It’s been a busy old week. No time for blogging, it seems. Having fought the week-long urge to apply nail polish remover to aforementioned itchy tattoo; I managed to bumble along and survive the week relatively unscathed and unrumbled as the incompetent buffoon that I am (well it’s more of a galumph in these new shoes really. They really are my most favourite shoes ever in the history of my well documented profligacy and I’ve worn them with everything since purchase two weeks ago. They’ve done nothing for my hypochondria though – I’m convinced they’ve given me thrombosis due to the effect they’ve had on the way I walk). But I digress, as per usual. I’ve survived another week without being rumbled. Unless my colleagues have all been talking about me behind my back saying how useless I am, and they only let me stay on as court jester and object of ridicule) It’s my imposter syndrome, see. The imposter syndrome is strong with this one. On Monday, the relative safety of the weekend seemed like a galaxy far, far away (two Star Wars references in one paragraph – BOOM. That’s a personal best) and there appeared to be many hurdles to be umm…hurdled before I got there, including a social occasion (number four on my Facebook list of seven things you didn’t know about me; I can be very socially awkward). And yet here we are. Saturday. You sexy big bastard.
I’ve been doing a bit of navel gazing – or I would if I could find it under the comfort waistband of these leggings – and have decided I’m a natural pessimist. I fake positivity every day. Ask me to define success and the best I can come up with is “making it through each day and still being alive at the end of it”. I’m a miserable git. In an attempt to redress this, I’m pathetically trying to do a good deed a day. Yesterday’s was organ donation. I didn’t literally donate one – I’m kinda still using them all, although as mentioned in previous post, they could have my vagina for all the good it’s doing me (earlier blog refers – it’s been a while since I said vagina hasn’t it? Rachael! Hannah! Mummy’s at the vagina word again! Always with the vagina!) I was exiting Morrison’s after negotiating its bakery aisle of temptation and noticed the usual goody two shoes charity collectors at the door. I somehow failed to avoid their gaze and next thing I knew I’d signed up for organ donation. I thought I might’ve got a free pen or something or a packet of Marlboro Lites so they could hasten my demise in an effort to get at my lungs but nothing was forthcoming in the ‘free gift at signup’ department. Before signing they did ask if there was anything I didn’t want to donate. Why would I? I’ll be dead, hopefully, before they start harvesting any. And I’m not planning on a Tutankhamen style burial – with my bits and bobs decanted into canopic jars for use in the afterlife. Take what you want and put the rest on Gumtree for all I’ll bloody care. Just make sure it’s not a local funeral company – I sat beside the owner of one of the local undertakers in Higher History at Dumfries Academy and I’d like him to remember me as the perky sixteen year old I was back then thank you very much.
Regular readers will be interested to hear that I’m still struggling with the eastern v western bedlands thing. If you’re not a regular blog reader, why the hell are you not? I’ve blog stats to obsess over. Those stats won’t obsess over themselves ye ken. So yes I moved my bedside drawers (and the treasures that lie within its pink shabby chic’d drawers including KitKat wrappers, kirby grips, a bone Tucker insisted on bringing into bed and an assortment of unread improving books) over to the other side of the bed and I feel kinda committed to it now. It’s certainly more commitment than I ever gave to any relationship. I moved it for some weird reason involving the BT Shitty Telly subscription and the router broadband nonsense blah blah bloody bloody blah snore snore and it’s too much of an effort to shlep it back again so I’m fighting on to try and acclimatise myself to the western bedlands. The phone charger is presenting a problem as it won’t stretch from the socket to my comfy spot of the bed which isn’t conducive to a good kip because it sends me apoplectic with rage. And don’t start with your helpful bedtime tips like no gadgets in the bedroom thank you very much. I have no interest in your opinions.
My grammar is probably shit in this post, with brackets open and unclosed all over the bloody shop, and i’m usually all judgy judgy about everybody else’s grammar but I’ve a chicken in the oven and the window cleaner is working his way round the house and I’m trying to finish this before he gets to my bedroom.