I need to learn to say no. Sometime in this life, preferably. Or at least have a stack of social
But what's the point of a day off when it's more stressful and unpleasant than your average workday and you spend it rushing from one thing you don't want to do to another, angry at yourself and your lack of decisiveness? Shopping trip, semi-unpleasant, but necessary, and while I didn't find what I set out to buy, I did find a gorgeous black winter coat at H&M, trousers I seem to be actually able to wear, thanks to all the running, and a nice blouse. A scarf, too. So far, so good. Then off to the horse, who somewhere along the way apparently has decided not to take me seriously at all any longer. Lost my nerve, shouted at her, repeatedly, loudly, and had then at least had the satisfaction of an extremely docile and well-behaved horse for the rest of the walk. Home, soup, shower. Made the mistake of letting in the cat from the yard, who thought it was funny to chose the very moment when I had to leave in already something of a hurry to hide under my sofa and play hide and seek for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Hot, sweaty and annoyed, rushing to meet U. who'd caught me off guard Saturday with her invitation to the opening of the Cecil Beaton exhibition. Over-crowded exhibition I never particularly wanted to see in the first place, as I don't much care for photography, U. and her idiot nazi SM-inclined (and I really wish I could be more sure she was actually 100% joking when she suggested he should let us tie him up...) boyfriend, who's really starting to grate on my nerves. They insisted I have a drink with them afterwards, though god knows why either of them wanted to have me along. Just because I'm polite enough not to run screaming from him (or maybe because I'm the only one of her friends prepared to meet him?) it doesn't mean I want to make a habit of going out with them.
Thursday for a short moment I was actually glad to be back at work, except, it was a madhouse.
... I've only ever read one book by E. Jelinek. No I'm lying, I read through about three quarters of Die Klavierspielerin and browsed through the rest, because I simply couldn't bear this level of bleakness, depression, utter lack of anything positive at all. It's different when depression or negativity is - how to put it? - more of a personal expression, but there's a kind of all-encompassing bleakness about this book, a negative outlook on the world that I've never been able to share in such a totality. The world she describes there is a cold hell where emotions are nothing but a twisted parody and only ever used to hurt and humiliate, with no escape whatsoever.
Perhaps it doesn't make sense to complain about a book being too depressing when at that time I was listening to and emphasising with TR's lyrics to a quite embarrassing degree, but there it is... *shrugs*
My life sucks! I can understand, but I've yet to be convinced that the world, as a whole, is really this bleak and horrible place.
However brilliantly written, however well she handles language, I can't overcome that personal reluctance.