It’s official. I am possibly the stupidest creature to walk the earth. There are, of course, many reasons why this could be true. But the most recent one is my antics this weekend. I spend Friday laid up with a cold, because at that point, the disease had not claimed my brain. But on Saturday, despite what I knew to be my better judgement, I went out. Not just for a quiet drink at the pub, oh no. I went clubbing. And stayed on the dancefloor for many hours, apparently to the silent ridicule of my friends. Which is fine, because I know I can’t dance, and don’t really care.
Then, having got home shattered at 5 am, I got up before noon, because no matter the circumstances, I can’t sleep past half eleven, and went round to my parents, to see relatives. And then we went for a trip up the London eye, where I took photos, and it was ace. But I got through the day on the leftover adrenaline of the night before, and made it home in a state of utter collapse.
Right now, I’m sitting at my desk, wishing I was dead.