She cries on every tune.

Is it suffocatingly morbid of me to think that was indeed the highest of highs I will ever climb and that the rest of my life will be lived out on the adequate but ultimately mediocre plateaus or, God forbid, downward slopes?

Yes. It really is.

But it's 3:06am and I'm allowed to think bad thoughts. Frankly, the existence of this blog itself is dedicated wholly to my 'bad thoughts'. Well, bad thoughts in between euphoric happiness at football, a place to whore music I love and very occasionally (and usually midyearly) doomed romance (repeat ad nauseam).

I don't blog as frequently as I used to in the previous months. One look at my archive tells all. February (47), January (43), July (37).

I find it hard to figure out what there is to say, if there's anything at all.

I think I've developed a mental block for writing. One I only occasionally overcome when:

a) extremely emotional

or

b) under the influence of alcohol or leftover cough medicine

I used to write, you know.

I (note the repeated usage of the word 'I', hinting towards self-obsession) have this story framed in my head. It occurred to me earlier today when I was barely awake and hung over.

It is, of course, about being hungover.

Moving with the plodding hopelessness of the very hungover.

Nursing his hangover with a glass of wine.

I never try to make my ideas anything other than ideas.

God, there's this hole in my stomach and it feels like hunger but it isn't, really.

No more excuses: exercise.

Okay, confession: Somewhat resentful of the fact that we can't talk with the same casualness closeness we have even after the not-talking. No more in-jokes. No more random bouts of nonsense. Jealous because even my friends have it better than me. But too bad.

It's all in my head, of course. But so is Life.

The Moleskine sits there, no new ink added to the pages. I only ever want to write in it when I think about you. Apt, in a way.

Oh, yes. We lost. Damn football.

The xx don't do much live. They play their songs straight and flawless for most part. All without dynamics. No variation. Leaves you wanting a bit more. Otherwise, a fantastic band.

And they're all just a year older than me.

I suppose as you grow older there excuse that you're still young becomes even more ridiculous than it was when you were 10. Even then it was laughable. All created equal? In the same way all potatoes are shaped the same.

I'm not even a bad enough writer to become infamous.

Again, nobody will comment on this. Since I'm a walking parody of the human condition to everyone.

Bed now. I leave thee with The xx.

Teardrops (Womack & Womack cover)

"And the music don't feel like it did, with you."