"I don't need no arms around me...
I have seen the writing on the wall
Don't think I need anything at all
No, don't think I need anything at all
All in all, it was all just bricks in the wall
All in all, you were all just bricks in the wall..."
Only it appears I do. Which is an absolute bastard.
I haven't listened to that album in years - since uni in fact. And before that I hadn't listened to it since I was 17 and spent an entire year listening to it whilst being suicidal. That has (oddly enough) somewhat marred it for me. I don't know what it is about Roger Waters caustic and bitter scorn and Dave Gilmour's soft voice and gorgeous, weeping guitar cords that fekk my head so totally. (Or to be fair that should be 'provide the perfect sound track whilst my head happily fekks itself'.)
I had a parcel today. The tag did not have my name on it, but I'd been told it was for me.
...
Fuck.
(I'm aware I say that an awful lot. I think I need to make up some neologisms. I need a word for 'oh, lookit, that's shiny... and for various emotional reasons makes me feel like shit. Damn.' I'm open to suggestions on this.)
Matt has bought me the second volume of Absolute Sandman for Winterfest. He has done this for shiny reasons because, well, you can't actually do something like that for non-shiny reasons as far as I can work out...
And I feel like shit.
I feel like shit because I have the self esteem of a week-dead goldfish (especially where Matt is concerned) and so react badly to people doing shiny things for me - especially if I've been a spiky bitch and they're leaving. Secondly, I was going to give Matt his souls back for Winterfest and make it a random interesting box of oddness that might amuse... and then I lost my tether and returned his souls in a somewhat sarcastic manner a week or so back because I was so very very irritated. Thirdly I don't want someone I've been feeling so irritated by to do anything nice before they leave because... well, because I know the chances of us actually interacting properly in the future are remarkably slim and so I could do without the heartache of missing them, thanks. Also gifts are all well and good but I'd rather conversation - which I can't have. Lastly I've been feeling like shit for several months now, I feel no reason to stop, especially since it's winterfest... And yes, I'm aware the gift was not supposed to provoke any of that.
*Sigh*
Winterfest.
Christmas.
Whatever.
I think I know why it's such a miserable time of year if you're not careful, I think I know why people get so insanely ritualistic about it. Mostly, when you're young, Christmas is a time of utter wonder. When you're young, presents, the unusual, the interesting, festivity - they all have a hyper-reality to them. Add to that (unless you were very unlucky as a child) family and parents etc bending over backwards to make Christmas a busy-happy-giving-special-effortlessly amazing time... And no wonder Christmas feels strange to adults: all of a sudden the wonder has faded but the troubles and the wish to create wonder is still there in one confusing lump of pointless tradition...
I doubt I'm explaining it correctly. I'm not sure how to accurately explain it, but I understand why (generally) Christmas as a child is a wondrous thing and Christmas as an adult is a tricksy thing where you try to re-capture the wonder and mostly fail.
"Bury bones
Break up homes
Send flowers by phone
Take to drink
Go to shrinks
Give up meat
Rarely sleep
Keep people as pets
Train dogs
Race rats
Fill the attic with cash
Bury treasure
Store up leisure
- But never relax at all -
With our backs to the wall..."
I want to stay in bed for the next week at least. I want to cover all the mirrors, lock all the doors and see no one, not even myself. I want to send what gifts I have for people and then run like hell, receive no thanks, no gifts in return, no anything... Because, like compliments, sometimes my neurons cannot receive company or gifts. And I don't want to mar anyone else's happy time by being miserable at them. Weirdly, this is the very reason I can't stay in bed all week. I have made arrangements, as have others, and my absence now would grate worse than my presence, I think. (Although I could be wrong, we shall see.)
"And I can feel
One of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum...
I am so very sick of hating my own skin - of looking in the mirror and snarling in disgust. I'm sick of disliking myself - mentally as well a physically - and knowing I have not the time, the money, the intelligence, the mental stamina or the brass-balled-insanity to change anything. I am so very sick of slicing chunks out of myself to no end. It's like a chronic illness that had all the looks of being terminal, but fifteen years on I'm still here. Fifteen years. Fuck. That's one hell of a time to carry a bad habit.
"Don't look so frightened
This is just a passing phase,
One of my bad days...
Would you like to learn to fly?
Would'ya?
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to call the cops?
Do you think it's time I stopped?
...Why are you running away?"
But because the above is all dull and whining I leave you with this single happy thought: Fortnum & Mason's Wild Mushroom Sauce (which comes in a very small jar, contains truffles and therefore is probably stupidly expensive) is amazingly lovely on granary toast with pepper.