I only write long entries when I'm upset

I feel deflated and tired. I feel beaten down by still being in this job. I lie in bed at night and wonder why people have to work in areas that are not their passion, which don't help them grow.

Wouldn't it be great if everyone could work in what they most love? How utopic and infantile of me to wish that... Who would take care of the shit? Surely there must be someone out there into handling garbage. Polititians perhaps.

I've been feeling low ever since I came back from Canada. I re-visited my past life, my left-behind friends, and compared it to the life I have now... I'm much more lonely in London, and I don't go out as much as I did in Montreal. Even Kevin was feeling blue by the time our return date was close.

I'm going to the gym in 23 minutes, with Megan. Maybe the endorphins will help. And I've been looking for new work, something that will fill up my time. And I've been thinking about taking creative writing courses at night, so somebody's deadline can push me out of my imagination's swamp.

And I, and I, and I

Roberta and Max

They no longer had anything in common. Not wings dug up from their backs, nor the grease accumulating on the walls of their kitchen; none of the gracious words which they had once spoken together, nor the Dali posters they had found in a second-hand store - the posters which suited their lonely rooms so well.

"Please be happy" he told her over the phone. She sat mute, like a dirty doll, dreaming of ways to hurt him back. She took a shower and decided to fuck his best friend.

( Read more... )