Minor Manic

It’s ten am. I’ve moved a lot of furniture around in a manic cleaning/re-jigging spurt that has meant I’m currently higher than that fool Tim Peake was.

I’m preparing for certain things (in no particular order) –

  1. My incarceration – I’m not knowingly wanted for anything, but I have a gut feeling I murdered someone a long time ago, or equivalent. Is there an equivalent?
  2. Spring. The end of the fucking all-consuming, brain-killing, energy sapping, sad, sad, sad, darkness.
  3. A surprise party for the sobriety part of my head. Four weeks alcohol free now. For someone who has consumed around a hundred units a week for the past twenty five years that’s no small thing.
  4. My CPN comes round on Friday. I always seem to be tidying, spraying room scent, or lighting incense sticks when she comes round. I don’t fancy her, but I still find myself doing it. I guess, like masking a bad smell, I’m trying to stop her knowing how crazy I really am. Defeats many objectives, I know, but there you have it. She looks at the tattoos on my arms when they poke out below the short sleeves of my t-shirts. Why?
  5. Spider hunt. Those eight-legged freaks. Still terrified of them like a child. Spiders are almost equal with sharks in my world, except sharks don’t move around on my floors or hide under bookshelves. Yet.
  6. My death. Who wants to clean up my bad housekeeping if/when I go? Nobody.
  7. Calmer space. I need to get writing more. Too much mess doesn’t help me to write. It’s nearly time to sit fulltime at the desk again. Embrace it.

I think that’s all. OK, so it’s taken me five minute precisely to write this (almost to the second), but I’m fairly sure it’s accurate at this particular point in time.  Must go. Keyboard is flying under manic fingers now. Everything is possible.

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