Every cloud…

Except, no, there’s no reason to believe the silver lining applies to genital-shaped cumulus. Cumuli? Anything I learned from my one semester of meteorology seems to have escaped my mind, not unlike the dish that ran away with the spoon. Forgive me.

The second I noticed the skies were descending upon me in the shape of a million bawbags (and just one single cock and balls) – so much so that I stopped, mid-run, to take a photo – I should have recognised it for what it was; a bad fucking omen.

They call it a relapse. I might call it a re-lapse. In judgement (as if one had the sense to make judgments at all). Either way, I say relapse is a four-letter word. Particularly as there hasn’t been any significant and/or prolonged ‘lapse’, and I believe the former requires the latter in order to simply come to be.

Now, before you get ahead of yourself there, I need you to hold your horses just a bit. We’re not talking alcohol here – although it certainly doesn’t help on the occasion it’s poured into the mix – and I’m too high strung to get much effect from any drug. No, I’m afraid we’re dealing with a much more sinister beast here…

It’s her. She’s sensed that my shoulders have come down an inch or two and she’s stepped in to make sure I burn all bridges before anything can happen.

In her defence, she’s only trying to protect me. The teenager trapped inside, too far gone to let go and far too sceptical from experience to let anyone come too close. So, when she rears her ugly head (honestly, one ugly mug is more than enough, we don’t need two), the curtains come down and our consciousness goes on holiday.

She does not give a fuck about any inconvenience caused by her micromanagement. And we suffer. Oh, we suffer.

And this is how I come to wake up on a Sunday morning, having lost approximately 43 minutes of my time between 2am and 3 the night before. Oh, and something else seemed to have gone missing; my bra. How the fuck one goes about losing one’s racerback fucking bra whilst managing to keep every other piece of clothing on is beyond me. My immediate and obvious reasoning was that I must have taken everything off in the pub in an attempt to shag some poor cunt’s husband. It’s not something that’s happened before, but one might assume one gets tired of making the same mistakes at some point, leaving no choice but to reinvent the wheel and make way for some new ones.

A full 24 hours passed, without the resurfacing of said piece of clothing. Having to monitor my blood pressure on a weekly basis, the very beepy machine told me it was about 180/95, but my fever, nausea and blurred vision had already told me that much. Related to the missing bra? Quite possibly. At least somewhat. Add in some work stuff and a few days of poor nutrition and I think we have a winner.

Regardless, I managed to find the fucker after having washed all of my washables – including my sheets and towels. What I have yet to find, though, is my dignity. Or, indeed, the courage to check to see what damage was done over the course of the weekend. Perhaps we’ll never know.

Lest we die of shame – or have another blackout – we shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy the spectacular featured image and one of the finest and bizarre tunes ever written, by the one and only Kenny Rogers, in the video below. Peace!