The words contained in this here journal may not make much sense and they may not bear any relation to reality but one thing is for sure, they'll contain the word pasty.
I am not unhappy.
I am not going insane.
I am terribly confused in general.
It's nowt caused by you lot.
That last post was meant to cause laughter so it's fine for you to do so.
Monday, November 10, 2003
So what's going on? I'll be damned if I can figure it out. Doctor Winston would liken my mind to a tray of cress, I would liken it to a psychedelic oven cooked chip driving a steak through the heart of Dartmoor. Doesn’t really make much sense does it? Given the penchant for rain on Dartmoor it’s probably not a terribly crispy chip either. Can’t stand soggy chips.
I’m not predisposed to dealing with problems I encounter; I live my custard life trying as best as possible to avoid any lumpy bits and when I do find them I carefully move my spoon to the other side of the bowl and ignore them totally. Consequently they have a tendency to snowball into something worse, something altogether more threatening, a custard tart *shudders* Can’t stand custard tarts.
Any normal person would see that it’s easier to deal with the lumps now rather than have to wrestle with wretch-worthy custard tarts later on. Any normal person would have probably been an accomplished enough chef not to make lumpy custard in the first place but I’m not, I’m a terrible cook. And I know that when the owner of the restaurant sees my lumpy custard puds I’m going to end up getting a rollicking and possibly a good sacking too. So in my state of feeling sorry for myself I launch into full self-destruct mode: I let the rice boil over, I “spill” chocolate sauce all over the floor and “drop” some plates because somehow that’ll make someone, somewhere, take pity on my poor soul because it’s just totally pants. But of course it doesn’t work, it’s only a smelly act of self-indulgence and I quickly find myself in an even worse predicament than before. So I run away and hide in the bins behind the restaurant and get even smellier. Can’t stand being smelly.
But it’s the coward’s option, MY option, and so I get smellier. I toddle off home feeling even sorrier for myself, maybe a little angry too, and sit about like a fully loaded Buckaroo just waiting for someone to put that last rope on. God help whoever does put on that last rope because I’m going to snap big time and fire sharp little bits of plastic all over the place for people to stand on in the middle of night, and in doing so create a gigantic mess that drags everyone and everything down. Can’t stand making a mess.
And so I sit invisibly in yahoo, too frightened or too ashamed to stick my head up into the line of fire. Too scared of the damage I might do or, more likely, the damage I’ve done. Not willing to face the music and dance. Can’t stand dancing.
I got a phone call from Scott today, the first I’ve heard from him in a few months, and he came bearing not only the fine gift of his conversation but also the news that he might be coming to stay in Northallerton for a few days. I sincerely hope he is, he’s just who I need to see right now.
