Sometimes, you just think. Yes I can write, I have a story to tell.

Admittedly it might not be a very good story, but its got all the makings of a good novel, adventure, darkness and a slightly twisted view of the past. It might sound like a pile of rambling nonsense to someone else, but they haven't lived it. They haven't experienced it.

Your not quite sure what that story is, but you pray to the god of text, that when you start writing, somehow the words will fill the page, some how your empty mind will make sence of some jumbled thoughts and put them into some kind of appealing way.

Some journey that you've put to the back of your mind, an illness you have, that no one quite understands, somehow it suddenly makes sense to you. Some how you suddenly understand what it means to have a mental disability, that you've spent your whole life not thinking about, not putting on job forms, keeping out of the light. Because you know people will judge you, for being a bit different.

But then you stop and think, and that paranoia sets in again, because you know it doesn't matter. Its the reason why you do a dead end job, and don't try. Because it baffles you. It confuses you when you see the people who spend their whole lives wanting to stay in their job. Their job that pays £6.03 an hour. And it confuses you, because every time you walk through those doors you switch off and daydream about being somewhere else. Anywhere else.

I'm a bit kooky, I'm a bit scatty, I cant remember yesterday, and i'm not thinking of tomorrow. Because I can't, my mind wont let me. I push my friends away, because i like being alone, I talk about things that normal women dont talk abot, and i stay in my own world because i dont want to talk about whats going through my head at any different point.

I can't cope with distractions when i start tasks. I can't work with other people. And i don't participially like small talk.