Phosphorescent

Can you really continue to emit light, after the the source of the excitation is taken away? I don't know if I have this property. I think I'm more like a blinking computer light at night - lit by the mains, showing dormancy but indicative of potential, and constantly darting back and forth between light and darkness.

Having been fully converted the ways of red wine, I have allowed myself a night of 'me time', too, to follow my flatmate's example. Lying, self-consciously in the foetal position, watching Angelina Jolie and Winona Ryder kiss, and contemplating the subjectivity of mental disorder (note the word 'disorder' - it doesn't work in the reverse, like mental wellness complements mental illness - mental order doesn't exist), sat, as I am, on the Subjective Sofa, I am beginning to wonder just how mentally ordered I am. 

I'm not a spacially ordered person - I clean sporadically and then alternate between aggressive overreaction to messiness and an unattractive, hippyish faux-fondness for my own mess. I also employ the bait and switch technique of tricking myself into believing that an action of cleaning will be limited to a small area before I claim that having started, there are bigger fish to fry. 

I'm clearly bad with rejection. I keep people who are magnetised to me at bay, and attach myself to people who keep me at a standard repulsed distance. I speak so fast that my mouth often gets drunk on the words, slurring them out as my brain does a u-turn to pick my prostate form from the social roadside. 

The flatmate that suggested 'me time' to me recently talked about the possibility of going to a therapist about their social anxieties, and now I'm just wondering if the mentally well are the ones who shouldn't be seeing therapists. That's trite, and cliché, and not particularly related to what I wrote before, though. So I will conclude instead that I think that sometimes the me I have discovered with this time, the me I spend my time avoiding, is a lot less well than the one avoiding it.