Killing Robbie

I just got back from Killing Bono. I should go to bed and think about things, but that’s, in fact, a reason to stay up and finish this. I just took my clothes off, now grabbing for the fat that has accumulated in my stomach – fat that made me look awful in my new dress. If only I knew what the hell happened. What’s the regular sweating session at the gym still good for? I don’t tell anyone I’m on a diet, as fat needs no flattery. Still I need to exercise to keep the anger from attacking my scalp any further. I wish you would ask me why I wear dresses and leggings so often, as my answer will be: my jeans don’t fit me at the moment.

Up since half six this morning and it is now that I have to think about last night’s dream. I dreamt that Robbie Williams had a revelation while walking through the woods with a piece of note in his hand. And you know what? It was my revelation that he was holding, but he fucked off with it.
Therefore tonight’s dream will hopefully be Killing Robbie.
I’d appreciate if you didn’t interpret this dream with Freudian approaches.

Not many people realise it, but the night smells so much better and fresher than the air during the day. Therefore the irregular menthol smoke tastes good and comforting.

It’s chilly and the cold tends to make me tired, so does heat. I just can’t find the balance and neither can the world. And that’s the only thing that makes me feel good about myself – knowing that something, which is bigger than me and anyone else, is not capable of control, either.

I’m noticing more and more cracks in my walls and on the ceiling. I’m pretty sure they weren’t there before. Or maybe it is now that I am getting to know my room better. Something that was previously nothing but merely familiar has grown on me. It’s a really daunting idea. Attachment always is.

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