Wolf Wears Wool

GOOD GRAVY I AM SO SORRY, YOU LOT. My brain was absconded with by circumstance (more on that later), and I totes and utters forgot to update on Friday. I could not be more ashamed if I were caught in eating nutella out of the jar.

Not that I know how that feels at all.

As to the aforementioned circumstances, K. came to visit for the week-end and my grasp of time-slash-reality tends to slip and sink itself into the Bermuda Triangle when that happens. At any rate, it was glorious. Just about everything that could go wrong did, but we had a marvelous time. I miss her dreadfully already. Forgive me whilst I cry on Zekiel’s belly . . . He’s the size of a pillow and almost disturbingly absorbent . . . Sigh. Making the great leap back to reality (and time) is always like Jack making his infamous leap over the candlestick . . . Unpleasant. Why do I smell singed arse?

But yer, I don’t mind saying I wish I could have this weekend every week-end of my days. Ah, even the cats are moping . . . Maybe I should weep like a forlorn fraulein onto Ru this time for the sake of maintaining the balance. Feng Shui and all. Important in these dark times ::dramatic flail::

Very grouchy.  Shan’t blog. 

This is me, today . . . Only shorter, less charming and more metrosexual;

Cheerio!

. . . Similar effects can be achieved with the aid of stationary scissors, bone saws and very hungry rabbits.  Also, fittingly (or perhaps ill-fittingly) enough, today, being the eleventh of November, is R.’s birthday.

. . . And no, the number of candles is not reflective of his actual age.  And yes, he would relish a gigantic conglomeration of cheap snack-cakes for his birthday cake.  Boy is special and not altogether difficult to please.  But mostly special.

So, yes.  Uneventful day off.  Not much to say . . . I rather want to try my hand at reading Ulysses as of late, but I have so much on my to-read list already, I can’t really justify it.  I have read some James Joyce in my time . . . Well, once . . . Upon which I may or may not have fled for the hills . . . Or else simply peed myself . . .

Right.  Must read at least try to read some of this book.  And no, going back and rereading The Great Gatsby again does not count, F.  That is the equivalent of spraying the underarms of your clothes with FeBreeze instead of properly washing them.  I had also thought to get back onto giving my flat a thorough clean (a task which never seems to be finished) . . . And starting on the script for chapter three of this git-faced comic.  And starting to work on my Christmas cards.

I suppose we can all surmise how THAT went.

. . . My God, I am so unmotivated as of late.  I just can’t be arsed with ANYTHING outside of what life absolutely demands of me anymore.  Soon, I will be driving a segue to my cup of tea.  Crikey, I am doomed.  Doomed, I say.

Yes, an inbetweener.  I’ll try to get tomorrow’s update on here in a timiely fashion, but I wanted to put this up because the next page is a tadge on the cop-outish side.

Eurgh, I managed to cut the bejeebusing fuck out of the roof of my mouth, yesterday (no details, too embarrassed) . . . Perhaps I oughtn’t be eating this delicious and terrifically spicy curry, but if I wait, it will go bad and go to waste.  Ouch . . . Yum . . . Ouch . . . Yum.