Packed lunches remain the devil's work. Their inventor shall burn for all eternity, and I will be there to fan the flames, occasionally throwing him a Dairylea triangle or making him wrestle with clingfilm while I chastise him with shards of frozen pitta bread. Yes, I know, I have mentioned that before. Another week of packed lunches will surely kill me, so tomorrow I am thinking either they make their own, or they make do with a handful of mini Snickers like me. They contain protein after all.
I am totally over cooking. Seriously, fuck it. Must I really apply heat to these foodstuffs yet again? Can't we just all take a food pill this week? What is it these children and their incessant need to consume balanced meals? Fondant icing is a fine foodstuff. Fondant icing and pretzels and tea. I only have to step into the kitchen at the moment to be overwhelmed by existential despair. No! Can't I just step off this food preparation hamster wheel for a minute? Won't someone just take the hunger away? It's so tiresome. Although I am, of course hungry, there is nothing in the whole world it would be pleasurable to eat right now. Except just possibly a round of granary toast and a pot of Good Luck Green Tea in Bettys. Maybe followed by a gingerbread goose. And a fondant fancy. Hmm. Ok, I do still want food, but I want someone else to make it.
Some are lost, some are too small, all are dirty, many require a visit to the special circle of hell occupied by drycleaners, countless numbers have been eaten by the giant mothbastards. All the socks have fucked off and are mocking me from afar.
Johnnie Boden is preparing more clothes for the eurospawn in his pashmina-lined Putney sweatshop in return for the GDP of Venezuela. I resent this man profoundly. Damn him and his soft and sensible clothing. Damn him. I feel like a class traitor every time I click on his pink, plump toff's face to purchase more clothes for off-duty public schoolboys. But I am in thrall to his high quality cotton and pleasingly plain styling. I hate it but I love it. Argh! Brain about to implode from this paradox!
I am even more problematic. Is this the size I am now? Should I follow MBF's advice ('No Emma, don't give up sugar. You can't. Just buy new clothes. Throw the old ones away')? He is right, of course. I cannot give up sugar, since in combination with its friend fat, it makes up 93.5% of my calorific intake. I crumbled after about half an hour the last time. I really do not want to get into that punitive loop of buying large, cheap, self-flagellating clothes and disappearing into a spiral of self-loathing. Oh fuck it. I will keep wearing the too small, moth-eaten old ones. Meh. Noone is looking anyway. I look like a troll. A pink eyed, frowning troll with bald patches.
What do you hate this week? Go on go on spill your loathing. I need to hear it. Let's share some hate and make the internet a more baleful place. Yeah!