There are so many things I wish to record here that I never will. I am on the verge of an anxiety attack now. I'm shaking. My heart rate is up. I'm supposed to be back at work soon. How can I possibly drive myself there? I couldn't sleep again last night. I sat outside with Basho in the cool night air and picked at the grass and cried in frustration and exhaustion and worry and loneliness.

A package has arrived. I should be happy. I should. I am cosseted in my mumma's care. Waves of care she is sending through the mail. I'm worried about how quickly I'm breathing. I'm worried because I don't know what is going on in my own life. I can't see clearly. Am I a fool? Possibly. Probably. Almost definitely.

Instead of that, I focus on unpaid bills. I focus on animal hair. I focus on the sore on Basho's leg that he worries all the livelong day. I focus on how uneven my hair is. I want to chop it all off. I have hidden the scissors from myself. I am so hot, so faint. Would you even recognize me if you passed me on the street?

I should throw this computer out. No good comes from this obsessive computering.

I am repulsed by my own impulses. I feel manipulative and manipulated. I hate you all but only because I don�t know what else to do. What bullshit. That�s not even true. Fuck me.