Current mood:	confused
Current music:	Loreena McKennitt - The Highwayman

Hrmmm . . .
I think this story is cursed . . .
I started it a good 10 months ago, wrote seven pages in a day, then stopped and left it for 10 months because the man came home from work and we got into a fight.
Kinda puts you off a story.
Anyway, today I try and find a story to finish, find that I actually want to get on with it and put aside all the bad feelings associated with it, and guess what?
I write another seven pages, and start looking at the clock.
Niccie's 15 minutes late . . . 30 minutes late . . .
It does stuff to me when he's late. I don't know why I get angry, but I do. Maybe it's because I worry about him, especially when I know he drives too and from work. Maybe I get mad because he should have damned well called me to let me know.
I don't know why, but it makes me mad as hell. And no reason or excuse he has ever makes it any better.
So I call his work, he's still there. Had to talk to the boss about invoices.
Well, at least he's ok, but now I'm back where I was 10 months ago, having written 7 pages of this damned story and being too angry to do any more.
It's times like this that make me wonder if things can be cursed, like this story, or my life, or whether it's just the thoughts and worries about this that make your life go a certain way.
For example, I'm worried about getting this story finished because of what happened last time, so I find something to get pissed off about, something to stop me writing at exactly the same point it stopped me last time.
I think about it when I argue with Niccie as well. Most of the time I can see arguments coming a mile off.
Is this just because after 5 years I've learnt what the warning signs look like?
Do I have some kind of 6th sense when it comes to us screaming at each other?
Or do I wind myself up and cause them myself?
Interests me anyway.
On the bright-side, this journal is proving to have a very cathartic effect on my emotions. It's like having someone to rant at that doesn't argue back. Which is always nice to have, because then you can convince yourself that they're agreeing with you.
Maybe that's why so many people have these journals and just rant and bitch and flame in them.
It makes them feel better.
If that's the case I think that these are a bloody good idea.
I feel better already . . .

PS - The Story's called 'Stand and Deliver' in case you're interested. If it EVER get's finished, I'll post a bit here.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. - The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes