Had one of those 'internal meltdowns' last night. I was a bit tired, a lot overstimulated - having watched Moulin Rouge cranked up to 11 - and in the grip of an incipient migraine. A fabulous combination of circumstances, non?
So I'm sitting in the car, quietly looking out of the window but inside my head ran a Denis-Leary-esque shouting rant. "I'm tired of this bland existance! I want fame and fortune and the courage to take it all! I want my face on the cover of Time, dammit! I want excitement!"
Of course, the voice of reason kicked in. But not, er, not too exciting - just exciting enough, alright?
I hate being English, sometimes.
It Occurs To Me...
I used to keep an online dream journal. I quit because I tend to have incredibly detailed dreams, and it was an awful lot of work to maintain. Maybe I'll get back into the habit and use this site for it. Although I would probably just stick to the more nifty meanderings of my subconcious, and leave my prurient nocturnal fantasies out of it...