Matty as a priest! Oh my.
I'm wearing my Buddha t-shirt again today, this last unofficial day of t-shirt amnesty. Back into the pinstripe blouses next week, alas. I was going to wear my beloved Renoir t-shirt, but it was jealously possessed by one of the huntsmen who've colonised my wardrobe, and I had neither the time nor will to argue. Let Shelob have my bloody Renoir shirt then. Hmph. My favourite and only Renoir shirt, bought on the actual streets of Montmartre. Whimper.
Oh yeah, spiders? Up to my arse in them. Bad enough I had to fight large annoyed spiders while doing a hasty job of the xmas/spring clean thing, but the bastards have moved inside in herds. Before I left, the moths, etc in my room were well out of control, because obviously my roommate had carked it. I was too tired to really notice their abscence when I dragged my sorry self into my room at last, just wanting nothing more than to lie on my own bed.
But later, in the wee small hours, I was in the loo and I noticed a tiny baby huntsman land on the sink and scuttle about. Huh, thinks I, and then I look up. Cue X Files music here. The ceiling is crawling, absolutely crawling, with nearly three dozen baby spidders. Eeep. Ditto the spare room. And mine. And now I know where all the moths went. I'm sure if I'm happy with the non chemical pest control solution. One of the buggers bit me on the toe last night. It hurt. Lots.
A big box from Amazon arrived yesterday, which stunned me, because it got here so fast. Gosh and golly gee, has someone in their shipping department discovered there's a Southern Hemisphere? And there, nestled in plastic, were some silver shiny disks of happiness for a couple of series I've been waiting to gets my hands on for like, forever (S:AAB and M7, if you're at all interested). But, oh no, insane dvd melting temps forecast all weekend, which means no lookee teevee. Whimper. Pout. Whine.
That'll me me, sighing and sweating in the corner and casting long mournful looks to my unplayed, unfullfilled box sets. Sigh. Torment of Tantalus ain't in it, as Jack might say with a little prompting from Stephen for the classical references. That's what I might, nay, should do. Revisit my boys. I love my boys and I've been really emphasising with Stephen of late, especially with the having to sail past places long coveted. Sigh.
Of course, I could write, but I suspect it'll be way too hot and sticky and generally unhappy for that. I haven't written in ages, but I have merry shows in my head, so at least I'm having fun. I'm just not sharing. And, right now, I really don't care for the thankless effort of it, if I'm really honest with myself.
It's all I can do to summon the will to scratch out a few lj entries. This last trip has really tried and tested me, and found me wanting. I was so sick and tired, and I had to still drag my sorry arse around the world. I had to dig deep into rseerve pockets of the right stuff and suck the marrow dry. And that's it. I ain't got nothing left. Tank's empty. I just can't go any more. Floop.
It'd help if I could shake this truly ghastly flu, but that's part of the problem. I just feel wretched and it's back to proper work and deadlines next week. Ack.
Went down to the Quay again and laughed at the folks in shorts and sandals in the world's biggest queue for a ferry ride. Then I realised I wouldn't be able to catch my ferry home. Bugger.
Bloody tourists, holding up the bus, asking directions, complaining about how dirty and hot it was, as though they didn't catch it every day, talking loudly, in their shorts and sandals and shaking sand everywhere. Some of us are still on the job, you know. It's worse if they get on the bus/train with a board. That's just flaunting their holiday status, that is. Bastards.
At least it's quiet in here, with only two-four people per room, and in the morning, peace itself on the bus. Well, as much peace as you can get on a noisy deisel belching shuddering old bastard of a thing as it lurches from pothole to pothole (methinks Ewan is spoiled with UK roads. He should try ours. Make a man of him).
Anyway, another hour of sitting here posting crap, work and not, and I'm outta here. I wanna go look at the sales, even if my credit card says no.
In the year 2006 I resolve to:
"A wise man once said it took 42 muscles to frown and only four to pull the trigger of a decent sniper rifle." - SMH