My Mumsy is wonderful. And rather intuitive. I survived the Joy of Work last week, just. How I managed it I have no idea. A little part of me would love to suddenly come down with some obvious illness so that I can indulge myself in bed for a day or two, but the obvious illness is going to everybody else and the only illness left for me is all in the mind. I’m actually rather proud of myself. I haven’t had a single day off work since Christmas. This is a huge achievement for me and I plan on trying my best to keep a 100% record up to the Easter holidays – nine school days, only eight of which involve students …
[i say this purely to ensure i become obviously ill before the nine days are up … ]
But I was telling you how wonderful my Mumsy is. I spoke to her on the phone over the weekend and, despite my best intentions, I think she realised that I’m currently feeling down. She worries about me. I’m so grateful to have a Mother who worries about me. Yet because she worries, it just makes me worry more, because why is she worrying unless I really do sound like I’m depressed again, and if I am depressed and don’t do anything about it will I just slump again, into some dark abyss?
Yeh, I’ll get over it. Throw soft toys in my direction to cheer me up.
I have had my True Self revealed.
Isn’t it colourful? And see that little blue rectangle in the bottom right of the image? Yep, that’s my masculinity. WooHoo, I’m feminine. I was almost feminem, but that wouldn’t have made sense, unless you’re me and bopping as I am. I think you’re supposed to wave your magic cursors over the image and it gives you insight. You too can waste time and energy …
In other totally random news I’m thinking of having my hair chopped off. I currently have long hair [I say long, I mean just below shoulder length] and I had dreams of long flowing curls on my wedding day. However, I wear my hair up all the time. Not just all the time, but all the bloody time. Yesterday I had a revelation. I’m kidding myself. I may want the long flowing curls, but I’m not some faery-tale princess sitting atop one hundred mattresses, waiting for Prince Bloody Charming to turn up on a white stallion and whisk me away from the uncomfortable pea. And besides, I’m clever enough [it’s not often that I say that: make a note on your calendars] to know that I look much prettier with shorter hair
[no, fcuk off, no photos]
so now all I need to do is find a style I like, one that will look pretty but require little maintenance, bearing in mind that I have kinky hair.
I have no patience to search for styles I like.
The Blokey is home. I’m off for some cuddles.
please God bless my tatty hair xxx Elsabeth
PS: Oi, I said shortER not short. Sheesh. Feminist fuddin’ dyke, I think not …