‘Contentment lies in self acceptance.’ Says who?
One is certainly not accepting that One is a lumpy, grey-rooted old dollop with minimal talent, soon to be, no home and an utterly miserable disposition.
True, One has been in a bad mood for fifty-seven years, but look at the evidence…
40% bad luck
60% bad choices
Today One is feeling like acting in the manner of Michael Douglas in ‘Falling Down’ and shooting up the neighbourhood, but instead One will be hoovering, dusting and touching up me roots.
One feels that One is being unduly influenced by the watchage overload of ‘Breaking Bad.’
Obv, One not being a Chemist, One can’t embark upon a life of drug cooking.
Cat Burgling is out, since One hasn’t been able to shimmy through a fan-light since around 1963 and prospective victims would need to leave their patio doors open.
To add further to the mire of shite, One has some kind of ‘virus’ I believe they call it when they don’t have any idea what it is.
Confined to the truckle bed for most of the day One is growing more morose by the minute.
This condition has only one cure:
An Uffculmbe kebab and a bottle of Pinot.
Fire up the Ferrari, Hudson – we’re going out!