vindice

I don't know. It's like there are these daily moments of euphoria. Even though I spend eight hours a day in the ravages of frustration because I can't do anything productive. And come home to a scrapheap. And, literally, have absolutely no money for non-essentials, so no SGUK meets for the forseable future. And...well, other things that it would be indiscreet to go into.
It's almost as though my life has started. At least started. Or as though you were on some kind of medication that made it actually impossible to have the emotional reactions that go with being mentally conscious of the things you're pissed off with. (Incidentally, I have never found any medication that did that.)

So, I can't remember when I last cooked, or slept more than five hours a night. It's a funny sort of work-related stress, writing a novel. I must be some kind of total dick-weed. It's tantamount to self-abuse. I keep nearly crying. Like a dick-weed! It's a horrible experience, and for some reason it's one that you crave. Was this all I needed, all along? I'm holding back for the sake of not being *entirely* precious. I don't know, it's like I'm doing ok, you know, I'm doing ok.