chocolate_jen

Hello, this is a livejournal.
I'm a medical student. I live in Brighton, UK. I enjoy football, video games, whiskey, a variety of music, reading, and ranting about nothing in particular.
Most entries are friends only.
No people I know in real life please.

"I also come from very good university, Hertfordshire University, I am my university president, recently elected, and I know how it works in university, too much education sometimes give retardness in the brain"



"I wish I had a camera"


two great quotes from Big Brother this week

LITERALLY what did people DO for fun before the internet?!

i couldn't POSSIBLY imagine


ahahahahhahah

while revising i've found so many sites with things like this:


"hi i'm loserface, i'm 43 and i suck at life. I have (insert medical problem) and i've read that this is because of (insert poorly understood theory). my doctor thinks i should go on this medication but i've heard that it can worsen the condition/ruin my kidneys/make my balls fall off. WHAT DO U THINK"








trust your fucking doctor :@ they get stuff wrong sometimes but
LET'S BE FAIR
he has a better chance of getting it right than you?!

Also


I found this on the wall in a toilet.

I'm watching Legend on BBC2. The 1985 movie with Tom Cruise.





literally what the holy flip is this pile of goblingoading wank?
The little elf fuck is my favourite. He's actually the sort of thing I would have nightmares about.
And then for some reason HELLBOY gets involved



i honestly have no idea what will become of my life now that this abomination has entered it.


seriously.

OPOSSUMS IN A BARRELL

I've just found my mum's photobucket so.......

( PET SPAM!!! )
also known as...ridiculous pictures and videos of my many, many pets.

http://s135.photobucket.com/albums/q151/susif/?action=view¤t=MOV00007.flv

DA DA DA DA DA DA DOO








no way that's only KAT from red dwarf
AHAHHAHAHA


My favourite moments from this film atm are the ones I didn't realise were funny when I was a kid

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help noticing that strange and interesting plant in the window! What is it?"



"...Oh, while I'm here, I might as well take 50 dollars of roses"


ahahaha

I finished the drawing of Adam.

( And you need to see it in big please )

There is yet another young addition to our family. Stop, mollytime.

It's hard to take pictures of her because she's literally ALWAYS bouncing about but here are the few I managed:






To show how teeny she is compared to Salem.

And of course

My dad took this today while he was working on my wreck. Sent it to me while I was out. Funny man :P

And thus I address you, gentlemen (/women), the avid readers of my journal, as I think you deserve to know what happened yesterday to the car that we all know, and love, and a fair few of us have travelled in. Some more than others perhaps.

According to my father it may be salvageable, but he reckons if the repairs come to much it's more worth it just to buy a new car. So you may be saying goodbye to that old smell of hay and dog and damp that just won't go away, the jerky gear changes and that funny grinding sound when I don't press the clutch down hard enough going from second to third. Goodbye to the sun visors that with the broken clips. To the random car magazines and work gloves I'll find about the passenger seat if my dad has been using the car. To the insane shaking that the speedo needle undergoes between 0 and 25, oh MAN I'm going to miss that. To the shit heating on cold nights and the total lack of air con on ridiculously hot summer afternoons. The grass in the handbrake. And to, god bless him, the spider that lives in the driver's side wing mirror. So many memories. The dodgy battery, stranding me on the M25 at 1am with no headlights and a very homesick Joe Reddick. The faulty radiator, which resulted in smoke billowing from the bonnet in all directions. When I pulled over Michael had to put the hazard lights on AND open my bonnet for me, who, cluelessly, just let him get on with it. He and Dave took a good hard look and then realised they had no clue and we called my dad, who had to tow us home. Being towed is FUN. srsly.

Memories of driving ridiculous distances in the middle of the night. Hundreds of miles. Having no clue where I was going. Road trips to Clackton, and Brighton, and god knows. Chippenham and Reading and Ascot and Bracknell and Ashford and Norwich and Stoke.

Running a red lights. 3 points. Naughty Jen.

I've hit bins, and birds (well, bird. once. and it was already dead), I've hit kerbs oh-so-many times.

This time, I hit a car.

I was on the M1, southbound, coming home. All I could think about was home. Rain pattered passively over my head and I could see the wheels of the BMW kicking up white sheets of spray from the blackened tarmac, curling through the air, as we trawled on at a steady 20 or 30mph. The droplets werew smacking hard against my windscreen, the wipers blurring them into the glass, and I turned up the radio slightly. Radio One. My new fetish. It's not Scott Mills, because it's Sunday and not long gone 4pm, but the UK Top 40 is on and that'll do. That'll do nicely. Bit of Jack Penate, bit of Hoosiers, some Kate Nash. Go for it.
Autopilot. Clutch, gear, revs, brake, clutch, gear. Clutch. Off. Clutch, gear. Accelerate.

Red lights. All I see is red lights and a huge hunk of silver.
This is where autopilot switched off. This is where I remember every split second image with precision. Every thought.
That car is too close. Brake. BRAKE. I'm not going to make it.

SMASH.

Head, thrown heavily onto the steering wheel and back. But this isn't real. That can't hurt if it's not real.

