"So I crawl underneath my blanket...
...Where I can hide away, I know I can't take it anymore
'Cause I see now, it's just one of those days..."
So yesterday I decided to be dead in a rather half-arsed manner.
It went about as well as could be expected: half my neurons tried to talk the other half out of their stupidity. The net result was melodrama and blood-loss on my behalf and a long-suffering friend ratting me out to K so he could ask me to please stop being such an idiot.
Today was mostly spent lying down since standing up made me nauseous and strange. Chalk that up to the blood loss I suppose.
K sent me a large bunch of *huge* fat creamy-white roses today, which was very unexpected and meekle. I'm quite certain I don't deserve them in the least, but fekkit - maybe flowers aren't that judgmental? Yeah, I like that theory. Flowers don't care about your crazy shit, they're doped on sunshine - flowers think everyone should be happy.
What else?
There's an email in my inbox which is a critique of my novel, as offered by a successful author. (Or at least I assume it is, I haven't opened it. I really ought to. She said she'd read my story and she hasn't any other reason to email me...) But just seeing the email title makes me feel ill and like hacking off my arm with a bread knife.
Eh. So I think I'll just ignore email for the moment; my store of self-worth is fucking shot right now - I'm not up to the Lit-Crit no matter how useful.
Yeah - just one of those days.
'Cause I see now, it's just one of those days..."
So yesterday I decided to be dead in a rather half-arsed manner.
It went about as well as could be expected: half my neurons tried to talk the other half out of their stupidity. The net result was melodrama and blood-loss on my behalf and a long-suffering friend ratting me out to K so he could ask me to please stop being such an idiot.
Today was mostly spent lying down since standing up made me nauseous and strange. Chalk that up to the blood loss I suppose.
K sent me a large bunch of *huge* fat creamy-white roses today, which was very unexpected and meekle. I'm quite certain I don't deserve them in the least, but fekkit - maybe flowers aren't that judgmental? Yeah, I like that theory. Flowers don't care about your crazy shit, they're doped on sunshine - flowers think everyone should be happy.
What else?
There's an email in my inbox which is a critique of my novel, as offered by a successful author. (Or at least I assume it is, I haven't opened it. I really ought to. She said she'd read my story and she hasn't any other reason to email me...) But just seeing the email title makes me feel ill and like hacking off my arm with a bread knife.
Eh. So I think I'll just ignore email for the moment; my store of self-worth is fucking shot right now - I'm not up to the Lit-Crit no matter how useful.
Yeah - just one of those days.