Oh my gad. I must remember to keep my wrist still this Saturday (though I must say, I find it incredibly counter-intuitive). I wouldn't want injuring my wrist, my right wrist of all things, just because I tried to do something that I might be better off not doing.
Substitute "wrist" with "heart". That is my current emotional state.
I've sat here for five minutes after typing the above and I can't continue. It's so hard. But I know it's not a big deal. This pissing and moaning about something that is utterly the right thing to do is further testament to how emotional, and thus irrational, I get when I put aside my defences for maybe three seconds and get broken at love in my own service game.
I don't even know why. It's seemingly so easy for other people, but it never works out for me. This trying, this wanting, this willingness to try - have I really been barking up the wrong tree all along, asking for the impossible from those not equipped to give it?
But it can't be them. It has to be me. If two very different people can tell me the same fucking thing in a span of two years, then it has to be me. And I don't know how to deal with this cold, unsettling realisation that something - whatever it is, but something - about me, simply put, simply isn't enough.
I'm depressed that we're not getting the Kooyong exhibition tournament on cable. I've forgiven Roger for his horrible loss to Andy Murray and I could really use some good old soma right about now to cheer me up. And he's playing Carlos Moya which is a sure-win and I can't watch it. What the fuck. I would've pulled myself up at 8.30 a.m. tomorrow to watch it.
At times like these, I desperately wish that I were Roger Federer. It'd be great to be him, to have everything you want in the world. Everything you want.