J’s Diary Entry
Thursday, 2 March 1995
Christ I’m drunk. I did not think that I would get this drunk on a drink I find so unpleasant, Scotch. I suppose I’ve drunk a little over half a bottle in three hours. Is that macho? I’m too drunk to know, but I hope it is. I am taping “Hearts of Darkness”, but I thought I should write. The TV sound is muted. Alas, the traffic noise is not. For some reason, it seems particularly loud tonight, sitting in the front room at Pop’s writing desk. I wonder what he would think of me if he could see me now. He went senile and died before I changed into the bitter creature I am now. I am so drunk that I cannot focus unless I close one eye – double vision, you see. Ha ha – a pun.
Had an interesting day at work. Cav and Quinn got a slap on the wrist from Noah. He told Cav that he “still had a lot to learn” about journalism. Cav was bristling for hours. We chatted in hushed voices in both the tea and mail rooms. I don’t know why I decided to get so drunk. I was really quite dedicated to the cause. Christ, how am I going to deal with the office drinks session tomorrow night? I was supposed to join the local library tonight. Instead I worship at Bacchus Temple in an impious fashion. I am somber but certainly not sober. It is a good thing that I did not buy the razors upon which my gaze lingered fixedly Friday night in the Supermarket. If I had them now, I believe I would probably cut myself. Perhaps Scotch is not my drink. For some reason my eyesight is better and I feel more sober when I view the work through my left eye. Ever since I got really pissed I’ve been prancing in the mirror like a real queen, with a pigtail on top of my head with a little fringe showing. Maybe I’m just a big poof – who knows? Stephen Fry is my “blokey fantasy” – big, funny and intelligent – my three pre-requisites. I don’t know what I am. I hope that by adopting the idiosyncrasies of certain subcultures, that I will find a place that feels like home. Unfortunately, there is no home.
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