This morning I kick start my day with a heady cocktail of strong coffee and aspirin.  Aah, such a hedonist am I!  Soon I’ll be wearing skirts cut above the knee and going outside past nine o’clock.  I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to huffing and puffing up two flights of stairs.  Damn cold.  Why can’t I have a manly illness, like having my arm decapitated by wild boars or something? 

Lack of sleep doesn’t help, thanks to my newly adopted children.  Yes, that’s right.  They’re called Lockdown and Far Cry.  Lockdown tends to be the most temperamental, prone to mood swings and throwing his toys/guns out of the cot if I don’t lavish enough attention upon him.  Far Cry, the younger child, likes to ransack my wardrobe.  Apparently, he looks better in a corset and hotpants than I do, before demanding lollypops and priority on my Xbox in return for me basking in his shiny glory.

Sometimes they fight between themselves over who can perform the highest amount of head-shots within sixty seconds.  Other times they just team up and steal all my Jaffa Cakes.  And that’s not all - they’ve completely taken over the playground at school.  I got a call from the teachers, Mrs Microsoft and Mr Sony.  They actually dragged Barbie Horse Adventures into the bathroom on Tuesday and dunked her head down the toilet before demanding lunch money and her pink DS.  Apparently she was so traumatised by the whole ordeal she’s dyed her hair black and started watching Eastenders.  It’s a sorry state of affairs, but what can you do?  If you punish them they rebel and hook up your stereo to Britney Spears on repeat.  If you try and reason with them they laugh in your face and tell you Santa’s not real and was only created for a cruel marketing ploy.

I’ve got London Expo coming round for tea at the end of next month too.  I promised them two cosplay costumes, like the demented fool I am.  I was *this* close to accidentally sewing my cosplay costume to my arse last time.  I suppose, on the bright side, it’s lucky the human anatomy provides me with two cheeks.  And I always leave things ‘til the very last minute.  Things just aren’t exciting enough unless you’re sleep-starved at 4am, dribbling into a cross-stitch, having stuck both of your pinky fingers together with super glue. 

Oh yeah, and there’s Mrs Uncompleted Story, sobbing somewhere amongst my PC’s C drive.

And Mr Never-Gonna-Happen Musical Project.

I’ve got hair roots the size of Satus Quo’s back catalogue, a massive stack of books to plough through (I’m having trouble completing Batman: The Dark Knight Returns - this is ridiculous!) and my bedroom carpet is just one week away from becoming a living, breathing organism.

Aah yes.  And right at that bottom there’s that thing called a

Life.

Still.  I fully acknowledge I’m one of those people who doesn’t feel content unless I’m working like a padded bra at a Baywatch convention.  Life is a fluke, brief and fragile, and I have to cram as much in as possible so I feel justified in my existence when I face the big guy up/downstairs. 

Although, I’ve got Fahrenheit and Brothers in Arms: Earmed in Blood coming over for biscuits this week.

Thought of the Day: Ninety-nine percent of people can’t lick their elbow (try it.)
Joy of the Day: EUROVISION 50TH ANNIVERSARY SHOW ON THE 22ND OF OCTOBER!  WOO HOO!
Doom of the Day: I now look like Rudolph after he’s been punched in the nose
Scuba Diving?: Four-set dining table from Ikea