Woody Allen.
Almost went to Bournemouth today on a whim but ended up home instead.
The holidays feel like they're going too fast and they've barely started.
Maybe I should do like my brother and just run down to Bournemouth now. I should have gone today. Then I could have seen Jade. I need to stop taking so many pills. I could go down tomorrow, 22nd, stay for two nights (where would I stay? With Jade, who's trying to leave? No. With Matty? Sort of sketchy staying there after drunkenness last time. With Izzie? She's too far from everyone else. Fuck.) and come back on Christmas eve, first thing. Or even one night, I don't spend enough time with the family. Not that it's any good me being here, Holly just wants me gone because I'm the only other person who makes any effort to be a real living human being. Vivi can be disposed of, in Holly's battle for attention, and Nippy is quiet. The parents are parents. Anyway, getting to Bournemouth takes so long. And I can't afford it.
Definitely listened to neurotic talk for too long. Taking up their habits of speech.
Desperately trying to remember how it felt that night I smoked with a sore throat and I could feel each inhalation cloaking the soft vulnerable insides of my throat in sticky itchy dusty black tar. Instead am remembering the slight rush, the way my eyes felt, the feeling of being in control.
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