Crash

I was going to post this to ILX, but I changed my mind, due to its utter EMO EMO EMO content. But then I suddenly grew paranoid at the thought of posting it here because of my contingent of stalkers. But fuck that. It's *MY* blog. If you don't like it, don't read it.

And now I am in a bad mood and can't even articulate why. Something akin to frustration or loneliness, or I don't even know. The realisation that I've finished most things that need desperately to be done at work, and I could go home. But what for? Why bother? I've realised I habitually work such long hours because I've got nothing and no one to go home for.

It's spring, the weather is beautiful. I'd like to go to the pub - or even just go get a pizza. I've been trying to convince someone, anyone, to go get a pizza with me for nearly a week. Isn't that pathetic? I just want to go out and have a good time and can't find anyone to share it.

You lock yourself away and you insulate yourself from hurt, to prevent yourself from EVER being hurt again. (Yes, I know this is impossible. But argh, the memory of that hurt. The anger, the self loathing at the stupidity of allowing yourself to be hurt so badly.) It's easier being alone. And it's far better being alone than being with someone you detest (or worse, detests you) - which often seems like the only option available on a romantic front.

But every now and then, the loneliness just stabs through. "Do I deserve just to be alone" as The Church once sang.

A phone full of friends and no one to call. I try to round people up and whip up excitement and get people to go to PARTIES! GIGS! COUNTRY WALKS!!! But you know what? The last few gigs we played, I ended up sitting by myself backstage, just feeling stressed and unable to enjoy it. Organisational fatigue. I'd have given anything to just give up and go get a pizza. I thought I joined a band to make friends. Oh wait, no, that's a lie. I first started a band, a million twenty years ago, so I'd have something to do at parties and nightclubs to stop me sitting in a corner reading a book.

This will pass. I will return to being smooth and self contained, and prattle on about Simon Singh books and whatever pointy nosed boy I'm currently lusting after. I'll go home and cook Special Soup and get into bed with my biography of Nelson. Maybe you'll read this, maybe you'll skip it as soon as you see the Emo Warning. Maybe you'll leave me a comment telling me to cheer up, but probably not. Probably you'll just feel vaguely superior because I'm wallowing in self pity or whatever. Or maybe someone will finally go get a sodding pizza with me.