I'm having one of those nights where I can't go to bed.
You know the ones. When there's all this stuff simmering at the bottom of your brain and you just know that as soon as you crawl in under the sheets everything will boil over and that'll be the end. For hours and hours, you'll be sucked into that turmoil of questions, from the sticky life-level ones ("Why can't I find a job?"; "Why can't I decide what country I should live in?"; "Why am I single?") to the self-pity ones ("Why don't any of my clothes look good on me?"; "Why am I not blonde?"; "Why can't I have another pair of Louboutins?") via the mundane anxiety-inducing ones ("Why didn't I write today?" "Why am I too chicken-shit to call France Telecom and sort out my internet?")
To avoid this plight, the trick is to stay up. And do pointless things to keep your mind occupied. You can calculate the average number of words in the book titles on your shelf (but careful, this one might raise the "Why am I so crap I can't even find a decent book title?" question.) Or you can leaf through the Breakfast Lunch Tea cookbook from Rose Bakery (as long as it doesn't lead to "Why did I never learn how to cook so I could actually have a boyfriend?") Or watch The Hurt Locker (relatively harmless unless you're prone to "Why does my life have no purpose?" interrogations.)
It's a mine field out there.
I almost understand now why some people resort to stashing bottles of vodka under their beds.