Wouldn't I just kill for a can of Alcohol Killer now? Oh yes. But the breakfast roll and the tea and the banana sandwich and the hour's sleep I got seemed to do pretty much the same thing, without that pungent plastic taste. Hmm. I'm pretty darn sweaty though. That heat. In this heat?
Purple with diamonte trim? Oh yes, please.
Is there a party I can attend and get blind drunk (again) and collapse on the bathroom floor (again)? There must be. I'll wear a nice skirt and be horribly antisocial. It will be bloody amazing. But really, I should never touch alcoholic beverages again. I'm lethal with a certain dose inside of me. I still haven't figured out where the line is... The line between laughing and talking in hilarious, if incoherent, accents and crying for no fucking reason at all. That line. Why do I keep crossing it? How do I keep crossing it? Hmm. Have a chat with yerself, Emma...
I am in bed. I am rather tired. Oh yes indeed.
What on earth is wrong with me? Sometimes I think about a perpetual yesterday's events and just want to die. I don't know why I'm even left out if the house, I really don't. And I mean that in a hilarious self-deprecating kind of way. Obviously.
Twitter's a bit fucking boring, to be honest. One hundred and forty characters. Not a lot of leeway, is there? And it's all a bit narcissistic, isn't it? Well, I think so. Then again, I know all about narcissisism and neuroticism and all the rest. It should give me some sort of insight into something but of course it doesn't. I'm just self-absorbed. End of.
I could sleep now if I wanted. My mother has turned off Tina Turner's roaring one hit wonder and retired to the land of Nod. But, see, I'm awake now. Ish. And ranting about nothing at all seems a much more exciting endeavour than catching up on a bit of shuteye. I'm realising, belatedly, that I'm not very responsible. I risk everything. Always. Stupid things. Stupid me.
Just because I can't cook (at all) or bake or marinate or grill or taste does not make me domestically redundant, does it? Fair enough, I ate a gone-off sausage and couldn't really tell the difference other than it tasted as though it had been steeped in alcohol (a good quality for most things to have, I think). This makes me feel a bit stupid. But liberated having shared.
Also, I burn rashers on the grill regularly. In fact, almost always. And I don't cook chicken goujons thoroughly and consequently make people a little bit ill. And, to be honest, that black pudding tasted just fine when I ate mine earlier... Beginning to think my standards are rather low. But food is only fuel. It just has to be edible. I have more important things to be doing than wasting time preparing and then discussing tasties that will meet their end in the ceramic bowl. (Important things: sleeping, running late, watching telly, sleeping, reading, blogging... Eugh.)
I really wish I had important things to do. Oh, woe.
I'll surely return later for more nonsense.