The above is a quote from Count Arthur Strong, I believe. And he says it in relation to attempts to stop cats ‘messing on my misanthracums’. Got to love Count Arthur!
It’s also how I feel right now. And I’m feeling – excuse the poo motifs – a shitload better now that I was about an hour ago.
I’ve been feeling more up than down for a little while recently. So in away I could see a downturn might be coming. Indeed, when I’ve felt very good recently, I’ve been rather wary. I don’t want too much (and by too much I mean any) manic depressive bi-polar bear shit!
Anyway, a combo of sexual frustration, lack of sufficient work/earnings, and increased costs that I simply can’t meet (hire and reward car insurance renewal, due soon; MOT and service for Flo’, due/overdue, etc.), and that’s before we even start on Council Tax and increasingly exorbitant utility bills…
GAAAHH!!!
When I’m this depressed or miserable I crave oblivion. And preferably with a side order of endorphins. I want booze. And poss’ also other drugs. And sex. Always sex. Lots of dirty, lusty sex.
But that shit ain’t a-happening. Except for a wee bit of booze. And doubtless that actually does no good. Poss’ even harm?
I tried to lift myself out of the slough of despond by doing the 10 minute Joe Wicks Seniors’ Workout, followed by a very hot bath. The exercise and bathing have helped lift my spirits a little. But nowhere near as much as is needed.
Still, at least it’s a bit of travel in the right direction.
I have lots of minor niggles, in addition to several long term issues, like psoriatic arthritis, psoriasis, and depression: itchy beyond belief feet; a shoulder injury that feels like RSI (brought on by booking and doing Flex shifts?); occasional bouts of insomnia; hay fever or rhinitis; and chronic exhaustion.
When the sexual frustration part kicks in, it’s more chemical/emotional. And it rapidly spirals out of control. If any little thing – like a recent incident with mouthy little shits outside Sainsburys – should add to the toxic mix, I feel explosions and meltdown are imminent.
I did a long early shift this morning. And I enjoyed that. Sunny weather, in and around Stamford. And this afternoon I put together about 150 or so of my poems, into a single volume PDF doc, which I then took to be printed and bound locally. So I’m doing stuff.
The outright misery kicked in with a combo of a tidal wave of sexual frustration, and a pint at The Ship Inn, just off the High Street. Fucking £5… for a pint o ‘piss!? That’s taking the piss. These are the times we live in. Royally ripped off in every way conceivable.
I drove to Wisbech, trying to secure a second shift. In addition to constantly hitting ‘refresh’ on the Flex app for what feels like almost the entire day. No dice.
The current snooker on ITV4 (coming from Telford) is failing to draw me in, as it has often in the past. I watched Richard Osman like a zombie…
So, a bath. Nice and steaming hot! And then bed. I was up here in bed by about 8pm. And here I am, typing this…
Jeezuz fuckin’ wept! What a shit-show…
And tomorrow? I’m away to The Dentist. For to have a dental-hygienist clean-up, and another cavity rotten tooth removed. Joy!