It's 4.30 in the morning. I should have been asleep hours ago, but I had some stuff to do. Then I did some Popo stuff, seeing as I was awake and not terribly tired. And now - well, my body would rather like to GET SOME FUCKING SLEEP, YOU DUMB IDIOT - but my mind is still whirring away.
It's no longer productive whirring though - the kind where you can blitz a tonne of work, or do some writing, or form coherent sentences (this doesn't count, shut up). It's the annoying whirring, where you're really too tired for anything beyond click click click on the old internet (what did insomniac fools do before it was invented?) You know that dissatisfied low-attention-span flitting about where nothing grips you, you know you're achieving fuck all, and it's generally a really bad idea (I say while eating half a packet of biscuits, also a really great idea, hurrah. Decision-making faculties are really firing on all cylinders). And yet you still can't. fucking. move. So it can go on for hours, until your eyes refuse to stay open any longer, and there goes any thought of getting regular sleep like normal people do. Ugh. I'm gonna step away from the computer now, lie down, and try to fool the old brain with some podcast listening. Over and out.
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The latest news: THE WORLD IS GOING TO SHIT, FASCISM IS ON THE RISE, AND WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!
And meanwhile, I've spent most of this past week feeling like shit, with one thing or another. So I'm way behind on multiple work tasks, on answering PMs, on interacting, on EVERY-DAMN-THING. So please bare with me while I play catchup. Morning, in the living room. I've barely slept, I have a stiff shoulder and a nasty headache, and I feel like a queasy motherfucker. My reflux medication makes not a blind bit of difference to the latter. Regardless, I plough on, doing some housework. Binbag open, filling it with crap. And then my stomach decides that no, it can't wait to unload its contents. And lo, the binbag becomes a vomit receptacle. Nice.
Feeling much more human today, thank fuck. I'm a terrible invalid. This will be fun, honest!
I give clues to the identity of a Popo-nutter, and you try to work out who it is: First clue: up to severity level 4 now (more will follow if nobody works it out) And the prize? Snark, delicious life-giving snark. And maybe an ingame gift of some sort, I'll see what's lurking in the tourbuses. Edit: Second clue: Sound familiar? |
AuthorRuler of the Universe, antipodean sector Archives
April 2024
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