What A Pickle

You know you're in trouble when you ask the drunk guy sitting next to you on the night bus for advice. What a pickle. I wouldn't be that bothered about it but it's really starting to get me down. It's like a ball of string that I can't unravel, and I try so hard to leave it alone, but I can't. I hate how upset it makes me, I can't take it. But I suppose there is a silver lining; when I'm sad I write more, and all the things I write can be patchworked into the story I'm writing. But it still doesn't excuse our behaviour. It has to stop now. Seriously. But it would be so much easier to say that if you didn't drive me crazy with your eyes. I wish I knew what to do.