Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Definition of Half Arsed

I could write about how I'm going to New York at the end of March and I'm bamboozled about where to stay. So very many options. 

I could write about buying two shades of nail polish which give me a little thrill to look at my fingertips.

If you're wondering, they are Sally Hanson's Back to the Fuchsia and OPI's Save Me.


I could write about how I'll be working on a big festival in the city and how relieved I am to have a job.

I could write about having attended a 'Gong Bath Workshop' on Sunday afternoon.  Thought we'd each have a go on the bowls, but instead, we lay on the floor and a lady walked around, gonging in our faces. I was a little worried when she started off by saying things like "Your heart is your secret place. I want you to connect with your heart now". Mainly because I lie there thinking "How? Am I connecting now?" and concentrating really hard on it like an idiot. But she stopped talking and it was actually pretty great. Amazing sounds and really relaxing. I'd do it again!

I could write about Saved By Cake by Marian Keyes arriving this morning for me at work and how thrilled I am to read her and laugh and cook at the same time. I've just had a flick through and everything looks absolutely divine. And I never use that word!
I could write about discovering how to use hair thingys to make a big fat bun on top of my head.

I could write about downloading The Mindful Way Through Depression audiobook. I love it because it's based on real academic evidence, it's kind, practical, enlightening - and yer man Mark Williams has a lovely voice. I mean, the first disc basically explained how I think when I go into tailspins. I think it's going to be very helpful.

I could write about how I'm not eating chocolate or white bread for my non-religious lent ("Putting the Abs into Abstinence")...although I caved and had a biscuit on Sunday.

I could write about how I started using a (non-latex) sponge to put on make up and it actually makes a big difference. Who knew? Not me. Who cares? Not many.

I could write about how I'm finishing therapy because I can't afford it anymore. It feels a bit abrupt, considering my mini-meltdown the other week. But how are you supposed to finish therapy anyway?

I could write about, at 30 years old, how angry I am sometimes, with my mum and dad and wonder when they're going to say sorry for all the crap and the stuff they told me but I did not need or want to know.

I could write about how I found a place that offers great, cheap art workshops and I'm determined to go to life drawing and maybe ceramics.

I could write about signing up for a 10K run in Killarney. I haven't jogged in two weeks and really should start and it's going to be beautiful to run there in July, rain or shine.

I could write about how it's Spring and what a difference some more light makes to everyone. Aah greeeen!

But I wont.

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