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.