Saw a story on the BBC News a few days ago. Been meaning to tell you about it ever since but puffballs and buttons and zombies have rather got in the way.
Wales, apparently, is rising rapidly - well, as rapidly as a nation of wobblebottoms can rise - up the ranks of Obese Nations. Apparently, we're nipping at the USA's heels in terms of the percentage of people in the country who are overweight or obese - about 60% of the population fall into these categories. We are a nation, it seems, of truly Fat Fucks.
In some ways, that's pretty cool - certainly in the local gym, among your body-builders and your insano-fits, you'll also find a good solid number of people who actually need to be there - a great incentive to use the thing. On the other hand, knowing the information about the country means that one's vision is rather skewed and tinted. Many's the time since coming to live back home I've thought to myself "Hmm...well, I'm probably not as fat as him," or "Phew...she's a big lass even by my standards..."
Knowing that we're chasing the US in terms of the percentage of Fat Fucks we have kinda makes that redundant. It's like logic kicks in to say "Yeah, might not be as fat as him - BUT HE'S FATTER THAN HALF THE PEOPLE ON THE EARTH...PUT TOGETHER!" Which really puts a crimp in your self-comparisons.
Been a bad-ish day, in several directions today. In particular, in Disappearing terms, went for an Indian meal tonight, and didn't start it till late. Not sure how that'll serve me come Tuesday - or the postponement of yesterday's badminton, come to that. But on the other hand, was able to spend some time with Dad today in the period where I was Doing Buggerall in the Way of Exercise.
Have almost forgotten what the gym looks like. Have certainly forgotten was strenuous physical exercise feels like. Sigh...Must...Restructure...Routine...
Muuuuusssssst...re...structure...
Friday, 7 September 2012
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Zombie Face
"Brrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaiiiiinsssss...."
Sorry - erm...did I say that, or did I think that.
Right now, if you could look at me, you'll see only the glassy, dead stare of the Undead. Didn't realise that till I just caught sight of myself in the mirror and squealed in alarm.
The reason I didn't realise it is because it's the same face I can see on every other person in this room right now. d, for some reason that makes sense only to her, is at the stove, making...of all things...cheese twists.
Ma is staring, glassily, into a glass of red wine the colour of vampire-blood. And my brother Geraint is sitting across the kitchen, in our Dad's Chair, blinking, realising exactly how long he's been awake. We are the Zombie Family tonight. It's been that sort of a day.
Ger arrived Monday night, a little while after I got in from the UberCommute. It was a good call - the doctor on our 12:30 stint with Dad told us to get him here, because of the uncertainty of Dad's condition.
Uncertainty was a big factor in today. Between us, we've operated a kind of rolling watch on Dad today, overlapping and taking shifts and making sure he was at least safe. In some respects, today has been a new low in his ongoing condition...which, when you consider we got a call at 12:30 a few nights ago, is actually saying something. So now we are all just sitting here, staring at each other with the stare of a bunch of zombies.
I'm going to stop now. I have a sneaking suspicion that we're all sitting here in the kitchen on the hard wooden chairs largely because I'm sitting here typing this to you lot. I think when I stop typing, we'll all simply collapse into our primal undead state and be unconscious for several days.
Zzzzzzz...Braaaaaaaaaainssssszzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
Sorry - erm...did I say that, or did I think that.
Right now, if you could look at me, you'll see only the glassy, dead stare of the Undead. Didn't realise that till I just caught sight of myself in the mirror and squealed in alarm.
The reason I didn't realise it is because it's the same face I can see on every other person in this room right now. d, for some reason that makes sense only to her, is at the stove, making...of all things...cheese twists.
Ma is staring, glassily, into a glass of red wine the colour of vampire-blood. And my brother Geraint is sitting across the kitchen, in our Dad's Chair, blinking, realising exactly how long he's been awake. We are the Zombie Family tonight. It's been that sort of a day.
Ger arrived Monday night, a little while after I got in from the UberCommute. It was a good call - the doctor on our 12:30 stint with Dad told us to get him here, because of the uncertainty of Dad's condition.
Uncertainty was a big factor in today. Between us, we've operated a kind of rolling watch on Dad today, overlapping and taking shifts and making sure he was at least safe. In some respects, today has been a new low in his ongoing condition...which, when you consider we got a call at 12:30 a few nights ago, is actually saying something. So now we are all just sitting here, staring at each other with the stare of a bunch of zombies.
