Mess.

These people piss me off

---------

So I think I had a minor 'episode' today. It was interesting. Psychoanalysis occurred. Outcome = I am a bit fucked up.
Although oddly, it appears that I'm not all that melodramatic. Once everything is explained.
I was intrigued by my own physical reaction to certain things. The ability to suppress being sick was much appreciated. Although quite why my body thought that throwing up was a suitable response in the first place is beyond me. Like where does that command even come from? And why in response to something so stupid?

To a different topic.. The overall dichotomies, and their sheer contrasts, confuse me muchly. Like double you tea eff? It doesn't make sense. FWL kinda agrees.
I guess it is all just laughable really.

My shoulder's pretty chipped, and you're well aware of it.

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[some days later]

WHY THE FUCK CAN I NOT CONCENTRATE????
I am so pissed off with myself about this.
I have allowed myself to be distracted all fucking year. and it's so FUCKING PATHETIC. And I'm sick of it and I hate everything and AAAAARGH. I'm so annoyed. Why am I such a dick? Like seriously.
My head is so full of bloody distractions. And you know what? I'm never gonna get it sorted. And this disgusts me. And it bugs me like hell. And brings my level of self-annoyance to a staggering new height.
And I desperately want to shout and scream and have someone to blame and I know that makes me a horrible person.. but it's built to a stupid crescendo again.. and I want release. But I am the only one to blame. And shouting at myself would be a bit weird. Argh. I want hurt. Pain. Something. Anything. Just something that's tangible and physical and real. Not in my stupid fucking head. Sigh.
Maybe I should have eaten something since yesterday lunch time.
I WANT TO BE DOING SOME FRIKKIN WORK.
Why won't it happen? Why can't I fucking focus?

Heroin tastes like ice cream.

It's still not working. I'm still not working. I hypothesise that all it will take is the truth, an explanation, some talking [actually talking, where I actively say things instead of just thinking things to myself.] and some painting. Major painting perhaps. Except that I KNOW this won't happen. The year will have gone and I will have done nothing except fail on every front. Apathy and fear will get the better of me. Once again. And I tried not to worry but you've got me terrified...

You know.. I actually have things I could talk about.. punting adventures, revising in pubs, the legal naivety of vegetarians, how I wished some legal principles applied to all situations, the book I'm writing, sunshine, rowing [wither]... And at some point I do intend to. But just at the moment I can't think about anything for longer than five seconds. The night's tragic rambling is the next day's apologies...

I am going to self-combust. I can't decide if I want to do it cleanly or messily. To make a scene or not..
Oh christ I'm not that desperate.. oh god.. oh no.. I am.

I don't really know what to say now. I can look at myself and see my circularity.. I'm pathetic and annoying and have issues and I wouldn't want to talk to me if I wasn't me. In fact I don't want to talk to me when I am me.. but there's no choice.. And I could ignore it all. But I feel that would be cheating. Oh the eternal dilemma.. I think it's easiest and most correct to say YOU WERE RIGHT. CLEARLY. I mean look at this catastrophe. Look at me being pathetic and self-obsessed and insane and complaining for no reason. I don't have to say any of this. So why am I bothering? Especially when I know this will achieve absolutely NOTHING. Except to prove everyone right. God. Too many times I've recited you out of my life..

Fuck it. Fuck it all. I'm going out on the roof.