My god. I've been accepted to Oxford.

I shan't be keeping this journal any longer. I've got far too much work to do preparing to matriculate this autumn. I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest. Since they have accepted me, I must prove my worthiness. But I'll still be here, of course, until graduation.

Ron! We must celebrate!

I'm getting a bad feeling about Oxford. Not that I expected to hear yet, but I have a dreadful feeling I ought to make contingency plans in case I don't get in.

So I have. If I don't get in I'm going to see America. I'll graduate and pack my things off to England, keeping only a few changes of clothes, a book or two for company, and of course pots of money. Oh, right. I haven't got any money. But I can earn it, I expect. I could certainly tutor anyone in this country well enough to get them out of high school and into a decent uni. I'm sorry, but the standards in England are just that much higher. I've not really had to study since I arrived, and my GPA is sterling.

That's my plan. Oxford or the life of a roaming scholar for me.

Jolly good thing I'm not involved in any relationships, isn't it? Lucky, really.

I've not asked her out or anything, but I did ask her to teach me to dance. From me, that's practically a declaration. Because we both know I'm going to look like an idiot taking dance lessons from a cute girl.

She'll probably say no.

Now that Dio de los Enamorados is over I feel less emo, though no less troubled by my sad lack of ability to attract the female half of the species.

Only why am I so unacceptable? Am I an asshole? I don't think I am. Well, I jolly well know I'm not, I've got plenty of them around me to compare myself to. Am I "too" nice? I haven't had anyone hand me the "It's not you, it's me" line that nice guys get. I haven't had any lines at all. No one ever notices when I have a crush on them.

Yes, I know, I've been told I should tell the object of my crush about it. Sorry, that's not my style. I can't do it. I try to let them know subtly. If they returned my interest they would respond in some fashion, but no, there's never any sense of recognition.

Fuck it. I don't even know why I keep complaining about it. I'm fated to spend my life blithering about poetry and gaming and origami while those around me keep a polite smile on their faces and then go visit their real friends. I wish...I wish I'd stayed in London.

I hope I get accepted at Oxford. I don't think I'll ever be accepted here.

I know I'm usually thick as a plank about whatever's going on in the world outside my dorm room, but doesn't it seem like spring madness has come early? Last week there was some frightfully macho noise war (I actually liked a lot of the music, but really). This week that dreadful Brontë girl has come back, the one who makes me quake in my boots because she's so sharp-tongued and prone to saying what she thinks, and she never thinks very much of me. And now I find three absolutely beautiful young women have come to Eupheme--and Machievelli has already made moves on all of them. It's so unfair. I hope he breaks his leg playing football. *jk*

Luckily, I have found my muse. I always wanted one, you know. She is truly lovely within and without, a sensitive soul and an artist herself. I met her in the library, which seems like an excellent place to find one's muse, there amongst the old tomes and dust of yesteryear. She was very much alive and lively, though not in a restless, hurrying, modern sort of way. We spoke, and then she vanished.

Well, of course she didn't actually vanish, but she is very good at sort of wafting about. After recovering my equilibrium, hem hem, I got to thinking. I'd been stuck with my Tragedy, just couldn't get certain ideas linked up, and then I met Chrissy. Afterwards, I made the transitions effortlessly. It was child's play, and it really worked. Endymion and Cleome is as perfect as I can make it. So you see, she really was a muse.

I have packed it off to Oxford along with my references, applications, signed promises to be brilliant, etc. I am quite sick with anticipation, though I shan't hear for weeks.

I think I will go see if anyone's got any lager. I fancy a pint of something.

Fate has been unkinder than ever: my blonde goddess has declared she will remain a virgin throughout her high school years. Possibly longer, but I won't know as I'm sure she wasn't planning to matriculate at Oxford. Our love is forever denied.

As usual, I'm making light of my crushes. I don't take them seriously; well, I can't, can I? None of them ever realize they are the object of my affection. Except for that one sweet-faced girl who went to the Halloween dance with me. Or did she? I know we danced. But now I'm not sure we went together. It's gone a bit murky.

Have decided to give up D&D, WoW and all other group distractions. I must and shall finish my Tragedy before spring arrives. Also, I'm tired of being Kid Nerd. I can't turn myself into something I'm not, but I can and will stop looking like a complete loser. I fancy my London haircut helps. Or else it makes me look like a wanker, but at least I don't look twelve anymore.

The extra two inches I grew over the hols has helped. I hope. Maybe now that I'm not shorter than every girl in this school one of them will notice me.

Sorry I bunked on the D&D game, guys. I meant to come back, but I was suddenly struck with a fantastic idea for resolving one subplot of my tragedy. My Greek tragedy, the one I'm writing which I hope will get me accepted at Oxford. I have my heart set on reading Classics there, you know.

So, well, I'll come by for my dice sometime, okay Bill? And I'll read you what I've got so far if you fancy hearing it. And I'll do you a real chip butty, you need to experience proper English food.

My blonde goddess shows absolutely no sign of knowing I'm alive. All proceeding as usual, in other words. I do fancy someone else, but I am fairly certain I'm doomed to graduate high school without ever once having a date. There was a girl...and a dance...but it wasn't a date, and she's gone now.

I can't even remember her name. Isn't that odd?

It feels surprisingly good to be back at Eupheme. Well, better than good. There's this girl, you see.

Do you think certain people are born to be together? That there is True Love for everyone and one knows it just as soon as one lays eyes on the person? I do not, because I fall in love half a dozen times a year. I have done since I was a lad. I'm a walking example of a fool for love. I can't imagine there's only one girl for me.

Not that I'm a Lothario. Far from it! Laughable, in fact. I fall in love, but they never fall for me. Farewell, young Helen, the coachman's daughter. Goodbye, Miss Addington, my sixth form teacher. Adieu, fair Deirdre, now returned to Ireland. I am enchanted by a blonde goddess who, I fearlessly predict, will not notice me at all.

Right. Film Club. Ron's starting one. I'm all for it. Who wants to join?

Hullo from London! I'm on my way back, hope you haven't burnt the place down. Tom was very ill indeed, but he's on the mend and I'm sick of the city.

I know. I can't believe it, either.

There's something about Icaria, though. It's so peaceful, such a perfect blend of woods and farms and town. I can't seem to think in London. Not real thinking, anyway. I haven't written any poetry. So much for adversity inspiring art. Not that it's been horrid, but it hasn't been...um. Anyway. So I'm looking forward to the term. Should be there next Monday, all right and tight. Loads of new people, aren't there? I don't recognize half the names on Eupheme's Facebook any more.

Cheers then!

Gosh, that sounds dramatic. Er, sorry. Going back to London tonight on the late flight out of Boston. I've got to leave right now, actually, to catch the train. I do not have Internet access in London unless I pay for it, and as I shall be taking care of my brother full time I shan't have any income until he's better. At which point, I'd come back here, you know.

Don't know how long I'll be gone. A couple of months, probably. I'll write when I can. Wish I could have gone to the dance, but a little bird told me someone else has swept the one I hoped to ask off her feet. I have no luck at all with girls. Might as well go to London, really.

Right. I'm off. Don't burn the place down.