Monday. 7:43 a.m.

Fucking can’t get out of bed. Eating oatmeal with leftover custard on top of it. I don’t know whether it’s expired. Should be ok, right? Sugar is a preservative. The coffee will wash it down. Bottom.

1027. They’re yelling at me. God bless this perfectly ripe banana. The skin goes in the bin with the manky coffee cups.

1114. Soy flat something from the café. Can’t deal. Bloated. Periods suck.

1312. Hungry. PB sandwich lovingly encased in aldi zip lock bag. The one constant in my life.

1411. Galaxy chocolate. What is this thing meant to be? It’s certainly not cosmic.

1418. Tea. Oh god. Tea.

1624. A colleague offers me some kind of weird circular cardboard. It says “rice cracker” on the package. I accept gratefully.

1734. Home. Home home home. Apple yogurt cracker pickle. Another pickle.

1819. Dram of le vin de gingembre. Restorative. Must not fuel alcohol habit.

1844. I finally put dinner on. Take a hot shower. Think about drowning in sesame oil. Remain in shower for way too long, and come to in a sea of shampoo and wrinkly fingers. Remember I am ostensibly an adult. Get out of shower. Eat a pickle.

1939. Baked tofu slathered in sesame oil and salt and chilli. Feel empty in my soul. Read up on gender reassignment therapy and Turkish pasta bakes.

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