Today, it's raining. I'm up early because I get up early anyway, but this morning I was busting and I knew I'd never get back to sleep if I got up and pissed, well, I got up and pissed anyway, because I needed to get up and piss and I couldn't go back to sleep after that, as predicted, well, when I say predicted, I guess I mean, well, predicted.
It's miserable outside, windy, and rainy, and just thoroughly objectionable really, so I have sat and drank coffee with Milo, getting a cuddle before the bulldogs spoil it, and read the online news, none of which really interests me anymore. The conservatives are ditching the world climate agreements, oh so predictable and people will still vote for them and I guess that is what I am no longer interested in, the general stupidity of people.
I read about how charming Martin Amiss was and although he is dead, it is the anniversary of his death, actually, it is pleasing there are still people like him inhabiting the world, albeit not him.
‘He made every sentence electric’
Not piss heads like Barnaby Joyce who talk shit and are only in 'this' world for what they can get out of it for themselves.
I read about the hot rodent boyfriend who is in this summer. It’s about famous men who look like sexy rats.
Yay? There are more of them than you could possibly believe, too.
There are? Oh boy, there sure are. Timothée Chalamet? Total sexy rat. Barry Keoghan? What a sexy rat that man is. Jeremy Allen White? Sex on four tiny legs. Josh O’Connor? He could scurry up my drainpipe.
Ever since someone on the internet said that this was going to be the summer of sexy men who look like rats – hot rodent boyfriend summer – it’s become impossible to unsee. What’s really amazing is that they all look like slightly different types of sexy rat.
What the fuck?
Chuckle, at least it is interesting, I think, as I sign into my pathetic little job once again. Oh, what do all the stupid people want of me today?
I wish I had the guts and the gumption to just throw it all in and write poetry for the rest of my life. Write beautiful paragraphs that please me, if no one else. You know, do nice things instead of always wanting more. I probably have enough super to live a modest life, surely that is preferable to... I've just never been brave enough.
And when I was bored, I could curl up in front of an old movie, let's face it everything artistically that needs to be said can be found in old Hollywood movies, let's face it, the current proliferation of reality TV shows is a testament to the bankrupt nature of our modern artistic ideas.
Anyway, I've got arses to lick...
Oh? What? Grrrr, my big screen isn't coming on. WTF? Oh... what? oh don't you hate this. Sam won't be up for at least an hour... more. Oh, Jesus fuck! Oh, hang on, it's just a loose cable, panic over. Anyway, 6am. I guess I need to tune into all the nonsense of the office, sad face.
And then my emails come up, and there is a lot of them, and I groan at how pathetic it all is. I want to go back to hot rat boyfriends. I go and make another coffee to get myself ready for the morning dose...
Chalamet looks like a rat from a Disney film. White looks like a slightly tranquillised rat. O’Connor looks like a sort of sexy henchman rat, the sort of tall and lumbering rat employed to maintain the personal safety of the Rat King. The Rat King is obviously Keoghan, who looks like the sort of rat that would have your face off if you cornered him.
I'm listening to Marcia Hines albums from the first one all the way through.
I have a bulldog lying on my feet keeping them warm. The two of them seem to be calming down with each other. 3 days without a growl or a fight. Cross your fingers. Bruno is presently upstairs with Sam though. We're not pushing it, but the signs are encouraging.
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