dead on my feet......

been wanting to get up early to run a couple of errands,
and i just can't face it.
there's just enough of me to get through another night,
and that's it,
EMPTY.

i can't believe how;
tired,
drawn,
drained,
exhausted,
how "wretched" i am feeling right now.

tomorrow?
what about tomorrow?

there's nothing beyond my next shift.

i have just noticed that the out-pipe from the kitchen-sink has a very small leak,
there's a snail-trail down the brickwork outside.
it's leaking from the joint on the bend.
not massive,
not gushing,
but there.
happening,
sticking it's dirty disgusting tongue out,
laughing at me,
defying me,
to call out some expensive repair cowboy.

i really don't want much more of this.
i DO wonder how much longer i can go on for.

i'm fucked.

i've said this before,
the only things that can help me,
are either death,
or unexpected wealth.
don't mind wich.

wealth,
enough to just keep myself shut away,
safe,
from society,
and free from harm.

from the crime,
the violence,
and the filth that lurks outside.

and just while away my remaining years.


death would be nice also.

i'm sorry,
but i feel as though i'm at my wits end.

no change there then.

i work all week.

spend the..............

oh never mind.

you know the story goes.

stickie spoke this morning.
at least,
i think she did.
for a while,
she'd walk up that hill,
smiling,
even laughed occasionally,
and stormed by my stop,
with a chirpy,
"hello!"
"good morning".
whatever.

now;
she scurries by,
head bowed,
head and face covered,
almost un-recognisable.

well this morning,
in the lowest,
squeakiest,
barely audible tones,
she said,
"good morning".
at least,
i think she did.

i responded with,
"how'do".

and she was gone.



reckon i shall have a bath.
bugger the shower.
heating on.
to hell with expense.
give the cat another goldfish.

oh dear,
i just smiled.
how awful.
------------------------------------------


tiger balm white;
i've given my legs a good rub,
and now my arms ache.

what's it like?
well,
it feels,
and smells,
as it should.
i love the smell of camphor,
although it's not as strong as with the red.

what i wouldn't give for an all over rub-down with that stuff.
especially my lower back.
but just to be rubbed,
and rubbed,
into a long sleep inducing,
oblivion.
and slowly,
drift off.


instead,
work awaits.

and it's time to do my pack-up,
re-heat my dinner.
and make ready,
as far as one can,
for another hellish night.

and life goes,

lurches,

staggers,

inexorably,

on.



ciao juicers.

ps.

wife walks in,
doesn't say a word.
sits quietly,
waiting for me to vacate the kitchen.

lardthing,
assumes his normal position.
lotus,
with head bowed forward.
( he DOES actually nod off in that pose ).
and no laptop.
will somebody see if he has a pulse ffs?



ho'hum.

wassup nobster?

You sound suicidal.

so what's new?

Always wondered how Tim Henman lived with his failure to win Wimbledon

NotBert wrote:Always wondered how Tim Henman lived with his failure to win Wimbledon

at least he good at something.

but not THAT good.

NotBert wrote:Always wondered how Tim Henman lived with his failure to win Wimbledon