Insomnia
My name is Maylis Adams. Obviously, that's not my real name, but it's close enough
I have insomnia, which is what I get for trying to go to bed at 11 PM. But what else do you do when you come home to the bloody country? Acres of green and absolutely nothing to do in it. I don't know if it's good or bad that the whole family is home, but they seemed to have finally learned to stop asking me if I'm alright. I'm alright. And if I wasn't, I wouldn't tell them.
The problem, I think, is just plain boredom. And there's a lot of history of bored, useless individuals in our family, something I'm reminded by with the millions of photographs everywhere. (You can dress them in antique frames, Mother, but they are still just dead people I'm supposed to remember, but can't). I think boredom runs in our family. My analyst says it's actually depression, and that both depression and lethargy are anger turned inwards. Therapists blame everything on anger; sometimes I think Dr. M tries to goad me into getting angry, just so she could say she told me so. But if I tell her this, she'll say it's a symptom of my distrust. Sometimes therapists are so predictable.
The truth is, I really can't afford to admit I'm angry. I don't really have anything to be angry about. I grew up with plenty of money and privilege in the bastion of the Empire. I went to boarding school with other rich brats like myself and did the usual underage partying in Mykonos (before it became the Planet Hollywood nightmare it is today) and slept around and smoked too much and even had the requisite near-overdose, followed by discreet rehab. I don't have to really work, and every time I've tried, I'm miserable at it, but I can't keep up the lifestyle I've gotten used to without working. So I stay home, because I really don't see the point of traveling all the way to the city to some trendy private club full of tourists and pretending I'm having a good time being chatted up by Japanese industrialists.
If I sound like a bitch, that's the beauty of blogging. Nobody lets you talk about this stuff in real life; you can't admit to being bored and miserable if you're rich and live in a big house, just like you can't admit to faking your orgasm. (It used to be such an honorable thing to do, but now even girls look at you in horror if you admit you have trouble with them. As if you're somehow responsible for your lovers' ineptitude).
A friend of ours--well, my sister Glennis knows him--went to America to star in some reality television show. I don't know what, but I think it involves flaunting his title and trying to earn some Hugh Grant points with the Septs. He's a Hon. anyway, and about the most inbred thing you've ever met, but harmless. I have a feeling that Glennis slept with him, but she'll never admit it. Anyway, I think it's on satellite tonight. I bet if I watch it I can tell if she did.
That's all from the country. The bloody country sucks.
I have insomnia, which is what I get for trying to go to bed at 11 PM. But what else do you do when you come home to the bloody country? Acres of green and absolutely nothing to do in it. I don't know if it's good or bad that the whole family is home, but they seemed to have finally learned to stop asking me if I'm alright. I'm alright. And if I wasn't, I wouldn't tell them.
The problem, I think, is just plain boredom. And there's a lot of history of bored, useless individuals in our family, something I'm reminded by with the millions of photographs everywhere. (You can dress them in antique frames, Mother, but they are still just dead people I'm supposed to remember, but can't). I think boredom runs in our family. My analyst says it's actually depression, and that both depression and lethargy are anger turned inwards. Therapists blame everything on anger; sometimes I think Dr. M tries to goad me into getting angry, just so she could say she told me so. But if I tell her this, she'll say it's a symptom of my distrust. Sometimes therapists are so predictable.
The truth is, I really can't afford to admit I'm angry. I don't really have anything to be angry about. I grew up with plenty of money and privilege in the bastion of the Empire. I went to boarding school with other rich brats like myself and did the usual underage partying in Mykonos (before it became the Planet Hollywood nightmare it is today) and slept around and smoked too much and even had the requisite near-overdose, followed by discreet rehab. I don't have to really work, and every time I've tried, I'm miserable at it, but I can't keep up the lifestyle I've gotten used to without working. So I stay home, because I really don't see the point of traveling all the way to the city to some trendy private club full of tourists and pretending I'm having a good time being chatted up by Japanese industrialists.
If I sound like a bitch, that's the beauty of blogging. Nobody lets you talk about this stuff in real life; you can't admit to being bored and miserable if you're rich and live in a big house, just like you can't admit to faking your orgasm. (It used to be such an honorable thing to do, but now even girls look at you in horror if you admit you have trouble with them. As if you're somehow responsible for your lovers' ineptitude).
A friend of ours--well, my sister Glennis knows him--went to America to star in some reality television show. I don't know what, but I think it involves flaunting his title and trying to earn some Hugh Grant points with the Septs. He's a Hon. anyway, and about the most inbred thing you've ever met, but harmless. I have a feeling that Glennis slept with him, but she'll never admit it. Anyway, I think it's on satellite tonight. I bet if I watch it I can tell if she did.
That's all from the country. The bloody country sucks.
posted by M.A.A at 7:19 AM
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