cock-blocked.

You want to write something wry here.

For when you're past all this and think, oh - surviving that wasn't so bad, go you, what a good little cockroach you are. & d'ya think maybe you dramatised it out of proportion? Like when you were retelling the story of Dorian Grey to your colleague, and got so into it you had him crumpling, screaming into dust that blew away with the wind upon seeing his sin-stained portrait. And you only woke up when copywriter laughed and then you'd cheerfully admitted you'd filled in the blanks you forgot rather too liberally.

You'd happen upon this entry months later, and see through your sarcasms and rhetorics and meanderings and gatekeepers to a hard time you were having in the distant past when you couldn't bear to say in plain english how passionatelybadlyabsurdly you wanted to throw down your trump cards and say fuck it.

You think every time you swallow back a fuck-it, you are one yellow brick closer to the wizard of oz.

But it's too soon for wry. Raw plain words are all you'd care to tap out, and there's a swelling growth on your fingertips too sore for you to click internet publish for such bare-naked honesty. You think the name's pride.