Friday 2 December 2016

Sixty days of rain (like 30 Days of Night but with only one monster).

I should write a book.

How not to keep your sanity when it's been drowned in a puddle. 

It'll be a bestseller and everyone will call me 'refreshing' and 'honest' for my insistence that it's okay to be a goddamned mess. Aren't we all at this point? I can pick mushrooms off my shoulders and eat them. My hair never dries. I can't stand the darkness anymore and I want to scream.

I used to say this about snow and endless winter, endless cold. Then I moved to the rainforest where it hardly gets cold enough for a jacket but it also never. 

stops. 

fucking.

raining. 

CHRIST.

August is shopping for a SAD light for me. I've only been asking for one for seven or ten years now. I want to sleep all the time and I can't seem to accomplish much and then I have a manic/panic flurry and catch up in the bright artificially-lit room, like a moth, sticking my face right up to lightbulbs and frowning madly at the dark.

Flap flap flap. 

(goes the giant blonde moth)

Where is the perfect place for me? It isn't endless winter, or endless rain, it's a little bit of everything, tempered by the beach, which doesn't care what weather we're having as long as I'm there spending my time like a new-money millionaire in an exclusive strip club.

Except I don't want to make it rain anymore. I really don't.