Day Fortysix

It's 12:40 am and I'm still struggling to finish the '06 paper.

I'm not sleepy. It has been an unusually warm day so I'm not shivering like I do every other night. I'm not hungry. In fact I'm so physically content that I might be subconsciously meditating. My brain, on the other hand, is trying to escape my head. For the past 6 hours I've been desperately trying to ignore the panicked little voice in my ear that screams HOW THE FUCK DO I REMEMBER ALL OF THIS, I'm taking a break now so it can get itself out of my system.

A drunk and very slurred Jez called about 20 minutes ago, telling me he'll be staying out for the night and sounding like a little boy. I suppose the fact that he was in the company of Ken would void anything he says in advance about going home early. I thought I took his plan seriously but amusingly, some deeper conscience called bullshit and I ended up back home with no recollection of making such a decision.

I've done everything within my power to procrastinate. I've eaten a whole tin of Extra mints. I've tried and failed to regain access into my NetBank account after realising I had changed and forgotten my password so I'll have to pay for road trip by cash. I've showered and exfoliated three times. I've read mamamia.com entries from the beginning of the month, comments included. I've blogged twice. I've trimmed my fingernails. I've stripped off all of my make-up, applied it again, and washed it off. I've ping-ponged fifty hundred Facebook messages to I-don't-know-who-he-is-but-he-doesn't-do-pharmacy-so-can't-increase-stress-levels. I've taken photos of my breasts.

I hate alcohol. But when I'm stressed out I crave being drunk. Except you can't get drunk without drinking alcohol. I bet there are other people like me. They should formulate some alternative dosage forms for us. Not parenteral. I'm scared of needles. Maybe a nasal spray or inhalation that totally rapes my blood-brain barrier.

Or some sort of reversible tastebud-inhibitor. Then they can fill my glass with industrial methylated spirit and tell me it's vodka. And I'll believe them. To my own demise.

Just please please kill me already. I've run out of things to say and I don't want to face my stupid hypothetical 36-year-old HIV-infected patient.