Non-recumbent

Just to cla­rify: the next per­son who greets me with a com­ment along the lines of “Shit, you look tired” (or even more elo­quently, “Shit, you look like shit”) will not receive my usual look of watery grat­it­ude for their show of care and con­cern. Instead, I will set my lasers to stun and wipe them from the face of the planet. Because I know; I don’t need to be told. Really.

Oh, and the grey­ing bags under­neath my eyes are cur­rently avail­able for hire. At the moment, they’re only suit­able for trans­port­ing small gro­cery items, but at the rate my sleep pat­terns are going, you’ll soon be able fit house­hold fridge-freezers inside them. Really x2.

I’m cur­rently estim­at­ing that my last decent night of unbroken rest was some­time in early Septem­ber. But the good news is that I have finally dis­covered the art of nod­ding off on the North­ern Line. So that’s a bonus, I suppose.