It felt like a bad dream for a few long moments. But as I got out of the car and the rain began to dollop onto my own head as well as my mangled excuse for a car, I realised it was not. It was real. And the irishman in front of me with his big fancy Canon camera, ranting his fucking ass off at how I am an awful driver and I wasn't paying attention and I should have seen him brake and...etcetc. Taking photographs of his dislodged rear bumper. His shattered numberplate. His slightly wonky rear casing.

A silver, LV56 BMW.
At least I went out with style.

Then he took photographs of my car. The bonnet, crunched into an upside down V. Steam falling out the sides. The headlight...just a mess of fractured glass and mangled metal, the tinted bits of casing littering the road. Then the highway warden guys arrive. They dragged this dude off me, the irishman out for my blood, and I'm crying by this point, I can't believe this is real. It can't be real.

He drove his car across two lanes into the hard shoulder. The M1 was at a total standstill at this point. Quite proud that I managed to piss a few hundred people off. The highway guys then pushed my car across too, scared to risk starting the battered engine.

The next twenty minutes consists of hurried phone calls to Daddy, adamently denying liability to a very, very pissed Mr. Heneghan and writing down insurance details I don't know onto a wet piece of paper. According to him he's been watching me in his rear view mirror for miles. Knowing I wasn't paying attention. Watching me 'flick my hair back'.
Maybe if you weren't watching me, maybe if you were watching the fucking road, you would have seen the car in front of you brake. You're lucky. You have ABS. You braked in time.
I do not.
And I did not.

The highway guys convinced Mr Irishman to piss off to London. They told him, "Mate, it's just a car. We scrape people up off the road. You're lucky." He shut up. I breathed for the first time in half an hour. CO2 retention, baby, alkalosis ftw.

My car did work. It did go. The brakes were stiff as hell which was terrifying, I could just see me smashing into another guy, this time actually my fault, and that is an image I see now every time I close my eyes. Gay. And a guy in the middle lane beeped his horn and pointed to the crumpled mess of a bonnet as the highwaymen escorted me to the nearest truck stop.

Cheers mate.

Cause I hadn't quite realised.


Add three hours, a nice cup of tea from said highway dudes, and my daddy arrived with a trailer.





And that was my sunday. I now have an induction at Next. Wish me luck.

Oops.

Student Name: FALCE, Jennifer

Candidate Number: 6901631



Module 101

Attendance: Pass

Family Study: C

Portfolio: C

OSCE: C

101 Overall Module Grade: C



Module 104

Attendance: Pass

Module Tutorial Tests: A

Student Selected Component: B

Knowledge Test: C

104 Overall Module Grade: B





eeeeeeeeeeeeee

In contrast with my previous journal entry, I feel the overwhelming urge to communicate something serious with everyone.
Over the past couple of days I've relived a time I had already experienced in my life. A time gut-wrenching and terrifying, but also heart-warming and mind-blowing, in fact, all my organs are feeling some sort of verb-y thing. I've felt adrenaline rushing about my systemics, I've felt uncontrollable anger, pain, shock, and fright; I've laughed out loud, I've gasped for breath...I've cried. Oh, I cried.

It's gone 5am and alone I am, in my room, crying unashamedly and inconsolably, a single book in my hand.

Look I don't give a shit what you high and mighty literary assholes say; HARRY POTTER IS FUCKING AMAZING.

I'm still getting to grips (again) with the facts that a) not only is Dumbledore dead, Harry had to break up with Ginny, and that he, Ron and Hermione are embarking on the final mission to kill Lord Voldemort, but also that more importantly b) THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT REAL.

Silly silly JK Rowling. Giving us a world so immersing and utterly addictive that you cannot help but sit up for six or more consecutive hours without lifting your head so much as once. So wholly and unavoidably gripping that you can easily plough through 168,923 words in less than 30 hours and leave the experience feeling as though you too had followed obsessively the plots of Draco Malfoy and obtained viewable memories from Slughorn, that you too had been admirable but entirely fearful of the notes scrawled about an old, magical textbook, by a wizard claiming to be a "half-blood prince", that you had fought off Inferius right alongside the 16-year-old protagonist himself. It's as if you had been equally as betrayed by Severus Snape, and that you, from the comfort of your own bed, had watched the death of a man who stood as your hero, your idol, your mentor and father figure, and perhaps most traumatic, your friend.

Dumbledore is this unique and wonderful character. He is omniscient, and for a great deal of time appears omnipotent too; to the characters at least, and as such, you have as much faith in him as they do. He is the grandfather figure that I myself have never had, someone who always knows what to do, no matter how dire the situation. I think the most terrific things about Dumbledore (which makes the loss of him and therefore what he symbolises so numbingly and incomprehensibly awful), is that, with him around, you always got the feeling that yes...it would all be okay in the end.

Look, mate. If Harry Potter no longer has Dumbledore, then I no longer have hope or faith in life. That is the honest truth.

And a writer with the ability to make you feel like that, to make you grieve genuinely and relentlessly alongside an imaginary boy in an imaginary world, is someone...outstanding.




BRING ON THE DEATHLY HALLOWS, BI-ATCH