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One of ‘those’ days…

You know the ones.

one of those days

  • where you’ve slept funny and wake up with an imprint of three fingers (at least it wasn’t two) on one cheek as though you’ve spent 7 hours with your face wedged between a not-quite-(thank goodness) pushed-all-the-way-down sandwich toaster…
  • where you know the headache comes from having decided to start weaning yourself off the antidepressants and yet this is so NOT the kind of physical reaction which encourages further weaning…
  • where, even though the cleaner your husband finally agreed you actually need because you honestly want to weep at the amount of dust that accumulates when you’re trying not to be depressed is too depressing for words but she’s let you down every week for the last month and you know that giving benefits of the doubt is a nice thing to do, so you give her another one (AND TIDY UP BECAUSE YOU EXPECT HER TO TURN UP THIS TIME, SURELY?!) calls you to cancel just as you arrive at our counsellor’s…
  • where, for the first time in 2.7 years, it actually feels like your counsellor has it in for you because she’s NOT FUCKING LISTENING TO YOU and still insists you have negative tendencies even though you insist it’s not negativity – it’s a healthy dose of realism and she doesn’t understand you and she of all people should know how you work by now…
  • where, you get only 2 bullet points down this actual blog post – yes, this one here – and press some keys that have never been on the keyboard before to your knowledge, causing theWHOLE FRIKKIN THING TO DISAPPEAR before you can even locate the cut and paste facility for the perfect image you’ve found and then you spend another ETERNITY trying to find the ‘undo’ icon which has decided to grey itself out, and then you discover (let’s not get too delighted though, okay?) a previously undiscovered facility which lets you trawl through saved drafts of posts, until finally….. finally…. FUCKING FINALLY…. it kindly allows you to arrive … well, precisely here.  And isn’t the image an apt one. That’s rhetorical – DON’T DARE suggest otherwise.
  • where, when you get back from said counsellor with ‘homework’ which you know you will throw down the toilet before remembering where it is, you decide to put up the new ‘fly-free’ curtains you ordered from Amazon a couple of weeks ago because this way you won’t have to get up every FIVE FUCKING SECONDS (not even minutes, I kid you not) to let the damned dog out of the back door because it likes to stand in the garden and watch for the cat to come back so it can torment her and growl at it and REALLY IS THIS ALL DOGS DO ALL DAY APART FROM GUILTING YOU OUT WITH THEIR BESEECHING EYES SO YOU HAVE TO TAKE THEM FOR ANOTHER WALK/THROW SEMI-STUFFED ANIMALS AND BALLS FOR THEM and this was what the doctor suggested 6 months ago might actually HELP alleviate your depression?  I mean IS IT? …. so, back to the fly-curtain.  You slip it on its rod, you notice that half the ‘glittery-streamery things’ remain inside the plastic bag so there’re 1″ gaps at staggered intervals which is fine if THE ONLY FLIES YOU’RE TRYING TO PREVENT ACCESS TO ARE FAT FUCKERS, and decide you will NOT take this lying down, you WILL take photographic evidence and inform the suppliers of your dissatisfaction , and while you are uploading said pictures of useless piece of shit product, you are immediately set upon by TWO FLIES determined to blow every piece of patience from your head, out through your nostrils and eyeball s and onto every available surface in the room.

So you go *upstairs (ignoring the plaintive bleats of the blasted dog because it’s like he’s conjoined to your empty, useless womb for some bloody reason) and only

  • then do you remember that 25 years ago today… this VERY day – the 2nd of May 1992 – you married your daughter’s father; became a wife for the first time (had I known then that this WAS going to be the first time, then who knows what kind of bat-shit-head-fuckery might have commenced inside that beautiful stained-glass church…cleaners might have been required) and you wonder what’s it all about (Alfie)?  … All this waking up and pushing flesh into fabric garments and standing under jets of water and then drying it all off again, and then pushing edible things inside your body (NOT now, thankfully animal-based – I mean, god, can you imagine the weight of the GUILT? – rhetoric again, please… no response required) only to have to shit them out again, and then try and convince yourself that you’re NOT too old to be doing a degree; it’s NOT a cry for help, it’s actually a good thing and not a perverted way of trying to claw back the college life you’d always dreamed of having because your parents were FUCKWITS and now you’re allowed to say that’s what you think they are because you’ve given thousands of pounds to a counsellor to be able to do do this with a clear conscience; and not having the energy or the will to want to perform simple housekeeping duties does NOT mean you’re a bad person/wife/mother/ homeowner, it’s just another sign that you’re depressed (not a miserable cantankerous belligerent old curmudgeon who can’t wait to go back to bed the minute you get up).
  • Where was I?
  • And the fact you’re not published yet doesn’t mean you’re a failure.  It doesn’t. It doesn’t It doesn’t.  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Look at those shortlisted things.  Look at that Second thing.  Look at that great feedback you get from your tutor.  You’re not too old… just because you look like a 90 year old grandmother doesn’t mean you have to act like one and start doing jigsaw puzzles of London Bridge.  You just have to keep plodding.  Plod on… keep at it.   Just don’t look at any more successes of other writers you know because they’re beginning to drag you down nearly as much as watching those videos of calves being dragged away from their mothers the minute they’re born so that arsehole human beings who quite like the taste of cheese and clearly CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ANOTHER SPECIES’ fluids inside their bodies is paying for the perpetuation of this heinous animal cruelty even though they sit with a cat or a dog beside them at night and stroke them as if they’re real animal lovers.
  • I can’t go on.  I’ve lost my thread.  Maybe I’ve lost the plot.  I’m definitely losing the will.

*update* the fly has followed you upstairs.


About debscooper

I read, I write, I tweet, I blog and I avoid housework whenever I can.


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