Having scraped through the bottom of the barrel, we are now scraping through the soggy dirt that occupies the space beneath the barrel.

I had a twelve-hour shift in work. Not the sexytime type of shift. The bad kind. The "work" work kind.
So I'm not really feeling the whole blogging thing right now.


 . . . 


I also don't have a picture.
Fuckcicles.


Ooh! Wait! Found one. I was doodling other people's cartoon characters this one time. 
That'll do.

 . . . 


So. What does one do in this situation? I've already maxed out the idea of random link-dumping every Sunday. So that's out. I've done the whole "keep typing out loud until you've filled a few paragraphs and hope nobody notices" to death. I'm also doing it right now but shut up.
I'm just so . . . 


So tired right now that I'm afraid of making some food in case I try to use my laptop as a sandwich toaster.


I feel so sticky right now from the humid weather that the dust mites have formed a union and are demanding basic sanitary conditions.


So frustrated right now that whenever I blow my nose, that's my brain trying to escape for a better life. As an Arts student.


I felt so horrible after drinking last weekend I couldn't tell if I'd been drinking beer or broken glass and vinegar cocktails.


My room is so messy even the hobos are complaining.


I'm so hungry right now my internal organ are drawing straws to see which of them is going to be cannibalised by the others first. Sounds like my pancreas lost the first round.


I'm so irritated by my supervisor that you'de need to grind your head against a pebbledash wall for four hours while Daniel O'Donnell read you the shipping forecast to get a glimpse of how I feel when I think I have to face him again tomorrow.


My similes are so bad they're more like simeters.




Dear god that 8 hours of data entry turned my brain to mush. Get me back to college where at least noone will notice!
 . . . 
Well. That's all I got. Go knock off work early or something. Like four hours early . . .