(Look away, those of a nervous disposition. Or scroll down, there's a puppy!)
Do NOT, whatever you do, enlarge this photo.
Here are some of the tiny crackling synapses that are preventing me from stringing a thought, or a sentence, together in any meaningful way. Do not try to answer them, unless it entertains you to do so.
- Is that thing on my chest a bite, a spot, or a nest of baby tarantulas? It's a nest of baby tarantulas, isn't it? It's going to explode one evening when I'm on my own in the new house and the baby tarantulas are going to crawl out and eat my face and lay new eggs in my spinal fluid aren't they?
- Will I get a place at the Bust London Craftacular in December to sell arse biscuits (please, please please Bust)?
- Will I ever leave the house - this one or the one to come - in the evening again? Would I even know what to do if I did? Am I doomed to sit hunched over a laptop forever in my old man dressing gown, staring sourly at the dog?
- (Hang on, why did I get a dog? Actually I know this one. Because I am VERY STUPID and have no impulse control. And he used to look like this:
- Is there a fridge in the new house? Shall I buy one from the crazed witch down the street who is selling one, along with the rest of the contents of her house, including a piece of furniture so complex it requires a diagram in her shaky old lady handwriting, and incorporates a BED?
- Shall I buy the complex bed incorporating piece of furniture too just for kicks (I bet it would make a good climbing frame)?
- Why the fuck am I avidly watching Masterchef, when I have eaten nothing but leftover child pasta and Cadbury's Mini Rolls all week?
- Why do I feel so dirty when I am in fact quite clean today? Is it perhaps related to diet of leftover pasta and Mini Rolls? Or is it symptomatic of the state of my filthy, slovenly brain?
Place your questions in the comments and I, or the internet, will try to answer them.