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I am . . . very tired.
I can't hold a candle to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oneironaut for deranged, weirdly referential entry titles, but that's the one I've got this time. It's sort of how I feel, emotionally. Reference-thing. Thingy.
I suspect one of the reasons I can actually fake corherence when I'm angry and in pain is that the blood of it gives me energy, gives me power. Getting th'words in the right order a tall order sometimes else.
Stupid irony, not one of the good onesn; I'm collapsing running out of seamthing right at a point at which it's sorta plausible that things will stop being so very very. It looks like it might just take a little bit, a little bit of work, work I don't know if I can do. Know can do. Thing, y'know?
Steam. Shoulda been steam.
Don't have th'endergy t'make for thinking I can make it work. Even though at this point it's pretty clear that I probably can, I can' thing of it. THink of it. Thing. Takes too much out t'believe, t'try.
It comes and goas. Goes. Being able to . . . process, thing. Being able to expend effort. Not bothering making this proper English, though. Too tired.
Think I may have migraine, too, doesn't help. Hyperaware of vision pixilation. I mean more than usual. But it's not amoebae or technocolour spiders yet, so all good. DOn't wanna take an ibuprofen with how my stomach's been lately, even though I haven't been doing full nausea. Just seems lke bad karma.
It's scary being this tired. Stuff that matters goes away, not like depression where I just can't be bothered to deal though I think I may be depressive too, but because I can't . . . do anything, because I can barely . . . move. So tired. All goes awayt, leaves nothing but wondering where, and the things that stalk in head. Bonfire's there sometimes, and Bonfire scares me. He -- I think he's he, it's hard to tell in these facets -- just takes the rest of me apart. I don't think there's much risk now. No energy to go at the knife.
I store up my energy to have a go at each bit of trying to patch things together, and spend the rest of the time flat. Kevin and i went out to dinner tonight, and it was too much to hold up end of conversation consistently. Brought a book though. Read about how God and Satanail created the world. Oughta tell Squid about that one. Hey Squid! Got and Satanail created the world! Slavic!
There. That's dealt with.
Tired enough that m already flaky sense of what's . . . culture-barrier-difference-appropriate is all show to hell too. Person on mailing list, had an affair or something (not enough information) for fifteen years, wants to convince the ignorant spouse that this is all right. Stuff. Someone makes comment about how hard it is to overcome cultural shit, how proud they are of 'em for starting to figure. Can't figure out why it's so hard to figure out. Figure it'd be gratuitously bitchy to say something about it when my filters are flaked out. Probably bitchy anyway.
And the we-people are out in force again. Mumble.
"Now I don't know what to believe, this girl made of steel with her heart on her sleeve. . . ." --Tara MacLean, "That's Me". Heh. And I've been pondering Having A Drink, but I don't think I really hsould. Even if I've got four gallons of really good mead.
. . . following "That's Me" with "I Got it from Agnes" is one of those things the changer does to seriously traumatize me.
So dam' tired. I mean, emotionally drained to the head tipping over point.
I could sleep, right? Just sleep until s'all better. Like, 2008.
Wish I knew where my life was. Put it down around here somewhere. Don't know where anything is, run myself down looking. . .
I can't hold a candle to
oneironaut for deranged, weirdly referential entry titles, but that's the one I've got this time. It's sort of how I feel, emotionally. Reference-thing. Thingy.I suspect one of the reasons I can actually fake corherence when I'm angry and in pain is that the blood of it gives me energy, gives me power. Getting th'words in the right order a tall order sometimes else.
Stupid irony, not one of the good onesn; I'm collapsing running out of seamthing right at a point at which it's sorta plausible that things will stop being so very very. It looks like it might just take a little bit, a little bit of work, work I don't know if I can do. Know can do. Thing, y'know?
Steam. Shoulda been steam.
Don't have th'endergy t'make for thinking I can make it work. Even though at this point it's pretty clear that I probably can, I can' thing of it. THink of it. Thing. Takes too much out t'believe, t'try.
It comes and goas. Goes. Being able to . . . process, thing. Being able to expend effort. Not bothering making this proper English, though. Too tired.
Think I may have migraine, too, doesn't help. Hyperaware of vision pixilation. I mean more than usual. But it's not amoebae or technocolour spiders yet, so all good. DOn't wanna take an ibuprofen with how my stomach's been lately, even though I haven't been doing full nausea. Just seems lke bad karma.
It's scary being this tired. Stuff that matters goes away, not like depression where I just can't be bothered to deal though I think I may be depressive too, but because I can't . . . do anything, because I can barely . . . move. So tired. All goes awayt, leaves nothing but wondering where, and the things that stalk in head. Bonfire's there sometimes, and Bonfire scares me. He -- I think he's he, it's hard to tell in these facets -- just takes the rest of me apart. I don't think there's much risk now. No energy to go at the knife.
I store up my energy to have a go at each bit of trying to patch things together, and spend the rest of the time flat. Kevin and i went out to dinner tonight, and it was too much to hold up end of conversation consistently. Brought a book though. Read about how God and Satanail created the world. Oughta tell Squid about that one. Hey Squid! Got and Satanail created the world! Slavic!
There. That's dealt with.
Tired enough that m already flaky sense of what's . . . culture-barrier-difference-appropriate is all show to hell too. Person on mailing list, had an affair or something (not enough information) for fifteen years, wants to convince the ignorant spouse that this is all right. Stuff. Someone makes comment about how hard it is to overcome cultural shit, how proud they are of 'em for starting to figure. Can't figure out why it's so hard to figure out. Figure it'd be gratuitously bitchy to say something about it when my filters are flaked out. Probably bitchy anyway.
And the we-people are out in force again. Mumble.
"Now I don't know what to believe, this girl made of steel with her heart on her sleeve. . . ." --Tara MacLean, "That's Me". Heh. And I've been pondering Having A Drink, but I don't think I really hsould. Even if I've got four gallons of really good mead.
. . . following "That's Me" with "I Got it from Agnes" is one of those things the changer does to seriously traumatize me.
So dam' tired. I mean, emotionally drained to the head tipping over point.
I could sleep, right? Just sleep until s'all better. Like, 2008.
Wish I knew where my life was. Put it down around here somewhere. Don't know where anything is, run myself down looking. . .
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From:
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I love that little bugger enough to wish sometimes that I were the religious kind. Not just because being able to honestly identify myself as an Old-Testament Satanist would be amusing. Really.
Wish I knew where my life was. Put it down around here somewhere.
Have you checked where you keep your head?
I'm tired too. Caramelized food goo tomorrow; bed now.
From:
no subject
This book still smells really good.