Bleah

Jan. 24th, 2009 06:37 pm
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[personal profile] desperance
There aren't many cat-shaped rules in this house (you will have gathered this; apparently there are those among you who believe that I spend all my waking hours pampering the little beasts and poaching their salmon for them...)(*poaches*)(talking of poaching, anyone out there read "John MacNab"?), but these are meant to be two of them:

[to Barry] Thou shalt not walk on the keyboard

[to Mac] Thou shalt not chase Barry onto the desk

*sighs*

On the other hand, that's about all the action that's occurrin' here tonight. I feel suddenly like overboiled spaghetti that finds it too much trouble to stick to the wall. I'm sitting here reading the internets and not even bothered to poke in a desultory fashion at the last fifty pages of the book. As though I were convalescent, rather than ill: like I want to wrap a duvet around me and watch Buffy. I'm not even much interested in this here glass of wine, shock horror.

I 'spect this is a recognised stage of being pathetically beaten up, some kind of boring delayed reaction thing.

*yawns insultingly at purveyors of psychobabble*

So near, and yet...

Yup. Too far. I'm going to read more Patrick O'Brian, and I don't care.
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