I’m finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what I’m supposed to concentrate on. Projects seem to fall up the creek without a paddle (or Up the Crick without a Piddle, as Allo Allo states) and I can’t seem to focus on what I set out to do this year. I know that the year is still young, but it’s already irking me.
I’m lagging on the writing about sex and love thing too. It seems I’ve grown disillusioned by my own passion for the subject. Not that I’m thinking about quitting this blog, mind. It’s just that my life isn’t exactly the sexiest thing on this green earth right now. I don’t mind talking about other things sexual. Like food’s relation to sex, which I did yesterday. Or why the rules of attraction are a mystery to me.
As the time ticks on, here at Stately Boyd Manor, I find out increasingly shocking things about myself. Last night was the zenith of this. Through the tears that seem to come daily now, I came to the realization that I’m finding it very hard to believe in love.
It’s all around me. And thank fuck for that, otherwise I would have thought that it didn’t exsist. I see love in the eyes of quite a few of my friends, and that’s comforting to know.
But still, I can’t help being slightly bitter about it. I don’t ever want to stop believing in love. Don’t take that away from me. I just can’t help feeling let down by it.
I’m on edge. I think mean things about my own parents, for fuck’s sake. If I don’t move soon, I might lose my shit.