I sent E an e-mail on results day. Nothing much, just expressing hope that he'd done well. I wasn't really even that sure he'd ever read it. I had sort of thought he had blocked my e-mails, both from my main address and the second hotmail account i'd opened because i thought he'd blocked the first but i still had things to say. Obviously, though, he had let these e-mails through. I know this because he responded. He sent it that night, only eight seconds away from midnight, (To somebody who wrote a page long parenthesis on the subject of my positioning of people in my day dreams, of course eight seconds away from midnight is significant. I just don't know of what.) but i didn't come across it until a few minutes ago. As before, there was a brief shock, where i had no idea what to do, but i overcame myself and opened it.

Now, i knew that his previous five words to me were hardly representative of his literary ability. (Partly because (And i state most emphatically that this is NOT my fault - it is not a stalkerly contrivance in any way.) i was once asked by Mr E (Who, if we're remembering my code, we will deduce to be in no way related either to E or Ms E, but simply a ('The', in fact) male english teacher at our school.) to sort out some mock exam papers. I realised that this was E's year i was sorting and, inevitably, i came across E's exam. He'd done well. Fifty four out of fifty four. He could not have done better. I could never hope to achieve that, at least in exam conditions, so naturally i was both jealous and impressed.) I knew he was quite capable of more than one sentence in an e-mail. (A sentence with, to my mind, a beguilingly American turn of phrase. I really did spend a long time trying to work out any other possible connotations of the order "Stop bugging me." I would have sworn i'd never bugged anyone before in my life.) Still, i was quite surprised by the length of his response. (Still, i know my priorities, and kept an eye as i read on spelling, punctuation and grammar. I'm not sure whether i should be satisfied or annoyed that the only corrections i would have made result from my zealous application of commas. Oh and perhaps a minor objection to his use of 'hence', but nobody uses 'hence', 'whence' and 'thence' quite right any more. I suppose i should stop trying to correct them. (It's not that i use them in the wrong places, just that i use them whenever they may or may not be called for.)

I considered reproducing the whole thing here, but no, i won't do that. For one thing, i'd just be doing it as a cheap way of filling up my blog. More importantly, though, it's mine. The sentiment may be contrary to everything i've ever wanted to hear, but still, it is rather a good e-mail, and actually seems to have done what it was supposed to. I don't think i will ever write back. I nearly did. I nearly just sent back the reply thank you, but i realised that before i'd even finished typing those two words there would just be more and more queuing up to get out, and it would just be completely pointless. So no more e-mailing E. Hopefully.

It started with a revelation that, however foolish and obvious i may have thought myself to be in my pursuit of this whole affair, i had in fact been much clumsier. Apparently as soon as he read this e-mail from 'frivolous_haruspex' he googled the words and came immediately upon this blog. he makes the point that it's hardly the most common name. That, of course, is why i always liked it. Perhaps it was silly to use the same words for the blog, but really, i don't mind all too much. For one thing, i did eventually send the address anyway, and for another i could hardly hope for things to have turned out better than they now have. Plus, i do try not to agonise over things now past. Or, if i do, to prove to myself that things would turn out equally badly whatever had happened. It feels weird, though, to realise that even at the very beginning he was able to follow in detail (Well, as much detail as i cared to mention. Which, considering there hasn't been any particular part of this of which i've been truly ashamed, (Even though i perhaps should have been) is pretty rigorous.) my feelings for him, while i remained largely ignorant of his.

It's a surprisingly kind letter. I know that i would try to be understanding in such a circumstance, but i'm a pansy. And even i can't really know if i could remain calm in the face of my "sometimes worrying e-mails". How kindly would you be inclined to treat your stalker? But, from the way he talks, it does seem as if, right from the beginning, he tried to empathise with me. "I did not reply." he wrote, " because I assumed, that if your momentary crush was indeed real, it would pass with time." (Actually, that comma is wrong. I feel strangely comforted by this. He may be hugely better at writing than me, but at least i know that there should be no comma in "assumed that". And yes, i am aware of the complete hypocrisy here and that this very blog is riddled with mistakes. But i don't care.) Assuming this to be his sole reason in acting this way, it is a nice thought. However, i, from my privileged position of having been obsessed with him for two years, could have told him that that wouldn't work. Or, well, that if it did it would take years for me to be fully clear of him.

