And there's no such thing as happily ever after, it just gets dafter...+_+

Couldn't face anything yesterday, not even blogging. Collapsed on my bed the second I got in, drifted into an uneasy slumber, and woke up drenched in sweat and fully clothed at eight, blearily wondering who I was, then cursing myself for wasting three hours, thinking about revision, and fuck I was meant to cook the dinner...

Today wasn't much better. Late trains and freezing knees again, and when it arrives I'm crushed by people clambering for work, plunged into the sullen mediocrity of Stratford commuters, waiting for my connection for centuries. I hate the journey even more when I'm alone, head against the glass, familiar brown Romford office blocks streaming past. It feels like I was fucking born on one of those empty green-seated Clacton hellholes.

Went to the exams office to try and sort out this module retake once and for all, hating the corrupt system of privatised exam boards, and money-over-the-counter for a fucking retake. Edexcel is tormenting me. Mr Smith, or whatever his name is, the most drawn, prematurely aged, fucking moth-eaten man I have ever seen is telling me the exam board could refuse you, you should have applied earlier, whatever they say goes, that'll be £30 please, and suddenly I'm trembling, blinking, refusing to cry, pathetically telling myself not to let this stupid man get to me, and somehow I'm in E Block trying to hide the tears, thinking he's wrong, everything's wrong, and why am I even crying anyway?

It was better, when I'd forgotten, when my desire for food caught up with me, when more important anxiety (the "rest-of-my-life" one) suddenly seemed more pressing. Why am I so fucking OK at everything, never passionate or ambitious or inspired, happy to have a vague interest in every fucking thing that's put in front of me? A renaissance lady, that's what my parents say. You shouldn't be unappreciated, you can write and paint and read music, you'll stun people: like Leonardo Da Vinci, with his painting and botany and engineering and wonder. But I'm not stunning, I'm not him, and this is 2006, when I need to specialise and mature and decide, and seriously hasten about it. I can't stand feeling so painfully inadequate.

There are things I could do with a bit more of. Energy, and comfort, and sleep. And there are so many things I could do without.
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