Discombobulated

I'm totally spent. Dusty like the desert with no juicy posts to bear. This is how I feel at the moment. Completely drained of my once vigorous enthusiasm for writing on this blog.

It might be the move into the Riffe pad. I know this about myself. Give me two weeks and I'll be right as rain anywhere, but for those initial couple of weeks I'm in all sorts.

It might be the fact that I have encountered my first real life bully at work (and she's a right bitch too).

It might be because tensions are running incredibly high at work because of the right Bitch.

It might be that I drank enough champagne on the weekend to last me a year and that I'm still clawing my way out of the resulting champers coma even four days later.

It might be because I feel slightly conscious that Flattie may be peeping in on my musings. The adjustment to living with a dude is distracting.

It might be that I've been having ridiculous, but fanciful, dreams about London, about being a werewolf on the run in wolf form with 795 quid Harrods gift cards to get me through and my grandad opening up a can of Korean war vet whoop ass on my pathetic ex boyfriend.

All I know for sure is that I'm tired. Real tired.

I also know that this moment has passed, and I already feel better about offloading it.

*sigh* Night.