I'm going to stop now. I have a sneaking suspicion that we're all sitting here in the kitchen on the hard wooden chairs largely because I'm sitting here typing this to you lot. I think when I stop typing, we'll all simply collapse into our primal undead state and be unconscious for several days.
Zzzzzzz...Braaaaaaaaaainssssszzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
RIP 34s
Yesterday, I rolled the dice - with Dad comparatively calm and stable, I went to London on the UberCommute. The thinking was "go while the peace lasts, because it may not be guaranteeable in future, and you might need to not go another week."
Which was kinda like stepping onto a frozen pond and trusting it not to crack under you - necessary, but not the most confident of premises on which to commit to your day.
As we're living with Ma this week (having all been rather spooked by the middle-of-the-night hospital call), d had packed a bag. She had demanded my trousers off me, and they'd gone into a wash, but had emerged in one piece and were ready. These are the big old fat fuck trousers, secured with the second of the two belts, which I'd been wearing around the place much as one wears a comfy old pair of pants - just because they're there and are full of memories and space. There were also two pairs of size 34s.
"Wear the big ones honey," said d, holding them out. "They'll be comfier for travelling..."
"Nnnnnnnah," I decided. "Wanna feel a bit connected to the older thinner me."
d raised an eyebrow. "Reeeeeally?" she said, waving the comfy pants at me in a moderately seductive manner.
I picked up the 34s, slid into them, breathed substantially innnnnnnnnn, zipped up and fastened the button.
It strained, rather more than somewhat. I could almost hear it grunting, digging its own little sulking trench into my no-longer-size-34 gut.
And off I went, walking with a kind of delicate John Wayne tread, not to put undue strain on the poor, put-upon (or at least put-on) 34s.
Got to Paddington in dire need of a pee, after two bucketfuls of decaffeinated pointlessness at Cardiff, and popped, as is my wont, into the Paddington Hilton to use their bathroom.
There are some moments in life that, if you saw them in a movie, you'd dismiss as funny but contrived and hokey.
I unzipped the 34s, reached in, discovered that the trousers were hiked too high to allow me what, for want of a more frankly filthy word we'll call access and pulled the 34s, still buttoned, down a little way to get everything correctly aligned. I reached in, got a hold of myself, and breathed out, relaxing in the knowledge that my pee-need would soon be no more.
There was a ping.
A little...something...flew past my field of vision, then dropped away. It pinged off one side of the toilet bowl, danced over to the other side, jumped a little in the air and then dropped with a discreet plunk! into the bowl, just as the arc of my pee-stream coloured the water a rich and vibrant cider-colour yellow.
The button stared back up at me. I could almost see it grinning at me. Hell, it was almost giving me the finger. Fortunately of course, the 34s were so crammed to literal bursting-point that they stayed up perfectly well, and rather more relaxedly than they did while under the enforced discipline of the button.
So I did the day with my trousers bulging open at the top, and technically, at least until it's worth getting a replacement button, the 34s are dead. They have ceased to be. Which doesn't make you feel particularly good when you're on a quest to lose your next 28 pounds.
Today though, I went to weigh in, and had something of a shock.
16 stone 10...dead. So somehow this week, I've lost 2.75 pounds. Granted, losing 2.75 pounds when you've put on 26 of the buggers is still hardly a reason to celebrate, but still - at least this week it appears to be moving in the right direction. 3 pounds and I reclaim the 4 stone sticker in my sad little collectormania heart. 7 pounds after that and I'm only a stone over where I'm claiming I "got to"...and on it goes.
Tomorrow night - apparently, badminton. For the first time in decades. That'll be fun!
Which was kinda like stepping onto a frozen pond and trusting it not to crack under you - necessary, but not the most confident of premises on which to commit to your day.
As we're living with Ma this week (having all been rather spooked by the middle-of-the-night hospital call), d had packed a bag. She had demanded my trousers off me, and they'd gone into a wash, but had emerged in one piece and were ready. These are the big old fat fuck trousers, secured with the second of the two belts, which I'd been wearing around the place much as one wears a comfy old pair of pants - just because they're there and are full of memories and space. There were also two pairs of size 34s.
"Wear the big ones honey," said d, holding them out. "They'll be comfier for travelling..."
