Last week, life was a featureless plain. It was me amongst this bland flatness. Mighty bleak. Mighty lonely, too, ’cause I’m a boring piece of shit.
Why even breathe? So fucking pointless.
And then on Thursday, while in work trying to coax these electrical boards out of the machine, I saw blood red and snapped the 1/2-inch thick hardened-plastic door.
The niggly details are hazy, but I was rather annoyed (because the machine was pissing me off) and slid open the door in temper, and came away with the handle in my hand. Totally unfixable.
Sufficient to snap me out of my bad mood.
Sufficient to feel so foolish.
Enough to make the bleak even more barren.
(It always helps if you have a keen eye for your self-unworth.)
I don’t really have much recollection of the weekend. Everything I intended to do I pushed to Monday ’cause I wasn’t rota’d to work but ended up working so none of that’s been done.
There was a lot of music, Golden Girls, and avoiding people.
There was a lot of finding a reason to breathe.
I see a couple of anthills around here, the odd sprout — not so bleak.
Not so pointless.
Clearly whatever I got up to worked wonders.