The business of sadness

I have a document on my desktop called 'diary' and it's just another place where I write about the things that I think about, like my notebooks, like the notes section in my iPhone, like my wall, like my hand, like the bit of toilet paper from last night's pub, like this blog. I like 'diary' though because it's been my latest project, something that I can make pretty and edit and practice improving writing even if the writing is just about my crazy head. I went back to it this afternoon suddenly remembering the drunken essay I'd thought was genius when I wrote it around 1.30am the other morning; turns out, that while genius presents itself in many forms, my typo-ridden prose written while listening to I Can't Make You Love Me and drinking the remains of a 80:20 ratio mix of vodka and orange juice is not one of them. 

I laugh about a lot of things, mainly The Simpsons and this video, but one of the things I like to laugh about the most is how ridiculous I can be. I get sad a lot, but admittedly the humour in it is somehow obvious, particularly when re-reading something that seemed so profound at the time that I assumed Leonard Cohen would ring me up in tears, singing the praises of my complex metaphors and obscene despair and begging me to duet with him or at least proofread his new poetry collection. I like the headiness of being a teenager even if it hurts,  and I like believing anything to be possible. When I get old I hope I don't lose that, because I just don't think I could ever be happy without seeing something kind of funny in all moodiness' self-indulgence and melodramatics. 

Here is a picture of me in the 'writer's studio' (my bed) trying to be Lana Del Rey.