He gave me advice. Probably rather good advice, most of it. Advice of the sort that many people, myself included, have counselled me to take. I can see the sense of it, it's plainly obvious that i should follow it. I won't, though, not really. Some of it will, most likely, filter down to me, but really i'm far too much of a coward to not "treat the internet as an opportunity to act how you want to with the safety of anonymity, try to do it in real life". I've got better at this, yes, but really i know that i'll never be able to say the most important things face to face. I'll always have recourse to the internet, or to the notes and letters i write and reject so many of. And i'm sure that, for many people, university could be "a new opportunity to rid of your self doubt and self pity." But not, unfortunately, me. I may be riddled with self doubt and self pity, and i recognise that, yes, they do often hinder me. But actually, i rather like them. They are a big part of what i claim as 'myself'. Without them, for example, my brief moments where i am able to come out of my shell or act with confidence wouldn't be quite as thrilling.

However, after all this well thought out and constructive advice came a moment of sheer lunacy. "I suggest you stop your blogging too, again it's just clinging to the past. You are only saying in written form what you are thinking. What's the point?" I can't stop my blog. I will carry on blogging until i run out of things, however petty and irrelevant they may be to the rest of the world, to say. And generally, even if that happens, i've got more to say within a month or so. Perhaps my blog is something i'll one day grow out of, but it isn't something i can just give up on. Perhaps my thoughts are just not as organised as other people's, and this is why i need to blog, to help me sort them out. Since i have been blogging, though, even my thoughts have started taking this form. I now think in blog, and, actually, it helps. What would be the point of mentally composing blogs if i couldn't then type them up?

Besides, i do rather like to flatter myself that my blog isn't just for me any longer. Whilst, obviously, i won't claim that this is in any way helping anyone, i do sort of think that there are people who enjoy reading it. This may have nothing to do with the quality of the writing, but i, for one, do enjoy reading other people's lives. After a significant break in a blog i tend to get restless, and when people stop blogging altogether that's even worse.

Finally, of course, is the fact that i do actually use my blog to talk to people. Now here, i know, i'm blatantly going against E's advice, but i can't help it. I do find it easier to talk to people on the internet, and actually, this has led to my getting better offline as well. The first time i came out was in a letter, and there i didn't even have the courage to simply use the words "I'm gay." Since then there have been times, when, in real life, completely sober, i have uttered these words. I had a tendency, it's true, to then run away from whoever i'd just said it too, but this is still far, far better than nothing. So i will continue to blog, in the hope that this will one day make me better able to talk to people face to face, but also because i just enjoy it so very much.

I always said that what i wanted from him, all i really needed, was to be acknowledged. I only ever half believed it, really though. A lot of me thought that, no matter what i'd said, if he did ever reply to me that i'd immediately pounce on this as some sort of confirmation of my hopes and my frenzied emailing would start again. However, it does seem that i was right. I do now feel a hell of a lot better. And this, partly is due to not just the acceptance but the forgiveness implied by the last few sentences. I do still half want to write back, but i know i'd be stupid to, and i can at least hope that he'll check my blog one last time and i won't need to thank him. But that isn't necessary for me to drop this. I may, at times, have to assume he has, but right now i just don't mind.

"You can take my advice, or ignore it, I am only saying it for your sake. This episode does not bother me, I don't blame myself or you. Just recognise that your fantasy will never come true, and that you have to start living in the real world."

My french exchange partner left a little under a week ago, last Tuesday, on the (I think) eleventh day of his stay in England. It was terribly hard work looking after him. He talked even less than i did when i was over there. I realise that, yes, it was partly my responsibililty to engage him in conversation, but i did try, i really did, in the beginning at least. But eventually i just got put off. I accept that it might actually have been easier to talk to him towards the end of his stay, as by that time he would have settled in more to talking, or at least listening, in English, but by that time i was just fed up. At the beginning we'd had to repeat things multiple times, which did get really tiring, so we just, eventually, stopped.

I do feel guilty, as i remembered how hard it was when i was in that position a few months ago. But it just got so hard to sympathise with somebody who only communicates in grunts. He honestly did! He went whole days without speaking a single sentence- well, not to us. Whether he was, in the privacy of his head, constantly making witty ripostes and scathing remarks in English we'll never know, but i somehow doubt it.

