work.
it's necessary, but i still find it boring. sitting around pretending that my job actually has some relevance. that i care about meeting notices and minutes and all the boring shit that makes up this gig.
i do care, i do.
i care because i get paid, and when i get paid i get closer to going away. that's how it is in my mind, although i spend my pay basically as soon as i get it.
ergh, no one cares aboutm oney. money can eat my shorts for all i care.
its only ten am, one hour into a working day here, and i almost have nothing left to do.
You would think i would always have activities to partake in, but until the mail gets here, i am a free birdy. free to fly where i so wish.
i left my inspector Poirot book at Jans house, which was possibly one of the most intensely unhappy moments of my life.
okay so more interesting topic.
i cant think of one.
thats enough, enough blathering and pointlessness.
i am going to go read things from two thousand and seven.
chow down.
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