A William Burroughs Novel Title

img_2104Nope, I’m not engaging with Friday. Friday is a big wet bastard made of ouch and grump and I’m not playing. Unless you’ve got some tiddly-winks. I might play tiddly-winks.

A couple of days of relatively busy activity (for an old spanner like me) kept me from dwelling too much on the disappointment I felt coming away from the psyche assessment on Tuesday. I do realise I’m not a special case, I’m not murderous or suicidal so I’m not high priority, but it does feel a little like I’ve been sidelined towards a destination I’m not especially interested in travelling to. If I still feel this way next week I may try to write down my reservations and concerns and send it to them before they close of other possibilities for certain.

I’m tired and my body hurts. Hard to find positive thoughts in this state. Strong painkillers don’t help the mind even if they do alleviate the body a bit. I need to cook but don’t have the energy to do the washing up which is currently preventing me from cooking. So my brain yells ‘junk food!’ at me, ignoring the fact that if I don’t have the energy for washing up I certainly won’t have the energy for going out in search of junk food.

When Americans say ‘junk’ they mean male genitalia. Does this mean junk food tastes like balls? Is that why all the MSG has to be added, to make balls more palatable? Shall I stop asking stupid questions now?

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