I'm going to Sheffield! (We'll come back to frenchie at some point, but there isn't all that much too say and frankly, this is much more important to me right now.) Today was, of course, results day, the day we've all been trying to ignore the existence of for months, the day on which i finally found out whether i'd get into my first choice university (Sheffield, for which i needed three Bs, one in french), my second (Leeds, BBC, B in French), or neither and go through clearing. Mostly i've hardly been nervous about today, generally managing to forget it until people ask "Are you nervous about results day?" When i have been nervous that's been mostly covered up by another fear, much, much less important, but for which i am actually grateful, as i at least could be certain about that one, whatever i told myself. As today is also the day the year twelve's get results it didn't seem too unlikely that i might see E there today. I, as always, entertained fantasies of going up to him, assuring him that everything i'd told him about previously was true and finally convincing him that none of this was a joke. Obviously i knew this was nonsense, and as it turned out i didn't see him at all, not one glimpse of his beatiful personage slipping lithely past, but still, as i've said, this worry covered up the actually more important one concerning my results.

When i had thought about results day i'd been pretty confident. However, at least one part of me has some sense of realism, and i desparately tried to persuade myself ("Be absolute for death," the duke says to a man on the Viennese equivalent of death row in Measure for Measure, "either death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.") that i was bound to fail, (Well, no, not fail; an E counts as a pass. That's how they're able to claim 96% pass rate. Seems a little like cheating, though, as an E won't really get you very far, and everyone knows it.) and i'd come up with the silover lining (No longer going to the same university as P, who it seems i can no longer talk to properly at all.) However, i'm far too arrogant to really be persuaded by that, so i went in today knowing that i was going to walk out with three Bs at the very least. Probably more. I wouldn't have been surprised if i'd ended up with four As. (Ok, that's obviously an exaggeration. Nobody, nobody posessed of a modicum of intelligence could have thought i'd get more than a C for Art. So my D wasn't too much of a surprise.) For a while i'd been semi-consciously practising my grin, my huge, immense and above all massive grin when i found out how brilliantly i'd done. I could pity the people who'd done worse than me, who hadn't made their grades, but really i'd be enjoying knowing i'd done better.

Quite a shock, then, to discover i hadn''t managed it. I needed three Bs. I got two and a C. I wouldn't really have minded about that all that much, they're always telling yuou they'll probably let you in if you just drop a grade. But this grade was rather an important one. I needed, for both universities i'd applied to, a B for french. In my AS exams i'd missed getting an A by about five marks. I was convinced i'd get a B this year at the least. I really did believe i might get an A. So the C was something of a shock. It turned out that i'd done quite badly on what i think must have been the speaking exam (It must have been. The listening, reading and writing was, really, quite easy. And i know i'm not great at speaking.) and even worse (Really, really badly) on my coursework. I got twenty three marks out of a possible ninety. And i hadn't thought i'd done that badly. Fortunately, i have enough sense to accept that that was utterly and completely my own fault, that i couldn't try lay any blame (As my mother has, a little.) on my french teacher for not alerting me to the fact that my coursework was so terrible. We were all late handing the things in, he probably hardly even had time to mark it.

So i was unable to grin. I could hradly even talk. I was lucky, though, really. I had an expression in reserve that i'd been practising for years. I was instantly able to put on my "Please, please, don't speak to me, can't you see i'm not happy? Can't you see i've quite blatantly screwed up? If you ask me my grades i will, i will know that realy you're only doing it to bolster your own feeling of well being. Besides, this is a perfectly interesting piece of floor i'm staring at right now, what could be important enough for you to tear me away from it?" expression, the one i'd put to use in pretty much any social situation in which i've found myself for years. Once i'd spoken to all the relevant people (I may now have to forgive the deputy head for, as i've enjoyed phrasing it for years 'kicking us out of outside'. He was really kind and supportive, and copnvinced me there may yet be hope for me.) i flip-flopped down the steps and strode out of the gate, where i was rushed home by my mother.

Once i'd found the letter from Sheffield with the phone numbers to call in this situation and spent a minute or two getting up the courage i typed in the number and pressed that little button so that it would start the call. It was comforting, in a way, to know that they would have already decided my fate. My mother works in admissions, though not in university quite as well reputed as Sheffield, so i knew that she'd already decided who was going to be on her course by the end of Monday. After a few unsuccessful attempts i got through, only to be put in a queue. It didn't last long though, about five minutes, and i was soon talking to a real person. I was still only half able to hear what she was saying, so my half of the conversation didn't, i'm afraid, make the best of sense. But eventually came the point where i was told "You've been accepted." I was very grateful to this person, irrelevant as she no doubt had actually been to the decision process and i could hear the change in my voice as i thanked her and said goodbye.

