The wind cries mary

It’s around 2 am, despite the time-stamp on this blog suggesting it’s around 3. That’s daylight savings for you, I guess.

I’ve been on a long walk around Sydney today with other DSLR Users members. My ankles hurt. My thighs are red and hurt when I run water over them. I’m tired, having only slept for two-and-a-half hours today and having done [i]that[/i] much walking and [i]that[/i] much surviving from a fair amount of heat, humidity, dryness, and then voting on a sheet that didn’t even fit in the bloody cardboard booth they give you.

I’ve shaved my beard off, so that means you’re stuck with paedophile Leigh, or what I’ve been called in the past based off of how some people seem to think I look without a beard. Then again, I’ve been told I look like one with a beard so I guess I’m just royally screwed there, although not by children because then I really would be a paedophile.

And I’m not. Yuck. Eww. Wouldn’t go near that.

And no one shags me anyway, so I’m lucky to be any sort of a -phile, really. Maybe I’m a lack-of-sex-phile, in that while I’m not addicted to not having sex, it seems to be the constant state I’m in. Like if you say, “Oh, I’m from New Jersey,” that’s the state you’re in, and I happen to say “That’s nice… I’m from No-one Shags my Willy,” and then you blink in disbelief because of what I said and say “Excuse me?!” and I respond with “Oh, I mean NSW.”

It had the same basic letters highlighted you know.

Not that I’m bothered by the lack of sex, I’m not. I’d probably be more confused by someone wanting to have sex with me more than that. I mean shit, if you’ve been rejected for pretty much all your life because people find you too weird, and your last sexual encounter was just so comically bad, you feel it’s a civic duty to write a Woody Allen-esque comedy on it so others who have been through something similar to you can relate (and everyone else can just laugh while they steal a couple kernels of puffy white pillows of popcorn) and then all of a sudden, someone actually physically [i]wants[/i] you to sleep with them, it’s likely to startle you. Or confuse you.

Maybe it’s just too much porn. Who the hell knows.

It’s not the lack of sex, mind you. It’s the lack of people to connect with… to know that I’m only called upon at certain times by friends when something happens. I do have some really close friends, mind you, and I’m thankful for them… but when you’re as alone as I am in [i]that[/i] sort of a way (and by that sort of a way, I mean the one where you’re forced to use italicised words in a blog entry more than any person probably should), you really can’t help but feel segregated from society, as if there’s some barrier that makes you different and makes people choose to not connect with you.

What was I talking about?

My ankles hurt. My thighs hurt. I’m writing this in the dark and am forcing my brain (evil) to use its memory of where the keys are so I can type this blog without seeing anything but the screen. So far, I’m doing well. I’m better at typing in the dark than picking up women. I wonder how many guys can say that. Most of them would probably see that as sad… and they’d be right.

What was I talking about again?

Shit. I can’t remember.

It’s been almost a week since my last blog entry and I’m not too thrilled about that.

This blog was supposed to be a constant supply of my thoughts for the people who think they’re able to handle the sort of shit that my brain thinks up.

Today on the train, I saw a guy reading an Irish newspaper, and the headline on the front was “Irish baby united with mother” or something to that effect, and my brain immediately interpreted it as “Irish baby lion united with mother” and I kept on thinking about a lion chewing on its mum’s body parts.

Bugger… what was I on about again?

It’s windy outside. Very windy. The sort of wind that keeps you up when you’re as tired as I am. The sort of wind you live for because you rarely feel something so strong and direct that feels so nice at the same time… a force to be welcomed, not reckoned with.

My ankles hurt. My thighs ache and swell. The pigmentation on my arm is getting heavier or more clotted… I don’t know the term for it… all I know is that it’s changing.

And now my head is spinning. Dizzy, I feel like I’m moving all around the place. It’s kind of like being drugged, except I’m neither drunk nor high and am very much awake. There’s something wrong with my brain. I don’t mind the feeling, mind you. It’s like I’m without gravity and I’m spinning around and am conscious of everything. I’m sitting and it’s just started happening around 5-10 minutes ago. Hasn’t stopped yet. I’m still typing blindly.

One of these days, I’ll have to go to a doctor to find out what it is. Until I do, however, crack addicts wish they could get this natural feeling as something erodes my synapses, eats away at my brain activity, leaving me to be… whatever the hell mess I am anyway.

Insanity is like that, I imagine.

Damn. I need sleep. What was I on about again?

My ankles yell out for ice. My thighs say “fuck the ice, let’s get a pillow”. My brain says “fuck the pillow, let’s get some meds!”. I say I must’ve written some sort of prose-y blog while the wind cried Mary on my curtain blinds.