It might bring roses, but I fucking hate this time of year. That not-yet-xmas xmas lead up, always so stuffed and sickly with its gross monetised sentiment and pressure to visit and be sociable; I suppose I should just be grateful that the latter imperative doesn't coincide with winter and seasonal affective shit down here. Because that would suck, and I feel badly for all my surly northern misanthropic homies. Late Nov/Dec also licks hairy balls because of the ambient psychic christmashead phenomenon- that *durr jingle bell durr* static that interferes with my attempts to write long form fiction. So if you're staring at a plastic xmas tree in a shop display somewhere thinking about custard, can you please cut that fucking retarded shit out? Thanking you in advance.
Last night I dreamed that there were greyish naked little deformed chicken-type legs growing out of the back of my shoulder blades, squashed up against my bra strap and was mad at R because he didn't tell me about them. They didn't enable me to fly, couldn't type, scratch anything awkward, did nothing to enhance my sexuality and just caused a sort of vague generalised anxiety because I couldn't see them clearly.
This morning I sliced a nice fucking chunk off a fingernail bed with our Silky Zubat saw whilst halfway up a cliff face cutting down an overhanging tree. I still heartily endorse the instrument involved and recommend it to fellow luddites everywhere but its fair usage-to-accidental mutilation ratio leaves something to be desired. Exposed nail bed stings like a bitch so not happy.