through the holes in the pockets of my clothes
Lincoln is making me feel like a claustrophobe. Everyone knows everyone, and in my paranoia I feel that I will be discovered as knowing them all. Not that this would affect anything really, would it. But in my mind it would be the worst thing ever. No more anonymity. Probably just paranoia and bad luck--these people do not know or care who I know--but still unhelpful to leading a balanced, healthy lifestyle (which is my goal, dontchaknow).
I'm supposed to keep a sleep and dream journal for psychology. I can't tell if this will be a sleeping weekend or not--anyway, there will still be the 5:00am waking up times that make me wish that I was well again. I need to get myself checked out--if it hasn't stopped by next week I am going to pay someone to stick me full of needles and tell me what is wrong with me. My doctors are there to give me diagnoses so that I don't have to make up excuses all by myself.
Last weekend I fell in love with a city that is not mine at all. I was motivated enough when I came back to change the film in my camera, but then got too frustrated by having taken pictures of everything twice before and feeling too crotchety to flatter my friends by taking their pictures. I ended up looking through the massive folders of England on my computer and pinning all my hopes on an indistinct date three months from now.
And as a product from obssessive past photo viewing:
Hey, remember when they made me look like this?
Um, now I guess I just pose next to fire hydrants (RED) and look awkward voluntarily:
