Some days are good days to stay under the doona.
Today is one of those days. A 2.30am wake-up. I still can't breathe properly – hard to fill my lungs. It's been like this, on and off, for 3 weeks, and chronic for the last 4 days. Then there was the nice little puddle of cat vomit on the floor this morning. Nearly went arse over in it. Thanks Oscar...
The loneliness of the long-distance lover is awful.
Miscommunication is too easy and resolution is too hard. Silences turn into voids. No such thing as make-up sex, just a festering sadness that won't go away.
The house appears to have shrunk.
How else to explain the fact that the giant dead fridge won't fit through any doorways? I may have to turn it into a fourth bedroom and rent it out.
My new trousers appear to have grown.
They're falling down my hips. If they get any bigger they are going to fall off and embarrass me terribly.
This Xanax isn't working.