My current “Goals for life” list:

1) Write comics.

2) Various Geek Projects.

3) Become immortal.

4) Climb a goddamn mountain.

5) Publish other people’s comics.

6) Get off-world.

7) Write more comics.

8) Write screenplays.

8) Direct screenplays.

10) Trek across a desert.

12) Own a pub.

13) Visit Mars.

14) Write more comics.

15) Write memoirs

16) Live inside a tesseract.

17) Write still more comics.

18) Alter body with nanomachines.

19) Continue writing comics.

20) Interact with an alien race.

21) Develop entirely new society, based on sane principles.

22) Replace entire body with nanomachines.

23) Write more comics.

Oh god.

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.

It’s raining like God hated everyone down here on some deep and personal level, I can feel myself coming down with a cold and I’m shattered. Why isn’t tomorrow Saturday, dammit?

It’s Saturday, and I’m at work. Grim. Still despite the swearing and cursing and muttering “bastard fucking network” and “shitfucking machine” at various bits of computer hardware, there is one advantage. It’s sad and small, but it’s keeping me sane.

You see, I can’t sing. I know this. I’m not sufficiently stupid or evil to inflict my singing on anyone, unless I’m at the satge of drunk where I’m seconds from passing out anyway.

But I have an entire office building to myself, this morning. So I’ve got Nick Cave playing at immense volume and I’m singing along as loudly as I like.

I said it was small and sad, didn’t I?

How is it that I can sleep for almost 12 hours, and then two days later, find myself staring at my screen thinking “must…sleep…soon”? Trying to decide whether or not to go clubbing with the rest of them tonight – am I so tired that I won’t make it, or is this just half-past-four-on-friday fatigue?

Last night, I intended to lie down for half an hour, until Andrew was done with the modem. I thought I’d use the time to do some planning for an on-line comics I’m currently assembling in my head. That was at about 8.

The next thing I knew my alarm was going off at 7:30 this morning. Apparently, I wasn’t over that jet lag like I thought I was.

God, I’m such a sad wee geek. I’m sitting here in the office at quarter past eight at night, drinking some really poisonous work coffee, and eating toast, working on Ninth Art, and I’m actually enjoying it. I’m sure I shouldn’t be happy that it’s a lovely summers evening and I’m sitting here at a computer. I mean, yeah, I’m achieving things, but honestly. And would you look at the state of my desk?

I came back from my holiday intending to send e-mails to say hi to all the lovely people I met while I was away. It’s been almost a week, and I haven’t even sent one. Guilt, guilt. I’ll try and get around to sending them tonight. Honest.