An anorexic social calendar

When I look at my diary I believe it is truly starved of any form of spontaneity. I see birthdays, leaving dos, over-due catch-ups, compulsory office socialising... I even see in tiny elated scribble a memo to self: Staying in.

I believe I have become obsessed with the need to fill my waking hours fulfilling obligations. It has become a sweaty workout of squeezing social with work commitments, health with cultural needs, boyfriend with friends, creative with practical considerations…

Are we all this busy? And do you all enjoy the same sick adrenlin rush I do when I am racing from A to B to F to Z?

You see, I think the act of being busy has somehow become representative of the fact that I am such an important person on this planet. If nobody wanted me, why would I be rushing?

This full diary is a superficial truth that I much prefer to stick to rather than fix. Hell, who needs to sleep, rest and contemplate the meaning of life? God damm it, I am busy ‘doing’ the meaning of life.

But I fear I am so wound up doing it, that the feeling it bit I ain’t getting. And surely, that’s not worth starving yourself of a hearty chunk of doing fuck all.