You might think the things I say are completely correlated to alcohol consumption but, you know what? I’d say them sober, or think, at least. My January thoughts, through June, have been book burned, totalitarian-ed, because they’re not norm-fitting, the way A-levels ask. And I should’ve learned better. If you were my tutor. That’s a thought I had earlier, actually, but I can’t write it to its conclusion. I’m too prim. But my brain will go there. Repeatedly.

I realise you tried to shut talk down purely from a proprietary standpoint. But I’m past that. You must know that I’m past that.

And that ridiculous stuff you wish I’d not said but I said anyway because a quart of cocktails does that. You pointed out, I  blogged  back in February. And nothing’s altered. I’m still fucked. Stuck. Rotating the same problems like I’m roasting the underside. But the ridiculous stuff I didn’t say out loud to you, trust, I thought it every time I looked. Really: every. Sorry.

I was never after a response of the same. It ain’t simple, babe. What it is, is, genuinely, I thought I’d never feel it. It’s clearly just a blip. TTYN. Or always. Who even knows which?