Also, I was at sixes and sevens because we kept having blackouts, causing hideous data loss for both work and play.
But never mind, I've just had a nibble on one of my job applications, which is both thrilling and terrifying. Not that I think running away will solve any of my problems (aside from introducing a welcome geographical rift with the bipedal ones) but staying here, sticking it out, chin up, turning the other cheek, making the best of it, stiff upper lip and trying to look on the bright side are, frankly, exhausting and driving me to an early grave. I'm done with trying to make everyone else happy. Sure, I'll mess it up, but I think I'd regret it if I didn't try something different.
Mind you, if I did go forth and get a life, it'd mean less time online. That's scary too, as it's become such a crutch/balm/refuge for me this last stormy decade.
In other news, didn't catch up on Bones, kindly supplied, as intended. Not a real fan of the show but DB amuses me and I was of a mood to watch something I wasn't 100% engaged in, but it was too hot (ten degrees above the maximum safe operating temp in my room) and I was too pouty.
I think that's why I've been binging on Robin Hood of late, instead of Life on Mars, like I should. Robin is mindless fluff (and he is, the dear, but occassionally pretty), and Life on Mars, right now, involves making copious notes and it's all a bit too much like homework, though I will have to watch #8 again sometime this week, just to make sure I've not effed up badly.
At some point, I'd really love to re-watch #2. Just watch it, and wallow in the unfolding love story that it is. Will Sam overcome his pride and Gene his prejudice (and vice versa, as per the book) to realise that at last they've found their match?
Do they what. That look Gene gives Sam as he deals him into a card game: woof. Have you ever seemn it's like? I've not seen a look that hot in a tradition m/f romance in decades.
Oh dear. I am never going to finish my fic/save the government/save the world/stop the house looking like a crime scene/clean my room/deck the halls by 24th December. Ack. Help. Quiver.
And now I've got Robin porn in my head in desperate search of a plot. Not that the want of a plot bothers the show runners, but I'd like to set an example, you know? Let's aspire to plots, shall we?
Or, you know, we could just go with the cute guys, running around, doing whatever. I'm kinda tired right now (sticky nights = no sleep) and that works for me. I'm really, really tired. So tired a workmate offered to pick up lunch, as I looked so wretched (and I'd already eaten my piece of fruit). Worse, she laughed and mocked when I said I was too tired to be virtuous and chew my way through the logs of shredded carrot they call wraps at the health food bar. I was too tired to chew, full stop. So sushi it was. Itty bitty pieces of sushi.
Of course it was my turn to laugh when I heard her sushi tray snap open. When sushi boxes attack. Then she called me urbane because I knew my way around wasabi. You know, that's one prefix I thought would never, and should ever, be attached to me. Not when I look, and feel, like a load of old washing.
One good thing though, a friend who rose to suit wearing officer class, as it were, got my back, as the Yanks say, re some of the work merde. Imagine Hogan telling Simmerson that actually, in fact, Sharpe was acting under orders and the General is actually quite happy with the results so far, so he can't understand what all this fuss is about. Imagine Simmerson harumphing angrily at being foiled again. Imagine Sharpe looking ever so slightly smug.
And now we lose that smug look entirely. All week I'm been lazing around: no worries, I'll do it on Friday, my day off, etc. Day off is just cancelled. I am so very screwed.
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