I have lots to say, but I don't want to say it. So instead of getting all that stuff out, I'm going to write with Dev and see what comes out.
Ah, the over, under, through method of dealing with obstacles - never truer word spoken.
All writing is valuable. I'm still amazed that I have written a blog post every day this year so far - it's pretty incredible.
I'm also procrastinating because I should be prepping my spare room for painting. I'm not feeling it. So here we go.
About last night:
Well, I had a massage last night. I packed up my work computer and put it in a drawer in the bedroom so I don't have to look at it for two weeks, then I went and had a massage. It was great. Seeing that my semi-regular massage is about the only human touch I get at the moment, I savour every minute. As I spend far too much time in the chair I'm currently sitting in, well that too means that I need the masage. Oh, and that I was put through a heavy session at the gym on Thursday night, I needed it even more. My massage therapist is great, gets into all the bits which need it. I have a funny feeling I likes working on me too. The gym work keeps me really toned, but heavy work, like we did on Thursday, leaves things feeling like boulders. Regardless, it was great, until a couple of junkies came into the practice. Seems they were after a rub and tug - whereas where I go is a place where physios / osteos / Myos and remedial massage therapists work - the ones that you get money back from your health fund. Thankfully, he dealt with them quickly and got back to my shoulders.
Five things about me that I've learned this week:
I'm getting a bit of separation anxiety at the thought of leaving the cat with my mother in Adelaide for a month. It's not going to be the same without him. But he will be fine with Mum - and I feel better about not having to shunt him back to Melbourne four days after getting to Adelaide. He'll have fun.
I'm not as squeamish as I think I am. Dealing with this wart, I have to scrap the bloody thing away. I can do this happily. It's stinging a bit - means it's working. And the duct tape on the bottom of the foot remains.
I really do love literature. Reading Julian Barnes set me off - and it was wonderfu;. Now on to Brit Bennett's The Vanishing Half. I will make my 35 books read this year.
Oh there is something I wish I could share but not on this forum. I'll keep it to be bastardised and put in the novel. But not here.
I'm amazed that I'm keeping my emotions in check at the moment.
When was my last / first / most memorable OMG food moment when the world changed?
Okay, that would be yesterday, when I poured myself a nip of Mr Black coffee liqueur over ice and had it at drinks after work. OH MY GOD! This stuff is orgasmic. It's cold brew coffee mixed with vodka, in essence, but it is SOOOOOO good. It's nowhere near as syrupy as Kahlua or Tia Maria, the coffee is intense, string enough to take out the bite from the vodka. Sipped over a ball ice block (I have ice moulds which come out the size of a tennis ball, it was just perfect ice cold. I could feel the caffeine coursing through me - something I haven't drunk in two years - but a little, every now and then, is fine. This stuff was bought on a whim off the internet after seeing it mentioned in an article in The Age.
The Japanese believe that when you can't sleep you're awake in somebody else's dream.
I normally sleep well once I'm off - then there are times when I don't - and there are two or three periods a year, for a couple of days, when I have full on insomnia - but that will normally pass after a couple of days. Lavender oil or the very, very occasional Stillnox sorts me out. But I have no idea who would be dreaming about me. I suppose I find it funny that as I rarely dream, I think other people rarely dream too. I was in a dream group for years and I was a bit of a pariah in the group because I rarely dreamed, or if I did dream of people I was dreaming about the likes of Tony Abbott, Kurt from Glee's Dad or some other fictional character. I can't remember the last dream I had. But I do hope that when I was dreaming of Tony Abbott, that he was kept awake, because that is how schadenfreude works.
What are you trying to prove to who?
I'm trying to prove to myself that I'm a real writer. Most of me knows I'm a real writer, but there is that little bit of me that thinks I'm a hack.
I'm also trying to prove to my cat that I'm a good cat mummy. He's just ripped through the paper of a couple of wrapped Christmas presents - so I'm not sure how good a cat's mummy I am.
I'm also trying to prove I have great taste in music, but here I am, with Right, Said Fred as my song of the day.
Today's Song:
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