Diary of a madman

At seven I was up spewing in the toilet. I felt awful, my stomach about to burst, my head dull and muzzy. But I set off at nine and endured English and half of History before I had to rush out and retch yellow bile in the bogs.

Today I was struck by how claustrophobic everything feels in the vast shadow of revision and mocks, Slicer’s work, and my inability to face up to my responsibilities. My aptitude for indolence reduces me to after-school vandalism, utter slobbishness, shallow selfishness. . . . Deborah and Steve joked about my future and my present state. I was at least happy for contact. What an awful rut I’m in. Everything’s too much! Lee brought a pair of baggy dinner suit trousers. . . .

During the evening, I had a lot of homework to do. Grant rang to ask if I fancied going to see Gogol’s Diary Of A Madman at the Hattersley Theatre in Easterby but I reluctantly declined and decayed instead in front of the TV screen.

I read some Burroughs: a little feeling of excitement when he talks about LSD, mescaline and cannabis. “Colours and sounds gain an intense meaning and many insights carry over after the drug effects have worn off.” He then describes “a permanent increase in the range of experience” of aesthetic things (music, paintings, etc.).

Finally, in bed at 11.30, I did some work for Slicer. . . . Mum and Dad are both sick: diarrhea, minor food poisoning?