I’m going mad. I get back from San Fran, tanned, fit and healthy, and the first thing Bath does to me is send a team of shitting pigeons. Now my tasty cord jacket, nostalgic battered rucksack and perma-borrowed laptop have been visited by the ghost of Jackson F*cking Pollock.
And sitting at my desk, I realise I can’t keep up. There isn’t time in life to both dream, do work, read all the fantastic blogs I’ve subscribed to and books I’ve acquired, and plan for the future. I must choose two of these. In accordance with my hedonistic principles, I select read and dream, and let the others fend for themselves.
Also, I appear to have forgotten everything. I mean *everything*. I realised I can remember, like, three memories from my university days, and very little from the following four years. There’s flashes like eating an enormous matzoh ball in NYC, or kneeling in a suit and gown in a pool of my own vomit in an Oxford toilet, but little else. And no it’s not drugs, it’s just… gone. Very odd.
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