"Hmmm.... Type writing harder than initially thought. Balls."
Having a play on my Christmas present. Been home from work since six, and have basically done whatever the fuck I like since I got in. I have:
- shovelled McDonalds down my neck hole
- read second half of Miranda Hart's 'Is It Just Me?', which I started yesterday (so, so good! I am a secret reader of self help literature when I can get away with it, and this book of silly spoke to me way more than any Paul Baldy-Smug McKenna bollocks ever could! READ IT! READ IT NOW!!!)
- half-watched A playing Assassin's Creed, occasionally interjecting with insightful comments such as "You could never survive jumping off a big, tall, pointy thing like that in real life!"
Now A has retired to bed, and I find myself bubbling with childish energy. So, after a half arsed five minute attempt at sleeping, I banished myself from the bed before I started bouncing on it. I'm now sat in a living room that looks like a bomb site, gleefully bashing away at blog spot (at the keyboard...not..bashing away..not like that! I like blogging, but not that much! Filth.).
I'm going to attack the type writer again, perhaps eat some More Haribo...
Perhaps figure out why my legs are bouncing around of their own accord while I'm sat on them...
*twitch*
I LOVE being a Grown Up. No bed time for meeee!!! Ahahahahaaa!!
*faceplants carpet, snoring*
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