Fucksake. Everyone in the Leaver household is so useless.

I AM MEANT TO BE WRITING A FIFTY THOUSAND WORD NOVEL NEXT MONTH. KINDLY TELL ME HOW I'M MEANT TO ACHIEVE ANYTHING OF THE SORT WITH NO COMPUTING DEVICE ON WHICH TO TYPE.

First world problems. I'm such a fucking brat. More than anyone else, I make myself sick.

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Something I've come to realise, is that the only person you should trust is yourself, because you know to not give yourself unnecessary shit/guilt trips/hard work when you know you don't need it, where other people are too dense to notice that you're right at the end of your givingashitaboutanything measure.

Ha, ha, bollocks to everything but the first bit. Everyone I know gives themselves way more shit/guilt/work than they need and most are incredibly perceptive, which is reason 9647328193 why everyone else in the world is good and I'm gradually paving my way to losers' hell, reserved for the likes of the fucking pussywhip Claudius and the fucking epitomeofeverythingfeminismstrivestoavoid Hero from Much Afuckingdo About Nothing. (Bad move, Shakespeare.)

But seriously, numero uno and all that. Only way to get anywhere, it seems.

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I swear, caring uses up so much energy. Care workers, vicars, Ghandi - how the ever-living fuck do they do it? I struggle to remember to feed myself, how can I ever be expected to take responsibility for someone who actually matters? How do people remember so much stuff? Birthdays and bed times and how to cook vegetable lasagne and what makes your boyfriend uncomfortable - it's all so incredibly irrelevant, according to my selfish little mind! I want to care! I want to remember! I want to go ten minutes without a major incident! I try, I really do, but sometimes, like now, it seems more effort than it's worth. Complete isolation isn't all bad.

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Distractions. How very welcome, in a sick, ironic way.