I stagger from the bathroom to the bedroom, remove trousers, and crouch next to the bed to take my dreamy sleepy nighty snoozy snooze pill. It falls from the blister pack, hits the floor and bounces into oblivion. I peel another blister, reveal another pill, split it in half and get it on my tongue quick. A sip of water, some misses, falls on to my knee, down my leg and on to the floor. Swallow. Done.

Swaying. Duvet rolled up. Then I think about the night's events. Nothing too out of the ordinary except for a [relatively] renowned psychologist predicted my future with alarming definition. It almost doesn't matter whether or not my future will pan out how she predicts. She's had the feelings, the visions, and the conviction to let it slip (albeit after lubrication) and they are fact enough. Reason or forecast, the direction in which I am heading is not entirely unpredictable. Well, it might not be perfectly predictable, but it's safe to hedge bets. Do I like her version of my future? Actually, yeah, kinda. Maybe because I see myself doing that, it doesn't feel massively out of the ordinary even though it's not something I've ever considered, let alone actually done before.

It's only to do with love. She must realise how uneager I am to commit to something so one-sided. For a long time I haven't had the conviction to fight what I know to be a one-man battle. It isn't that hard to see how weak I am against convention. But why such a defined and colourful vision? All I can really say is that for the umpteenth time, tonight, I met a special woman, who would be better remembered than whose ideas be lived by. That said, if it all comes true, I'll remember her a little more than usual.

Incidentally, it's hard to type when I'm this drunk. The little red squiggles appear and tell me to go back. I go back. I control-click. It tells me what to do.