volcanic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- don't read this- it's boring Bah. Insomnia again. I seem to get it when I know I have to be up early again the next day, which probably figures, in some kind of twistedly logical way, but it doesn't help, thinking that. It's not like I was getting up for anything particularly important- I'm just going shopping in the next town over, to spend my birthday money and hopefully pick up a sexy bikini for my holidays. That and a few things that Fatboy needs. Whatever- even though I've got a sexy "Gosh I'm so sexy and trendy" shopping outfit planned, I think we can safely say that the head sticking out of the top of the pink hoody will be blotchy and pasty and sporting ridiculous pink sunglasses to hide the eyebags. Mm-mmm- watch me pull all those lone male shoppers.... Do you ever have times when you feel quite useless? I'm having one of those right now. I don't feel capable of anything, and the things that I know that I can do feel so invaluable, even the big things like raising a nice child, and keeping a pleasant enough house and holding down a respectable job. This sense of ongoing disaffection and ennui is getting incredibly tiresome. My lack of motivation and drive and sense of purpose is boring me stupid. I read my stars for the month at good old astrology zone and the lovely Susan Miller says I need to be visualising hard. She says that I need to imagine that the phone's ringing, and who it would be calling me that'd make it the perfect phonecall. That's a toughie. The man from the National Lottery saying they've just realised I won a million last week? My mother, saying nice things about my parenting skills? Work, saying that they've had to make me redundant with a years' salary in lieu of notice? The fact that I can't even think of any potentially nice things scares me a little. I don't enjoy being miserable. Despite my teenage Goth heritage, I wasn't put on this planet to lie in a darkened bedroom slashing my arms with a penknife listening to Morrissey whinging that last night he dreamt that somebody loved him. I don't make a point of sharing my mental state with many people, because I find it so damn boring to talk about. [ "Hi, how's things?"- "Bloody shite again"- no thanks] I can't connect with the cult of misery and depression which seems to fuel countless authors and lyricists and assorted other Elizabeth Wurtzels of this world. I don't even take much comfort from the knowledge that out there in the world this minute there are a million other miserable gits in the naked city. I find their stories largely as dull and boring as my own. I don't find that feeling like dogshit makes me enigmatic or romantic or mysterious- it just makes me boring. I want to go back to university. I've found an excellent-sounding course, in a stunning location on the Welsh Coast. I think if I can wangle an interview, they'll have me. Possibly. But I'm fretting about money and childcare and the fact that my parents will accuse me of fecklessness if I give up my good, respectable, responsible career and haul my little boy off to the seaside while I pursue my creative leanings. It all feels very confusing. My world seems to be getting smaller and smaller, and I feel increasingly insignificant in it. I feel like the dogsbody at work, and at home I feel like my son's keeper. My sense of self is slipping away rapidly. Astonishingly -to me at least- I don't want to throw in the towel. I've always had this theory that people who do that never get to find out how the story ends. It's like buying a second-hand book and discovering that the last chapter's missing, and I have too much curiosity- morbid curiosity, maybe- to let that happen... Except now it all feels a little too predictable. My lovely long nails are slowly but surely being bitten away, my diary's getting emptier, my friends are moving away. I don't know if any of you ever read Alan Moore's comic, Halo Jones, but in it there's a character that nobody ever notices. She speaks and no-one hears, and eventually comes to an icky end without anyone even realising. That's kind of where I am right now. It's make a great story for Misty (and I make no apologies for the fact that few of you will have any idea at all that "Misty" was a classic 70s girls' comic, which featured long-haired lovelies falling in love with ghosts, or getting trapped in cellars full of spiders after laughing at strange old ladies), but yes, that sums it up: Woman gets trapped in sinister Groundhog Day of her own making. I've got a glass of my favourite rosé here, and it's not making a jot of difference. I don't feel remotely sleepy. All I want to do is get into bed, collect my thoughts and relax a little, and drift off. I have a thousand different stories that I tell myself to get off to sleep (mostly seduction scenarios- don't ask me why), but I'm not in the mood to be seducing fantasy lovers (no actual intercourse, mind- just the sheer thrill of the chase...) I am willing to change. That dreadful You Can Heal Your Life book told me to keep saying that, years ago. I used to chant it to myself like some kind of loopy mantra, when I was walking to work. Did anything happen? Did it bollocks. If I could see a viable path, I'd take it, but the view just seems to stay the same. Right. Bed now. I have to shop tomorrow, if only so that I've got something to tell you about apart from this wearisome shite. 2:20 p.m. - 01.04.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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