I eat too much here. We picked a kajillion strawberries so I made pie and tarts, and then the Mum made jam and milkshakes, and then the Dad roasted a goat and fried up wild mushrooms, and maaaaan. So this entry will reflect my indigestion/biliousness - you've been warned. Being home - not just the debauched overeating, but something else too - makes me want cigarettes like nobody's business. And whenever I even smell them, my body starts to tease: "You want that, huh? You want it? You want it? I'll make you PUKE if you put that in your mouth, bitch!" Oh ciggie poos. Yeah. I'm in a shitty mood.
I wasn't raised to feel entitled and being here reminds me of that. That's not a whinge, or at least I don't think it is; nobody was nasty to me when they were raising me so I'm lucky and I know it. They tried to be realistic and helpful when they raised me by teaching me the world was unfair, that virtue and merit are nescessary but go unrewarded. But now I've decided that's not helpful anymore and what matters are balls. Now I'm frustrated over feeling blocked and unentitled about doctoral programmes when I shouldn't be either.
Part, but not all, is my ex-advisor's unhelpfulness. I'm not this blocked over the applications just because my cunty ex-advisor is being a cunt and I have to butter him up like fucking Maria Schneider in Last Tango in Paris. The block is more about fear; about asking people for what I just think should be mine automatically and being piss-scared of them saying no. And then being piss-scared that if they don't say no - that if I get it and fuck up, or hate it, lapse into another lethargic depression, it's me, 100% me, who fucks up or hates it or lapses into a lethargic depression.
There's the problem. I know the idiocy and misery I'm capable of, and I don't have the balls to trust myself to not do that again. I wish there was some knight in shining armour around who'd kick me in the head until I stopped being an idiot forever, but there isn't. Figaro is awfully important, but I know he'll never kick my ass into gear, nor should I expect that of him. I also know that no matter what happens with or without Figaro, Magnum PI is imaginary and will NOT come and inspire me to flights of marketable genius with his wry good humour and Rusyn good looks.
Holy fucking shit, do I ever need to grow a figurative set of balls; become the man I've always wanted to have, more or less. Does that sound icky? Because I'm pretty sure it's true. From now on, whenever I feel myself turning into a piss-scared, defeatist, hateful gloom merchant, I'm going to ask myself what Ghengis Khan would do. And then I'll do whichever version of it won't send me to prison.