(Male friend goes to enquire about the morning after pill at the pharmacy)

Him: This is a bit of an embarrassing question but.. Do you sell the morning after pill?
Male Pharmacist: Is it for you?
Him:  

I told him how I’m trying to help my best mate through the break up of his several year long relationship, how my mate is on the verge of suicide, and I have to spend everyday non-stop trying to convince him just to eat the tiniest of things, how he’s not sleeping anymore, and how all I can do is tell him that it’s ‘alright’, and continue feeling like a crap excuse for a friend.

The stalker’s response?

sorryyy too hear if there out i can dooo

Seriously. What.
What does that even mean?

Anything can beat last Christmas, and all the drama that came with it, and I half expected the same, this year. So you can, perhaps, imagine just how surprised I was we had no real arguments, the dinner went pretty smoothly, the presents were easily dispatched, and then I spent the afternoon drinking wine, before napping on the furniture for a good few hours. It hasn’t felt like Christmas, but it hasn’t felt like a failure of a day. Maybe what attributes to this peace and quiet is partly the fact that I did not really expect any specific presents for Christmas, and the lack of disappointment at not getting something I wanted, helped me further appreciate the fact that at least I am getting something, that I am not homeless and starving, that I do have some description of family to share this day with. I am thankful for all that I have.

Especially the wine.

Still, it’s only coming up for seven, and I haven’t been potentially exposed to the disappointment of Doctor Who. It should be a good’un.

Happy Christmas to you all!

I’m headed back to Brighton, come this evening. “For what?” I don’t hear you say. “Well, my dear,” I reply with my eyebrows elevated like a badger on heat, “to see Bill Bailey, of course!”

Oh, yes. This is the night I have been waiting for with moist lips and a look of hungered lust. There’s definitely something incredibly alluring about knowing you play witness to such a talented man. I’m a terrible fangirl for real talent and intellect. Give me Sir Patrick Moore over the latest footy hunk, any day!

*Ahem* Excuse me, for I have.. Things to do..

I’ve been reading Catch-22, but that’s not relevant, right now. I’ll likely review it when I’m finished. But for now, I would like to share with you my catch-22.

Winter is going to be incredibly harsh. The heating has been broken since the start of summer. We can’t afford to get it fixed. Our only real source of heat it the gas fire. If we use the gas fire, we won’t freeze to death, but we will get carbon monoxide poisoning. If we don’t use the gas fire, we will freeze to death.

That’s right, I’m back! I apologise to those of you who were rather hopeful I had simply dropped dead, and that that was why I had stopped posting. 
I returned, late last night, from my holiday in Scotland.
I shan’t bore you with the details, but here is a brief overview of what happened:

It was a good few days. Apparently. All I know is that I was very, very sick, I remember nothing other than that, and I woke up in the morning with a set of lines telling me that I had two and a quarter litres of Strongbow, and the words you are drunk. written on my palm by goodness knows who.

I’ve missed Tumblr. I’ve missed you all. We should all elope, somewhere.