I'm sorry in advance.
My apologies for being away for so long (a whole four days!!), but my mother paid our bill late and the net, phone and satellite was cut off. Phone and TV came back on over the weekend, but the interweb not 'til now.
So, a hearty what-ho to all.
Saturday was spent in the city with the old group from school. I've decided that we'll go in every ANZAC day to look at all of the gorgeous uniforms. Sailors, sailors everywhere, and not a drop to...Well, not drink. The pancakes event itself was...Lacking. And awkward. And not a whole lot of fun, surprisingly, though the pancakes were - as always - perfection and just what I needed.
Saturday night was spent at Miami's place for a gathering where I proceeded to get sloshed. Terribly attractive. Although, in my defense, it was the only course of action for a party that was..."Lacking" doesn't quite cover it, but I think you can get the picture. I spent some time with Nemo, chatting outside in the cold and smoking. Some interesting conversation arose to which I say "drunken words are sober thoughts" and will say no more.
I did, however have some startling thoughts...
These years are supposed to be the best of my life, or so people insist on telling me - the years in which I am supposed to succeed...My parents were married at my age. I have friends with children. I know people in their twenties with disgustingly successful jobs, getting degrees, travelling.
My life is good, and I know I shouldn't complain - I have a home and food, a disposable income, no responsibilities, great family and friends, endless opportunities, a good brain and enquiring mind. I have a thirst for knowledge, a great sense of humour and a mostly functional body. And I'm not complaining. I'm almost fearfully grateful.
I have no idea where I'm going, what I'm supposed to be doing or who I am. I have no ambition, no goals and no drive. The ambitions, I lied, I do have some, aren't filling me with passion and I'm finding it worrisome. Why expend all of this energy to reach a goal I'm not sure I'll be able to attain, let alone want.
All of this is paralysingly scary to me. I'm as unhappy - but better at hiding it - as ever I have been. I feel empty all the time and unfulfilled.
I know that there should be meaning somewhere, but there isn't much and I don't know how to make my life mean something.
I'm sure that this is one of my passing bouts of existential angst, but I wish it (and the anxiety, the sleeplessness and the depression) would leave me alone. I had a bout of depression already this year and that should fill the quota for at least another three years.
Anyway. Again, my apologies....
I'm still here, still kicking on. My brain is fried from reading the Mariner tonight, but at least I have some thoughts as to my essay.
Bed for me, I think. My back is aching from soccer yesterday (a game played with a brain-crushing hangover) and I have an odd radiating pain going from my back to my right shoulder, all the way down my right leg.
Suffice to say I've felt better.
Pip-pip.
So, a hearty what-ho to all.
Saturday was spent in the city with the old group from school. I've decided that we'll go in every ANZAC day to look at all of the gorgeous uniforms. Sailors, sailors everywhere, and not a drop to...Well, not drink. The pancakes event itself was...Lacking. And awkward. And not a whole lot of fun, surprisingly, though the pancakes were - as always - perfection and just what I needed.
Saturday night was spent at Miami's place for a gathering where I proceeded to get sloshed. Terribly attractive. Although, in my defense, it was the only course of action for a party that was..."Lacking" doesn't quite cover it, but I think you can get the picture. I spent some time with Nemo, chatting outside in the cold and smoking. Some interesting conversation arose to which I say "drunken words are sober thoughts" and will say no more.
I did, however have some startling thoughts...
These years are supposed to be the best of my life, or so people insist on telling me - the years in which I am supposed to succeed...My parents were married at my age. I have friends with children. I know people in their twenties with disgustingly successful jobs, getting degrees, travelling.
My life is good, and I know I shouldn't complain - I have a home and food, a disposable income, no responsibilities, great family and friends, endless opportunities, a good brain and enquiring mind. I have a thirst for knowledge, a great sense of humour and a mostly functional body. And I'm not complaining. I'm almost fearfully grateful.
I have no idea where I'm going, what I'm supposed to be doing or who I am. I have no ambition, no goals and no drive. The ambitions, I lied, I do have some, aren't filling me with passion and I'm finding it worrisome. Why expend all of this energy to reach a goal I'm not sure I'll be able to attain, let alone want.
All of this is paralysingly scary to me. I'm as unhappy - but better at hiding it - as ever I have been. I feel empty all the time and unfulfilled.
I know that there should be meaning somewhere, but there isn't much and I don't know how to make my life mean something.
I'm sure that this is one of my passing bouts of existential angst, but I wish it (and the anxiety, the sleeplessness and the depression) would leave me alone. I had a bout of depression already this year and that should fill the quota for at least another three years.
Anyway. Again, my apologies....
I'm still here, still kicking on. My brain is fried from reading the Mariner tonight, but at least I have some thoughts as to my essay.
Bed for me, I think. My back is aching from soccer yesterday (a game played with a brain-crushing hangover) and I have an odd radiating pain going from my back to my right shoulder, all the way down my right leg.
Suffice to say I've felt better.
Pip-pip.