Help! Send wine! Send chocolate! Send a pony!
Send a pony made of chocolate carrying a bucket of wine!
Oh, no, no, everything's fine. The sky has not caved in. Nobody has kicked me in the shins, the cat hasn't hidden all my shoes, nobody has even forced me to watch back to back Tom Cruise films until I bled through my eyes.
Things are just all a bit grey and flat. Nothing is fun and everything is shit and whatever, it's my blog, I can be dramatic and hyperbolic if I want to. Summer is meant to be fun! I was promised leaping about all sylph-like in floaty white clothing, sipping elegant cocktails and laughing tinkling laughs at the sun. Festivals and hay bales and possibly the odd adorable puppy. Nobody actually promised me any of that stuff, but they should have done and I should have got a written contract. Then I could sue. I would sue. Well, I would be cross with a bit of paper, anyway.
Instead, here I am. Broke and sulking in front of a computer that won't leave me alone, wearing actual clothes that don't even float. I am even bored of tormenting the cat with an old shoelace. I never thought it would come to this.
What a drama queen (me, not the cat) (actually, both). I was on holiday last week in Wales. I know! Another holiday and I am already sullen and discontent. It was good, pretty active and tent-based. I cycled twenty five miles up and down hills with full paniers and a guitar on my back, which I believe makes me officially Sporty. We did a thing in wetsuits and met lots of nice people.
So I am being woeful and dramatic pointlessly. This post belongs firmly in the comments section of Belgian Waffle's excellent 99 First World Problems post.
All my earn-y money-y work seems to kick back in at the end of August. (By "kick back in" I of course mean crawl in slowly and painfully like a squirrel with pins for legs, but still.) Then, by October, I am assistant directing/devising the music for a show so will be Busy and Paid! Imagine! I can't.
Right now I am wondering whether I can Tipp-Ex out the decimal point on my computer screen every time I check my online balance, and NatWest might be tricked into giving me enough money to buy a pony made of chocolate.
"Stop whingeing!" I hear you thundering. Well, sorry, I can't. I am too into it now, wearing my pathetic problems like a floaty summer dress.
How am I supposed to be arty in these conditions?