My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Sun, 09:02: Isolationism is a natural reaction to trauma.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Sun, 21:16: I seek insulation.
  • Sun, 21:17: I think it's to keep myself from the pain of existence, of caring, of being, locked away inside an automaton, muffled by TV, music, alcohol.
  • Sun, 21:18: I can live through these things as long as they interfere with my other senses, keep me blind and indifferent.
  • Sun, 21:19: But it might just be the case that what I think I'm locking away inside is just that on which I'm closing the door, excluding, ejecting.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Tue, 21:02: These days I don't drink, regularly and to excess. Just occasionally and to excess. Less occasionally than previously.
  • Tue, 21:02: That never goes away.
  • Tue, 21:04: It will never go away. I can say it. I know this. Every time there's a beer advert, or people drinking wine from ridiculous glass vases.
  • Tue, 21:05: There we are. The weakening of resolve. The lure of oblivion.
  • Tue, 21:06: Last time, I was safe, in an environment with friends, drinking and enjoying some music. And yet I was awash with drink, flushed out.
  • Tue, 21:07: I kept drinking, alcohol pushing out the better part, the fun, the love, shared enthusiasm for each other and our mutual enjoyment.
  • Tue, 21:08: And at a point, it stopped. I had the urge to leave, to go outside. I insulated myself with headphones and an iPod, miraculously unscathed.
  • Tue, 21:09: I assume, I hope, this was the part that feels shame. I walked home, ignorant of the stares and the querulous shouts.
  • Tue, 21:10: Passers-by upset by renditions of loud obnoxious rock music by a loud, obnoxious drunk. And yet I was insensible to it all.
  • Tue, 21:14: My eyes were closed and my mouth open, ears stuffed with plastic, brain diluted to one part per million of sense.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Mon, 21:47: But, dear friend, I don't.
  • Mon, 21:48: Didn't you know? This second act isn't second. I'm working through a story of redemption.
  • Mon, 21:49: Act two comes later, when I can face it.
  • Mon, 21:49: We're at the d�nouement already, the part wherein lies the moral.
  • Mon, 21:50: The knowingly preachy part, where you learn how much I've learned, and feel enriched and made envious by my tale of woe.
  • Mon, 21:55: Such as it is.
  • Mon, 21:56: These days I don't drink, regularly and to excess. Just occasionally and to excess. Less occasionally that previously.
  • Mon, 21:57: That never goes away.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Mon, 20:59: And to forget the wreck? Forget everything that is forgotten? To unknow that there are things unknowable? I'll take that drink now.
  • Mon, 21:00: I'll take it and its friends and relatives.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Tue, 16:06: Mental restless leg syndrome, which I also get by the way. I wake up and my feet play paradiddles.
  • Tue, 16:08: They twitch and kick until the duvet slops off like the head on beer served by cosmopolitan bar staff, leaving me cold and nauseous.
  • Tue, 16:08: My body is a wreck, much the same as most aspects of my life.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Sun, 10:11: But what are those gaps in memory?
  • Sun, 10:15: Are they days wiped off the slate? Are they gaps in the neural network?
  • Sun, 10:17: Why then do images flash across the void? Half-remembered scenes, still-life tableaux.
  • Sun, 10:17: Screaming at the TV. Shouting at my reflection in a dark window, backlit, mouth open in an ugly rage.
  • Sun, 10:20: Are these phantom images? A missing limb still still reporting its sensations though the connection is cut. Arcing neural traffic.
  • Sun, 10:22: Around these gaps my brain is frantic, mental defences rushing in to plug the holes. My thoughts race, collide, scatter, reform.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Fri, 09:58: I guess sometimes the search for profundity must hit the bottom of something.
  • Fri, 10:03: I can only guess at what I'm trying to say.
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My tweets
feeling funny
gbuch
  • Mon, 19:32: It's the in between bits though that are ravaged by memory.
  • Mon, 19:33: Some days it's the not-remembering, others, it's the opposite. Lucidity between lunacy. A gap in the fog.
  • Mon, 19:33: I remembered today that I was once asked to join a band. To sing in a band.
  • Mon, 19:34: I'd almost completely forgotten that, and it was only hearing Del Amitri's Roll To Me on the radio that reminded me of it all.
  • Mon, 19:34: I was playing music to see if the sound waves could cancel out the waves of pain and pressure across the bridge of my nose.
  • Mon, 19:35: I normally need quiet between drinking binges. Today quiet wasn't working. Today quiet was a pillow being held over my mouth.
  • Mon, 19:37: The radio was Smooth '80s or '80s Classic Pop or something smooth and poppy. Or it may have been my iPod. It's hard to tell.
  • Mon, 19:38: I try to believe I wouldn't have anything by Del Amitri on there but anything's possible.
  • Mon, 19:39: I remember drinking, getting a good buzz on, with friends from University. They had a karaoke night on in the social.
  • Mon, 19:41: I remember saying 'fuck it' to the gentle jibes around the table and asking if they had Roll To Me on the machine or computer or whatever.
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