Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Come with me if you want to live....

Songs for the day:
Rolling Stones: You can't always get what you want
Elton John: I guess that's why they call it the blues
Hours of life wasted: Far too many

How long can you get away with sitting around in your underwear, heckling crap daytime telly and throwing things at people before you get sectioned?

I only ask as a matter of interest. As it happens I have not been doing the above, but am considering it as an alternative option since today my motivation levels are negligible. Until today I, very worthily I thought, had devised myself a maintain-sanity-and-some-level-of-fitness-routine in the style of Sarah Connor in Terminator 2. You can imagine me doing pull ups in my bedroom while my Dad peers in through the door in bewilderment. Although, in fact, the actual schedule goes something more like this:

  • Get up, drink coffee.
  • Hobble around the garden smoking and swearing a lot.
  • Tell cat to fuck off.
  • Drink another coffee.
  • Fantasize about SbH. Consider calling SbH for chat. Realise a) he's either at work or snow boarding b) don't want to bum the boy out with too much of my whinging.
  • Sit on floor and do various exercises prescribed by physio - wince in agony and fully grasp quite how mashed knee is.
  • Sit at lap top. Consider doing work. Stare into space.
  • Eye up chocolate bar. Resist with The Will of Allah.
  • Smoke
  • Drink coffee
....and repeat 3 times daily....

Truly this is agony.

I have no independence. I cannot leave the house without cadging a lift from my Dad, as I can't depress pedals in the car. And the house is quite literally in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. So it's not like I can pop to the shops for a distraction - and besides I also have no money as I spent it all on treatment and getting back to the UK and - oh yes - am also now unemployed. Cream on top, nes pas?

And the gargantuan amount of coffee is a terrible, terrible plan. Having been incredibly active from December to February, I now spend most of my time sitting. This means every muscle in my body is tingling and twitching with expendable energy that has nowhere to go. Add to this my fairly advanced caffeine addiction and ....jumpy? I'm like a freaking jack in the box. I wake up about fifteen times every night.

...and I'm hornier than a reindeer on horny goat weed, darling. Oh for the halcyon days of three weeks ago. Even with my leg in a splint, an evening in the oh so capable hands of SbH was still three shades of awesome. Hmn... perhaps I should send him a webcam in the post. Now there's an idea...

This afternoon the routine went completely out of the window, along with my brain. In fact I just lay pointlessly on the couch wallowing unashamedly in self pity and staring at tiny motes floating in the air across the room. There was a bit of half-hearted, watery sunshine plunging in through the window. It made the motes sparkle and dance, which reminded me of fairy dust. That's just callous. If there's a god and he's reading this... then I would just like to say 'you callous bastard!'

However, I fear my delightfully (I am told) abstract mind may be wandering into the realms of extremity due to cabin fever. I don't want to talk too much balderdash, so perhaps I should stop writing for today. Mine are but the troubles of a spoilt middle class brat. So I shall complain no more.

I really do wish that cat would fuck off though.

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