line of the day : a self help book written in braille

Oh god. The week has got off to an awful start. I want to go home and hide under a duvet and never ever come out. I really don’t need people being so fucking horrible to me. I know it is quite clearly my job for people to hurl abuse at me (that’s not me being masochistic or melodramatic, it is actually my job) but I am, for one, not in the mood, as I am feeling a bit thin-skinned, and for another thing, I am not being paid enough to feel like this. This job seriously makes me depressed. Just crossing the road to get to the office makes me feel anxious and slightly sick.

I haven’t really told that to anyone before. I don’t know what’s brought on this revelatory mood. Enjoy, anyway. It probably makes a change from the made up bullshit I often feel inclined to write on here.

So Friday was my birthday drinks and I got shit faced. I blame C and her “let’s just have another quick bottle of wine” when we were sitting by the river. We drank overpriced wine in the freezing cold and then I started a couple of arguments about shrews and Freud. Apparently I am a bad person for saying that shrews are like rats, but in my eyes they’re all nasty rodents anyway, and an animal that has a massive coronary attack in shock at the sight of a human has no right to dictate what it gets compared to anyway. I shouldn’t have started the fight about psychiatry though. It wasn’t very tactful, seeing as R’s parents are/were psychiatrists, and what with the whole being dead thing… yes, I am tactless. I forget that just because I am the crazy one, people don’t always appreciate large sections of science being castigated for my amusement. Anyway, that’s all gone tits up anyway. I didn’t go to my hospital appointment and was a rubbish friend to R this weekend. I think my contribution was to drunkenly slur “Mick? What kind of name is that anyway?” though I don’t have too clear a memory of that so god only knows. Whatever. I probably deserve to be shot in the head.

For those that were there on Friday night, you will have seen me in the godawful state I got myself into. For those that (wisely, in retrospect) stayed away, a brief synopsis of the evening is as follows: I got drunk, I cried… blah blah blah. Again, whatever. S tells me that I wasn’t a horrible drunk and that everyone thought I was funny and stuff, but I can’t help feel consumed with loathing for myself. I am fairly sure that all these lovely people who are, as of fairly recently, my friends, now think that I am a complete loser. And people who have known me for years now hate me. So I guess I’m onto a winner. Thinking about Friday is making me miserable. I suppose there were some good things. Before I got hideously drunk, I had a good time and I took some photos, which will be fun to look at when they’re developed. I was so hungry (thanks to only eating a cup-a-soup during the day) that I dragged A to Burger King and demanded the most vegetarian thing on the menu (which, for those who are interested, is not the bean burger, but the vege burger), but it’s okay because I was sick later on, so total burger count for the evening was zero. As it should be (unless it’s from Red Veg, in which case that’s totally different).

Hmm, so I was taken home by N who let me lie on his lap all the way home before I passed out in bed. In the morning I felt seriously fucking dreadful, like I had been steamrollered. Wolf and I used to have this dream where we would one day live in some decrepit old house and run people over with steam rollers. I think we plagiarised it directly from “Ripley’s Game” or some other such film. I don’t know why I just wrote that. Now I sound like I fantasise about murder. I don’t really (sort of). Anyway, yeah, I felt dreadful, and it was only by drinking a couple of pints of water and going back to sleep that I felt that aliens had returned my soul to my - admittedly shattered - body. I went back to my own flat and sat in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, but then I burst out crying and was pretty inconsolable for an hour. I watched Midsomer Murders, which sorted me out a little, but then I saw some leaflet from MSF which made me cry even more and temporarily reconsider my decision not to study medicine. I spent a lot of the day thinking about death and generally being very morbid, which no doubt did absolutely bugger all to improve my mood.

