There are many things I can't do.
I can't play the ukulele, or the bass guitar (despite owning one), or the ocarina (despite owning three). I can't do sports; I can't run without getting tired after a few steps. I can't dance, although I like it; I can't sing, although I want to do so almost constantly; I can't do a handstand, I can't speak Dutch and I can't get past the impossible third boss in Luigi's Mansion 2.
And I can't do self-care.
Kind of. I mean, I want to do self-care, and everything. It's a skill to have, and while I'm very aware that fewer people have it than one may initially think, I couldn't possibly comment (well, I could, but I won't). I go to therapy, but that's a transient solution, at best; I have my bad moments, and those are the moments in which I need care. I prefer to do that alone.
I woke up this morning with tears streaming down my face, shivering from the cold. I had two horrendous dreams in relatively quick succession; they may have even been part of the same dream. In the first, I watched an animal expert put two mice in a blender, and while one was unscathed, the other was bleeding to death; I bawled on the floor while he stood by impassively. The second was not as bad; I was about to eat a large, steaming bowl of macaroni cheese when somebody deliberately knocked it onto the floor. I went into the kitchen and wailed until somebody asked me what they could do to help, as long as it didn't involve getting me any more macaroni cheese.
No, I don't understand either.
The first dream has a root. This comes from a girl I used to flirt with online (and with whom I occasionally had cybersex) who referenced getting rid of (live) mice with a Henry Hoover. I didn't indicate how horrified I was, but I couldn't stop visualising it for days afterwards, right down to the terrified squeaks. As for the second... well... I just like pasta, I suppose. After my accident in Somerset, my first priority was to get back to my pasta...
I can't do self-care...
I got up and went to work.
The morning passed slowly, but without incident; I still managed to phase out a bit in the quieter moments. At lunch, I went to the local pub, put some James on the jukebox and ordered macaroni cheese, which was fine, but it still didn't make me feel any better. I then ordered an ice cream sundae, because I am a filthy beast, but I barely tasted it. I toddled back to work and sat in the kitchen staring into middle distance, waiting for the Chromakey to wear off and reveal that the entire room was just blue.
A woman whom I didn't recognise walked in and asked where the toilet was, which I helpfully indicated. I went to use the toilet myself, then went to gather my documents and return to my room.
At this point I heard her having an orgasm, immediately after which I remembered Red Dwarf was on tonight.
"Maybe it isn't all hopeless bullshit," I said out loud, before going back to where I was meant to be and barnstorming my way through the remaining two hours of work, in my usual way - just as theatrical as my horrendous dreams, perhaps, but with less wailing this time.