14 January 2013

i've been driftin' along in the same stale shoes

you'll probably get the idea that i do fuck all with my life these days, but any of you sarah lundies out there will know that there's more than meets the eye with stuff like this. really i haven't been writing to you fine people cause i'm like totes busy style.

and because i love you all so dearly, i will start with the least interesting updates.

I bought new kicks, we are in love and will be together forever:

after the most scientific and legitimate study conducted since those guys tried to kill us all at CERN, we now know that it takes me two and a half months to get through five bottles of salad dressing.

my bagels, while delicious, lack a rob reiner-produced lovin' feeling these days. as the pod man is gone, gone, gone, whooa oh oh oh oh.

and now, in the name of chronology, turns out that i managed outdo my escapade home just before christmas with my escapade home on boxing day. Yep, i said boxing day. 'but sara, we're in england. you know shit is snoozin' on boxing day!' dear readers, i sure as shit do now. but i didn't think of it at the time. i was once again enjoying the vast hospitality and fine food and drink one encounters when staying with the razberets, when mrs razberet asked when i was going back. 'today! for i must be at work on the morrow!' i declared. everyone looked a bit shifty after that. and it was only then i remembered that last year i hadn't come home on boxing day but the day after, since we had that extra day off and whatnot and so on.

POINT, WCS, get to the POINT!

right fine! so mr razberet had to drive me and the fam to cambridge (i was duly mortified), whence i spent a panicked hour trying to book a national express bus on each of my dying phones. three coaches were booked. which got me up to about 6pm. but luckily (depending on your outlook on life) there was a 3pm coach. from cambridge. to stansted. to london. which took three hours. instead of the 40-min train journey to king's cross. whatever! i cried. 'i shall book this and have the divine comedy stuck in my head and get home before midnight and all will be right with the world!' it wasn't actually that bad after i freaked out when my phone died and thought they wouldnt let me on the second coach with literally zero proof that i was a paying customer. this was about the only way in which it being boxing day was of any use. the guy was also clearly convinced by the sheer terror on my face that evinced the underlying sheer terror of having to live at stansted airport.

i made it home safe, and then i ordered a lot of indian food.

the next morning, i woke up feeling like someone was taking a weed-wacker to the back of my throat and had a fever, and called in sick.

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