Dear Diary, let me tell you about my day...

I feel like I'm out of myself, as if I was floating just an inch over my skin. There, I just hit myself to make sure I still felt something. It took me four punches just to really feel something. The first three attempts were merely a confirmation that a physical contact had occured. It feels as though I couldn't tell the difference between a caress and a slap (which can both be considered as gestures expressing affection, especially during undefined activities (see previous entry)).

All day long, I've been floating around, my feet never really touching the ground. Sure, I was driving a cart, so my feet weren't touching the ground at all, but trust me, there's something more metaphorical about it as well. I worked like a machine, doing tasks pre-programmed in my brain that didn't require any mental input whatsoever. I was going places I had been hundreds of times, places I could find with my eyes closed, had I tried. My mind was elsewhere. I don't know exactly where, though. It wasn't in Italy. It wasn't in BC. It wasn't in Québec City. It wasn't in St-Michel-de-Bellechasse. It wasn't in Boston. It wasn't in London. It wasn't in South Bend, Indiana. It sure wasn't in Breakeyville.

I was nowhere. I did nothing. I felt nothing. I ate a tasteless poutine. I wrote a meaningless sentence on a piece of paper, which still turned out to be the most productive thing I've done all day. Hell... all week!


"I'm all for dead-end relationships" says Seth to Audrey. "One could argue that even a successful marriage technically is a dead-end relationship."


That was my day.