Brennig Jones (and friends)

I have no excuse for you.

My lack of blogging is inspired purely by sloth and apathy to the art of writing.

Indeed, the art of doing anything that doesn’t involve sleeping and eating has been a bit of a stretch over the past couple of months.

I have received a letter from Aber Uni about my ‘pace of progress’ or lack thereof.

I have received 4 missed calls and a voicemail from my gym asking if I’m ok.

I now have shares in Dominos Pizza and Costa.

OK, I don’t, but I should!

And as for the Reading List – well.  It continues to grow.  But I can’t be arsed to add the books that I’ve read to it.

Mainly because I’ve forgotten.

I have italicised those books I started reading and gave up on, or didn’t even start reading and gave up on.

I did finish the ‘Depression’ book by Tim Cantopher.  Very interesting indeed.

I have read the Paul McKenna thin-making one too.

When I’m eating now I think ‘I should be eating this much more slowly’ and ‘I’m full so I should stop eating now’.

Thinking, my friends, is not the same as doing!

I have an arse the size of Canada.

I’m fine about this though.

Well, maybe ‘fine’ is a bit strong.  If I were to draw a picture of myself, it would be similar to an image of the Tasmanian Devil cartoon when he goes into mental mode and spins all over the place.

Because I feel as though, even though I tend to spend my evenings doing bugger all, that I’m constantly trying to keep up with myself.

That probably makes sense only to me.  And it sounded better in my head.

I need to have my brain scraped.

There’s so much clutter up there that it’s pushing out the stuff that I need to get by.

On the plus side, my fingernails are less bitten lately.

My thumbs and thumbnails, however, have had the shit chewed out of them today.

It’s completely unconscious.  Until the thumb starts to hurt and bleed.  Then I berate myself and hark back to a few moments before when the nail and thumb were intact.

Then I spend far too much time looking at said thumb and urging the skin to grow back more quickly, so that it doesn’t hurt anymore. And doesn’t look like I’ve chewed it.

It’s not nice, is it?

Reading this you’d think I am not happy.

That’s the weird thing, I’m pretty happy at the moment.  Certainly, when the lights came back on (i.e. the sun graced us with it’s presence) a couple of weeks ago, I was a different person to the one who has spent the last few months moping around and wondering what the fuck is wrong with her.

I had a gloomy day on Friday.

But I blame that on a lack of sleep and one glass of red wine with a meal.

I should just not drink.  And sleep more.

Blimey, if I slept any more than I do, I wouldn’t hold a full-time job down!

I haven’t killed any members of the public recently, or even wanted to.  This is a very positive thing, I think you’ll agree.

I have had a couple of job interviews, both unsuccessful, and applied for a few jobs that I’ve not heard anything from.  My lovely colleagues have expressed a certain amount of gladness that I’ve not got the jobs I’ve been interviewed for, because they love me so.

Well, I am very lovely, of course.

And one wise colleague has told me to stop wasting my time applying for jobs and stay with them, and spend the time concentrating on my studies instead.  This may seem like ‘stating the obvious’ to some, but I needed to be told.

She also said that I try to do too much at once.  Bless her.  She should follow me home when I try to do nothing at all.

But in a way, I think she’s right.  I want everything and I want it now.  And if I don’t get it right away, I keep it in the background and move onto the next thing that I want.  Adding another ball to the many that I’m throwing around in the air, in the vain hope that I’ll be able to catch at least one of them at some point.

Here’s an example.  The whole book thing.

Last week I returned at least 10 books to the library.

Out of those 10 books, guess how many I had read?

None.

I had started about 3 of them.

But then the Jodi Picoult book I’d reserved came in and I thought ‘now is the time to streamline, and concentrate on something’.

So I returned the 10 books and 3 dvds I’d taken out less than a week ago.

At least 2 of those books were ex-library stock that I’d bought.

Anyway, this is a constant cycle of mine.  I see a book and think that I have to have it.  Immediately.  It sits in my house for a while.  First in the lounge, then next to my bed.  More are added to either pile.  Then one day in a fit of tidying I pack them all into a re-usable Waitrose bag and take them to work with me to be redistributed among the Oxfordshire Library Service.

One day I will realise that I will never read all of the books I think I should, or even those I want to read.  It’s just impossible.  Unless writers stop writing, or the internet stops working, or the television broadcasting service dies, I’m never going to read everything.

Why does that thought scare me?

*Chews thumb-skin until there is nothing left but a bleeding stump*