A minute's silence

Is there anybody, anywhere in the state of Victoria who is as happy as I am that this awful week is finally over? Of course there fucking well isn't, what a stupid question.



I'm writing the rest of this post with my eyes closed. You can't prove I'm not.

Have you noticed anything different about this blog recently? If you haven't, well don't start crying, because I'm going to tell you what it is. I'm out of the substatus phase. This is because the material which is consuming me right now is all work-related and all of it is one million percent entirely unbloggable, not even via substatus. Some of it's workplace issues of the soap operatic variety, and some of it's just my nasty personal views about April 25. I'm not saying that the public doesn't have a right to know, or that the world would not be a greatly improved place if I wrote detailed accounts of both those topics and published them on the internet. But the fact is, I appear to have learned that if I do that I'll get into trouble, or at the very least I'll feel bad about it. How very strange and unlikely it feels to wonder if I might have acquired some sense, or caution or something. Look, I'm not too worried. I doubt it will last. The old dissatisfied sooking will be back, along with the heart-on-sleeve urge, sure enough.

The strange thing is, when I consider the aetiology of this fairly sudden deterioration of my feelings about work, it starts to look kind of confected. That's weird. I'm all too familiar with the sad syndrome where a person pretends to be into something, then eventually the pretence becomes real. But does it also work in a negative sense, ie you pretend that something is giving you the shits and after a while it is really giving you the shits?  On Monday there was something I did not want to tell the doctor about so I told her about some low-level nonsense going down at work instead. By the time I left I think my feelings about it all had been burnished up to a fine glow of annoyance. I suppose I'm just saying that sometimes talking to her gets me wound up. I'm saying it in this over-complicated manner because I am drunk with exhaustion and simultaneously on the way to being drunk with drink.

What I need is for everything to crank the fuck down a notch or two for a bit: an opportunity to be slack and aimless, and also an opportunity to have some actual fun: and a new pair of trousers.