Below are the 10 most recent journal entries recorded in the "dadave" journal:
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I would really really really like to see this happen...
I would appear to have reverted to invisible, inaudible status :(
You have until the end of Friday|
Consider it a final warning.
Feeling particularly shitty this evening, or possibly this morning.
Self-medicating with beer and, when that ran out, cider from the kitchen.
Very tempted to shave my head. Pack in the fucking job. And run away for a while.
For once, I'll actually have the money to do it, for a short while at least. Sadly, after that I'd be in the same old hole as before, if not more fucked.
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Frankly, fuck that
How do they know!?|fogbat --[adjective]:
Pretentiously academian'How will you be defined in the dictionary?'
I've been back in Cardiff for 48 hours. In that time I can't have spent more than 4 hours with my family, but I'm already wishing I was back in London.
I know that bored disaffection with one's family is so very tedious, but I found myself downing most of a bottle of wine at dinner purely for something to do. I'm spending most of my time either out with mates, spending money I can ill-afford, or asleep in my room.
Er, Merry Christmas, anyway, guys.
Interview tomorrow evening.
Nothing great, but at least it's a permanent job, and vaguely in the industry where I'd like to work.
Ok, so past lives and karma are both piles of stupid hippy bullshit.
But it's the only explanation I can think of. I must have done something really fucking bad in a past life to be living in such an enormous heap of shitness in this one.
Edited to add:
Oh deary me!
Sudden seroxat withdrawal is an evil bitch. Combined with various other circumstances it's that much sexily worse. Baby. So far this evening I've broken a door; ripped a perfectly innocent cuddly toy into pieces, scattering stuffing all over Bob's room; done a stupid amount of bench presses on a weight I really can't handle; and downed a bottle of Cava. I've been cycling very rapidly between rage and despair.
I'm working tomorrow, but that's fine, in that social pressure seems to be effective in terms of making me sit up straight and fly right (or at least Hulk is shy), but on Sunday I think I'll have to be off to the NHS walk-in centre at Newham hospital, lest I kill someone.
Fucking money, fucking incompetent NHS receptionists, fucking landladies who seemingly pick up ovens/fridges/kitchen-suites from skips. Among others. *mutters* Mainly my fault, though, I realise.
treee and I broke up last Saturday, just over a week ago, and I'm still feeling devastated. We pretty much lived together for two years and it's really hard to get used to the fact that I won't get to see her every day anymore. I still keep seeing stuff I want to show her; thinking of places I'd like to visit with her; finding recipes I'd like to cook for her. Spent most of the last week miserably abusing the booze and sleeping poorly.
I'm now living full time in Plaistow again. And I'd forgotten what a shithole it is. Both the area, which is really fucking grim, and the house, which is depressingly slovenly. I used to be fine with the grunginess and slobbiness of this house, but I've gotten used to having clean kitchen surfaces, tidy rooms, a fridge not full of decomposing garbage.
As soon as I can actually afford it (which seems depressingly unlikely to be soon), I'm definitely moving. Probably to somewhere closer in to central London. Camden would be perfect, if it weren't so expensive, and wouldn't make me look like I were stalking my ex.
Current Mood: melancholy
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