Making tea in your underwear

I've been writing erratically. I have a pile of notebooks, folded pieces of paper and old train tickets I found on trains because I don't have any. The problem is I have no new plotlines. All I write are scenes. Moments of flashes of emotions. Anything that feels French is stored in the French side of my folder. Anything that's really just a pile of thoughts is set aside or rewritten online elsewhere, I'm still working out how far inside my head I want to share. Then there are all the scenes that neither of my girls can own. It was easier when I hadn't committed myself to anything. Every scene found itself a person who needed it. My head's gone staccato, because goddamn I like that word.

It's not just in my writing either. My brain is entirely distracted with itself. I begin in one place and soon I'm lost in another. I had the most insane dream about the end of the world where I argued with a man who was huffing because he'd been calling me for hours but I was time traveling and it wasn't my fault I couldn't answer. I couldn't assemble a computer and I needed to assemble it when the room span into a board room and we had to take a register while I battered a box with a cardboard cutout of a keyboard. The guy next to me was a robot I wrestled to ground as it wailed about how it kept thinking about rebooting itself and the guy on the other side kept shouting out his philosophies until I threw his cigarettes into the gutter. I went to pick them back up much later and there was a shoe with a pink ribbon and the packet was empty. "The bums stole them!" he cried, as he threw himself down to the ground and handed me a box. "They're always stealing them!" And we went for a walk and the computer's mouse trailed around my feet and I had tried to tell him about the shoe and whether he thought it was significant but I woke up too soon and everytime I closed my eyes to try and find it again all I could see was the shoe and the soggy, snapped remains of the cigarettes I'd thrown.

News, news, news. I know absolutely nothing I should know for my exam on Thursday but I've decided not to think about it at all. I have a one in five chance of getting a job on monday. And I finally sent off a story to a magazine that's worth something other than a mild ego boost. I'm fucking terrified to be honest but let's not be and pretend I'm doing fine instead.