My apologies for the overly aggressive title to this post but I like to choose something that sums up and draws together the various elements of what I intend to write. I'm possibly becoming slightly wanky in my post-journalist years. Perhaps I need an editor to bitch-slap me back into shape. Perhaps I spend too much time reading other people's posts on livejournal. That place is hazardous to your mental health.
Besides, I'm pre-menstrual, post-holiday and fed up to the fucking back teeth with my flatmate. The psycho one, who doesn't actually have any legal right to be here. I know there is a god because on Thursday she's flying back to her mother ship for rest and recuperation. My rest and recuperation I think.
It's not that she has actually said anything, it is more what she hasn't said (and has done) that is winding me up. She's condescending, bossy and rude, and now she is adding petty and malicious to an already impressive list. Why should I bother to pretend that she isn't winding me up? Because that is what she wants. I think she wants me to bitch and whine and throw a tantrum and act like a child, because then she gets to prove to herself that really we are just alike. My tantrums, my moodiness, my door slamming would validate hers. So why the hell would I give her the satisfaction?
So let's return to our scheduled viewing shall we?
I have had a fantastic weekend. I got to bottle-feed a lamb, learn to make foundation for bee hives, wander through woodland gathering herbs and generally experience a life that is so totally removed from my own that at times it felt like someone had fired up the defibrilator pads and slammed them into my chest.
This weekend, for me, gave new meaning to the idea of recharging the batteries. This weekend I plugged into the mains.
