Are you writing from the heart?

I have attempted to write this blog about fourteen times. At this point, sleep deprived, listening to some vaguely irritating indie pop chick playing a moving song on a keyboard, I feel like Bernard Black trying to do his taxes:

"If you live in a boat, but are... not... blind... WHAT?!?!??! WHAAAAAAT?!?!?!"

Anyway, I've had to do some reassessing lately of one of my core beliefs. That core belief being: unbridled bitterness focused on everything and anything, but particularly on A) People having spontaneous fun and making too much noise B) Pretentious wankers who own Jaguars even though they're 18 and have the emotional and social capacity of a teaspoon, but think their opinions are more valid than yours because they once read something about Montaigne's theory of sleep and Nietzsche's idea of the Ubermensch (for the record, Montaigne had severe erectile dysfunction, and many of his philosophies were about his sexual insecurities, while Nietzsche had to pay a woman to sleep with him because no one else would, and for his troubles his caught syphillis, went crazy, and was remembered for hugging a dead horse and having a moustache that scared women away... but I digress...), and C) gross, overly-affectionate couples who indulge in PDA constantly and are all "No, I love YOUUUUU MOORRREEE".

All of these things make me want to smack a bitch.
Please. Don't make me vom in my mouth.

Anyway. Long time readers of D.I.D a Mess may have gained a certain impression about my general disposition. That being: I am a crazy, bitter, twisted 20-something with no empathy, or sympathy, or any of the "pathies", with a penchant for coffee, gin and cats, who will most likely die alone in an abandoned house, surrounded by cats, perpetually gin-drunk and throwing kittens out of upper floor windows at happy children outside.

THIS IS AN ACCURATE CONCLUSION TO DRAW ABOUT ME, AND I APPLAUD YOU FOR REACHING IT OF YOUR OWN ACCORD.

The point is, my being has been challenged recently. My capacity for broad generalised rage has been challenged to some degree, my disgust with "things" as a nondescript entity has been waning, my late night, caffeine-fuelled, barely readable rants have dissolved into a fine silverly powder of vague displeasure (and, on this note, you may also have noticed that I have infinitely less interesting and intelligent blogs than my D.I.D a Mess colleagues. This is potentially because they are endlessly more intelligent and have far longer attention spans than me, and also they all do literate and clever things with their lives that will probably earn them money and when I am living in a hovel somewhere with my many cats, cackling like a banshee and listening to Edith Piaf on an old gramophone... um... I don't remember where I was going with this. THE POINT IS I SUCK AND I APOLOGISE FOR THIS).

Anyway. All of this has been challenged for the following reason:
...
...
...
...
I discovered I have feelings.

I know. I was horrified too. I tried many things to get read of these mysterious and foreign "feelings". I went swimming under a full moon in hot springs, I sacrificed small animals, I drank the blood of virgins. I also did some stuff to try and get rid of the feelings. OH HOH HOH, I AM SO WITTY.
The point was. They just didn't go away.
And another person was dragged into it, and you know how the old adage goes:

"When there are two people with feelings, their feelings unite into an amorphous blob of a gooey substance that invades every orifice and destroys all rational thought until they can't breathe."

Or something not quite like that. Possibly something nicer. Or possibly there is actually no adage, and I just really need sleep.

The point is.
Somehow I'm in a long distance relationship and. I'm. Happy?

Sometimes reassessment is good.
Anyway.
If I don't sleep I will die.

I will leave you with this parting haiku:

Anna Hyde is
going to sleep now or else
Refrigerator.

xx