Tales From The Dark (8162)

Tales From The Dark
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My bio is a journey in which I'm gradually coming to the conclusion that my entire life is just a figment of my imagination.
Monday January 12, 04

I am tired, I am weary, I could sleep for a thousand years

04:44 PM

Evolution in Reverse: Animal back to vegetable

I apologise to all my friends on Morrissey-solo who have emailed me and are waiting for replies, but I haven't been online until now because of the following reasons.

I came back from France last Wednesday, yet apparently not alone in that I seemed to have several billion microbes swirling around in my bloodstream that I'd picked up somewhere in Paris, so was barely able to to stand up, let alone carry my bags, was shivering hot and cold, sweating, shaking, coughing, aching, and vomiting so violently, I thought I was gonna throw up my own arse. Since coming home I haven't done anything except lie on the sofa under a blanket watching progs I normally wouldn't & occasionally films like East of Eden on the telly, whilst slowly realising that lying on a sofa under a blanket doing nothing but watching telly seems a wonderful lifestyle choice and something I should have taken up more enthusiastically years ago, thereby saving myself a lot of pain, rejection and wasted effort in the meantime. It's all made more savourable when I think of the mountain of shit I have to sort out in the form of work to do, affairs to put right, people to contact, exhibition to organise, letters to write, and dozens of emails to reply to, so generally think I'm gonna stay there for a while yet. If only I could get someone to do my shopping for me, life would be complete. Maybe I can get the local authority to assign me a care worker? I can't be arsed doing anything anymore, not only because I've been ill, but also because I just don't see the fucking point. I never could before, but struggled on anyhow due to some almost Samuri-esque powers of willed optimism. Yet I'm tired of pissing against the wind, or pumping myself up like an inflatable man with a puncture covered in several centuries of plasters and makeshift repairs. Most of all I'm sick of being alone. C'est ne vie pas, monsieur.

So I'm posting this entry now because I don't want any of my friends here who have emailed me to maybe feel hurt by my not replying to them (not that I'm presuming not getting an email from me could be considered that much of a tragedy for anyone) and just to let them know it's nothing personal but just that I'm not feeling particularly up to it at the moment. Yet I may try and get round to it, bit by bit, some time in the future, should I ever manage to get off the sofa again and escape the attractions of a supine view of the world. Yet whether I ever manage to come to this site again much, I'm not sure. I don't feel like it at the moment.
     

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