Day 14: Simon Harris is HOW old??

I’m going to keep this short (mainly because I’m very behind on life admin and also – beer?)

I’m worried with these diaries I’m not giving you a good enough insight into the daily goings-on of my life. I’m too fond of the detail to give an overall context. By you, I of course mean the herstorians of 2103 who are reading this diary as important historical data of the coronavirus pandemic that you now know was really a highly-sophisticated coup by the bat population in their quest for world domination. The other you is of course the Leaving Cert students now reading this because the herstorians were so impressed by the writing prowess and level of description of these “diaries” they’ve put my writing on both the history and English syllabus. Higher level, obviously.)

Like, I’d love to be the kind of person who could introduce just a smidgeon of regularity and structure into their…diaries? Life? Relationships? Sleep patterns? Woah, let’s not get too deep. Basically, what I’m saying is, I want to create a rapport between us so you feel like you’re living through this with me. I want your emotional INVESTMENT so that these can function as in-lieu catch ups over pints.

Like, bootycall guy, from entry #3 – where is he now?

How many newly-unearthed ways did my cat behave like a dog today and how many minutes did at least one of my family members spend recording said hybrid? The answer to both is 32.

Where am I at with the puzzle of entry #1? (Completed it, mate).

What level of prickle are my waxed legs from entry #7 at? This, I know, is the stuff YOU WANT TO KNOW.

I’ve also no idea if any of those entry references are right because WHO HAS TIME TO FACT-CHECK.

SO I’m gonna start giving it to ya.

Not today but probably soon. Today I’m just gonna let you know a few random things that happened to me.

I made plans to FaceTime friends and then reneged on all of them. It’s this cool, new COVID trend I’m rocking – known as emotional distancing but it’s pretty alt so you probs haven’t heard of it- and, not to brag, but I’m kind-of nailing it.

I avoided doing very real, already very-past-the-deadline work to put up a stupid and very shit Instagram story. I then spent 20 minutes moping about said story and seriously questioning why I’m such a try-hard, embarrassing idiot. Might have refreshed my page a few times to see how many people unfollowed me.

Proceeded to then spend another 10 minutes berating myself for this ridiculous self-criticism and for getting caught up in a virtual reality THAT MEANS NOTHING.

The bar for entertainment in my family reached new lows today when my sister started giving me a massage with a hammer. We both found it very relaxing.

My dad finally confessed to us his war with AIB over an impulsive purchase he made of not one, not two, but TEN rape whistles. When asked who these were for (the man only has four daughters) he responded with “colleagues and, you know, girls around the office.” The touching yet hilarious image of my 65 year-old father walking around his office distributing personal alarms to unsuspecting women is one I hope to fashion into a tapestry and hang in the Louvre. I think it will do well.

I made a fucking shit-hot Ottolenghi feast and am now obsessed with myself. I’m also very in love with Ottolenghi. We also happen to be in the same magazine. I am sharing a bound spine with Ottolenghi – I CANNOT.

I went to the supermarket for the first time in two weeks and forgot the therapeutic pleasure of browsing. I find it beyond relaxing to price-check items and wander the aisles aimlessly. I considered five different peanut butters and bought none of them. I checked out their vegan alternatives – meh, I’ll stick to cheese. I left the store mellow, spaced-out, floating on the buzz of mild consumerism.

I keep hearing the phrase “Draconian measures” and have yet to find out what it means. Can somebody please explain? Because as much as I would love for it to be referencing Dracula, even for me that feels a tad far-fetched and, to be honest, I’m already finding Simon Harris sexy enough without imagining him as a vampire.

SORRY. Simon Harris is HOW old?? A BARE thirty-three. Not even the decency to be in his mid-thirties and he salt and peppering and hunching all over the place. Did we know this? Was this common knowledge? I am undone. Jesus, what a fecking ride.

Tree Tings

  • A culture of self-care that enables you to bail on social activities and generally be a shitty friend and NOBODY CAN CALL YOU OUT ON IT.
  • Brown bread. I feel like by the end of this ordeal I will have been thankful for every kind of bread under the sun. Jesus, BEFORE covid I was grateful for every manifestation of yeast and water – bread’s the business. My mother made a glorious, fat loaf of brown bread yesterday and I have perfected it’s sweet and savoury consumption. Sweet: Cut two THICK, crumbly slices. Then cut those in half so you have four quarters. Maximise that pleasure shit. Then: Slice 1: An inch of butter. Slice 2: A centimetre of butter topped with raspberry jam. Slice 3: A trench of crunchy peanut butter and more jam. Slice 4: Another trench of crunchy peanut butter and honey. Fat, ginormous, creamy cup of coffee, my book, and GOODNIGHT IRENE, I AM IN HEAVEN.
  • Kettlebells. Getting a lot of joy out of swinging those bad boys around feeling Lara Croft levels of strong. Of course the illusion is destroyed as soon as I catch myself in the kitchen window but still, it’s good while it lasts. Also, endorphins.

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