Out of Practice

I’m writing in my journal… In the bath.

Part of me is a little pissed off that there are no electrical outlets in here, so I can’t just skip the pen and paper process, and just move right onto to balancing my computer precariously on the edge of the tub, and typing straight into my blog.

The other (much bigger, you’ll be pleased to note,) part of me thinks that the bit that wants to use a laptop while bathing in over 20 litres of water is a fucking idiot.

I’d better make it clear right from the outset here: despite my recent depressive period, I value life – quite a bit actually. I’ve always been very staunchly anti-self-harm, mostly because of the part where it harms. Pain really isn’t my thing. Neither is blood. It makes me queasy. I actively avoid both.

Crap. So my journal is resting on the not so dry lip of the bath, and the ink is kind of running on some wet bits of the page. Because, apparently, no one designed bathrooms for ease-of-blogging.

I’m actually glad someone had the sense not to put an electrical socket in here.

This is why I could never be a builder, or an electrician. I’d be accidentally electrocuting people left-right-and-centre.

Anyway. I’m in the bath unwinding, because the bath is my happy place. I needed a little relaxation today, because I started my new schedule. My new RIGID schedule, without flexible working hours – which I actually believe were designed to maximize the number of hours I could legitimately take to my bed during the week without being fired for not showing up to work.

Yeah. I’m not going to do that anymore.

Starting today I’m either at work or at University from 9am till 4pm. After that I have the opportunity to go to the gym, or taekwon do… Or, like I did today, simply come home and lay prostrate on my bed, exhausted from all the activity.

Great. I just dunked the bottom inch of my journal in the bath. I just know it’s going to dry all wavy. People are going to see me carrying it around and think that I write sappy poetry about boys that I like in it, then cry until the pages buckle.

This would never have happened if I was allowed my laptop in here.

Of course, this way – with the paper and whatnot – I’m never going to have an embarrassing need for emergency medical care while naked because of an unfortunate laptop-in-the-bath situation.

Generally I try to avoid humiliating naked situations like that.¬†Unfortunately I’m not actually all that successful. My flatmate Jasmyne has an entire group of friends who have either walked in on me in the bath, tending to my bikini-line in the shower, or on the toilet.

It’s so bad I’ve made a sign specifying that I am in the bathroom, naked, and do not wish for company. It seems to have decreased the number of unannounced walk-ins dramatically.

So in conclusion: Guys? I’m beat. As in Tired. With a capital *YAWN*

Remember the days when I was a full-time worker, who did an 8-5 work day, before flitting off for a couple of hours at the gym?

Yeah. Me neither. I am so out of practice.


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