Hello. I am a title. How are you?

I would like to run away to a happy place. Although I suppose it could be argued that I am there already.

I blame matchbox 20.

Tomorrow I will be able to run to Nottingham. This makes me happy. I say run. There will be no running. There will probably be walking in a fashion similar to that of a drunkard. Being drugged up to ones eyeballs does have amusing side effects as well as helpful ones. I walked into my door today, I have dropped my cigarettes countless times, and I have walked to and from my bed a few times more than necessary for no reason other than I wished to sit down. No logic.

Tomorrow I shall also get my blood stolen. I am worrying about this far too much. I am quite the neurotic dinosaur. I have to go on my own. This makes me sad. But I am nineteen years old, it is about time I grew up and realised there wont always be an unfortunate hand for me to squeeze to death in my moments of need.

I have nothing else to say today, unless you are some creepy northern guy in which case I have just pointed my middle finger at you. Hah.

In stories it makes happy endings possible.

Love is a funny thing. It consumes everything; reservations, logic, truth yet leaves things like beauty open for viewing. It's a well known fact that I am in love. It is also a well known fact that I have always been told that my feelings are not reciprocated to the same extent, I have known for what seems like forever that it will go nowhere. So why will my head (my heart?) not give up on the idea.

Not that I want it to particularly. Loving somebody gives me a reason to exist. It has consumed me, without it I am nothing, and without it I would not want to exist.

It's probably killing me, or rather, I'm probably killing myself. I mean, having a desire for something you know isn't possible seems kind of ridiculous, and the cause of a lot of unnecessary pain. For instance, you apply for a job - one which you have not enough qualifiactions for, one which you lack vital experience for, one which ultimately you know you will never be offered - yet you still find yourself applying. There is no logic. But if that job meant so much to you then you would apply regardless. I see the job application, I fill the form out, I just never sent it off. Or maybe I did, and it just didn't arrive in time.

I feel so bad for comparing somebody who means a lot to me with a job description.

I think my problem is that I'm happy being second best. I've always been content with not being number one. It's part of who I am.

I can't help but feel that I have lost my best friend to a certain extent since she has moved on with her life. She's still here, she always will be; she's promised me that, and I can trust her. But a physical presence isn't the same as an emotional one.

People have told me, more than once, that if seeing my best friend with her husband-to-be is as painful as I say it is then I should ask her to choose between the two of us. I think that is the most ridiculous suggestion I have ever heard in my life. I can't even begin to contemplate how selfish and hurtful that would be. One. Why would I let something as stupid as jealousy potentially ruin the best friendship I've ever had, and two; when you love someone your main priority in life is their happiness, regardess of anything. My life is a lot better when in the company of the person I love. I don't even want to begin to think where my life would be without her. She is the only person capable of making me happy. I'm not going to do anything that would have even the slightest chance of losing that. And three. As odd as it seems - I am happy for her. Ridiculously so. I mean, seriously, where is the logic in wanting to take something so wonderful away from your best friend?

Everybody dreams of falling in love.

It should come with a warning.

Ah well. I'm a dinosaur; we're loyal beings and friendships mean a silly amount to us. I still have my catalyst, I should stop complaining. She's probably going to eat me when she reads this, and then she's probably going to tell me that I haven't lost her at all, and then I'm going to feel very silly and then she's going to agree and then I'm going to apologise. And that will be that.

"But for here, for now, just between us two, and for no other reason save I am me and you are you, I tell you this. I am glad, glad that you are alive. To see you take breath puts the breath back in my lungs. If there must be another my fate is twined around, I am glad it is you."

He leaned forward then and for an instant pressed his brow to mine. Then he breathed a heavy sigh and drew back from me. "Go to sleep, boy," he said in a fair imitation of Chade's voice. "Tomorrow comes early. And we've work to do." He laughed unevenly. "We've the world to save, you and I."

Tis the season to be jolly. My arse.

The dinosaur, quite frankly, is fed up.

