It's dark and cloudy out; everything is navy blue today. I don't want to be here working, I don't want to go to chemistry lab, I just want to lie in bed and not alone, I want maybe half a dozen people to cuddle up with because it's so cold and lonely out and I don't care if they accidentally knee me in the spleen because I only have a double bed, it's okay.

Yesterday it took me at least an hour after work to make my talk work right. After not really talking to anyone all day, or not anyone I knew that well or anyone I was too interested in talking to or anyone too interested in me, I tripped over everything I said when I got round to see my friends. Everything came out too fast and didn't make sense. They didn't mind particularly and I guess that's why they're my friends.

I still want to live in a big house full of people I know. I also want to take a nap. I will have to settle for having sliced cucumbers in my lunch, which is frankly not much of a frickin' deal. But there you go, that's what's on my fish hook today. I will pretend I am fishing at mcelligot's pool, and although I bring up old boots or nothing every day so far, just maybe just maybe it connects to an underground brook that leads to the sea! And you never know what strange fish are making their way right for me.

349. This number is entirely too close to the tip of my tongue, as boy said to me last night. Hopefully soon I will be in the mood where I don't feel the need to count. In class sometimes I write

27 | 93

in the margins. 27 minutes down, 93 minutes of class left. I let myself update it no more frequently than every five minutes. But sometimes the lecture becomes interesting enough or fast enough that I forget to update it at all. But then sometimes I update it exactly every 5 minutes and the margins between are filled with doodled robots and letters. Well you know what they say. Some days you're the pigeon, and some days you're the statue.

Okay, well, I just wanted an excuse to say that.

Speaking of sea cucumbers, which we weren't, but could have been, I passed an asian imported sweet shop yesterday. The sign outside said "NEW! JUST IN! AQUATIC ANIMAL JELLY!" I was trying to decide (a) what sea creature was delicious yet not famous enough to get it's own name on the package (or is it a miscellaneous mix? grade E meat, sawdust and circus animals?) (b) whether the idea repulsed me or sounded tasty (I hate jelly cups. But I love gelatinous sea creatures. So it's a toss up, you know.) and (c) whether I should get some regardless of my conclusions in (b). Fortunately for all, the store was closed.

I am remembering bits and pieces of dreams again. It's been a long time. What I remember now is so much more boring than the dreams I used to remember. People I know die. Or dreams about being on the bus. Boring boring. When I was remembering dreams before I was on anti-depressants. I wonder if they just helped me remember, or if they also coloured the dreams, made them wild and strange. I almost want to be on them again to get the dreams back. It's the most intensely magical thing, having this inner storyteller who is able to SURPRISE you. I don't want to be all depressed and barfy, though. Maybe I will try a B6 supplement instead. Maybe I will not bother and just be happy with the boring scraps I can remember now. They're at least undeniably mine, and not a side effect. Does that matter to me? Sometimes I think it doesn't. Everything we eat is a drug anyway. I bet cucumber is poisonous if you eat enough. I love the symbol of pharmacy, the snake filling a chalice with venom. Kill or cure, it's a delicate balance, blushing or bleeding out, it's a matter of degree, you know?

Bleeding out, that was in my dream. I'm not sure if he died in my dream. I think he did but he was also somehow alive. It didn't matter. But when I'm awake, oh, it matters very much to me.