In which the big work deadline fucks with my mental health.

I met my big deadline at work, just about.  Project was due in Friday, was actually delivered in the early hours of Sunday morning. That was an insane work week. Insane. I feel physically battered and I can’t remember a time when I was doing anything but work. I was just looking at the calendar and realised with shock that One Love was only last weekend, it feels like six months ago. I feel dazed and confused.

Well. Once again, we shall attempt to get TLYW heading in the proper direction. Here is where we are up to.

  • Travel. There is going to be some. Need to make the necessary arrangements for that. More details in due course.
  • I must go and visit my sister. I think that’s today. I’m planning to sleep on the train.
  • My house is a fucking tip. I don’t know what to say, it’s not like I don’t clean but it looks not unlike the field at the end of the One Love festival last week, festooned with single flip-flops and bin bags.
  • Exercise. Good god. I feel like my body has stopped working while my brain was in gear. It’s like I can only operate one at a time.
  • Dating. Blah blah. I have live online dating profiles. I am being more or less competently chatted up by people who seem okay. They will have to fit in around my travel schedule though.
  • Honcho. I hate you, Head Honcho. Talking to him upsets my equilibrium for weeks. Also I think I have been thinking about him this week as a distraction from work because of being chained to my desk for hours and days. A bit of Honcho-related brooding and fantasising can provide a quick and easy break from work without having to move from one’s desk and is more interesting than iPad games. The problem is it obviously leads to a large catalogue of things that I feel like saying to him, but there is absolutely no point poking that nest of doom, so I am holding myself back. Sometimes I don’t know which of us is more screwy. He is quite obviously more than a bit mental. He loves drama and seemingly thinks that two years of fruitless relationship negotiations are better than the two years of glorious sex we could have been having. On the other hand, I’m apparently able to derive some emotional benefits on a par with, and indeed somehow more attractive than, ‘being in a relationship’ just from arguing with the stupid motherfucker by email, so what does that say about me. That was a rhetorical question, by the way. Thank you.

Nina Simone: I Put A Spell On You


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