December 6th, 2005



As a jolly, well-balanced sort of gal who cannot help but look to the positive side of life, in a Pollyanna-esque manner of such a degree that it is bordering upon becoming an odious personal habit, I... um... write unforgivably long sentences. I have recently been told by 2 different lurkers on this site that, respectively, my recent entries showed that I am somewhat depressed right now and that I sounded rather frustrated. Obviously I denied both charges and suffered from the odd pangs which people who write stuff which is up for public consumption sometimes get, i.e. oh arse, someone read it and extrapolated a load of personal stuff from it, which is kind of the equivalent of going to the loo in public. Tumpty-tum.

Well, first off, I think I was born frustrated. Secondly, yeah, I'm yet another depressive type, so what? Throw a stick and you'll hit 10. I make vague and often vain attempts to keep myself busy or else I get horribly reflective and usually about people and related crap. People who never wanted to be my friend, friends who have crapped on me from a great height, friends who have drifted away, folks who made sure I knew I was a worm, friends who have died, friends who I let drift away. I really ought to think about my friends, but I actually have a dreadful fascination for the most awful people. I could likely populate the most dyspeptic and mildly misanthropic novel of all time and it would never be published. I doubt I'd ever get quite as far as submitting the thing itself , written aggressively in green ink, certain words underlined 20 times, funny rusty red stains on every other page, cut out pictures of the heads of celebrities and malefactors, with the eyes gouged out glued together in spontaneous collages of nutjobbery.

So why today's foray into navel-gazing? Well, I was going to write up some of the more absurd things which have happened to me or which I have witnessed, but time is against it for today.
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