Gosh. When people say that drinking red wine can make one depressed, i have to say that i have never really taken such a thought to heart. Until now.

Today, i’m sitting in my chair, at my desk, in the office, feeling rather sorry for myself. Why? Many reasons.

one: red wine headache

two: guy i dig has not fought for my hand, which of course, leave sme feeling worthless

three: i feel too intimidated to send my CV to reputable places of work

four: i feel fat

five: i feel uncreative, which makes me feel even more fat

six: i am horribly broke and do not have access to my fixed deposit account, the premise of which is to ensure that i don’t go on spending frenzies. The result of such brokeness is eating badly co-ordinated meals, not enough junk food, and never enough booze. Oh, and all i want to do on this sad day is go and buy lots of clothes.

So, in effect, i’m throwing myself the most massive pity party imaginable, smoke machine not included. And booze not included. And no fizzers. Even the pity party has taken on a strange grey tinge of sadness. I am counting down the days that stretch out before me like the serengeti, until i get onto the plane and fly off to visit my mum.

However, this, too, has its downfalls. You see, i am sporting four lovely tattoos, that mummy does not know about. Now this would all be good and fine, except for the fact that i come from a family of jewish folk, who frown upon things like tattoos, bacon and other things that happen to make being alive even sllightly bearable.

I wonder if i’m going to make it out of this week alive…