The Last High

I had a routine going. For two months I'd hand in an essay on Monday, not think about the next one until Wednesday so I could happily go out on Tuesday. A couple of times I went on Wednesday too giving myself less time and more panicking, I'd get the major framework done on Thursday but not quite enough and finish it all off with a trip to the library on Friday. Double check on Sunday, print on Monday, not think about the next one until Wednesday. It was during these two months that inspiration struck me like an inconvenient lightning bolt and I produced some 15 short stories scrawled between my 4 essays. I handed in my last of the semester on Monday. I haven't written anything new in a week.

It's not that I'm out of ideas like I was so afraid would happen when I began my bed project. I've still got a few kicking around in my head. I just can't seem to get them down on paper. I'm hoping my brain's just a little frazzled and since I have no more deadlines it's taking a break but I hadn't written anything decent in two years. Writing is the last part of me I've won back for myself and if it buggers off again just because there's no more pressure I'm gonna be mighty pissed.

It's not really as bad as I'm making it out to be. I'm 2/3 of the way through a bigger piece involving three nights, three sets of people and one bed. I just haven't had time to finish it, you know now that I have nothing to do. Sometimes I think I like everything to be complicated.

But I'm pretty happy with this new piece. It came to me as I was busy mopping my dad's office, so convenient once again. I had to try and get everything done in my break and scribble the rest in stick figures. This would be why I hate when tutors ask to see my essay plans. Happy now? Everything is in pictorial form and you don't understand it!

I had another angry dream. I keep having dreams on Monday nights when I wake up really pissed at people who don't exist. Puts me in a bad mood all day. But today my tutorial is in the Hunterian Museum. I'm gonna look at some dead people apparently. Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him. Now he's systematically categorised in a little drawer. I wish we were visiting the Anatomy museum instead. I really want to see the babies again. Not for creepy morbid reasons, I just find them beautifully fascinating. Sadly, when you're planning a day out and you say "Hey guys wanna see pickled babies?" There are few excited by the prospect.