Breakfast at Tiffany's. A girl should always have time for something wonderful and they were playing Breakfast at Tiffany's at 4.30 am when I got up for work. Unfortunately I had to get up and get myself slightly decent for stepping out the door. I didn't even get breakfast, I never do, I get travel sick something rotten.
It's funny, I'd had fever dreams of actually stepping over a very available Actor X because I had work to do. Work always comes first. And so it was, no time for Audrey or a young and adorable George Peppard. Out the door and off to work.
I didn't go out last night. It wasn't just that I felt awful, though I did. Leeched out, worn down and wrung dry, as brittle as dry paper. It's the thought of the city that terrifies me. I think I'm developing some sort of yuppie/agrophobia. Where I was going, I used to go all the time. I could walk to it from my work, and I did. When I was working in the city, I might have lived out in the stinking, nasty poor suburbs but I only slept there. I did all my shopping, eating and hanging out in the city. I learned their ways and I could almost pass. Of course, I'd always be caught out, but I could almost pass.
Not now. Now I eat here, and I'm fat again. I shop here and my clothes are all k-mart. Even my accent has reverted, and I use the wrong words, say the wrong things. I don't pass. They hurl abuse from cars, laugh and walk around me on the streets, bar my entry into shops and venues. If I was black I could sue, but I'm just fat, ugly and poor and so I slink back home.
I couldn't face them, the laughter, the pointing, the snide snickers behind hands. I had enough of that from the new contractors yesterday, I couldn't take any more. So I ran home, hiding my head.
I wasn't the only one hiding. AP must have been in a bad mood because the magpies were all hiding around the corner and they peeked around the side of the house to see if it was safe to come and beg for crackers in a very comical fashion. It was still light but since my frang flowered it's been dragged off to a far corner and I never get a chance to see it, not before I'm distracted by magpies and the like.
Flopped down to watch the latter half of Doctor Who. The Seeds of Death. They've landed in a space museum, which they ascertain by a series of slides demonstrating the history of manned flight and I hear the gawd awful theme from Enterprise stirring in my head. Ack. I decide the Tubeway Army look is not kind to otherwise dignified auld BBC luvvies. The end credits roll and I do mean roll: you can actually see the sticky tape holding the credits together. Which is why I'm taping it. Fie on the computer generated and cleaned up dvd version. Where is the fun and quaint charm of Doctor Who if you can't see the sticky tape?
After that, with the usual evening rituals performed, I retired to my hot muggy room and switched on the electrical opiates regardless. As I was feeling so blue I figured I needed a good laugh. A bit of a smile.
Smile Time. Oh. My. God. I laughed so hard I snorted blood. Puppet Angel is just too feking funny. Those brows, his little puppet hands, the mauling, the game face, and the old A Team march down the corridor. Cackle, cackle, cackle.
And that Angel/Horatio x-over I was thinking of tinkering with? Completely out of the question now. Titter. Wheeze.
After that I tried to catch up on sleep, without too much success. Strange fevered dreams and much being ick.
Crap! The blinds behind me just slammed down, loosed by an invisible hand. Way to take another ten years off my life. Piss off, poltergeist (speaking of which, Adam was very upset at the revisionist Starsky and Hutch fillum, disgusted at the suggestion that Hutch would ever betray starsky. wil called him a Hutch apologist and so it went on).
I must say though, I am feeling much better. Thanks in no doubt partly to the resorative powers of Schweppes lemonade (with the cute 70s style ads). I don't know what they put into it, but whatever it is, it helped. Flat fizzy water is an old family cure for what ails you. I think it's the sugary water that does it.
I am also, despite my pro-net rant over on varina8's lj, have decided that I've been over inulging a wee bit and I'm currently cutting a swathe through my lists and communities. Well, it had to be done now that Head Office are actually talking to me again. I'm up to my eyeballs in work and thus have no time to be a net slacker no more. Poot.
So, gone are all the Orly pics, etc (and he wasn't the one nearly nekkid in my dreams last night anyway). Though I'm still keeping my man. I hope folks find him a little more age appropriate (well, he said I didn't look my age). ;p
Only if they can be shoved out an airlock in deep space together.