience in a library however, and looking back, it was two of the most peaceful weeks of my life. I could still smell the building with almost no effort at all. Padded with a murky green vintage carpet, and tall, dark shelves which, from a distance, looked like some sort of fantastical haven of adventure contained within the front and back pages of striking bold design. I loved the thought that I could pick up any book, read the back, and read an entirely different story every day.

I read 3 books during that time, the first about an accident on a school trip where the bus falls over a cliff, killing all pupils and teachers except two who were not on at the time; a boy and his cousin. They take shelter in a nearby desolate mansion and slowly the cousin of the boy becomes derranged, and tries to murder him with lots of manic, technical contraptions.

The second was a humorous book about, well, if I can remember correctly, a pill that plays into your head and tells you the exact right things to say at the right time as a general aid in life. And you could program it to the voice of Elvis, or a sexy lady, and so on.

The third one I begun reading, shamefully, because of the man on the front cover. A tall faced man, with large eyes, and hair dyed the most sincere colour of black. He resembled a young Billie Joe Armstrong. You could see his punk ethics. It turns out it was a biography about the life of Nick Traina, son of Danielle Steel, the famous author. And written by herself too. It was about bipolar disorder. I didn't understand much of the plot, I didn't know anything about mental illness when I was 15. I would like to read it again though. All I remember is Nick habitually talking about demons, and crying, and boarding school.

The book I chose this morning was by accident. The name got me. "Utopia For The Devil". A part of me is keeping my attention hesitatingly because it was published only this year. But then again, there's nothing wrong with modern culture, it just seems too... now. I will finish it. I have promised myself, just there and just then, that I will hold my attention 'till the end. I have too much time but never enough time to read. It doesn't make sense.