I Keep My Visions To Myself
It's hard to write a blog entry when you're listening to the radio: the radio is designed to distract you from your meaningless job and your empty relationships and if only for that reason alone I praise God tonight.
jnhfsgdnit.;FEAR OF THE DDDDDDDDDDDDDOG KEEPS ME AWAY FROM TNE HOPE OF HOT LIQUID!!
I apologise. My stupid husband just forcibly typed that. I thought it was far too charming to delete. We are babysitting and there is a dog in the kitchen. The husband says he cannot make himself coffee because he is afraid of the dog. By the time you get to the next paragraph I will have made that stupid man a cup of coffee and he will be sipping it happily and possibly eating chocolates as well. That, my friends, is pure love.
Quite.
Well my plans for the "Paddy's Weekend" have been smashed, it seems, to smithereens. The plan was that spectacularly Belfastian friends K & R would visit and we would shower them with love in an uncomfortable way. Turns out the female part of that couple is vomiting to beat the band and will probably not survive the journey down and as such is leaving myself and Zoomtard to stare at each other in silence across a long table eating microwaved dinners, all alone, for days on end. Bah! I even bought a new duvet cover. Two of them.
Matching duvet covers.
Well, I suppose the pleasure is in seeing the bed all nicely made up, not ruffled with stupid visiting bodies! I can just stare at their beautifully made beds all weekend. I can put the beds on the table between me and Zoomy. It can be a talking point. Because heaven knows we've talked to death the topic of ligers and tigons. He says they don't exist. This must be because he had surgery inside his skull a few years ago to have teeth removed that were growing upwards and (presumably) piercing his brain.
UPDATE!
The vomiting woman has rung to admit that her deepest desire is to be in my freshly made bed! Well, not my bed, we're not like that, you filth. So, in spite of the sicking up, she will come down on Saturday. This is a cause for celebration. I am breaking the vodka bottle seal with my left ghand as I type with my right. I did indeed mean to type left hand, but this does seem to be a night for leaving the typos in. You can never have too many ghandies about; they're ever so useful.
SKIP TO THE END
I heard a disturbing radio statistic. I warn you: I tend to believe statistics, even contradicting ones, when they are soundbitey and on the news every hour for 24 hours. As we discussed earlier, the radio is never off. HERE CAN YOU HANDLE THIS? Did you think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines? Or when you think you're gonna die? Sorry, I morphed into a nineties star for a moment. Anyway, my statistic is as follows: those who drink one can of soft drink per day tend to gain ten pouds a year. Armed with this information I have switched entirely to diet soft drinks, which is no issue, because I rarely drink them anyway. But in this life saving switch I have discovered that while diet Club Orange may look every bit as appealing as ordinary Club Orange, it just isn't. And can I say don't bother your hind legs buying a bottle of it because you'd be better off giving yourself a slap; it's quicker and more pleasurable.
Away, away, away.
neuro-praxis -- frightened by the corrupted ways of this land
PS - The children I am babysitting left a fake rubber snake on the floor and, yes, it worked, it scared the crap out of me. I am officially an old fucking dud. And this the eve of the Welshman pushing the snakes out with his big stick, yeargh!