I think I am stressed. It's hard to tell sometimes, Stress and I have been intimate for far too long. Stress should be an unwelcome visitor, but I've met him too many times., so now when we run into each other I'll invite him round for a cuppa and we'll have a nice chat and it's only at some obscene moment that I remember "ARGH! STRESS!" but by this point it is too late to do anything but stare at my tea leaves and frown.

I feel like I've been given a choice; whether to feel vacant, or to feel full of nothing. And I am sitting around going "Hmmmmm..... full of nothing with a side of vacant please, hold the salt and pepper."

It's so easy to forget I'm cared about. And so I do it, and then I make up the stories as to why. I'm not loved 'cos I ain't got the kookai thighs, the sharp brain, the right heart, the seeing eyes. I'm not loved because I can't produce the uni goods, and even when I do, it's never good enough. I told you so I told you so I told you so.

This interferes with, among other things, the production of uni goods. The billionth unstarted essay dance. I could give you my all but I know I'd get nothing back, and so I've automatically translated the worth of my all into nothing.

If this is what being too smart for your own good is I'll trade it in for a set of fake nails and some more blonde streaks, thanks.

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