Done with the dumps

As gross as that title sounded, what I actually meant was I'm "done with being down in the dumps". I'm no longer in limbo which is good, I actually got officially dumped which is bad. But for some reason it's not getting me that down.
I feel quite happy actually, I have alot more free time and lately it's been all about me. ME ME ME, selfish time with myself. Lots of long showers and DVDs, leisurely jogs around the park and lots of chocolate. This could also have had something to do with PMS. Whatever, I'm down wifit! You heard me.

So on with the ramblings of the self-indulgent blogger...
University doesn't usually teach me anything of interest that often except how to chow down an entire Indian meal in 5 minutes between classes or how to read text messages really subtly during lectures or how to avoid socialist propaganda vultures using my own aggressive style of self-defense. I rip their beards and throw soap at them, which really gets to them and they scream, My hair! My lack of hygiene! NOOO! Free David Hicks!!!!

But this time University taught me some shit. In my feminist class yesty my tutor/lecturer was boring us all with some Lacanian thought when she came out with one of her freaky facts.
She rarely does this but every now and then she'll say something straight out of Oddspot. One time she told us that a person who had undergone a liver transplant had also received another person's memories. Creepy.
And this time she told us that experiments have found... that if one person raises their index finger up and down for 10 minutes each day they have the same muscle development in a few weeks as a person who sits there for 10 minutes each day and imagines that they're raising their index finger up and down. It's called kinesthetics or something.

It got me thinking that I should start imagining a whole-body workout each day for half an hour or so. I could sit at home on the couch eating chocolate mousse and imagining I'm rock climbing or marathon running. Or even better I wouldn't even have to think if I watched The Biggest Loser for an hour. Just watching that show makes me tired, and no wonder. I'm getting a massive kinesthetics workout!

I'd like to leave you all today with a special treat from the erowid vaults (the what you say? Look here) So enjoy yourselves, lets all get closer together!

Down in the dumps.

When I'm feeling emotionally vulnerable I like to drive everywhere. I imagine that the car is my safety shell in which I can hide from the world.
Taking the car is the equivalent to staying in bed compared to taking public transport which is like riding a Moomba float naked. In fact most of the time in my car-shell I don't even have to get dressed. A simple jumper pulled over my pjs does enough to present the illusion of a fully functional, fully dressed, non-crazy and capable young woman.

Lately I've been driving everywhere. I have a soft, jelly interior that is quivering in fear of all things outside my shell.
It's because Ye Olde put me on trial, trial separation that is. Guilty of what you ask? I am guilty of knowing my feelings while he does not. Decisiveness brings harsh penalties these days. I don't want to have a go at Ye Olde, because he is actually doing the right thing by taking some time out and not stringing me along in some half-arsed boyfriend way. But it feels nothing but wrong. BAD BAD BAD all the way to the bank, or something.

I've never had too much bother about being single, but this time I really feel like a piece of me is missing, and I'm walking around wobbly with something rattling loose somewhere.
I feel sad all the time even when I'm happy, and I hope my trial ends soon so I can either rejoice or get on with killing myself. Limbo sux, or is this parole?