"Nnnnnnnah," I decided. "Wanna feel a bit connected to the older thinner me."
d raised an eyebrow. "Reeeeeally?" she said, waving the comfy pants at me in a moderately seductive manner.
I picked up the 34s, slid into them, breathed substantially innnnnnnnnn, zipped up and fastened the button.
It strained, rather more than somewhat. I could almost hear it grunting, digging its own little sulking trench into my no-longer-size-34 gut.
And off I went, walking with a kind of delicate John Wayne tread, not to put undue strain on the poor, put-upon (or at least put-on) 34s.
Got to Paddington in dire need of a pee, after two bucketfuls of decaffeinated pointlessness at Cardiff, and popped, as is my wont, into the Paddington Hilton to use their bathroom.
There are some moments in life that, if you saw them in a movie, you'd dismiss as funny but contrived and hokey.
I unzipped the 34s, reached in, discovered that the trousers were hiked too high to allow me what, for want of a more frankly filthy word we'll call access and pulled the 34s, still buttoned, down a little way to get everything correctly aligned. I reached in, got a hold of myself, and breathed out, relaxing in the knowledge that my pee-need would soon be no more.
There was a ping.
A little...something...flew past my field of vision, then dropped away. It pinged off one side of the toilet bowl, danced over to the other side, jumped a little in the air and then dropped with a discreet plunk! into the bowl, just as the arc of my pee-stream coloured the water a rich and vibrant cider-colour yellow.
The button stared back up at me. I could almost see it grinning at me. Hell, it was almost giving me the finger. Fortunately of course, the 34s were so crammed to literal bursting-point that they stayed up perfectly well, and rather more relaxedly than they did while under the enforced discipline of the button.
So I did the day with my trousers bulging open at the top, and technically, at least until it's worth getting a replacement button, the 34s are dead. They have ceased to be. Which doesn't make you feel particularly good when you're on a quest to lose your next 28 pounds.
Today though, I went to weigh in, and had something of a shock.
16 stone 10...dead. So somehow this week, I've lost 2.75 pounds. Granted, losing 2.75 pounds when you've put on 26 of the buggers is still hardly a reason to celebrate, but still - at least this week it appears to be moving in the right direction. 3 pounds and I reclaim the 4 stone sticker in my sad little collectormania heart. 7 pounds after that and I'm only a stone over where I'm claiming I "got to"...and on it goes.
Tomorrow night - apparently, badminton. For the first time in decades. That'll be fun!
Monday, 3 September 2012
The Puffball Horror
I walked into the room, sat heavily on the couch.
“What’s the matter?” said Ma. I hid my face with my hand,
unable to speak for a moment.
“God, what did you do?” asked d, feigning suspicion.
“Too…too horrible…” I muttered.
“What? Tell us?” demanded d.
Regular readers will know I’m taking medically-prescribed
Zenical as an aid d’weightloss. Zenical, for Americans or the new and innocent
among you, is what Alli would be if it went on an intensive, Green Beret-style
boot camp designed to turn it from a lily-livered pissant digestive tract
fluming agent into something more akin to Agent Orange, that can almost
literally kick the crap out of you at a previously unprecedented range of
knots. It makes every stomach-gurgle a sound of impending doom, and it shoots a
foetid orange oil out of your ass like a kind of no-waiting sprinkler
attachment.
Often – and indeed in my case, famously - relatively
unannounced.
We’d decided that Dad was calm enough and stable enough to
allow me to make my Monday morning London trip, which meant that one way or
another, I had to shower before we stumbled, bleary, to our beds.
I turned on the water, waited for it to heat up, and stepped
underneath the stream. Picked up the washing puff, soaped up, farted a small,
insignificant puff of a fart, and began to scrub myself clean. Worked down my
legs, round my ass, up my body…
I looked at the puff.
There are some moments in life that are truly, stunningly,
horror-movie horrible. This, I’m here to tell you, was one of them. It was like
the moment in Carrie where she gets her period in public and has no idea what
it is or what to do about it. It was like some Hammer movie moment where a guy
gets in a cab and is chatting amiably to the driver, only to see the driver
turn round and reveal he’s just a rotted, animated corpse. It was that level of
body-horror that I encountered now.
The puff was orange. Really, really orange.
“Ohhhhhh godddd….”
