So last night I didn't sleep until I knocked myself with a sleeping pill and even then it took an abhorrently long time, when GUESS WHAT, I couldn't get out of bed again in the morning early enough to go to the gym (this is probably just as well as I am INCREDIBLY FUCKING SORE), and took myself off to, as mentioned on Tumblr, pay a man £200 (plus
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I read a fair amount of Melville, then hit Pierre, or The Ambiguities and gave up, because in terms of prose style that book is...distinctive.
That sucks about sleeping. I'm not sleepy, but that's too much being interested in things? Like I could put myself to sleep if I really wanted, but am a bit "Too many things have suddenly become interesting" to bother. (Got caught up on Daredevil, and between that and Legion, I have a lot of feelings about fictional people and their feelings!)
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*snort*. Sometimes a distinctive prose style is a delight and sometimes it's like being hit by a tidal wave of sewage, innit.
Believe me I am primarily interested in NOT BEING AWAKE but my crapsack brain feels like it needs to fight EVERYTHING first
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With Melville it's like pouring salt on food. There's a point where it makes things better, a point where it's a matter of taste, and "This is completely intolerable."
Insomniac? Want to fight everything? If Tyler Durden shows up, walk away.
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Listen I am going to have sex with him at least once before I run away.
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...that might actually cause him to vanish into a puff of resolved homoerotic tension. Not the worst plan.
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