numb is the new deep, down with the old me
2003-09-20 - 5:30 p.m.

I am emphatically fine to-day.

Except being 1500 words short of an essay, of course (as always).

It's funny... I was thinking about this earlier as I was talking to my lovely friend Alex, my life (head/heart/body/family/future... the whole shebang, if that's a word) has undeniably never been so messed up. And yet I've never been so fine.

I think that it's maybe because I've stopped waiting for the penny to fall or the other shoe to drop or for the floor I thought was definitely rock bottom to turn out to be false and drop me again... empty screams into the air until I find the next bottom with a painful resounding thump.

None of that seems to matter to me anymore; and yet it's still tied into me. Inevitably.

My current theory on this is something about masochistic stability - taking the bad things as something I can at least rely on.

Twisted in everything I think, obviously.

Stuck a feather in her hair
And called it postmodernistic


But today was good. I meant to leave but couldn't bring myself to for a few hours... the sleep-up-uni-essay-sleep pattern I've been subsisting on for the last 9 days has long since grown stale and moldy so I couldn't help but stay in the sunlight, and hang out.

Where do you think the idiom hanging out originated from? I always imagine people hanging precariously off hooks, but then I have crossed wires and seriously mismatched visuals.

Rolling with the homies, for want of a better phrase.

Caught an impromptu mini Th(irsty M)erc gig at HMV. If I'm not careful I'm going to start getting obsessed.

... Too late.

Then food, even though I meant to go home. Then looking at cds, even though I meant to go home. Then Glebe markets, even though I meant to go home.

I'm usually more responsible. But give me an out from responsibilites, or just a temporary away, and I'll be off like a shot.

Speaking of shots, 1500 words left and zillions of minutes of staring blankly at my computer screen - someone please shoot me or bring me some shots of vodka. A drunken essay might at least make for interesting reading.

See you when the next stint of procrastination falls.


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