The One Where My Brain Is Programmed
Last few days, I have been in a right funny mood. Alternately apathetic and stupidly horny (over men who are not my boyfriend of course, who lusts after their own boyfriend?), lacking any energy to go out and play, but depressingly restless and fidgety when at home. Feeling isolated and yet not wanting to see anyone, and unable to concentrate on one task for more than about ten minutes. Since getting home this evening I have watched half an episode of Jonathan Creek, read half a page of a book, eaten half a slice of pizza and sorted out half my washing. The rest of the time has been spent deciding that filing is completely pointless (I have never, in all my years of carefully filing away receipts and bills, had to go back and refer to one of them), and then working out where the longest bit of hair in my ponytail grows out of my head (through a process of holding onto the end of the longest bit of hair in one hand and attempting to remove the ponytail band with the other; it's harder than it sounds.)
I've been blaming this all on Paul being away and no more Harry Potter, but he's been texting me more than he does when he's in the UK, and I'm reading Philosopher's Stone now so I don't think it can be those things. And I have a bit of a cold but I don't feel ill, so that's no excuse. I feel like I could do with a bit of excitement in my life, but the thought of any coming along exhausts me. Bah. These moods are weird things aren't they?
Things that are keeping me occupied are listening to Willy Mason and playing Scrabble on Facebook. Oh and I had a really odd extended daydream earlier about if I split up with Paul but really wanted to have a baby, which of my male friends would I ask to impregnate me and raise a child in a sexless marriage of convenience. I won't tell you who I decided on. I wish I could stop thinking about babies all the bloody time, it really fucks me off that some random hormone in my body has set an alarm to go off round about now that not only wakes up my maternal instinct but actually programmes my brain into sidestepping all logic and common sense and deciding I want one.
None of this is remotely interesting I know. When did my life become so empty of excitement and drama? I'm very tempted to start another journal and do a sort of Sliding Doors type thing, writing a second blog about what might have happened if I made a different decision somewhere along the line. Probably on Vox.
I did, however, have The Triumph of The Combats today. All my life, ever since I was old enough to choose my own clothes, I have looked for a decent pair of combats that actually suit me, and all my life I have failed. I have bought combats in my size, in a size bigger, in two sizes bigger. I've bought men's combats, army store combats, fashion combats, I've cut the bottoms off and made them into combat shorts, and then combat skirts. I've tried black and white and beige and green and blue and various shades of mud. I've tried cotton and linen and Lycra and shell and polyester blends of all descriptions. I've tried combats with pockets, with belts, with dangly bits of fabric stuck onto them (remember that phase?) And never have I found a pair of combats that didn't make me look like I was wearing either a sack with a bit of rope tied around it, or a special pair of cellulite-enhancing trousers that have shrunk in the wash, and I've always had to go back to jeans feeling despondent and fat. But today, all that changed. I went to Debenhams and found not one, but two pairs of combats that fit and look great! One pair is beige and one pair is that odd colour somewhere between brown and grey (teal? taupe?) and they sure as hell better not fall apart after three washes because I doubt I'll ever be able to recreate this miracle again.
I've been blaming this all on Paul being away and no more Harry Potter, but he's been texting me more than he does when he's in the UK, and I'm reading Philosopher's Stone now so I don't think it can be those things. And I have a bit of a cold but I don't feel ill, so that's no excuse. I feel like I could do with a bit of excitement in my life, but the thought of any coming along exhausts me. Bah. These moods are weird things aren't they?
Things that are keeping me occupied are listening to Willy Mason and playing Scrabble on Facebook. Oh and I had a really odd extended daydream earlier about if I split up with Paul but really wanted to have a baby, which of my male friends would I ask to impregnate me and raise a child in a sexless marriage of convenience. I won't tell you who I decided on. I wish I could stop thinking about babies all the bloody time, it really fucks me off that some random hormone in my body has set an alarm to go off round about now that not only wakes up my maternal instinct but actually programmes my brain into sidestepping all logic and common sense and deciding I want one.
None of this is remotely interesting I know. When did my life become so empty of excitement and drama? I'm very tempted to start another journal and do a sort of Sliding Doors type thing, writing a second blog about what might have happened if I made a different decision somewhere along the line. Probably on Vox.
I did, however, have The Triumph of The Combats today. All my life, ever since I was old enough to choose my own clothes, I have looked for a decent pair of combats that actually suit me, and all my life I have failed. I have bought combats in my size, in a size bigger, in two sizes bigger. I've bought men's combats, army store combats, fashion combats, I've cut the bottoms off and made them into combat shorts, and then combat skirts. I've tried black and white and beige and green and blue and various shades of mud. I've tried cotton and linen and Lycra and shell and polyester blends of all descriptions. I've tried combats with pockets, with belts, with dangly bits of fabric stuck onto them (remember that phase?) And never have I found a pair of combats that didn't make me look like I was wearing either a sack with a bit of rope tied around it, or a special pair of cellulite-enhancing trousers that have shrunk in the wash, and I've always had to go back to jeans feeling despondent and fat. But today, all that changed. I went to Debenhams and found not one, but two pairs of combats that fit and look great! One pair is beige and one pair is that odd colour somewhere between brown and grey (teal? taupe?) and they sure as hell better not fall apart after three washes because I doubt I'll ever be able to recreate this miracle again.