Flights to Brisbane next Friday are steadily creeping further and further out of my reach. Beyond even an 'aw fuck it' reckless impulse purchase.
I do really want to go.
However, I need not to go.
But I've always been contrary.
I shall decide tomorrow when I have credit on my card.
My other impulsive purchases from last fortnight have been delightful. I finally got around to ordering "Your Mother would be Proud" a book of stories edited by Tamara Sheward & Jenny Valentish which arrived yesterday. I tried to order it when I first heard about it last year (ish? maybe the year before?I am not good with time), but entered an 8 instead of a 0 when typing in my credit card details and then forgot or had spent all my money on something else. Probably kitty litter. Or flights to see Augie March.
And the cool mirrors and stuff from Sandra. First thing everybody says when looking at the shirt is "Is that bear doing what I think it is doing?"
I still haven't put my mirrors up yet. I am hopeless. I go out intending to buy hooks or nails and then get distracted. I shall write it on my arm and have another go today.
I am unconsolable and mopey because there is no chance I will get to Melbourne for Glenn Richards support gig in July. Well, unless I win lotto or something. I tell myself I shouldn't go even if I could. I should wait until he has his album out and perhaps will do some solo shows, but shoulds mean nothing to me, nothing. Shoulds can go roger themselves with a cheese grater.
Also I have put on another two kilograms and to my startled horror am not far off ninety in total.