After four years of living with a rather odd, rather under-estimated, rather painful nerve condition I can safely say that I have had enough. I quit. I admit defeat. It is over.

If you are bored and wish to expand your knowledge of strange things google "reflex sypathetic dystrophy". Then have fun mocking me.

Isn't it amazing what a lack of codeine does to ones sense of "I'm not going to let some lousy pain condition get the best of me" way of living?

For somebody who likes to consider themselves to have a nice high pain threshold I can't help but feel rather embarrassed, for I cannot help but feel like at this moment in time, to the casual onlooker, it must look like I am reacting like a bit of a prune.

After a very pleasant weekend with my best friend I am not very happy to now be in a position where I am muttering profanities to myself, complaining of self-induced stomach cramps, whilst snivelling in a somewhat unattractive manner because my shoulder is presenting me with a pain I am apparently unable to deal with.

Dinosaurs deal with pain, it's what we do best. Well, what we did best because apparently that skill has gone out the window. And to be completely honest, I, myself, quite fancy following it.

Title.

When people see me they think I'm crazy.

Paranoia does silly things to people. At this moment in time I know it is silly, but earlier, I was convinced everybody I walked past thought I was crazy; Not good crazy. Bad crazy. This would be okay if it was a one off. But it isn't. It will be back again tomorrow.

I think I'm crazy. My best friend would tell me otherwise.

I don't know what to think anymore.

Fuck?

Nim has no money, again. Nim wishes she was exaggerrating. Nim spent it all on paying off her credit card, and New Rocks, and Kingdom Hearts, and fags, and Christmas presents, and alcohol, and plushies, and lots of other wonderful things. Nim does not resent spending her money, but Nim does wish it wasn't all gone.

Oh well.

When I have my time machine everything will be okay again.

Self pity has hit the dinosaur once again.

My life seems to have taken a very similar pattern to that of last year, except this year I don't have a Jac to knock on my door to see if I'm still alive, or a Fleen to keep me company each evening on the land of msn.

I moved to Derby and Fleen got a life.

I could drop dead and it would probably go unnoticed for a good three days.

This idea appeals to me somewhat.

What a retard.

Today, has apparently not been my day. It has gone five o'clock in the evening and I have just made a rather unfortunate discovery; I have been wearing my underpants inside out, all day.

Sleep deprivation is obviously getting to me a little more than I had first thought.

A pointless post.

I have spent my life running away from things I don't like; whether in a metaphorical manner, or indeed a literal one. For example, I should currently be writing my assignment but instead am writing my blog, I see a spider and run a fucking mile - unless it has cunningly placed itself between me (sitting on the bog) and the door, in which case an exception is sometimes made.

Psychosis allows no exceptions but instead constantly reminds me of things I have tried so hard to forget or re-creates things in ways I know they can't have happened. However, being a part of my mind it has the capability to convince me otherwise and I find myself believing my own Hellish fictions.

People assume psychosis is not much more than voices inside ones head. I wish it were that simple.

Psychosis will put emphasis on things you would normally consider unimportant. Or skew ones judgement of things. I like to describe it as an intoxication of the mind. When you have had a few drinks you see things differently, you will say things you wouldn't normally say, think things that normally wouldn't occur to you. The bliss, however, of alcohol is that one can consume it in vast amounts and reach a point where the mind almost stops. Psychosis, for me, doesn't seem to hold this quality, instead it will fade to a point of slight irritation; a feeling of awkwardness or uneasiness, or develop to a point of sheer frustration. A frustration I wont even bother attempting to describe. The results of which are often quite embarrassing and are preferred to be undergone in solitude.

I complain about such things, yet on the extremely rare ocassion it leaves me I am left in a great state of worry. It being a constant thing, when it does go, you can't help but feel something is missing. And that thing is your mind. I fear things which would probably be considered daft; I fear that I may have forgotten how to think for myself.

To lose ones ability to think would mean losing ones ability to express intellect. To me, that sounds foul.