Eventually, however, I managed to sort myself out enough to stop crying and I even put some laundry on. I ate some Special K and felt a lot better. I wanted to hang out with #1 but she wasn’t there, and that was a bit sad. I had a torch-lit shower as the light in the bathroom is fucked and we’re all a bit too pathetic and can’t fix it. It was just like when I had a shower at the deserted flat, though slightly better as I didn’t keep checking behind me for ghosts (people know that I am gullible and tell me things like this… it’s not nice). One thing that was successful this weekend was that I finally changed the light bulb in my bedroom. It broke (or whatever the phrase is) about three months ago and I have been avoiding doing it ever since as I hate hate hate stepladders. But yesterday I thought “get a grip, you” and I changed the light bulb. It actually wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be but I still went and told #1 to get some congratulations. She duly obliged. I only felt vaguely retarded. I told her that I was scared about someone new coming to live with us. I’m terrified. What if they don’t like me? I am rubbish at meeting new people. Maybe they will like me for a bit and then decide they hate me. If I wasn’t so socially inept I would probably be excited about getting a new housemate. But no.

Yesterday I went to an exhibition at Kensington Olympia, all about dance. It was really cool. There wasn’t a lot of ballet related stuff, although quite a few of the shoe makers had stalls. I tried on a new pair of ballet shoes, but I didn’t really like them as I don’t think they make your feet work very hard. They do make the arch of your foot look great though, and at £6.95, they’re a lot cheaper than the last shoes I bought (I spent about £100 on shoes and other ballet stuff in one afternoon last year). Some of the stalls had cross sections of pointe shoes, which were very interesting. Most shoes are made out of paste and board, but there are some new shoes that are made out of plastic. I’ve heard very mixed reports on these, but I’d like to try them one day. Though they, too, make your feet very weak. I’d never seen a cross section of a shoe before- except in pictures- and it was weird to see what the hell was in the shoes. It’s such a crazy concept anyway, walking on your toes. I mean, yes, it looks good- an arabesque looks far better on pointe than not- but whoever thought it up must have been feeling particularly malevolent. Other than looking at the stalls, we saw some performances, which ranged from comically awful, to dull and lifeless, to very cute and “awww”, to inspiring. We also went to a lecture on complementary technique, which I thought was interesting but nothing was said that I didn’t know about already (thanks to having done most of them before, either as part of ballet training or music). The highlight of the day was an Egyptian belly dancing class, which was so much fun. I was probably not very good at it, but it was great, and I am contemplating going to a class. Having said that, I have decided I want to start doing contemporary dance again, so I will have to think about what I can actually find the time/money to do.

There are some other things that I want to write about here but I can’t. Despite me being in the mood to write frankly about things, it isn’t really fair that I extend that sentiment to other peoples business. Suffice to say, at the moment, that I disagree with the way some people are making other people feel. I hate it when people I care about are upset. I could write a hell of a lot more about this but at the moment I am not going to.

I guess it’s been a bit of a weird weekend. I have been very miserable, and the only thing that 100% made me happy was being with N. That’s not to say that other people don’t make me happy too- for example, S (of course- who looked after me when I was drunk and is honestly far too amazing to feel sad), A (who yet again was a voice of reason, although I am not convinced by his claims that I was ‘lovely’ on Friday), #1 (who is thankfully (on a purely selfish note) not moving to Newcastle)… But whenever I speak to anyone I am so worried that it’s all going to end in doom and fire and brimstone that I end up acting like a complete moron (for example, getting drunk and trying (and failing) to be funny or clever) that the only possible outcome tends to be that it WILL end in disaster. It’s only when I’m with N that I start feeling like maybe I’m okay and maybe this life of mine isn’t going down the pan (or to the dogs, for that matter). And I suppose that’s a good thing- it must be, if it makes me so happy, right? Though of course, heroin makes people happy too, and that’s not such a good thing. But it does mean that the rest of the day, when I can’t be with N thanks to formalities such as work and other such crap, I am near useless.

I’ve decided that I really don’t give a flying fuck that you all read this.

Oh yeah, and the grand prix this weekend was rubbish. Michael bloody Schumacher won, and the fat child came fourth. Unimpressive.