Exhaustion

Sometimes even my hair feels tired. The world loses its colour and taste and song. And everything shrinks to this small space I occupy and I just want to lay my head on this desk and disappear for a while. Yes, a while.

I don't know why the despondency (or maybe I do and don't want to admit it to myself).

I love Elizabeth Wurtzel because she is a riot unashamed. She just is. Take her or leave her, that's the way she is. The rest of us spend all this time apologising for who we are, afraid that nobody will ever love us if they really knew us, warts and all.

Kinda reminds me of when I went on a drunken binge some years ago. It was winter. We didn't have heating so the inside of the house was colder than the outside. My favourite housemate had taken off to see her boyfriend in China. It was the break between semesters and I had nothing to do, nobody to see.

So I would stock up on wine from the bottleshop. Cabernet Merlot for choice and I would take whatever was on special. Sometimes, you could get a really nice bottle for $12. That's $12 Aussie. And I would stuff the bottle beneath my armpit, carry it home, make myself some dinner - sausages, rice, whatever - and then pour myself a glass. And another. And another. By the third I would be suitably sozzled and maudlin.

Then I would call people I hadn't kept in touch with for years, comparative strangers who were once sort of friends, and tell them I was feeling crappy and I may be an alcoholic and life was shit.

They would be puzzled, to say the least.

Not my finest moment.

No matter what I say, I don't think I like being alone very much.

And yet, I want to disappear to a place where no one can find me.

Strange.

I am one massive contradicton, oxymoron, whatchamaccalit.

Later for you.