Tuesday, October 07, 2014

Murder me this

So I went for a hungover run at the weekend back in my hometown Shottingham. It's the best kind of run going. Mostly you just drag your dry retching self around for 3-4k, have a bit of a cry and take numerous, almost constant breaks.

Nice.

I passed a girl who was having a nose bleed onto the reeds. A bit later on, she lapped me.

But it's alright really, because from what I've seen, there are only two other runners in Shottingham, which means I win bronze.

And it's great, because they have this thing there, called space. It allows you to move about without being struck by an over-excited dog/child/cyclist/person. Come to think of it, I've been hit by all of those things.

On the way back, when I was walking, my mum pulled up in the car, and I was like, 'Hey, you've just caught me during my warm down, my post run warm down.'

And she was like, 'Sure.'

Because she knew, that my purple face was more a product of the numerous French Martinis, than of actual, physical effort.

SORRY MUM.

Also, I've started fighting with some of my flatmates, because they are being complete tards.

Partial tard, I could handle. But you can't continue to be a complete tard and expect nothing to happen.

It started when I reached for a kitchen knife and got:

Chump:Oh, you can't use that knife.

Me: What?

Chump: We will be using that knife in a bit.

Me: Honestly, I can use any of the knives.

Chump: How long will you be?

Me: I'll just use another-

Chump: How long with the knife?

Then I stabbed her twice in the gut, wiped the blade on her apron and said, 'All done.'

I'M JOKING. It's called wishful thinking guys. In this specific example, what I'm saying is that I would really like to commit a murder, but I'm restrained by the criminal justice system and a fear of being too pretty to be safe in prison.

Last night, we went to put some fish in the oven and:

Chump: Oh, can you not put that in, because it will make my food smell.

Me: No it won't. It's covered.

Chump: I'd really prefer-

Me: It's fine. *Put fish in oven*

Chump tutted at length. But I think she could tell that I'd had a bitch of a day, and was willing to forgo previously mentioned fears of stabbing fallout.

 Then Chump got her chumpy boyfriend to empty the bins whilst we were cooking.

Luckily, Ginger and I were heading out to watch Gone Girl, in which there is a significant amount of actual murder and staged murder. It really helped ease some of the tension within.

It's making me think - maybe I shouldn't be around knives, like, at all. Can someone please sedate me before I cause harm to others/myself?

Or pay for me to attend a meditation retreat?

Or kill for me?




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