(no subject)

The happy bouncy mood of yesterday has now disappeared like a soap bubble. Have decided to no longer get angsy about being depressed. It takes up energy and ultimately does no good - kinda like biting at the chains that hold me.

I'm sick of being bored all the time. I was bored all the weekend (cept Saturday) because I couldn't go out - but if I had gone out, would I have been less bored? Although come to think of it, if I had gone out I would never have discovered Enid's slash penchant, which is not something I wanted to miss...

Space Monkey, this is

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(no subject)

Enid, this is Heliopolis! Damn link wouldn;t work the last time!
Ding dong, the bitch is here. I'm in a ranty mood, all be warned. According to Becca this morning, she said she felt sick, went to the loo, came back and her hair was different! *laughs* The utter pathetic-ness...
Anyway, what can I write about? Enid - it is not cute. Space Monkey!!
Aside from that, I'm in a better mood now than I was this morning. The one reason I don't mind these lessons is the fact I can write here!
(Oh yay - a database task)
More in a minute....

(no subject)

Some questions:

• Why is Helena singing the Flintstones' theme? Why?
  
• Why is hotmail not deleting any of my mails? I have 126!
  
• Why do people persist in forwarding me 83 kilobyte crap - all the time?
  
• Why does Microsoft have to help you all the time??
  
• Not a question, but Rosie just asked how to delete something! *laughs*
  
• What to write next?
  
  
  What a crappy entry. Oh, yes:
  
  
  
  • Where do Flemish people come from?
    
    
    Rosie just said to mw, "Don't talk to her like she's stupid?" about Kara.
    My reply was somewhat simplistic.
    "Bite me."

Red...

The book came today. I read a little of it in the bookshop, like I always do, so I won't start from the very first page. I said I won't start - I haven't started yet. It's a new book, with a matte red finish, and it's so perfect as it sits there that I don't want to open it yet. I am reading it. Give me time.
The book is More, Now, Again by Elizabeth Wurtzel, and I may have said before just how much I would love to write like her. They say you can teach writing. I disagree. You can teach a person how to form the letters on the page, but you can't teach a love of reading and writing, a passionate love that never dies or fades away, simply manifests itself in an infinite variety of ways.
I'd love to write like that, and it's times like this when I come closest. My head aches so much that my mind is somewhat free - I'm trying not to talk and not to see, even trying to type with my eyes closed because I don't want to see. I can see beyond this with my eyes closed. I don't want to carry on; I want to keep the moment just as perfect as the book.
It's perfect. New and unread and red, and it's perfect.

When it hurts, make it better with pills

My head hurts. It hurts a lot and I shouldn't be typing or writing or reading or breathing. It hurts so much I can't think properly and when that happens I just want to go to sleep and wait for it all to be over. I want to wake up to a brand new day without any of the crap from this one. I don't want to live like this. I'm not depressed, just disembodied. It's like I can see myself from far, far away, like there's a part of me looking down on myself typing, and I don't like what I see. I want this to go away. I don't want to sound like I'm depressed when I'm not. I hate taking pills. I don't want to do that either. That's why my head hurts so much and I don't want to "take something for it." That would mask the pain, not make it go away. No pill works wonders. They all make you feel better for a while, then wear off. That's true for everything. Nothing makes you happy forever. You're happy for a while, then you sink back.
When it hurts, make it better with pills. That's the whole of the Western world ideology, and where has it got us? A dysfunctional, hurting society trying to look pretty for the camera, that's all. It hurts, and I don't want to take pills. It will always hurt.

Junkie

Apparently ninety percent of twenty pound notes have had crack snorted through them whilst they've been in circulation.

I want something to get me out of being me, but it can't be love, money, or drugs.
I have just read something. "That's the nighmare of my life: I hate writing, but I can't help myself. It's just what I do; it is what I love to do."
This is so true it hurts.