Long langorous LIVID writers block. And I feel quite too full of people already, sat on the scratchy, scrawny patchy grass and talking about leaving the club, !
I don't have anywhere to pour out my brain, for it to drip, plipsplosh into somebody's lap, and they'll stroke my hair and tell me it's okay and they understand. And a tear will splash off the end of my nose, like it does in the movies, like it did when we set up the Sperm Appreciation Society, in science last year.

Uh-oh! I have just begun a race of latin-learning with Michael, my uncle. He has never lived in his own house, except when he lived in Poland. He has become disillusioned with a career in RETAIL - Tescos - and has forsaken it for the law profession; he is phoning my mum right now, because he tells her everything. He seems like quite a nice person, only slightly contemptible of me, in the way that my family are, it makes me curl up and shrink, and shrivel under their gaze - why are you not EXCITING and LOUD and EMINENTLY POPULAR and GREGARIOUS, like all acceptable members of this family?!
But I don't want to talk, I want to forget this, I DO NOT want to talk to Mrs. Donnie Darko, I don't want any of this, but I am always aching and irritated, for lack of understanding, of me from me and everyone else.


Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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