Was supposed to write something meaningful, something majestic and sad, but couldn’t quite get in the right mood. So instead the words roll as and when they see fit. On the bookshelf next to my bed, there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels that’s been sat there since last Christmas. Shouldn’t really drink the stuff because it messes with my insides, but a lack of inspiration drove me to unscrew it. I’m not the first, and I sure won’t be the last. On Saturday evening after work, I fell asleep on my bed clutching an open bottle of tomato juice, and sure enough, it went all over me and the bedsheets. When I awoke, for the briefest of moments I mistook it for shit. Oh Jesus, I’ve shit myself. But no, it wasn’t that- didn’t smell right. Then I thought I’d puked. Oh god, I’ve puked and rolled in it. But alas, when I turned on the light I saw the error of my ways. That reminds me, last week someone found a bucket with a turd in it in the warehouse. So somebody took a dump in a bucket? And just left it there? I keep swaying between fits of wonder and despair, but it’s nothing new. I guess it gives me ammunition for my words, and yet being caught in the middle is never much fun. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, it was three years ago this very night that I shaved my head in the midst of my breakdown. I remember staying in bed all day watching documentaries on YouTube about the likes of Kurt Cobain and Nick Drake. The longer the day went on the more hopeless I felt. At one point, I went for a walk through unknown streets and then burst into tears. Upon returning, the only thing I could think of was cutting my hair, and so off it came. I guess some people harm themselves in such situations, but for me, it was about trying to rid myself of something I didn’t like anymore. Many years ago I had a habit of stubbing cigarettes out on my arm. I think it was because I felt numb and wanted to elicit emotion from deep inside, but it didn’t work, and not long after, I gave up. Maybe I’m bipolar? It doesn’t matter. Sometimes I feel so sensitive to everything and want to crumble at the merest of touches, and then I go long periods of time not caring about anything or anyone. I wish it were one or the other, but it keeps on shifting whenever I’m not looking. Sometimes there’s a girl in my heart who dances with the animals, and then there’s nothing but this sense of detachment that rules above all else. I laugh and smile on the outside, but within, I can’t think of anything other than hiding away like a spider. How many versions of me have there been? And exactly when did each one end and the next one begin?