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This isn’t really a post.

You probably shouldn’t read it. I may not even publish it.

We’ll see, I suppose.

In fact, this isn’t even me writing. Consider it instead akin to me banging my head against the keyboard in a melodramatic yet listless manner. But more eloquent. Or something.

My fire has gone out. I’m not even smouldering anymore really, it’s like someone pissed on my fucking campfire. It’s possible that I just need stoking and/or inspiration. And even though I can never resist an awful pun – all it did was make me laugh bitterly. Besides, to have sex I’d have to be able to ignore my ubiquitous anxiety and unclench for more than thirty seconds. Oh yeah, tensing up whenever I am touched is, I imagine, a VERY attractive trait in a girlfriend. It’s right up there on the list with pathological lying, kleptomania and herpes.

Fabulous.

Back to the pile of wet tissue that is my mood. Apart from overwhelming beigeness, I have a newfound sense of mistrust. Considering how wonderfully my father dealt with my last mental health hiccough, I was understandably suspicious of his recent newfound sympathy and understanding towards my depression and anxiety. Really fucking suspicious.

Some people might even say paranoid.

And those are the people that are surprised when one day they’re imprisoned in their own home.

Funny how that happens.

But apparently he’s over the initial shock of my neatly written, carefully worded, three page explanation of my ‘issues’ and has reverted back to his standard modus operandi of the same three conversations we have every week;

1. The irritation of my mother. I don’t hate my mother, we simply have NO relationship. My parents are divorced, yet still live together due to my father’s misguided need to take care of her while she bleeds him dry. I feel that makes her quite firmly, not my fucking problem. No matter HOW annoying she is.

2. Apparently I’m getting too skinny. Shut up father, no I am not. Years of disinterest will not be made right by two months of concentrated concern.

3. He’s lost some DVDs, and even though we haven’t lived together for four years, it’s my fault.

Sometimes when I’m really lucky, I get the extended disco version that includes hidden bonus rant number 4;

4. My life isn’t going to plan. He expected me to get my degree and presto, get a job. Not get depressed and anxious. The deviation from the plan upsets him. Which segues neatly into an interrogation as to why I am unemployed and what I plan to do about this and of course – the guilt trip about how this is affecting HIM.

Hm

It feels like I’m letting you ladies down with this non-post and my recent fumbling attempts at comments – but I seem to be devoid of the passion to write anything vaguely witty or amusing. Or draw. Or do anything other than smoke myself away into nothing.

I have no stories to tell.

My weight jumped up 3lbs from 134lbs to 137lbs. Usually, ARGH! But I don’t think I can actually bring myself to give a shit.

I suppose it’s quite apropos that this post just sort of... fizzles out.

I’m going to have a spliff now.

Adieu. 

EDIT 1: It was pointed out to me that communicating with my father almost exclusively through carefully and formally written emails is a bit weird. It's also REALLY fucking necessary. He has an irritating habit of loudly talking over me and ignoring what I'm saying completely when he disagrees with it, or dislikes my point. Which leads to frustrated shouting. Neither of which I have the patience for. And so, extensive emails.

EDIT 2: It seems that yesterday my scales were fucking with me again. Considering that I was 134lbs the day before yesterday and 133lbs today, the 137lbs reading was probably a lie. I feel a little betrayed. Damnit scales, how can I trust you now?!