So, in around a months time i'll be transplanting my life and as many books as i can to Sheffield, where i will do a four year course in French and Linguistics, including a year abroad in France or a French speaking country (I rather like the sound of Guadeloupe, actually, where our French (The only person i've come out to (If rather (very) clumsily) in another lanuage.) assistant was from. But that's probably quite unlikely. Anyway, i'm going to Sheffield! Hurrah!

You'd think that this brush with doom might have taught me a lesson. Perhaps, having almost not got it, i might be moregrateful about my place. I might be more careful with courseworky type things in future. I might learn all sorts of lessons about humility and so on. There are probably loads of morals i can and should be drawing from all this. I won't though. Oh no.

My sexuality has never been an issue before. Never ever. Not really. I've been teased a little, but not viciously. No more than i've been teased about anything else. I was starting to think that maybe this is a pretty tolerant society. But then yesterday it all went a bit weird and now i'm just confused. I'm not sure of how best to tell this.

About two weeks ago, on Thursday, it was my birthday. At the weekend i had some friends over and my mother had decided (I haven't blogged about this because i'm sort of a little embarassed.) that i would want a hot tub. So she rented one, this odd thing that was just delivered and slotted together. But i'm a little worried about what led her to this decision. I know she's read my diary at least twice, and i think one of these times she may have things i said about E. However, E would most likely have been referred to only by his first name, which happens to be the same as W and A. So for a while i've suspected that she thinks that i may have feelings for A. Just little things she's said or done. So i do wonder if maybe that was part of her reasong. I hope not, but i wouldn't put it past her.

Anyway, it turns out that there are, for the first time i can think of, rumours about me. I have an idea about the sourceand i don't really mind, but i'm amazed by how far they've gone. P mentioned something about something else that had happened that evening, (It almost felt like he was trying to prove he knew stuff about me, it was sort of weird.) but i didn't realise until last night quite how far this had spread. Forgive me if i don't explain this properly. I think i have mentioned before, though not by letter, M. He's bisexual and has fallen in love with his best friend. I don't know much about what's happened since then. I know he told this boy, and that initially they had a minor falling out. I think now though that they're friends again and nothing more. M only originally told this boy that he (I'll call him Z, as i don't intend to talk much about him again.) was bisexual when Z told M that he thought he may be bi.

So, it transpired somehow that i was talking last night (online, of course) with Z's sister. We had been getting on alright when suddenly she said "get lost ma bro sez ur gay! cuz of ur 18th bday party wiv da hot tub! [sic]" (That's just so terrible i don't even know where to start correcting it, so i've settled for just putting [sic] in instead. I do like finding excuses to use that.) Naturally, while both statements were true by themselves, i resented the suggestion that onbe was a logical comclusion of the other. But at the time i was more surprised by the fact that someone in year nine knew about my birthday party.

"Oh dear lord!!! How does he know about that?!?!?!?" (I was perhaps a tad excessive with the punctuation.)

"i duno but is it tru?? r u really gay?? [again, sic]"

This carried on, and she didn't seem particularly to resent my sexuality until, suddenly, she said "huh??? wow gay ppl r confusin!" (I would insert here some explanation as to what had caused her to say this if i had any idea myself.)

"Are we? how so?"

"cuz u r n im not gonna tlk 2 u nemor infact im gonna blok n delete u"

Once you've deciphered that (Yes, i am exaggerating, but i always do.) i hope you will be just as shocked as i was. I didn't think people thought they could still get away with that sort of behaviour, with thinking like that in this century. I was so taken aback that i didn't have chance to respond before she went through with this childish action, but i immediately started writing her an e-mail. It wasn't a very good one, as really i had no idea what to say. I was too confused even to be angry. I just had to know why, exactly, she'd decided my sexuality was something to be abhorred. She hasn't responded yet, and i doubt she will. I don't know yet if i'll be able to let this go or get obsessed with it, but i had to write that email, futile as it may have been.

