...my name is Sad Sack, I live on the first floor.

I haven’t written for a few days. You see I have taken like a duck to water, wallowing in self pity.
Yes… Self pity. Poor, poor me, my ex has fallen in gooey love and I am doggy paddling in a shallow pool of murk. I know it’s shallow. I am fully aware that I can easily stand up and walk out of it if I really wanted to, but I don’t.
That however is the essence of self pity, isn’t it. You know you are being a total twat, but you continue anyway.
I am an *emotional hog rolling around in a puddle of my own mess. I want to lay on my bed and wrap myself up in my feather doona (comforter in Auspeak) and leave unfinished cups of coffee around my room with cigarette butts floating in them.
I want to change my answering machine to a Sylvia Plath passage.

I want my friends to call each other up and discuss me in hushed tones…
" I told her a fart joke and she didn’t even smile "
I want an intervention. When everyone I know comes over with Tupperware containers of homemade food, with little stickers on them.
Monday: Tuna Casserole.
Tuesday: Pea Soup.
I haven’t got a microwave and my friends will think it would be safer to turn the gas off, so I eat the meals cold. Which is fine, it fits in with my mood better anyway.
Cold pea soup and heartbreak.
It’s poetic. Sylvia Plath is Ronald McDonald compared to me.
I am going to download all of Suzanne Vegas’ early music. I’ll move my lips, singing silently under my doona, dried pea soup crusted in the corner of my mouth.
Now that is a way to wallow. No more half arsed attempts at semi-depression. I want it all.
The only thing is it actually takes a lot of energy to wallow that much and I am lazy by nature.
It would take way too much will power to lay in bed to " …my name is luka" the whole way through.
Perhaps this is where my laziness comes in handy.
I realise its ridiculous… I know it will pass. Maybe that is why I am tempted to lay face down in this muck and feel sorry for myself, get my moneys worth as it were.
This is the Aftermath. Once I get it out of my system, I might just be ready for an Afterglow. Plus my experience tells me that life is in fact really funny and outrageous most of the time, so it’s O.K to be a sad arse and crave Tuna Casserole. Funny though how this hurtiness makes me want my Mums’ cooking and a spliff the size of a large carrot. I wonder if there is a Tuna Casserole Delivery Service in my hood and how much for a pound?
Yep, I’m gunna be fine. Before you know it I will be writing about flowers and puppies. Then telling you about snogging some hottie in the snow of Prospect Park

Until then, if you do have some pea soup bring it around in a Tupperware container and I’ll promise to laugh at your fart jokes.

* Miss Ex called me this on numerous occasions. It's very fitting.