A blog post whilst drunk.
The girl at the computer screen staring so hard and concentrating so much so she can write the right things. No. That's not me. Fabricated. I'm not even looking at my screen and I'm at home on my bed. I'm staring at my fingers as they type as if they are almost owned by another person. In fact I own nothing any more. It's all evaporating before my eyes. I don't care and I don't worry. The slap of the elastic band against my skin reminds me I'm still alive, and the job I hold down albeit running blind, is the hold on reality that I keep. I fear I may be stumbling back into my old days - and especially if I move house this will happen. Being alone and sad is a seriously terrible combination for me. I don't even smoke any more. But there is still the wine.