Nemesis

Topic: Hurtling to Obscurity


I didn't mean to blog again today, but I have to fucking externalise, or I'll end up knocking on neighbour's doors to tell them to fuck off, like I did all my colleagues' offices today. Yeah, right, calming down and going back and apologising, that was fucking fun.

Day started with cat puke all over the kitchen. Feh. I'm wise to that by now. You just wipe up the stuff on non absorbent surfaces, and step over the stuff that's soaked in. Damn cat was disgusted, and spent the day fastidiously ripping things up and tugging them into the kitchen to cover the old puke with. Me, I'm not bothered. Houseproud? I can't even be bothered to look at the place I live in right now. It's just a shell, a cover from the rain. Soon as it's brighter, I'm moving on. Long as I don't step in it, it's not my concern. And I wonder why those subsequent dates are so hard to come by.

Next, I ripped a chunk out of my cheekbone. I've got one of those cuts that's dark, still opens a bit, like a stab wound, and is dark - too dark. More blueish purple than blood coloured, just so you know there's muscle under there, and it's half way to hanging out. I woozily took my concussion off to the nearest nurse and gained twenty minutes of numbing ice pack, which I then felt guilty for bleeding all over, then get back to work, love, we've decided you're covering all the extras today. Clients all pointed at the weeping gash, and red blush spreading across one side of my head and asked what I'd done to myself. Yup, they got the entire story. I asked them to let me know if blood ran down the side of my face, and they helpfully agreed.
The cut's right on the edge of my cheekbone, so apparently, I won't get noirish panda eye in the morning, but the right side of my face is already lifting off from the skull and sponging itself outwards in a pink swollen mass. The extra plumpness and blush went through a moment or two of actually looking quite attractive, although the contrasting deathly pallor and unfocussed gaze of the left hand side doesn't really help. And I suppose the open wound on the bone line is less Princess Fiona, more Shrekish.

Staggering about with my head injury, I was more than delighted to give up all my tea and lunch breaks to deal with the client overspill from Uber-Boss's pisspoor planning. And it was just yummy that my own appointments were supplemented by Hippy Boss sending me a coachload of Russians who'd come to see how 'differently' we do things over here.
A coachload of Russians.

I mean, we all have bad days, right, we all have the odd accident that gets triplicated and magnified till we feel like shit. But a coachload of Russians is no fair.
A coachload of sodding Russians is rubbing salt into the wound then pissing on it.
Take the worst day you've had this month, go over it in your head, then try to imagine a scenario in which adding a coachload of bloody fucking Russians would ease the strain. You get me?

No matter how many panicky memos I sent scrawling 'I don't think this is the right place for them to be, hint hint', 'do you really want visitors to see this shambles?', or 'I had no warning for this!', 'take them away early, at least', they were all greeted with a strangely Dystopian scribble 'they have no agenda; please accept them.'
It can't have been in anyway instructive for the Russian hordes, either - unless they have #7K worth of technology available in every office back home, there's no way they could reproduce what I was doing. Although judging from the cherry red elastic jumpsuits, heavy gold chains and inexplicable gold vaseline-shimmer smears across the bridge of each Russian's nose, they may possibly do it with more style.

So now I have to blog it all out like a bloody saddo, 'cos I find out now that one of the things of being single is there's nobody there to say 'oh you fuckwit', or 'oh shit, you didn't?', or even perhaps 'yeah, you're right, that looks like it needs stitches'.



I didn't tell you how I cracked open my cheekbone, did I? Oh the usual fuckwit simpleton style stupidity. I slammed a car door on my face.

I'm my own bloody court, judge and jury, I am. And a hanging judge at that.

Best Blo'te of the Day So Far: Fuck Everything
"Google search: how to perform an autopsy pics
This... Is really disturbing. I don't think anyone should be taking a DIY approach to autopsies. And I had better not be seeing Autopsies for Dummies on the book shelves anytime soon.
"Autopsy? Autopsy?! I can't WHACK off to Autopsy! Orrrr can I?!?"