Stressed Eric

It’s freezing. In August. I’m wearing a jumper. In August. I’ve gone nuts and gotten engaged, and the whole of the UK is joining me in a crazy unpredictable summer of madness. I keep dreaming of bad rocker boy from my past. It’s getting ridiculous now. STOP THE MADNESS. I’ve got so much on my mind and I look so awful today. I’m wearing stupidly dark eye make up smeared all over my eyes, like I put it all on blindfolded. Urgh.

1) I have to drive 60 odd miles to Coventry this Saturday
2) I have to meet the boyfriend’s sister on Monday
3) I have to go to another stupid seminar at work in the middle of London
4) I’m still about 20lbs from being a healthy weight
5) I’m engaged before I’m ready, and will have to move to a different town and get a new job in a year or so

I could probably list more. But I won’t, because I’m freaking myself out. It all seems too much. The prozac has kicked in to some extent. But not nearly enough. I don’t expect it to do any more than it has. I feel so stressed. I always get stressed when I have too much to think about. I’m tempted to hide away in my room for the rest of my life and not talk to anyone. PLUS there’s a woman in the office with the most foul smelling perfume. It’s giving me a headache. And the aging rocker who sits to my left is in yet another grumpy mood, which makes me nervous.

I am aware this blog is dull and depressing, and filled with me mostly moaning. I’m like a less interesting Elizabeth Wurtzel. I’m like Sylvia Plath minus the talent. I’m like Eeyore minus the cuteness.