I think I may be suffering from a seven year itch – only reversed. I wonder if that makes it a scratch. It certainly makes me want to scratch. It makes me want to scratch my veins out like a junkie on a very bad day.
Today I seem to be melancholy for things that I loathed at the time. I missed, but I don’t, the town I grew up in. Well, not so much missed as thought about. I want to go back and kick it in the cunt. I want to go back and tell it I’m boss. I want to go back as empress of the world but I’m not so I won’t. Besides, who there even remembers me?
I’m trying not to let myself slip into the delusion that those were simpler times. They were not. I might have been but they were not. They were as fraught, more fraught, than any other period. How long can you be unhappy for and be so in company? A very, very long time, I found.
Is it nostalgia? Can one be nostalgic for something hated?
I hate this feeling. It’s all very: Aw, where’ve ya been? Ah, there you are.
It can fuck off. Now.