I could have had a lay in this morning. God knows I could use it. But my hemorrhoids are bloody killing me this morning and after a good five minutes of scratching I was forced to drag my bloodied backside into the toilet to mop up the mess.
I’m sat at my computer now writing words that no one will ever read in the hope that someone might. How fucking sad is that eh? If I think about this week; the office, the work (and the journey from home to work and back again), I reacon I’ve only spoken about three or four sentences. Maybe the odd “thank you” and the supermarket. May be not.
I can’t remember the sound of my own voice. I’ll think I’ll say something now.
I sound like a twat.
I might actually move into this flat today, I mean I’m up early and all of the boxes are starting to annoy me. I could just accept everything and move in and start again.
I could try and start again.