The only thing more frustrating than dreaming about writing something and waking up to forget it might be dreaming about some steamy encounter, then dreaming about writing up a fictional account of said encounter, only to wake up and discover neither actually happened. I'm more frustrated about the lack of writing it, quite frankly. I know the writing was really really good, and I'm used to the lack of real-life steaminess.

All I can remember was the room-a huge, airy room, with a big bed. A big bed with white sheets, that was high enough that I could bend over the foot of it comfortably and wait. And I waited blindfolded.

"I never see his face."

What doesn't kill me, makes me stranger.

I find it oddly comforting to find evidence of his lies, in his own words, right there in his lj. It makes me angry that his comments led to me worrying about this sort of thing 3 years after it was over.

I am depressed. This isn't me being emo lj poster-girl. This is me realizing that all signs point, distressingly, to some sort of clinical depression. Of course, I've got a lot of reasons to be depressed-I live at home, I've still not got a full-time job, I have no friends nearby and never get to socialize. Nevertheless, I find myself seized with a familiar inability to make decisions, concentrate, or even get out of bed.
I have no idea what to do about this. Or rather, I'm well aware that I should seek help, but I don't really want to. It hasn't ever helped in the past-and I have sincere doubts that any amount of psychoactive medication can help my underemployed and lonely state.
What I find intriguing, though, is how I realized what was wrong when I started feeling trapped. (Well, that, and the fact that I burst into tears trying to decide whether or not to cancel my current cell phone plan.) That "trapped" sensation, though. That's the problem. I can't just quit my job and move elsewhere-the economy won't allow it. Having any sort of job is better than nothing right now.

Same as everybody else's, I guess. I mean, a naked "I need to talk to you" is never good. (By which, of course, I mean the phrase as is, not someone naked uttering it. Someone naked uttering the phrase is probably the beginnings of all kinds of fun.

On the other hand, "I need to talk to you about ...." is fine. I like to get that at work. "When you get a moment, I need to talk to you about the TPS reports." And then I have a minute to think before I have to talk. Of course, that's often "I need to ask you about . . ." which is good, too.

"Hey, you want this extra Ferrari I've got lying around?"

Or the variant, "You want to come work for me? Just sit there and look pretty." Assuming the job was, in fact, sitting somewhere and looking pretty.

Good grief, it's cold in here.

::Sigh:: Some days I know I'm just crazy. Other days I know some subjects should be off limits for humour-and jokes about the very recently deceased are seldom appropriate. Bitching about the grieving process of the recently bereaved-never kosher.

I'm tired of life. I'm tired of everything around here.

Why, no, I don't need to be updated on my ex-bf's every move. Why do you ask?