'So pass me by, I'll be fine, just give me tiiiiime…'
Yes. That's right. it's a Damien Rice sort of evening. You know the sort. I'm ill enough that I can't be bothered to stir much further than the kettle and feel like the world is against me and I'm some sort of useless unloveable lump, but not yet ill enough to be confined to my room in a duvet, making yucky noises that convey the horrible depths of my illness. One of my other housemates is similarly afflicted, another spent the day asleep, and the third has packed her bags and scarpered to the country, probably because she saw this coming.
Plague has struck this house, though not in a Romeo and Juliet fashion, not least because if some amazing mystery man tried to climb up to my window he'd probably fall straight through the plastic living room roof. So sorry, Mr Milk Tray, no romantic surprises for this one. Anyhow, I'm probably more of a Clarissa Explains It All than a Juliet (which, by the way, while we're on that, a ladder leading to your preteen daughter's bedroom window is extremely bad parenting).
So I'm feeling sorry for myself, and am still in a state where, if I could be a teeny bit more bothered, I could go and find someone, and because I was trying to be acceptable and interesting company, take my mind off me. However, somehow the effort this entails seems like just a little too much, and so I'm going to sit here on my bed, and burn incense, and listen to the fireworks and feel like everyone is having more fun than me. I may even drink alone. Yes indeed. And of course write the requisite angsty self-pitying blog entry, and listen to Damien Rice, who is, according to my mother, 'this generation's Leonard Cohen.'
I suppose it's somewhat comforting to think that people have been doing this for years, and even more comforting to think that however bad it gets, at least I don't have to listen to Leonard.