Went to the club last night to see if it could help me with stress. It didn’t. How silly of me to think think I could use it like I do sleeping pills or alcohol? No instant relief. Contrary to that, the inability to feel joy has made me realise that I was exhausted to the bone.
Hemingway came to help: “What seems to be the problem, Doctor,” he asked and I immediately started to cry because he was being so fatherly. To that, he very strongly objected and to prove he was definitely not my father, he grew young.
“I can’t feel it,” I said “I’m too tired. I must smell like work again.”
“No, tonight, you smell like honesty.”