Friday, 14 January 2011

"I Google You"...

Before I begin let me assure all concerned parties that the recent bout of literary silence was of a 'run off my feet' rather than 'has clocked out of reality and become a reclusive mentalist again' variety.

Being thrust hungover and screaming back into academia is a trauma that cannot ever be fully expressed within the confines of language but, unfortunately, there's no way in hell I'm uploading a video of my attempt at realising this frustration through alternative dance.

Needless to say, the past few days have been sleepless - in addition to the sporadic yet anticipated re-discovery 'I'm really not cut out for this study lark', I was also competing in a slam last night so, as ever, had left all preparation to approximately thirty minutes before I was due on stage.

Despite this (and the absolutely mind-blowing standard of upcoming talent) I managed to achieve an admirable second place and a few welcome opportunities have arisen from the exposure.

Plus, I have plenty of new potential stalkees.

Staying on a poetical theme, this week I also began my Creative Writing class. Admittedly I was fairly skeptical at first, especially when the word 'workshop' was casually dropped into conversation but I've landed amongst a likely bunch of misanthropes and foresee the beginnings of something rather spectacular...if I can get past the social faux pas of utterly buggering up my first circular email submission to the class.

That is, up until five minutes ago, where the entry for today was due to wind its way to some manner of quirky conclusion but I just committed a sin punishable only by the inevitably depressing outcome.

I went on Facebook.

The transgressions only deepen when I tell you I went on the Facebook of the man I'm rather unquestionably, inappropriately still in love with.

Actually, I do this rather regularly under the guise of keeping up to date with more generalised goings on...regardless.

The crux of the matter is this - he's unbelievably happy and I want him to be. My only resentment arises out of the fact I irrevocably fucked any chance, during a bout of bi-polarity, that it will ever be me making him so in the future.

I was friend-zoned before I'd even managed to wade through the torrent of unfamiliar emotions and verbalise how I genuinely felt about him; choosing instead to act like an impatient, petulant wanker.

Obviously, he's hardly blameless in this situation but today is not the time for taking him down at the knees - despite feeling a little stupid (applicable to multiple circumstances) my life is pottering along at a rather amiable pace.

It's a strange kind of justice though, that I'm fully aware he's going to read this later and judge me accordingly, yet I'm still insistent on publicising the fact I'm evidently some kind of masochistic nutter.

Takes all sorts to make a world, I suppose - the man who molested me with a Highland cow puppet last night stands as shining testament to that.



P.s. I thought this was rather fitting:

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