A Night of Fuck-All

It isn't harsh or bitter or anything like that. Just a busy last two days and all. Didn't get home till 8:45pm on Friday night. As part of the CYB (Children and Youth press team) for the CC (Children's Commissioner. My Children's express universe is so cool that we talk in initials) Okay, not "coolio" cool, but we get involved in real things. Like interviewing political figures and finding out Parliamentary policies the same time the media does, as CE is a children-only news agency. Pretty damn cool.

Oh, and Oxfam got broken into during the week. Some wanker smashed the window, grabbed the watches we were selling, but he got distracted and ran off. And I have to say, I saw this coming. If I used a conservative view, I'd say that you should expect it, even if it is a charity shop. The manager should be able to buy a bloody CCTV camera, or even a stupid alarm - thats right, we're on the high street and we have zilch security. It's ridiculous.

So today was easy. All I had to do was make up questions for some easy email interview later on, and for my other "Back to Your Roots" article (2nd generation yp - young people) I photocopied some surveys I created very late last night and I'm giving those out to my college friends, but most of them are very Anglo-saxon, so it makes things a bit harder...hmm.

I'm feeling alright. I've stopped drinking for now because Dad was noticing the depleting stock and kept calling me a "little drunkard", jokingly. Charming. None of that desperation I've been feeling for the past two weeks, but I need a break. I'm completely stressed. I'm on the tube all the time and all of the dust is getting into my lungs, which is especially un-goodly, as I ave small air passages and I used to have asthma, so it's harder to breathe. So, of course I'm convinced I'm going to drop dead of a heart attack. I've become incapable of doing anything slowly and orderly, I just rush round like a nervous tornado: rushing, and speeding and trundling, coming to a complete halt now and again. I'm not destroying (or executing) anything in order. So, 20 out of 24 hours each day I'm sure I'm gonna have a panic attack. I can feel it coming. I'm like a city rat - keep scratching myself. It's what I do when I'm stressed and unconsciously trying to avoid cutting. I figure it'll be soon (the cutting.)

And I feel....and I feel....and I feel...like I'm going to...explode...destroy...like...fly...and...sing like Madonna and be extremely calm. I need to be! And that last sentence made no sense. I'm quite proud of it...