Thursday, June 21, 2018

kitkat chunky.

I'm fascinated by time. How many years it's been since ... him and her and them and everyone. I'm fascinated by my adolescence. It was exciting and miserable and melodramatic. It was a lot of fun and a lot of heartache and a lot of the heartache was fucking self-inflicted, to be honest. As adolescences go, it fit the stereotype nicely. I wouldn't do it again, but it was pretty good for what it was. It served a purpose. It made for good blogging fodder.

My life has been very boring the last couple of years. Mostly that's a good thing. I like a quiet life. I don't want to inflict myself on other people more than is strictly necessary. Sometimes I think I'm punishing myself by not being social or fun or whatever. "You can't go out to play with the other children, Emma. You know what happens when you go out to play." Yes, of course. I invariably ruin their night or my night or both. I can't drink like Teenage Me could drink because I crawl the walls the next day, hating myself and daydreaming about wonderful ways to die. Three or four valium helps.

Still, I ran today for 25 minutes straight and I don't think that's ever happened before. My life is tiny and small and little and sometimes I get a bit claustrophobic and weird. But running is good. And Kitkat Chunkys are the reason I know God exists.

Sunday, June 17, 2018


I would give anything to Eternal Sunshine some of the shit in my brain. The worst thing about aging is all the horrible memories you collect along the way. Maybe I should just stop being such a terrible person.

It's the funny the things you think will make you happy. A new computer. That'll do it. No, sorry, I meant Airpods. No, wait, a new strap for my Fitbit. None of these things seem to be working. And right now all I want to do is float off up into the sky and leave all my worldly and earthly and faecal possessions behind. That's what being a human is, isn't it? Shitting and slowly decomposing? And then floating off into the sky? But probably more as, like, methane than spirit.

Is this the absence of antidepressants talking or is this who I actually am?

Exercise does work pretty well at staving off misery but only for so long. It's been five weeks now since I started exercising daily but I've run out of fuel and I wonder if crawling will count towards my step goal.

I'm morbidly fascinated with myself but I also fucking loathe myself. It's like some sick (and yet terribly romantic) love story.

I still think about you every day. There have been Good Days where I have gone hours without thinking about you, but the Good Days are rare lately. Sometimes I get winded by the thought that I will never see you again, and yet I know if I did see you again, it would rip me apart all over again. I was so in love with you. I am so in love with you. And I can't imagine anyone ever living up to you. And part of me thinks you'll turn up again in my life in the future and everything will work out between us. Pathetic.

I am so cripplingly lonely lately. I compensate for my loneliness by divulging too much during brief encounters with colleagues and acquaintances. And then I hate myself for being so weird, so weak.

Blogging is only fun when it's misery blogging. Watch this space.