Warning: this is a purely self-indulgent ‘purge’ post, and as a result may be somewhat boring.
I fly to Germany today. My cat-lady friend (see earlier posts) and I are off to attack the Christmas markets- spending obscene amounts on festive junk, drinking obscene amounts of Gluhwein and consuming obscene amounts of calories. To summarise, I should be one happy girl. To contradict, I am not.
In my 24 years of living my right eye has never led a revolution quite like this one, vibrating in its socket to highlight my fraught mental state and in turn force me to relax. Like many twenty first century folk such feelings of stress are indeed my own fault, once again over estimating how many hours combine to make a day.
Me and the boy have recently moved into our new apartment, which although is a much-awaited dream, is also the locus of headaches and hair pulling. Over the past week I have painted 14 walls, cleaned 4 floors, fitted 3 bulbs, hung 3 mirrors, 1 clock and filled 2 large bookcases with 153454 books. Clearly not believing this to be testing enough, I also began the highly unrealistic task of transforming myself into domestic goddess, well I say ‘goddess’… Really this translates to ‘learning to cook.’ However after burnt fish cakes and meatballs that looked like peculiarly infected testicals thanks to too many flecks of onion, I decided to try again in 2013, or 30. ‘Cooking’ also does nothing for my recently imposed wine abstinence, as that nervous moment five minutes before you open the oven door to behold if you have a spectacle or a disaster normally leads to a large glass of pinot.
My work in both the beer-pulling and the University sense has also been a full-throttle disaster. After suffering with that debilitating viral infection I was at least a week behind on work, resulting in 10-hour ‘cram days,’ holed up in the library with empty cans of energy drink littering my desk. I was hoping to hand in my essay (comparing the depictions of fatherhood in Little Women and Treasure Island) yesterday, however I stupidly played the ‘good Samaritan’ and wasted 2 hours showing estate agents around may parents house yesterday. And so my essay will wait for my return, unwanted like a flat bottle of diet coke on my bedside table.
Despite the storm there was still a bright ray of light, a garish LED glow, which was unmistakably Christmas- excitingly only weeks around the corner. Obviously working as an oppressed, objectified, glorified slave, I mean barmaid (feminist sensibilities die down) the festive period is the busiest and the pub is open 24/7, oh joy! Having said this, over the past 3 years of working there I always got 6 or 7 days off over the two weeks so I was really looking forward to some ‘down time’ to get tipsy, enjoy time with the fam, and go on lovely long walks on the beach to forget the stress of the past few weeks. That was until I clapped (twitchy) eyes on the rota. Yes, this year I have not 7 days off, not 6, but ONE- Christmas day. Better still, I am in at 9 on Boxing day which means that on the said day off I won’t even be able to indulge in more than a few glasses of champagne as I will have to drive early the next day….*Insert single dramatic tear here*
I think my poor blog has taken all the self-centred, whining, dramatised crap it can for one day, therefore I must retire and frantically pack 4 days worth of thermals before getting picked up in an hour… I also need to fit in shower, coffee, cigarette, make-up.
Yeah, I really don’t help myself…SRESS!!
DAHLIA MONROE. 
Bless you.