I am in that wonderful place right now where very little feels real. I had an active weekend, by my standards (as in, I left the house more than once) and last night’s sleep doesn’t seem to have been enough sleep if the fact I was falling to sleep in front of my work computer (but did not in actual fact sleep) is anything to sleep by sleep zzzz what?
And every time I feel like this it’s accompanied by the hazy feeling of wanderlust. I want to go places, see things, do stuff, la de dah.
Now normally I’d go into this and proclaim it the impossible dream as I am broke and don’t have the time to do anything at all ever, so I will. Actually, nah, I won’t. Because I’ve won a billion pounds so can do anything! Actually, nah, I haven’t.
But I will talk about how I find it interesting that fatigue and the recent memory of a good time is often accompanied by an almost-burning desire to up sticks and fuck off somewhere else. What does that say about me? I have my C in GCSE psychology backing my brain up, but even that powerhouse of a qualification doesn’t help me here.
Still, looking at flights to America for later this year is definitely going to make me feel better and won’t at all piss me off that I can’t go.
Hah, ungrateful swine.