I poured shower gel into the puffball like it was going out
of fashion, and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed it against itself, willing
the orange out. There was no other way of getting clean, so I scrubbed that
thing like it hadn’t been scrubbed in years, got out of the
shower…ahem…wiped…got back in and used it again to get myself at least
theoretically clean. Then I got out, threw the puffball in the recycling bin,
wrapped myself in a robe and came through to the living room, sitting heavily
on the couch.
“Orange…” I muttered. “So…so orange…”
d, in that way that women have carte blanche to do, but
which would get men into allll sorts of trouble, laughed her head off. Ma,
who’s relatively new to the intimacies of Zenical, raised her eyebrows.
“Ahem…” she coughed.
“That’s OK,” she said, searching….realllly searching for a positive in the story. “I’ve got plenty of
puffballs. Been meaning to throw that one away for a while anyway…
Today was pretty much grim on every conceivable level, but
warmed more than somewhat by the kind words of friends in the Real World and
the e-world, for which, to all those who sent them, I’m grateful. But today, frankly, is something I’ll tell
you about tomorrow. It’s fally-downy time again. Yay…
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Sleepless In The Attic
What the hell day is it?
Anyone?
It's all become something of a blur over the last...some-odd...number of hours.
Watched Asylum of the Daleks, as planned. That was enjoyable. So enjoyable I watched it again immediately. Watched Thor, followed by Captain America - it was pretty much an evening of heroes.
Crawled to bed at midnight, but didn't turn off the light. Instead, we lay there, talking about how grim dad had been on the 3 o'clock visit.
Then the phone rang.
It is of course a truism that no good news comes by phone in the middle of the night. Just past midnight is of course by definition pretty damn close to the middle of the night, so this was pretty damn close to bad news.
It was Ma, with news from the hospital.
They'd said we should probably make our way up, because Dad had started throwing up what they called "coffee grounds" - stomach blood, to the gorily-minded.
We went. He had a temperature of 38.8, looked to be in significant distress, and was throwing up quite a bit. We spoke to a registrar, and he refused on pain of professional integrity, to be hopeful. He wasn't hopeless either - at least not exactly - but hopefulness, he said, was beyond what he could offer at the moment.
Again, the power of prayer came back to me. Ma said something of a silent prayer, and got a little hope from it. d said something of a silent prayer, and got a little hope from it.
I'm an atheist, I don't pray.
No, not even now.
I focused on the phenomenal strength and stubbornness of the man I know as dad. And got a little hope.
We went home eventually, when it became clear that after a change in antibiotics and a dose or two of painkillers and a reasonably constant flow of I/V fluids, he was calmer. And by home, I mean Ma's home. Dad's home. The home in which I did most of my not-quite-growing-up in. d and I went up to the attic which is, for now, the only spare room. And there we worried and hoped and did everything inbetween for a few more dawn-creeping hours.
Today, while in no way, shape or form being Better, Dad's a little better. A little calmer. A little more present. Looks like his most recent fever's broken, and at some points today, he's been Dad. Conscious, present, tracking and funny. Not, when all is said and done, many points. but some. We're back in the attic tonight, in case the call comes again and our family needs to scramble. It's like Blitz living, really, trying to live a normal life and waiting for the air raid siren that means running and panic and what-the-hell-now?
London tomorrow, against a large chunk of my better judgment. Here's to hope, however you find it, and to the perspective big problems give to the little ones, like Disappearing.
Anyone?
It's all become something of a blur over the last...some-odd...number of hours.
Watched Asylum of the Daleks, as planned. That was enjoyable. So enjoyable I watched it again immediately. Watched Thor, followed by Captain America - it was pretty much an evening of heroes.
Crawled to bed at midnight, but didn't turn off the light. Instead, we lay there, talking about how grim dad had been on the 3 o'clock visit.
Then the phone rang.
It is of course a truism that no good news comes by phone in the middle of the night. Just past midnight is of course by definition pretty damn close to the middle of the night, so this was pretty damn close to bad news.
It was Ma, with news from the hospital.
They'd said we should probably make our way up, because Dad had started throwing up what they called "coffee grounds" - stomach blood, to the gorily-minded.
We went. He had a temperature of 38.8, looked to be in significant distress, and was throwing up quite a bit. We spoke to a registrar, and he refused on pain of professional integrity, to be hopeful. He wasn't hopeless either - at least not exactly - but hopefulness, he said, was beyond what he could offer at the moment.
