Pretty good. Pret-ty pret-ty pret-ty good.

Yeah. Pretty good I am. A couple of days into my new awesomo regime and it's all going quite well. Not that I've actually been doing awesome, or anything of note at all. I've been living, existing, I managed to fit in some time for breathing and sending sarcastic text messages to various people (the last two are pretty much one and the same as far as I am concerned). I bought some FUCK OFF gold hoops and this freak-ass ring even though this month I am determined to not spend money on fripperies (but then I consider accessories to be just as important as food or water). I dyed my hair RED so it is now very very RED. Weirdly, it looks great when I'm wearing my own clothes and kind of jarring at work. I don't know if this is because the lighting in the bathrooms at work are designed to make you want to kill yourself even more so than you do anyway because you're, you know, AT WORK, or if it's because my hometime outfits are better suited to hair which is the colour of RED than my work outfits that are more designed for someone that doesn't mind having their soul sucked slowly out in exchange for a decent wage slip at the end of the month. It's probably a little from column a and a little from column b. Speaking of which, I have 19 work days left at the council. Shit. I have NINETEEN work days left at the council! How sweet is that? Until I start thinking about what I'm going to do for money before I go offski on my travails. Ideally I would like to get paid to sit at home with my brother for a month whilst we watch all of Veronica Mars, The Wire, Curb Your Enthusiasm (although aficionados will realise from the blog title that I've been chomping through a large chunk of it recently by myself anyway), Battlestar Galatica and then somehow, in amongst that whirlwind of activity, finding time to fit in some Guitar Hero and perhap a smidge of painting. However, never mind what I'm going to do for money in the month before I swan off to live a life of decadence and degeneracy, what am I going to do when I come home again? Half of me is thinking of just losing a shit load of weight, getting a kick-ass body, and becoming a stripper for a while. I mean, I like leopard print and dancing and I couldn't hate men any more if I tried. It seems ideal. Up until the point where my goddamned politics get in the way and I start questioning whether I'd miss making eye contact with myself in the mirror. I do know what I DON'T want to do - anything in an office. Offices fuck my shit up well bad. And not in a good way. I can't settle in an office, which is weird given my love of stationary and sitting down. At the moment I think I might just try and scale the dizzying heights of waitressing or working in a bookshop. As Larry David says 'I don't like talking to people I KNOW, but strangers, I have no problem with'. In fact, on the right day, in the right mood, when the breeze is blowing in the right direction, I'm even sort of (whisper it) charming and shit. Unreal right? Yeah I know. It's more the having-to-talk-to-the-same-people-on-a-daily-basis thing that gets to me after a while. I need variety and lights and shiny things. Anything but what an office contains in fact. Even if I will miss having a free store of highlighters and glue sticks from which to pilfer from (slowly but surely my contraband collection is growing and making every single second of boredom worth it). Still, the point is, I don't care. I'm going to live in the present for a while. Fuck the past with all it's pain and shit, fuck the future where I have no idea what's going to happen. Let me just be. I forgot that was an ever an option.

Anyway, here's one of my favourite Curb'd moments. This may or may not be unrelated to the bell hop being Zachary Levi. Back when I first saw this he was still known to me as Kipp Steadman but now he's Chuck and my lust cup runeth over. Enjoy!