My phone screen looks like a physical representation of my mental state a few months back. Even as I type (which I’m doing without being able to see a quarter of my keyboard – you know you spend too much time on your handheld device when you don’t even need to look at the screen to write) bits of glass/plastic/crystallised Apple (get it?!) are coming away and ingraining themselves into my finger print.
That could cause problems at immigration the next time we get to the States:
“Say, ma’am, what sand like synthetic substance do you have concealed in your fingertips? Are you attempting to distort your identity (chance’d be a fine thing) by disrupting your identifying grooves/harbouring a controlled substance/or are you in fact a superhero from whose fingertips can harvested the light of a billion search engines and the voices of global 4G Network?”
I can hear the alarm bells at that ultra intimidating line up in Dublin Airport now: the (presumably temporarily seconded US police officers (are they police officers? I’m usually so terrified they’ll unearth some unconscious crime against the land of the free and the home of the brave that I lose the ability to speak, never mind read their insignia).
“This woman [sorry, ‘female-presenting’ is the new PC term for a human who identifies as female] is not entirely organic.”
What are phone screens made of? Clearly nothing very durable by the looks of mine.
My lovely lock screen wallpaper is blighted by two big black bullet holes, dangerously close to Jamie Dornan’s face which is a thing of such perfection as should never be scarred by malfunction. I’m that kind of parent: other mothers would never even consider having anything other than their precious fertilised eggs as their screensaver; I have one of the few men I would let fertilise one of my remaining zygotes. ElsaDaughter gets it. I hope. I don’t need to announce to the world my status as her mother and my love for her. It’s inherent in my very being. That’s also the reason I have more photos of the dogs than of her on my camera roll.
Ouch. My cracked screen scraped me.
I’m starving. And cold. Which is why I’m probably considering eating a week old banana that I’ve just remembered is in my desk drawer and that’s within reach of the edge of my bed which would mean not having to get up and not getting up means not waking aforementioned oft photographed pooches who will think it’s morning time hence walkies (it’s five am, forget it) and not seeing me put on my big Nobody-Will-Guess-I’m-Still-Wearing-My-Pyjamas-Under-This coat, they will want to get onto my bed at which point I might as well just go sleep in the shower.
I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. Or at least it’s creeping up on me. I think I can stave off the worst of it but I need a super proactive tomorrow to get on top of things.
I’m frustrated by how long it takes certain government agencies to respond to requests for…
Documents. A week later and I’m still waiting on them so no rent allowance update yet and still no medical card.
I did have my phone replaced promptly however.
I wrote this last week and never finished it. Well I’m not entirely sure there was a point to it all apart from showcasing what sleep deprivation dies to your brain and your writing skills.