I just got up an hour ago, and in another two I go back to the new job for five hours and then come home at 10pm and will have to somehow convince my body that I need to sleep again so I can be up at 9 for the old job.

Yurgh. Why do I do this to myself? Oh yeah, I hate me. Still... blargh.

Well, that was informative.

Yesterday I bought the new (2nd of 3) Isobelle Carmody, and now am annoyed because last night in about 9 hours I read it from cover to cover and will have to wait a few years before the last in the trilogy comes out. I'm stuck in the middle now.

I hate how a normal person would have taken their time and been reading and enjoying the book for weeks or months even, while I instead choose to devour all 800 or so pages in the one sitting until I'm out of my mind with starvation and tiredness.

I work in cycles of excess/neglect, I'm sure I've said that earlier... I'm no good at doing the middle ground thing, walking the fine line of balancing just doesn't work with my innate sense of being permanently unbalanced...

I haven't done the bookwormy thing for ages, and I think now I remember why. They're good but so bad for me. Too much idealising... too many realities which won't ever be. Plus they all have those crazy little love interest side plots which encourage me being a hopeless romantic because of the mind-twisting Disney has done.

I'm sick... but many girls have similar diseases so no one has noticed.

My printer has no ink, still. If I get desperate you might see me at the beach near my house trying to catch a squid.

Well, that has Abbot & Costello movie written all over it... if we all didn't know better one would suspect from some of my antics that I was there long lost, strangely young love child. Overlooking of course the whole issue of how exactly two males are supposed to breed anyway.

/entry.

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