Also I want to die.
Thing that happened today which was not bad:
I had to run across an empty road and crawl under a car to rescue a very threadbare football because some extremely tiny children had hoofed it over the fence of their school playground and were standing around looking baffled, as small children tend to.
It was incredibly cold and everything is frozen. The reservoir is frozen. The pond is frozen. If the Thames freezes I'm going to chisel out a block of ice and use it to bash in a climate-change denier's fucking head. Ideally this will stop happening as although the bright sun is lovely I am bored of having to wear all my clothes at once.
(Trying to enjoy everything as though it might be taken away from me at any minute, because it probably will be: my bed is a good thing - last night it hurt my side but today it's back to being a fluffy cloud)
Internet squabbling made me unduly depressed and anxious, after a Sunday spent being Not Suicidal, and I am back in a roiling pit of despair that hasn't quite resolved itself into "actively planning my death" but which I imagine will hit that point again around 11pm at work because, you know, THE NEWS.
Being endlessly concerned about whether/for how long my US-based friends will continue being a) alive and b) able to contact me is probably going to give me some kind of internal injury.
Gym-wise, after taking yesterday off and eating a calorie mountain which included patisseries and mutabal and then a full-on crackbread and kitkat binge last thing before bed, I was unsurprisingly ALL FUELED UP. Completed the new run cycle fine, started on my "actually DO the planking you've been told to do" mission, didn't quite manage to get to the lat machine but DID: go up a level on the cross-trainer, add an extra 2.5kg to the bench press and also unfortunately have to witness my entire extremely sweaty purple face in the huge mirrors that are there to help you correct your form.
Pro-tip: small sweaty spud men do not get hit on at the gym (especially when the only gay man in the gym at that time of day is the ageing bottom who looks like he eats, sleeps, shits, and breathes weights. He has lovely floral tattoos but he is also pretty much the antithesis of My Type facially).
I have not yet read any of my book, written anything, edited anything, or done much besides walk, regret my existence, and nap. I don't want to go back to work, I don't want to look at the news, I don't want to be on FB, I find the idea of being visible or existing repellent, and Tumblr is being scary and fucking awful. Hopefully I can find one of the nicer, more "photos of country houses and sleeping dogs" Tumblogs to browse instead of trying to communicate with my friends who are all... not coping and doing so in a SPREAD THE NOT COPE AROUND MAKE SURE NO ONE ELSE CAN EITHER way.
(Except Susanne and Holly who are BLESSED HUMANS posting pictures on Instagram of their trip to Battersea Cats & Dogs home as they browse for a kitty to adopt, THANK YOU).
I had to run across an empty road and crawl under a car to rescue a very threadbare football because some extremely tiny children had hoofed it over the fence of their school playground and were standing around looking baffled, as small children tend to.
It was incredibly cold and everything is frozen. The reservoir is frozen. The pond is frozen. If the Thames freezes I'm going to chisel out a block of ice and use it to bash in a climate-change denier's fucking head. Ideally this will stop happening as although the bright sun is lovely I am bored of having to wear all my clothes at once.
(Trying to enjoy everything as though it might be taken away from me at any minute, because it probably will be: my bed is a good thing - last night it hurt my side but today it's back to being a fluffy cloud)
Internet squabbling made me unduly depressed and anxious, after a Sunday spent being Not Suicidal, and I am back in a roiling pit of despair that hasn't quite resolved itself into "actively planning my death" but which I imagine will hit that point again around 11pm at work because, you know, THE NEWS.
Being endlessly concerned about whether/for how long my US-based friends will continue being a) alive and b) able to contact me is probably going to give me some kind of internal injury.
Gym-wise, after taking yesterday off and eating a calorie mountain which included patisseries and mutabal and then a full-on crackbread and kitkat binge last thing before bed, I was unsurprisingly ALL FUELED UP. Completed the new run cycle fine, started on my "actually DO the planking you've been told to do" mission, didn't quite manage to get to the lat machine but DID: go up a level on the cross-trainer, add an extra 2.5kg to the bench press and also unfortunately have to witness my entire extremely sweaty purple face in the huge mirrors that are there to help you correct your form.
Pro-tip: small sweaty spud men do not get hit on at the gym (especially when the only gay man in the gym at that time of day is the ageing bottom who looks like he eats, sleeps, shits, and breathes weights. He has lovely floral tattoos but he is also pretty much the antithesis of My Type facially).
I have not yet read any of my book, written anything, edited anything, or done much besides walk, regret my existence, and nap. I don't want to go back to work, I don't want to look at the news, I don't want to be on FB, I find the idea of being visible or existing repellent, and Tumblr is being scary and fucking awful. Hopefully I can find one of the nicer, more "photos of country houses and sleeping dogs" Tumblogs to browse instead of trying to communicate with my friends who are all... not coping and doing so in a SPREAD THE NOT COPE AROUND MAKE SURE NO ONE ELSE CAN EITHER way.
(Except Susanne and Holly who are BLESSED HUMANS posting pictures on Instagram of their trip to Battersea Cats & Dogs home as they browse for a kitty to adopt, THANK YOU).