cute enough to shoot you down

omg Can this day be over yet? Please?

Because I work for the NHS, in a position where new advancements in medical technology and practises affect my job, I just got to spend the last 12 hours listening to some guy with the world's worst lisp talk about a new procedure for something so rare and obscure, most people will hear about it from House and/or Casualty within the next six months (assuming they haven't already. I don't actually watch either of those. All the inaccuracies, I tell you. ALL OF THEM).

Anyway, that's why I was down in Wimbledon today. I figured, S is sick, he's probably not been up to much, and since I've had all my jabs for the year, having a cuddle wouldn't actually be the most risky thing I've done all day. And he's sick enough that he might have even let me get away with it.

I'm not in the mood for a cuddle. I don't know what sarah_s and Mrs not_thatbill did when they came over to check on S, but the bedroom looks like a bloody warzone happened in a Tesco's aisle.

I suppose I should have known something was up when Sarah called me for advice. I really didn't think making some tea and toast would have been that big of a job, but apparently it was!

Seriously. Why is there jam on the carpet? That shit is never coming out. There's soup there as well. And the bed is full of crumbs. What did he do? Sleep in the toast? Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know. The kitchen's a disaster as well, which I know, it wasn't great when I left this morning, but I'm pretty sure I didn't leave the milk lying open (and on its side!) on the table.


I swear to god, he's like dating a two-year-old sometimes.

Where did the skull come from, and why was it waiting for me on my pillow?


That's really fucking creepy, you know that?

I took S out for a late breakfast this morning, because I'm not really sure what he does when I'm in bed, but it doesn't seem like he eats anything. I have to admit, he worries me like that sometimes, but I'm not sure what all I can do. It's not like he refuses to eat, though. He just forgets.

We came back to find someone had been in the house. We know this because all S' pants and trousers have gone missing. Not that he minds laying around in his dressing gown all day. In fact, I think he was happy for the excuse.

A few hours later, someone came round, and then screamed and ran away. I wonder who that was*. It probably didn't help that S got the door. Naked, from what I can tell. Why is he such a brat? Why are you all such brats?


*No, actually. I really don't, because I am capable of checking my phone's text message log, you know.

Ha ha. You're very funny, you know that? You're cleaning it up, because I'm sure as hell not doing it.