This isn’t about depression.
This isn’t about my non-desire to grace the pages of the internet.
This isn’t about Emilie Autumn’s review that never was, at the end of a comatose day.
This isn’t about how small my pupils are now that I am free from the stocks at the Galleries of Justice.
This isn’t about misplaced horniness.
This is about poultry missing knitwear.
Dreaming of Maria Callas, whoever she is.
Bunny Waffles 
(As a friend of course) I just love you more after viewing this blog. Oh my, do whatever you need to do, to get through this whole time, please. Without even really trying, though, you have the perfect title for a chapter, maybe even a book, but certainly a chapter: “Friday I was fine, apart from the hands.” That’s wonderful. Get more magically content with life somehow, please; the world needs you. You have such a way.
Did Maria Callas have something to do with Aristotle Onassis or something? I think she was an opera singer or something.
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Thank you my dear. Stuff has been okay, and then not so okay, and then very much not okay, and then sort of okay again. I’ve been back at work and have to admit I feel more energised for being around living, breathing people, but my head is somewhat still caving in however, and the amount of pills I have been taking is getting borderline obscene. This evening is the sickest I have felt in a long, long time, and the creepy crawly thoughts once hammered to death by the various impressive pills have now started to emerge again. A bit, but enough.
It will be fine though, it always is. More to the point, how are you? I love you too, and am genuinely humbled by the fact that you give a shit. Thank you for stuff.
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It’s been fun lately to see more posts from you. Have never heard of any of the bands or artists you’ve been featuring. They’re all quite good, but I guess you know that. I have been, well, beyond blah for quite some time now, as evidenced, I suppose, by the fact that I haven’t blogged in 4 weeks or gotten back to you here for nearly as long. Self-medication helps somewhat. It has its pitfalls, but I relish them. I don’t like doing anything much of the time because I don’t feel like doing much and I doubt the worth of it. I intend to someday actually do something. Sometimes I like writing, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like it. I’m disappointed in a lot of things and hideously unimpressed with the aging process. There are so many cool things in life, but it’s easier to focus sometimes on the shit, isn’t it?
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Thanks Kevin, and it’s good to hear from you. Honestly it’s been easier to write on here than on Insanity because there’s less pomp, and less expectation. I did write a story for this weekend but the self-pity in it was sickening, and it’s now living in my recycle bin.
I’m sad to hear you aren’t feeling good, but I suppose we both know it won’t ever truly disappear for either of us. It terrifies me because I feel exactly the same and I need you to hold on, because I know what it can do. I know it won’t help, but you are worthwhile to me. In truth I have been struggling with ascertaining meaning from anything I am doing at the moment, because I can’t see anything worthwhile in myself, but I can see it in you, even if you can’t. Aging is the biggest load of bollocks since sliced bread came with raisins, because it is inevitable and unstoppable (my anaology to bread stops working here). I wish I could tell you something different, but I feel it in my bones too and can’t keep my own head above water in trying to tell myself it isn’t true.
This is life though, and we cope until we can’t cope anymore. It’s easier to focus on the shit because for the most part, that is all life is made up of. Out of interest how are you self-medicating at the moment? I’m off literally everything until my brain can’t drag me out of bed, then I guess I’m back on everything again.
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P.S Having been free of mind-controlling drugs for a matter of weeks, it’s reminded me of how dark my thoughts can get. If your self-medication is helping, don’t ever stop (unless of course it’s dangerous).
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