Tough one this.
I am in the town which was the closest to my house growing up. It is a tourist dive but it always was. I am nursing a coffee and thinking.
My life here was an unmitigated nightmare. The sort of thing you write books about. I am still looking over my shoulder for the people who bullied me here.
But the place is familiar and is better than what awaits me at home.
I am depressed and anxious and really do not want to go back.
This holiday has exhausted me. Acting normal so much for so long is such a strain. I can cry in the shower but that's it.
Ah well. So it goes...
RantingScienceZebra The rantings of a bitter, twisted, sometimes crippled and rather mad scientist
Thursday, 20 August 2015
When I was younger so much younger than today
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Hole up in a hostel for the night, and write your memoir there like you're George Orwell squatting in Paris, but with more Proust-like depressive fits and more Huxleyish drug segues?
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