Again, the power of prayer came back to me. Ma said something of a silent prayer, and got a little hope from it. d said something of a silent prayer, and got a little hope from it.
I'm an atheist, I don't pray.
No, not even now.
I focused on the phenomenal strength and stubbornness of the man I know as dad. And got a little hope.
We went home eventually, when it became clear that after a change in antibiotics and a dose or two of painkillers and a reasonably constant flow of I/V fluids, he was calmer. And by home, I mean Ma's home. Dad's home. The home in which I did most of my not-quite-growing-up in. d and I went up to the attic which is, for now, the only spare room. And there we worried and hoped and did everything inbetween for a few more dawn-creeping hours.
Today, while in no way, shape or form being Better, Dad's a little better. A little calmer. A little more present. Looks like his most recent fever's broken, and at some points today, he's been Dad. Conscious, present, tracking and funny. Not, when all is said and done, many points. but some. We're back in the attic tonight, in case the call comes again and our family needs to scramble. It's like Blitz living, really, trying to live a normal life and waiting for the air raid siren that means running and panic and what-the-hell-now?
London tomorrow, against a large chunk of my better judgment. Here's to hope, however you find it, and to the perspective big problems give to the little ones, like Disappearing.
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Asylum of the Disappearing
Blood was down to 5.6 this morning, which suggests...
Well, not very much at all, I suppose, but is good blood sugar control considering I've actually managed to get through this week doing abbbbbbsolutely nothing in the way of exercise.
Saw my pal Sian for a bit this morning. She's the kind of person who runs marathons...for fun. Climbs mountains "because they're there". Aims to do "UltraMarathons" in unlikely locations and so on. She's a nutter, essentially. Still, this morning she was relaxedly knackered, having been camping (again...nutter), with four kids for a few days. Was nice, actually, to have a bunch of time in which I didn't have to think "Bugger, I've put two stone back on..." - which is a kind of gnawing, high-pitched whine in the back of my head, pretty much constantly at the minute.
Went up to see Dad this afternoon too. Not his best of days, so there wasn't much in the way of progress there - though it did get me thinking about the power of prayer.
There's a school of thought amongst some atheists that when people say "I'll pray for you", they're not actually doing any good for the recipient, but they are doing good for themselves, by thinking that they've had an impact, and therefore making themselves feel better. This, to me, has always seemed a rather uncharitable way of looking at the thing. There's also rather a smug trope in atheist circles that says believers will pray for you, and atheists will do something for you. Again, this seems to be assuming that believers will only pray for you, rather than praying for you and calling a doctor. Again, hardly the most charitable (or logical, if you get right down to it) view of things.
Sitting there, listening to my dad sleep, not wanting to wake him because waking was such an effort, it struck me that the whole visit was a kind of practical prayer. Did him absolutely no good at all, but did me some good in knowing that if he woke and needed something, we'd be there for him. Besides, in real terms there was nothing I could have done to genuinely help him today - except the little things we did - handed him stuff he wanted, made sure he took some liquids, told the nurses when he needed some medication and so on. Hence a practical prayer.
I'd be lying though if I said tonight was about anything other than Asylum of the Daleks. Yes, geekboys and dweebgirls across the nation will be sitting on sofas now, taking phones off the hook or turning off mobiles, settling down because Doctor Who is back tonight. One of my favourite musical comedians even wrote a song to describe the emotion we all feel on the day the show comes back.
It's called Call Me During Doctor Who and I'll Kill You...Go ahead, Youtube it, you'll have a laugh.
So this is me, bogging off from the lot of you to indulge in some pure pepperpot-shaped extermination-based fun...
EX-TER-MIN-AAAAAATE!!!
Well, not very much at all, I suppose, but is good blood sugar control considering I've actually managed to get through this week doing abbbbbbsolutely nothing in the way of exercise.
Saw my pal Sian for a bit this morning. She's the kind of person who runs marathons...for fun. Climbs mountains "because they're there". Aims to do "UltraMarathons" in unlikely locations and so on. She's a nutter, essentially. Still, this morning she was relaxedly knackered, having been camping (again...nutter), with four kids for a few days. Was nice, actually, to have a bunch of time in which I didn't have to think "Bugger, I've put two stone back on..." - which is a kind of gnawing, high-pitched whine in the back of my head, pretty much constantly at the minute.
