There is an air of impending doom about things at the moment. In the world at large, but also - more importantly, in my little bombsite of a bedroom. I think someone hanged themselves in this room once. There's nothing remotely stable enough to hang themselves on, nor do I have much other basis for assuming so, but I'm just pretty fucking sure. Someone definitely, actually, absolutely killed themselves on the top floor of this house (according to my Landlord). That I know. Everything else is just melancholy presumption.
But my impending doom is rather centralised around the prospect of my future career. I don't particularly want a job, only a career will do, and that means I have to get off my arse and write. Write now. Well. Not now, I can cruise on reposting little bits of wordplay I've done over the years before I actually start properly. But soon. I'll sort my shit out soon. I've been saying that for fucking years.
Currently in the news:
Everyone but me is surprised that the Tories are fucking over education. On the other hand, I'm the only person in the world who didn't think prominent Lib Dems would be helping them.
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