twenty-four

I want to be writing when I turn twenty-four. Is this a foolish wish? I don't know.
I would say, It seems odd to have been two dozen years on the planet when I feel so much younger, but I don't, not really. I feel old and painful and hopeless. This is not a nice feeling.
I turn twenty-four feeling as though I am surrounded by unpleasantness. My world - and I, confess it, I - seem forgotten and mistreated and uncared for, and I cannot summon the energy to feel anything but this stupid blind undirected misery.

Perhaps I am still a baby, and not in the nice ways people talk of babies; perhaps I am still dreaming of things I will do when I grow up, only I'm twice the age she was, poor Kate. There seems no point to my being patient and sweet and the opposite-of-belligerent any more, and the worst part is that I cannot remember what it was like when I was otherwise.

What a miserable way to begin a new year! With reproaches and despair and not a single pleasant thought of the time ahead... It is what I feel at this moment, though. It is how I feel as I am now, it is how I feel around family and friends, and how I feel without certain friends.
There seems to be no point in trying to achieve anything, because the people around you aren't looking at anything outside themselves
(and that is right, and right, and all right)
and even if you try to remember the time it felt as though everything was connected and precious and one big glorious mess, it is harder and harder to do without those daily examples of clichéd life that have grown so indispensable to your comfort.

It wants five minutes to the hour, and I am already regretting the things I did and the things I did not do this day so that tomorrow might have been just a little special.
I do not mind, really. I would forgo special, if I could have happy.

working in nightclothes!

Dear Ones!
And of course by "Ones", i mean "People who no longer read my blog".
I have returned!
No, really.

The T has spent the better part of this year in a moping haze brought on by THE SAD TRAGEDIES OF LOVE, where there is pain for unnecessary reasons which is something I learned from Heyer and when one is the villain both coming and going, but NO MORE! The time has come to realize that loving someone does not make them a better person and jerks are jerks even when they're not really jerks, OR RATHER IN OTHER WORDS a person may be perfectly wonderful in generic terms but a person who treats you like crap deserves to be thought a jerk SPECIFICALLY even if you are the kind of person who tends to think more in generic terms than not. In other words, I love him <3 , but he's a jerk and doesn't deserve me, so there. Meanwhile, I have been sucked into that hideous no-man's land of feeling sorry for myself, and neglecting the poor T sadly until she could no longer remember who she was or where she came from or even to smile for more than a second at the spectacle of being beckoned from one bus to another which was so splendid, my dears.

Have people heard of what happened with the Gmail archiver? Horrors! The T's beginning to almost maybe come around to MJ's paranoid view of Google, and regrets it mightily. She was such a fan! If anyone knows of safer alternatives that are as well-organised, be sure to let T know. Outlook is an unholy mess and not in the same league at all, pah.

Anyway, there is work to be done, but many things remain to be said, so the evening looks like it might be spent trolling blogland telling people I'm alive while SIMULTANEOUSLY postig posts that are proof of the same e.g what happened at the hospital yesterday and about the teapot and the fireplace with the iron grill etc.

:)