I was going through my drawer recently - as in five minutes ago - and found my brown vintage-looking diary of yesteryear, its pages almost 'yellowed with antiquity', you might say. I had promised myself I'd keep it the whole year. It just about scraped the end of January.
Anyway I skimmed through it, somewhat reluctantly. What a miserable, pathetic misanthropist I sound like! Well I probably am. I want to post some bits of diary entry on this blog because honestly, I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. So I hope that ridiculing my own 'woes' will help me perceive how absurd I act, all too often. Read on if you want to know what Emily Bronte on Fluoxetine and Vodka sounds like...
1st January, 2010
I'll admit I am starting this diary a little early - on the Eve. It is half and hour to the next year but it has been a depressing day and there is little else for me to do. A couple of hours ago, I had stupidly angered myself into a feverish frenzy, crying so hard and for such a time that my eyes were bruised and puffy when I finally ceased. I care little for New Years celebration and this one and the previous one has been lonesome, involving tears and actually worse than any normal day [I don't know what the fuck that means]. If I do anything before I retire to bed though, it is to begin my novel. And I do not mean some self-piteous, nonsensical, self-absorbed lines - I mean to really start a story.
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Just came back up from a shot - well two shots - of Baileys and watching the fireworks on TV. Imagine the millions spent on fireworks. Anyway a depressing year does call for an unbeatably depressing culmination of an end [Oo what exactly had I intended to do, blow up the world?]. Not a single call or text but that isn't a suprise.
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