I have no idea what to blog about today. I keep asking people for suggestions and they shrug and say, "...stuff?" which is technically a pretty good suggestion but actually not helpful at all.
Stuff! Stuff and things! I am grumpy. I'm going to go back to my blogging roots (tee hee, root) and just talk about my day until I get bored with doing that/hungry enough to get up and do something about it. The whole post will be gramatically incorrect, with clanging sentence structure because apparently I cba doing it properly. (That last sentence was horrible on purpose. Maybe you could pretend it's all on purpose?)
My laptop power cord has broken once again, so I'm on Mum's computer until I get enough ready money to buy a new one (my original one is now finally beyond fixable). Shitty formatting and weird keyboard shortcuts that I don't know how to turn off have ensued. I keep accidentally producing special characters. é. wheé! ý, ú, í, ó, á, and especially ç are all things that can happen in the course of an otherwise perfectly ordinary sénténcé. It annoys me that it doesn't have the little um squiggle over the 'n' though. You know the one I mean, right? Like this ~ but on top of one of these - n. In a fit of pretentiousness I started calling people 'carino,' which is a Spanish endearment and should have the Ensquiggle, as I have decided to call this curious thing. It should be Ensquiggled but it is not. Goodness me this post is uninspiréd.
Also, I have spent the last two weeks since Mum left behaving like a five-year-old, and it is about time that I start behaving like a grown-up again. (This thought was brought to you by My Massive Hangover.) So yes. More with the cooking and cleaning and getting a job, and less with the shouting and pantslessness.
Venerable Father is staying at the moment - it's good fun, although I strongly suspect that he and Kate have hatched some secret plan. They keep looking at me weirdly and giggling. Maybe they just think I look funny? Oh God, maybe I do look funny.
Father complained yesterday that there was no beer in the house - suggested he buy some, but he hates the thought of buying beer because he makes his own home brew. He's been making it for years, long before everybody started wanking on about the environment and doin' your own stuff got so trendy. Dad's home brew is usually pretty good, but sometimes he tries something artistic (the addition of blackcurrant syrup produced a particularly memorable batch) and it doesn't work. "Why didn't you bring some?" "It doesn't travel well." Going to stay at Dad's is great because there's always lots of lovely beer. Or at least lots of beer with a ludicrously high alcohol content.
Picture a bee. You are its knees.
I will write something sensible tomorrow, maybe.