So I bought this Speyside single malt, a bit butterscotchy-y apparently so it sounded like a good girls' choice. A whisky good for girls, not alcohol for a good girl. I have made the weirdest hot toddy ever by adding 10+ Manuka honey. I have concocted a drink that I know nothing about. A drink that needs Google, Wikipedia, and some Dairy Milk to help it go down. Perhaps I will add chocolate brands to the elucidation of coffee.
We were talking yesterday about transfering our expertise, he said he'd help me apply for the job if I wanted, how I had kudos and I knew it, I did. I was nervous at commiting to even thinking about applying there, puzzled how someone would believe me, that I could do anything I wanted. It sparked anyway. It seemed like it wasn't stuck.
I was just talking to her about thinking about the pointlessness of journalism, writing fiction, about telling the truth, writing like no-one's listening, the gap and length between the truth, the projection, the fiction. Where are the joins. I said I couldn't fake it, she said just move it around. Transfer the feelings. Write the real but put it in a different place. I'm still concerned it won't feel real though, I need to break down this gap, unsure how, not totally alone, that's for sure.
I haven't left facebook but I have deleted my 'friends' and left it as a sort of messaging system. Slightly sad at not having to think in third person pith anymore, a conditioned action in itself, pah. I shall make notes about ideas for writing as well as art. I make art and write stories. It'd be good if that was my truth.