But it's the involvement of her brother, Z, that annoys me most. Simply from the way she spoke it seemed obvious that he'd spoken as if my being gay were somehow offensive to him too, but we all now know (Thatnks to the fact that i cannot keep a secret) that he has at the least had doubts about his sexuality. And it's seemed to me that generally doubts such as this turn into certainties. It's not, perhaps, actual doubt, just an unwillingness to say things, lest this make them more real. In the first ever entry in my diary (Now, it seems, quite dead.) i said that my sexuality was 'questionable'. I'm pretty certain now that i knew full well that i was gay. And i'm certain i'm not the only person to have done this initially. It must take a very brave person to immediately make the decision to accept that they are gay.

In other news, this may be my last post for a while. My french exchange partner's coming tomorrow evening, and i doubt i'm going to get much chance to use the computer in that time. Last time he was here things were a little awkward, and the two weeks dragged on quite a bit. This time, though, i'm determined to try harder. He's not here for as long this time, either. But despite my not getting on swimmingly with my partner (though i did have some great times this Easter in France) i'm still a firm advocate of language exchanges. They really do help. But i am starting to get really nervous about spending the entire third year of my university course in France.(I've already found the silver lining though. Assuming P and i do both get into the same university, that'll be a year away from him.)

I think i'm vaguely superstitious. Well, i am superstitious, really. While i do know it's all complete nonsense, i still vaguely believe stuff too. Only some things. I still try catch fairies and wish on them. Fairies, of course are those seedy things that float around. There seem a lot of them around at the moment. I generally wish for the same thing. I wish for E to fall in love with me. But no fairies going to get round me, oh no, i've read the Arabian Nights (Well, a few of the stories), so i also wish myself in love with him (because i'm still not sure of my feelings) but i also wish that we both knew the others feelings and could act on them somehow. Putting so much thought into it suggests, does it not, that i do believe it. Yet i know it is a load of nonsense. How can a seed have any effect on my relationships?

And if my horoscope happens to be around i'll read it and normally start doing that thing where you twist your life so it fits what the horoscope says. Every time i read a description of a cancer, even though none of them match each other, i normally decide there's enough in there to say it constitutes an accurate description of myself. It's not just that, though, i make up my own superstitions too. Really really bad ones. I don't do it so much any more, but i used to be terrible.

When i couldn't sleep tonight i used to think that if i simply tried hard enough i could communicate with E telepathically. Well, i'm not sure how much i actually believed it, but i tried it all the same. For ages and ages i kept that up. I still sort of do now, but these days i do recognise that all i'm really doing is talking to myself. And this way i get responses too, even though they are just imaginary.

Also, i used to (Now this is a good one.) tear up bits of paper and write "I love [E]" and "[E] loves me" on them. I did a lot of that. I used up entire A3 sheets like that. It didn't, as you may have guessed work. I'm not sure what it was meant to do, but it didn't do it, of that i'm sure.

I've always (Well, for a long time.) found this stuff interesting. Superstitions, folklore, mythology and the like. I even started to read James Frazer's The Golden Bough. I didn't come anywhere near finishing it. My abridged (ABRIDGED) edition is eight hudred and fifty pages long. I think it was originally published in about thirteen volumes. But i remember reading one thing in there, in the chapter on Contagious Magic. He talks a lot about various beliefs along the lines of what we generally just associate with voodoo, the whole pins in dolls thing. He mentions people who believe that a the placenta a child is born with can be used to exert great influence on them, or that the sword used to inflict a wound will then have some sport of spiritual connection with the wound. He then goes on to talk about beliefs from all over the world concerning footprints, including this one: "Among the South Slavs a girl will dig up the earth from the footprints of the man she loves and put it in a flower-pot. Then she plants in the pot a marigold, a flower that is thought to be fadeless. And as its golden blossom grows and blooms and never fades, so shall her sweetheart's love grow and bloom and never, never fade. Thus the love-spell acts on the man through the earth he trod on." I remember when i read that i really liked the idea of it and, in fact, determined to try it out for myself. I never did, in the end, as there were certain difficulties involved. One of them being that i never saw E step on anything but concrete, another that i could hardly carry round a trowel and a flowerpot with me, and another, of course, that if i had done so, that would have made me a sick and insane stalker type. I still think it's rather a lovely idea, though. It'd be nice, one day, to do that, if i could convince myself i was doing it in a sweet innocent way, rather than obsessively and stalkerishly.