Five. Forty. AM.
And I -cannot- fall asleep.
Thus here I sit, chain-smoking Davidoff Classics (decent), wondering if it's that crap of Soybean I drank a few hours ago keeping me up. It's got to be -something-. I have an interview with a prominent public figure in...four and a half hours. At Yishun. I could do without this.
Possibly, it's the Subconscious wreaking havoc upon me for the lovely gash on my knee. Yes, yours truly managed to slip and smack my knee straight into dirt, ripping bermudas in a quaint Levis-esque way in the process. Hurty stuff. And all because I was gazing speculatively at a building silhouetted in a very nice, overcast red sky at two a.m . Instead of looking where the fuck I was walking. Post-apocalyptic stuff, I thought, the little prophet I was.
"For being a retarded piece of shit, NO SLEEP for you tonight!", the Subconscious...seemed to say.
Meh. Too early to be funny. And my knee hurts.
In any case, anyone up for a beer sometime? The fellas just mouth "Yeah take care see you soon." like they mean it, and the missus is suspciously busy meeting varied girlfriends whenever I'm actually free. So let's hear it for fileshare networks once more, the adorable things which are the source of most of my entertainment. I am on the verge of developing a sexual relationship with my monitor. Isn't that right, May?
Maybe the neighbourhood cats. Yeah. Six-pack of Tiger, just sit down and chew the fat with them.
"Heh! Tell the one about that prank you played on Ginger with the rubber mouse again. More Tiger?"
Would be awkward, waking up in the morning to a stretching cat and slow, dawning horror.
1 comment:
Your left hand is your best friend. Or right. Whichever one you usually use. No need for girlfriends or friends, for that matter. Just you, your hand, and some sweet loving. Helps if there're visual aids to stimulate the process.
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