Cycling into work is now a serious chore, yesterday morning my ears were screaming for a good 30 minutes due to the temperature of the air, if course, if I didn’t look like Baldrick then my ears may have been offered some protection from my long lost locks, but this was of little comfort as I sat silently screaming in the corner of my office with my hands clamped over my stone cold lug ‘oles.
I didn’t touch a drop last night, I’m getting good at this (I abstained Sunday night too, and when I don’t drink, I don’t smoke dope either) but it makes for a fucking boring evening, especially as Myfwt wasn’t about. I’ve found, though, that if one is tired it’s not too difficult, sleep is the best way to avoid temptation after all and feeling tired bolsters ones tenacity to remain sober. The downside is that the whole ‘reward’ structure collapses. Allow me to expand on this.
I’ve mentioned before that the biggest hurdle to overcome when abstaining revolves around the preparation and eating of food, but I was wrong. The biggest shitter without question is after I’ve been writing. When I got in last night I put an hour into the book, not much I’ll admit but after I’d finished I defaulted to the kitchen to grab a glass of vino. Had there been some I wouldn’t have been able to deny myself, but I’d made the decision not to drink at lunchtime and didn’t bother stocking up for the evening (normally there would be wine in the kitchen but due to the weekends shenanigans I didn’t go shopping).
Well at least I don’t have a hangover this morning, I still feel fucked though. I went to bed at a reasonable hour but woke at 5am for utterly no reason and couldn’t get back to sleep. Come to think of it getting to sleep wasn’t easy either. Since cutting back on the booze I find that just as I’m drifting off I feel as if I cannot breathe and my body lurches awake in a single contraction of horrific panic, this happens at least 10 times before I fall asleep. It’s really nasty. Also, I get this thing where I can’t swallow. This happens during the day too. Imagine you’re on the downstroke of a swallow and the whole system locks up, you can’t breath obviously, this again results in a single explosive burst of panic. At work last week I smashed my knee on the side of my desk during one of these episodes causing all of my colleagues to turn and face a man who looked as if Wilfred Bramble’s ghost had suddenly fellated him.
In bed it’s really great when the sleep-leaping and swallow-lurch work in conjunction with one another…
Oh, Cunt news. His hairy daughter and emaciated mother of it have fucked off. I’m just waiting for him to begin making a life sapping racket again but I’m not having any of it this time. For the last few weeks he’s been avoiding amplifying his gormless great fucking head and subjecting the world to his deluded projection of his own worth as he’s realised this wasn’t conducive to the hairy one sleeping. So, the instant I hear him preparing to indulge himself in a session of musical illiteracy I’m going to go downstairs, knock on the door and, after doing a bad impression of Simon Cowell on The X Factor (in abject disbelief at the gall of a mentally challenged contestant even appearing in the audition let alone barking out a version of James Blunts ‘You’re Beautiful’ that’s so appalling he begins to bleed profusely from every orifice) smash his face in until I could fry it with onions and garlic.