and I've just finished The Time Traveler's Wife and I'm sobbing salt with the loneliness of it all, the Gobi of my own emotional life that stretches back from now and, in all probability, for the next 40-50 years. I've, sporadically at best, dated nothing but alcoholics and depressives for the last twelve years, who clutch at me like drowning men but I'm never enough to fill the void within them. I'm so fed up with sticking my heart back together with lipstick and a sense of humour. What an appalling waste.
My mother says there are lives of chocolate and lives of love, and I don't think this one is either. There are times when I wish I was able to drink myself numb, but my control's too strong. And in this cold wet country my hip hurts at night, and it's hard to sleep, and even with two duvets I feel cold and alone.
Everything will look better in the morning. I hope. But sometimes it's very hard to keep the faith.
