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via "Les Confessions" on 30/08/05
I feel like a mess. Not unhappy (and please do not take the following tale as unhappy - it is not at all) but I am certainly confused. Or perhaps "dazed" is a better word. Half a dozen toxins compete in my body for my mind's full attention, battling against tiredness and more mundane practical matters like the fact it's 2am and I've got work in 5 hours.
I wonder if I'll dream tonight.
Last night I had a dream that I had been commissioned to write a script for Mel Brooks. It was for a musical comedy that would appear in the West End of London and on Broadway. I had a year to write the script but unfortunately I did not quite get round to it. Instead I attempted to write the play on the way to the theatre's first performance. I think I got the 68 which was infuriatingly quick at getting me where I was going (which was strange since the 68 didn't go there, but this was a dream after all).
By the time I met up with Mr Brooks and the rest of the cast I had only written the first scene (which all agreed was rather poor in any case) and the first musical number which closed the first scene. I planend to write the rest of the play while it was being performed. Most of the cast seemed to feel this was unorthodox but had to no choice but continue.
At this point I encountered a major bout of writers block and could not think of what could possibly come next. As the song (the end of the material I had written) came to it's climax I suddenly realised a joke that one of the main characters (a bar maid, I think) could tell in response to the song. The joke was indeed both brilliant and hilarious and I attempted to whisper it to her on stage as the rest of the cast finished singing. She looked at me blankly.
Why wasn't she saying the line? What was wrong with her? This was brilliant after all and she stood in the way of my brilliance. A horrible silence gripped the stage. Could no-one ad-lib in this entire performance? Evidently not.
I hissed the joke again to the young girl, but she continued to ignore me. Suddenly the audience realised what was going on, and began a torrent of booing and complaining.
My only hope, it seemed, involved burning down the theatre to cause it to be evacuated. I cannot remember the details clearly but a young woman in the audience was killed while trying to escape the inferno. I went on the run, but weighed down by my own guilt I longed for death.
When I awoke (possibly as I died in the dream) I realised with some relief that none of the dream was true. It was instead however, a thinly veiled reference to my continued inability to start (let alone finish) my dissertation (due in on Thursday 31st August - that is tomorrow). Was my subconscious telling me something? Why was I indirectly referencing The Producers in my own dreams?
I think Mel Brook's appearance can be entirely attributed to Space Balls being on ITV2 the night before.
The dream left me mildly unsettled but most of all annoyed that I cannot remember the joke I devised. I was convinced it would keep the audience laughing for the next two hours and therefore one presumes it was rather good.
Still, the dream made me think that perhaps I should endeavour to start my wretched assignment and so I fired up my Text Editor of choice and attempted to read & write all I could on Repairs and Maintenance in Social Housing in the United Kingdom. I wrote a few paragraphs but none inspired me to continue. I could not bring myself to care. I read the course handbook for my degree in order to re-emphasise it's importance in the programme as well as the incomprehensibly tortuous penalties for late submittal. It was to no avail. I still didn't care.
So in the end I gave up at mid-day and watched a friend play a decade old computer game. Later in the Dukes of Hazzard this evening. It was predictably terrible.
After the movie crapfest had finished I realised it was late, I have work tomorrow and was sorely in the need of sleep. So I retired to bed.
Somewhat unusually I could not sleep - perhaps I have become accustomed to sleeping pills since my trip to Reading. Perhaps it was the 40mg of Ritalin I consumed today. Perhaps I was less tired than I first thought. Who knows. As I lay in bed my mind flitted back to the only real event today - I visited the drug research unit where I receive my injections and obtained my first cheque (for £750).
The money was promptly deposited into my bank account and was ear-marked for the repayment of priority debts. £450 to Oliver and £280 to another debt I promised to pay this week. I had every intention of paying I assure you and indeed had already given £300 in cash (my maximum limit for today) to the first of my creditors.
What happened next is as symptomatic of my sickness as the dissertation / Mel Brooks incident. I deposited £250 in my William Hill on-line gambling account. It was lost almost immediately. I cannot recall how, but it does not matter particularly. So of course I deposited another £200. Similarly gone. At this point I felt sick. As I have said before, I have had speed crashes, I have had ecstacy come-downs and I have had pretty bad alcohol induced hangovers. But nothing, quite compares to the feeling that comes when you have fucked away £450 of money that isn't even yours.
There is a physical pain that eminates from the stomach combined with an intense sense of nausea. Your heart rate quickens. There is dry mouth. You may as well have consumed a drug. A horrible expensive drug which could have destroyed a great many things in your life. But it still feels damn good.
In the familiar logic of the madman or the addict I felt the path was clear. I would try depositing another £50. And another £50. And another £50. Finally (thankfully) I got a red message telling me I couldn't deposit anymore. My balance was £150 in my William Hill account. I checked my Barclay's Bank balance. It was -£2,051.06. Keep in mind my overdraft limit is £1600 and this tells you the situation I faced.
I quickly lost £35. I _knew_ I would lose the rest of the money but at this point it was too late. It was inevitable. My bank account was all but destroyed. So I put the remaining money on the bottom row in a game of European Roulette. I don't know why. 7 Red. I won. £345. I put it all on red.
3 Red. I won. £690. I withdrew the money back onto my card. I felt sick to my stomach still, but at least I was saved.
For now.
I shall attempt to blog regarding Reading tomorrow. In short; it was brilliant.
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