Black Sandwiches

All over the world, terrible tragedies are taking place. Here, in my office, someone just found some black sandwiches in the fridge. Black and smelly and no longer suitable for consumption.

I’m vacant today. Since Paris it’s been as though I had a lobotomy.

Last night the boyfriend and I went to The Carling Academy to see Kate Nash. I staggered around in uncomfortable shoes, and a pretty purple dress, feeling very ugly. I looked at the people around me and I hated all of them. Most were students, dressing to emulate someone famous. Then some man with spiky hair stood in front of me, blocking my view of the stage. I saw New Young Pony Club not so long ago, and I really enjoyed myself. This time my heart wasn’t in it. I had the intense desire to be alone. Why did I even bother to dress up? I was wearing these tight tights and they cut into part my stomach, so I looked like I had two overly large stomachs. It was gross.

So I was pissed off because of the stomach thing, and then my boyfriend begins to annoy me too, for no tangible reason. I considered telling him to piss off. He kept talking, and I kept looking down at my stomach, and I didn’t listen to a word he said. He later accused me of being distant. I was feeling a bit out of it and I hate the fact I can’t just be depressed around him, I always have to be well or pretend to be well, and when he asks me if I’m excited about something, I have to say ‘yes’ when I really mean ‘no, I never get excited.’ He knows I’m depressed, and claims to understand, but then he gets upset when I’m not as enthusiastic about things as he is. Sometimes I look at him and feel nothing at all, but when I haven’t seen him for a few days I miss him. I often wonder if I would love him more if I wasn’t medicated and chronically, mildly depressed the whole time.

Ah, I don’t know. I know nothing.