Anyway. I'm at home now. The ride down was painful, getting in to Doncaster half an hour late, surrounded by neds. All of whom were plastered, half of whom were already fighting. I had my last cigarette there, alongside a paranoia attack brought on by the "Drunken cunts are going to kick me in" combined with "I should have had more than a ham sandwich for lunch" and "I've not slept properly for the past two weeks". It was Not A Fun Experience. The only time I've felt worse paranoia was the one bad trip I've had so far. This was pure and natural terror, being cooped up on a train next to a guy with a bloody nose and two teeth missing who was fine with it because "the other cunt came off worse". And who insisted on the graphic details.
Brother tried fucking me up by claiming that we no longer had broadband. Called his bluff (I'm not posting this from the Treo). Dad and he proceeded to get me both fed and drunk (and people wonder where I get it from). I left, ostensibly for bed, before having to deal with them any more. This weekend is either going to be a lot of fun and a needed break, or a nicotine-less Hell that I will be glad to escape from. At least I know never to head back on a Friday night again.
Speaking of the lack of sleep: For the last four nights, I've been waking up in hour-intervals, at precisely 36 minutes past each hour since I went to bed. That explains some of the paranoia.
Panopticon survival guide was written on the bus. Predators (the first supplement for W:TF) was read on the train. Despite my somewhat twattish attitude towards WW of late, the non-bosses who are actually involved with making games are fucking geniuses. Genii. You know what I mean. Wonderful book that probably helped with the feeling of paranoia.
Hearkening back to the nostalgia at the end of February, this room is empty now. One drawer holds everything I left, the paperwork from my first motorbike and a pile of cards from my 21st birthday. The last time half of the extended family will remember me. The big cupboards are empty, the wardrobes used for random shite of my mum's. The shelves that housed the TV, stereo, lamp, alarm and so much more have all gone. It's empty. There's nothing more here that is me.
I tell a lie. Above the head of the bed is a painting done entirely in airbrush and spatula from several years ago, depicting alien dinosaurs. It's something beautiful, something I've had since... shit. Early 90's. '93-ish. That and the decoration are the only things that remind me that this was, not too long ago, my home. It's weird. Familiar, but... not. Not in the same way that it was on moving back from university. Not in the same way that it was when I went really depressive last year. I've moved on. It's some memories that I've disarmed and don't mind revisiting again. I'm glad it's still the same, but all the same I'm glad I'm not still here. The room's no longer mine, even if it does remind me of when it was.
I think I degenerated into self-important wankery somewhere above. I apologise.