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Monday, 19 January 2015

In which One's survival instinct is gone...

One isn't getting better.
One is chilled to the marrow and severely down in the dumpletons.
All road signs are pointing to hardship and penury.
Pollyanna has left the building.
One must reinvent Oneself without delay, but that would require One to get out of bed and One cannot remain in an upright position just at the mo.
One is bobbing about in a sea of despair and the delicious feeling of abandoning hope and sinking without trace is too attractive to ignore.
The tumour removal is set for this Friday.
The most favourable outcome would be to give the tumour a new identity and throw the rest of One away.

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