Corvid, meet Endoftether. Endoftether, meet... oh, you've gone.
My mother's just screamed 'Oh fuckit!' at me and stormed out.
(Bitch - that's exactly what I wanted to do. No fair.)
My problem with all this is not that it's hellish or ever-worsening or frustrating or depressing - although of course it is, and more besides.
It's that it's all so unbelievably fucking FUTILE.
It's like some endless emotional version of trench warfare: running up against mental machine guns to gain ten foot of land you lose five minutes later. I suppose I wouldn't mind going against some metaphorical Lewis gun if I had a couple of metaphorical fucking hand grenades to lob at it. (Or a clear victory at the end of it.) But I don't. Some days I'm not even sure I have a pistol and a stick, just the joys of a foxhole for five minutes before some new shell flings me back to my trench.
My head hurts
...I've been here too long again, haven't I?
(Bitch - that's exactly what I wanted to do. No fair.)
My problem with all this is not that it's hellish or ever-worsening or frustrating or depressing - although of course it is, and more besides.
It's that it's all so unbelievably fucking FUTILE.
It's like some endless emotional version of trench warfare: running up against mental machine guns to gain ten foot of land you lose five minutes later. I suppose I wouldn't mind going against some metaphorical Lewis gun if I had a couple of metaphorical fucking hand grenades to lob at it. (Or a clear victory at the end of it.) But I don't. Some days I'm not even sure I have a pistol and a stick, just the joys of a foxhole for five minutes before some new shell flings me back to my trench.
My head hurts
...I've been here too long again, haven't I?