Plans.

 

Not going to lie: I feel fucking epic right now. I can do anything. 2015 was good, 2016 is going to be epic. I’ll own 2017. In 2018 I shall conquer Scarlett Johansson.

As if. Touched with Fire just arrived. How apropos. Definitely feeling touched with fire today.

I’ve decided that I need a weekend in Paris. I need to get used to traveling, and I want to see Paris, so a major goal next year is to find some poor unfortunate to drag with me. I’m not sure of the timing yet and I may, or may not, ask Dakota to come with me. I have this hunch that if I offer to pay for the flights and accommodation that she’ll say yes.

The other thing is that things with W (?) seem to have suddenly picked up again, we’re chatting a lot more and it feels like we’re opening up more and flirting. I keep looking at her photos and she’s stunning; still reminds me of my ex but she’s like a really good looking version of my ex. Freaks me out slightly.

 

 

 

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Grouch, grouch, grouch.

 

I haven’t slept since I woke up at 7pm last night after sleeping since 1am and I am not a happy bunny. I am, in fact, quite manic which is why I am listening to Hammerbox. I’m in full on, “Why don’t you fuck off and die?” mode and my mind is racing and when I talk I have to repeat myself about four times, getting progressively slower and more irritated because people’s tiny brains can’t process me talking at this rate. “You talk really fast” no, you listen really slow, wake up!

 

Assessments.

And then I think that here’s me and I, comparatively, am such an underachiever compared to a lot of my family. Partly this is because of my perfectionism, I don’t know what I’d have to do to reach a point where I didn’t feel like an underachiever; I suspect quite a lot.

I’m not really bothered about this; I have a sense that I have huge potential, but through illness and environment things have never quite panned out for me but that in the fullness of time this potential will blossom. The last year, for instance, as I look back on it, has been rather stunningly successful for me.

I’ve done some major personal demon slaying, made some great strides personally and can now think about what I’m doing professionally in life. It’s been really good. I’m not happy with it, I hoped to get further, get more done, but this hasn’t been my fault; I have done everything that I could possibly have done, which is……acceptable.

I’m still chomping at the bit, I’m still hungry and eager to crack on and when the time comes I’ll be able to hit the ground running, but the fact remains that I still have time to kill and I still have ambitions outside of my professional ambitions.

I want to get back into writing, I want to get something published and that means getting past my perfectionism and just writing. I think that I have the talent for it, it’s just getting past the idea that whatever comes out first won’t be a magnum opus that will immediately be published as a Penguin Modern Classic, made into a film and catapult me into the stratosphere of the literati and therefore isn’t worth bothering with. If I’m not immediately going to get the nobel prize for literature it’s pointless, right?

Then I remind myself that the only way to get that good is to write. I was talking to Plato about this and his advice is just to write and not worry how good it is, that’s for other people to decide, not me. It’s good advice. I think I might have an earlyish night tonight and then crack on with it tomorrow and see were I get to.

Book smart.

So the beer tokens ended up being book tokens. Shock. I bought A History of Western Philosophy, Classical Mechanics: The Theoretical Minimum and Our Mathematical Universe: My Quest for the Ultimate Nature of Reality

It’s one of those moments when I kind of wonder about myself. I would normally make some kind of joke about it being light reading but I can’t do that since S caught me on the loo reading NatureSo the “light reading” joke doesn’t work any more because, to entirely blow my own trumpet, it is light reading for me. At the moment I’m still working my way through The European Miracle:  Environments, Economies and Geopolitics in the Histories of Europe and Asia which I would class as an enjoyable read, I find it relaxing. I’ve also just finished The Cardinal of the Kremlin which is marginally less challenging, shall we say, so I’m not all high brow nonfiction, but to be honest I get bored of fiction quite often because it just often lacks any kind of intellectual engagement. It has to be really highbrow fiction to make me think.

Then I think about the rest of my family which is packed full of intellectual overachievers, and also rivern with mental illness, obviously we’ve got those genetics and got them in abundance.  That though gives me a bit of an anchor point, I can say, “Yeah, I’m really intelligent, look at my family”.

 

 

Xmas report.

I have tartan slippers and, possibly for various bipolar related reasons,this fills me with an immense childlike joy. Also, I now have a copy of Kissinger: 1923-1968: The Idealist.  I’ve been meaning to get this since it came out but I think £35 is a bit steep for a book and I hadn’t noticed that it had come down in price. Either way mum picked up a copy in Waterstones for £25. We are most pleased.

Also I have a mountain of loot tribute  taxes money from Scotland (People’s Democratic Republic of)  which I shall have to find some way of laundering or otherwise exchanging, possibly in a bank, thus avoiding the problem of “We don’t accept foreign currency”. This is enormously useful and represents a useful injection of beer tokens for the festive period.