Κذνذ ωh٥ ςrγذռց

Lol, it really seems to me that if I'll ever decide to suicidate, I'll do it out of sheer curiosity.

I have several characters who commit suicide (or trying) along the plot, but I can't describe any sensations, if I havent survived this, it becomes difficult (fucking "atychiphobia")

And I see a picture: somebody will find me at the table in a state of fainting with cut veins, and when [if] they'll bring me to my senses, then I'll justify myself with the wording "well, I was wondering: will I really just fall asleep or the air will go waves like anesthesia."

So, it's my summary of arts 2018.

Firstly: I participated in Whamageddon and LOST! Twenty-second, today is twenty-second of December and I lost! I just went to the bakery and... fack.

I'll try to describe to you one strange feeling. No, rather, even a sensation.

So, there is a man. You are not friends with him and not enemies. Not friends - because he periodically behaves like a bastard. Not enemies because the rest of the time he is quite adequate and even attractive from a moral point of view.

Once he has done a good deed, you immediately starts thinking about starting to communicate with him, and maybe even making friends. But he successfully destroys all the sympathy for himself with a regular joke.

So you lives somewhere between: he is good! but he is a fucking bastard! damn, what a cool person he is! i'll smash his head now! And you want to die yourself.

Maybe this is bipolar disorder?

•

This is strange, probably: intentionally avoid dialogues with close people.

I don't know why. Maybe I'm better off with myself, and maybe unpleasant with people.

2.10.18

My teacher in the art school told me that when she worked on the first floor with kindergarteners a couple of years ago, cockroaches went around the office. Large such, as if straight from Madagascar. They ran on the floor and the tables, and especially chose stacks of papers and drawings and "sunbathed" them with whole companies.

 It cost the five-year-old children to see such a beast, how the wild screech began and the lesson was broken (but, probably, the impressions from the art school for the rest of their lives).

"Why dont you draw? Now holidays, you have a lot of free time!"

I:

"I have a little problem ..."