Pure balance of extremes.

Today I’ve missed a deadline of a script competition I was supposed to resubmit my work to.

Once upon a time 3 years ago I’ve written a story based on the events from 7 years back. Of course a certain level of exaggeration was required, however I’m glad I captured the spirit of those days.

I opened the file and while reading I decided to instead of the jury send it to my best friend, the other main character and the only one who could fully appreciate it.

-You’ve made me so evil! Like a man-eater!  And you’re so innocent.

-Well, I was a hippie back then. And I had to show it that way for the contrast!

-He picked me, because he didn’t want to make you bad. Look at us now, it’s hilarious how it turned out!

Her, the man-eater in her teens in a steady and fully approved by me relationship, the guy we’d been both trying to seduce that summer 7 years ago married and a happy daddy.

-I think I temporary cured my depression with alcohol, cocaine and sex.

-Hahahhaaha. Ok, I need to run, keep on doing what makes you happy you innocent one.

-Nah, I have a therapy in 2 hours…

The truth is, this weekend I felt like my old self – utterly irresponsible in my personal life, but with no thoughts about killing myself.

A couple of weeks ago I arrived at the collusion that my default state of mind is suicidal and all the traveling, casual encounters, art experiments, hell even life modelling was just a successful enough distraction.

Turns out I was only partially right. I’m not addicted to the kicks themselves, but those tiny doses of entropy they bring into my life.

This is how it goes:

If I have boy trouble I escape from it into work. If I’m losing control of the location of my panties, I won’t lose control of the set I’m running. (By the way, I found them in my bag in the middle of a session on being assertive.)

Pure balance of extremes.

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