I suppose I should be grateful that I'm just feeling brittle right now, and not lost and wandering confused down some blind alley.
Actually, I don't even have a dramatic survival story for you; I've got friends and they take care of me. I've had shoulders to lean on, cry on, and fall against laughing. Somewhere along the line, I decided to abandon good health and common sense. Instead of sleeping, I've chosen to natter away until daylight breaks, and I've been getting my nutrients from the olives in my martinis. Thank God for dance floors - everybody needs a good exercise regime, you know.
I feel much better now, though. There is no dignity in vulnerability; there is nothing fun or charming about a constant haze of smoke, and a brain that buzzes with a thousand conversations that get started but never concluded. Last night, I had six hours of sleep, which is the longest stretch I've had since Toronto, and I'm starting to feel vaguely human again.
I went to my company Christmas party last night, where the air was ripe with dark corner goings-on, and all the gossip that follows it. I've got a thousand bits of gossip, and the echo of homogenized dance beats in my feet. I've got daytime plans which may or may not bleed into my evening plans, and I've got the first niggles of anticipation, which always tell me when I'm about to have a genuinely lovely day. Anticipation is nice, you know? When you're only thinking about the very moment that you're in, so as to forget the moment you just left behind, you don't really care about what's coming next.
And that's not really me, is it?
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