I am vurrry tired. I should be in sleep town, hitching my horse (he’s a lovely cream colour) to a post at the local inn (it’s made entirely of pillows, save the skirting), tipping my hat to the local barmaids (am I a man in this scenario? Possibly) and hitting the old sack, as they say.

A couple of things first: This guy. Seems funny. I’ll let you know when it’s confirmed, apologies for the simply awful font. Also, this film = great. If people are telling you, and you’re all “oooh but it’s just about a speech, right? How good could it be? No one ever made a film about my speech in third grade”-you’re right, they haven’t, it’s cos you’re boring, but more importantly read this review (serenely ignoring the spelling mistake in the second to last paragraph) which says everything I would say if I could be assed and wrote well and someone hadn’t written it already a million times or just GO AND SEE IT NOW.

NOW.

Thirdly, have you ever stopped to think how scary it would be if people, and, I suppose dogs and budgies and guinea pigs, could turn invisible? Could sneak and swarm and slither their way about with only the faintest of stirrings on a nearby bush and their insidious creakings and the scrape of their demonic feet to betray them? No? Think that over before bed time, yeah?

Perhaps not the budgie one. Or the guinea pig. The dog, I guess, would find it frustrating to not have people greet him with a “ooojuuusagguuudbooyyeeejheessjyoooaaah” whenever they saw him. So he’s not so scary after all. But the people, the shuffling, creaking and I’m assuming vastly unattractive people? *shudder*.

I’ve been reading a little Stephen Fry lately, and I want to be a friend of his. At least an acquaintance who could feasibly shake his hand and perhaps illicit the occasional well meaning titter in a public forum. Ah well.

I was angry recently, very much so, and it was bad for my health. For reasons both vain and entirely unrelated to aforementioned anecdote I’m cutting out the carbs for a week, to see how I go. I anticipate much broccoli in my future.

To bed. Rest well, friends.

x

Ps, though, don’t you hate it when someone comments on your blog, right, and they don’t actually leave a name? and like, you just have their naff little code name that means nothing to you at all, like mine is my girl betty, and that’s because of a painting on the wall of our lounge of this big old naked chick called Betty that my mate Jess painted for me, but no one outside of, well, me would know that. Consider this a hint, oh Last Comment Leaver of Myst-ery. Thanks for reading and seeming to enjoy, though. Good of you.