bunnyblog

Football plus dancing equals fun. Will have to make that a very regular occurrence. Who knew the fucking Subway Cowgate could be my new portal to contentment?

Not so fun was afterwards. I may have to carry a large, rusty blade with me should that ever happen again. Holy mother of fuck.

Saturday now wasted. Might as well get some RnR and wait till next friday (where there shall be no football as time does not permit, but there shall by the most joyous dancing).

Watching from beginning.

I have a bigger kitchen than Frasier. I am the fucking daddy mac.

Allan’s message was about BSG. I’ll copy my feelings in later.

So, this one involved me being outside somewhere (looked like Alloway Street), waiting outside a shop at a wiry dining table thing like outside bars. Ashley B turns around from one of these tables and reminds me that we share a birthday (in actual fact she’s the 23rd), that it’s our 23rd birthday, and that we had a joint fifth birthday eighteen fucking years ago. (this may actually be true.) (edit: Paul Patterson.)

Lynette comes out of the shop with a short haircut and she’s going out with Davie and she can turn into a plastic bird (which flies with its stand still attached to its foot). We all proceed (I’ve got some girl tagging along with me) to walk round towards this big necropolis thing except Davie. I think my brother’s there too. They then leave for the job centre and I have to wait for Dave to show up and guide him round. We’re on good terms.

Fuck, knows.

Allan sent me an MSN message saying “please tell me you’re there” at 2am. Arse. Need to phone him today.

2-0 Italy. Fuck.

So, wasn’t in a great mood at  half time, went to KFC. Heard this song, which I now have. Yays.

Had my hot wings, not let back into Tron because 25-year-olds without ID are a national security risk or something, back on train. Walk home, MASSIVE shop, arms tired but now strong like bull. Home to try to remember how to dance. Never could when fully sober. Well, I can bum-dance, but still.

Next: dry cleaning in tomorrow, some washing on just now, and try to actually watch these Arresteds before I forget how.

WYSIWYG is still random and awful. C’est la vie. Oh, stole a Demonoid invite. ONE OF THEM.

1. Actually got out of bed early to get card from depot. Result.
2. Got tenner back from spar. Result.
3. Bought a computer table. Result.

Hoovered, started into washing, having something to eat, downloads going well. Getting closer to perfection. Le yay. Telly has been temporarily relocated into bedroom (where oddly it’s getting a much stronger signal) but it needs to come back through or the place looks weird.

The underside of my left arm is incredibly sensitive today. I have no idea why.

Getting annoyed with the non-wysiwyg Wordpress writer again. Time to switch back? It’s been aaages after all.

Off-sauce again until Friday.

I think I’ve got Sunday on, so Sat Catty is going to be awkward. However, might still be able to wangle.

The important one is Friday. If Chris is off, go and get drunk for once. Never fucking see people these days, not in a reasonably controlled atmosphere.

I should also really, really look into getting a routine exercise-wise, even if it’s lame to start with. Stick an album on, don’t move for an hour. Take it a week at a time.

This place needs gutted tomorrow again. Spotless. I can’t believe what it’s worked itself into in a week.

Well.

Friday was a night of decadence, far too much whisky, and highly-suspicious legal highs. No naughtiness, alas, but that’s totally normal these days. Bah.

Saturday, I was dead. Managed to struggle onto a train, spent the day with ETSers. Who are lovely. Atrociously, in one case. Managed till 8, then had to struggle back on a train and go the arse home. So had to turn down two meets (boys, and out with con and kris), along with not seeing the football. This is all a great pity. However, while I may technically be made of money, I am not invincible.

Torrentspy finally fucking added one. Blood pressure down another degree.

So. Woke up at 2am. Fuck knows when I went to bed. Fuck knows if I had any dinner.

The wonders of whisky.

This actually saves me quite a bit of coin (COIN COIN COIN), so I suppose it’s not that bad. And future wives wouldn’t be out on a Thursday anyway, not if they have Real Jobs.

So, refocus on tomorrow. (I hate “focus”. Double-S-ing it is horrible.) Tomorrow is Wasted in Edinburgh. Saturday is Wasted in Glasgow. I must, must must, have fun.

Firefox’s spell checker really is a bit rubbish. With any luck the move to Hunspell will help in some magic way.

Called away again after 15 mins. This is what happens when you live in the pseudo-sticks and you can justify a £40 Tuesday night out but not an £85 Tuesday night out.

Got a balloon from Aileen. Yay, balloons.

Lux still lovely, pretty sure nothing coming from it now though even though number. Oh well. discovered less lovely when not in happy participation, though that’s not common when meeting. Might give phone, zero hope.

Birthday still up for suggestions. I imagine it’s going to end up a Bunker-fest or summink. Not working Sunday, so death at mish sounds good.