Plagued by strange ailments, so did not go to work today. I've spent most of the day searching on the net for prices for my uni textbooks. Had a small private heart attack upon realising that they will cost me about $500, if the worst comes to the worst and I have to buy them all new. Oh god.

So I went outside and sat in the courtyard for a little while, chain smoking, trying to tell myself that excessive smoking is justified due to the stress of expensive textbook purchases. I'd kind of like to go somewhere, but I'm just too damn lazy, and Jerry Springer is on. I've been in a hermit phase for the last month or so. When I first started entering these phases (about 3 years ago) I became terrified that I was becoming boring and old, and forced myself to go out. Now I kind of like them. I've come to realise that they don't necessarily mean that I'm boring, just that I need to recuperate for a little while. I burned myself out a few years ago and I suppose I'm still catching up, in a way. And when you force yourself to socialise against your will, you will inevitably have a mediocre evening. This latest hermit phase is actually quite convenient, as I'm extremely poor at the moment.

Such a beautiful day outside.

Headache is back, must cease looking at screen immediately.

Not sure why I continue to write in this thing, because the most fascinating thing about it these days is the backdrop. Nothing notable seems to happen to me. I don't think I'm a blogging type of person, really. I have never been the type to tell stories about myself, or reveal very much at all to many people. I don't consider many things to be worth telling, which is why I like to keep quiet most of the time. And when I do decide to take the plunge and tell a story, or relate a little snippet of my history or of my day, I never seem to tell it right. Anecdotes that I tell seem to lose all of their intrigue, funny stories lose their punch line, so that they sound more like a person reading a shopping list out loud than saying something entertaining. And it's the same with writing.

blah blah. So here's a story. Last Friday on the bus from Gladesville to the city, I made yet another strange friend. A young South American boy with strange darting eyes and a disturbingly friendly manner. He eyed me for a little while, then sat next to me and proceeded to pull a packet of heart stickers out of his bag. 'I bought them to give to the girls'. Oh, right. He then peeled off two of the stickers and put one each of my big toes (which were painted red at the time). And then he kept reaching down and squeezing my feet for the rest of the journey. Part of me was silently wondering, 'Why am I letting a complete stranger grope my feet?'. Another part of me silently replied, 'Because if you protest, who knows what he might do. Besides, you are on a bus, and there isn't really anywhere that you can escape to if need be'. So I just sat there. He also showed me his photo album, and a large parcel that he was going to send to his ex-girlfriend overseas. He also showed me the empty postpak from the last package that he has sent her, which had been returned to sender because she hadn't collected it from the post office.

I found this pretty depressing. All my Friday afternoon high spirits kind of evaporated. This poor strange person, desperately lonely and sending a package full of strange items to his ex-girlfriend back home, with the best intentions, and she doesn't even bother going to the post office to pick it up. The poor guy has probably been trying to send her the same parcel for the past six months and hasn't got the message yet. He'd even stuck lots of his little heart stickers all over the postpak.