I wish I could sing. I can handle the rest of it in my own little way –the neuroticism, the anxiety, the uncontrollable temper, being the person who is always, always being laughed at but I could handle it better if I could sing.
I’ve been so tired lately that I’ve started to fear that there’s something terribly wrong. There’s a something lingering in my chest that could be a worry to me but I think it’s mostly paranoia and too much time spent cold. I am tired though, so tired. Most of my time off is spent sleeping; flaked in genuine exhaustion and too much time in front of screens. My eyes hurt, my brain is mush (it rhymes with rush, fuck youse), oh gods I miss my brain. There’s this thing in my head that alternates between being shrivelled and rattling about in my head to feeling swollen and waterlogged and pushing at the boundaries of my skull. In either case it doesn’t seem to work. I have things to read that might be interesting if my brain hadn’t shut down. They remain on the ironing board in their little plastic protectors. Blogs no longer make sense. The news is a strange concept, a thing I can’t bring myself to care about. I have hidden in children’s stories and yet remain the only person I’ve heard so far to complain of the irritating Disnification of Prince Caspian. Those children went from being saps to being even more annoying than Eustace. I shudder to think of what happens next. I liked them as saps.
This is an inadequate and pathetic piece of writing and I publish it only out of despair and as an attempt to kick start the little blogging girl who sits inside my head and comments on the world when I am without pen or paper or keys to bash upon. She’s sitting somewhere crying, tonight I can’t hear her, I think I might have left her sitting in the gutter somewhere on