Sunrise is rather pretty this morning. I’m trying to revel in the beauty of nature, but I’d happily skip it for some sleep. I’ve not had more than three consecutive hours slumber in an age. I’m tired and sore and grumpy, dammit. I want to do the whole gratitude thing, but I think a big old moan would serve me better. Indulge me.
For starters, it’s Sunday. The sabbath has always been my least favourite day. I think it’s probably a remnant from childhood. That ‘the weekend is almost over and I must go to mass’ vibe was not a winner. The dreaded Sunday feeling clung on past horribly hungover Monday morning uni lectures, and into the days of 9-5 grind. Even now when I can structure my week however I want, the downer remains. Sundays make me blue.
The next item on my pointless gripe list is scents that aren’t scents. This one has been getting on my wick this week. Probably because I have too much time on my hands and am seeing TV ads. If you’re naming a product and its smell is a selling point, pick something that has an aroma. Diamonds don’t smell. Bright copper kettles do not have recognised scent. Silk is not an olfactory delight, and no one wants their bedsheets to smell of secrets. Please stop it.
Another whinge stemming from lack of a stimulating life, is my hatred of bangs. Too much social media has resulted in overexposure. Americans are all desperate to cut their own ‘bangs.’ Fringes are cool upon many a forehead, calling them bangs is not. It makes no sense. A fringe describes exactly what it is. It’s a wee fringe of hair for your face. Perfect. What the fuck does the word bang have to do with it? And why is it plural? I could almost get over the nonsensical name, but not the pluralisation. One fringe per head! What are you playing at Americans?
I return to you after dealing with the bane of my life: the dishes. I hate washing dishes. It is such a con. Dirty dishes are basically a microcosm of adult life. No matter how many or how quickly you wash them, there will always be more. Fuck those filthy little bastards.
All of which brings me to the biggie: sex. How the hell am I supposed do without a shag for months on end? Sex would mitigate so many of the problems corona has created. Bored, stressed, lacking exercise? A vigorous shag is just the trick. An orgasm will defeat your insomnia and improve your immune system. Scared and angry? Distract yourself with a nice bit of cock (or whatever takes your fancy). Getting it on would take the sting right out of this isolation.
Alas quarantine doesn’t permit ‘conjugal’ visits and I would most certainly throttle any man I had to be locked down with. So, in conclusion, I won’t be getting any for the foreseeable and I’m a whingeing nightmare as a result.
