Somebody called me brave this morning. I stopped myself from screaming “No, I’m not”, throwing myself on the floor and wailing loudly only because he’s a kindly old man who I adore and would hate to make feel silly in any way. You see, I can feel my brave cloak slipping horribly and, when it slips, all manner of ghastly things might show that’ll make people run and scream even more than I felt like running and screaming this morning.
Yesterday I was fugged, today I’m flitting. Fuggedly flitting. From to-do-thing to to-do-thing, getting not one of them done. I have the concentration span of a flea on acid. Or maybe more a flea who’s just smoked the biggest spliff on earth. My senses seem dulled, yet my mind fires at a million firings a minute. I’m sure there’s a better word than ‘firings’ but I can’t get to it.
And through it all I’m struggling to keep the cloak closed because it’s cold out there and my exposed bits are shrivelling and shivering and crying to be looked after. I’m just not sure how to do the looking after right now, being flittingly fugged or fuggedly flitted.
World Penguin Day
23 hours ago