George Orwell, "Why I Write"

"I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life."

Drink until distraction's just a waste of time

Today is Sunday. I always think it's Saturday for a second, since it is my weekend. I spent most of yesterday packing up boxes of books. Forty-nine boxes, to be exact. I have knots in my back now, and a large orangeish purple bruise on my right hip. I hurt all over. I spent yesterday evening sitting mostly, drinking a few angel pisses and sitting slumped, in my very sad Marjie state. I watched Sabrina. Not the bad one, the good one with Humphrey Bogart. Stever commented on how many depressing and unpleasant movies he owns. (And it is a lot.) He prefers reality to happy stories. I told him I prefer to escape reality, and that is why I have all my happy dvds. I wish to bring a bit more variety to those shelves. I watched a little more of Godfather II, but after taking all my medicines I started passing out, and blearly leaned up from my head resting on a large stuffed hippo to Stever's suggestion of me going to bed. So a day of work. An evening of blah. A night of strange dreams, prominently featuring religious zealot groups, and Border's new Seattles Best Cafe.

My finger seems to be healing pretty well. The offending piece came off pretty much, and the new flesh underneath is still tender. It is not shaped quite right, but it is close enough, I suppose. The sensation and feeling is all fucked as well, but perhaps that will change in time. Who cares? It's just a finger. /end paragraph

My brain is fucked from going from 1200mg of schtuff down to 300. I'm reverting straight back to the feeling like dying all the time instead of the only most of the time. How droll. Crying is useless, so I do not do much of that. But constant contemplation of worst case scenarios, and visions very similar to Cartman's when he closes his eyes, bounce around in my head. I see the end of the world and the end of me. And I cannot divert my mind properly. One just gets stuck, doesn't one. One does.

"But I fell for the promise
of a life with a purpose
But I know that that's impossible now
So I drink to stay warm
and to kill selected memories
Cause I just can't think anymore about that
or about him tonight"

How fucking emo.
How very fucking emo.

Back by popular demand

I have nothing of great import to say so here... amuse yourself with a paper I wrote when I was in high school. It's so bad it's funny. http://www.angelfire.com/ia/mbicpentameter/chipmunks.doc Alvin... Simon... Theodore!