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Friday, Don't mind me -- I'm just whining to hear my own voice.
Yes, I know. I'm whinging. I'm also feeling incredibly lonely and more than slightly pissed off that one of my favorite forums has been closed because of the asshole actions of one person. Some people just need to be taken out behind the woodshed and beat like a red-headed stepchild, and I'm not talking about Rob here. At least the Karmic Boomerang will be coming around with a vengeance one of these days -- you violate the Threefold Law, you're guaranteed to be guest of honor at the eventual smackdown. So here I am, emotionally curled into a fetal ball and taking it all out on you few, you happy few, you band of brothers and sisters who come here to listen to me wibble. I am sorry -- you're incredibly patient and kind, and I love you all dearly for putting up with the intermittent bitchfests. It's just that I just feel thoroughly disgusted and blue about pretty much everything in the world right now. I mean, there's a con in town this weekend and I'm not even pumped about that. LYNDON, of all people, wants to go to this one (mainly because the guest of honor is Brian Stableford and Lyn wants to get his Hooded Swan collection signed), and I'm sitting here thinking, "A con. Yeah, maybe. I dunno." Maybe I need allergy medication. Or a kick in the ass, whatever. The funny thing is, today is my journal's first anniversary. One year ago, I was filled with eagerness as I flung my first entry into the wide world that is the Internet. And it's been a good year -- I've met a lot of cool people through my journalling efforts, and I wouldn't trade that for anything. But I simply can't work up a shred of enthusiasm for this lovely folly today. I am a sad muppet, truly. |
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Either
that or I'm sick (a strong possibility -- I've had this nasty stream of
goo coursing down the back of my throat this week and I've been feeling
nauseated from it). In any case, the end result is a wicked case of the
Fuckits. It's bloody humid in Stockholm, I don't want to be here at work
(I especially don't want to be here when the phone rings and I
recognize the number as She Who Cannot Be Avoided with yet more makework
for me), I hate the idea of going out and working in the garden, writing
seems to be too much trouble, the tail end of this period is making me
feel bloated and uncomfortable (there's no experience quite like riding
your bike while wearing a pad -- hoo boy, I suppose I didn't need that
clitoris anyway), and the fact that this journal is only linked on one
other on-line journal (the beauteous and talented Julie of 
