Sinkhole

I'm feeling very clever, I'm making the big calls, I cannot be stopped because I'm a cheeky monkey.

I have a shed in total chaos and I'm supposed to be sorting that out tomorrow but I know that if all I have to look forward to is that shit I'll lie in bed paralysed by the seeming endlessness of life. No. What I'm gonna do is start that shed today so tomorrow I wake up high fiving the fucking shit out of myself.

Fuck you shed. You live in my backyard and you reckon you can judge me? Get a grip champ! I can see you coming a mile away!

You know what else? I'm going to listen to podcasts while I backhand that shed across it's smart face so it won't even feel like work. It'll be more like fun! Fuck off, shed!

We're moving house, which brings up issues like, "Please kill me" and "Why am I still alive". They say of moving house that, well, I'm not even going to repeat it because it's the most depressing statement about how close we all really are to being refugees that I owe it to you to just not. Basically, every few years we have to move house because of landlord bullshit and every few years it's awful and bad and dirty and wrong.

And we're fairly lucky. This is what being lucky looks like. Being uprooted every few years and worrying we won't get our bond back because we left a speck of fly shit on a skirting board. Letting real estate people into our home every few months so they can inspect the place. And this is a new one: letting strangers in so they can decide if they want to apply for a place with an outside laundry door that looks like this.

Yeah, cleaning a sinkhole of a dump. Engaging winning optimism: now!

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