Friday Afternoon

Sometimes I am so freaking dumb it beggars even my own belief. Incomprehensible the things I think, do and say when I'm anxious and under a time constraint. When I get a little calmer - say, AFTER I've sent a last-minute job application on behalf of my partner because he is at work - I realise that I've listed his work position wrongly, plus a bizarre "time in corresponding position" answer based on I know not what, and then neglected to list at all his previous experience that's most applicable in the cover letter.

So I hope he didn't want that job too badly.

I have rolled around all day flapping my hands and feeling like I have turpentine running through my veins and feeling unable to settle on any of the 1317 things and seriously, this must be what it's like to be a demented old woman

I feel dumb as a box of hammers, a few fries short of a happy meal, as thick as two planks. If you're not too attached to your own functionality, though, even being a dill has its pleasures. I still think good thinks. It's just conveying them outward that's a little more difficult for someone whose brain is filled with gurk and splinken dopf, neither of which are meant to be there.

I couldn't get back to sleep after I woke at 4.30 this morning which was why I was texting my local radio station at 5am about the footy. (If you're in Melbourne at the end of September you are accosted on all sides by the football, which must be frustrating in the extreme for those who hate it. If it's any consolation, the AFL is accosting us with Tom Jones as half-time entertainment so perhaps you can feel some appeasement with that). The radio station was playing a fun game of "pretend you are the person who kicks the winning goal in the grand final". I sent my text in which Libby Gore declared beautiful 'cause she knows sensational writing when she sees it. The producers then called me and asked me if I would go on the air and commentate my text and I said I was too tired and I write better than what I speak and no. Because clunk. I am seriously as thick as a brick, as dippy as a roller coaster, as vague as a 170 year old, as deadshit as a not-alive piece of faecal matter when I have to say anything coherent at 5am.

I'm also pretty smart and whippetlike but that only appears between 6 and 7.12pm of an evening, and on Tuesday mornings
I have been writing this entire status update lying in my side in the bathroom with coffee up my arse and you will never, ever be able to get that visual out of your head.

Hawthorn by 16