Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Day...who knows? I certainly don't.

I've been away. I am now back and have Internet at home. I also have a backlog of postings/"documentation" to do, so "Bear with me, moany pants, I'LL GET TO IT". She is a harsh task master that Guilt, she likes to sit on my shoulder and whinge in my earhole.

Sunday 10th June 2007

“It’s not going to stop until you wise up. It’s not going to stop until you wise up. It’s not going to stop until you wise up. So you might as well give up” (Or words to that effect.)

Tom Cruise sat in a rain soaked car singing that, “Mongolia” (Magnolia) is on the TV. Good point I thought, not Tom singing because that was rather alarming, but the words made sense. Surprisingly backing up the work we did at counselling on Friday.

The principle of banging your head repeatedly against a brick wall is equally as clever. It keeps hurting until you stop banging your head against the wall. Simple. All the actions required to get over things can be reduced to their simplest resolution, it’s the practice that’s hard.

A misplaced kiss (should have been cheek, ended up on the lips – not my doing I might add) the night before last, turned into tears before bedtime last night and was my undoing for the day. “Shut up” The tears flowed rather publicly, the yellow pill was swallowed, I sat in a club toilet cubicle weeping and prayed to anyone listening (“Upstairs” opposed to someone sitting on the next pan) that they would take it all away, the unrequited stuff at least… and now I just feel like a dick - a rejected dick, but ultimately, a dick. “Shut up” A dickhead. I know I am not alone in the squirming agony of rejection, but for all I care right now, I am the only soul on the planet feeling this. “Oh bloody hell, SHUT UP” Rationalisation has never been one of my more favourable attributes. You know they don’t like you in ‘that way’, so you squish all your feelings down until something likes that (kiss) happens and then WHAM! What you don't necessarily bargain for is all that all the other ‘squished down stuff’ that one has accumulated over the years, tends to come back up the drainpipe when tickled (a bit like the famed Corfu Blow-Back). "Oi, Mister - keep your lips to yourself and off mine. Thanks-ever-so-much".

I may "just wallow", but I think I’m allowed. ‘This’ (she rotates her head to encompass the entries that she has written before) may all just be “moaning” as was helpfully pointed out to me, but you know what, I don’t give a shit because this is what it feels like. My black dog.

“Save me. Why don’t you just, save me?” Someone else babbles on, strumming away on a guitar. Bloody Mongolia. I never understood the need for the frogs.


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