Conversations with my father.

I don't know how or when it happened, but at some point this year I've become terribly, terribly boring. It's only just past seven and I'm in slippers and a fluffy robe. Why did this happen to me? Eat, read, study, eat, internet, eat, internet, (robe) sleep. "Partying", something I've heard others mention, is not a concept I'm familiar with. So, if you know me, a warning: probably let me go as a friend. All I talk about these days is new ways of making good pizza dough, how the weather is too shitty to allow clothes to dry and so forth. GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN. My current state makes me fondly yearn for being sixteen, when drinking was exciting and going to an all-ages gig at Creation on a Friday night was likely to be the highlight of the month. And being sixteen was fucking dire: I was a greasy-haired, self loathing bastard. Routine, that's my problem. Someone put an end to this. Buy me a ticket to Spain. Make me join the Exclusive Bretheren. ANYTHING.

berlin

christchurch

auckland

U.S

Fear

For the past few years I have spent a great deal of time terrified. I'm so preoccupied with being healthy and warding off illness that I am constantly aware of tiny, infinitesimal things about my body and convince myself that they are symptomatic of some terrible illness. Every day I feel a pang or see a spot in my vision and I get scared and think about dying and wonder why I just can't be healthy. Nevermind that there may not be anything really wrong with me yet (wisdom teeth and swollen lymphnodes *fingers crossed* aside), I feel sure there either is or will be. By thinking about morbidity endlessly, I worry I will imagine cancers, growths and swellings into being. I even feel like putting this into writing could be tempting fate, but it can't be worse than saying it to myself over and over. I know everyone gets ill and eventually gets sick very badly. It frightens me that it will happen before a fair and appropriate time. Never would be good, but 70 or whatever is decent.
Far, far too much of my mind is wasted either thinking about food and how I need to eat less of it, or by constant thoughts of death; black tumours clustering in my breasts, heart palpitations and muscle spasms, aching tissue, restricted blood flow, insistent pain, decay and growth.
It is tedious and tiresome and sickening and there are so many things I would rather think about, but I feel as though my brain is stuck on repeat.