Interlude – Witching Hour Wakings

This is what my four in the morning looks like: previously mentioned book featuring murder and Freud (sure to help me sleep), mixed nuts and Sprite Zero.

Up in two hours to take ElsaDaughter to school. Yay, Friday traffic.

And I’m so broke. I thought I had paid all my bills but I haven’t. Even (temporarily) living at home I can’t afford to live. It would have been so much cheaper to have driven off last weekend and executed my Get Out Clause Plan. But I didn’t. And now I have to pay the price. Literally.

I spend so much of my time worrying about money is it any wonder I felt so guilty spending a hundred and twenty euro on clothes when I got paid? Jesus. I knew I’d regret that. And now here I am wondering where I can get a couple of hundred from to get through what seems like a seven week month. How can I be this broke after five years in college? I don’t go out. I have nothing to save. That hundred and twenty euro is taunting me from its interest growing shelf in Dunnes Stores’ bank vault. Like a big lump of ugly sourdough in Paul Hollywood’s proving drawer. I have Quarter Pounder’s jewellery to sell. Let’s face it, I won’t be wearing those guilt gifts anymore but I’ve never sold on eBay before and that’s hardly a quick exchange of goods for cash. And the Tiffany heart is missing from the bracelet. Ironic, seeing as it was a gift of “love” for my thirtieth. Actually that wasn’t the original bracelet he bought me. The original was much nicer but it kept snapping and I had to have it restrung six times which is about a quarter of the attempts we made at restringing our frayed relationship. In the end I exchanged it for a bracelet of plain, bland, sturdy silver rather than the multi tonal, irregular, beautifully flawed beads of the one he chose for me. Well isn’t this just one big fat middle-of-the-night metaphor?

I miss that bracelet.

I don’t miss traipsing into Brown Thomas every couple of months to have it rethreaded after it burst under the pressure of everyday wear and tear, then having to wait three weeks for it to come back to me after its exile from my wrist where it had been fondled and healed by the hands of someone who could give it the magic touch to send it back out into the world, and to face me, with whom it was stuck for the length of its guarantee, again.

Anyway Freud, sound bloke.

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