Icon very much appropriate / oh lord give me a new liver
"if i was physically capable of getting to the point of the conversation with her rather than circling it like a neurotic vulture and alluding to things so obliquely that NO ONE UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK I'M TALKING ABOUT."
entire life experience in a nutshell.
Have taken today off doing anything remotely useful due to nursing what is now very definitely an all-day hangover. Spent the day groaning, lying on the sofa groaning, wearing sunglasses indoors and groaning, throwing up, sprawling on things, laughing myself into pain with villainny at Louis CK --
(there are motorbikes revving and over-revving behind my house. It is, at the time of writing, 11pm)
-- walking around a bit in an attempt to not die of hangover, eating own body weight in jerk chicken and rice & peas because fuck you sometimes you just have to, and getting Moon over Soho in the post (EPIC WIN).
Spent last night drinking an inadvisable amount (I was already drunk when Nny showed up with the bottle of vodka and this morning there was NO. VODKA), watching Granada Sherlock Holmes (specifically The Empty House, The Priory School, and the beginning of the Musgrave Ritual) and screaming at each other about how Jeremy Brett is the best Holmes and how excruciatingly lovely it is and how his face is amazing, possibly while clutching at each other and wailing. Like I said: a lot of vodka. Also genuinely crying over poetry. CRYING OVER RITA ANN HIGGINS because I am cool like that.
Have read also quite a lot of The Bell by Iris Murdoch due to regular trips to the bathroom for spectacular illness. I appreciate this as it's turning out to be a very interesting read: good call there, that Maud.
Poetry
Your Family, Especially, Will Betray You
entire life experience in a nutshell.
Have taken today off doing anything remotely useful due to nursing what is now very definitely an all-day hangover. Spent the day groaning, lying on the sofa groaning, wearing sunglasses indoors and groaning, throwing up, sprawling on things, laughing myself into pain with villainny at Louis CK --
(there are motorbikes revving and over-revving behind my house. It is, at the time of writing, 11pm)
-- walking around a bit in an attempt to not die of hangover, eating own body weight in jerk chicken and rice & peas because fuck you sometimes you just have to, and getting Moon over Soho in the post (EPIC WIN).
Spent last night drinking an inadvisable amount (I was already drunk when Nny showed up with the bottle of vodka and this morning there was NO. VODKA), watching Granada Sherlock Holmes (specifically The Empty House, The Priory School, and the beginning of the Musgrave Ritual) and screaming at each other about how Jeremy Brett is the best Holmes and how excruciatingly lovely it is and how his face is amazing, possibly while clutching at each other and wailing. Like I said: a lot of vodka. Also genuinely crying over poetry. CRYING OVER RITA ANN HIGGINS because I am cool like that.
Have read also quite a lot of The Bell by Iris Murdoch due to regular trips to the bathroom for spectacular illness. I appreciate this as it's turning out to be a very interesting read: good call there, that Maud.
Poetry
Your Family, Especially, Will Betray You