Went up to see Dad this afternoon too. Not his best of days, so there wasn't much in the way of progress there - though it did get me thinking about the power of prayer.
There's a school of thought amongst some atheists that when people say "I'll pray for you", they're not actually doing any good for the recipient, but they are doing good for themselves, by thinking that they've had an impact, and therefore making themselves feel better. This, to me, has always seemed a rather uncharitable way of looking at the thing. There's also rather a smug trope in atheist circles that says believers will pray for you, and atheists will do something for you. Again, this seems to be assuming that believers will only pray for you, rather than praying for you and calling a doctor. Again, hardly the most charitable (or logical, if you get right down to it) view of things.
Sitting there, listening to my dad sleep, not wanting to wake him because waking was such an effort, it struck me that the whole visit was a kind of practical prayer. Did him absolutely no good at all, but did me some good in knowing that if he woke and needed something, we'd be there for him. Besides, in real terms there was nothing I could have done to genuinely help him today - except the little things we did - handed him stuff he wanted, made sure he took some liquids, told the nurses when he needed some medication and so on. Hence a practical prayer.
I'd be lying though if I said tonight was about anything other than Asylum of the Daleks. Yes, geekboys and dweebgirls across the nation will be sitting on sofas now, taking phones off the hook or turning off mobiles, settling down because Doctor Who is back tonight. One of my favourite musical comedians even wrote a song to describe the emotion we all feel on the day the show comes back.
It's called Call Me During Doctor Who and I'll Kill You...Go ahead, Youtube it, you'll have a laugh.
So this is me, bogging off from the lot of you to indulge in some pure pepperpot-shaped extermination-based fun...
EX-TER-MIN-AAAAAATE!!!
BrokeToe MoonPain
Blood was 6.2 yesterday, and 5.8 this morning.
Tonight, there's a blue moon. And it's also the night of Neil Armstrong's memorial, which seems fitting.
About a year ago, d invited me out in the middle of an Amroth night "to see the moon" and I ended up falling over and breaking a toe.
Tonight, as midnight approached, we looked at each other.
"Sure, why not?" I said, and out we went.
Couldn't see the moon for love nor money, but as we wandered up, of all things, to the grocery store for a late night, we reminisced about everything that has changed in our lives since that time. It was on that Amroth visit that we first saw the flat we now live in. We've come a long way while that big toenail of mine has been growing and growing and finally falling off. I'm more than a little curious to remember what weight I was when the toe-breaking happened. Might even have been about where I am right now, which would kinda suck.
But the deadlines are kinda clearing, and for the next couple of days, I'll be able to get some proper biking done, to try and carve myself a psychological victory on Tuesday. Gotta get my ass in gear here, cos it seems to me the massive changes in our lives over the next year were driven by both of us, and some others too, focusing on what we wanted, and making it a reality. Seems like the way to fuck yourself over and drift to nowhere is to lose that kind of focus. Seems like I've been kinda drifting that way for a few months now. Thing is, my brain is right back in the right place. Just need to get the body back in gear.
Tonight, there's a blue moon. And it's also the night of Neil Armstrong's memorial, which seems fitting.
About a year ago, d invited me out in the middle of an Amroth night "to see the moon" and I ended up falling over and breaking a toe.
Tonight, as midnight approached, we looked at each other.
"Sure, why not?" I said, and out we went.
Couldn't see the moon for love nor money, but as we wandered up, of all things, to the grocery store for a late night, we reminisced about everything that has changed in our lives since that time. It was on that Amroth visit that we first saw the flat we now live in. We've come a long way while that big toenail of mine has been growing and growing and finally falling off. I'm more than a little curious to remember what weight I was when the toe-breaking happened. Might even have been about where I am right now, which would kinda suck.
But the deadlines are kinda clearing, and for the next couple of days, I'll be able to get some proper biking done, to try and carve myself a psychological victory on Tuesday. Gotta get my ass in gear here, cos it seems to me the massive changes in our lives over the next year were driven by both of us, and some others too, focusing on what we wanted, and making it a reality. Seems like the way to fuck yourself over and drift to nowhere is to lose that kind of focus. Seems like I've been kinda drifting that way for a few months now. Thing is, my brain is right back in the right place. Just need to get the body back in gear.
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