This morning started in time honoured fashion with the demolition of several unattractive varieties of cereal poorly amalgamated in a teacup. Washed down with a good helping of french toast and an industrial quantity of sugar. Wait, I'm not finished. There goes another slice of bread. The day spiralled out of control into a vast, food devouring tornado and by 6pm the best part of two slab cakes had gone down the hatch. Cue a choc-ice palate cleanser.
CRY.
But I can't, can I? Even that primordial human right to feel guilty at the concept of comfort eating has been stripped from me. For recently, it has come to my attention that I am largely deficient in several emotions. This, I discussed in some depth with Our Kid earlier, and we concluded that by and large, our emotion states could be categorized into some sort of bastardized trading game. I.e I'll swap you an excess Manic Depression Spate* for a glut of Woe Is Me. Or so on. Evocative of the playground, isn't it? Anyway, right now the very act of crying eludes me. Worryingly so, as I fear I am hurting subconsciously. I've tried. And tried. And tried. And bar a few crocodile tears, my tear ducts are for the most part redundant. I can't even remember unleashing my sadness. Nowadays it manifests itself grotesquely in insolence, denial and mindless apathy. Occasionally I am wont to throw destructiveness into the mix. Lately my phone has been bearing the brunt of this physical display of discontent, however inspection I deduced that my walls were coming off worse than the handset. Not wanting to lose my precious deposit, I carefully dismantled said phone (something been launched at a radiator had not accomplished) and dropped the pieces into the bin.
*I am in denial over the now more politically correct "Bi-Polar disorder." MDS is a more brutal extent of FFM (funny five minutes).
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