This isn't really going anywhere. I guess it never does.

Pretty red stamps.

This afternoon I was awoken, not so rudely, by my catalyst, as she gave herself the task of saving my ass. I can quite honestly say that I do not envy her. However, I am ever so grateful, for if I do manage to pass this module credit goes to her.

She was on the phone to me last night for over four hours encouraging /forcing? me to write my assignment, the deadline of which I had already missed. Now, my catalyst blames herself for this personal error, which is a most absurd and silly thing to do. I have told her this many times, but it appears to fall on deaf ears. Regardless, we managed to complete the assignment - I say we, I should probably say she as I was acting more like note-taker whilst she were dictating the plot in small, easy to digest pieces. A slight exagerration? Not really.

The piece of work still needed to be handed in. My plan was to stay awake until the University opened, get the bus to campus and hand in my assignment. My catalyst, fully aware of how my plans often fail me, phones me at one o'clock this afternoon to find me still in bed, half asleep - although comatosed is probably a more accurate description - unwilling to drag my arse out of bed. A good ten minutes later there is little progress but eventually I am coaxed out, but this does not pass without complaint. There is a lot of complaint, consisting mainly of unintelligible grunts.

I am going to thank my Catalyst now for not giving up and putting the phone down on me as I did in fact make it to campus and I did manage to hand my work in. My submission form also got a special stamp. A rather large stamp, which is bright red, and capitalised, and says the following: LATE.

I was proud. I felt catered for. My university makes stamps that are visible to the partially sighted individuals on the planet. Although, I am quite certain that everybody in the room must have seen this stamp also. Yay. Well, I did my service of good will today, I gave everybody else who was handing assignment in a wonderful ego boost. Aren't I nice?

Last night I dreamt of cocaine and rehoming beloved pets (poor Cosmic Freda). That can't be right.

In other news; my poor knuckle is rather swollen and a nice shade of "ick". I am still a miserable cunt. I love my catalyst dearly. And I hate you all*.


* Isn't it amusing. The one person who reads this is excluded from this statement. How ironic. I don't know why I write a blog.

Nim. A human being who epically fails at life.

That would be my definition if I were to ever appear in a dictionary.

Today, I have unofficially dropped out of University to opt for a much preferable existence consisting of my bed and not much else. I love my life.

The End.

Six hour phone calls

make me very happy.

Nothing much is learned in these conversations, I wouldn't be able to tell you what we actually talk about because it wouldn't actually make much sense and it certainly wouldn't sound very exciting. It's not exciting, it doesn't need to be but it is certainly something with makes my existence much more enjoyable.

I suppose the point is that these conversations are always with my catalyst. I mean, if I were talking to my mother on the phone for such a prolonged period of time I would probably go insane; in a bad way. But really, I suppose nothing can really be said for my sanity as a whole so that was probably a bad word to use. I'm not being funny but a sane person probably wouldn't, or shouldn't, talk on the phone about nothing for such a long time.

What amuses me most, however, is the fact that phone calls don't appeal to me, generally. I am usually one of these people who when required to talk on the phone to somebody manages to make a complete and utter twat out of myself by forgetting to talk. Not very helpful, really.

Anyway, my point is this; Talking to a dragon for a long time about nothing much makes a dinosaur a very happy being. What does make me giggle, however, is the fact that said dragon thanks said dinosaur for said phonecall, when really said dinosaur feels they should be thanking said dragon for said phonecall.

I think we are both grateful for long conversations in which nothing much is gained. I say "nothing much" when I should probably be saying "everything" - being the strange dinosaur I am I realise that my perspective of many things changes whilst talking to my catalyst. I say I realise, I don't actaully seem to realise until afterwards when everything rushes back to normal after the phone has been put down. And now I am rambling, much like I do whilst on the phone. A lot of words with not much progress.

Impressive.

I think the moral of the story is this. Nim does in fact have a voice, if you have never heard it you are obviously not worthy of my time. In which case you deserve to be laughed at. Hah.