S has been up & about. She wants me to write. Some time ago I used to. So what if just in a diary? And so what if the diary never went beyond ten pages? I deserve a consolation prize if I can't win a writing competition.

That's so much like Freud's alter-ego. Mind's defence. Flatly, my shame of being a miserable writer won out against the hope of some day writing some sense, every time I started writing. I've lost count of how many times this has happened.

I'll tell my shame to simply fuck off now.