Episode 11 – Brownian Motion

So I resorted to microblogging today. Am I becoming dependent on this blog as other basket cases rely on sex, drugs and rock n’ roll?

I’m still really exhausted. When I got back from Dublin I went straight to bed, in my clothes, which is always groggily gross when you wake up but when you wake up as if you’ve fallen over board in the Atlantic in January it’s doubly disgusting – shivering uncontrollably and saturated.

I have zero energy today and the lightning outside heralding winter feels like it’s announcing a fresh attack on my internal climate. I feel increasingly uneasy. Could it be the change in meds? Surely not after one day? Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s crazy bitch screaming her head off about her boyfriend buying her fake diamonds on Hardcore Pawn. My Tiffany jewellery is for sale by the way. Maybe it’s all in my head… boom, here all week.

The Great British Bake Off final is on at eight. That’s something.

I’m feeling pretty dismal right now. I’m trying to think of happy things but I’m feeling like a room with a roof. I guess I should be glad I have a roof with the night that’s out there.

My humour vein seems to be choked today. I actually couldn’t be bother writing which has been an uplifting solace for me. But I think I can ride it out. I think. I’ll try it anyway which is more than I could have done last week.

Hardcore Pawn has to be a set up. These jackasses are crazier than me.

By the way, I made a Twitter account: Dotty Rocker, and offmydottyrocker.com on Facebook. I can’t believe there are people in this world who like reading this. That makes me feel slightly less than completely useless. I’ll try to work on some new material so you don’t want to end up slitting your wrists out of boredom.
Ready, set, bake! I love Sue Perkins.

I’ve noticed that the mobile view disrupts the layout so that offmydottyrocker becomes

offmydot
tyrocker

which is really bugging me. I don’t know how to fix it and even though I’m obsessive about wording (you wouldn’t think it with all the typos I know) I couldn’t really be arsed. Sorry if it looks crap.
We do however now have wi-fi in this old house. I’d bet these walls never thought they’d have invisible magical transmitters of endless knowledge and pointless information bouncing between them when Posh Spice and I were calling each other in between Friends and ER in nineteen ninety seven.

Posh Spice would call my landline to make it seem like she’d called me so that my parents wouldn’t have a phone bill fit and then I’d call hers back while she had the receiver in her hand ready to answer so quickly that her parents wouldn’t throw their Telecom Éireann tantrum. Repeat process with other bestie, I’m trying to think of a name for the most ladylike woman I know. I’ve always thought she looked a bit like Gwyneth Paltrow (without all the quinoa bullshit) especially when she had her hair in a Sliding Doors pixie cut. I’ve just missed a call from Gwyneth.

Who’s the dude on the lotto? Hottie.

Ok, I’m roasting, I’m stressed over god knows what. It could also be the unnecessary roaring fire I’m sitting in front of. I always advise finishing a sentence with a preposition but the alternative seems pompous and self-conscious. Texas heat never affects me. I thrive in it. But that could have something to do with being seven thousand kilometres away from the ash heap of my life for the summer. “Where’s the library at, asshole?” Now that’s how not to finish a sentence with a preposition.

I was envious of all the young women I saw in Dundrum today, out there, living. They looked so real while I was the dust particles that look like little bits of broken glass floating in the stale air of a chink of untouchable light.

But anyway, I’m another day closer to being solid matter.

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