Or maybe I'm made of old farts, it's hard to tell. Or maybe it's the good old self-neglect at work.
I'm stiff. I'm sore. I'm worn out by going to the movies ffs. Going to bed doesn't give the rest it used to. The pillow is trying to kill me.
OK I probably need to find the right kind of pillow, but it seems to be an elusive beast that uses Brigadoon as it's sole habitat. Everything has memory foam cores, these days, and those turn into solid bricks of pain and viciousness after a handful of weeks where you thought you could trust them.
Listen to me. I just said 'these days'.
I am transforming into a grackle.
Or maybe I need a spa day. That I can't firkin afford because I'm not good enough at writing to get people to pay for things.
Bluh.
The kids are due back, today. And I have yet to leave my pyjamas. I have zero plans to do anything even remotely exciting, and that's my idea of a nearly relaxing time. Time for a hot bath would make it better, I guess.
I can take heart in the fact that my stories are selling with very little in the way of advertising. If I could find the energy to do more advertising, I could make enough to buy me the next supply of mustard-and-mayo tuna tins.
That's my default, can't-be-arsed meal for one, my dear readers. One small tin of mayo and mustard seed tuna and two slices of buttered toast. And that's assuming that kettle soup isn't available. You know kettle soup. Put on kettle, open sachet(s), pour both into cup.
This is why I need a life coach. To stop me doing this shit to myself. I'm sure it's a spoons thing. I eat horribly because I don't have the energy to make anything better. And I don't have spoons because I eat horribly.
Beloved, at this point in the conversation, would tell the story about the woodsman with the blunt axe. But it's more complicated than just sharpening myself, as it were. Sometimes, the woodsman needs regular visits from the guy with the whetstone. Or a hand carting the logs to market. Or just someone to firkin pitch in and help. None of which are available because some people would rather stand around telling stories than do anything useful.
Grumble grumble bum bum.