Item – So, I am hungry and I have a headache. I have also lost 4 lbs since Thursday. Um. There’s no way I can keep that kind of weight-loss up, is there? And it would be massively unhealthy and stupid to even try, right? Right? And it’s all water anyway, what with it being 30C out here, right?
Item – H made the vast tactical error of eating a sandwich (with bread! Actual bread!) and then drinking a bottle of cider in front of me. I don’t actually want a bloody sandwich, mind you. I ate my tuna with celery and cucumber, and thought, but this little salad tastes very nice! Yes it does! It’s all nourishing and savory and crisp and refreshing! And has no fucking alcohol in it at all. So I bit his head off.
Item – I’m a bit weird on the subject of alcohol. Comes of having an alcoholic parent. I panic if I’m the only person not drinking/tipsy/plastered [delete as appropriate] in the room. My lizard hind-brain is still convinced, after all these years, that Plates Will Be Flung and Other Women Slept With. The fact none of this bothers me in the least when I’m blotto as well is… err… anyway.
Item – Sex. Sex is an issue. We’re benched, so we must contraceive. We both hate condoms (yes, I do hate them. I hate them very much). All other methods are too long-term, or too hormone-buggering or too fiddly (one day I shall tell you all about May versus the Diaphragm). Doing Other Things sounds lovely in theory. In practice, well, we’re probably both a bit out of practice, so this month would be a lovely time to practice (ah ha ha ha I just slay myself, really I do). But Doing Other Things, for me, at least, has always been Stuff You Do When You Can’t Do That, so like diet-food, it’s never as satisfying as the full-on Death-by-Chocolate. Death-by-Chocolate conjures up any amount of thrilling mental imagery that I don’t think I meant, but pretty much any other food imagery sounds just as filthy and anyway, I liked the petite mort joke.
Item – I am still slogging along in the Foul Mental Place. I feel like I’ve just done five (shall we say five? Whyever not, even proper doctors agree it’s five) rounds in the ring against some huge great bullying battering-ram of an opponent, and each round ended up with me on the carpet spitting teeth, and now, still punch-drunk and bleeding, I’m being sent off to run a full marathon, at the end of which, if I’m really lucky, I’ll be allowed back in the ring for another beating.
Item – I am getting the binge-urge out of my system by buying body-lotion and leg-wax. This is bound to go wrong. Shannon, if I turn up at your wedding in thick black tights, please don’t laugh.