. . . . in which i go foraging in a beautiful food forest garden in a place that suggests the english countryside on a breezy summer’s day . . . the entrance is unusually convoluted, like three gates that were all opened on top of each other . . . when i find my way in it is lush and overgrown . . . downhill from me, on the edge of the boundary that goes onto a thick, impenetrable forest is a collection of giant, eight feet tall books and the suggestion of a house just beyond view . . . i am preparing for a recipe in a book shared with kira that invokes nigella . . . it is a dessert she recommends that requires chokeberries, which i am now picking, called “asphyxiation pie”, though seems more like a cobbler or a crumble to me . . . there is a note either in the book or from kira to savour the rich gravy that will form in the bottom and not to discard it . . . i am left with the image of dark black astringent berries in their juices oozing from kira’s mouth and staining her teeth black . . . .

katya suggested emdr to perhaps get that fucking evil bitch queen and her hellspawn out of my fucking head, which i hadn’t even considered, and i don’t know if i should even tell dawn about it . . . maybe i have? and got no response. shouldn’t it be a big deal if i say it’s a big deal. every day, the ambient hate, pointless negotiations . . . or maybe i haven’t said anything about it because it’s ever-present, too obvious perhaps? still i’m too old and tired to get a new therapist at this point. is this what she’s banking on? maybe let’s start with the emdr. or the mdma. or why not both?

tried to stir things up by keeping busy for as long as i could muster this weekend, met kira, got a massage, ate a new seasons sandwich, tried a probiotic soda, ate illicit candy, got my car serviced, practiced the bowser shortcut, picked up native plants, picked up my prescription, got local frozen custard, got high, got fitted for some new running shoes, socks, paraphernalia, took myself out for mushroom pizza and na beer, shopped for garden furniture, got my car cleaned, and when i came home the same yawning emptiness, the lack of any narrative, sense of self or purpose, barely enough to feed myself, and i think dawn will just nod and summarize, is she doing anything above chatgpt at this point, i don’t really feel like even she is advocating for me anymore, move over darling, do i just need a good steak, or to come off the omeprazole, or live in another timeline, or

what they don’t tell you about going no contact is that even though you’ll feel some immediate relief at not accumulating any more of their bullshit every single day, there’s also the backlog of hurtful things that go on hurting, for years, quietly smoldering away. and it’s the same stuff often going round and round, like part of me knew i couldn’t put up with it any longer, but another part of me hasn’t caught up yet, hasn’t yet accepted that nothing is ever going to change, that it wasn’t going to before and it certainly isn’t going to now, you’re never going to convince them of their wickedness or change their mind about anything, and so it keeps on going round, a terrible carousel of despicable behavior, and it won’t stop hurting.

meeting with amy and katya, felt simultaneously imposing and insignificant….i’ve hated working on this project, it’s like when someone leaves their car in a kafkaesque fucking carpark and then expects you to remember where it is upon returning….another heatwave today, stepped out around four after seeing a hummingbird sip from the feeder, the bees were working furiously as if animated by the heat. did i see a hornet too? spiders have put up shop everywhere.

three times people have asked me today, how are you, and each time i look inside myself and i just truly do not fucking know . . . how do people know? i think maybe they might have a story about themselves that they tell themselves and others to try to make sense of who they are, but i seem to have lost the plot . . . i’ve no vision of the future, just a blank nothing person . . . or maybe i would say something if the story was more acceptable . . . the thing i can’t make sense of right now is why katya is the person i text more than anyone else, and if there is something i want to broadcast she is the always the first person i think of, even above my own partner, and i don’t know what that means. i don’t know how to talk to my partner via text i guess. it just doesn’t flow and maybe that’s fine. texting is not something i particularly value. and on the other hand katya is a dear friend. i just feel like we are kids and i want to talk her ear off. why then do i keep overstepping the bounds of what is appropriate? i think that maybe that’s just who i am and i’m comfortable around her. and i curse the people in my life who have made me feel suspicious or doubtful towards my relationships with women. but the thought keeps nagging and it is troubling me. it has shaken my whole self image to the point where i don’t know who i am anymore . . . .

have i figured out what is wrong? maybe but most unsatisfyingly. you can’t get the wood, you know. what the fuck is wrong with me. i can’t absorb it and i’m too sick from too much of it. who has ever heard of such a thing. fucking no one. and will i eventually succumb to its weakening me, inch by inch, how many more years left, when i think of the future there is just nothing there, or will it just ensure that they are all feeble, anaemic, joyless . . . . is there anything left in me that wants to create, play, feel joy, fuck, read, cook, bathe, shoot, sing

pots, sharon gently suggests to me, and therein a possible answer, the only one at least that has soothed my anxiety to some degree, though nothing to celebrate, which is at least the first of two smoking guns, the other being the salts that i stopped taking around the same time, believing them to be destroying my liver among other things, and though i lack any data on all the above, wouldn’t it be so fucking nice to have an explanation for once, damned though i fucking am

if i am dying as i suspect let me make one fucking thing clear: sue is a cunt and mary is a cunt and fuck them both if they ever try to extend some phony sentiment towards me

supposedly you don’t wear new clothes to a fucking funeral, it’s bad luck or something, i guess sue didn’t get the fucking memo. surely if nothing else it’s gotta be bad luck to go shopping 36 hours after they croaked. with a dog and some fraudulent fucking story about a service animal.

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