Some things scream.



Because my posts have been scribbles from the long lethargic hours at work, I've come to realise that my page is void of pictures and accounts of me, and of life as it is, now. Until someone commented on their viewpoint of my happiness, however succinctly, am I aware of the fact that life's been going by in such a dull pattern that even the everydays worth mentioning goes unspoken of. But of course, if you're here from Facebook then I guess you'd have a gist of how I am doing, because like they say, pictures paint a thousand words.

I am contented, just enough.

To presumably justify the lack of more personal accounts (as if needed), I've been quoting a lot because I've been reading a lot, creating a somewhat permanent dent on my bed mattress and an altered perspective of things. Maybe the books I read are too heavy, and Jodie commented months ago how with age, we're growing to read more depressing books. Nothing too detrimental, just bits and pieces that hit me somewhere between the brain and the heart. I'm reading about abuse, by the way.

I'm torn between reading, pigging out, watching tv, and sleeping. Weekends go by so quickly, it feels like I'm missing a lot. My days are a tad monotonous, in a new meaning. I'm seeing a lot of really good movies due in December, and I'm really hoping that these movies are good as the way they're marketed, to spruce up my December dates.

There. I just sneezed, again and again, and in that one action I've bitten my tongue and amplified the headache. The waking hours are killing me because I've got the flu curse, and my nose is a leaking pipe and my cheekbones are so sore, I really need to lay them down to rest. Which reminds me, unglamorously, of bulldogs.

I should sleep. Like a sadist with no motive, I torture myself so.