Woke up approximately 17 times last night - apparently my sleep schedule is sponsored by chaos.
Got up at 5am to feed my furry overlords aka The Aristocats, who stared at me like underpaid staff in Downton Abbey.
Then back to bed, where my womb decided to remind me that she still houses The Coil by kicking me from the inside like an angry tenant.
Refused painkillers like a martyr with trust issues. Why? Because I’m stubborn as, and apparently also enjoy recreational suffering.
Spent a good hour just lying there, dramatically clutching my hot water bottle like a Victorian widow.
Breakfast was sexy: wholemeal toast with Marmite - the dark spreadable elixir of life - followed by a protein bowl so chocolatey it probably needs a PG-13 rating. Threw in a pear and some nuts like the health goddess I occasionally pretend to be.
The coil finally stopped its interpretive dance routine mid-afternoon and I rewarded myself with… leftover tomato soup and spinach. Not hungry.
Probably because all my energy went into rage-moving my blog across the internet like a digital Sherpa. I’ve been writing since 11am. It’s now 8pm. Send neck support and snacks. Oh wait! No snacks...
Meanwhile, my boyfriend’s been out playing cricket all day, presumably frolicking in the rain while I’ve been glued to my desktop like an overworked Victorian telegram operator.
One more post to go before I pass out face-first into a pillow.
Or I might force myself to watch Gogglebox because honestly, watching other people watch TV is my version of self-care.
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