See, I almost want to just stop there instead of going into a massive whineathon. Almost. Also, I know what would improve today beyond all recognition, and that would be taking off these bastard too tight trousers, and then maybe burning them. Then going to bed to watch Glenn Close exude expressionless menace in the direction of an exceptionally peculiar William Hurt (Damages series 2). But no, I will settle for taking the trousers off and whining a little at you. Yes, I am now blogging with no trousers on. Is it unbearably erotic? I am also scratching my scalp like a rabid dog and wearing a grubby apron. It's a minority peversion, to say the least.
I should at least let you see the shittastic cake I managed to produce.
I think it would be fair to say I was not exactly in the baking zone tonight. I was more in the foetal ball zone, really. The whimpering zone. I had a day filled with self-induced stress, transport disasters, and self-loathing. Tight trousers will do that. The cake should have been easy. Really. It was meant to be a treasure island. All it needed was blue, yellow and green colouring, a plastic monkey, chocolate raisins and an ice cream cone filled with red stuff for a volcano. Unfortunately, of that list, the only things I actually managed to accumulate were: yellow and green colouring and an ice cream cone. I had a plastic turtle and a plastic pirate of such wildly inappropriate sizes that the island, once completed, appeared to be being terrorised by the King Kong of reptiles and a 600 ft sailor, carrying a totally gratuitous number of weapons. No blue sea. No lava. I also ran out of icing at a critical point and had to go to the supermarket twice in one evening (on a MONDAY, Belgian residents. When all of Belgium comes to stand in the supermarket and fiddle slowly in its purse for 6 euros in 2 cent coins). I did allow myself a moment of pride, though, at filling the volcano with Space Dust. Then I went back to eating dry cake offcuts and whimpering.
Top 5 minor préoccupations du jour for displacing the real worries (sssssssssh, don't let the anxiety even hear me say that or it will come and sit on my chest in the night again):
1. Trousers tight as sausage skin. Have they shrunk? Have I got vastly fat? Can I burn them? Will my waist ever recover? Will my mood, more importantly?
2. Domestic chaos. All the lightbulbs have gone, the garden is a terrifying nest of weeds and cat shit, the pervasive smell of drains persists, my zen room full of clothes is littered with the carcass of a flat pack I opened and got spooked by. I need a handyman.
3. Freckles and other sun damage and minor vanity problems. Including the thorny issue of whether I will ever remember to take the surprisingly expensive Imedeen We Make You YounG Again Through the Power of Fish Oils And Unicorn Meat capsules on the floor under the flatpack carcass.
4. Will Darwin Deez make it to Brussels for Thursday or will he be engulfed in a giant ashy cloud?
5. Will I be too much of a lame ass loser to organise a sort-of-very-late-housewarming party in May as originally planned, or worse, will I organise one and noone will come? Would it be shit even if it did happen? Would YOU come, internet?
What tiny worries keep you from spinning off your axis about the big ones?