emilygee

I feel like my wits are being used for ruthless practicalities. Cant The Man find it in his heart to pay a girl for a bit of whimsy now and again? Im well aware that the corporate world is not all moon pies and may poles, but for heavens sake, hows about limiting the soul-sucking to eight hours a day so I can get a bit of reading in and perhaps a nice long moon-gazing session on the roof accompanied by a nightcap in hand?

I have a feeling this may come to blows.

I used to spend my nights in training. I would don a pair of six-inch heels and practice walking in them by kickboxing a freestanding punching bag for at least an hour. THOSE are real world skills. THOSE are the nights to write home about.

When I get in these moods (and people and drink seem scarce) the spectre of Phillip Larkin always seems to do a bit of haunting.



I'm crossing my fingers that life will cease from being unspent as soon as possible and that being bald and miserly is not in my future.